Get to Livin'

I talked to a friend from Texas a few nights ago. We have not talked since February, which is not unusual for us because he is like the wind – riding on the breeze of his latest discovery or passion or urge to backpack through Europe and smoke fancy cigars or maybe run half naked through the trees of Tennessee. He usually never stays anywhere for too long. On the flip of a dime, after not having heard from him in months, he will call and say, "Hey Kimmy! I'm comin' to visit. Got room, lovely?" Via phone, we have attempted to derive rational solutions to any one of several issues – be them political or philosophical – and have never thought twice about being perpetually ridiculous and silly in our friendship. We both have warped senses of humor, and our endless cackling and carrying on about ridiculousness usually leaves my stomach hurting after a conversation.

But this recent conversation with him was different.

He was quiet. He was reserved. He seemed deep in thought. He seemed detached and sad.

"So really, what is going on?" (This is my way of saying, "Ok, let's get beyond the weather and what you ate for dinner here. Tell me what's really going on with you.")

He sighed.

"I don't know, Kim. I just got back from a funeral that changed my life I guess." Silence.

I offered rather hesitatingly, "Oh. Well that's about how it happens, you know? You try to live life and the death of someone really special to you comes and interrupts. A funeral later, and poof, you don't recognize yourself in the mirror anymore. That's how it was when I lost Mom."

"Yeah. Kim, this funeral was incredible. You gotta look at her web site. I've never been so stirred to live for what matters I guess."

He proceeded to tell me that the funeral was for his girlfriend's sister. A brain tumor of the most aggressive kind. Age 33.

We talked a little more, but before the conversation ended, he said he felt spoiled and selfish. "I've never had to go through anything too hard." And for me, that's when I really knew that something had indeed stirred him.

Every now and again, if we let it, a total stranger will walk into our lives to stir us.

This young woman didn't "walk into" my life, because she is dead. But Ramey's story did. And Ramey's story stirred. I walked away from viewing Ramey's Web site that same night –after the conversation – and thought on something my father told me after my mother's passing. "Kim, your mother lived for you girls. You can't stop living. That's not what what your mother would want." Of course, I remember thinking at the time, "Thanks for that, Dad. I get it, but really, I'd like to find a hole and bury myself inside and maybe never see the light again. Put that in your pipe."

But this young woman – a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend – well, she lived. She did not approach having a brain tumor by becoming a victim. No. She lived life to it's fullest and fought her battle until the very last second. She was fearful at times. Who wouldn't be? But she wasn't paralyzed by her fear. She still chose to live.

She kept her sense of humor. She bragged about the 12 pounds she's lost thanks to the "bt" or "brain tumor" diet. And she jokingly told John, her husband of almost 10 years, what to do should the doctors "leave (her) on the table."

"Don't leave me a vegetable very long," she told John before her operation, pausing before saying, "but maybe like 60 days."

And in the face of it all, Ramey seemed to have spoken boldly that Jesus had a plan for everything that happened to her. She said only good will would come from the tumor, even if the result was not what she wished for.

Ramey's pictures were delightful – full of life and inspiration and even joy. And though her story had really only just begun, I got the impression that Ramey lived more life than some people that have the chance to reach age 90.

I walked away from my encounter with Ramey's life that night and had a good cry because Ramey's story stirred me. Ramey's story made me think on my own life. And I wondered if we are more defined by our approach to life than anything else – no matter what the situation or the trial or the heartache we encounter along the way. Ramey was not a victim. My mother did not live as a victim through her painful battle with cancer. So how then should I live? How then shall we live?

As for me, I think I'll take some advice from the first single off Dolly Parton's latest album, "Backwoods Barbie."

I think I'll get to livin'.

For anyone interested in Ramey's story, visit www.prayforramey.com.

Here's Your Sign

As a reporter, I cover district court. I hear things said in court that even Godard couldn't think up.

Case: Felony DUI. 4th DUI in 5 years. Defendant had no previous criminal history. Moved to MT to be with his wife. Life got hard. Money was tight. The defendant drinks himself into several states of stupor to ease the pain. Defendant decides to drive. You get the point. Defendant takes the stand.

Conversation between the judge and defendant as follows:

D: I have a drinking problem, yes. (southern, marbled accent)
J: OK, you have no previous record and out of nowhere, you get four DUIs in the past five years. Help me understand that. Something has to be going on. (said with as much compassion as a serious man can have but kind of indicated that he might be willing to show more mercy)
D: I've been doing this for years, Judge. I guess I've just been gettin' caught. Sigh. (think Napoleon Dynamite sigh...like..."Gosh" or "Shucks, this really bites the bullet")

Here's your sign, eh?

OK, I think it's officially time to start a new series: Should you ever go before a judge...

Relay for Life

This was our first team put together to honor Mom's fight with cancer. What better to sell than cotton candy, which I've read actually has cancer causers in it. As most "cancer causers," the cotton candy was a smash hit!! :) My sisters and some people that worked with Mom joined the effort. It was a good time :)

Unglamorous--#7

As a kid, I relished the chance to camp. It was a family tradition for my mom and all of my mother's 7 siblings to pile as much into their vehicles as possible, tossing their children between tents, swimming suits, potato salad, a half eaten bag of Twizlers (mom's fav) and a stomach sick dog in order to make a B-line for Ft. Peck every summer. For practical reasons, it was usually our only vacation every year because we had no money.

The swimming, the fishing, the tubing, the fake snakes used to scare Aunt Michelle and others, sitting around the campfire making S'mores, taking sips off of various wine coolers, getting up and having coffee with Grandpa way too early in the morning, the sunburns and the endless snacking. My childhood memory of camping is fond, except for the one time our stomach sick dog barfed next to my head and Mom was laughing so hard she could hardly contain herself. I remember saying, "Mom, are you kidding me? This is not the time to laugh, please. GAG. Seriously Mom, pull over GAG NOW!! This is so annoying. GAG. I don't see why we have to bring the stupid dog anyway. GAG. This trip is just...just highly annoying. I swear. GAG." And Mom. Laugh laugh laugh... "Oh for crying out loud, Kim. It's just a little bacon..hahahahahahahah......"

Last weekend I attended a day of our annual reunion camping trip. The wind blew. My sister (Marcy) and our caravan got lost on the way to find the others, which is tradition. After an hour of searching prarie back roads that almost bottomed out Marcy's car, and Marcy stressing because "WE ARE GOING TO RUN OUT OF GAS. HOW ANNOYING," we saw the light or the dirt road rather. I remember thinking and laughing to myself, "Next year, someone needs to tie string on some signs to let us know. Isn't there a simple solution for this? Good grief."

Upon arriving, my sister Dawn and I, as usual, had to agree to disagree that later we would put the jet skis on the water. And later we did, but only after I called her "Debbie Downer" and told her the sun was coming "baby" and the wind would die down "sweet princess". She, of course, made no haste in retelling all the stories since my conception, when I, too, had once been "Debbie Downer" and that I had "better just get off my mighty high horse and come back to earth." It is safe to mention here that Dawn does not enjoy camping, but she is a traditionalist and a real family oriented person, so would never miss a camping trip though the experience always seems to make her go from high strung to high strung on steroids. But God love her. God love her because sometimes I just cant. There, I said it, OK? I'll get my traditional lashing later.

The eating was endless, and since I try very hard not to eat the way I once did, the constant temptation to stick my finger into the FROSTING ON TOP OF THE CUPCAKE was almost unbearable. I relented finally and enjoyed enough food to make me sick on the way home. What's funny is once I actually got home, I exercised and actually found myself chanting "Goodbye cupcake. Goodbye pasta. Ta Ta sour cream and onion. Hello that skinnier pair of jeans." Obsessive much?

The kids. Mainly the young boys. The constant picking and squirting with water guns. The patience lost by the parents. The exhaustion from the heat and not sleeping well. The rolling of the eyes by the girls. The leaving others out because "MOM!! MOM!!! HE DIDN'T LET ME RIDE FIRST!!! MOM!!!! BAHHHH HHHAAA BBBBAAAHHH HHHAAA. SHE SCRATCHED ME!!!!" ... BIRTH CONTROL.

Aunt Deb. Farting after eating Grandma’s baked beans. Uncle Bob. Pissed because someone spilled half a gallon out of his portable gas tank. Uncle Mike. The hat and the whisky. Grandpa. The bad knees and constantly wanting to take pictures (note, camping = look bad). Grandma. Constantly trying to make people eat for fear of anyone's starvation. Aunt Michelle. Getting a kick out of her jokes that I have a hard time understanding most times. The endless cousins. The other uncles. The other aunts – all with their very own personalities to offer up to the chaos.

And on my ride home, during a few moments of silence. Landon, my nephew, sleeping in the back. Marcy at the wheel. Me exhausted from the sun and the observations, and the eating making me sick. I thought, "My family. Unglamorous. Mixed up. Perfect. What a beautiful disaster, and I wouldn't have it any other way." Number 7. I have way too many family members to mention them all in my blog, but I love each and every single one of them, with all their quirks and imperfections and obsessions. I am who I am today because of the extended love of my huge extended and immediate family. Love. It really does cover a multitude of sins and imperfections, including my own.

Forgot to post this...

Believe me, last July 4, having gotten fresh out of jail, I had a new appreciation for what freedom really means to me and even chanted my own little form of gratitude. I made a commitment then and there to try not to take my freedom for granted.

Lucky Wisher

I make strange faces in pictures with Emma on purpose - just to hear her say, "Kim, come on now." :)


I first met Emilie in a college class. I was a freshman. She was a
sophomore. I sat right in front of her and quickly noted that Emilie
giggled at nearly everything. I, being sarcastic and apparently very starved
for attention, began making wise cracks about the class in general or
about Tennessee Temple University standards: Distinctively Christian.
Good grief. Just saying those words in a very kind of Southern Baptist
downswing, hellfire and brimstone kind of tone made Emilie laugh. Or my
favorite? "Pssssst....Man, could that sermon today have put coffee to
sleep or what?" Of course I'd comment with my head sort of perched back
and to the side, speaking just loudly enough through the corner of my
purposely crooked lips not to get caught but
loudly enough for Emilie to hear. Giggle, giggle, giggle. And then I'd
snicker. I think one time I even snorted. Embarrassing, not to mention
immature. But that was me. Of course that was me. And that's where the
friendship started.

I guess you could say the friendship progressed from
there. I had a "makeover" business in which I made it a goal to show
southern women how it really is possible to wear a lot less makeup and
still bring out one's features. The business went well. In fact, I
usually had more business than I wanted considering I was also working part
time, eventually ran a concession stand out of my dorm room, became a
Resident Assistant and was trying to finish my four-year degree in less
than four years. But I really doubted myself for the first time when
Emilie asked for a makeover and I utterly botched it. She looked like
something from the lagoon. All the colors were completely wrong. Remember
now, this makeover was still very much in the beginning stages of
becoming friends. And let me tell you, you usually cannot BS your way out of
a bad makeover. People notice. Obviously though, I had no choice but to
let Emilie look at herself when the session was over, and I was
praying to God that maybe I was the only one that thought it looked awful.
But to no avail. Emilie stood at the mirror. Then Emilie started laughing
and could barely get out, "It looks awful." But that was Emilie. Of
course that was Emilie. Always laughing. And that's when I knew that we
would be friends for life. And this is also when I began calling her
"Emma" whenever I felt like it.

Another indicator? Well, it was during
our "makeover conversation" where we both discovered our fathers had
almost everything in common, including a weird obsession with cutting out
articles and giving them to their daughters, but only after underlining
what they felt was important information. How it even came out that
both of our fathers were/are degenerate gamblers I forget, because it's
not something either of us used to share with many people. Now, we both
know more freedom and will usually discuss it if asked genuinely. (As a
bit of trivia, I have never met another person besides Emilie who has
experienced what it is like to have a smart father, but one who was/is a
degenerate gambler. Her father is actually featured in books on
gambling conspiracies and my father gave Stu Unger, his roommate at the time,
a few thousand to enter his first poker tournament down in Vegas. Dad
declined to be in the documentary done on Unger a few years ago. And
years later, even after Stu's passing, my father is compulsive and
addicted.)

Then came the Bible study we did together (where I spilled orange
juice all over her stuff at the first meeting and she laughed), the
countless dinner conversations in the cafeteria, the afternoon jogs on
the walking bridge, the occasional tiff and sometimes even BIG tiffs:
"Well, we're just gonna have to agree to disagree then...humph...", and so
on and so on. I'd tease Emilie about eating her cupcake with a fork
and she would tease me for being without manners (which I hope has
changed). We wrote each other faithfully on a weekly basis for the next
summer Ð the summer before we were roommates. I remember wishing I had a pen
pal when I was a little girl. I remember wishing I had the kind of
friend from another land (and the South is another land) that knew me at
my core. I guess some wishes really do come true.

Almost ten years later, and I am lucky wisher.

Lucky because I still call Emilie a best
friend. Emilie, who has bailed me, loaned me, stood up for me, quieted
me, ticked me, loved me, favored me, listened to me, put up with me,
cried with me, hugged me, annoyed me, delighted me, laughed at me, laughed
with me and the most precious? Emma takes her time to simply sit with
me. I don't feel like I have to talk with her or keep the conversation
going because silence is awkward. And thank God for silence, give me an
"Amen." I don't have to entertain. I can just be. We can sit on the
couch and read and it's all the same. Emilie, who flew all the way to
nowhere Glendive to help me settle in my life after having the most
traumatic year of my life. Emilie, who let me weep after the first time I saw
Mom without her thick hair. Emma, who walked with me when I had to
face cancer's bitter betrayal and the fact that death was so damn
inconvenient. Emilie didn't try to give petty cookie-cutter Christian answers
when, during this time, the air was thick as thieves and Satan wanted
nothing better than to take the very breath from me. A spotless saint?
No. But Em is a friend I don't deserve to have. I mean it. So for all of
this and a hundred billion more reasons, she deserves her place on the
100 things I love. Number 6. Because I will love Emilie Jane until the
day she dies, unless I die first. And I do hope I die first, because
her absence would be harrowing.

If I ever thought there was one man...

It is high time to talk about something incredibly significant in my life.

I have searched the world over (OK, only China, Canada, England and various American cities) and have really only found one consistent (consistent being key) place where people pay much ado over this "something" and count this something worthy of serving after even a very nice, neatly-placed-napkin-no-cheap-wine-allowed-here dinner by way of pie ala mode.

This something is something I could eat raw by the truckloads, which is a good thing, because this something has very few calories unless covered in sugar or smothered by any fattening choice of goop, which are also highly recommended ways of enjoying this life-giving elixir.

Ahhh rhubarb.

Rhubarb is a unique sort of plant in that its actually in the buckwheat family (thank you dictionary), whatever that means. Actually, "experts" go back and forth as to how exactly to categorize rhubarb, but while they haggle, I'm perfectly happy to simply grow it, cook it, and shove it - down my face.

Ready and ripe, the plant bears thick succulent petioles good to the very last drop. Good for pies. Good for breads. Good for sauce. Good for a syrup. Good for almost anything except taking a bath in (hmmm....)- with just the right blend of tart and sweet and sweet and tart that leaves you wanting more. And then more. And just when you thought you'd had enough puckering in one sitting, you add a little whip cream and you're ready for eating again.

Rhubarb loves to be cool. It is SO cool. In other words, rhubarb loves to grow in cooler climates like Montana. SURPRISE. And we are glad for it. In fact, it sets our great state (and Hannah, that would be God's domain to you little lady) apart from others. Being "rhubarb proud" is an understatement.

Rhubarb is a comfort food. It is a friend when no other can be found. Darn it. If you see me off in the corner talking to myself, smiling and chewing, you can bet your bottom dollar I am not enjoying chocolate. I am not enjoying ice cream. I am not enjoying all the foods that are loved by so many women in uncertain times. No. I am enjoying rhubarb. And maybe a little bit of sugar to dip it in. And that is what I shall do this eve after a cardio workout. Why, internet? Because I just found out one of my closest, bestest, dearest, most wonderful male friends is GOING TO LAW SCHOOL. Butt monkey. Just exactly what the world needs, help us all. Another lawyer. I shall drown my sorrows and maybe my head in a big bowl of freshly cut rhubarb with strawberry/rhubarb sauce on top - which is REALLY what the world needs more of.

Seriously, if I ever thought there was one man who couldn't be easily persuaded to stand for anything other than what he felt was right. If I ever thought there was one man who, with God's help, could keep himself from hopping on various kinds of bandwagons. If I ever thought there was one man who had integrity and would never need the most expensive suit and tie or begin to smell like a used car salesman, it is this friend. And because friends should love at ALL times, I will love him through this. And deep down, I am very proud of him. I know he can do this. I know he will do this. And for his graduation or even when he just comes up for air and I actually get a chance to see him over the next few years? I think some rhubarb wine will certainly, certainly be in order.

Perot Charts

So I'm not saying I'm such a huge fan of Ross Perot like I once was, but I still have respect for the man, and one has to admire his tenacity and his willingness to fork over his own money to come up with a whole new set of his secret weapon: charts!

Check them out at www.perotcharts.com

He's still a cute elf kind of a little man :)