Things About Being a Line "Medic"

Everybody knows that a good day for an EMT on the fireline involves being as bored as possible. At least 452 people a day ask me, as they drive by on their missions of various importance, if I am bored, only to hear me say "YES", so they can respond with a resounding, "Good! We like our medics bored" and cruise off into firefighting oblivion. The script is rote. It is a verbatim refrain we hear a thousand times in the summer, and yet somehow, for the rest of the firefighting world, it never gets old.

Today, in the midst of my "boredom", which for this summer has involved reading over a dozen books, writing thousands of words, watching a couple movies and pretty much solving all of the world's problems, I decided to get creative with my time and make myself a gourmet lunch. And by gourmet lunch of course I mean a can of Cream of Chicken soup in the JetBoil.

Now anybody versed in the use of a JetBoil understands the delicate balance of cooking soup. The contraption was not idly named, and while it will boil water in mere minutes, it will also boil, and overboil, any other substance in equally short order. Cooking soup in the JetBoil involves a talented feathering of the fuel feed to keep the heat at a gentle minimum, coaxing the soup patiently into a soft rolling boil without exploding it all down the sides of the pot, across the tailgate and underneath the cooler. I know this from personal experience. Constant supervision and frequent stirring are vital. It's like making caramel from scratch, but a little trickier.

The whole time I stood there stirring my soup, feathering the heat, smelling the delicious waves of aroma, I knew that I had invited disaster. Nobody needs a line EMT unless they are directly in the throes of cooking soup. It's just an unwritten rule. So I stirred with a sigh of resignation, knowing that the bliss of my wilderness gourmet was short lived.

Sure enough, just as the CofC hit a gentle boil, a random Task Force Leader Trainee wandered over to my rig casually and leaned up against it with a "hey girl..." look in his eye. Judging by the wedding ring and the fact that I had just witnessed him eating his entire 3 pound pastrami sandwhich, I knew he was there for neither romance nor soup.

"Wondering if you want to go for a cruise... alleviate your boredom..." he throws down, which, loosely translated, means "my trainer ditched me here with no car and I have to go tie in with a crew, would you give me a ride in your super-sweet, pimped out medic-mobile with the heated seats, so I don't have to walk a quarter mile down the road?"

"But my soup! The heat is perfectly feathered! The boil is gentle! The pot is 7000 degrees - can't you see the orange flame thingies glowing on the side?" Were all the things that I didn't say. Nope. Of course he was saving me from my boredom. Of course I would oblige him. Of course it was no big deal that even the distraction of him talking to me threatened an immediate explosion of tailgate soup. I quickly shut down the JetBoil and started grumbling internally.

In addition to balancing my scalding mug of soup precariously as we jolted down the road, I was forced to throw my 385 pound book bag into the back so the TFLD had a place to sit. Interestingly enough, I forgot about the fiesta sized bag of Juanitas that were sitting directly under where I tossed the bag until later, when I restored my precious book bag to it's rightful place beside me. And just as I am finally recovering from all of this, the ambulance that had been posted serenely down the at the bottom of the road decided to pay me a visit, which resulted in me elbowing my mug of soup into the passenger seat. All because line EMTs are bored.

My soup was cold when I finally ate what was left, but I added some crushed Juanitas and pretended it was Chicken Enchilada soup, without the cheese or green chiles. Making lemonade out of those lemons, folks. It's just how I roll.

As the ambulance guys chatted me up, and the soup swirled in the black leather seat next to me, they pointed out cheerfully that my medic-mobile was marked "paramedic" on the back window. Yes, I explained. I was an imposter. My rental Tahoe was a hand-me-down from a "real paramedic", and even though I tried to scrape the "para" off the windows, it was cemented on through a chemical reaction of extreme heat, time and a good layer of mud. So I explained to the ambulance guys that I was given a field promotion, for time in rank, and would now be operating at an ALS level, if I could just borrow their narcotics. Also, would they like some soup?

It's not like it should be that surprising. Out on the fireline, every EMT: paramedic, basic or whatever, is called a MEDIC. The lines are grossly blurred. This is compounded by three things: 1. the general wildland fire population has NO idea what the difference is, 2. tradition and 3. a lot of wanna be blowhards out here who pretend to be something much more than they actually are. There is an epidemic of underexperienced EMTs (and some paramedics) who have no other affiliation and no field time that have some how wrangled a red card and an assignment, and run around offering to save lives in the most dangerous capacity possible. This is an area where some of us are working hard to bring more accountability to, and also quite Qixotic. But far be it from me to not get in on the trend. Sure I am a paramedic - look! My truck says so! And also I am very, very bored.

Things About The Love of My Life

He hasn't called. He's not texting. He's not sending flowers or love letters or asking me out on dates. He isn't liking my Facebook posts or even reading my blog - that I know of. He's so out of touch with me that I am not sure that we will ever work out...

If I could ever meet the Love of My Life, face to face, I would like to ask him some things, like why it took him so long to decide to commit to me, and what the most important thing in his life is. If his answer is elk season, the Seahawks, his truck or his job, while I respect all of those things as Major Life Priorities, I think I would have to reevaluate the potential success of our Bond of Love. If his answer is his kids, relationship, integrity (that's a favorite for guys to throw around), or beer - then we have some common ground to build on. It would be a relief to know.

For me, the most important thing in life is relationship, and when you shake it down, the priorities of kids, integrity and, yes, even beer, can all be reduced down to that one. Because you can't love your kids without knowing them, without having relationship that gives you access to protect and provide for them. And you can't have integrity (which means being the same person behind closed doors that you are in front of the world) for any other reason than to build trust and protect relationships. And you can't drink beer well without good people in your life.

I know some ex-husbands that would argue that the priority of work over all else can also be distilled down to relationship, since it's only through work that you can provide for loved ones and pay for quality family time, but I believe the best times in life are free, and the best relationships aren't based on need. Not that I am advocating joblessness, but money - that's a periphery thing. Vital perhaps, but not The Most Important Thing.

My friend Christy keeps telling me that I need to write a list of all of the requirements (or at least wishes) for the Love of My Life and lock it away, so that when he finally comes around I can pull it out and go down the checklist. Every time I have tried to make this list I come up dry after "doesn't have an annoying laugh". Because every other thing, all of the tall, dark, handsome, uniformed, intelligent, funny, young at heart items on the list are all things that can be negotiated to some extent if the bottom line of Same Priority has been met.

I am sure that when we finally discuss it, the Love of My Life and me, we will find that our values line up beautifully. If not then I guess he's not really the Love of My Life, no matter how much I want for him to be, as I have experienced a few times over.

Once that conversation is over, the only question that remains is why the hell it took him so long to catch up to me? Doesn't he know how short life is? Doesn't he know I am getting old? There will be some explaining to do for sure.

In the meantime, I guess I will be content (ha!) knowing that he is out there, making his way to me in his own sweet time.

Things That Make Me Feel Swell

This morning started out like most mornings do for me. I had to get up, which in and of itself is altogether unpleasant, but even more so when my alarm goes off at 5:25 and I really SHOULD be in the medical tent by 5:30, but my hair hurts from not showering and I generally feel unpretty, unfriendly and not very likeable.

basically how I feel at 5:30 AM

I got up anyway, and managed to squeeze a shower in before I drove out to the line (which I am sure everyone on my division was grateful for), and as the day progressed, things got better.

For one thing, I had really great hair today. This was due in part to the much anticipated shower, new shampoo and the fact that I had no mirrors anywhere near me all day long. But I could just tell that my hair was Killing It. And also it smelled like peppermint and sunshine smashed together in a smoothie of awesome.

Secondly, I noticed at some point when I was walking around the truck (since that is exactly as far as I walked all day) that my thighs weren't rubbing together. That's a pretty monumental thing in the world of Liv, and I was kind of excited. Even though I knew it had more to do with the super tight long johns I was wearing that compressed those troublesome thigh rolls that are a perpetual problem, I wanted to believe it was somehow related to the three times on this fire that I did four or five squats. In all fairness to myself, I did do fifty plie squats one day, because I was being haunted by the Swedish-Accented fitness guru going on and on about how great my butt would look in a video that my medic buddy Melissa subjected me to last year. It's quite silly since everyone knows that Swedes are to be trusted more for their Chefs than their fitness gurus.

Today I also finished two books that I was reading, one by James Dashner (Eye of Minds), who is a terrible writer but has great story lines (The Maze Runner...), and Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird) who is a flipping fabulous writer but I get a little lost on her content from time to time. It was a good balance and actually did more for me as a writer than it did as a reader, which is not usually a conscious perspective I have when binge reading on fires. Tomorrow I will read some Clive Cussler and see what that does for my writing skillz.

Additionally, I interviewed a real writer - one with published novels, over the phone while I was sitting on a literal mountain top overlooking Lake Chelan and a giant moonscaped forest. The interview was both interesting and inspiring, especially toward the end when we talked about forming a little beer-drinking writers group this fall for moral support and an idea echo-chamber. I am prettty stoked about that. Almost as much as I am about my great hair.

Another cool thing was during our AAR (After Action Review at the end of shift) when the Safety Officer from Australia taught all of us some of the tricks of Australian Football, which involves a weird volleyballesque hit from the hand with the opposite fist. I was casually staying out of the hitting circle, both because I am a grossly non-athletic old woman, and because I have a broken shoulder (circumferential tear of the labrum which allows for partial dislocation and some Holy Hell pain with almost any extension movement) and didn't want to use that like a typical girl excuse. But one of the damn boys hit it right into my arms anyway, and what's a girl to do? Anything other than admit weakness or a broken shoulder, right? So I hit it, badly. But only as badly as some of the less athletic fire guys. I am sure my accompanying facial expression as I felt the spasmed muscles around my scapula tearing asunder was something akin to Edvard Munch's Scream painting. All the way home I planned out how I would spend the entire night alternately crying and taking various types of drugs to make it stop. As of this moment, using my right arm is mostly out of the question, which is interesting, because typing with one left hand is mostly a Comedy of Errors.

And then there was the older couple sitting in their golf cart at the top of their driveway over Lake Chelan as we came off the fireline, clapping and waving like a two person pep rally as our convoy of fire vehicles rolled by. The fact that I was following five pickups packed with studly bearded firefighters obviously helped with that, but I got a little choked up feeling like a vicarious hero, floating by on the shirttails of the real ones.

Things I Skipped Over

I have been on this fire assignment for 11 days. Tomorrow I go home. I have written exactly NO WORDS this entire time. Pretty weird for me. Usually I am scratching off some loquacious communications either here or in other venues and getting my words out. But for almost two weeks I haven't had any words.

Maybe it's the week I spent working in the information office for the Area Command Team. Maybe I was inundated with words from crazy dumb people and it coincided with the guilt ridden deadline for the newspaper that I was seriously underachieving. Maybe I was worded out for awhile. I don't know.

I certainly isn't lack of things to say. I have been working with characters of all flavors on the North Star Fire that deserve mention at the very least, and full chronicling at best. I've run the gamut of a head cold, an earth quake, at least five different division supervisors, an education in Army National Guard medicine and a work force fresh off the boat from Australia and New Zealand.

My days consist of an alarm that goes off (when my phone isn't dead) at 05:25 AM, me putting it off until 06:10, which is when I inexplicably wake up voluntarily every morning. I get up and stagger to the bathroom here that has flushing toilets AND running water to brush my teeth before I appear in the medical unit to save a few pre-breakfast lives. On a normal fire we'd be up and at briefing by 06:00 but this is not a normal fire, for which I am grateful.,

Instead our briefing is at 06:45 and I shuffle over with my coffee and wedge myself amongst the safety officers and branch directors and listen to the weather report and fire behavior predictions, before I moved with the herd into our division breakout and get the specific rundown for the geographic area where I have been assigned.

It's here that the division supervisor makes some joke about my hair or how many naps I will get in during a shift and establishes my identity for the rest of his crews.

Then we have breakfast, which is invariably eggs and some pork product. I have been skipping lately, because you can only have eggs and pork so many times before it's just enough.

After breakfast I go back to the medical unit, where I sit and regret what I have eaten for awhile, and take care of a few last minute fire guys who need their blisters wrapped, a dose of DayQuil, or some blue fairy powder before we all head out to the line.

A typical drive to the line from fire camp is usually 30-45 minutes. This fire is no exception, and the road to division zulu is a combination of paved and dirt, including some spots of knee-deep moon dust that will coat the inside of your truck and mouth with a pasty film.

Then it's sitting. Radio into the Incident Command Post that I am at the drop point. Tie in with the division supervisor so he knows I am near by. Check with the crews, hand out some dayquil, hand sanitizer and bandaids. And sitting. Watching movies, reading books, scanning the radio, ears perking at any variation of the word medic, medical, emergency, injury... A few times a day I get a visit from a task force leader or heavy equipment boss, looking for cough drops, nail clippers, checking to see which movies I brought to watch.

The best part of a fire is the characters you get to meet. Like Dale from Australia - who got a head cold and thought I saved his life with a little Mucinex. Or Zane from Colorado who was secretly a paramedic but working as a task force leader and funny as heck. On this roll there was PFC Sevarina Zinc - an army medic who stayed busy at the medical unit checking people for eye worms and sinus infections. Then her replacement was a special forces army Sgt Lynch who had done multiple tours overseas and probably could have ACTUALLY diagnosed eye worms and sinus infections. I had a division supervisor who loaned me A Picture of Dorian Gray when I ran out of books. And a contractor who waited anxiously for me to get finished with my two copies of Cosmo so they could abscond with them. There was the weird engine dude who came into the med unit every night for "Supplies", wearing his radio harness and radio, hard hat, safety goggles and headlamp. Because ALWAYS BE READY.

I feel pretty lucky to be doing this job - at least until somebody gets on the radio hollering for the line medic and it's up to me to figure out how to haul out a blown knee from a ravine about a quarter mile deep, or something worse. I am thankful that I don't get a lot of the worses - I am perfectly content to deal with ankles and feet and arm gouges and spider bites and not have to see someone's career (or worse) end before my eyes. I don't need that kind of excitement. I get enough waiting to see which division supervisor finds my hiding spot and hangs out with me all day.

Things About The End Of The World

The Sky Is Falling, you guys.

In 11 years of wildland fire experience, I don't remember a time when the underlying tremors throughout the troops felt like this. Even huge fires that last for months, conflagrations like the Carleton Complex last year - after a few days of hell... a sense of "we got this" would settle in and order would prevail.

In this, it hasn't happened yet. Wave after wave of bad weather, tragedy, homes by the scores lost across the state, and in the fire world, a cry for help. We are underfunded, understaffed, overwhelmed.   Just when things start to settle out and forces start to get in place, a new barrage of fire starts and turns and runs take over and the lifesaving choice is only to pull back and regroup, assuming there are any resources to do it.

Richard Wheeler. Tom Zbyszewski. Andrew Zajac. Know the names. Young men all. Strong, vibrant, alive. And now they are gone. Dying one of the most horrific deaths imaginable in a fight to stop the wall of flame sweeping through the communities of Twisp and Winthrop.

The whole town of Tonasket is under evacuation right now.

Countless head of cattle, creatures of all kinds have lost the race with the flame front.

This is a terrible summer.

There cannot be enough prayers, enough hearts open to help, enough understanding minds to skate to the puck and get ahead of the tragedy. Be ready, be vigilant, be smart. Like we are taught in fire training: Look up, look down, look all around. There is need and possibility and risk everywhere.

Life goes on all over the country, people cross-fitting and school shopping and painting nails as if the world wasn't ending. And it's not, really. But drowning in the thick smoke that is three counties wide, it's hard to remember.

Next time you buy a latte, like me, think of the ones that are eating rehydrated beef stroganoff out of an MRE bag at the top of Mt. Leona on the Stickpin fire. The ones who haven't showered for 11 days. The ones who haven't had a toilet to sit on all summer. Next time you get pissed about the heat outside your bedroom window or the smokey tinge on your pillowcase, think about they guys and girls digging out hollows in the pine needles and dirt to sleep for a couple hours, the ones with a mean case of jock itch and blisters that would make your crabby grandpa cry. It's a real fight out there and it isn't about a few trees. It's about your Aunt Ellen's house. And the ranch that's been in the family, supporting the family for three generations. It's about entire hay fields, life savings, family memories lost forever.

And think about Tom, and Andrew and Richard. Their families. Their crews.

This fire season is far from over. Hold them up. Because the sky IS falling. Help us catch it.


http://www.wffoundation.org

Things About Heroes

The best part about working on a fire is when the smell of crackle-burning wood settles into camp and permeates all of the clothes that you've packed, and your whole bedroll smells like a woodstove. It's an inescapable aroma, and while we always joke that it smells like money, to me it smells more like fierce power and unharnessed freedom.

We're pretty silly for thinking that we can fight fire... more like we just herd it a little and encourage it the direction that we hope it will go. If it was a real fight then no doubt we would lose. Like a tiny child swinging windmill fists at a raging giant. Maybe it's the mercy of the giant that sways it away from it's course of destruction, or maybe the little splashes of water we throw on the inferno are just enough to discourage it from it's rampage. Little splashes  in the form of thousands of gallons of pond-sludge, murky brown and smelling like the life that it left behind, fueled by millions of dollars of air-power and the best that the small child of humanity has to throw at it.

But hour after hour, day after day, the misshapen boots trudge up the hills and down the slopes, stumbling through rock screes and slipping on retardant dumps, ash and oil and pitch and soot-filled snot staining the pants in a few key shades of green. Road-line yellow shirts, blackened by smoke soaked sweat, conformed to the bent bodies and frayed pack straps clinging to the fire-soldiers like they were all one continuous piece of being. Mile after mile, winding trails, scrambling up cliff sides, digging in heels and toes and pulaskis and rhinos and leaving the tell-tale trace of salvation that will be gone with the next spring's growing green.

A chicken scratch line in the dirt tells the angry, impetuous beast of fire that He Shall Not Pass. Like an imaginary wall of nothing that the inferno cannot consume, with his will crushed but his appetite far from staved, he turns and moves on, and the troops with him, to meet him at the next pass and cut him off once more, tell him where he Cannot Go, and hope that he gives up so there's time to scratch underneath their sock and wolf down a bite of anything.

They sleep under stars that are swirled in clouds and smoke, curled up in the combined smell of themselves and the fire-beast, wearing the sweat and ashes that they have earned like the arms of a hard-won lover. If dreams come in the child-like sleep coma, they are wild and ferocious, like the animal that they have chased all day. Every thing that these fire-soldiers do is fierce. Their work is fierce, their sleep is fierce, their love is fierce and their hate is fierce. They stand in the face of a 30 foot wall of burning trees with a whoop and a laugh, knowing the thrill of taming the beast that most of us would be terrified to encounter.

This Quixotic army fights the endless enemy that will continue devouring long after they are dead in their graves. The fire captivates and enthralls them, beckoning them to continue the dance through forests and towns and prairies and tundras, knowing well enough that the monster can't be killed, but might be contained with the right choreography. It is an eternal adventure, curtailed only by aging bodies and grown-up pressures of life. The stories of flame chasing live beyond the end of a shift or the hanging up of a saw. They are legend, like the men and women who live them.

Things About Fire Camp: the "How To Make a Fool of Yourself" Edition

I've learned a few things on this fire assignment. Like, for instance, the importance of maintaining composure in the face of The Ultimate Arachnid Violation, or how to best wear side dishes as an accessory. I even had a swift lesson in the effect of slope degree on streams of pee. It's been informative, and in addition to bringing home a decent paycheck, I'd like to think I've also invested in personal growth and development in the areas of humility and avoidance of human contact. 

In the interest of stymying ego growth, I've employed tactics that stretch creatively beyond the garden variety fire camp faux pas. No dirty underwear stuck to Nomex Velcro or toilet paper on the boots at briefing. Not even an old toothpaste stain on my shirt. Nope, I've been exploring outside the old standbys. 

Today there was a spider on me. 

A huge. Brown. Fuzzy. Spider. 

It was very difficult for me. Every lesson in self control for my WHOLE LIFE went flashing before my eyes. 

No big deal. I just flicked him off of my nomex. Onto my belt. Then under my shirt. And into my pocket. 

I didn't panic. I didn't cry. Very much. The very cool, very badass Task Force Leader that I've spent a week with didn't even laugh at me. Very much. I didn't even kill the spider. Or pass out. I tried to disguise the extra-high-pitched tone of my voice and my super sweaty palms. I'm not sure he bought it since he gave me a kind of amused Knowing Look. But I was very brave. Considering. 

I will never sleep again. 

Which is probably for the best, since three nights ago I was sleeping fitfully in my rig, as always, trying to find a way to accommodate a forever aching shoulder, and something possessed me at about one AM to wake up and unplug my phone where it was charging next to me. I have no idea why, but it seemed necessary at that exact moment. 

Apparently it seemed necessary at that exact moment for the semi-truck parked perpendicular to me to fire up his diesel engine and shine his bright headlights into my car as well. In my delirium, all I could think was that in unplugging my phone I had somehow triggered the activation of the truck so I quickly and apologetically plugged my phone back in. It didn't work and the truck kept running. For.Ev.Er. So uncool. I'm just glad the weird communications  guy in the tiny green tent that keeps getting closer to my rig wasn't looking in my windows to witness my totally illogical reflex. That I know of. 

I can't understand what his attraction to me could be after the other evening when I wore a decent sized bit of tater-tot casserole around on my shirt for hours. I mean, some food is sexy, but tater-tot casserole on your left boob is a stretch. Explain to me How I could not notice a solid ounce of casserole on my chest, but I can still feel the "massive" spider weighing less than a microgram, crawling All. Over. My. Body. 

In the hours since the Spider Incident, I have quelled recurrent panic attacks by imaging him a friendly, curious little fellow who wants to be a firefighter. Either he's the same spider I saw crawling up the Safety Officer's leg earlier, or there's an entire army of the bulbous brown monsters in this dust bowl where I sit. For my own sanity I have to believe he is a hardy and determined individual. Only one. I'm totally writing a children's book. Nevermind that the illustrations will give me night terrors. 

I'm all about finding new and glorious ways to make sure that 300 burly firefighters know with all certainty what a complete dork I am. It's taken me a minute or two to realize that at some point in the last decade working on fires that I have transitioned from the Cute Girl in fire camp to the Frumpy Mom in fire camp. It's a tough pill to swallow when the blue eyed faller in the Stihl ball cap is actually flirting with the red headed engine boss next to me, and doesn't even know I exist. Curses. Of course it takes a few unacknowledged witty comebacks before I realize that he doesn't hear a thing I'm saying because Pippi Longstalking is redoing her braids. #heartbreak

That's ok. I'm older and wiser now, and most of my self esteem doesn't stem from the opinions of bad ass twenty something hot shots and their comrades. I'm not sure where it stems from, or some days if it stems at all, but I'll concede the fight. I'm just happy to be out here, making a fool of myself and a few bucks. 

Author's note: commo guy is actually very nice, and hasn't ever looked in my windows. That I know of. (In case KP ever stumbles across this blog) 

Things About Being Necessary

One of the biggest struggles I have is feeling like an unimportant human being. I am awfully good at using stuff: food, water, air, space, time, money, coffee, beer... I can consume like no other. But when it comes to producing, to being useful, it's a stretch to think of anything that I am Vitally Important for.

I have always had a philosophical problem with the idea held by some people that my worth as a person is warranted by my offspring. As if by raising the next generation of "world changers" or giving birth to the future Dalai Lama I will somehow make up for being born myself. Since I was a small child I have felt an almost desperate sense of Needing to Be Important. I want to be the world changer, the Dalai Lama, myself. Anybody with a uterus can crank out kids, and some of the best people in the history of the world have come from the worst parents, and vice versa, so I have a hard time swallowing the thought that my redemption comes through the Mighty People that I have borne. Motherhood is a high calling, and for most of my life, it remains true that if I am necessary anywhere as a human being, it is in this capacity. Not because I am raising the next president of the United States or the future Miss America, but because I am raising human beings, and like me, and like you, they need love.

I have always yearned to do more, to be more, to be Necessary, on a less biological and instinctive scale. I am necessary to my children because nature dictates it. If I do my job well, at some point I will not longer be necessary to them at all, and then I have succeeded in producing something. Lord willing it will be something good - four something goods - so far it seems like it might work out. But when that project is complete, where is my place in the cosmos? How will I then become necessary again? And to whom? Or do I get parked in the junk yard with the other broken down unnecessaries that haven't found a permanent place for when they're not dead yet?

I want to be Unequivocally Important in this life. I want people hanging on my every written word, and lives radically changed because I am there to make a difference.

Romantically, I am not necessary to anyone. As much as I want to be the last thing Some One thinks about at night and the first thing that Some One reaches for in the morning, I am needed by no one.  I have made the foolish mistake a thousand times over of falling in love with someone, allowing them to become "necessary" to me, when I am nothing but an option to them - if that. No one person needs me at the end of the day to tell their stories to, lean their head on, wrap their arms around. I am no body's best friend, confidant, lover, resting place. And no amount of needing from me makes me necessary to them. It's like an empty sucking vacuum in space. It's survivable, but it sure isn't fun. Which begs the question - what is actually necessary? It feels necessary to be loved by one person above all others, but time has proved the sad truth that it isn't. It feels necessary to be touched, and adored and heard and known, but again, no one I know is dying of singleness. It feels like dying sometimes. Like being buried alive. Romance isn't necessary.

But Love is necessary, and it goes on in spite of the pain, or loneliness, or the feeling of NEEDING that pervades everything. Love isn't the thing that you get from someone else, the touches, the feels - it's the thing that you give. We are all programmed to think that love is something we receive from the outside in, but the reality is that love comes from within us as whole human beings. And for all of the feeling needy, I have a lot of love to give even when it doesn't seem like it's coming in from anywhere.

Love is the thing that makes me necessary. It's the Thing of Vital Importance that I have to give the world. I am not building skyscrapers or raising people from the dead, but I am necessary in the choices that I make out of love every day. I have learned this from the people who have given me love and met my needs, both accidentally and intentionally. The big hug. The hand on the shoulder. The cold beer, or $20 to help out. The phone call out of the blue or random act of kindness. The George Baileys in this life that have given up their big suitcases to take care of a community, and the Father Darlings who have packed their dreams into a drawer to only look at occasionally in exchange for loving a family. The people that have saved my life by just Being There, by telling me I am Worthy, and I am Strong, and I can move ahead. These are the things that I have received and the things that I can give that might make the difference in the day or the month or the year or the life of a total stranger or my best friend. This is necessary.

Things About The Summertime, and Girls.

I have the most beautiful girls in the world. No doubt about it. Today we walked to the river, which is mostly an excuse to stop for ice cream on the way home, and we sat and picked through the Giant Pile of river rocks for a couple of hours. I've decided I like rocks even better than flowers. They're so pretty. So many colors and shapes and textures, and they last forever! Sort of like my kids. They're wildly different but all so pretty in their own individual ways and shapes. And also deadly when hurled with some force across a space. With a little bit of creativity, they're even useful. As paperweights, conversation pieces, or to fill in the holes that Dagny digs in the yard (rocks, not girls.) (ok, sometimes both.).

I look at the pictures of us all on the rocks in the sunshine, half-way between wet and dry and tan and pasty, and we are a whole pile of legs and hair and boobs and teeth. That pretty much sums up my whole life in this world full of girls and dogs. In the sunshine it's all sparkly and golden and beautiful, and in the rain it's kind of grouchy and gray and unthankful. In the snow it's bright and colorful and alive and in the mud it's tough and dangerous and a little bit crazy. I wouldn't trade it.

In fact, I notice that the more time that goes by it's terribly hard to get all of them in one place at the same time to take a picture. Halle is pretty much always missing anymore, and now When too. Next it will be Kizzie and Amanda that become harder to catch and Nat, Aspen and I will be all alone, feeling a little naked in the quietness. What life with only two kids and two dogs will be life is something I can't quite picture yet. I mean, we have the cats to help make up the difference, but they're loud in a sneaky, 3 AM, hanging from the picture frame kind of way.

It's not that my life will get less busy, necessarily, since there will still be three jobs and sports Every Single Day and feeling bad about not going to out of town games and missing meetings a lot. Those things never change, but there will be fewer meetings to miss and less games to feel guilty about. Someday, I suppose, there will be none. I kind of don't want to think about that day, because then I will have to come up with a whole new set of Life Complaints and it's going to be difficult.

Things About Being Home

It's july 28th. I've been home exactly a week from the Newby Lake Fire and 24 hours before that, Ireland.

In seven days, I've fought some major battles. The war isn't completely done yet, but I'm making headway into Enemy Territory. 

Day one was the ants. A quick google trip, a healthy dose of Borax, and getting rid of month old rotting food off the counters and I feel confident that I have the little bastards dominated until I leave for the next fire. 

When the carnage from that bloody skirmish was winding down I launched a counter attack on the dishes and laundry that were attempting a surprise attack from the Far Reaches. It took some mustering, but I think that after purginga both washing machines with a scourging of vinegar, and beating the piles into a mission, I can call myself ahead of the game. 

The next battle involved strategic maneuvering of resources to begin undermining opposing forces by some covert operations in the Big City, where I acquired materiel for the next course of onslaught and conferred with allies for intelligence that could make or break upcoming victories. This involved doctors appointments, lunch  and beers.

The next day was back in the trenches where I encountered the overwhelming sabotage of pets with health issues, fleas and GINORMOUS vet bills. I left the field bloodied and a little worse for the wear, but not completely defeated. 

After a night in hiding (I.e. Someone Else's house), I engaged subversive forces in the battle for control of my professional writing skills. There wasn't a lot of territory gained but I held my ground for future advances. Applying a few tactical tricks I have learned along the way, I managed to eek out some propaganda in spite of a fairly extreme case of writer's block. As a reward I met with cooperating parties for a Watermelon Blonde at Northern Ales. 

The next day I retreated from the frontline and basically hid in my bed all day long. I was finally able to lay to rest the outcome of Season 5 of GoT and slog through Season 2 of True Detective. Hard work but I pulled it off. It took a lot of popcorn and cherry jelly bellies.

Day 6 was a combination of intelligence gathering and reinforcement for the coming battle. I got a haircut, ran a bunch of errands, and buttoned up a story or two. And then the troops came home.

The Great Battle Started the evening of day 6 and continued into the morning, as we fought valiantly against invading head lice and a bedroom that was knee-deep, wall to wall. Being occupied by hostile soldiers, dishes and laundry were able to flank me and rush in for a resurgent attack. I was outnumbered and grossly underarmed, but somehow, by noon on day 7 the room was showing the hurt of our triumph and the head lice were all but routed. My one relief was the reinforcement delivered at the right moment from Papa Murphy's.

Avoiding "peace in our time" and persevering toward the goal of absolute victory, I launched a counterattack on laundry, forced my writer's block into submission for a couple more stories and even cooked a real dinner that Noone is going to love tonight, but might warrant a sneak attack on the dishes from turned Soldiers of the Opposition (i.e. conscripted children). Or it would, if the crock pot settings hadn't been rubbed off of the knob and my guess for the "high" setting wasn't actually the "warm" setting and the dinner had really cooked. Where are you now, Papa Murphy? There are enemies EVERYWHERE.

I am not convinced, in this heated moment, that the injuries I have sustained are not life-threatening, even though verified sources tell me that I am fine and a big whiner. But Dang, my shoulder hurts like a son-of-a-gun.

Also: I need a maid. and another fire assignment, STAT. 

Things About Getting MRIs

I was pretty sure I had done it before, but when they slid me into that tiny tube, I didn't remember it being SO DARN SMALL. I don't think I am claustrophobic, even though the thought of being buried alive has been one of my most vivid nightmares since I was little. Nothing gets to me like the fingernail marks in an exhumed coffin. I mean seriously. But when they put those squishy earmuffs on my and handed my a panic button, I started to have questions. I was in the tube faster than I could manage to sputter out my inquiries about why one would need a panic button, and then it hit me: Oh. Because, hello panic.

The instinctive, full-on freak-out started to take hold along with the realization that there were walls touching almost every plane of my body and I knew if I opened my eyes I would see cold plastic within inches of my eyeballs. I decided to engage my own mind in a battle of wills.

"Stop it. You're fine. It doesn't hurt. People do this all the time. Of course you can breathe - it just feels like you can't. Just do it. Take a breath. No seriously. A breath. You're not really trying. Quit being dramatic." I could imagine the face of my best friend laughing at me at the foot of the tube. Waiting to win $10 when I came screaming out, squeezing the life out of the panic button. I wasn't a baby. I was gonna do this. I have to admit that there was actually a minute or two when I considered a lifetime of shoulder pain was worth enduring to avoid what was certain death in this plastic shuttle to hell.

"Ok. 25 minutes. Take a nap. Nope. Alright then, distract yourself. Distractions... kisses on my neck, Jamie Fraser - Dang it. I need something more realistic, because God only knows if anyone will ever kiss this neck again. Small plastic tubes are no place for self pity. Switch gears. "

"What if this tube was actually a regeneration machine, and all of the loud noises and vibrations were the removal of layers of fat, wrinkles and blemishes. In 25 minutes I will emerge looking like a 110 lb 22 year old. I can almost feel it. Dammit. I am going to be so pissed when I roll out of this thing still fat and old. Forget regeneration. It's a time travel tube. You can go anywhere in history, you just have to pick."

This project consumed most of my time in the machine. I argued with myself about which era in history would suck the least for a woman, and after giving up on the dark ages, the dust bowl 30s and the old west, because they'd be too much work, and the renaissance because, well, hygiene, guys, and other eras simply because I have to believe that the food sucked,  I was struggling. To limit my options, I decided that I could only be transported to a time in the past in this exact location. Spokane, Washington. Then it was a toss up between the 1940s and the 1700s, until the food argument won out again, and I started thinking about what I would order for lunch at a diner in the 1940s. Or maybe even today, and what kind of beer would go with it. By the time they wheeled me out, my stomach was in full-on growl mode and I couldn't believe 25 minutes was over.

Needless to say, the next stop was lunch at The Blackbird, where I got heavily involved with a disastrously good mac n' cheese and a couple of killer brews. Hey man, I earned it.

Things About Being American in not-America

There are a few basic rules to international traveling. I am fairly certain that I don’t know any of them, but it was quickly evident to me that in addition to the real rules, like passports and visas and not being felons on the run or carrying any highly contagious diseases, there are a number of unspoken cultural things-to-avoid when outside of one’s own country. Most of these can basically be summed up into one: don’t be a jerk.

If you are going to travel to countries that are not the United States, it is important to remember several things, including the fact that you are traveling to countries that ARE NOT THE UNITED STATES. Sometimes, in these other countries, they do things differently. Like even speaking English. Turns out, this widely spoken language is actually spoken quite differently from place to place, which is interesting to discover when you, say, refer to that quintessential travelling necessity that us “Americans” call a fanny-pack, in a country like Australia and have succeeded in offended the young women in front of you by a careless mention of their genitalia.

clearly a language barrier problem here. 

Recently, being a world traveler, I was in Dublin with my family, and my parents were not particularly amused when my cousin and I kept referring to the “crack” that locals were telling us we could find downtown. The more enlightened among us readily understood that “crack” is an Irish term based on the Gaelic word  “craic”, which means simply “a good time”, and was most likely stolen and perverted by American druggies in the roaring twenties. Once this miscommunication was ironed out we were all relieved that even mom and dad could join us for a bit o’ crack in the pubs of Ireland.

have a bit o' crack! and a creamy pint!

Another keen traveling tip for Americans Abroad is the vital importance of matching luggage. This is the ONLY way to ensure adventures such as mixing up the bags of 6’1”, 190 lb. Uncle Jim and 4’9” 92 lb. Aunt Janet when we split off to fly to separate countries for more exploring. Not that Aunt Janet wouldn’t have killed it in green gym shorts and a bicycling cap, but I am not sure the Netherlands would have recovered from Uncle Jim in a size 00 zip off quick dry skirt  – this could easily be misconstrued as some sort of cultural terrorism. Matching suitcases also offers the reassurance that EVERYONE will know that we are related, even English speaking people who don’t really speak English. I saw several American families following this important travel protocol, and was somewhat envious of their Disney Themed carry-ons. Next time, family. Next time.

You have to admit, they do look like they know what they're doing. 

Dietary differences are an important factor to consider when traveling as well. One of our family members has celiac disease, which proved problematic, especially when we were on “the continent”, where A) they didn’t even pretend to speak English and B) continental breakfast is actually a THING. As is continental lunch, and dinner. The four major food groups in France are bread, croissants, rolls and cheese. Lucky for Aunt J, we already knew the word for cheese was “fromage”, which offered a relatively safe source of protein for her. Also, it turns out, hot dog is a nearly universal term. Shortly into our trip, after a text-a-friend to the most recent high-school French student, we were able to eek out the French word blé – which I think is wheat, because once we said that (actually showed them in text, because pronouncing blé is much harder than one would imagine), they smiled and said, in a very frenchy accent: “AHHH! Oui! Glúten Free!” which happens to be exactly what we were saying the whole time, but in American. Lord Love a Duck.

Sanna spilled her unidentifiable French green gelatinous appetizer. We do fancy, yo. 

Now, in spite of hailing from Northport, I would consider myself a fairly well rounded, cultured and adaptable individual. We live in a multi-cultural world, and I like it that way. I am of the firm belief that both the Native Americans AND the Spanish were on this continent before us white European folks, so there’s absolutely no reason that Spanish or whatever language shouldn’t be spoken and taught here. We are as much of a melting pot as the world has to offer, and it turns out, after being in Ireland, England, Scotland and France, there’s a lot of melting all over the place. We had authentic Italian food with authentic Italian waiters in Edinburgh, we had German wait staff in Ireland, and we had Czechish service in London. And in every place we went, “English speaking” country or no, we seemed to run into communication barriers, which makes me feel a bit like the common denominator, and also the cliché American jerk. No matter how loudly or slowly I spoke, they still didn't understand me. #youredoingitwrong

Like the time that we ordered hamburger steak in France and had it delivered to our table pretty much raw. The polite European thing to do might have been eating hamburger tartaré, but… well, I sent mine back to the kitchen for a little bit of cooking, because: e-coli, you guys.

um, so the differences weren't ALL bad. This is a "Knickerbocker Glory" and I want one every single day for the rest of my life. @Temple Brewhouse in London

Also did you know that American Plumbing isn't the universal standard? For instance, I ran across a pit toilet in France, that I was happy to use in my urgent need. And some places don't have stand up showers. And some places have sitting showers for your nether regions (not to be confused with Nether-lands). Not to mention the variety of how-do-you-turn-it-on and how-do-you-get-hot-water dilemmas we faced in different locations. It's all quite complicated and confusing for the average 'Merican. I mean, it certainly wasn't a village in Uganda, or even a Chinese suburb, for that matter, but it was also not Colville.

this is where common sense and picture instructions come in real handy. 

Maybe it sounds shallow to say that I like the way we do things here in the good ol' USof A. Or maybe it just sounds like I am closed-minded and stuck in an American rut, which is ok. It's fun to experience things like accidentally peeing on your ankles, or eating raw hamburger every once in awhile, but for the most part, I'll take what we've got going on here. I just have to remember that when I DO venture out into the Big Wide World again, to take my travel etiquette and a couple of basic translation dictionaries with me. Just in case. 

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Let's just say that you get up at 11:30 PM to go to the bathroom. Being the Only Human Being in the whole house, you find it odd that the bathroom door is closed. Odder still, the door opens Very Reluctantly, as if, on the other side, is a heinous secret that it is loathe to unveil. And then let's say that you get the door open and figure out that some Super Villain has pulled all of the towels off the shelf behind the door that you folded and placed there yesterday. You know, the towels that you were looking for when you took a shower after 10 days on a fire and you realized that Noone had been staying at the house and getting All Of The Towels dirty and hiding them somewhere. So the towels that you washed ALL of, folded and put them away, were unfolded and blocking the bathroom door from the inside. But being the Only Human Being In The House, this is kind of weird. Because if say, any one of my 6+ daughters were around, that's totally normal, but just me... generally if I am unfolding towels it's to make a towel fort under the table and I just haven't had the energy.

Anyway, you fold up the towels again, and think it odd, but since it's 11:30 and you have been asleep for an hour, it doesn't seem worth freaking out about, or even solving. But then you see this:

And you think: What in the actual bloody heck?

And as you remove them, roll by roll, all five of them, you wonder what maniacal two-year-old snuck into my house in the middle of the night and threw All of The Toilet Paper into the bowl? And then you turn to throw the water logged rolls into the bathtub, because at this point, nothing else really made sense, and you see them.

Languishing like two ingenious Jagulars on the bath mat. Smugly proud of the strong work they had performed. These two delinquent brother a**hats who have knocked every picture frame on my wall sideways, chased a thousand headbands under the couch. These two reprobate felines who think that sneak attacks on sleeping heads of hair at three AM are almost as much fun as plastic bag wars at four AM. These arrogant poopheads that guard the dog door to attack unsuspecting dogs going in and out. THESE CATS. Seriously.