The unexpected nature of finding myself living in New England for many years has presented innumerable cultural experiences that I could never have experienced otherwise. Although it's not been quite three years for me in Maine, I have lived here for a total of three full NFL seasons. NFL, living in New England... can you sense where I'm headed with this one? You bettah believe that this post is about none less than the NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS(groans from some, cheers from others). More specifically my time here amongst the Pats fans, thriving in their natural habitat, New England.
You see the past three NFL seasons have provided me the opportunity to witness the Patriots and their legion of local fans go through one Super Bowl loss, one Super Bowl win, and one season where the Patriots completely missed playing in the Super Bowl. All of this happening at the near end of what is the Tom Brady and Bill Belichick dynasty era of unparalleled success. This fact leaves me in the current position to also watch Patriots fans suffer immensely as Tom Brady becomes a free agent. So many beautiful facets to this story.
In the beginning, having lived here for only about five months, the entirety of the 2017-2018 NFL season, it all had come to an end and with a Patriots' loss to the Nick Foles led Eagles in Super Bowl LI. Coming down to the wire of a crazy game, New England walked away defeated, and stunned. Now, the fans' reaction wasn't so, um, professional. The crying, the excuses, the shit talking about referees or some other thing that was "unfair!". Mind you this is all coming from the fans of a team that has cheated. The somber, sorry slump that fans walked around with for one to three weeks post-loss. The feeling that life was so difficult to live because the Patriots missed out on the win. Not wanting to talk about it, and a general melancholy everywhere I went. Slightly pathetic, but overall not particularly annoying; I dealt with it fine. All the Patriots' fandom was super optimistic, if not out right in-your-face about the fact that the Pats would go back again in 2018-2019 season and win it all. And that's exactly what happened.
In a 2018-2019 season dominated by teams like New Orleans, Kansas City, Los Angeles Rams, Seattle, The Patriots were also strong, but not for sure favorites to take it all. Then the Patriots do what the Patriots do in the NFL Playoffs and just win, taking them back to play for Super Bowl LII battling this time with a much younger offensive thunderstorm in the LA Rams. The game was something of a defensive slugfest and it ended up as a snoozer, if you ask me. Low scoring and overall not exciting, but alas the Patriots were victors again where they are so comfortable being. Fans rejoiced. Patriots Nation was whole once more as Tom Brady delivered again as the messiah. Many fans weren't too loud mouthed about that particular victory due to its boring nature, but it was still a win. It happened to be an historic win as well, being the 6th victory
Our most recent NFL season was one that I followed more closely than any year prior, and also enjoyed more than any year prior. Of course as reigning champions the Patriots had just as good or better a chance to make it back to the big game as any team. After a decent start to the season the Patriots struggled towards the end and barely made the playoffs, where they lost in the first round. Not to summarize it too easily, I reveled in the glory of the Patriots' early playoff loss. Dancing around my living room I sang, "Ding dong the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead!!!" I was PUMPED that after two years and two NFL seasons living in New England, I was finally going to get to watch a Super Bowl that the Patriots did not appear in! Many New England fans in this area acted as if football didn't exist after the Pats lost in the wild card playoff game. Various mourning clients at the shop would slump in the chair and say how they weren't watching any other playoffs. I'm like, damn, y'all are sorta weak, in fact not sorta. For a group of people so accustomed to extraordinary success, Patriots fans really, really don't know how to handle a loss. At all.
Playoffs and the Super Bowl did not disappoint and Kansas City took home the prize, the first Super Bowl appearance and subsequent win for their team in 50 years. Imagine that, Patriots fans! Fifty years with no Super Bowl appearance, let alone a championship! It's truly unfathomable to these New England fans, because they have literally in the past twenty years never had to imagine being too far removed from a Super Bowl championship. But that might change this season, if not for sure in the next few seasons.
You see, the best part of all of this is not only have I borne witness to a variety of Super Bowl experiences with Patriots' fandom, now I get to see them squirm while they await official decisions regarding Tom Brady's final years in the NFL. Will he stay in New England or will he go to another team and make a run for it in a whole different way?!?!?! That very thought is absolutely torturing those that love the Patriots and Tom Brady. They are LOSING IT, to put it lightly. Should Tom Brady decide to stay with the Patriots for the final years of his career, the collective sigh of relief from this region will have the potential to shift weather patterns. On the contrary, the sheer volume of tears that will be shed if Brady leaves for another team will probably make up for the lack of precipitation we've had this past winter. I sit back and take it all in. I truly don't know what Tom Brady will decide and I sort of don't care. I'm just so grateful that I have been here observing such a wide variety of experiences regarding the New England Patriots fan culture during a time of historic success. Witnessing the highs and lows of the Pats fans, and especially loving the discomfort brought upon them by the impending end of the Patriots dyansty. Suckahs.
Sunday, March 8, 2020
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Ride or die.
On my street there's a poor, frozen bicycle locked to a tree. During the fall time I remember thinking, "Is that gonna be there all winter? Does that poor baby have a home?" Even if it does have a home, it's not allowed to come inside, regardless of the weather. This bike was on the verge of disappearing in that glacier, if it weren't for a couple consecutive days in the 40's.
Then New England got blasted with a "bomb cyclone" and I saw this frigid, two-wheeled friend left to bear the brunt of the storm. Then the plows came, making for an even sadder scene. Has anyone ever shoveled their bike out? Cars, yes. Doorways, yes. Bikes? This is Maine, bikes get shoveled out.
C'mon now, what did this bike do to get left out in the cold? Bicycles are our friends! They get cold and lonely too. Not to mention the damage various parts will suffer due to the freeze/thaw and all the damn salt, sand and grime ever-present on the sidewalks.
Call me crazy, but I don't think any bicycle should be an outdoor pet, they want to be warm and dry like the rest of us. Plus, who rides in this New England winter madness? You'd be surprised... I feel like nothing stops the New English from living life, not even the gnarliest winter ever. Inspiring folks they are. Or maybe just insane.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Siwa.
Of all the places in all the world I've had the pleasure of seeing with my own two eyes and feeling with my own bloody heart, the oasis of Siwa in Western Egypt is one of the top, tippy-top best. One day, a few years back, I attempted to start writing about my experience there and found it too difficult to sum up. I was rambling, trying to put every detail into words, the smells, the sights, the feelings, the people, and I couldn't do it. Siwa affected me so deeply and was such a joy of a place to be that it was impossible to write a blog post about it. I have always wanted to write about Siwa, and the other night I had the idea of one experience I had there that would be a good story to share.
Let me set the scene. Siwa lies in a deep depression in the Sahara desert of Western Egypt with an altitude well below sea level, hence its access to ground water to create life in the sand. There are palm tree groves as far as the eye can see. There is a large salty lake west of the oasis, fittingly called Siwa Lake. In the center of the small town the remains of an enormous, centuries-old mud brick village still stand. Partially destroyed by heavy rain decades ago, the mud brick village is largely abandoned, but some families still live on its outskirts near the more "modern" town. Open air markets vending fresh fruits and vegetables, donkey carts(taxis), veiled women milling about, the echo of the prayer call coming from minarets, and ample sunshine add to the enchanting nature of this delightful place. Hundreds of miles away from anything, Siwa Oasis is special.
The Desert Rose hotel where I stayed was about a mile or so outside of the main town, down a dusty road. Being disconnected from the rest of the grid of the town, Desert Rose did not have electricity. Water was gas heated and all food was cooked over gas as well. At night we used candles to light the rooms. So charming. The courtyard was open air allowing for the sun to pour in onto the white stucco and tile mosaic. Behind the hotel lies a vast set of dunes, appropriately called the Great Sand Sea. These dunes went on for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Straight out of a movie.
I couldn't believe his timing. I couldn't believe that as my life flashed before my eyes I was suddenly picked up by this upbeat Egyptian, you know, just on his way into town. I got into the truck and said something about the dogs, about how scared I was and that they were gonna eat me. Ali chuckled and said, "Nothing would have happened." Easy for you to say, you are a badass, desert hardened Egyptian who could have fended them off with one hand tied! I'm a soft, pasty American with zero desert survival skills that I'm sure would have been quite the treat for those desert dogs dining on stringy old donkey.
Ali dropped me off in the town square where I enjoyed my last evening in this fascinating oasis that had touched my soul. I purchased some fruits, watched life go by and eventually got a ride back to the Desert Rose for my final candle-lit evening.
Siwa was a profound experience for me in so many ways, this dog story being just one of those ways. Siwa was the furthest away I had ever been from myself and everything I had known. A deep love for the desert began to blossom for me in Siwa's Great Sand Sea. I was seeing a very real part of Egyptian culture that was far from the famous history of the Nile. And it is the only place in Egypt that I ever rode a bicycle.
For years I carried an intense fear of all dogs, not realizing it was born that day, on that road faced by those bloody faced wild dogs. A dear friend helped me realize the fear came from that experience and it was a great revelation that helped me get over it. I love dogs now, but I don't ever want to be in another situation like that. There's a big difference between domesticated, well-taken-care-of dogs and wild African desert dogs with a mission to survive. All of that said, Egypt is, and will likely always be, my favorite country.
Let me set the scene. Siwa lies in a deep depression in the Sahara desert of Western Egypt with an altitude well below sea level, hence its access to ground water to create life in the sand. There are palm tree groves as far as the eye can see. There is a large salty lake west of the oasis, fittingly called Siwa Lake. In the center of the small town the remains of an enormous, centuries-old mud brick village still stand. Partially destroyed by heavy rain decades ago, the mud brick village is largely abandoned, but some families still live on its outskirts near the more "modern" town. Open air markets vending fresh fruits and vegetables, donkey carts(taxis), veiled women milling about, the echo of the prayer call coming from minarets, and ample sunshine add to the enchanting nature of this delightful place. Hundreds of miles away from anything, Siwa Oasis is special.
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| A portion of the mud brick village. The "modern" town lies at the center of the photo. |
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| Market at night. |
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| More common than any other form of transport. |
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| Desert Rose courtyard. |
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| Edge of Great Sand Sea. View from Desert Rose rooftop |
Ali is the name of the man who was in charge and he embodied the friendliness and gregarious nature that Egyptians are legendary for. This guy could cook a fierce meal, guide a desert safari, and run errands for the hotel all in one day. I felt blessed to be in such a gorgeous place, in the company of such a gracious host, with the backdrop of the stunning dunes shimmering in the full moon light. Ali loved the desert and sold safaris in his well equipped 4-Runner; deflate the tires a bit and head out into the endless dunes. I took him up on this two separate days and those safaris are some of the most beautiful memories of all my times visiting Egypt. Along with sharing his knowledge and love of the desert with me, Ali would come to save me from great harm at one point in the few days I spent as his guest.
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| Ali in his beloved desert. |
During one of the afternoons I was at the Desert Rose, I wanted to get into town to enjoy the evening and buy some fruits for my bus journey the next day. Ali was not at the hotel to give me a ride so I decided to go into town on foot. The walk was an isolated road of sand and dust, lined with tall grass on either side and passing the occasional structure. There was nobody and nothing on this road besides me and the desert, or so I thought.
At one point as I was taking in the breathtaking serenity I heard some growling. I stopped and quickly noticed not far off the road was a pack of desert dogs. Four or six of them, large dogs, intensely staring at me and slowly inching forward, baring their teeth. Their faces were bloodied adding to the terror. They were eating a dead donkey and my passing was certainly a threat to their meal. In an absolute state of overwhelming fear, I froze. The following moments were consumed with thoughts of, "If I run they will chase me. I have no where to go. There is nothing here to protect me. I am a dead woman." Those moments felt like an hour. Paralyzed with fear, I literally did not know what to do. I knew I was gonna get attacked. It was over, life was gonna end for me like it has for so many, in the Sahara. Then suddenly Ali pulled up in his 4-Runner and with this thick accent was like, "Do you want a ride into town?" Do I want a ride?! I jumped into that truck for my life!
I couldn't believe his timing. I couldn't believe that as my life flashed before my eyes I was suddenly picked up by this upbeat Egyptian, you know, just on his way into town. I got into the truck and said something about the dogs, about how scared I was and that they were gonna eat me. Ali chuckled and said, "Nothing would have happened." Easy for you to say, you are a badass, desert hardened Egyptian who could have fended them off with one hand tied! I'm a soft, pasty American with zero desert survival skills that I'm sure would have been quite the treat for those desert dogs dining on stringy old donkey.
Ali dropped me off in the town square where I enjoyed my last evening in this fascinating oasis that had touched my soul. I purchased some fruits, watched life go by and eventually got a ride back to the Desert Rose for my final candle-lit evening.
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| Still alive! Siwa town square in the full moon light. |
For years I carried an intense fear of all dogs, not realizing it was born that day, on that road faced by those bloody faced wild dogs. A dear friend helped me realize the fear came from that experience and it was a great revelation that helped me get over it. I love dogs now, but I don't ever want to be in another situation like that. There's a big difference between domesticated, well-taken-care-of dogs and wild African desert dogs with a mission to survive. All of that said, Egypt is, and will likely always be, my favorite country.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Black don't crack.
Many a jacket hangs in my closet. There are two down jackets, one large and puffy, the other is more of a down pea coat with a great hood. There are numerous hoodies of varying ages and thicknesses. Some of the hoodies have been adorned with the graphics of old t-shirts sewn on the the back as a way to customize and preserve, so punk rock. From my travels to other countries, I have a great collection of Adidas soccer jackets, Team Argentina, Team Mexico, plain black with white stripes and a high collar, etc. I even have a hoodie that I adopted from the barbershop after no one came back to claim it. Being someone who wants to avoid the cold touching me at all times, I have collected these jackets over the years and refuse to part with any of them.
Today it snowed all day, nothing major, just a consistent flurry of the heavy, fresh-off-the-sea snow that I guess is the norm for Portland Maine. This breed of snow is all new to me. Heavy, sticky, makes slush as soon as it hits the ground. Strange to this Colorado girl who's only experience with snow up to this point has been the dry fluff of a high altitude, landlocked climate. And then the sun went down, the temperature went up. And then it started to rain. It's still raining. WHAT THE CRAP?!(insert mind-blown emoji)
How in the world does snow turn to rain? Rain turns to snow, period. When the sun goes down, the temp goes down, period. Not so quick, I'm learning. The ocean is a powerful determiner of all things weather and being right by it means I need to throw out the rule book on what I've experienced, having never lived in the coastal climate of New England. Or shall I say, having never wanted to live in the coastal climate of New England. I truly cannot believe I am hunkering down to endure a Maine winter. sigh.
Though I hate winter and snow, I love shoveling snow, gets the anger out. Having good intentions to shovel some of the snow this eve, I got all dressed up and went outdoors only to find the rain has completely soaked the four inches of snow that had fallen. It is complete slush; deep, icy slush. My Famous Footwear snow boots are no match for this, I need real boots. Alas, I at least used the opportunity of being outside and brushed the slush off of my car before it has the chance to turn to four-inch-thick ice.
When I came in I removed my soaked boots, my soaked gloves and hung up my soaked jacket. Clothes be gettin' soaked. The jacket I had chosen to wear outside is the one I thought best suited for a rainy situation and proved to hold its own for the fifteen minutes I stood in the sopping wet snow and got poured on by freezing rain. This black hooded jacket has been in my life for almost ten years. It's technically a lightweight ski jacket, lined with a thin fleece, that I bought for the "cold" nights I would experience living in Guatemala back in 2009. We are talking about 55 degrees at the lowest. It is the closest thing I have to a real rain jacket that would also provide me warmth. It's still hanging and will probably take the bulk of the night to dry.
What prompted me to write tonight about jackets and weather was the thought that I NEVER, EVER would have known that the jacket I bought nine years ago to keep me warm in Guatemala would be out in the freezing December rain of Portland Maine. This black jacket has been through torrential downpours of Bogotá, kept me guarded from the winds of Okinawa, admired the fall leaves and majestic glaciers of Patagonia, and has even ridden the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. Life never ceases to amaze me with its twists and turns that have led me to so many wonderful places, black jacket in tow.
My black jacket has seen the world. Take a minute, look through your clothes, find one of your older pieces be it a jacket, pants, gloves. Think of all the life you've lived in that single piece of cloth, and reminisce. You'll probably be surprised at how much life you've lived with something you didn't realize was there with you the whole time.
Today it snowed all day, nothing major, just a consistent flurry of the heavy, fresh-off-the-sea snow that I guess is the norm for Portland Maine. This breed of snow is all new to me. Heavy, sticky, makes slush as soon as it hits the ground. Strange to this Colorado girl who's only experience with snow up to this point has been the dry fluff of a high altitude, landlocked climate. And then the sun went down, the temperature went up. And then it started to rain. It's still raining. WHAT THE CRAP?!(insert mind-blown emoji)
How in the world does snow turn to rain? Rain turns to snow, period. When the sun goes down, the temp goes down, period. Not so quick, I'm learning. The ocean is a powerful determiner of all things weather and being right by it means I need to throw out the rule book on what I've experienced, having never lived in the coastal climate of New England. Or shall I say, having never wanted to live in the coastal climate of New England. I truly cannot believe I am hunkering down to endure a Maine winter. sigh.
Though I hate winter and snow, I love shoveling snow, gets the anger out. Having good intentions to shovel some of the snow this eve, I got all dressed up and went outdoors only to find the rain has completely soaked the four inches of snow that had fallen. It is complete slush; deep, icy slush. My Famous Footwear snow boots are no match for this, I need real boots. Alas, I at least used the opportunity of being outside and brushed the slush off of my car before it has the chance to turn to four-inch-thick ice.
When I came in I removed my soaked boots, my soaked gloves and hung up my soaked jacket. Clothes be gettin' soaked. The jacket I had chosen to wear outside is the one I thought best suited for a rainy situation and proved to hold its own for the fifteen minutes I stood in the sopping wet snow and got poured on by freezing rain. This black hooded jacket has been in my life for almost ten years. It's technically a lightweight ski jacket, lined with a thin fleece, that I bought for the "cold" nights I would experience living in Guatemala back in 2009. We are talking about 55 degrees at the lowest. It is the closest thing I have to a real rain jacket that would also provide me warmth. It's still hanging and will probably take the bulk of the night to dry.
What prompted me to write tonight about jackets and weather was the thought that I NEVER, EVER would have known that the jacket I bought nine years ago to keep me warm in Guatemala would be out in the freezing December rain of Portland Maine. This black jacket has been through torrential downpours of Bogotá, kept me guarded from the winds of Okinawa, admired the fall leaves and majestic glaciers of Patagonia, and has even ridden the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. Life never ceases to amaze me with its twists and turns that have led me to so many wonderful places, black jacket in tow.
My black jacket has seen the world. Take a minute, look through your clothes, find one of your older pieces be it a jacket, pants, gloves. Think of all the life you've lived in that single piece of cloth, and reminisce. You'll probably be surprised at how much life you've lived with something you didn't realize was there with you the whole time.
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| Perito Moreno Glacier, Patagonia, Argentina 2013 |
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| Okinawa Island, Japan 2011 |
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Barbara Morgan Hansen
Has it really been fifteen years? Fifteen years since that call came? Close to half my life... Where has the time gone?... And though I often think of that day and the memories are crystal clear, I've never written about it. Until now. Fifteen years later.
Fifteen years ago, November 28 2002, was Thanksgiving Day. The bulk of my immediate family and I were at our Mom's house in Littleton preparing for dinner. The weather was mild as November can be in Littleton, I remember the sun shining through the windows of the kitchen. Hanging out, doing what families do best, BS-ing, the phone rang and it was my dad calling from his home in Highlands Ranch. Brady answered, told my dad, "Yes, we'll go right now", and hung up the phone. Dad had called to tell us that he had received a panicked phone call from his father, our grandpa, and that our grandma had fallen and they needed immediate help to get her up. My Mom's house was barely a mile from our grandparents and my father called us because he knew we could get there sooner. Jason, my sister's boyfriend at the time said, "I'll go with Brady" and I told him no, that I would go. I didn't want a stranger going over there.
Thinking, Oh we'll go help Grandma and be home in time for dinner, Brady and I hopped in the car and within minutes were at Grandma and Grandpa Hansen's house, a place we'd spent ample time at and formed lasting childhood memories. The energy upon entering that house was not what I expected; intense, heavy, almost twilight-zone-like. Brady and I turned the first corner into the hallway and saw our precious grandmother on the floor of her room. Our panicked, pacing grandfather and a neighbor who had come over to help immediately following the accident, were also there. They were able to turn Grandma over so she was not face down, and helped clean her up as she had messed herself in her moment of weakness. What my grandfather and his elderly neighbor did not have was the strength to pick Grandma up and carry her to bed. Nor did my grandmother have the strength or energy to do so on her own. Grandma's breathing was labored, she was clearly stressed out and likely in great pain, but she was communicating clearly and aware of what was happening. I'll never forget the sense of urgency and anxiety that consumed my grandfather in those moments; he was beside himself, helpless to help the love of his life in her time of greatest need.
Brady and I went into work mode, knowing we were there to do a job, one that required great strength but one that we did not know would require deep levels of tenderness. Brady and I positioned beautiful Barbara Hansen in our arms, Brady's arms underneath her armpits and mine underneath her legs. The bed had been prepared for her to be laid down and all we had to do was lift and, in one fell swoop, make sure she got to where she could rest. As we lifted, she was heavier than I expected, the weight of the world it felt like.
We got Grandma into bed and proceeded to bandage some injuries. At 83-years-old, Grandma's skin was as thin as tissue and a large piece on her arm had peeled back likely from hitting a door frame or piece of furniture. Being someone who doesn't deal well with flesh wounds, I thought of who I was helping, what she meant to me, and how much she needed me in that moment to get past the sight of the wound. I remember thinking, How is this going to heal? It's so big. I loaded the wound with antibiotic cream and placed a large bandage over it. There were a few other smaller wounds Brady and I bandaged and took care of some other things, making sure she had water and such.
Grandma was off the floor, comfortably in bed, still breathing heavily from the stress caused by the situation. She expressed her gratefulness for us coming over. Brady and I hugged her and she said something to us that I'll never forget, "Thank you so much. You are such good grandchildren." There was hugs and I love yous all around. We made sure Grandpa was feeling alright and after a very, very intense experience, got back in the car and headed back to Mom's. Thirty minutes absolutely seared in my brain.
As we drove away from their house, I felt infuriated that Grandma was living like that, needing such care and not having it provided for her in her home. I had last seen her in September of that same year and did not realize she was in danger of scary situations like that, living with only my grandfather to help her. I told myself that after Thanksgiving was over I was going to have a talk with my dad and Aunt Linda about her needing more care, a home nurse, something! What Brady and I saw in their home that day made me realize Grandma needed help, I did not want this special lady to suffer like that again. And she would not.
Following the holiday, I was at work that Friday and my father called the salon to tell me that grandma had passed away that night as she slept. A wave of relief washed over me, so much of uneasiness of the day before made sense, Grandma had been at the end of her life. And I found tremendous peace in knowing she wasn't going to hurt or fall anymore. Then I realized of all Barbara Morgan Hansen's grandchildren, Brady and I were the last ones she ever saw. That thought really meant something to me as it sunk in the day of her passing. Brady and I are close, and I'm sure part of that bond came from sharing that experience that day with our beloved grandmother.
I decided to leave work immediately and to return to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was something of the same surrealness, but much more empty. My grandfather was in state of shock, almost as if he couldn't feel or communicate. I don't remember much of "the day after" to be perfectly honest except that it was colder outside and the angle of the sun felt distant.
As funerals usually are, Grandma's was a forced family reunion of sorts. Everyone in our family undoubtedly loved this woman and even her grandchildren that grew up a great distance from her felt a deep closeness to her that was palpable at her service. She was a part of all of us and her love transcended.
My siblings and I were the luckiest of all of grandma's grandchildren as we grew up so nearby and were at Grandma and Grandpa's all the time as children. My childhood memories often betray, but I do not forget the excitement I felt each and every time we were going to go to Grandma's house. Let's face it, it was a lot more about Grandma than Grandpa(God rest his grumpy soul). It didn't matter if we were stopping over for an hour on a Sunday or if we were going to spend the day, I was always pumped! We loved the kitties, the worn out old-fashioned games and toys, the cable TV, the abundant gum supply hidden in Grandma's purse, but really we went to be near Grandma. We loved the love that poured out of her from a seemingly bottomless fountain. Though there were many, many grandchildren that claimed her, she always made each of us feel like we were the only one. How did she do it? Grandma power. I still miss basking in her glow.
Barbara Morgan Hansen was made of love, was made of joy and a sassiness that carries on in many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma was a committed woman. Grandma was committed to her family, to her husband, to her faith, all of which gave her ample grief from time to time, but whom she served with a smile. I remember as she aged, her asking me to come over and cut her hair, a way to bond with me, to help me learn, and to look her best as she always strived for. Anyone that remembers my grandma, remembers that if she had lipstick on her lips that it was also on her teeth, more evidence of her consistent, infectious smile.
I cannot remember a time where Grandma was mad at anyone or anything. I don't remember ever being scolded by her, which if it happened was likely disguised in some loving manner. In fact she even subtly covered her own "wrong doings", as was evidenced in the few R-rated VHS tapes she owned with the "R" rating being blacked out by permanent marker. Nice move Grams!! I mean, really, Grandma could do no wrong.
But even though she was loaded with compassion, and goodness and non-judgement, and sugar and spice and everything nice, Grandma was no softie. In fact, she was one tough cookie(just like the ones she baked, I'm sorry, I had to!). Barbara was married to Whipple for over fifty years after all, and that should be commended! When I was a young adolescent, Grandma was diagnosed with ovarian cancer which she handedly beat, like a boss. I realize all these years later that Grandma may have formed the ovarian cancer from her use of talc powder which she kept in her bathroom; as talc use has now been linked to ovarian cancer. As kids we liked to talc our tummies, kids are weird. Alas, it was part of the magic of visiting Grandma's house, talc tummy. The talc and the fuzzy toilet cover were the best parts of Grandma's bathroom. I know Grandma also gave birth to giant babies(my dad), further cementing her legend, and suffered a miscarriage in between children. There's so much more I wish I knew about everything she endured and sacrificed.
Grandma had her vices also, romance novels being one of my clearest recollections. I'm sure Grandma longed for some of the stories to be her own, but I also know she simply enjoyed reading. When I think of Grandma there's always M & M's somewhere floating in the memories. Usually milk chocolate M & M's, I was always slightly disappointed when there was peanuts involved. Easily forgiven however, as it was Grandma, and she had some other treat somewhere else. Ice cream, sugary cereals, packaged cookies, all to the grandchildren's delight. I could literally write a novel about her...
Being that she passed when I was at the tender age of twenty-three, I did not get to have much of my adulthood with my Grandma Hansen. As a selfish young adult, I didn't take much time to visit her, even though we lived in the same city. I didn't get to show her who I became and am still striving to become. Grandma is mostly a childhood memory for me.
Years after her passing, I had a very vivid dream. She was there, and she was alive, but she was going to die. There was an overwhelming urgency, a pressing need for, for something to happen before she passed. In my dream I could not identify what "it" was, but the emotion of anxiety was causing me to cry. As I felt the pressing and urgency of this thing that needed to happen before she passed, I "arrived", I was there before she passed. I was crying and in my dream I realized something very profound, Grandma could not pass away until I was there, just like it happened in real life. We needed to be together one more time before she rested.
I woke up crying, something that has only ever happened that one time. All the memories of seeing her that last time were instantly refreshed, and now had a new meaning. Grandma had come to me in my dreams to tell me how important it was that I was there on that day. I called my father to tell him, still crying and trying to explain in my morning fog, the meaning of the dream. That dream was extremely powerful for me, it still speaks to me.
I have always been humbly grateful that I was one of two of her cherished grandchildren to see her and help her in her final hours. I know that I was meant to be there, and I am really really grateful that I did not let someone else go instead. I am grateful it is an experience I share with my favorite person, Brady.
As a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, Barbara Morgan Hansen blessed so many with her generosity and steadfastness. When I felt compelled to write this, I knew I would cry, and there has been streams of tears on and off the past three hours, along with some downright ugly crying. I also know that I could write millions more words for a woman that, though I only got twenty-three years with, is literally a part of me forever.
To my Grandma: What you have meant to me and continue to bless me with is beyond what words can describe. I love you deeply and want you to know that your joy is with me every day. I cherish the thoughtful handwritten notes and letters you wrote to me over the years as physical memory of your tenderness and care. Don't be surprised if I keep writing about you. Thank you for everything. Love, your granddaughter, Sarah Kay Hansen
Fifteen years ago, November 28 2002, was Thanksgiving Day. The bulk of my immediate family and I were at our Mom's house in Littleton preparing for dinner. The weather was mild as November can be in Littleton, I remember the sun shining through the windows of the kitchen. Hanging out, doing what families do best, BS-ing, the phone rang and it was my dad calling from his home in Highlands Ranch. Brady answered, told my dad, "Yes, we'll go right now", and hung up the phone. Dad had called to tell us that he had received a panicked phone call from his father, our grandpa, and that our grandma had fallen and they needed immediate help to get her up. My Mom's house was barely a mile from our grandparents and my father called us because he knew we could get there sooner. Jason, my sister's boyfriend at the time said, "I'll go with Brady" and I told him no, that I would go. I didn't want a stranger going over there.
Thinking, Oh we'll go help Grandma and be home in time for dinner, Brady and I hopped in the car and within minutes were at Grandma and Grandpa Hansen's house, a place we'd spent ample time at and formed lasting childhood memories. The energy upon entering that house was not what I expected; intense, heavy, almost twilight-zone-like. Brady and I turned the first corner into the hallway and saw our precious grandmother on the floor of her room. Our panicked, pacing grandfather and a neighbor who had come over to help immediately following the accident, were also there. They were able to turn Grandma over so she was not face down, and helped clean her up as she had messed herself in her moment of weakness. What my grandfather and his elderly neighbor did not have was the strength to pick Grandma up and carry her to bed. Nor did my grandmother have the strength or energy to do so on her own. Grandma's breathing was labored, she was clearly stressed out and likely in great pain, but she was communicating clearly and aware of what was happening. I'll never forget the sense of urgency and anxiety that consumed my grandfather in those moments; he was beside himself, helpless to help the love of his life in her time of greatest need.
Brady and I went into work mode, knowing we were there to do a job, one that required great strength but one that we did not know would require deep levels of tenderness. Brady and I positioned beautiful Barbara Hansen in our arms, Brady's arms underneath her armpits and mine underneath her legs. The bed had been prepared for her to be laid down and all we had to do was lift and, in one fell swoop, make sure she got to where she could rest. As we lifted, she was heavier than I expected, the weight of the world it felt like.
We got Grandma into bed and proceeded to bandage some injuries. At 83-years-old, Grandma's skin was as thin as tissue and a large piece on her arm had peeled back likely from hitting a door frame or piece of furniture. Being someone who doesn't deal well with flesh wounds, I thought of who I was helping, what she meant to me, and how much she needed me in that moment to get past the sight of the wound. I remember thinking, How is this going to heal? It's so big. I loaded the wound with antibiotic cream and placed a large bandage over it. There were a few other smaller wounds Brady and I bandaged and took care of some other things, making sure she had water and such.
Grandma was off the floor, comfortably in bed, still breathing heavily from the stress caused by the situation. She expressed her gratefulness for us coming over. Brady and I hugged her and she said something to us that I'll never forget, "Thank you so much. You are such good grandchildren." There was hugs and I love yous all around. We made sure Grandpa was feeling alright and after a very, very intense experience, got back in the car and headed back to Mom's. Thirty minutes absolutely seared in my brain.
As we drove away from their house, I felt infuriated that Grandma was living like that, needing such care and not having it provided for her in her home. I had last seen her in September of that same year and did not realize she was in danger of scary situations like that, living with only my grandfather to help her. I told myself that after Thanksgiving was over I was going to have a talk with my dad and Aunt Linda about her needing more care, a home nurse, something! What Brady and I saw in their home that day made me realize Grandma needed help, I did not want this special lady to suffer like that again. And she would not.
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| 5643 South Huron Street. |
I decided to leave work immediately and to return to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was something of the same surrealness, but much more empty. My grandfather was in state of shock, almost as if he couldn't feel or communicate. I don't remember much of "the day after" to be perfectly honest except that it was colder outside and the angle of the sun felt distant.
As funerals usually are, Grandma's was a forced family reunion of sorts. Everyone in our family undoubtedly loved this woman and even her grandchildren that grew up a great distance from her felt a deep closeness to her that was palpable at her service. She was a part of all of us and her love transcended.
My siblings and I were the luckiest of all of grandma's grandchildren as we grew up so nearby and were at Grandma and Grandpa's all the time as children. My childhood memories often betray, but I do not forget the excitement I felt each and every time we were going to go to Grandma's house. Let's face it, it was a lot more about Grandma than Grandpa(God rest his grumpy soul). It didn't matter if we were stopping over for an hour on a Sunday or if we were going to spend the day, I was always pumped! We loved the kitties, the worn out old-fashioned games and toys, the cable TV, the abundant gum supply hidden in Grandma's purse, but really we went to be near Grandma. We loved the love that poured out of her from a seemingly bottomless fountain. Though there were many, many grandchildren that claimed her, she always made each of us feel like we were the only one. How did she do it? Grandma power. I still miss basking in her glow.
Barbara Morgan Hansen was made of love, was made of joy and a sassiness that carries on in many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma was a committed woman. Grandma was committed to her family, to her husband, to her faith, all of which gave her ample grief from time to time, but whom she served with a smile. I remember as she aged, her asking me to come over and cut her hair, a way to bond with me, to help me learn, and to look her best as she always strived for. Anyone that remembers my grandma, remembers that if she had lipstick on her lips that it was also on her teeth, more evidence of her consistent, infectious smile.
I cannot remember a time where Grandma was mad at anyone or anything. I don't remember ever being scolded by her, which if it happened was likely disguised in some loving manner. In fact she even subtly covered her own "wrong doings", as was evidenced in the few R-rated VHS tapes she owned with the "R" rating being blacked out by permanent marker. Nice move Grams!! I mean, really, Grandma could do no wrong.
But even though she was loaded with compassion, and goodness and non-judgement, and sugar and spice and everything nice, Grandma was no softie. In fact, she was one tough cookie(just like the ones she baked, I'm sorry, I had to!). Barbara was married to Whipple for over fifty years after all, and that should be commended! When I was a young adolescent, Grandma was diagnosed with ovarian cancer which she handedly beat, like a boss. I realize all these years later that Grandma may have formed the ovarian cancer from her use of talc powder which she kept in her bathroom; as talc use has now been linked to ovarian cancer. As kids we liked to talc our tummies, kids are weird. Alas, it was part of the magic of visiting Grandma's house, talc tummy. The talc and the fuzzy toilet cover were the best parts of Grandma's bathroom. I know Grandma also gave birth to giant babies(my dad), further cementing her legend, and suffered a miscarriage in between children. There's so much more I wish I knew about everything she endured and sacrificed.
Grandma had her vices also, romance novels being one of my clearest recollections. I'm sure Grandma longed for some of the stories to be her own, but I also know she simply enjoyed reading. When I think of Grandma there's always M & M's somewhere floating in the memories. Usually milk chocolate M & M's, I was always slightly disappointed when there was peanuts involved. Easily forgiven however, as it was Grandma, and she had some other treat somewhere else. Ice cream, sugary cereals, packaged cookies, all to the grandchildren's delight. I could literally write a novel about her...
Being that she passed when I was at the tender age of twenty-three, I did not get to have much of my adulthood with my Grandma Hansen. As a selfish young adult, I didn't take much time to visit her, even though we lived in the same city. I didn't get to show her who I became and am still striving to become. Grandma is mostly a childhood memory for me.
Years after her passing, I had a very vivid dream. She was there, and she was alive, but she was going to die. There was an overwhelming urgency, a pressing need for, for something to happen before she passed. In my dream I could not identify what "it" was, but the emotion of anxiety was causing me to cry. As I felt the pressing and urgency of this thing that needed to happen before she passed, I "arrived", I was there before she passed. I was crying and in my dream I realized something very profound, Grandma could not pass away until I was there, just like it happened in real life. We needed to be together one more time before she rested.
I woke up crying, something that has only ever happened that one time. All the memories of seeing her that last time were instantly refreshed, and now had a new meaning. Grandma had come to me in my dreams to tell me how important it was that I was there on that day. I called my father to tell him, still crying and trying to explain in my morning fog, the meaning of the dream. That dream was extremely powerful for me, it still speaks to me.
I have always been humbly grateful that I was one of two of her cherished grandchildren to see her and help her in her final hours. I know that I was meant to be there, and I am really really grateful that I did not let someone else go instead. I am grateful it is an experience I share with my favorite person, Brady.
As a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, Barbara Morgan Hansen blessed so many with her generosity and steadfastness. When I felt compelled to write this, I knew I would cry, and there has been streams of tears on and off the past three hours, along with some downright ugly crying. I also know that I could write millions more words for a woman that, though I only got twenty-three years with, is literally a part of me forever.
To my Grandma: What you have meant to me and continue to bless me with is beyond what words can describe. I love you deeply and want you to know that your joy is with me every day. I cherish the thoughtful handwritten notes and letters you wrote to me over the years as physical memory of your tenderness and care. Don't be surprised if I keep writing about you. Thank you for everything. Love, your granddaughter, Sarah Kay Hansen
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| Memoral Day 2015 |
Monday, November 20, 2017
Fred.
Oftentimes we have no idea the degree to which we affect the lives of others. We also don't know when teachers will come our way.
At the tender age of twenty-one years old, I was diagnosed with a stress fracture injury in my left hip. The doctor said, "Is this the beginning of arthritis? We won't be able know." I was told that it would take a year to heal and that I was not supposed to ride my bike. I was obsessed with riding bikes, how am I not going to ride for a year??!! I was devastated by the news. It was the beginning of summer and I had just left my beloved Vail and come to Denver to go to hair school. My heart was broken from leaving the mountains and I faced the uncertainty of going back to school for the first time since dropping out of high school. Not being able to burn off the anxious energy of youth through cycling, I knew it would be one of the toughest years of my life.
In order to stay something resembling sane, I would go for long walks around Capitol Hill in Denver on the perfect summer nights. Focusing on flexing as many muscles as possible in my legs and bootie as I walked, I did my best to flush out the frustration through the limited physical activity I was permitted by the doctor.
One of these balmy nights as I clipped along at break-neck walking speed, I passed a gentleman with long dreadlocks. I complimented the dreads as I passed by and he proceeded to initiate a conversation with me. His name was Fred and he was a bit older than middle aged black man who had spent decades living on Capitol Hill. We walked and talked for I think nearly three hours.
I'm sure I vented significantly about how hard my life was at twenty-one years old. I'm sure I told him about the hip injury, and my obsessive walks. I'm sure I expressed in detail my heartbreak from leaving the majestic mountains. I'm sure I reeked of young adult insecurities masked by overconfidence. I'm sure he knew I needed him that night.
Nearly twenty years later most of the details of that night have faded into the depths of memory, but there is one thing that I hang onto to this day. Sitting in a small park on 10th Ave and Penn, Fred looked at me and said, "Everyday you have to find something that inspires you. You have to stay inspired." There was a subtle urgency in his voice, he knew he was saying something profound to me.
Although we lived only blocks away from each other, I didn't see Fred until a couple years later, at a grocery store. He remembered me, but the magic I felt that summer night seemed to have faded for him. His gifting of wisdom towards me had affected me deeply for months and years after our chance encounter that night, and it was strange that I felt he looked at me as someone whom he met once and chatted casually with. No bother, it was nice to see him again.
Over the years when I've been living in Denver, I've attended performances put on by the dance school Fred plays drums for. During another particularly difficult time in my early twenties, I knocked on his door, prying for more of the wisdom. It's been years since I've seen Fred and I think of him from time to time. But whether I ever see him again or not, he will always be with me. When I find myself in a tough time and need some hope, or whenever I see or feel something deeply inspirational, Fred is there with me, reminding me to stay that way, inspired. I sometimes feel like I made an unconscious promise to him and to myself that night.
So for what it's worth, Everyday you have to find something that inspires you, You have to stay inspired.
One of these balmy nights as I clipped along at break-neck walking speed, I passed a gentleman with long dreadlocks. I complimented the dreads as I passed by and he proceeded to initiate a conversation with me. His name was Fred and he was a bit older than middle aged black man who had spent decades living on Capitol Hill. We walked and talked for I think nearly three hours.
I'm sure I vented significantly about how hard my life was at twenty-one years old. I'm sure I told him about the hip injury, and my obsessive walks. I'm sure I expressed in detail my heartbreak from leaving the majestic mountains. I'm sure I reeked of young adult insecurities masked by overconfidence. I'm sure he knew I needed him that night.
Nearly twenty years later most of the details of that night have faded into the depths of memory, but there is one thing that I hang onto to this day. Sitting in a small park on 10th Ave and Penn, Fred looked at me and said, "Everyday you have to find something that inspires you. You have to stay inspired." There was a subtle urgency in his voice, he knew he was saying something profound to me.
Although we lived only blocks away from each other, I didn't see Fred until a couple years later, at a grocery store. He remembered me, but the magic I felt that summer night seemed to have faded for him. His gifting of wisdom towards me had affected me deeply for months and years after our chance encounter that night, and it was strange that I felt he looked at me as someone whom he met once and chatted casually with. No bother, it was nice to see him again.
Over the years when I've been living in Denver, I've attended performances put on by the dance school Fred plays drums for. During another particularly difficult time in my early twenties, I knocked on his door, prying for more of the wisdom. It's been years since I've seen Fred and I think of him from time to time. But whether I ever see him again or not, he will always be with me. When I find myself in a tough time and need some hope, or whenever I see or feel something deeply inspirational, Fred is there with me, reminding me to stay that way, inspired. I sometimes feel like I made an unconscious promise to him and to myself that night.
So for what it's worth, Everyday you have to find something that inspires you, You have to stay inspired.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Bear market.
Yesterday two new clients came in to the shop. Slicked back, sharp looking gents, these two were excited to be trying out a new spot that has a golden reputation around this small city. One of them was scheduled with me and during his consultation he told me he had been going to a high-end men's salon in Portland but had lately been disappointed with the results of his haircuts. Upon inspection I definitely noticed quite a bit that was off about the shape and it seemed like whoever cut his hair wasn't sure how to deal with the unique nature of his hair type, and the dueling cowlicks that rested upon his crown. Disappointed in the work of others, which I often am as a detail obsessed barber, I told him the plan and began my work to remedy the mediocre mess he came in with.
Throughout the haircut I explained to him what I was doing, why I was doing it and the effects my technical approach would have on the final result and grow-out of his haircut. In the end, he was very pleased with the results complimenting me on my skills and execution of his desired look. But the best was yet to come from this client.
After their cuts, the two men stayed around and enjoyed a drink, relaxing on one of the plush leather sofas in the shop lounge. At one point I walked by and my client told me they are hedge fund managers(I don't really know what that means, but I know it has something to do with rich people's money). He followed that up by telling me his buddy had asked him how I had done and if he liked his haircut from me. My client told me that his response to his buddy was, "I told him, 'She dissected it like a mismanaged portfolio!!'." I was in stitches and we all enjoyed a good laugh over that before I thanked him for the financial adviser's perspective of my work. Truly one of the great compliments of my lengthy career.
Throughout the haircut I explained to him what I was doing, why I was doing it and the effects my technical approach would have on the final result and grow-out of his haircut. In the end, he was very pleased with the results complimenting me on my skills and execution of his desired look. But the best was yet to come from this client.
After their cuts, the two men stayed around and enjoyed a drink, relaxing on one of the plush leather sofas in the shop lounge. At one point I walked by and my client told me they are hedge fund managers(I don't really know what that means, but I know it has something to do with rich people's money). He followed that up by telling me his buddy had asked him how I had done and if he liked his haircut from me. My client told me that his response to his buddy was, "I told him, 'She dissected it like a mismanaged portfolio!!'." I was in stitches and we all enjoyed a good laugh over that before I thanked him for the financial adviser's perspective of my work. Truly one of the great compliments of my lengthy career.
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