The Pocket Knife Christmas

Growing up, one item essential to the perfect Christmas with my family was the pocket knife. I always went in search of either my grandpa or uncle to open the impossible gifts with their trusty pocket knives. When I'd ask my grandpa, he'd always, ALWAYS ask "You don't have a pocket knife??" as if that was something every girl from the ages of 8-26 just readily carried around with her. 

After my grandpa's funeral, each of the women in the family raided his candy dish of knives by his bedside. Whereas I have a jewelry dish beside my bed that collected the odd ring, bracelet or pair of earrings I take off at the end of the day, my grandfather had a literal candy dish overflowing with an assortment of pocket knives. Big ones, small ones, brightly colored ones, dirty ones, you name it, that man had a pocket knife to go with it. After dumping out the bowl, I finally selected the one aptly named "Old Timer" which made me chuckle. I still haven't carried it around with me though, instead it sits in a coffee mug I got him one Spring Break, with one of his hankies and a few golf tees - the quintessential makings of my grandpa.

Even though last Christmas was spent between two hospitals between my uncle and grandma, the absence of the pocket knife wasn't noticed.

But now, here it is. That gaping hole of missing the old days. Missing the messy floor littered in gift wrap searching for Grandpa or Uncle B and their pocket knives to open the Barbie play house, the wire bead making kit, a box crammed with a bulky sweater, taped down so it won't explode. 

Two years ago we crammed ourselves on and around the love seat, holding photo booth props up. I adjusted and set a timer on the camera in the kitchen, standing in the sink to position it correctly on the ledge before running back and falling to the ground to make the picture, while fighting off Roxy from licking my face because she thought I was playing with her. It was one of those perfect memories that at the time seems completely normal. Now I would give anything to go back and have one more moment like that.

I only hope that Grandpa will see me open up those packages myself today, with the old timer. 

etsy: the next great adventure

Does anyone remember the show, Felicity? Keri Russell, Scott Foley, Scott Speedman (Team Ben all the way)...ring any bells? Well, anyway, one of my favorite life mottoes comes from the back of the DVD box (remember when you still bought television series on DVD??) "Sometimes it's the smallest decisions that can change your life forever." It has such purpose. It makes you think of the small things that you've done and you smile when you realize it's true. 

Sometimes, it IS the smallest decisions that can change your life forever. And sometimes, it's the big decisions. Big moments in life. Defining moments. Etsy has been a bit of both for me. Let me explain...

Four years ago (oh my God I just realized it's been four years - insert wide eye emoji) I was jobless and crafting away my summer waiting not so patiently to board the big plane to London for the Olympics when this idea popped into my mind. Sock Bun Studios - has a nice ring to it! It was the summer of sock buns and crafting and I thought, maybe I will finally open up an Etsy shop to sell things. The only problem was, I didn't exactly have a lot of things I thought were sell-able at the time. And, who can really make their life work around Etsy? (Surprisingly - a LOT actually, they have a whole blog about it.)

So, four years passed, and Sock Bun Studios would casually cross my mind on a regular basis but with no real purpose. That was my small decision. 

Now enters the big decision. Cancer. I watched my uncle fight a brilliant battle against Stage 4 Colon Cancer. He fought so hard, most days I kind of forgot he even had cancer, let alone such an aggressive form. It was actually so aggressive, it shocked doctors - but he never let on just how big the battle was to most of the world. 

For years before and during his battle, we both constantly lamented over the lack of jobs we could get. "Too qualified," "not qualified enough," the list goes on and on. His dream was to open a restaurant. My dream was to own my own boutique. Dreams. Dreams he actively tried to pursue at every opportunity. Me, on the other hand, kept mine up in Dream World where dreams live in happy harmony with Fairy Tale Island. 

And then, four years went by, and my sweet, funny, witty, gravely-voiced uncle won everlasting peace from cancer, and the world lost out on his dream to own a restaurant. And let me tell you, it would have been a damn good restaurant. So I'm here, the one left to carry on achieving the dreams (of secret world domination.) 

So I did it. I put my doubts aside and opened my Etsy shop. To be honest, I couldn't think of a better way to open it than having products I not only wholeheartedly believe in, but also does something to honor my uncle. B's Keys to Life. Happiness. Hope. Even better, money from each sale goes directly back to The James Cancer Hospital at OSU Medical where doctors helped my uncle for over half of his fight.

Right now, B's Keys are literally just keys that are meant to spread happiness and little messages to B bold, kind, caring, funny, friendly, smart, crazy, brave - you name it. But, on the not so distant horizon (God willing) B's Keys will move beyond just keys and into apparel. 

And I'm not stopping there. Oh no, when I do something, I like to do it right. So, there will also be nanny-themed apparel stemming from my most recent career highlights! And, if that wasn't enough, there will also be mini state cross stitch lockets! Team colors, initials, hearts over where you're from in the state - you name it, I'm thinking of it.

For the last two years I've had to set aside my crafting, which is my purest form of stress relief. When I knew I was going to move back home, I knew exactly what I wanted to set out to do first. Just thinking about working out in my grandpa's barn, setting up my work space in my own craft room filled me with such a joy, I can't describe it. I've always firmly believed that I've been put in every situation to learn something, meet others, help - and I truly do believe that I haven't gotten to the conventional standards of my MBA career because I'm meant to be here instead; forging ahead in my own business. 

So, that's it. That's my next great adventure - achieving my dreams. I know it won't be easy and it won't be fast, but if there's one thing I've learned from the past two years, it's that life is too damn short to do anything less than try and go for the moon. 

If you'd like to shop or bookmark SBS for future reference, then go ahead and click on over here! 

If you'd like to help the movement and know of any tips and tricks to the Etsy world, photography services, or local markets - PLEASE let me know! I'm open to all suggestions and help! If YOU own an Etsy shop, comment and let's be friends! Small businesses should always stick together! Even just sharing this post or my website is a step in the right direction! 

So...what will you b today? 

to my future children: motivation

One of the few perks to packing and unpacking is the discovery of things you've forgotten about. When I was hastily packing last week, I threw in a journal randomly into a suitcase thinking it was empty - I actually nearly threw it away. In fact, I thought it was still empty when my mom handed it to me while unpacking. Instead, she said "No it's got stuff in it. I'll just put it in your room to go over." 

The following is what the first few pages say:

January 14th, 2014

To my future children:

Motivation is a funny thing. It can be a number of different things I've come to find. Yesterday, your grandmother told me my resolve and patience were being chipped away. Chipped away would be an understatement. Maybe if you could see it was being done with a battle ax it'd be more accurate. But it's true, sadly. Resolve, patience, but not my motivation. 

No, my motivation is still there because they way I see it, if I were to die now - or a loved one died and everyone could see my life where it is today, I would be royally pissed off. 

All my life I've played by the rules, and for the most part, I don't see that they've done me much good. No job, no money, no love of my life, no defining moment. There are people I know that appear to have it all at my age - and it is punch you in the nose, spit in your eye aggravating 99% of the time. Especially when you see that they rarely play by the conventional rules of life. But - they are my motivation. 

The cliche phrase that I've hopefully told you many times that constantly runs through my mind, "God never puts you through more than you can handle" applies. For when I think that after a loved one dies, or a cancer diagnosis has been given, having a job snatched from your hands three times in six months - I feel stronger. Sure, I cuss a lot, cry a lot, blame things on God a lot (which to an extent, I'm fairly certain he won't judge you for this - but I'm not the Almighty), and envision breaking things a lot - but it motivates me. And when I picture looking back on that time a year from now, two months from now even, I can see that I was strong enough. 

It's like driving through the mountains. You have a steep incline, dips, twists and turns where you have no idea what will be around the corner, scary patches, and then a glorious view at the top. From the top you can see the beauty of all that is around you. You'll see the other mountains - signs that your happy won't always be happy, but also that your bad won't always be bad. 

Whenever the truly awful happens, I'm reminded of the unending goodness this world can give. I don't often see tragedy - instead I see families, and friendships. Laughter and tears. Light and hope. Those are what prove to the darkness that it cannot always stay dark forever. 

By the time you read this letter, and I do so hope you get the chance to because I am so looking forward to my unbelievably happy time of meeting your father. Falling in love with him, promising to spend the rest of our lives together, creating life - to watch you grow to be a true likeness of our love and kindness, I hope that you'll understand that I've also had many sad days as well. But this is my motivation. Part of the bad is knowing at some point it will be good. And when it's good, it will be so so good.  

So, whether you're at the top when you read this, or in your valley, just remember that life is the biggest and best challenge, always there to test your faith, resolve, patience, and motivation. 

Winning (no matter how that may look to others), is my motivation.

(Photo courtesy of Roadtrippers)

year one grandfatherless

One year ago, I said goodbye to my gentle giant of a grandfather. Calm, quiet and disciplined, his passing has left a hole in my heart, as well as my family's hearts that will never be filled. One year of holidays, birthdays, and sadly, the passing of his youngest son - all of which would have been more tolerable had we had his steady calming presence and the ability to fall into his massive arms for a giant bear hug. 

It's hard, losing an anchor in life. In just two short years after moving to DC, I've lost two of the most important people in my family, my grandpa and my uncle.  

"Weekends at Grandma and Grandpa's" were never required nor unwanted growing up. Some of my happiest memories revolve around the swing set Grandpa built us, learning how to drive on a rusty tractor, or breathing in more sawdust than was healthy out in the barn. Sometimes I find myself now voluntarily turning on golf commentary just to feel that sense of rightness with the world on a sunny Sunday afternoon. 

There are certain things that bring about more sadness than others - the fact that I never actually read Wood magazine (yes it's a real magazine) or know how to use any of the hundreds of tools out in the barn. I used to tease him relentlessly about his many scrapes and bruises the blood thinners would cause when he worked out in the barn, but to be honest - I'm more likely to cut a finger off out there unattended. The fact I never actually learned how to golf. I know that I had a special connection to him in many ways, but I guess I would have liked to have spent some real time out on the course with him when I had the chance. It's not often you know an 80 year old who is forced to golf at the championship level tee because he's too good. The fact I never learned how to "sell pumps" when shaking hands. I can't tell you the amount of times I've had the urge to do it to one of my nanny kids in this past year...but I can't. 

I know that he's in a better place and that makes it almost okay not having him here anymore...almost. It still hurts to know that the grandpa that made half my bedroom furniture and my own custom crib for my mother when she was pregnant with me will never be able to whip up another custom item for me when I can't find something I like in the store. I haven't truly baked something since he died - there just isn't the same enjoyment in finding a recipe and making it from scratch, eagerly waiting for his grin of approval. 

To be completely honest, chair naps will never be the same. Their house will never be the same. It's too quiet without his giant rumblings at all hours, his finger poke clicking at computer keys working out golf spreadsheets, and his constant "I can fix it," remarks to anything and everything that got broken. 

A few months ago, I had a dream. I walked into my grandparents' house and my grandpa was sitting in his chair, just like usual. I walked up to him, confused and said, "But, you're not here anymore. You died...how are you here?" He smiled, opening his arms as I hugged him and he said, "It's okay. I'm just here for the afternoon." And then we just sat together, in his big blue chair for a while, and it was the most peaceful dream I may have ever had. When I woke up, I felt the loss more than I probably have at any other time. 

What I wouldn't give to have one more afternoon sitting together in that chair. 

So, Grandpa, if they have wifi up in Heaven and you read this, I hope you're keeping the chair open for that day I make it up there, because it'll be the first thing we do. Then, you're going to teach me how to sell pumps when I shake hands and THEN I'll make that strawberry rhubarb pie I always wanted to try for you. 

a letter to my uncle

Last week I said goodbye to my uncle. He was in hospice. He's fought for three hard years battling a cancer that just wouldn't quit, despite all of our best efforts. He's fought with brilliance, he's fought with dignity, and he's fought with humility. Sadly, as is with many battles with cancer, it's nearly at it's end. 

Having recently lost my grandpa, I've gotten a brief insight on what it's like to truly lose a loved one. But this one hurts more. Cancer has a way of robbing you of innocence and casting a permanent sense of paranoia in your life if you let it. It's sneaky and conniving and smart. It's more adjectives than I have in my brain to describe it - many of them the not nice kind of words. 

But then, cancer also has a beauty in it. When it puts its grips on someone you love, it makes you see all the great things in your life. It makes you stop and think about how things could be worse and thankful for your health and all the great things you've done with that person. 

As my mom drove away the other day, my carefully controlled composure finally slipped and the torrent of tears that had quietly slipped down my cheeks all day finally gave way. And I thought of all the things that I wanted to say to Uncle B that we would laugh about still today. So, even though I didn't get a chance to say it then, I want to put it out there now so that everyone knows just how amazing my Uncle Bryan is and how I'll remember him in future.

So here goes - 

Hey Uncle Bryan - remember when you stayed at my house right after you moved to Ohio? Mom had to go to San Francisco for work and she asked me if I'd like to stay at home and have you come watch me. I jumped at the opportunity. Growing up, you had always lived away, so I was excited to spend time with you. 

I'll never forget the day I came home from school that week and you had rearranged all our living room furniture. I walked in and saw the chairs, TV, everything different and you, in your casual demeanor say "Well, I hope you like it. I just think it makes more sense like this." I thought, "Wow, he's pretty confident in himself to change the way our house looks!" In some ways it still resembles how you arranged it that day in March. 

I remember it was March because that night you and I stayed up and watched the television while US troops entered Iraq. You and I watching the night vision screens seems surreal to me now - a true memory that I can see myself telling my children one day. 

Then came the day you picked me up from my karate lesson and asked me, "Why does your mom have so many open boxes of pasta???" I could only shrug before you responded "Well, it was bugging me so I just put them all together for our dinner." 

"Who is this person?" was all I could think. "No wonder my mom loves him so much - they're exactly alike!" 

Or there's the time you power washed our house and porch just for fun. Or when you stopped by that random summer afternoon to put the front door on, "Because I heard your mom talking about it. So, where's the door?" 

I'll miss the way you'd exhale sometimes when you were thinking - I can't explain the sound you'd make but I always knew that's when you were chewing something over in your brain. 

I will never not fail to tell the story about how you cut a hole in the bottom of grandma and grandpa's trash can that day when we couldn't get the bag out. "Well pull harder on it," you said as you watched me try and heave the bag out. "I'm trying. But. It's. Just. Not. Budging." I replied. "Here let me try," so I let you, thinking you'd see just how hard it was. After several minutes of pushing and pulling on it, just as I was going to get another bag, thinking we'd dump the whole thing into it, you tied up the bag and said, "I got it. Watch out." Proceeded to flip the whole thing over, flung out your pocket knife and cut a square hole in the bottom. My eyes got huge and my jaw dropped, and you just flipped it back over and the bag came right out. It was to this day, the manliest display of "I've got it," I've ever seen. 

You valiantly stepped into my photo booth many times. Instead of objections you gave me liners like "I look like a gay pirate," and mom's "So? What else is new?" to laugh about when I pull the props out. 

There's also that time I called you after I talked to Roger Federer for the first time. I was so excited and I couldn't get anyone else on the phone, so when you picked up I was elated to finally tell my story to someone! Your perfect demeanor captured it so well when you replied, "I bet you just peed yourself, didn't you?" Even the AP photographer next to me got a chuckle out of that one.

And then - most of all - there's the stories YOU'D tell. Like the Alex the Dog being run over one. Or Meme and the dog one - why do so many of your stories contain dogs? Everyone should take a lesson in story telling from you. 

I'll carry your gentle "Hey Kid, how ya doing?" "See ya later, Kid" with a scratchy beard kiss on the forehead, with me forever. 

Cancer didn't win this battle. I want you to know that. I know you do, but I still want to say it. Cancer lost this fight. You were so strong and never cracked under it's pressure. I'm sure it pissed cancer off more than anything the way you almost paid it no attention in life. You still golfed, rode horses, worked, almost to the point that some times I forgot you even had cancer. You tried to give cancer an offer it couldn't refuse - and who could blame it - you are a charming man. 

I promise that if I ever have children, they will love The Godfather, never put steak sauce on a steak and put plenty of ice cubes in people's cups at dinner. If Bret Bielema is still a coach somewhere, my children will hate him for no apparent reason too. I will NOT however listen to your depressing ass music - sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Also, unless you find a way to give them prejudice, they will love "Cream O Soup" casseroles. They're good and you know it. 

If I have any regrets about this, it's that I never made you those damn chocolate cherry cupcakes I found on Pinterest about a million years ago. Let's face it, bud - ain't nobody else eating them, and now I'll never get the chance to test my baking skills out on it. Also, perhaps only my mom truly appreciates my pie crusts the way you and grandpa did. I wish I had hopped on the baking train earlier, but it was such a pleasure to try new recipes for you two. 

I want you to know that I love you. I will miss your wisdom and your sarcasm. I'll also miss all the great cooking (except for the jalapeno ham you did that one Easter, what were you even thinking??) and look forward to passing on my one tried and true Uncle Bryan recipe of grilled feta and olive stuffed chicken breast. I also see that you found a way to get out of being the chef for my nuptials, so I'll send the bill to Heaven somehow, if I ever get married that is.

My only hope, is that one day I can run as fast as you did when you tried to chase that motorcycle.

I know I'll see you again some day, and until then when I need to hear your voice I'll just look through the pages of Dr. Seuss. "On and on you will hike. And I know you'll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are. You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.) KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS! So... be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea, you're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way!"

my first thanksgiving without grandpa

Yesterday marked the seventh month that my grandpa passed away. It's hard to believe it's already been half of a year. I guess living out of state has a few advantages - at least I'm not surrounded by the places he used to be, looking at the empty space that fills his chair at the dinner table at family dinner Sundays. 

They always say holidays are the worst after a death in the family and I suppose it's true. The Fourth passed with little heartache - maybe it was still too fresh. Maybe it was being surrounded by family that kept it at bay. Whatever the reason, being home for the Fourth of July didn't hurt. Halloween didn't hurt. 

But Thanksgiving - this hurts. It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I didn't really have a reason to try out a new baking recipe this year. It's always filled me with a giddy excitement to try out a new recipe to surprise him with. Mini pies in mason jars, pie tart bites, homemade cakes with homemade caramel frosting, old fashioned candy, you name it, I tried it in hopes of getting one of his rare smiles and a "that's pretty good," seal of approval. Usually I got the smile and the seal of approval because one, I was his favorite, and two, the man loved the dessert table. 

One of my biggest successes in life has to be mastering the art of the homemade pie crust. I can do it. It's buttery and flaky, doesn't burn and isn't gooey. It's perfect. Don't get me wrong, my mom and grandma will still eat up an entire pecan pie if I make it for them, but it's not the same as making something "for grandpa." 

Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on your life, your year, and give thanks to God for all that you've gone through and come out the other side of. This year, I'll thank Him for getting me this far in my life, for a job that I still have, the friends that support me in whatever I do, the family that loves me no matter how much I complain, and for giving me the dreams and ambitions to continue to strive for more for my life. And then I'll thank Him for my time that I had with my grandfather. While nearly 27 years isn't nearly enough time to know someone, I'm so incredibly thankful that I had all those years. That I could sit in his chair with him and take all those Sunday afternoon naps, venture out to the barn, littered with wood shavings on the floor to watch him make most of the furniture that's in my house, and see the sun rise in the quiet stillness of perfect summer Saturday mornings. 

And when it's time for Christmas, and we decorate the tree - I'll make sure to put enough tinsel on the tree, because that's his favorite part about it. 

Photo courtesy of Table Party of Two