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

four ingredient fresh summer salsa

One of my absolute favorite things about living in Ohio is the summer. The sea of green that you drive through, the fairs, longer nights - I love it all. But maybe what I love most about it, is making my mom's fresh salsa. 

Growing up, and still to this day, I don't particularly like raw tomatoes. This has always been a perplexing notion to my family, because not only do they all love to eat tomatoes on everything, or by themselves, but they all grow them. However, my usual dislike for raw tomatoes stops when it comes to this fresh salsa. 

Moving to Virginia last year, I never had a chance to make it, so it was my goal to ramp up my acid reflux this summer and make a batch. Luckily for all of you, since I'm making it a priority to spend more time on my blog and other ventures that I set out to do early on when I moved here - you all get the recipe! And even better than that news, it's only four ingredients! You really can't get much easier than that. 

You need the following ingredients:

• Tomatoes - as many as you want depending on how much salsa you want. I used five.
• Cilantro - one small bunch, pick off the leaves and throw away the stems, you can see how much I used. 
• Onion - one medium onion. I like to use the red onions. I left just about a fourth of it uncut based on the amount of tomatoes I used. 
• Chilies - the only ingredient not pictured, I use a 4 oz can of mild green chilies. 
• Salt to taste. 

Okay, I guess I lied. There's that tiny fifth ingredient of salt. Still, you can't get much simpler than this. Just dice up your tomatoes and onion, finely chop the cilantro and add it all together with the chilies. Top off with salt if you wish. 

Isn't it just gorgeous?? I don't know about you, but I could eat this all day long seven days a week! 

an essay on my grandpa

Two Thursdays ago, I lost my grandpa. 

I guess he's not exactly lost. I know he's in heaven, playing endless rounds of golf and eating desserts to his heart's desire, but still, I feel the loss. I feel it in the way that he's no longer going to answer the phone with his deep, raspy "hello," and when asking if I could talk to grandma, responding with, "Can you?" Note to the wise - the question is always "May I?" 

I felt it in the way that there was a void when sitting at the dinner table the day after the funeral. Never again will he sit at the head of the table, not so nonchalantly looking at the score of the football game in the middle of dinner. No more, "Does anyone want bread?" No more complaining the vegetables aren't done enough. All of those little details that I stashed away as inconsequential are now those little details that actually make me tear up. 

"Are you writing a book?" he'd ask when I asked a lot of questions. "Yeah!" I'd say, knowing the next line so well. "Know what you can do with the last chapter? Flush it down the toilet and make it a mystery." 

"Grandpa - how do I know if this cottage cheese is okay or not?" I asked once over the phone, while gazing uncertainly at the container like it was about to grow fangs and bite me, "Well take a bite. What's the worst that's going to happen? You won't die," he said in an incredulous tone. His advice, as usual, was correct. The cottage cheese was okay and I didn't in fact, die from trying it. 

Never will I ever get to pull out my wallet and pay for his meal. "You bring your money this time?" he always asked as the bill would get to the table. "No!" I would say in my child chortle. "Just like I suspected. Always making me pay for everything." 

"Hey there's your house!" Cue the house, almost literally imploding in on itself, exactly like that split-down-the-middle tornado house card in the Game of Life board game. You know which one I'm talking about. "That's NOT my house!!" I would say, Every. Tuesday. as we would drive by it on the way to bowling. That house is no longer there, but every time I drive by the place where it stood, I still think about that dilapidated structure.

"Gosh you're heavy!" he'd dramatically exclaim as I would squeeze myself into the side of his chair to lean on my favorite pillow person. 

"Grandpa, you fell asleep again." "No I didn't. I was studying the inside of my eyelids." 

"Hit the ball!" is what I'll hear in my head every time I see a golf ball. "I'm trying!" my five year-old self indignantly proclaimed, staring out over the bill of one of his baseball hats. "Well are you afraid you'll hurt the worms?" Hands on my hips - "No! I'm trying to hit the ball!" 

None of these moments are the moments I talked about to everyone at the funeral. I stated I could stand up there for hours, telling people about my memories - I have just a month shy of 27 years of them stored up in my brain. A passage in Jennifer Gardner Trulson's book, Where You Left Me summed my speech up perfectly. She felt the urgency to express to others how happy she and her husband had been before she was tragically widowed on September 11th. That, she wanted everyone to know she was going to be okay. I guess I never understood her desperation at that point she wanted to convey to others until two Thursdays ago.

The last time I saw him, he gave me two hugs before I left. It was Easter, and I had only come home again because I knew he wasn't doing well and my uncle was having surgery the following day. "You behave yourself, do you understand me?" I told him after the second hard squeeze, stooped over his chair. I made my hand to eye gesture - the telltale sign that I've got my eye on you, kid. "Why?!" he asked. "Because, you know the rule! No doctor's visits unless I'm here! Be good! I love you." I was spared from his heartbreaking demise in the final week, and for that I'm actually truly grateful. 

As I say to everyone who apologizes for my loss, "It's sad that he's no longer here, but he's truly in a better place." That's my happy thought when I think about these past two weeks. 

So, Grandpa, if you're reading this - because we all know you were such a wiz at the computer and internet - I hope you made your chip shots today on the links. I hope your vegetables were mush and the rhubarb pie was exactly like the kind your mother made you. I hope you put salt on all of your food and had a great time starting a move on TV halfway through. We'll be okay down here because we now no longer have to worry about you going rogue and climbing up the incredibly rickety, leaning ladder to cut a tree down! 

I love you to the moon and back. I always have, and I always will. Enjoy the peace and quiet for now, because at some point - waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down the road, I'll be up there, filling you in on my opinions on life. 

there's no place like home

Dorothy was right when she said there's no place like home. After four - nearly five long, yet also short months, I made my first trip back to Ohio over the long Labor Day Weekend, and it was glorious. Not long enough, but it was a start. 

Out of photos I did manage to take, this is probably my favorite. Blurry and all. There's no better welcome than seeing your dog for the first time in almost five months. 

But before I get ahead of myself, let's go back to a few hours before that -

I'm home! How I've missed the patchwork green fields this summer.

After a nice wake up call at 5am I headed off to the airport and hopped on my hour long flight for home and proceeded to fangirl over the corn fields. I've really missed them. I now understand why people not from the Midwest can mistake Ohio and Iowa. 

My first stop home was to my old office to see my favorite work grandma, and then it was straight over to T.J. Chumps for their dill dip and kettle chips. If you live in Ohio near a T.J. Chumps and you haven't gone yet, you are seriously missing out on life. T.J. Chumps, if you can see this - PLEASE for the love of everything holy, find a way to sell the dill dip so it can be shipped to me. I need this in my life! 

And then it was home to see my Roxy. I've missed my dog more than anyone else (sorry mom). 

Even the next day she was so excited to be sporting her scarlet and gray for the first Ohio State game of the season. Too bad we couldn't watch the game at the house (thanks CBS Sports Network, ATT Uverse, and the Buckeye athletic association for making that deal). But it didn't matter, the Buckeyes pulled out the win anyway in the second half, and I got a haircut out of it. The things we do for a Buckeye win....

Outside of seeing Roxy and my family, I was most excited to see a sea of green and big open skies. I've missed that.

It wasn't a long visit home, but it was a much needed visit home. Now it's back to the grind here in steamy Virginia. How much longer until it's fall??

*all photos taken by me with my trusty iPhone

Ohio Pride

The other day my Facebook feed was being plastered with this infographic that claims 55% of Ohioans have liked the Buckeye state on Facebook and have the most state pride. Having just moved nearly three months ago, from my beloved Ohio, I can tell you that I talk about it...a lot. I kind of bring it up whenever I can. 

Now, had you asked me four month ago if I would miss Ohio like I do now, I would have said absolutely not! Oh how naive I was. What do I miss? I miss this...

I miss the seas of green everywhere you go.

I miss having 10 miles to go and getting there in 10 minutes. You might as well just triple the time to miles here...it's really irritating.

I miss having the sun out later. Did you know Ohio has four more minutes of daylight over Virginia? Also, the sun sets here a full 30 minutes before it sets in Ohio.

Most of all I miss my family and my friends and my mom's food. I miss that a LOT.

Thankfully I'm only 34 days away from a nice four-day weekend home, but when I'm really missing home I like to pull out something that screams OH-IO to anyone who sees me (because that's what all good Ohioans do when seeing each other). 

The Home T/Sseko Sandals/Sevenly Ohio Henna T/Ohio Wire Necklace/Beautiful Ohio Print

Is it safe to say that Ohioans have a lot of home spirit? I think it's safe to say that the answer is yes. 

O-H-I-O

*all images taken by me with my trusty iPhone