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For nine days, my husband was in Gulfport, Mississippi. He volunteered with our church’s disaster recovery team. They send a team once a month from Denver to Gulfport, where they help residents whose lives and homes were torn apart by Hurricane Katrina. He returned home yesterday.
He put up drywall, mudded, repaired ceilings, ripped a porch off a house, and worked hard. The devastation he saw is still widespread, six months later. He talked to residents who are putting their lives back together. One family his team encountered was a widow and her five year old son.
I didn’t see what he saw, or smell what he smelled, or felt my heart catch at the stories he heard. I cannot write any more about what Gulfport meant to him. I am hoping he will sort it all out and write of his experiences. I really want the kids to understand how their daddy spent nine days of his life, and why he chose to go.
It wasn’t easy letting him go—in fact, I wondered if it was very smart to send him off with five small children and a pregnant-me at home. Thankfully my mom was able to travel from Grand Junction to keep us company for about half of the time he was gone. The fact his trip coincided with the kids’ spring break was planned. We figured it would be easier for me if I didn’t have the pressure of schedules to honor.
When the kids heard daddy was going to Mississippi, Ryley asked “who is Mrs. Hippie?” I was tempted to answer “Aunt Alison” (my sister) but explained it was one of the states affected by the big hurricane. I want the kids to remember their spring break of 2006 to be a time where daddy left home to help others and mommy washed their clothes in fabric softener and survived our longest separation in more than 10 years of togetherness. Each of us made a sacrifice last week.
While daddy was away, he didn’t know he was building more than new rooms for hurricane victims. He was building our house too.
My clothes. The kids’. My husband’s. The towels, the sheets, the Build-A-Bear clothing which gets mixed in somehow. All are buttery soft.
What is my secret?
I’ve been laundering our clothes with fabric softener for the past week. I noticed yesterday morning as I dumped a capfull over Ryley and Sam’s clothes in the water-filled washer. I am trying not to think about the non-sparkling undies they are wearing.
I put Pop Tarts in the fridge. I put my cell phone in the fridge, too. Once, in a previous pregnancy, I left my car door open. I got out in a parking lot and walked away.
It has been a busy, tiring week. The kids were on Spring Break. My silence can easily be attibuted to something I cannot yet talk about, but will on Monday. Yes, at Lifenut, you can usually bet I have some sort of secret about something. Anyone who still reads will nod their head in agreement that I am wise to not trumpet my situation around on the internet at this time.
All seems to be well with the pregnancy. I rented a doppler for peace of mind after our two miscarriages. The baby plays hide and seek and likes to freak me out. I only use it once or twice a week, but there have been times I have been unable to find the heartbeat. Of course this worries me beyond belief. The next time I try, there it is thumping away.
Is it possible to regain a sense of innocence about pregnancy after losses, or am I just going to be an on-again-off-again wreck for the next six (or so) months? I’d love to be the picture of grace and unwavering optimism as I contemplate a weird cramp or wonder wherefore art my nausea.
It’s a moment by moment, breath by breath exercise in faith and trust. Isn’t that life, though? Pregnancy and motherhood are teachers.
I’ve learned (again) to read labels.
Dear Colleen,
I’m sorry I haven’t written in 22 years. To say I’ve been busy the entire time wouldn’t be entirely accurate.
I think of you, my childhood pen pal, often. We were matched by my Girl Scout troop when I was nine years old. You were ten, but glad to have me as a pen pal despite having 10% more years of living under your Girl Guide sash. You were across the Atlantic Ocean on the island of Ireland. The stamps you attached to the airmail envelopes said “Eire” on them and I was quite impressed. They always seemed to feature gryphons and gargoyles, wild creatures from wild Eire. I thought you were just as exotic.
I remember asking in one letter if you believed in leprechauns and banshees. My ideas of the Irish were formed by too many viewings of “Darby O’Gill and the Little People.” You wrote back and said no, you didn’t. I was slightly disappointed, so I moved on to the next monster of the British Isles—Nessie, of Loch Ness.
No, you didn’t believe in her either, and you gently pointed out that she lives in Scotland. Wisely, I didn’t ask you about Abominable Snowmen. If I had a pen pal in the Alps, she would have been asked about the mythical creatures in her backyard. Â
One of your letters informed me your father drove a Ford Grenada. I had never heard of a Ford Grenada, and I had seen plenty of car commercials. You wore a uniform to school. You sent a picture of yourself, taken in your confirmation dress. You looked like a bride. You liked a boy named John. Once, you sent Irish coins. It’s a miracle the flimsy airmail envelope managed to get them from ancient County Galway to nouveau-ancient western Colorado. You were a girl like me, with dark brown curly hair and light eyes. When you sent your picture, I thought you could have been my sister.
We wrote for about three years, then stopped. I think it was because we were young teenagers and the world outside our bedroom doors was distracting—we didn’t notice the slowing of the stamps. I kept your letters for many years in my top dresser drawer. I am sad to say I do not know what happened to them. Despite not having the letters, I still remember your childhood address and still remember what you wrote.
Thank you.
Your American pen pal,
Gretchen
P.S. No, I’ve never seen Bigfoot.
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