Myriad of Moles

BT Le Nocturne de Lumiere

My brain has a difficult time deciphering between fiction and reality in movies. It’s not like I’m watching Legend of the Guardians and have to ask my husband if those are real owls. No. It’s different. It’s more like I’m watching The Ring and even though I close my eyes during the scary parts, my brain won’t let me open a closet door for weeks after — thinking I’m going to see a gruesome dead girl in there. Not to mention I have nightmares for at least a month.My brain just does not let go of these images and consequently I feel scared and it wasn’t even real! bah.

So you’d think I’m crazy when I say I LOVE Halloween. Since elementary school, I have loved this time of year. My scary movie repertoire started with Donald Duck’s scary tales and Ichabod Crane, then it moved to some creepy shows we would rent at sleepovers (Paper House, I think..? And Watcher in the Woods. Yikes) But as I grew older I learned I had a limit of scariness I could handle before I had to embarrass myself by climbing into my parents’ bed. Which, come to find out, is not so cool when you are 16. I have never really seen any true horror movie all the way through. Misery, 6th Sense, The Ring, The Shining, that’s about as bad as it got for me.

This was a dilemma. Why do I like to be scared so much, when it only causes serious distress and lack of sleep later? I don’t know.

So at a Halloween party last weekend, I was talking to a friend for just a moment. She told me she worked with families or people who had suffered traumatic experiences — I’m talking having your mother murdered type of stuff– very traumatizing. This had made her view Halloween differently since she knew how offensive the sights, sounds, etc of this holiday can be to these people.
This made my mind spin. Suddenly I wondered why anyone, even those who have not had horrific experiences, could enjoy any of this Halloween stuff?!?! Nobody wants anything like the stuff we see in the movies happen to us. Why do we crave to see it? I still don’t know. BUT I don’t necessarily think it’s wrong to like Halloween. I’m not against this Pagan holiday, it’s so fun to me. It’s just interesting as to why it’s fun to me. I wonder if I am attracted to scary things because I’ve never experienced any real horror in my life…? Hmmm.

Anyway, one of my favorite ways to get into the Halloween spirit is to read a “scary” book. I started a years ago with “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” I’ve read “Frankenstein,” “Woman in White,” and “Sleepy Hollow.” All good Halloween books. So, for the occasion, I have to post this chilling verse that I came across by Henry Hart Milman from “Fazio:”

“Thou stand’st here arraign’d,
That with presupmtion impious and accurs’d,
Thou hast usurp’d God’s high prerogative,
Making thy fellow mortal’s life and death
Wait on thy moody and diseased passions;

That with a violent and untimely steel
Hath set abroach the blood that should have ebbed
In calm and natural current: to sum all in one wild name–
a name the pale air freezes at,
And every cheek of man sinks in with horror–

Thou art a cold and midnight murderer.”

I have had a bottle of orange nail polish for … eh probably a couple years now. The color is called ‘capris coral.’ I knew that it was orange because I thought it complimented my skin color and I have always known that, like my mom, I like orange-toned nail polish. Don’t ask me why. I don’t own one orange article of clothing. It’s just a good versatile color that can be springy and fallish.

I painted my fingernails for the first time since junior high last week. Capris Orange. We were going to Disneyland and it’s Halloween time there, so I thought it would be fun. Plus, I bought some black nail polish to paint the tips. Orange and black, so cool. I did it really quickly and it looks like I had someone in junior high do it, but I didn’t care. ‘Tis the season.

Then yesterday, my nails caught my sister’s eye. Ooooo! Very festive. I said, “yeah I thought it would be fun for Halloween.”
“But,” my sister said, “they are red and black.”

?!!?!?! Whaat? No. Hello? This is orange. Then my two other sisters (I have a lot of them) agreed they were red. I still didn’t believe them. Finally they made me put my finger next to my husband’s shirt — which is red as cow’s blood. I could NOT believe my eyes. My nail polish is RED!

This whole experience turned my color perspective world upside down. What else am I seeing wrong? Weird.

When Jamie and I were dating, I asked about his older brother and when I would meet him. Jamie told me that Ben was not interested in meeting any girl he was dating unless she would eventually be providing cousins for his kids. That shut me up quick. But Jamie and I were eventually engaged and the time came to meet Ben. Jamie and I went to pick him up at the airport.

“What should I call him?” I asked Jamie. Ben had gone by BJ for much of his life, but I didn’t feel comfortable calling him that… Suddenly, I realized I was intimidated by this elusive brother. All I knew was he was a very successful professional, traveled everywhere and of course, was the big brother of the man I loved. I wanted him to like me.

Since Jamie is the picture of “tall, dark and handsome,” I was instantly surprised by Ben’s shocking blue eyes. He was shorter than Jamie, had light brown hair and a killer smile. “Hi … Ben. Can I call you Ben?” I asked, while shaking his hand, like I was in a friggin business interview. “That’s fine.” Ben said. How silly I was. Jamie rolled his eyes at me. Just relax Molly.
Why didn’t I have some sort of premonition right then? If I had known I only had 2 short years to get to know this man before he was gone, what would I have done differently?

Off the top of my head –
I would not have grumbled over the crumbs he trailed around my house as he ate. Ben would eat chips by the handful and his two kids, Kate 6 and Christian 5, would follow suit. I had to vacuum the whole house after they visited.
I would have done better at calling him back on the phone. Ben kept himself busy ALL the time, yet he often called me just to check up; and usually if Jamie spoke to him in the next day or so, I considered the call returned. Bad sister-in-law.
I would have savored each of the 52 hours my husband and I spent cleaning, packing, organizing and moving his stuff in his apartment while he climbed Everest. I would have kept the picture I took on my phone of the seven, half-used tubes of toothpaste that I gathered out of his apartment bathroom. Seriously Ben, seven? He laughed when I showed him that picture. I would have taken more pictures with him. Remember when our basement flooded? My sister and Ben came to help me clean up and all three of us just happened to be wearing the exact same color of bright blue shirts! Why did I miss that perfect photo op?
One thing I wouldn’t change — the hugs. Ben would give me a big bear hug almost every time he saw me.

Equating Ben to a bear is quite accurate. A couple weeks before he died, Ben and his friend John came by our house spur of the moment. After seeing that we didn’t have very interesting food on hand to raid, Ben settled down and the four of us got to talking. It is very rare occasion when Ben actually held still long enough to sit down and talk. During those fleeting moments I felt like a little kid with this unpredictable animal; I always had much to say, but I didn’t know what he would be interested in, so instead I mostly listened and laughed. Conversation with Ben always consisted of his latest adventures, aspirations and crazy stunts. At this instance, he had recently taken interest in a girlfriend of mine, so he asked me if I had spoken to her about him. I told him I had shared a few things with her that I knew about him, but really I wanted to stay objective and I wasn’t going to be the middle-man in their potential relationship.

“It doesn’t sound like you did a good job selling me Molly,” Ben said. “I’m family, you’re not supposed to be objective with family!”

I laughed. Ben was the last person on this Earth who needed talking up. A salesman to the core, Ben could sell a ketchup Popsicle to a woman in white gloves.* He was so charming. Spend 5 minutes with him and you’ve got a new best friend. He had a way of making you feel like his world revolved around you. Until, of course, his phone rang or he lost interest in your story.
My friend had actually told me on the phone that, even though she had gone out with him once, Ben had picked her up on his motorcycle, drove like a crazy man so she had to hold on tight, then sent her a fruit basket the next day because she happened to be on a cleanse diet. “Is this guy for real?” My friend asked. That’s Ben, I said.

So Ben and his friend John proceeded to make a list of Ben’s characteristics that he wanted me to mention to my friend. Responsible, sensitive, patient… I don’t quite remember what he included on the list, but I do remember it wasn’t quite accurate. While vocalizing his “romantic resume” I said, “Yeah, you’re a regular gentle Ben.” We all laughed. Ben? Gentle? Hmmm, describe gentle…

Gentle Ben is a childrens’ story, about a unique bear named Ben that is chained up in a run-down shed. The main character, a little boy named Mark, discovered him and realized that Ben was actually quite gentle and even ate out of Mark’s hand when he brought food. But bears are wild by nature and don’t belong chained up and confined. It was only a matter of time before Ben needed to be free to roam the mountains as God intended. I thought of this book while I was reflecting on my wild, sweet-natured brother-in-law.

During his last Winter, Ben spent his days skiing at Park City, UT. Each time we saw him, he gave us the updated ski-day tally. I am not kidding when I say Ben skied more than 70 days last winter, and most of those days were consecutive. In addition, he recently completed the Ironman in New Zealand. While he was down there, he visited Figi. But not in the way any other normal human being would visit this touristy paradise. He asked the locals where was the most remote island in all Figi. They said he would have to take a boat for 14 hours to get there. So he did. And he spent a week totally alone on a distant island paradise. He lived for adventure. He seemed invincible and could not be contained.

Ben’s “flying machine” was latest form in which he explored new horizons. Pretty much a go-cart with a parachute and a propeller, “flying machine” or perhaps UFO was the best way to describe it. When Jamie and I found out he bought it, we both just rolled our eyes. There were no limits to the number of ways Ben could injure himself. Just like when he bought a bullet bike in the middle of winter, I figured this thrill would be short-lived.

On Saturday, June 18th, Ben and the youngest Titera, Marcus, met up with me and Jamie at a restaurant for an early dinner. Ben was showing me pictures of his house in Seattle he had just posted for sale that morning. Afterwards, we went to see his Doberman puppy (yes, a Doberman), the warehouse he was closing on in Salt Lake City and Ben’s gift to Marcus — a motorcycle. I remember feeling exhausted just thinking about how our summer would be spent. We made it clear we thought he was crazy for buying a Doberman, a motorcycle and well, the warehouse was kinda cool. Before we parted Ben invited us to go flying with him. But Rita was tired, and we had been gone all day. We headed home.

Ben’s flight instructor called Jamie that night. He had strongly urged Ben not to go up since it was a blustery evening, but Ben went up. How would you convince a bear not to do something he wants to do? He was the first to see the crash site. It was obvious to him that Ben was not alive. But it’s weird because he told Jamie “He expired.” No one should get a phone call like that. In any “death” scenario I picture, the loved-one always gets a warning. Right!?!? You find out your brother is injured, or sick or just crashed and it doesn’t look good, or the police come to the door or the doctor calls….
I was in the shower and Jamie pounded on the door and told me point blank. He had a look I’ve never seen on my husband’s face, I guess the closest word to describe it would be exasperation. “He died,” he said. “Ben died.”

That was the beginning of the longest week in my life. It began with disbelief and shock. It ended with a burial. During that week, whenever I was alone (which wasn’t much since family, friends gathered for support — so thoughtful) I kept expecting Ben to peek around a corner from one of the rooms in our house. I imagined him shushing me and smiling that famous mischievous smile like he was pulling an epic prank.

Now it’s a few days past the 3-month mark. Every once in a while I have small, silent conversations with Ben. “Come one Ben, why did you have to go? What are we going to do with your furs?”
I will cherish forever an image I have locked forever in my heart and mind, a picture of him that I think of when I think of him –
Ben came to pick up Kate and Christian after I watched them a few days before he passed away (2 hours later than he said he would of course). He came walking into the house completely decked out in black leather. His face was dirty and his teeth looked really white. He had rode his motorcycle from Washington, I think.
“Classy, huh?” he said.
I love that moment.

My husband and I have begun browsing for houses. I say browsing because we have a year before we plan to move into one. So easy does it. I must say it is quite addicting though. Now in my free time, instead of writing a blog post, I have the Utah MLS real estate web site up just lookin. It’s amazing what people get used to in a house. I mean, fuchsia carpet in the formal dining room. !? Actually what was worse — in the same house they had mauve carpet in the basement. Bleh.

I grew up in a relatively older rambler style house. Very normal. Not huge. And there are a few things I love about this house. The windows, the kitchen (no one has a 10-chair bar these days!) The view. -sigh- Did I mention I’m actually living in my parents’ house? Yeah, it kind of brings new meaning to the last post. “Thanks for letting us stay here Mom and Pop! Call us anytime you want new carpet!” They are gone on a mission for a year and a half, so someone had to hold down the fort.

So we went with a realtor a few weeks ago to actually look at some houses. We saw some decent ones, but there’s always something unappealing. It almost makes me feel picky. Which is funny, because if my parents’ house was on the market, there would be that “something” too. But I live here and I’m used to it. This all made me realize that I think it’s safe to say that no one is living in their dream house. It may become their dream house because of memories or nostalgia associated with it, but unless you’re like Michael Jackson building your own Neverland, people have to settle.

This now seems all obvious. But I think as a kid I just assumed everyone lived where they wanted to live all along. Except maybe homeless people, right Glass Castle?

Monday April 11. I was finally ready. For 9 months, going up and down the stairs was the most physically active thing I did (well, you know).  Then for two months after having a baby, I found out it was possible to be even LESS active. I was ready to start working my body out – Monday morning.

Since becoming a stay-at-home mom, with a sleeping newborn. I have had time, not only to work out, but do other things like start a blog. I was going to research some good dermatologists, read Parent Effectiveness Training; I planned on reading the user manual to the new digital SLR camera my husband got me for Christmas. I even had aspirations of reviewing my media communication textbook, practicing the piano more, ahh the places I would have went….

Then, the basement flooded.

There had been a snow storm and much rain the previous weekend, and the morning of that fateful day I heard a water pouring… somewhere while I was on the phone with Libby. I thought it was the snow melting and running rampant in the rain gutter. Although, it seemed loud. So I opened the front door and sure enough, the Weber water faucet was blasting water and the front lawn looked like a swamp. I instantly freaked out. I found out later that all the sprinklers – front yard and back – were on too. The city had turned on the water and we weren’t ready.

I ran downstairs and landed in the hallway lake. It was horrible. The water was gushing in through the window well in the laundry room which, unfortunately was not built with a drain. I called Jamie and Libby and both came with Shop Vacs and for the rest of the day we were on flood duty.

So my Yoga and treadmill routine was put on hold.

Jamie would maybe roll his eyes at my supposed goals to start working out the day the basement flooded because things are relatively back to normal and I have yet to do anything about working out. But oh well, it’s for story telling sake.

I realize the word ‘mole’ is not the most appetizing. And it doesn’t necessarily evoke beautiful images to mind. But somehow or another it became my nickname back in high school. (Actually I know exactly how, but that’s for another post). Instead of postponing the creation of this blog yet another year just for the lack of a good name for it, I decided to take the plunge. I am now moles.blog.com

Huzzah!

Don’t assume that I have a myriad of moles. I am using moles here to describe me, or my thoughts, so really I’m saying I have a lot of thoughts, or a lot of myself… either way, that’s what I plan to use this blog for.