Aunt Gina

           I was fairly old when I realized it was rude to have favorites.  I’d never thought about it before, because my favorites were always so obvious.  I preferred my mom to my dad, chocolate to vanilla, sunshine to snow.  When it came to aunts, I couldn’t imagine anyone taking the favorite’s place from Aunt Regina.  My siblings and I had a working mother and Aunt Gina was the perfect baby sitter.  She was divorced and her kids were grown and out of the house. She lived 15 minutes away, while the next closest aunt was several states over. Besides being available, Aunt Gina was the queen of having a good time. If she were an ice cream cone, she would be dipped in chocolate and covered with every topping imaginable.  I can’t think of Aunt Gina without several things coming to mind; the first being donuts.

            Every Saturday morning at 9 am, Aunt Gina would show up at our house with two boxes of donuts and two gallons of milk.  If she didn’t it was because she would pick one lucky kid to go with her in her sporty black convertible to Donut Land to choose every donut himself.  It didn’t matter who she brought with her, she never once forgot anyone’s donut preference.  Mom would make sure we all drank enough milk to make up for the unhealthy breakfast; eating her Bavarian cream filled pastry in fake disapproval.  To this day, I drink more milk than anyone in my family, and have an undying love of donuts.  After she was sure every child had a sticky smile to match sticky fingers, Aunt Gina would leave to do whatever else she did, perhaps thinking of our next fun adventure.

            Another of Aunt Gina’s specialties was the YMCA.  The huge blue waterslide wasn’t as terrifying if she was at the bottom to catch me.  Even though we went to the YMCA pool regularly, she would always forget about the dumping buckets.  Every single time we would say, “Hey Aunt Gina, come sit over here!”  She’d get a bucket of water on her head, a look of shock on her face, and several giggling tricksters.

            Occasionally our days would end in a sleepover.  Sleepovers at Aunt Gina’s were usually spontaneous, and even when they weren’t we would always forget our pajamas, because if you forget your pajamas, you get to wear one of her big t-shirts to bed.  Mom didn’t like that Aunt Gina would let us watch movies like Tremors and Jurassic Park, but it didn’t bother us.  Nothing was scary with Aunt Gina when you’re hugging the new Ty stuffed animals she gave to the first kid in his jammies, and the second fastest, and a stuffed animal for every one of us with pajamas on.

            Aunt Regina gave fabulous presents, took us to parks and made yummy treats, but that wasn’t what made her wonderful.  She didn’t just do a day of fun and send me home, she gave me a childhood of memories.  I’ve grown up and moved away now, and don’t see her often, but I’ll never forget the adventures she created and the lives she touched, simply by loving life and bringing me along for the ride.

             

Impact Moment

          The impact moment of my life was at approximately 10:00 PM on Friday, February 13, 2009.  The second I got in the car after being picked up from ski bus I could tell something was extremely wrong.  Everyone was quiet, I could sense the awkward and uncomfortable feeling in the air.  My 7 year old cousin Olivia had a look of fear in her eyes, the look of a child that doesn’t understand what’s going on but knows something terrible has happened.         
          “What’s wrong?” I asked.
          “Nothing.” Mom said in a ‘what possibly could be wrong?’ sort of way.  We left the school but headed in the direction of Grandma’s.
          “I need to go home and change.”  I reminded Mom.
          “Pull into this parking lot and practice your parking.”  Mom told Sidney, who was driving with her new learner’s permit.
          “Mom what’s wrong? What’s going on?  Why can’t we go home?”  I tried to ask again.  Sidney continued parking and re-parking, until Mom seemed satisfied, more with the time wasted than with Sidney’s improvement.  We started toward the house. As we turned the corner onto our street, I saw the flashing lights of police cars in my driveway and had the first confirmation my suspicion was true.  We passed without stopping and went straight out to Grandma’s.
            Immediately I knew it was about Dad, he had gotten in trouble with the law over the years.  Most of the time it was hushed and looked over, an officer at the door here, a court hearing there. We would continue going on with our daily routine, pretending to be a normal family.  Once Dad disappeared for a day or two but I always figured he’d come back.  I didn’t realize the impact this particular arrest would have on the rest of my life.
            Dallon Ted Heiner was charged with and plead guilty to felony of lewd and lascivious conduct with a child under 16.  People felt sorry for me, but it takes living with a pedophile to be grateful for your father’s prison sentence.
                The arrest came out of the blue, but the surprise wasn’t the crime, the surprise was he finally got caught, surprise and relief.  The people who knew me and knew of me, saw my trial as my father in jail and the association there-of.  I saw it as my friends, neighbors, ward, school, and town, everyone I knew and didn’t know, reading in the local newspaper the kind of man my father is and has been for as long as I can remember.  Something I had been hiding from every counselor, every “deepest, darkest secret” sharing time at childhood sleepovers, was printed for the public.
                My friends and I didn’t bring it up for months.  I didn’t realize everyone knew, but mainly I couldn’t talk about it.  A new girl moved in and we went from friends to best friends.  Her parents were divorced and so were mine, which was uncommon in our group of friends.  Whenever I made reference to my dad, she didn’t know what I was talking about, but I’d shrug it off and she’d let it slide, respecting my shred of privacy.  One day I asked, “What do you know about my dad?” 
         “Someone said he’s in jail, and that’s all.”  I was able to tell her my story, my version, not a paragraph from a news report. 
               My mom went back to school and struggled to support us with a small salon in our house and no child support.  She began dating, and when I didn’t approve of a guy, I let her know.  I wasn’t around when she picked the first, but I was going to make sure she did it right the second time.  Shortly after she was remarried, my family moved very unexpectedly.  The move has been incredibley difficult, but has come with the benefit of a fresh start.
                I moved to a location where it was made apparent that divorce is sin enough.  I watched as ward members struggled to comprehend splitting parents, remarriage, and step siblings.  One neighbor in particular was determined to find out as much as she could about my real dad.  She later reassured me she “had my back” after she’d been asked if she knew anything of my father and hadn’t said anything.  I thanked her for being a life saver and she pat herself on the back.  My mom and I laughed about this later, a ward finding out my dad is in prison is nothing I haven’t been through, or conquered, before.  Oh, and Google has straighter facts than any lady down the street.
                The truth is, I don’t have to answer questions, but what’s more important to me is timing.  Anyone can find out prison sentences and felonies, and that’s enough to some, but if you care about me, instead of a good story, you will notice and learn I am who I am and think and act the way I do today because of what started to change on February 13, 2009. And if you stick around long enough, I’ll tell you everything you want to know, or as it seems to go, everything you can handle. 
               After years of buildup, that night was the impact moment, the beginning of growth and change to the brand new life ahead of me.

Zurita

            The summer before 5^th grade, my dad decided it was time to move back to Idaho.  I didn’t know why, but Dad felt like it and that was reason enough.  We stayed with his parents while house hunting.  Finding a house took a few months longer than expected, and we were able to get to know my grandparents and their surroundings.  One of their surroundings was Zurita.

Zurita lived across the street in a house that had been added onto so awkwardly it looked like Dr. Suess designed it.  Her late husband had done it himself she would tell me proudly, and I didn’t doubt it.  No contractor would forget to put a railing on the stairs.  It didn’t matter anymore if the stairs had railing though, Zurita couldn’t make it up them anyway.  She could hardly make it from her bed to the bathroom. 

Living with my grandparents, I’d see Grandma make regular trips across the street, and return smelling like cigarette smoke.  When I asked her where she’d been she said she’d been to Zurita’s. She offered to let me come next time, and I tagged along.  Every evening for dinner we’d set aside a separate plate of food, and we brought this with us.  My first impression of Zurita’s house was the smell.  Cigarettes overwhelmed the air and added to the dingy walls.  Through the poor lighting I saw her.  She had white hair that stuck upwards and outwards in every direction.  She was overweight in the strangest places with a belly that looked like those malnourished kids in Africa or someone pregnant with twins. Her ankles were the same width as her calves and her skin had a greying tint.  Her breath was raspy and measured evenly by her oxygen tank.  I stood uncomfortably near the door and waited.  It took some time but, eventually, I went back with my grandma.  Each time I would stand further from the door, moving deeper in, extending my comfort zone.  Grandma introduced us and Zurita told me about her grandson.  I smiled politely as she finished her dinner.

I don’t know what originally compelled me to continue my visits, but it became regular.  Gradually Grandma accompanied me less and less, until I began delivering food alone most of the time.  They were usually quick trips, running over Zurita’s plate and hurrying back to start our own dinner as a family.  In these short visits I was able to get to know her.

Her husband was dead and she had one daughter and one grandson.  The only thing she talked about as much as her family was Stinker’s.  Stinker’s was a gas station she had worked at for 25 years.  She showed me her plaque countless times, a plaque thanking her for her years of dedication.  To me, the plaque was depressing.  Working at a gas station for 25 years was not something I would be proud of.  It was more than that though.  For her, Stinker’s was a job, a regular income.  It meant stability, and 25 years meant loyalty.  Another thing she was loyal to was her cigarettes.  I thought for sure she had quit smoking, she was on oxygen for heaven sakes, but I would find her hidden ash tray.  It made me sad to see it, because her condition was getting worse, and there was nothing more I could do.

When preparing her plate, I would pick the prettiest roll and the juiciest meat.  She wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, but she deserved my best.  Cleaning her toilet, caring for and visiting her were something I enjoyed.  I realized it soon enough, it was because I loved her.  Besides hiding her cigarettes, she didn’t pretend to be anyone she wasn’t.  She loved the things she loved, like Stinker’s gas station and Grandma’s homemade rolls.  She had so much to hate in life, but she wasn’t bitter or unkind.  She helped me realize we can find strengths in the most unlikely examples.  It doesn’t matter what your house smells like or how far away your toilet seems from your bed, people deserve love and regular hot meals.  When we serve others we focus on others and not ourselves.  Zurita passed away that year, but not before leaving a mark.  It didn’t take 25 years but definitely deserves a plaque. 

Naked

         I had moved back home and lived only fifteen minutes from my cousin Kristina.  We were already friends but were now able to become even closer not having to go a year between seeing each other.  It was fifth grade and we were eleven.  Krissy lived on the river, where we would spend countless hours swimming and kayaking.  One of us, probably me, suggested skinny dipping during one of our sleepovers.  We’d never done it before and it sounded fun and exciting.  Krissy, without consulting me, asked her mom if we could.  Why she asked her mom, I did not know.  Surprisingly, Aunt Shelley said yes and we planned to go that night.  Being eleven year olds, we couldn’t possibly stay up late enough on our own, so we set an alarm and went to sleep, thrilled for the adventure that awaited us.  When the alarm went off around midnight, getting out of our warm beds to jump in the freezing river did not sound fun or exciting.

            The next morning we were disappointed we’d wasted our opportunity and headed for the river in regular swimming attire.  Before jumping in, we looked around and realized we did all sorts of embarrassing things during the day all the time, like wearing our one pieces backwards so the holes were in all the wrong places.  Why not go skinny dipping… right now?  Smiling at the idea of staying warm and accomplishing our goal, we stripped and dove in.  After splashing around for some time we remembered Krissy’s dock is located very close to the local public dock.  We hid frantically at the sight of an elderly gentleman fishing.  As the river had become unavailable, we wandered over to play with her horses.  Because her parents were gone, we stayed naked.

            Running naked became our new obsession.  We had to be sneaky, hiding behind haystacks or sticking to the forests of Russian Olive trees surrounding her house.  We already had a game of creeping around her house trying not to be seen, but playing outside, and playing naked, took the game to a whole new level.

            Being naked is the freedom, and hiding is the thrill.  As eleven year olds, we managed to be inappropriate and yet still innocent.  It was those in between years of knowing better and still being children.  In some ways I still feel that way.  I know I should act more mature or care about adult things, but at times I want nothing more than to build a fort or dress as a superhero.  I’ve seen too many things and had enough situations I’ve had to handle like an adult to have the eyes or mind of a child. But, occasionally, for a few streaking moments, I allow myself to be naked.  Whether in the form of listening to my heart or exposing raw, pure emotion or feelings, I open a soul that has no age, in the true sense of freedom and innocence, without an ounce of inhibition.

            I don’t know how long it would have gone on, but our adventures with streaking ended with Uncle Scott spotting my naked bum climbing over a fence.  Our embarrassment was enough to keep our clothes on.  Skinny dipping and streaking are still healthy parts of sleepovers and girls’ nights for both Krissy and I as we’ve gone our separate ways.  Some see streaking and skinny dipping as crude, which definitely can be true when boys are involved, but when done in the spirit of having a good time, late nights become early mornings, stories are swapped, hearts are touched and friendships are solidified by trust and honesty.  Bonds become unbreakable because hey, I’ve seen that girl naked.  We open ourselves up as teenagers, act like children, and grow into adults who never stop breaking the mold or, building forts.

Sue

            My family moved from Idaho to Oregon when I was four years old.  Besides the Kniesteadts, who were 3 and 5 years older than myself, our cul-de-sac was made up of older couples in their 50’s to 60’s, but that didn’t stop us from play dates and backyard adventures.  We annoyed every neighbor on the street by trampling flowers and showing up showing up unexpectedly.  We quickly wore out our welcome at Natalie’s, the oldest and crankiest.  She treated us as her grandkids but it can be difficult when 4, then 5, then 6, out of control kids aren’t actually related to you.  When we noticed Natalie’s exhaustion, my younger brother Garrett found Sue, who was married to Mike and lived two houses down.  We’d met her when we moved in but didn’t pay much attention to her at first.

            Garrett would occasionally disappear, which never bothered us until he started coming back with treats.  He could be gone for hours and we didn’t care, but the second he came back with a juice box or a fig newton, we were on him like cat hair on a black shirt.  When he told us they were from Sue, we were shy at first, but Garrett said she was nice and the cookies were proof enough.  “Nice” isn’t even close to what or who Sue Barnette is.  After the first time I followed Garrett over and stood awkwardly while Garrett chatted with Sue, I warmed up and never looked back.

            It was impossible not to feel completely comfortable around Sue.  She was kind, generous, caring, sincere, and friendly.  She had a unique and very easy laugh.  She laughed at her jokes, she laughed at ours, and she laughed because she loved life, but best of all, she made me feel important.  To her I wasn’t an irritating six year old.  I was an intelligent person who deserved compassion, conversation, and companionship.  I don’t remember Sue and I having much in common, but she shared her love of plants, knowledge of flowers, tips on compost, plums from her trees, and countless cookies.

            Living in a neighborhood without other kids to play with was never a setback or a worry.  We made friends wherever we went and Sue taught us that friends can be all ages and from all walks of life.

Significant Place, Rupert

               Rupert is a rural town in southern Idaho with a population of 5,645.  It’s the kind of town that goes back generations, where last names mean more than fancy college degrees, and farming is as respectable of a profession as owning a business.
                We lived in a small house on the river my mom had lived in before she went to college.  Just down the road lived my grandparents.  When I was 4, my dad had had enough of his too close, over-powering mother in law, along with his own parents a few miles away, watching every move he made.  Our family moved to Oregon and returned to Rupert every year for family reunions on both sides of the family.  Grandma and Grandpa Heiner’s dairy was a museum of dead farm animals, whose skulls always looked better on Grandma’s porch rather than in the field.  Their house was a place of laughter, good food, and board game after board game, and hours of swimming in the canal.  Then, for the fourth of July, we’d switch to my mom’s side of the family for the Rupert parade, boating, and fireworks.
                After six liberal, tree hugging years we moved back home because of Grandpa Heiner’s failing battle with cancer.  While looking for a place to buy, we stayed with Grandma and Grandpa Heiner.  House hunting went from one month to six and we came to know our grandpa like we never had.  Eventually, we found a house in town and settled in.
                Rupert is a small town and so are the people in it.  My business is your business and your business is everyone else’s.  There are no secrets or stories that haven’t been heard, and no faces unrecognized.  Everyone knows each other’s parents and grandparents.  Having lived elsewhere, I saw Rupert for what it is.  Sometimes I would suffocate, feeling trapped in a town or school that isn’t going anywhere.  I would make plans for escape, of running away, plans I’d never follow through on, but was comforted nonetheless.  I wanted to go on to bigger and better things, but I still loved Rupert.  I loved the farms, fields, the river, canals, sunsets, and most of all, the people.  The familiar faces I’ve known all my life, who’ve watched me grow as they stay exactly the same.  I love the teachers who taught my parents at the same schools I went to.

                My dad went to jail and my parents got divorced, and the whole town watched and supported.  My mom struggled to take care of us, and had countless faithful customers at her salon, customers who received haircuts as often as they could spare the hair, not because they loved her work, but because they loved her as an individual, loved my family, and wanted to help.

                After my mom got remarried and we moved away, we continue to return to visit.  I’ve noticed how run down the houses are, the cracked side walks ad weathered buildings.  The closest mall is 45 minutes away, there is one grocery store and only a handful of restaurants.  This was annoying when I lived there but seems unbearable now.  The styles have stayed the same since middle school, along with the hairdos.  Nothing changes and that drove me crazy when I lived there, but I’d be crazy not to love every bit of Rupert for what it is and how it’s shaped me.  I don’t want to live there again, but I will never regret the time and love spent.  And I will never miss a Rupert fourth of July Parade.