Silent language

I react to grief as I react to most stressors: weariness. I am tired down to the bone. But that's not all. My anger is there, hovering, seeking a handy target no matter how disconnected from the true source: that our world is forever changed, that my mother is left alone, that life is unfair.

And I cry. I cried over oil and vinegar salad dressing in the Microsoft cafeteria. I cried over spaghetti, and the thought of a phone call I have yet to make. I cried over a grave, not empty and yet so empty of what I hoped to find there.

I'm restless. I walk and walk and walk and still can't be still.

Returning to work brought some solace in the form of distraction. Busy, busy, busy.

Being busy makes me angry. I am pissed off about how busy I am. Busy doing nothing that matters. Busy because it's easier.

Being still makes me cry.

It's two weeks tomorrow. An eyeblink. An eternity.

I want to go home. I want to go back. I want things to be as they were but better: no pain, no cancer lurking in the wings, just ordinary, boring life, with no threats or vulnerabilities that can't be ignored no matter how hard we try. I want the luxury of complacency.

There's no going back. There's only figuring out what comes next. How we do this, how we go on without him. Who we are now, as individuals and as a family.

It is knowledge I would rather not have.

Soothing

I just had a walk in the woods. It was very soothing. I found the damp green smell of slightly soggy Northwest woods, barely ripe blackberries (Papa Tom's favorite kind!), perfectly ripe huckleberries that made me miss Molly-pop, my grandniece and once-and-future huckleberry hunting pal, and a couple of not too shy rabbits that sat still while I checked them out.

But, most importantly I think, I found spots where no human eyes were on me. I am such a self-conscious creature; it is all but impossible for me to relax when people can see me. But there in the woods, even with human sounds all around, I was alone.

I think I'll be heading out to those woods every day for a while.

Anti-school quotes

What Einstein, Twain, and Forty-eight Other Creative People Had to Say About Schooling

In loving memory

Thomas B. "Tom" Canonica passed away on Sunday, July 17, 2011, after a bout with cancer. He was born on January 29, 1940, in Everett, Washington, the son of Angelo B. "Razz" Canonica and Aleta Norvell Canonica. He grew up in the Summit neighborhood of Riverside, where his dad ran the family store, home of the famous Razz Burger. Tom was part of a large Italian "Garlic Gulch" family and regularly treated family and friends to fabulous Italian dishes made from old family recipes. He graduated from St. Edwards Seminary at 16 and attended Everett Community College. He was very proud of his service in the U.S. Marine Corps and his long career with Washington Natural Gas Company, from which he retired in 2000. He was a past president of Sertoma and the Marysville Sons of Italy and was also affiliated with the Everett Elks and the American Legion. He lived at Priest Point in Marysville for the past 26 years.

He is survived by his wife and best friend, Mary Minshull Canonica, and the children they shared with each other: Chris and Denise Canonica, Ronnie and Frank Maier, Lynn and Artie Kavanaugh, and Erin Sorbo. He is also survived by his mother-in-law, Anna Lee Minshull; his 12 grandchildren, MJ, Chelsea, Chloe, Megan, Maddy, Emma, Ella, Colin, Lila, Ryan, Jerry, and Chiara; his brother and sister-in-law, Larry and Sandy Canonica; nephews and nieces Pat and Allison Punteney, Vince Punteney and Monica Morris, Tammy Punteney, Debbie Hann and Jerry Lundin, Larry Canonica, Jr., and Stephanie Simmons, and Mike and Anita Canonica; Stacy Bosman, Todd Cudaback, and numerous beloved grandnieces and nephews, cousins, in-laws, out-laws, and dear friends.

Tom was preceded in death by his parents; his grandparents Ferdinand and Patrina Canonica of Barolo, Italy; his grandmother Rose Wemmer of Warm Beach; his sister, Sharon Rose Punteney; and his nephew Nick Punteney.

Some of his fondest memories were of sailing the Caribbean, sitting on the beach in Cabo San Lucas, hunting dove and deer with "the boys," traveling Rocketman-style through the Northwest Territories, enjoying the Southwest (especially Canyon De Chelly and the Navajo culture), and gathering with the family for Memorial Day in Grand Coulee, Columbus Day in Long Beach, and above all, the 4th of July on Priest Point. Tom was always happiest at home on his own deck, and never more so than when surrounded by his family. He loved crabbing and clamming with his girls, whose earliest memories include fun times on Papa's boat. His warmth, humor, and gusto della vita made every holiday, birthday party, weekend barbecue, and drop-in visit special. He was our pirate, our Batman, our Christmas Eve Santa Claus, and our go-to guy. We have lost our Papa and our hearts are broken, but we'll carry him with us always. We'll smile when we think of him, when we eat pesto and blackberry pie, and when we remind each other, always, "Alla famiglia."

Memorials may be made to Perpetual Help Catholic Church/St. Vincent de Paul Food Bank or to St. Mary Catholic Church in Marysville.

Services:

• Thursday, July 21, 2011 - Evergreen Funeral Home in Everett
  Viewing from 3 to 6 p.m., rosary at 7 p.m..
• Friday, July 22, 2011 - St. Mary Catholic Church in Marysville
  Memorial mass at 9 a.m. with reception following

My kids living up to their potential

Just by being them.

4th of July, 2011
Photo credit: Erin Sorbo

Figuring out what I want to be when I grow up

There were three of us, always: Lisa, Kristin, and me. We were the straight-A students.

Jesus, it's so easy to see now how little that phrase says about the people we were, but at the time it was our all encompassing shared identity. We were the straight-A students. Enough said.

I think Lisa and Kristin were friends. I always thought of them as such, anyway, but I honestly don't know. I was friendly with them and sometimes sat near them in our classes together, but we weren't really friends then. I didn't know them. In fact, it's occurred to me recently that—thanks to Facebook—I know them better now than I ever did in high school—and Kristin and I aren't even friends on Facebook! But I know Kristin is an avid runner. Lisa is a deeply conscientious veterinarian, Christian, and liberal in her politics.

Really. That's more than I knew about their personal lives back in high school. But back then I presumed to assume—and worse, the teachers and administrators did—that I knew all about them, or at least that I knew enough. I won't speak for Lisa and Kristin, but I know the teachers and administrators presumed to think they knew all about me.

The only thing they didn't know, and the question that I was supposed to have the answer to, was what I wanted to be. There wasn't much discussion of my potential, because (as far as they knew), I was living up to it at the time and would continue to do so.

I was a good girl.

But my potential hung there in the air around me just the same. What did I want to do with all that potential? What did I want to BE?

I had no idea.

Actually, that's not true. I wanted to write. I can't really say that I was encouraged in this, but I was only actively discouraged once. Maybe once was enough. I don't know.

At any rate, for whatever reason, I thought (without thinking about it) that writing wasn't a good enough plan. I had to find a better one. (As an aside, this is completely in character for me. If a plan is not picture perfect, I will agonize endlessly trying to find a better one. It's crippling, because of course no choice is perfect.)

I finally settled on programming and headed off for college. I was very enthusiastic about going to college (but less so about actually doing any coursework). I puttered around at one school for a while, then transferred to another and puttered around there. Then I dropped out. Then I went back. Then I dropped out again. And then I got a contract at Microsoft and I haven't been back in a college classroom since.

In favor of a perfect plan, I stumbled my way into a career. It is not a career I would ever have purposefully pursued back when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to BE. Technical Indexer? *snort* Technical Writer? Ha! Maybe to pay the bills while I worked on my novel. And now I'm a Program Manager. I don't think I'd ever heard of being a Program Manager when I was 18.

So, this morning I'm thinking about all that potential I had. Did I live up to it? Did I?

Who the fuck cares? Seriously. Who cares? Nobody. Not even me.

What matters now, to every single person in my life, is that I am able to provide for my family, and—shockingly enough—that I am happy. Nobody cares what I do for a living except as a point of curiosity. There might be the occasional person who is impressed, just as there is certainly the occasional person who is underwhelmed, when I describe my job. Most people just nod and offer a polite but clearly disinterested response. My employment is a footnote. It's a shrug.

Do you know what people really like to hear about? They like to hear about my thoughts and opinions and ideas, and most of all they like to hear about my adventures and experiences. People like to hear my stories.

It occurs to me that instead of asking the teens in our lives what careers they want to pursue, we should ask them what stories they want to be able to tell first.

And it occurs to me, shockingly enough, that I have just figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be someone who has more and more and more really good stories to tell.

Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors
where there were only walls. ~ Joseph Campbell