Our similarity in circumstances, and in proximity, brought us together over a year ago. My friend, Paula Stephens, asked me to contribute a Healing Note for her blog. Thank you, Paula! And thank you for your friendship, energy, authenticity, and all the healing goodness you provide so many broken hearts through Crazy Good Grief.
Oh my, 23. Kade would be 23.
I had an unusually weepy build-up to his birthday the last two weeks.
I’m blaming Adele.
The soundtrack in my head this birthday season has been Adele’s “When we were Young.” It’s not only the words, which take me to the time of it being “Kade and me,” raising Kade when we were both young, but the haunting, wistful melody.
You look like a movie
You sound like a song
My God, this reminds me
Of when we were young
One morning after volunteering at Asher’s school, it was on the radio. I’m not a huge Adele fan but the lyrics sucked me in.
Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were
Before we realized…
Right after I got home, my mom called. I took deep breaths to answer and pretend I was OK. When my “Hello” was a little off, I knew she would know. She was calling because the lead-up to Kade’s birthday was hard for her, too.
We had a really great writer’s group meeting last week. We’re in an exciting phase of reviewing members’ completed manuscripts. It was an invigorating meeting.
Didn’t matter. On my way home, on came the song and the pain washed over me with the chorus:
When we were young
when we were young
when we were young
That was the second time I called Adele a bitch. But I can’t hate anything for long that brings me closer to Kade, even the hard stuff. And since I’m not generally a crier, I took a strange bit of comfort that my tears could be evoked like that. Does that even make any sense?
Volunteering at Dumb Friends League Buddy Center yesterday was nice. Beau and Dylan came. It was wonderful to get to catch up with those two great kids. Beau is Kade’s best friend. Their bond is as solid and bold as the “Brothers Forever” on Beau’s forearm. I loved his memories of camping. He had some great stories about Kade. And with some stories, I wanted to plug my ears and go Lalalalala!
And Dylan, he’s an all-around likable kid. I got some insight into his thoughtful world views when we talked a little politics and current events. And there were laughs to be had when some of our end results were shaped more like bonnets and diapers than blankets.
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Aaaand then the song came on in the car on my way home. I keep a regular box of tissue in my car—I scoff at travel size. I thought, Great. I get to take Asher to one of his classmate’s birthday party with puffy eyes now. Brian would have taken him and allowed me time to decompress or finish up errands for Kade’s party, but he was sick with a bad cold.
I really didn’t want to go to a little kid’s birthday party, nestled in between my two events honoring Kade. But I had to suck it up. I knew I could do it for Asher; he was so looking forward to his buddy’s Star Wars party.
The drive and walking in went fine. I can do this. Until one of the kind moms looked me in the (puffy) eyes and asked, “How are you doing?” Tears. Damn it, Adele!
I explained that it was Kade’s birthday weekend, and that it was a hard time of year. I told the small cluster of moms about Kade’s party the next day. They were so sweet. They asked to see a picture of him. They were amazed that his friends still come to his birthday parties. I didn’t feel quite as bruised. Support can come from the darndest places.
First thing I saw on my Facebook newsfeed this morning was, “Today is Kade Tyson Riefenberg’s birthday! Wish him a happy birthday!” with his profile picture surrounded with confetti. I wished that everything about his birthday was surrounded by confetti. And I wondered if moms whose kids’ birthdays are all confetti, know how lucky they are.
We had Kade’s party today. I like that our venue and menu have worked so well in previous years that we don’t have to make many decisions to put it together.
For gift bags I ended up going with:
Things I loved about this weekend:
Too important, and close to home, not to share.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the phrase, “Let them sleep it off, they’ll be fine in the morning,” but I’m alive today because my friends got me help. Don’t take a chance if you see a friend passed out from drinking too much. Get them help as soon as possible. I’m very lucky to have made a full recovery, but I know there are others who won’t be as lucky. So please drink responsibly and make sure your friends do too. Watch out for friends, family, even strangers, and take care of them when you suspect they might be suffering from alcohol poisoning. Know the symptoms and be safe.”
Today is my 21st birthday, a day I have been looking forward to for quite some time now. Due to an event that happened about six months ago I will not be taking birthday shots and getting wasted tonight. Instead I plan on having dinner and maybe a glass of wine with my closest friends and family. I am writing this because I didn’t realize the importance of drinking responsibly until I was waking up from a coma, and I don’t want anyone to go through what my family and I went through. I ask that you share this with your friends, family or anyone who may benefit from reading this. If I can help just one person by sharing my experience, then I will be absolutely ecstatic.
Reno, Nevada- July 26, 2015: A photo from the emergency room an hour after I arrived at Renown hospital. At this point…
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As I go for a quick workout at the rec center; just another evening; I notice this time it’s light outside. I can see around me as I pull into the lot. It wasn’t the cold, dark, street-lit route to the gym, dimly-lit parking lot surrounded by darkness, and head-down-brisk-walk-to-the-front-door that it was all winter. It’s like my eyes are slowly opening to the world around me, for the first time in a long time.
Hooray for Daylight Saving Time.
Tonight there are pretty pink and white blooms on planned suburban rows of toddler trees. Tonight my blinders are off and I see the big park in back of the rec center, that was always there, when I look a little to the right.
It’s where I used to play softball on my work team for years. Kade came with me, of course, as he was only eight years old when I started my eight-year career at Archstone. On a lucky-for-him night he played with other kids who came with their parents. But most of the time he played catch with Mom, and tossed a football or wrestled around with the guys I worked with: sweet big boys at heart. I don’t remember him complaining about coming along in my single mom years to softball, volleyball, or even book club, when he was little, anyway.
And if I look out even farther, I see another diamond, where he played baseball. I see him taking a huge swing, flashing “RIEFENBERG” across his back. I see his little white baseball pants and dusty black cleats. Big round helmet on a small body. Me hoping to hear the tink of metal bat connecting with ball, and when I did, yelling wildly.
I remember this team picture day morning. Kade had been camping the night before. He was suffering from allergies so badly.
Hooray for Daylight Saving Time?
This is what happens when I look a little to the right. When the blinders come off. Sometimes it’s nice to journey and arrive in the dark. To just get the task done, whether it’s a drive, a workout, an errand, or whatever. Quick and painless. But tonight I can’t stop my eyes from looking a little to the right. And it’s neither quick nor painless.
I not only see the fields from the parking lot with the teeniest of glances to the right, but tonight, from inside the gym as well. It’s still light out. With each short lap, through the floor to ceiling windows, I see the park in the pink light of the setting sun. When I look a little to the right.
It’s about time I post to He Wore Flannel. But I feel pretty behind. So much time has gone by, I don’t know where to start.
A lot’s happened since my last posting just after the New Year. Namely January, February, and most of March. There was Kade’s 22nd birthday, a visit from my parents, Asher’s first Disneyland experience, attending GriefShare, receiving a scholarship to a grief retreat coming up in April, starting to train for a 5K, and the advent of spring.
OK, I decided. I’ll write about Kade’s 22nd birthday on January 24th—the third since he’s been gone.
They just keep rolling around without him. The years he was growing up went fast… and I guess still do. With his birthday and angel-versary evenly spaced out in the year I always have something super fun on the horizon to look forward to. Luckily what I planned for the first birthday without him worked so well that we put it on repeat. It’s nice not having to decide what to do.
The main event is a pizza party for family and friends. The first two years we had it at a neighborhood pizza joint. Last year we felt cramped in the private room, there was a lot of waiting around for pies and refills, and it was hard to mingle among packed booths.
This year we reserved a wide open room at the rec center and ordered pizza in. It suited us much better. We could spread out our tables of pizza, pop, cake, canvas pictures of Kade I made to take home, and sky lanterns to write messages on.
Asher
Marni, Jenny, Laura, Leah
making my decoupaged Kade canvases for party mementos
Finished party favor: 6×6″ canvas with Kade’s photo decoupaged on it. I copied from his Calvin and Hobbes books and cut strips for the sides, also decoupaged on.
After ordering 22 purple sky lanterns, opening, assembling, and writing messages on them (Asher too!)… it was too windy to launch. We were so bummed! I gathered them up for another time. Which reminds me, we still need to do that. Maybe on his angel-versary in June. Or I might pick a time before then to get the kids together.
All three years I’ve also arranged volunteering around Kade’s birthday. Let’s just say it’s not as popular as pizza and sky lanterns. The first year we helped at Denver Dumb Friends League and the library, honoring Kade’s love of animals and books. Dumb Friends was more popular but unfortunately hasn’t had anything for our group the last two years. So the library it’s been. I’m very appreciative of friends who signed up, Angela, Leah, Draven and Nick!
Jen & Angela
Nick and Draven. Love the purple!
I got to chat a little about volunteering with Kade’s friends. Planting a tree or picking up trash at a skate park seemed tolerable because they could bring their boards and have something fun to do after.
Although I look forward to celebrating my son on his birthday and can’t imagine not (in life or in death), I have to say I breathed a sigh of relief when it was over. I never had a CLUE of the impact of dates after losing someone close. Holidays, birthdays, angel-versaries, and a whole host of other times. Not a clue. Just the day before Kade died I reconnected with an old friend I used to work with. She said she couldn’t wait till June was over because that’s when her mom died. Never having an immediate member of my family like a son or mom suddenly gone, I didn’t have an inkling about what she was saying. I probably thought something like, “Why say a perfectly good month like June is ruined? Mind over matter,” or something along those lines.
Then, Bam!, boy did my life, and tune, change. I understand now. I don’t like it, but I get it. Like so much in the realm of grief, I hope the passage of time makes the dagger dates softer. The date itself is not only hard but sometimes even more so are the weeks and days leading up. I call them “crazy making.” I get a little nuts before
New Year’s
his birthday
St. Patrick’s Day (he loved Shamrock Shakes)
the coming of Spring (like now!)
Easter
Mother’s Day
my birthday
Father’s Day
his angel-versary
the Fourth of July
back-to-school time
Asher’s birthday
the coming of winter
Thanksgiving
and
the Dreaded Extended Christmas Madness Season
(why does it have to be so flashy and last so long?)
I can best describe the time leading up to dagger dates as PMS on steroids with gripping pain in my heart. Can I get a Grief Midol?
Back to Kade’s birthday. I took care of myself by taking time to journal the night before, which I think helped release the pressure valve to my crazy. My parents in MI were going to be here for the birthday festivities but had to postpone because my mom was sick. It was nice that they wanted to be here for the day. It felt good to volunteer in Kade’s name, doing something good in our own neighborhood where Kade grew up, sporting our Kade buttons.
And Kade’s friends showed for his party, again. I wish I would have gotten more pictures. Their love for their buddy warms my heart. I got to look into the faces Kade knew so well… and loved so much.
Kade’s best friend, Beau, and his girlfriend
Torri and Drew
Tyler, Asher, and Shay
Draven, Nick, and Kenzie
Shay, Chrissie, and Chrissie’s friend
Happy 22nd, Kade
‘Tis the night after Christmas,
and Asher’s in bed
Events of the holiday
are filling my head
The stockings and tree
were all put up with flair
Because of our preschooler
wanting them there
Our family was nestled
in holiday “bliss”
For me, visions dancing of
Kade who I miss
Christmas 2011
“Remembering Kade”
And Brian in his lounge pants
and I in my fleece
Are settling our brains
for some post-Christmas peace
Christmas Eve night-time
my bro and I clattered
To launch a sky lantern
ambitions were shattered
Away from our gloved hands
no flying, no flash
‘Cause it was too windy
our hopes, they were dashed
But stars and the planets
our vast midnight show
Gave the luster of hope to
us hurting below
More rapid than eagles
Christmas morning tears came
As I whispered… remembered…
and called him by name
Then, what to my wondering
ears should I hear
Woke the miniature boy
with a cough, yes, severe
Our hopes of volunteering
were changed and right quick
We’d drop off our goodies
and leave, like St. Nick
Driving to drop off items collected for the homeless
“Christmas in the Park”
“Christmas in the Park”
“Christmas in the Park” volunteers
Coughed all Christmas Day
and that night no relief
Shower steam it encircled
his head like a wreath
The day after snacks
and sweets that I chose
And giving a nod,
off to yoga I rose
I sprang to my mat
to my core gave a whistle
To enlightenment flew
like down-dog of a thistle
I suppose my exclaim
as I go out of sight
“Peaceful Christmases, all
and to all, cough-free nights”
12/8/14
Katherine Loyola Gibson
I’m writing this post about my grandma, Katherine Gibson. My dad’s mom. She died ten years ago December 6th. Does everyone say this? I can’t believe it’s been ten years.
Let me tell you about Grandma Gibson.
I got tears in my eyes saying those two words to myself, Grandma Gibson. They mean loving, generous, sweet Grandma. I got to know her for 32 years. How lucky am I? And that’s not something I utter often but I’ll keep it here.
Growing up we spent a lot of time at Grandma’s house which is actually a big farmhouse that’s been in the family over a hundred years! It was like a second home to my brother and me. Our family even lived there for a while after returning from my dad’s post-graduate work in Korea. We spent lots if not most of our weekends and school breaks there.
Andy and Jenny; The Farm in the background
Grandma was the Ultimate Homemaker. She quilted, crocheted, knitted, cross-stitched, and had a green thumb. She made the most delicious food you can imagine. She baked her own bread. I can see the loaves left to rise on the window sill, and conjure the smell of bread baking now. We asked for the crusts—just out of the oven, piping hot, real butter melting. I try to replicate her roasts. Forget it, I’ll never get mine so fall-apart-on-your-fork tender. And her gravy? We sopped up every flavorful drop with our bread. And do you know who she was cooking for? Us kids. Sometimes my dad and other family were there for these incredible meals. But she spared no effort, detail, or time, when it was just us kids.
We’d make pizza on weekends. And watch The Dukes of Hazzard. And she would always, always, always have chocolate almond ice cream.
Sometimes we were little stinkers for Grandma. Probably because she was so nice and we could get away with it.
I just about spit out my coffee remembering this one:
My dad, who lived in New Jersey much of our childhood, would fly Grandma out with us on school breaks. She watched us while he worked. One day my brother and I decided to hide. I mean, really hide. Quietly… while she searched and searched… calling our names… and everything. We were under the kitchen sink. I think we emerged at the point she started to cry. I must be a really mean person because I’m still giggling. I suppose hiding was better than another favorite: jumping out at her from behind a corner. Sorry, Grandma!
When I was really little I remember sleeping in Grandma’s bed. Her purple striped sheets were so worn that they almost felt like satin. In that big dark farm house at night I felt safe next to Grandma. And I would wake to the sizzle and smell of sausage. No Poptarts or frozen waffles at Grandma’s, no sir!
Grandma was of the generation of “pressing.” She had an ironing board that folded down from the wall in the kitchen. Though I wasn’t around to see it, she pressed cloth diapers. I did see her press bed sheets and t-shirts. When I fling my comforter over my pillows in one quick motion (in other words, make my bed), I think of how my Grandma taught me hospital corners. Like I said, Grandma was the Ultimate Homemaker.
She was born in 1910 and she’s my marker of history. For example, when I hear accounts of the attack on Pearl Harbor, or think about World War II I think, Grandma would have been in her thirties. When I recently watched the Ken Burns documentary on the Roosevelts, I wished so badly she was around to share her memories and opinions. I do remember her speaking fondly of Eleanor.
Grandma center. I absolutely love this picture of her and her besties. Not so different from today…
Though I knew my Grandma for 32 years, I never knew my Grandpa, Don. He died of a heart attack when he was only 44, and my dad, only 12. I have heard what a wonderful husband and dad he was. I’ll never forget Grandma telling me they were crazy about each other. And what a handsome man he was!
Do you want to hear something terribly ironic? Ironic isn’t exactly the word. Coincidental? Crazy? Bizarre? My grandpa survived his two brothers who died as teenagers: John, sixteen, of appendicitis and Forrest, the same age as Kade, nineteen, of diabetes.
I won’t dwell on Grandma’s later years where, sadly, her health declined after strokes. But I will share that when she didn’t say much of anything at all, when Kade would walk through the door, she would light up and exclaim, Kade! And they’d cozy up for a ride in her pink automatic recliner lift chair.
I wonder, when Kade got to heaven, if he was welcomed like that.
Kade and his Great Grandma Gibson. He looks like he was maybe four.
My mom and I recently spent the weekend in a city we’ve never been to before. No, not to protest a grand jury decision. We had booked our tickets weeks ago, taking advantage of an airfare sale. It was a matter of finding a city between us with a great fare. Thank you, Southwest!
out my window on my very early flight St. Louis-bound
Why didn’t I go to MI, or Mom to CO? We had some business to take care of. Though I would LOVE to see my extended family, and Mom can’t wait to get her hands on Asher, we can both get easily distracted and thought this best for the task at hand.
Before the Compassionate Friends National Conference this summer, once in a while we casually mentioned we should write a book. But I was truly motivated after. Maybe it was the Writing to Remember workshop. The facilitator held up a book she wrote for her son. It was a beautiful, tangible, memoir of his life, right there in paperback. A piece of his legacy that could be handed out… and handed down. I knew I would write Kade’s memoir one day. The How to Get Your Book Published author panel also stirred me. And the bookstore there filled with powerful reads (that I think we bought one of each of). The stories I’ve read in the last two and a half years have inspired me. And the shortage of books from a grandparent’s voice my mom notices, also motivates.
Since I can remember, my mom has had a propensity for grammar, writing, and reading, and a love of literature. I’ve enjoyed creative writing since grade school, myself. I remember writing plays to perform at assemblies with my fourth grade friends.
Now that my mom and I have this huge topic in common; this life event we share that’s the same… but different… I suppose you could say our writing a book is a bit of a natural progression. So we took the obvious first step, right? Meeting in a St. Louis suburb.
Let me tell you about St. Charles. It was a fabulous little historic town, recommended by a friend of a friend from the area. It was the perfect place to hole up and do some brainstorming and list-making, with a backdrop of shops, restaurants, and cobblestone. I’ve never been to Boston but for some reason it’s how I picture historic Boston. We didn’t even mind the rain or not having a car.
Getting by on foot gave us the opportunity to walk to the nearest store for crackers for the summer sausage we bought. WHICH was a gas station. THAT didn’t carry crackers. But we would have totally missed walking down Boone’s Lick Trail (of Daniel Boone fame) and reading the historical markers along the way. We never ate the sausage because the gas station potato chips didn’t pair well, but it turned out to be a perfect gift to bring to Brian! We polished off the chips, though.
We tasted milk-chocolate wine at a shop selling local goods. We visited with a nice jewelry store purveyor couple WHILE MY NEW KYANITE RING GOT SIZED. The large denim blue stone… and its name… caught my attention. You see, a newish friend of mine, Martie, lost her son named Kyan (pronounced Ryan). I’d never heard his name before meeting her.
I absolutely love it. Doesn’t one need a statement piece as a memento of a monumental weekend such as this? I thought so, too.
We tried St. Louis-style pizza (thin crust with a combination of provolone, cheddar and Swiss. It was meltily delicious).
I got a tiny bit of Christmas shopping done; even picked out a Kade Ornament for this year. A rustic rugged star. I like it’s irregular shape. We picked out a few fun ornaments for Asher.
Our last day, last lunch before the airport, we ate rich appetizers and laughed (and cried) over our drafts. We took pictures in front of the fireplace where the plans for the Santa Fe Trail were purportedly drawn.
The cozy rainy view from our booth at our last lunch
A close-up of the STAR below the peaked roof
Braddens Pub, in front of the fireplace where the plans for the Santa Fe Trail were drawn up
Really pretty ceiling at Braddens Restaurant
Back to our book. I confess, I have a list of books I aim to write one day. Can’t you just picture an adventurous little dinosaur named Kade? I can’t wait to collaborate with his artist friends on an illustrated children’s book. We talked a lot and set some goals. To heed most advice so far, we’re going to Just Get Writing. And see where our writing takes us.
“Clark” of Lewis and Clark leading the way
Fun with William Clark
The lending library nook under the stairs in our hotel lobby. Where we will place a copy of our book!
A whole room of a store dedicated to different hot sauces. Kade would have loved it.
11/18/14
I don’t usually invite a high profile person, whose positive attitude I admire, work I highly respect, and who I met on the internet, for coffee. But I did. And she showed!
When I started entertaining ideas of starting a blog and writing a book down the road, I began following more websites in the grief community. One I’m particularly glad I stumbled upon is Paula Stephens’ Crazy Good Grief. I signed up for her newsletter, “liked” her Facebook page, and immediately started receiving valuable gems. Simple and healthy recipes… because she understands short attention spans. Articles on health and wellness… while acknowledging that sometimes it’s hard to Do Anything. Main courses of getting out there and moving your body… served with sides of grief support. And not just any grief. She, too, survives the loss of her oldest son. Brandon was an outdoorsman. A Colorado boy. A vivacious kid who had just joined the Army.
http://www.crazygoodgrief.com/
Over the weeks, viewing her different posts, I pieced together that we have more in common than our glaring losses. We both live in the Denver area. We’re both remarried to husbands who aren’t the fathers of our boys we lost. And we both have subsequent little boys. I had to meet her.
We took turns sharing our stories. It’s surreal, by the way, to be sitting in a neighborhood coffee shop, facing a mom of similar age, engaging in conversation containing the words, Died. Coroner. Autopsy. It’s horrendously, almost laughably, surreal and at times I can’t believe it is real. It’s Crazy. Crazy Good Grief is aptly named.
She’s two years farther out than I and imparted some of her experiences. Asher’s questions will get harder as he gets older. Great—something to look forward to. When and if I ever choose to get out our box of Christmas ornaments, it will suck. Really really suck. Like with her postings, I appreciated this candor. For example, she has a private Facebook page about how the holidays totally suck now I mean, about how the holidays can present difficulties to those who have undergone profound loss. In the beginning she had a lot of anger. Meee toooo! I was—am—can be—downright pissed, too. She wondered why her new husband, who certainly didn’t sign up for this sort of thing, stuck around for this hell trip. She was speaking my language. There’s just something about a shared experience. A shared unspeakable experience. You get the picture: there was a lot of relating. I could have chatted away the rest of the afternoon and evening. But we each had young boys to pick up from school—who were both nearly exactly two years old when their great big brothers left this world.
One regret is that I didn’t get a picture of the two of us, sipping our chestnut praline lattes (nonfat of course!), hopefully not horrifying adjacent tables. One thing I want for my blog is to be visually-appealing with lots of pictures, because that’s what I find I like in the ones I follow.
I got a new book recommendation, A Bed for my Heart by Angela Miller. I learned that a Blue Christmas service is a thing. She told me about interviews she orchestrated with mentors in the grief community just this past September called Healthy Grief Tele-summit; its archives I look forward to perusing. I found she is as peppy as she appears online. Aahh, fitness professionals. Seriously though, I loved her spirit. And I’m thinking it may even be a teeny bit contagious.
11/10/14
Saturday my friend, Terri, and I traveled to Boulder for a photo candle luminaria workshop. I love any excuse to go to Boulder and this was a good one. I got to take home beautiful hurricanes with Kade’s picture, and catch up with a friend on the drive. The Boulder Compassionate Friends chapter hosted. The luminarias can be used for TCF’s annual Worldwide Candle Lighting, always the second Sunday of December. I’ve been in love with luminarias since visiting Santa Fe the first Christmas without Kade. The town is illuminated with the bags at Christmas-time.
It was a gorgeous sunny fall day, in the sixties. Looks like it was the last of the unseasonably warm November days, because today it snowed and GOT DOWN TO SIXTEEN DEGREES. The workshop was a block from Pearl Street Mall. Afterward we strolled, ducking into Terri’s favorite jewelry shop (now a favorite of mine!), and a toy and Tibetan store. I knew the Tibetan store would be tough, though I knew I would go in.
Flash back to about 2009 when Kade was probably 16. He wasn’t living at home. He was living at Synergy Residential Treatment Center. Treatment for behavior and substance issues. He was living a tough consequence for some choices he had made. He was on a cherished-by-us-both, days-counted-down-to, home pass. Brian, Kade, and I spent the day in Boulder. We toured the National Center for Atmospheric Research and walked Pearl Street Mall. At lunch Kade had oysters on the half shell for the first time. Loved ‘em, like all seafood. He was transfixed with the shells and even took one with him. We picked out selections to sample at the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse, an authentic Tajikistan teahouse.
We shopped at the Tibetan store. We picked out a red jolly buddha for Uncle Andy. Kade might have gotten one, too, I don’t remember. If so I don’t have it. I might have bought him incense for his room, as I sometimes did (Oh yeah–I should burn incense in his room when I’m down there reflecting or journaling!).
Walking in that store with Terri was hard. But she got it, since she lost her 18-year-old son Patrick almost four years ago. Browsing among the tight quarters of tapestries, bejeweled elephants, and scent of incense, she told me about some of the pieces her daughter, adopted from China, used to have in her room, and I got to tell her about our exploits in Boulder five years ago. And now, I got to tell you.
Sunday one of my best friends, Angela, came over for a craft day. A grief center in Aurora called The Heartlight Center is having a Holiday Market Dec. 6th and we’re donating our wares. We made notecard stationery sets, a decoupage picture frame, hurricane candle holder, boxes, and candle (yes, she decoupaged a candle). If you haven’t done decoupage yet, you should try it. It’s easy—and addicting. You can use nearly ANY material: newspaper, magazine, even fabric. Angela used a music sheet and wrapping paper. You seal it on by brushing with Mod Podge. Look how darling her hurricane turned out! I promise I won’t keep it, Ang.
My kitchen table looked like Joann Fabric or Michael’s threw up. After Angela left, I continued to decoupage my little heart out into the night. The table’s finally cleared off… enough for my laptop at least. Most of my crafting supplies are nestled back into their bins… until my next project obsession.
he wore flannel 