The things that go wrong

An ode to a friend.

Mort was my dad's best friend at his law firm back when Dad was a working man in Toledo, Ohio. Morty was a loud man; his normal speaking voice could carry for miles without effort and bore a very strong Brooklyn accent. He was funny and boisterous and one of the kindest, most welcoming, most exuberant people you could ever hope to meet along the journey.

Mort and his two daughters were our ski vacation buddies. We took annual ski trips to Colorado together throughout my childhood and adolescence, rented pretty slopeside condos together, ate my mom's famous and appropriately dubbed "ski trip chicken" recipe at least once during our weeks in those cozy condos, sometimes twice.

Something went wrong on nearly all of those trips. It wasn't always fun in the moment but we now know the stuff that goes wrong is often the good stuff, the stuff we relish remembering all these years later, the stuff that makes us laugh, the stuff that made our time together rich and memorable. There were always botched rental car reservations, lost luggage, chaotic meandering drives trying to find elusive ski condos, serious sun poisoning resulting in unrecognizable puffy faces, tense people speaking to each other through clenched teeth as they debated who'd locked the keys in the car again. It was a rare trip indeed it all went according to plan.

I was the baby of the group by a wide margin so haven't always remembered the details of those ski trips thanks to my youth and spongy young memory brain -- plus my parents always stuck me in ski school as the rest of them cavorted around on the slopes together so I wasn't even present for most things. I'm not jealous of that at all, yes I am, very much.

But I've heard the family folkloric stories so many times, I've internalized them clearly as if I was sharp as a tack and taking notes for each and every one. For one example, "the flaming logs at Snowmass" incident. Our first night in the Snowmass slopeside condo, Mort closed the flue on the chimney when he thought he was opening it, then built a roaring fire as Mom cooked ski trip chicken in the kitchen. Mort continually and enthusiastically refilled her wine glass, proclaiming loudly, "Wine for the cook! More wine for the cook!

It didn't take long for thick black smoke to pour into the room. As the rest of us hustled our butts out of that condo, Mort lunged for the fireplace tongs. He grabbed the flaming logs one by one and dropped them off our balcony into the deep snow three floors below. It was about this time his wife called from Ohio to see how things were going. He was honest with her, and she grew alarmed.

We like to imagine the faces of the cozy skiers living below us as they soothed their aching ski muscles at the end of a long day with a glass of hot cider or mulled wine. What did they think when flaming logs began falling from the sky? They knew we were in town, that's for sure.

Sometimes our extended family joined our trips.

This is my dad, my second cousin, Mort, my aunt, Mom, one of Mort's daughters.

Where was I?

Likely face-planting in ski school. 

Dammit.

Dad likes to recount the time Mort convinced him to do "one last run" before the chairlift closed for the day. They made it back in line just in time and were the last people allowed on the chair. They high-fived. We did it! One more run!

The motor broke on the chairlift on that last trip so Dad and Mort were stuck swinging thirty feet above the ground for hours. It got cold up there. Dad began to resent Mort in that moment, the man who made him take one more run when he should have been back with us at the condo holding a steaming glass of hot cider or mulled wine by then. Ski trip chicken is an elusive far away friend when you're stuck on a chairlift.

After a few dangly hours, they saw the ski patrol run a new motor up on a snowmobile. Not too long after that, the chair lurched to life again and began slowly moving up the mountain. Dad and Mort made their way down the slope carefully with no light aside from the ambient light of a full moon. Dad says it was the most beautiful ski run of his life. Further proof that sometimes the things that go wrong are the best parts.

I'm not sure what this one was all about

but that's yours truly on the right in my '80s acid washed pegged jeans

and Mort is doing something to my head

and Dad is holding a stuffed hippo. 

Plus, so many hats. 

Mort, a Jewish man, was the biggest fan of Christmas carols you've ever met. My mom played the piano at every law firm Christmas party and Mort would stand directly over her, bellowing those tunes slightly off key with an unbridled joy never before seen at a law firm Christmas party, especially from a Jewish man. He was very hurt when a semi-professional singer joined the firm's staff and received the coveted  "FIIIIVE GOLDEN RINGS" solo on "The Twelve Days of Christmas." That had always been Mort's verse, you see.

Mort passed away from cancer a few years ago. It was a huge loss for my parents, one they grieved to their cores. Someone like Mort can't leave the Earth and his absence not be felt profoundly. There was only one of him, and that is a gross understatement.

Mort requested his ashes be spread in three locations, three places that held great significance in his life and ultimately became three of his happiest chapters. The first was Coney Island, where he spent an idyllic free range childhood. The second was at the top of Half Dome in Yosemite, where Mort defeated a lifelong fear of heights when he climbed it with my dad and one of his daughters about fifteen years ago. The third was right here in my backyard, in Olympic National Park, where Mort spent a few weeks with the Student Conservation Association at the age of 16, clearing trails and rebuilding Humes Ranch, a historical cabin off the beaten path.

Mort's two daughters carried out his wishes at Coney Island and on top of Half Dome in the past couple years. For the third and final stop at Olympic National Park, Mort's family invited my parents to join for the five mile hike out to Humes Ranch. My parents accepted with gratitude and I immediately decided the kids and I would join, too. We were eager to reunite with our old family friends, recount stories of Mort, celebrate his big heart and the way he lived his life.

Our two families gathered in neighboring rental houses for a long weekend at Lake Sutherland, just outside Olympic National Park. It doesn't get much more Pacific Northwest picture perfect than Lake Sutherland in the fall. It was gorgeous and crisp and calm and kind of smug with its autumn charms.

My parents brought Lucien a slingshot,

which we now know

is a perfect gift for an eleven-year-old boy.

Mom made ski trip chicken. We refilled her wine glass often, obviously, as Mort taught us to do --

The next day we hiked out to Humes Ranch. We stopped halfway through the hike to light a candle and remember Mort and tell stories of his larger than life personality.

Dad told a story I'd never heard before. On my dad's very first day at the law firm, there was a firm meeting in which most attendees, including my dad, showed up in polished dark suits. Soon after the meeting began, Mort walked in wearing jeans and a George McGovern t-shirt. George McGovern was a liberal 1972 Presidential candidate not at all embraced at the mostly-Republican law firm but Mort didn't much mind. Dad liked Mort immediately and then they were friends. History made!

Humes Ranch --

Mort's two daughters, a son-in-law, and two beloved grandkids.

Us, minus The Loosh, who was off somewhere

being moody and pre-pubescent.

(Help me)

My parents could not be any cuter.

Our long weekend celebrating my dad's best friend got me thinking about lives well lived. About how simple it is to do it right, or at least how simple it is in theory, how simple it should be. Mort lived life enthusiastically and warmly. I doubt Mort was perfect, none of us are, but he was a good man, a good father, husband and friend. I don't think anyone can aim much higher than to be those things, and to be remembered for such things when we're gone.

If Mort could see us from wherever he is now, I know he was giddy seeing his grandkids play with his dear friend's grandkids at Humes Ranch. The four kids ran through the fields, played hide-and-go-seek, laughed their bubbly little kid laughs. I could almost see Mort beaming and hear him bellowing with enthusiastic joy. He may have also been singing Christmas carols but that's cool, we'll give him a pass on the seasonal appropriateness.

(I'm also pretty sure I heard a faint, "LET'S DO TIN PANTS," an ode to times when we would be spread out along the chairlift but Mort would let his ski run wishes be known by yelling at all of us up and down the line...)

My dad wrote a long essay that was read at Mort's memorial service. I wish I could cut and paste the whole thing here because it is a beautiful homage to friendship and shared history but in lieu of the entire thing, this is the final paragraph. It made me verclempt as hell. I hope Dad is OK with me sharing it here, I didn't ask -- hi, Dad!

"A good day of skiing has three parts: early morning is the time of elation and anticipation of the coming adventure. The air is cool, the trails awash in morning light, the body eager. Mid-day is the time of accomplishment in the heat of the day, the time for fast skiing, maybe in moguls. Late afternoon is the time for relaxing and reflection, for slowing down and really seeing and feeling the beauty of the day and the warmth, golden light and long shadows of late afternoon in the mountains - skiing as a metaphor for life. Judy and I are in the late afternoon now. Mort has passed through it, but we still see him, content in the mountains, happy with friends and family who loved him."

One final thing about our long weekend, a tone change so I can, ahem, clear this dust out of my eyes. Lucien hurt his back over that weekend on the peninsula when he flipped around on his bed and landed on the back of his neck. His neck and back were still sore a few days later so I took him to a chiropractor. Lucien has never been to a chiropractor and doesn't quite understand their treatment methods as evidenced by his alarmed, "Why are you hugging me? WHY IS THE DOCTOR HUGGING ME?" as the chiro wrapped his arms around Lucien to adjust his spine. The chiropractor laughed so hard he had to stop and wipe his eyes with his shirt.

I love that kid.

The kids and I returned to Seattle from the Olympic Peninsula via the ferry. It was a beautiful day for a ferry ride. I have loved many places in the world but I am most absolutely content to be in this one. It's so fantastically pretty up in here.

I hosted my annual Halloween parents-gone-wild fest over the weekend. I'm going to post on that ASAP but after that, November will be all about the Paris book, a NaNoWriMo tweaked once again for my non-fiction needs. It's time to confront the reality of my editor's feedback, which hurt my feelings but is likely right on the money. I'll be around.

Until we meet again, 

here's to all the great friends we meet along the journey.

More wine for the cook! *clink*
MJ

Yo from the Hoh

To the naked ear, visiting a rainforest in the Pacific Northwest in February may sound akin to showering naked outdoors at the North Pole.  It's actually much more enjoyable than that, thanks to can-do attitudes and the miraculous properties of Gore-Tex.

The kids were most excited for the ferry portion of the trip.  That is, until Lucien looked outside and nervously remarked the boat alongside the ferry had a large machine gun protruding from the bow.  It was a U.S. Coast Guard boat and it accompanied our ferry across Puget Sound with a man in black standing ready at his large boat gun.

Alex and I tried to make light of it and explain it in a way that wouldn't terrify the children -- "They're protecting us in case terrorists come flying at us on super stealth sonic boats and try to blow us up but don't worry that probably won't happen" -- but inside we were slightly unnerved.  We wondered what the Coast Guard knew that we didn't know (probably quite a lot) and prayed to be quickly delivered from our marked ship. 

We survived the ferry and drove several hours to our cute rental house in the middle of downtown Forks, Washington.  Forks used to be a sleepy little lumber town in the middle of nowhere but is now known worldwide for something less staid -- it's the setting for the vampire-loving Twilight series.

As a result, things have changed in Forks since my last visit ten years ago.  There are many Twilight themed shops and Twilight themed B&B's.  Would you prefer "Edward's Room" or "Jacob's Room?"  You cannot have them both, foolish traveler, you must pick a side.

There's now a Twilight Tour upon which you can visit "Bella's House" and "The Cullen House."  "Bella's Truck" sits outside the market where she worked and there's a parking space reserved for Dr. Cullen at the local hospital.  Forks has plenty of parking so it's not upsetting to the locals one spot sits unused, waiting for a man (vampire) to come to work who does not actually exist.

It's a bit depressing, watching the previously humble Forks milk its brief fame with such obvious pandering to a rabid fanbase.  Enterprising shopkeepers would be foolish not to take advantage, of course, but I still miss the old vampire-and-werewolf-free Forks.

Alex is not dazzled by Twilight

I read the Twilight series when we lived in Paris. Coco was a tiny baby so I would be up at all hours of the night with her.  Twilight was my friend during that time; it was fun enough to make the sleepless nights with Coco on the couch bearable but fluffy enough not to require much thought.  It was exactly what I needed.

Because of my knowledge of the series, I became a very important tour guide for my family.  When we crossed the clearly marked "Treaty Line" I explained to Alex that was the line the vampires and werewolves drew to mark their territories.  I told him the story of "The Cold Ones" as we stood on the Quileute tribe's beaches in La Push.  I located where Bella cliff dived thanks to the Twilight Tour map I'd grabbed at the greasy spoon diner that morning at breakfast. 

Alex listened thoughtfully then said things like, "I get it; the Quileute tribe turned into werewolves and they are the natural enemies of vampires. I understand why that would be so."  I suspected he was making fun of me but knew for sure when he said with a dreamy look on his face and wistful tone to his voice, "I'm so glad you know the rich history of these lands.  I feel I understand the tribe so much better now."

I decided to stop talking about Twilight after that.  I made one exception as I walked behind Coco and Alex in the rainforest.  Coco has a hard time keeping pants up thanks to her lack of hips and resistance to belts, and as they slipped further and further down I said, "Now THAT'S a New Moon" and then laughed hard all by myself.

The Hoh Rainforest is not at all related to Twilight.  It's also one of the few temperate rain forests in North America and is exquisite in its uniqueness. It is no exaggeration to say we were the only car in the parking lot.  The Hoh Rainforest in February is not a hotspot destination.

It should be.  I've been to the Hoh before but this visit was my favorite because we were all alone.  It made the rainforest that much more magically spooky.

We encountered an ethical dilemma in our aloneness.  There was no one posted at the ranger station to collect payment, only a sign requesting we drop our entrance fee in the box outside the visitor center.  Alex and I grinned at each other -- it was a teachable moment!  We were going to teach our children about being honest, and doing the right thing, even when no one is looking.

We marched to the box at the visitor center, grabbed an envelope and began our loud and proud speech about personal responsibility.  We pulled our wallets out, squinted at the bills inside, then glanced quickly at each other in alarm.  We had only $10 cash between us. The entrance fee was $15. And those kids were watching us like tiny hawks.

Alex and I began muttering back and forth through clenched and smiling teeth.  "Just shove the cash in fast, maybe they won't notice," said Alex.  So I did. 

We should have known that wasn't going to work.  Lucien sees all and Lucien knows all.

"That's ten dollars, where's the rest?"
"Well, son, it's all we have."
"Well then we can't go in, right?"
"Well... actually we can."
"You said we have to pay!  You said the parks need the money!
"We can support the parks in other ways, such as placing garbage in proper waste receptacles."
 "You have to leave them your credit card number!"
"Oh hell no, son, you're trippin'."
"You said we have to pay the fee, even if there's no one around.  But that's not the fee!"
"You're making us uncomfortable."
"We have to write them an IOU!  You guys! Why are you walking away?!"

We should stop trying to teach valuable lessons and just hope for the best as usual.

At one point while walking through the lush, deliciously fresh rainforest, we decided to go slightly off-road to get down to the water.  Alex slid down the steep muddy semi-trail first, then turned and urged Coco, "Jump!  I'll catch you!"  She jumped because she trusts her Daddy with her whole heart.  Alex caught her fine but her weight threw him off balance so they both went down hard in the mud and slid the rest of the way down the hill.

Coco was so stunned she didn't even cry.  By the time she considered crying, Lucien and I were laughing so hard a small smile appeared at her lips until it took over her entire face. She seemed proud to walk the rest of the day in her mud-encrusted clothing.

I shouldn't have been so quick to laugh at them; on our way back up that hill I slipped and my hand landed in a pile of elk poop. It's cool, I was wearing gloves.

If a tree falls in the rainforest and no one is around, does Lucien still make a sound?

Yes. Many.

The Olympic Peninsula coastal beaches, similar to the rainforest, are at their most incredible when you're the only ones on them.

 

Coco was knocked over by a rogue wave and landed in the raging surf at the first beach we visited.  That's how she ended up back in the car ten minutes after arrival, pantsless, eating peanuts and reading The Complete Idiot's Guide to RVing.

I was very tense about Lucien also falling into the waves but Alex advised me to be more Buddhist about it and picture Lucien already wet.  It worked.  Lucien fell down soon thereafter and it didn't bother me at all.

Those two tiny figures in the distance above are Alex and Lucien running towards a sea lion we spotted just offshore.  As they stood watching, the sea lion lunged up and out of the water and caught a seagull straight out of the air.  Lucien screamed.  He now knows nature is heartless and untrustworthy.

Our Olympic Peninsula trip was awesome but it certainly wasn't perfect.  There were some squabbles between the kids, some disagreements between the children and their parents.  Lucien may have told us he wanted a new Mom and Dad because we were mean.  At one point during a tense stand-off, I said, "Lucien, are you really listening to me right now?  Because it kind of sounds like you're just humming The Imperial March from Star Wars while glaring at a spot somewhere over my head."

Family trips are family trips, after all.   During the frazzled times they don't feel like they're worth it but then you get home and look over your pictures and realize they were SO WORTH IT.

The ferry of doom pulls back into Seattle without incident 

Team Edward forever,
MJ