I am a terrible blogger

 Maybe blogging is no longer a thing, but regardless, I am a terrible blogger. I haven't posted here in literally years. More than 5 years to be exact. But I'm feeling a bit of a need to vent lately. So much has has happened in the last 10 years or so in life, and I haven't documented it, even for myself. 

And I feeling a bit of a need to express myself with the "printed" word again.

So, no promises, but I may make an attempt to get more active again. There was a period of time where I contributed to blogs -- other blogs -- on a pretty regular basis. Not that I care to share links here, currently, but one was work related and one was quite personal, but not one I cared to share with family or even friends. I couple of friends knew about it, but not many.

So, maybe I can do better. I have a new laptop. I obviously still have access to log in to this blog. So, we'll see what happens.

What's on tap for 2020?

As I sit down to start this post, we are in the waning minutes of 2019. I don't know what 2020 will bring, but I am hopeful it will bring some new things and perhaps a new, sustainable career, or at least a job that will help me cover the basic costs of living.

The year 2019 as least led me to a more-or-less full-time job, but it's frankly not covering all my basic costs. I'm behind on several bills and digging a deeper hole all the time. But I hope we will be able to get my dad's estate settled in 2020. It's been a long couple of years since dad died in May 2017, just 9 months after mom died.

I can't believe I haven't covered that on here yet, but then I haven't posted much of anything here in recent years. Not about my parents. Not about my brothers. Not about my daughter. Not about my abrupt career derailment. 

There's a lot to get people, or the blog at least, caught up on.

In recent weeks/months, I've had a few people in my life ask me why I don't write anymore. I have avoided answering that question with friends, and I've avoided asking it of and answering it for myself.

There are many reasons why I haven't ventured in to writing, even here. A significant reason is that my confidence in myself and my "skills" has been shaken by being tossed out of journalism, in spite of a few attempts to get back in. On top of that, I haven't been a reporter/writer in a long time, although I have written throughout a 28-29 year career in journalism. 

I certainly want/need a creative outlet of some sort, whether writing or photography or both, or some new creative pursuit. In my head, I blame lack of funds and equipment for avoiding the photography angle. But the lack of writing? I'm not sure what to blame there, beyond lack of confidence or drive. What if I have nothing to say? My past writing has been either 1) work related and based on interviews and facts based on some news or human interest angle; or 2) journal-like either in the form of writing in a notebook or one of a couple of older blogs; or 3) short social media posts on Twitter or Facebook.

I have no "great American novel" dying to get out locked up inside me. At least I don't think I do, as it has not made itself known to my conscious mind. I have no compelling true-life story I'm dying to tell. And I don't think I have any particular wisdom to share from which I think others may draw inspiration. I just have questions and doubts and fears and foibles and failings spilling out all over my life.

So, I don't know what to write. And outside of creative pursuits, I need a job that challenges me again intellectually and even creatively. But I don't know what that might be, in spite of applying for multiple jobs in multiple fields.

I have got some experience working in food service and retail fields, in untrained fields. I'm kind of living my work-life backwards, working in unskilled areas now in my 50s like many of my (former) peers did in their teens and 20s.

It's an interesting time in life, and not interesting in a good way. I wish I knew how this particular story will end. I would like to get to the next chapter as quickly as possible, instead of slogging through this interminably dull and painful chapter.

Pressure to change

Until recently, I have not been good about making regular visits for medical care or checkups. Two years ago, after a period of not feeling well, I decided it was time to find a local primary care provider. Plus, my boss at the time had been a nurse practitioner and more or less ordered me to go see a medical professional.

So, I made an appointment through a local medical clinic and went in for a checkup as a follow-up to some sever and ongoing bouts of dizziness and nausea I had been experiencing. As my appointment began, a nurse made me get on a scale and got my weight, then took me into an examination room to take other vitals. She took my blood pressure, but it took a couple of attempts to get a reading and the expression on her face was not reassuring. She didn't tell me what she was thinking, or what she knew, but I knew it was not good.

I thought perhaps my blood pressure was a bit high because I was nervous about seeing a medical professional for the first time in many years. And the primary care provider I had been assigned was a woman, as well, which made me nervous because I had never had a female doctor/care provider.

I few minutes later the nurse practitioner came in and took my blood pressure again. Then she told me she was cutting my initial examination short because she was going to send me down the hall to the attached hospital and to the emergency room. My blood pressure was too high and needed immediate attention. As I was preparing to get up to walk over the the hospital, she instructed me to wait because they were going to send me over in a wheel chair.

That news did not help me relax or ease my anxiety.

I soon found myself in an exam room in the ER. Staff members were shaving spots of chest hair with a dry razor to attach heart monitoring equipment, There were more blood pressure checks, including being attached to a machine that periodically took my blood pressure on its own. Then there was intravenous medication. And a litany of questions. I don't remember them all, but I was asked it I had any chest pains several different ways.

After while, when the staff had more confidence I wasn't actively having a heart attack or a stroke, I was left alone in the exam room for periods of time to let the medication do its work. During one of those moments of peace, interrupted only by the beating of the heart monitor and the occasional inflation of the blood pressure cuff, I decided I wanted to see what the monitor behind me and above my head was indicating, so I took a picture of it with my cell phone, since I couldn't turn around with all the wires and tubes and equipment securing me to the examination chair. I managed to get a photo that was clear enough for me to read the numbers, but I certainly had no clue what the readings meant.

After several hours, the numbers had improved enough that I was discharged. I don't recall the exact order of events and what directions I got from the ER doctor and which I got from subsequent visits to my new primary care provider.

But over the last 2 years, I have been prescribed medications for blood pressure, cholesterol, some pre-diabetic symptoms, had blood drawn for tests multiple times, been assigned to a specialist to make sure my kidneys weren't damaged by the high blood pressure, had follow-up visits with my eye doctor to check for blood pressure related eye damage.

I own my own blood pressure monitor now and take my readings twice a day. I've also lost more than 30 pounds in body weight. I'm keeping my blood pressure under control, generally feeling better physically and keeping up with regular medical visits.

I thought I had made note of the initial BP reading they charted at the medical clinic, but I can't find it right now. But you can see from the picture of the monitor that the reading after I had been receiving IV blood pressure medication -- and the numbers started coming down -- was 186/118. The initial reading I got at home after getting my own blood pressure monitor was 207/119. The website I use that tells me what my numbers mean tells me those number are "Way too high" and a "hypertensive crisis". This morning, my numbers were 125/76, which the website describes as "ideal" and "normal."

I learned later that the reason I was sent to the ER by wheelchair was that the clinic staff was concerned I might have a stroke at any moment. That shocked me a bit, but I didn't quite know how to gauge that. I got a new perspective on just how dangerous that likely was earlier this year when two high-profile individuals, Luke Perry and John Singleton where were both close to my age, died of stokes. Perry died in March and Singleton died in April following massive strokes.

It's a bit of a dubious anniversary, but it is also the date I began to start paying attention to my health, probably for the first time in my life.

Excuse me, Mr. President, but that was my foot you stepped on

I had a strange dream. I was in an auditorium sitting in a row with several members of my family. My brothers were there and my Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill. The auditorium was attached to a local truck stop that's about 2 miles from my house.

Up on the stage President Trump was speaking. I'm not sure what he was talking about. I don't remember any of the details of what he said. But as he finished speaking everyone was getting up to leave, as was I, and I had my foot out into the aisle. I turn toward the stage and find myself face-to-face with the president, who is walking toward me. And he steps on my foot. And then he was gone.

I woke up shortly after that.

I rarely remember dreams, but this one has stuck with me today. Not sure why. It was silly and made so sense. So I thought maybe if I wrote it down it would let go of its hold on me.

We apologize for the delay

This is the first post I've made to this blog in more than 7 years. To be honest, I forgot I even had, or created, this blog. I rediscovered it tonight.

A while back, after posting some photos and posts on Facebook, a friend recommended that I start a blog or something to capture some of those posts and observations somewhere other than Facebook. I wasn't ready to do that at the time, so I didn't look into it. But lately, I've been thinking about it more, and decided maybe I should do something about it.

I used to keep a journal with some regularity, but I haven't done that in a very long time. But there has been a lot going on in my life lately, and it my head, and perhaps I could use an outlet for expression for that ... stuff. And maybe some photos too. Although to be honest, I haven't done much photography lately. So, we'll see what happens.

But it's good to know that I don't have to completely start from scratch. There's some infrastructure in place.

A few hundred words on the worth of a picture blog

So, I have this blog, which has been neglected for months, and I'm thinking about starting a new one.

Crazy.

Perhaps the smarter thing would be to actually start posting on this blog regularly.

That would be the smart thing.

I'm not sure I'm a very smart guy though. But there is a method to my madness.

The reason I'm thinking about starting a new one is twofold. One reason is that the blog could be, in a roundabout way, related to work. One of the hats I wear at work is to do the photo editing, cropping and color correcting of staff photos. I've been trying to share photo tips with the staff to help them improve their photography, but the way I've been doing that, with staffers scattered in four states, has been to write up photo tips. It's not very visual. Photography is sort of a visual medium. So, text-based tips seems just wrong.

The other primary reason I'm thinking about starting a new blog is to start it in WordPress. I've using Blogger for a long time and really know nothing about WordPress, so I was thinking it would be a way to expand my knowledge. I like to stretch my skills and try to make myself learn new things in this whole digital media realm.

I suppose there is actually another reason too, that really isn't about work. It's about returning to a first love. Photography and photojournalism got me in to the newspaper businesses long ago. I have recently been confronted with the reminder that I really do still love still photography. I came to realize it would never pay my wage full time long ago. But maybe a photo blog would get me out shooting some more, even if it was just for my own enjoyment and selfish purposes.

I haven't decided whether to start a new blog, or to include photo posts here or even on a work blog that already exists. But I thought confessing the idea here may push me to made a decision one way or another, sooner, rather than later.

I may be just the push I need.

Emotional legacy of 9/11

The fear is gone. The questions of how and why have been resolved. The feelings of unity of purpose and resolve have long-since disappeared.

But 10 years after Sept. 11, 2001, the pain and emotion remain just below the surface, like water behind a dam just below the level of the spillway. All it takes is the least bit of rain, the smallest wave, to make the emotions spill over again.

I am not delving in to much, or any, of the 9/11 anniversary coverage. I don't want to be overwhelmed by the pain and sadness anymore. I'm tired of tears.

The rawness of emotion exposed on Sept. 11 has never healed in me. Any sad news seems to strike that same sensitive wound created on that surreal day. My heart bleeds at the slightest touch.

This weekend, I'm just trying to get through and not poke that sensitive spots any more than is absolutely necessary.

Smudging my digital fingerprints

My digital life is too complicated. I have too many usernames, addresses, accounts, IDs, passwords and profiles.

I started off intentionally trying to keep some parts of my digital life separate. Keeping home away from work. Keeping family away from hobbies. That sort of thing. But I am beginning to wish I was part of a younger generation that doesn't compartmentalize life that way. With all these accounts, it would be much simpler to just let me be me, regardless of which hat I'm wearing.

I am so tempted to just go through and start merging or deleting accounts and just let Google or Facebook be my conduit to the whole digital realm.

But that scares me too.

I thought I simplified my life when I was able to merge calendars and check multiple e-mail accounts on my cell phone. But I got digging around some of my accounts tonight and realized I don't know which one I use for some services anymore. And don't even get me started on things like phone numbers.

I couldn't tell you what my direct line phone number is at work if it wasn't printed on my business card. If my phone ever breaks and I'm left stranded on the side of the road, I wouldn't know who, or how, to call anyone for help. I guess I could call my parents. I remember their phone number. They've had the same one since 1973. That I can remember, but their address, which changed some years ago to make it easier for police and fire department find their house, well I haven't known their address since then. I think I have it in my GPS. If the battery is charged.

Blogging by phone

I added the Blogger app to my Droid phone. I don't know if it will make me blog any more. But it's nice to know I can blog on the go.

The day the mountain blew

For many Northwest residents who were old enough to remember it, May 18, 1980, invokes powerful, visual memories of the destructive eruption of Mount St. Helens.

Those too close to the mountain died. Other who were close enough to the mountain could actually see the eruption, and for those east of the blast, they can remember the massive ash cloud turning the sky dark and raining ash and pumice hundreds of miles away. Our house was in the path of the ash, but like most of the rest of the nation, my family watched the events on the TV news and read about it in the newspapers.

We weren't at home when the mountain blew.

We were visiting family in Nebraska. I was 14 at the time. Why were were in Nebraska at that time of year, I can't remember. My parents couldn't remember either. As dad remembers it, we heard of the eruption when we landed in Rock Springs, Wyo., for fuel. He thinks we were headed to Nebraska when we learned the news. But given that it was a Sunday, I wonder if maybe we were heading back to Oregon, and that news of the eruption turned us back.

To this day, I have bad memories of the Rock Springs airport. We seemed to have a helluva time getting past Rock Springs on our family flights to and from Nebraska. If we were ever to have heater problems or other mechanical issues, it required landing in Rock Springs. And there was absolutely nothing for a kid to do at the Rock Spring airport, which is way the hell-and-gone away from town.

I don't remember learning about the St. Helens eruption in Rock Springs, but I remember spending extra days in Nebraska, stressing about the school I was missing as a nerdy 8th-grader who wanted to get back home and not really understanding why this mountain, thousands of miles away from where we were then, and hundreds of miles from where we were trying to go, was stopping us from getting home.

Once we did get home, days later, it was a little easier to understand. There was still ash residue at our house in Eastern Oregon. Some friends had collected some of it into jars and told stories of what had happened there the day of the eruption.

I could empathize with all those European travelers earlier this spring who were unable to travel because of the volcano erupting in Iceland. I had been there too, 30 years ago. Although we were traveling by a small private plane, life and plans had to be put on hold until the air cleared.

Until Sept. 11, 2001, there had really only been 2 dates etched indelibly in my mind as major events of my lifetime. One was the day my daughter was born. The other was the day Mount St. Helens erupted.

In the years since, particularly after my daughter moved to Portland, I've gotten a bit nervous when St. Helens goes in to her more active periods. She has a might long reach when she's angry

For my family, we suffered a little inconvenience due to the mountain's wrath. Others suffered far worse. The scar left on the mountain itself is a very visible and permanent reminder of the awesome power Mother Nature can unleash when she's so inclined. Some of the Northwest's most scenic locations are a tribute to that power -- Crater Lake, all the volcanoes of the Ring of Fire in the Cascades, massive basalt flows, the Columbia Gorge. Perhaps it's knowing there is potential fire hidden beneath the icy caps of those mountains that adds to their beauty, majesty and mystique.

Thanks, to a very special nurse

There's one nurse I appreciate above all others this National Nurses Week. I've never been her patient, but I know Monica's nursing knowledge, compassion and caring firsthand.

She's my daughter's mom. She was, and is, amazing for that one, important fact and more than 19 years of making difficult choices. She's deserving of respect and admiration for that alone. She's part of my family. Our relationship, our family dynamic, is not always easy to explain. Our relationship was not always so good or so close.

The reason I appreciate her as a nurse was a turning point in our personal relationship. Circumstances allowed me to get past a lot of old, personal baggage and see her in a new way due to her professional abilities and personal compassion.

About a dozen years ago my dad was in a serious car crash. I was living in California and got the call that my dad was in a hospital in Eastern Oregon. I could tell, even over the phone, that my mom was worried. I made arrangements to get home as quickly as I could and asked Monica if she could pick me up at the airport. She graciously accepted and drove me straight to the hospital where my dad was in intensive care.

Monica had been an intensive care nurse at another hospital. She went with me into my dad's room in the ICU. The room looked pretty much like any other hospital room, but my dad looked anything but normal.

There was a tube down his throat to help him breath. His bald head bore the unmistakable signs of road rash. He was scraped and bruised all over. His hands were puffy and swollen, so that his wedding band cut into his ring finger, turning the flesh slightly cyan. The ring would eventually have to be cut off to keep him from losing his finger.

Beside his bed hung an assortment of bags pumping fluids and drugs into his body. Monica read the labels and her face sank. And my heart sank right along with it. She could tell that he was in bad shape by the medication they were giving him. Before I could muster the courage to ask her how bad, she summoned up her nurse's professionalism and started going down the litany of things hanging on the racks, telling me in layman's terms what they were and what they did.

One was a paralyzing medication, to keep him immobile while on the ventilator. There were IV fluids and another medication to make his kidneys produce urine so the fluids didn't build up in his system, which obviously was not working too well based on his swollen, bloated appearance. The others are lost to time, faulty memory and the shock of the moment. These were intense drugs for someone needing intensive care.

He had white stocking-like things one his legs designed to prevent blood clots in people who are lying still for long lengths of time. A urine bag hung at the foot of the bed.

I don't think I've ever felt so helpless. When Monica dropped me off at my parent's house I tried to thank her for picking me up, taking me to the hospital and explaining the medical treatment. I tried to thank her for being my friend. I tried to speak but couldn't, the words caught in my constricted throat and got hung up on my trembling lips. She offered me a hug, which a gladly accepted. In her embrace I broke down, crying like the small boy my parents brought to that very house 25 years earlier.

In short order, I'd been hit with all sorts of stuff. There was the realization that my dad might not make it and I could not do anything about it. I had never stopped to consider that someday he might not be around and I might become the man of the family.

At that moment, I found that the woman entrusted with our daughter's primary care was also the person to whom I entrusted my own vulnerability and fear. She was the person I also turned to for advice for my father's care.

Dad eventually got better and was discharged from the hospital, although he didn't know I had even been there. He'd been in a drug-induced coma for much of his care. While Monica was not his nurse I am convinced that neither he, nor I, would have come out of the ordeal nearly as well without her help. Neither dad, nor I, are very good at asking for help. Lots of people helped my dad in the immediate aftermath of his crash, from the good Samaritans at the scene, to the ambulance crew, to the doctors and nurses at the hospital, to the family and friends that came to his bedside at the hospital.

When we are at our weakest, our most vulnerable, we need people to look out for our interests and our well being. Sometimes we need them to make critical decisions we can't make for ourselves. Sometimes we aren't even conscious enough to see their faces or know their names. Oftentimes those people are nurses.

I feel fortunate that my daughter, who seems to catch every bug that passed through the area, has a mom, who is a nurse, to watch over her. And I am grateful that a dozen years ago, when my dad and I needed help, Monica -- and other nurses who's names I never even learned -- were there.

Thank you, Monica, and all nurses, who give so much of yourselves to care for others.

Will it make a difference?

I set up the blog so I can make mobile posts. So will that lead me to make more posts? Let's find out.

It's a learning experience

The editor and publisher of the paper I was working for asked me why my title was assistant editor.

"I'm the editor," he said. "You aren't my assistant."

I was dumbstruck. I was working for him after all. If he didn't want my title to be assistant editor, shouldn't -- couldn't -- he change it?

I quit referring to myself as assistant editor after that, regardless of what my business card said. I functioned more like a city editor, so I started calling myself a city editor.

I was reminded of that today by seeing a posting for a job at the paper I worked for back then -- a posting for an assistant editor.

It surprised me for many reasons. One, is that a news posting for any news job in Oregon seems pretty amazing these days. But I was mostly surprised to see that the title was still the same, even all these years after I left. It was 15 years ago this month that I left that job on the Southern Oregon coast.

I was there a little more than two years. At the time, it felt like a lifetime. I made some good friends there though. Some of the people who were important back then in my personal and work life are still among my friend and several are among my Facebook contacts.

It was, as many people told me during my early career about work situations that were painful or difficult, a great learning experience. I hated the stress. I hated the rain. Perhaps that's why the bonds with the people were so long lasting. Enduring adversity together makes for strong bonds.

The news business has changed significantly since then. That paper, The World, in Coos Bay, has changed a lot too, including it's ownership, which has changed at least twice since my posting in the early-to-mid 1990s. According to the job listing, The World has gotten smaller too. It has lost about a third of the circulation it had back then.

The posting got me thinking about those days and those times. I'm glad I was there. It led me on to bigger and better things professionally. But I wouldn't want to go back. It's a smaller world after all.

Can a former love be a friend? It depends

I posed the following questions the other day on Twitter and Facebook: Is it normal, or abnormal, to have exes as friends on Facebook or following on Twitter? How many exes do you have friending/following?

I wasn't sure if I would get any responses at all, but I got several. I appreciate people willing to share their thoughts on the issue. Here's what I got:

3 people responded on Twitter; 8 commented directly on the Facebook post and 1 sent me a message on Facebook.

Women commented more than men. 3 men replied, compared to 9 women.

Two of the people didn't divulge what they thought was normal behavior. Those comment questioned what the definition of normal was and whether I was normal.

And that's really what I was trying to figure out: Am I normal? There are women among my Facebook friends and Twitter followers than I have had relationships with in the past. Based on the replies I got, that's not uncommon. Six of the the 12 people who replied indicated that still had contact with people who they dated or had relationships with. Two other did not say if they had former lovers among their friends, but they indicated it was "normal" to do so.

Five people included numbers in their replies, which ranged from 1 to 12.

Two women who are both married indicated that their husband is aware of the relationship(s) they had with the person or people who are also Facebook friends.

Two people had pretty strong feelings about the issue and do not maintain contact with people they have dated. I respect those views and I even understand them a little better now than I might have earlier in my life.

One of my exes had similar views when we were together. She kept no photos of people she had dated and had seemingly tossed out all mementos of any kind. The fact that I still had some contact with some people from my past caused stress on our relationship. So, I cut off a lot of ties to my past during that relationship, not just to people I had dated but also to friends and family members. In the end, the relationship died (or was killed) by something else. I found I needed the people in my past to help me move forward and have tried to rebuild ties over the years with one notable exception -- the woman who had been so jealous of my past. It would be difficult to find any signs of her, or our time together, in my life now. I know she is on Facebook, but have made no effort to reach out. She taught me how to do that.

I don't know if I'm normal or not, but I most identify with this comment I received via Twitter: "I think it's a shame not to be friends with people you once loved. I understand it's not always possible."

In there interest of full disclosure, there are people on my friends list on Facebook and/or who follow me or I follow on Twitter who I have dated in the past.

Thanks to all who responded to the question. And thanks to women who have been such an important part of my past who are still part of my life, though in a platonic and far more limited way.

But the biggest thanks should be reserved for the understanding and trusting spouses, lovers and partners who are willing to allow people to maintain some form of contact with the people who have been important in a lifetime. Not everyone can, or wants to do that.

I hope whatever is normal for you and the important people in your life helps you find fulfillment and happiness in your life and relationships.

Bring back show and tell?

I will, no doubt, draw scorn for this, but I just can't get the thought out of my head.

I've been seeing all these women on Facebook posting colors today, to signify their bra color in an effort to increase breast cancer awareness. There can't be enough awareness of the issue as far as I'm concerned. I hope my daughter and the women in her family never have to face that threat. I lost an aunt to breast cancer and have a friend who had quite an ordeal fighting that disease just a year or so ago.

But, try as I might to squelch it in certain company, I'm still a guy. And I had a thought.

Wouldn't the whole Facebook color status post thing be a lot more interesting if the women posting their colors also posted a picture as proof? There could be some real creativity demonstrated in the self portraits that came out of that exercise. How much to show. How much not to show. Maybe some abstracts. Fabric and lace. Maybe a hint of flesh. It could be pretty cool, don't you think?

On second thought I have too many relatives on Facebook now. I don't need, or want, to see their bras. That would just be creepy.

But all non-relatives, feel free to take part.

The man with the long beard makes an unlikely Santa Claus

I haven't written a post here in about two and a half months and that post was about a trip my dad and I made to Nebraska for his brother's funeral, and in the time since that post was made two of the people we saw on that trip have also died.

The latest call came today. My dad called me while I was at work. He never does that. My parents rarely call, but when they do it's almost always bad news.

When I got the call in early November about my Dad's brother in-law Doug dying, that was not too much of a shock. He was not in good shape when we saw him in September. He was 86 and in failing health. It was sad, but not a stunning development.

One of the reasons I felt it was important to make that trip was to see and spend some time with family because I knew some members of the family might not be there the next time I was able to get back there. My dad is the youngest of his siblings and my parents are now both in their early 70s. I think I've only been back to Nebraska four times in the last 27 years. All four of those trips were for funerals. There have been funerals I've missed too, like my grandmother's. I'm not a big fan of funerals. I'd skip my own if I could, but missing Grandma's was hard, even though I had said a tearful goodbye to her when she left Oregon for Nebraska not long before her passing. I didn't go back for my Uncle Doug's funeral either, but was glad I got to sit and talk with him and hear him my dad share stories just a few weeks before he died.

The call today threw me for a bit of loop though in a very different way. Dad was calling to tell me that my cousin, Mike, had died. I have a lot of cousins that are quite a bit older than me, but Mike is not one of them. He's actually younger. It's also upsetting because a member of my family is gone and I didn't really know him that well, and now I never will. Sadly, there are far too many members of my family that I don't know very well. Too may years and too many miles separate our time spent together.

The amazing thing I experienced on the last couple of trips to see family is that the years and the miles didn't seem to matter. The family bonds are still there.

My cousin Mike served as host on the last trip my dad and I made to Nebraska together. Mike gave up his bed during our stay and he made sure we felt at home. He also helped us catch up on the happenings within the family and took us out on the town one evening.

I was quite impressed with Mike. His mother has been quite ill, recovering from a stroke, and Mike has been taking care of her. He had become her full-time caregiver. I remember asking myself: "Could I do that?"

I didn't know the answer, if push really came to shove. The best I could come up with was maybe. And then again, maybe not.

Mike had also cultivated a distinctive look for himself with an amazingly long beard. He looked like he was auditioning for a spot in the ZZ Top lineup. I kept expecting him to flip it over his shoulder, or swoosh the hairs back and forth in dramatic fashion like Pai Mei in Kill Bill Vol. 2. How did he manage to ignore that thing dangling from his chin?

I know Mike had a keen interest in music and played guitar, but I never heard him play. There is much I don't know about him. Over the years I've been much closer to some of his siblings. His sister Tammy was my babysitter when I was young. Mike's brother Bill was a little older than me, but I always looked up to him, almost like a big brother. I always wanted to hang out with Billy. I wanted to be like Billy. He just seemed so cool to me. Mike's brother Randy was older still, and I didn't know him as well when I was young, but we have got to know either other quite well in more recent years. Randy moved in with me for a while when I was living and working in Hermiston about 20 years ago. He is funny and can always make me laugh. Because he was older, and had maintained his ties to Nebraska, even over years of working in Oregon, he knew more about the older generations of the family. He was my connection to the family. Their oldest brothers, Steve and Keith, were already out of the house by the time of my earliest memories. They were more like uncles than cousins.

When we were children, I didn't spend much time with Mike. He was the same age as my brother Ron and I felt too old, too mature to hang out with the younger kids. Ironically, I did every thing I could to hang out with Bill, who was about as many years older than me as I was older than Mike. Bill was much more magnanimous with his time than I was with mine.

I regret that now. The regrets are piling up with age. I used to arrogantly tell a former girlfriend that I had no regrets. It may have been true then, back in my college days, but then there wasn't much life lived to realize the mistakes that would haunt me. Now the haunting spirits of regret emerge with frightening regularity.

I got an e-mail from Mike a few days ago. It included a whole bunch of pictures of a guy who builds scale model airplanes out of metal. I thought about writing back just to see how things were going. But I was annoyed too because all the photos attached to the message were clogging up my e-mail program and it was taking forever to see the text of the message and the photos. In frustration I just tossed the message into the trash and never hit the reply button. Hindsight, being what it is, I certainly regret that now.

If I could go back a few days, I would write to Mike and say something, anything. And if I could go back to those college days I would not be so boastful about lack of regret with a certain young woman. Isn't that how it goes? Once so proud of a lack of regrets, now here I am facing regrets about things said and things left unsaid.

It's easy to forget that I come from a big family. I'm glad I got to go back to Nebraska in September to spend some time with Mike and Uncle Doug and so many other members of both sides of my family who I now so rarely see. We don't get all the time we want to do all the things we want with all the people we want. I'm thankful for the time I got and for the chance to learn how strong family ties can remain, in spite of time and distance.

Grieving can be a lonely experience, but it's mitigated when it's shared with others close to you. I'm so sorry for the loss Mike's death will mean to family and friends, particularly to his mother who has been able to live in her own home with Mike's help.

I really haven't been looking forward to Christmas this year for a very pathetic reason. Finances are tight and I am not going to be able to buy gifts for as many people as I would like to and won't be able to spend as much on the gifts that are given. I was even thinking about not going to see my parents and brothers to avoid any awkwardness over gifts or the lack thereof. Silly. And sad that it takes the loss of a cousin to remind me of what I should already know. Certainly there will be a some grieving over this holiday season, but I shall attempt to make this also a season for celebrating life and family -- those I will be fortunate enough to see for Christmas, those far away, and those gone but not forgotten.

Mike, Steve and Keith West at graveside services for Clyde West in September 2009 at the Mitchell, Neb., cemetery.

Heading back up the Oregon Trail

My dad and I headed back to Nebraska for his oldest brother's funeral last week. It was good to see family, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.

Happy birthday, baby brother

Tuesday, Aug. 25, is my brother Dean's birthday.

The year Dean was born was an eventful one for our little branch of the West Family Tree. As my mom was getting ready for labor, my dad was buying a business in the thriving metropolis of Echo, Ore.

About a month after Dean was born, my dad piled all of our belongings into a moving truck in Western Nebraska and then he piled my mom, brother Ron, me and newborn Dean into a small plane and flew us to our new home in Oregon. We landed literally right outside our new backdoor. Our new home, on a small private airstrip out in the country, was also the home base for my dad's new business.

I doubt my brother remembers the trip. I was about a month shy of my 8th birthday. I can't say I remember a lot of it myself either.

It's hard to believe all of that was 36 years ago.

I was trying to figure out what to do for my brother for his birthday. My first thought was to shave part of his head, so he was a hairstyle more like the ones sported by my dad, brother Ron and I. But since I won't actually see my brother on his birthday, I opted instead to embarrass him long distance with a few photos from his recent past.

Happy Birthday Dean!

Waking up from a long slumber

Life had gotten boring. I didn't realize how boring until things turned around. And when it turned, it turned dramatically.

I'm not quite sure where to begin. A big project at work has resulted in long days and long weeks. And it the midst of all that, I almost moved to Portland. Twice.

There are many things about the prospect of becoming a commuter and the living arrangements being considered that were a cause for concern. I didn't know if my old truck could take a 90-mile round trip every day. Plus, I've lived alone for 5 years, and I came very close to becoming the roommate of my two young nieces and their mother in a two bedroom apartment.

It would have been a major lifestyle change. And I have to admit, I was excited about it. Most of my friends who live anywhere close live and work in the greater Portland area.

Unfortunately, the move fell through, not once but twice. But the prospect of the move got me excited again. It got me looking forward to a new life. The project at work, the launch of a new website, though taxing and sometimes frustrating, also revitalized me.

The pace of life accelerated rapidly. I now realized I had not been moving toward or working toward anything in some time. I'd merely been hanging on and trying to get by. That's no way to live.

I don't know yet what that next goal, that next objective is, or even what the next project might be. But I know I need to have something to work toward, to climb for, rather than hanging here trying to maintain a grip on a life that is not all I want and need it to be.

I wasn't ready to start my day yet

I was awakened at 3:30 a.m. by a nose bleed. It's not unusual. I get them a lot and often in the middle of the night. The unusual part is that I was not able to go back to sleep. So now, two hours later, I realize a return to sleep is hopeless. It is morning now, the alarm will go off soon and it will be time to start the day.

This one just started way too early.