Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Empty Spaces
One night I got really mad. There was a poem I had written her hanging on the wall in the kitchen. I had written it for mothers day when I was 11. My grandma had helped me find a frame and print the poem on expensive paper. My mom, must have overlooked it the day she came back for her things.
To this day there are still empty spaces on the walls from the pictures that she took. My dad still has their wedding pictures on display in his bedroom. I hate looking at them. I turn them over whenever I’m cleaning his room. He’s never said anything, but they always seem to be put back up.
I don’t remember what we were fighting about. I don’t remember what triggered it, but in a rage I ripped the poem off the wall. I ran outside and threw the frame against the rock siding of the garden. Glass flew everywhere. Pieces of frame scattered about the garden and there was a sharp pain in my foot. When I looked down, the top of my foot was cut up and bleeding. I sat down and tried to cry but couldn’t. One of my brothers (I don’t really remember which one) came out and asked if I had heard a loud crash. I didn’t say anything, and after he saw my face he didn’t say anything either.
I slowly stood up and saw the paper the poem was printed on, laying on one of the steps. I grabbed it and tore it up.
I then went into the kitchen to grab a broom.
Pieces of the frame are still in the garden. There are still empty spaces between the hangings on the walls.
There are still empty spaces.
To this day there are still empty spaces on the walls from the pictures that she took. My dad still has their wedding pictures on display in his bedroom. I hate looking at them. I turn them over whenever I’m cleaning his room. He’s never said anything, but they always seem to be put back up.
I don’t remember what we were fighting about. I don’t remember what triggered it, but in a rage I ripped the poem off the wall. I ran outside and threw the frame against the rock siding of the garden. Glass flew everywhere. Pieces of frame scattered about the garden and there was a sharp pain in my foot. When I looked down, the top of my foot was cut up and bleeding. I sat down and tried to cry but couldn’t. One of my brothers (I don’t really remember which one) came out and asked if I had heard a loud crash. I didn’t say anything, and after he saw my face he didn’t say anything either.
I slowly stood up and saw the paper the poem was printed on, laying on one of the steps. I grabbed it and tore it up.
I then went into the kitchen to grab a broom.
Pieces of the frame are still in the garden. There are still empty spaces between the hangings on the walls.
There are still empty spaces.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Last Omak Entry
By day 3 of our excursion to Omak, we were all feeling the emotional and physical exhaustion of the trip. Jake and I were eager to get back home to our own friends and interests and Dad was ready to be back in an environment in which he felt more comfortable and secure. I had noticed the day before that being around the large crowds at the Stampede had really taken its toll on his energy level; it was very difficult for him to process all of the activity taking place and his physical limitations made it hard for him to move in and out of the large groups of people. However, we still had another full day in Omak and an evening of rodeo, so we had no other choice but to make the best of it.
We left the hotel around 10:30 AM once again and headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the Indian Encampment's "Stick Game." My dad had mentioned several times that the Native Americans in the Encampment play a "complicated" gambling game and this was it. The Stick Game is a two team game. You choose a side and then find someone on the other team to match whatever monetary bet you are willing to make. One side then begins playing a rhythmic, repetitive anthem while two of their players hide similar-sized dowel-looking pieces of wood in their hands. Both of these players have two "dowels;" one of these has some paintings on it, while the other does not. The players on the other team must guess which hands are holding the unpainted "dowels." For each incorrect guess, they must give a certain number of their "sticks" to their opponents and the "dowels" are hid once again. When they guess correctly, the "dowels" are surrendered to them. When both unpainted dowels have been located, the teams switch roles and the process is repeated. As far as I could tell, the game ends when one side has collected all of the "sticks." All the players on that team then win the bets they made prior to the beginning of the game.
Despite its repetitive nature, I found the Stick Game fascinating and was almost tempted to start making bets myself (which I wisely talked myself out of). Jake and Dad were much less interested, so we headed off to grab some lunch after watching the game for about one half of an hour. An additional interesting note: the stick game was being played under this enormous canopy tent in the Indian Encampment. In the morning, there were approximately 40 Native Americans seated under the tent and engaged in the game. Later in the day, at approximately 5:00, I walked by the tent again and there were more than 100 people under the tent playing the game; and I swear some of the same people had been their all day.
For lunch, we stopped at a local pizza joint next to the Omak bowling alley (which, much to Jake's dismay, was closed). This meal included a little more excitement than we had planned because the waitress accidentally dumped my personal pizza into my lap while she was serving us. I was fine and the pizza was still edible, but the waitress insisted on making me another one. So, I ate the "dumped" pizza for lunch, took the other back to the hotel to save for later, and only had to pay for one pizza; it was a pretty awesome deal.
After lunch, we headed back to the hotel for another afternoon rest and then made our way down to the Stampede grounds at approximately 4:00 PM. We were three hours early for the rodeo, but Dad had wanted to ensure that we got a good parking spot in the handicap zone. Jake and I set Dad up at a picnic table in the "food court" area and then both of us took some personal time to explore the rest of the Stampede grounds independently. While we looked around, Dad had the opportunity to converse with three or four different "shifts" of people that shared the picnic table with him (he was there for about two hours). Again, I believe it gave him great joy to have the opportunity to speak with some people that were not his children about subjects other than medicine, doctor's appointments, or the fact that he is not allowed to drive. He loves to share his personal stories with anyone that will listen and I am sure that all of his "table mates" heard all of his favorites to tell.
In my own explorations, I found that several of the food vendors near the Indian Encampment were selling something called an "Indian Taco." Intrigued, I approached the booth with the shortest line and the cheapest price to purchase one. Much to my dismay, this turned out to be the only stand selling Indian Tacos that was run by Caucasians, but I bought one anyways. An Indian Taco is more or less like a Mexican Taco Salad, but rather than a taco shell, the salad is placed on a piece of flat bread. It was tasty, though the bread was a little bland and thick for me and there was twice as much taco as I could eat.
At 7:00 PM, the rodeo started and we enjoyed another entertaining night of bronco and bull riding, roping, barrel racing, and rodeo clown antics. Prior to the running of the Suicide Race, Jake and I left the stadium and walked down to the river to attain a better view. We were not disappointed as we had front row seats to the treacherous race down the hill and the dangerous plunge into the river. When the race finished, we had to take some time to find Dad in the large mass of people leaving the rodeo stadium and then headed back to our hotel to once again collapse into our beds after another great day in Omak.
Day 4 of our trip consisted of our return home. We checked out of our hotel at approximately 11:00 AM and, with Jake driving, headed straight for home, stopping only to fill up the gas tank and eat lunch at one of the burger stands that my dad admires so much; we also got stuck in the Sunday traffic on I-90 outside of Cle Elum, which was absolutely miserable.
As I reflect on the trip, I hope that as time passes I can focus on the positives rather than the negatives. I want my memories to be of quality time with my dad and my brother in a beautiful part of Eastern Washington at a world famous rodeo event rather than of a weekend of arguing and criticism that served to further wear my patience and reveal the devastating toll cancer is having on my father's quality of life. Each day is difficult for my family right now and trips such as this one that are intended to be fun and to bring the family closer together often have the opposite effect. My dad thanked Jake and I for a great weekend once we had returned home and for the bit of happiness that the trip gave him, it was all worth it; hopefully, that is what I remember.
We left the hotel around 10:30 AM once again and headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the Indian Encampment's "Stick Game." My dad had mentioned several times that the Native Americans in the Encampment play a "complicated" gambling game and this was it. The Stick Game is a two team game. You choose a side and then find someone on the other team to match whatever monetary bet you are willing to make. One side then begins playing a rhythmic, repetitive anthem while two of their players hide similar-sized dowel-looking pieces of wood in their hands. Both of these players have two "dowels;" one of these has some paintings on it, while the other does not. The players on the other team must guess which hands are holding the unpainted "dowels." For each incorrect guess, they must give a certain number of their "sticks" to their opponents and the "dowels" are hid once again. When they guess correctly, the "dowels" are surrendered to them. When both unpainted dowels have been located, the teams switch roles and the process is repeated. As far as I could tell, the game ends when one side has collected all of the "sticks." All the players on that team then win the bets they made prior to the beginning of the game.
Despite its repetitive nature, I found the Stick Game fascinating and was almost tempted to start making bets myself (which I wisely talked myself out of). Jake and Dad were much less interested, so we headed off to grab some lunch after watching the game for about one half of an hour. An additional interesting note: the stick game was being played under this enormous canopy tent in the Indian Encampment. In the morning, there were approximately 40 Native Americans seated under the tent and engaged in the game. Later in the day, at approximately 5:00, I walked by the tent again and there were more than 100 people under the tent playing the game; and I swear some of the same people had been their all day.
For lunch, we stopped at a local pizza joint next to the Omak bowling alley (which, much to Jake's dismay, was closed). This meal included a little more excitement than we had planned because the waitress accidentally dumped my personal pizza into my lap while she was serving us. I was fine and the pizza was still edible, but the waitress insisted on making me another one. So, I ate the "dumped" pizza for lunch, took the other back to the hotel to save for later, and only had to pay for one pizza; it was a pretty awesome deal.
After lunch, we headed back to the hotel for another afternoon rest and then made our way down to the Stampede grounds at approximately 4:00 PM. We were three hours early for the rodeo, but Dad had wanted to ensure that we got a good parking spot in the handicap zone. Jake and I set Dad up at a picnic table in the "food court" area and then both of us took some personal time to explore the rest of the Stampede grounds independently. While we looked around, Dad had the opportunity to converse with three or four different "shifts" of people that shared the picnic table with him (he was there for about two hours). Again, I believe it gave him great joy to have the opportunity to speak with some people that were not his children about subjects other than medicine, doctor's appointments, or the fact that he is not allowed to drive. He loves to share his personal stories with anyone that will listen and I am sure that all of his "table mates" heard all of his favorites to tell.
In my own explorations, I found that several of the food vendors near the Indian Encampment were selling something called an "Indian Taco." Intrigued, I approached the booth with the shortest line and the cheapest price to purchase one. Much to my dismay, this turned out to be the only stand selling Indian Tacos that was run by Caucasians, but I bought one anyways. An Indian Taco is more or less like a Mexican Taco Salad, but rather than a taco shell, the salad is placed on a piece of flat bread. It was tasty, though the bread was a little bland and thick for me and there was twice as much taco as I could eat.
At 7:00 PM, the rodeo started and we enjoyed another entertaining night of bronco and bull riding, roping, barrel racing, and rodeo clown antics. Prior to the running of the Suicide Race, Jake and I left the stadium and walked down to the river to attain a better view. We were not disappointed as we had front row seats to the treacherous race down the hill and the dangerous plunge into the river. When the race finished, we had to take some time to find Dad in the large mass of people leaving the rodeo stadium and then headed back to our hotel to once again collapse into our beds after another great day in Omak.
Day 4 of our trip consisted of our return home. We checked out of our hotel at approximately 11:00 AM and, with Jake driving, headed straight for home, stopping only to fill up the gas tank and eat lunch at one of the burger stands that my dad admires so much; we also got stuck in the Sunday traffic on I-90 outside of Cle Elum, which was absolutely miserable.
As I reflect on the trip, I hope that as time passes I can focus on the positives rather than the negatives. I want my memories to be of quality time with my dad and my brother in a beautiful part of Eastern Washington at a world famous rodeo event rather than of a weekend of arguing and criticism that served to further wear my patience and reveal the devastating toll cancer is having on my father's quality of life. Each day is difficult for my family right now and trips such as this one that are intended to be fun and to bring the family closer together often have the opposite effect. My dad thanked Jake and I for a great weekend once we had returned home and for the bit of happiness that the trip gave him, it was all worth it; hopefully, that is what I remember.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Omak Day 2 by Cody
Day two of our Omak Stampede trip began much like the first: three men bickered about things that do not really matter. However, as Jessie has mentioned before, our relationships and interactions with one another are what are suffering most in our family's battle with cancer and Friday morning our frustrations were manifesting themselves in pointless arguments.
We were able to put our egos aside long enough to leave the hotel around 10:30 AM. We headed north from Omak to the town of Riverside, the only true "one-horse town" I think I have visited besides Helmville, Montana. The "downtown" of Riverside was barely one block long and consisted of a western store, a convenience store, and a tiny park. The western store, Detro's, was the purpose for our visit. My dad had stumbled upon Detro's during a hunting trip to the Okanogan area in the fall and had been raving about the store for months. I was a little skeptical, but when we arrived, I found that the store lived up to the hype. Detro's was selling Wrangler jeans, western-style shirts, cowboy boots, cowboy hats, lassos, saddles, western-style jewelry, paintings, castings, etc.; and all of these products were of high quality. I also found out that Detro's has a reputation as a world-class western store with all of the "cowpolk" that pass through the Okanogan region; I highly suggest that anyone passing through Riverside stop to explore Detro's.
From Riverside we traveled a few miles further north to the home of Steve Ayers. My dad knows Steve through one of his hunting partners and has hunted on land owned by Steve for several years. This man is a real cowboy. He wore cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin looked like leather, worn from years of working long days in the unforgiving sun and he told stories that related the challenges of raising free range cattle and harvesting his crop of hay on the thousands of acres his family owned. As I listened to him talk, some part of me envied Steve and the life he leads; what a thrill it would be to live as an American cowboy, the heroic symbol of the "Wild West."
As we made our visit, I thought about why my dad had insisted that we go to see Steve; it seemed to me that he and Steve were no more than casual acquaintances that shared some common hunting experiences. Nonetheless, it made my dad extremely happy to have the opportunity to talk with someone that is not one of his children or his dog. An enormous smile covered his face during our visit and he was delighted to relate all of the events of the past year of his life, even though most of his stories were about hospital stays. The more I thought about it, I realized that this was an exercise of my dad's practice of constant networking. Any time we are out in public and he recognizes someone, even someone he knows only casually, he flags them down to talk. This is a practice that was key to his professional success when he was working and that has helped him to create an extensive pool of friends that have provided him with unlimited support and love during this trying time in his life. My siblings and I often criticize him when he encourages us to do the same, however I am beginning to understand more and more the importance of this practice.
From Steve's home, we traveled a little further north to the town of Tonasket, where we ate lunch at Whistlers Family Restaurant; this was a step up from the meal we had eaten at the Koala Street Bar and Grill the night before. We then traveled back down to Omak and took a short rest in our hotel before heading downtown to grab a quick snack and drink before the rodeo (yes, we ate a lot on this trip) at Mickey's Chuckwagon Cafe and Watering Hole on Omak's Main Street. There was a poster for Pendleton Whiskey in the window of the cafe and as our hotel also had a plethora of advertisements for Pendleton Whiskey, I had developed quite a hankering for the drink by this time (I guess mass advertising was effective in this instance!). I asked the waitress for a shot of Pendleton in a glass, "neat." I do not know if she misunderstood me or if this place only served liquor one way, but when she delivered my drink, it came in a plastic medicine cup like the ones from which I used to drink Robitussin. Needless to say, it was the worst whiskey drink I have ever had; I think I made it even worse by trying to sip it and savor the taste.
After leaving Mickey's, we headed down to the Stampede grounds. We were still very early for the rodeo, so we ate again (yes, again) and then followed our ears to a stage with live music. The band was a worship band from a local church and though that type of music generally does not appeal to me, I was impressed by the musicianship of the band members. They were primarily teenagers, but the lead guitarist and drummer were both really skillful with their instruments; I would not be too surprised if this group reached at least regional or state-wide fame someday.
By the time the music finished, the grandstands had opened so we headed to our seats. Unfortunately, I misjudged the location of the section in which we were sitting and we had to walk all the way around the rodeo grounds twice, which made my father quite unhappy; he was exhausted by the time we were finally seated.
The rodeo was quite enjoyable. I had only been to one other before, at the Puyallup Fairgrounds, and was particularly excited to see the bull riding, as previously I had only ever seen one person last the full eight seconds on a bull's back. It was also intriguing to be present for a piece of "down-home," American culture. The MC for the event would frequently ask the crowd if they were proud to be American and used the phrases "God Bless y'all" or "God bless [a certain person]" often. There was also a presentation to honor the men and women of the military that produced an enthusiastic reaction from the crowd. I grew up around a lot of "country folk" as a result of my dad's involvement in the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation and many Octobers spent hunting in Washington's forests. However, lately, I believe I have become more of a modern city boy after focusing on music and academics in high school, attending a private liberals arts college, and working in the city of Federal Way for a year. I gained a lot of perspective on where I am and from where I have come while watching the rodeo.
Each rodeo during the Omak Stampede concludes with a running of the "World Famous" Suicide Race. The suicide race consists of approximately 12-20 horse and rider pairs that race a few hundred feet down an extremely steep dirt hill, plunge into the river at the bottom, swim across the river, and then sprint into the rodeo stadium on the other side. The whole event lasts approximately five minutes, but is exhilarating nonetheless. Our seats were not ideal for viewing the entire race, but we could see the horses and riders sprinting down the hill. As the horse and rider pairs entered the stadium, each appeared indifferent to the results of the race and thankful to have survived; there was at least one rider hurt while crossing the river.
We returned to our hotel around 10 PM, thoroughly exhausted. We had experienced a fun, full day together and were looking forward to one more in Omak.
We were able to put our egos aside long enough to leave the hotel around 10:30 AM. We headed north from Omak to the town of Riverside, the only true "one-horse town" I think I have visited besides Helmville, Montana. The "downtown" of Riverside was barely one block long and consisted of a western store, a convenience store, and a tiny park. The western store, Detro's, was the purpose for our visit. My dad had stumbled upon Detro's during a hunting trip to the Okanogan area in the fall and had been raving about the store for months. I was a little skeptical, but when we arrived, I found that the store lived up to the hype. Detro's was selling Wrangler jeans, western-style shirts, cowboy boots, cowboy hats, lassos, saddles, western-style jewelry, paintings, castings, etc.; and all of these products were of high quality. I also found out that Detro's has a reputation as a world-class western store with all of the "cowpolk" that pass through the Okanogan region; I highly suggest that anyone passing through Riverside stop to explore Detro's.
From Riverside we traveled a few miles further north to the home of Steve Ayers. My dad knows Steve through one of his hunting partners and has hunted on land owned by Steve for several years. This man is a real cowboy. He wore cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin looked like leather, worn from years of working long days in the unforgiving sun and he told stories that related the challenges of raising free range cattle and harvesting his crop of hay on the thousands of acres his family owned. As I listened to him talk, some part of me envied Steve and the life he leads; what a thrill it would be to live as an American cowboy, the heroic symbol of the "Wild West."
As we made our visit, I thought about why my dad had insisted that we go to see Steve; it seemed to me that he and Steve were no more than casual acquaintances that shared some common hunting experiences. Nonetheless, it made my dad extremely happy to have the opportunity to talk with someone that is not one of his children or his dog. An enormous smile covered his face during our visit and he was delighted to relate all of the events of the past year of his life, even though most of his stories were about hospital stays. The more I thought about it, I realized that this was an exercise of my dad's practice of constant networking. Any time we are out in public and he recognizes someone, even someone he knows only casually, he flags them down to talk. This is a practice that was key to his professional success when he was working and that has helped him to create an extensive pool of friends that have provided him with unlimited support and love during this trying time in his life. My siblings and I often criticize him when he encourages us to do the same, however I am beginning to understand more and more the importance of this practice.
From Steve's home, we traveled a little further north to the town of Tonasket, where we ate lunch at Whistlers Family Restaurant; this was a step up from the meal we had eaten at the Koala Street Bar and Grill the night before. We then traveled back down to Omak and took a short rest in our hotel before heading downtown to grab a quick snack and drink before the rodeo (yes, we ate a lot on this trip) at Mickey's Chuckwagon Cafe and Watering Hole on Omak's Main Street. There was a poster for Pendleton Whiskey in the window of the cafe and as our hotel also had a plethora of advertisements for Pendleton Whiskey, I had developed quite a hankering for the drink by this time (I guess mass advertising was effective in this instance!). I asked the waitress for a shot of Pendleton in a glass, "neat." I do not know if she misunderstood me or if this place only served liquor one way, but when she delivered my drink, it came in a plastic medicine cup like the ones from which I used to drink Robitussin. Needless to say, it was the worst whiskey drink I have ever had; I think I made it even worse by trying to sip it and savor the taste.
After leaving Mickey's, we headed down to the Stampede grounds. We were still very early for the rodeo, so we ate again (yes, again) and then followed our ears to a stage with live music. The band was a worship band from a local church and though that type of music generally does not appeal to me, I was impressed by the musicianship of the band members. They were primarily teenagers, but the lead guitarist and drummer were both really skillful with their instruments; I would not be too surprised if this group reached at least regional or state-wide fame someday.
By the time the music finished, the grandstands had opened so we headed to our seats. Unfortunately, I misjudged the location of the section in which we were sitting and we had to walk all the way around the rodeo grounds twice, which made my father quite unhappy; he was exhausted by the time we were finally seated.
The rodeo was quite enjoyable. I had only been to one other before, at the Puyallup Fairgrounds, and was particularly excited to see the bull riding, as previously I had only ever seen one person last the full eight seconds on a bull's back. It was also intriguing to be present for a piece of "down-home," American culture. The MC for the event would frequently ask the crowd if they were proud to be American and used the phrases "God Bless y'all" or "God bless [a certain person]" often. There was also a presentation to honor the men and women of the military that produced an enthusiastic reaction from the crowd. I grew up around a lot of "country folk" as a result of my dad's involvement in the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation and many Octobers spent hunting in Washington's forests. However, lately, I believe I have become more of a modern city boy after focusing on music and academics in high school, attending a private liberals arts college, and working in the city of Federal Way for a year. I gained a lot of perspective on where I am and from where I have come while watching the rodeo.
Each rodeo during the Omak Stampede concludes with a running of the "World Famous" Suicide Race. The suicide race consists of approximately 12-20 horse and rider pairs that race a few hundred feet down an extremely steep dirt hill, plunge into the river at the bottom, swim across the river, and then sprint into the rodeo stadium on the other side. The whole event lasts approximately five minutes, but is exhilarating nonetheless. Our seats were not ideal for viewing the entire race, but we could see the horses and riders sprinting down the hill. As the horse and rider pairs entered the stadium, each appeared indifferent to the results of the race and thankful to have survived; there was at least one rider hurt while crossing the river.
We returned to our hotel around 10 PM, thoroughly exhausted. We had experienced a fun, full day together and were looking forward to one more in Omak.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Omak
Due to a back injury I was not able to go the stampede. But on Thursday the boys packed up the jeep and headed east. I asked that they document the trip and keep me updated. This is Cody's first e-mail:
Our trip began on a dreary, overcast Thursday morning in August. I have felt that there has existed a lot of tension between my father and myself in the past few months and this rift was already rearing its ugly teeth as we set off. I had wanted to leave at 9 AM and had reminded both my father and my younger brother several times the night before that that was our slated departure time. However, because of his current physical and mental limitations, Dad was slow to pack his things and needed extra help to make sure that he had all of the necessary clothing, medication, and hotel/ticket paperwork. Though I know these limitations are not his fault, I felt agitated at the time because I knew he would be upset if I had held up a departure time that he had set. To further add to my frustration, once I had gotten Jake and he loaded in the car and was finally able to pull out of the driveway, he informed me that we needed to stop by the bank because he needed to get cash for the trip. With clenched teeth, I drove to the bank, grumbling about how this was something that should have been taken care of earlier in the week. Luckily, the women that work at the bank are genuinely warm human beings and my mood was greatly improved after visiting with them. With a slightly better disposition, I was finally able to get us on the road by 10:30 AM.
As we drove, the sun broke through the morning clouds and by the time we had crossed Snoqualmie Pass, a beautiful summer day was greeting us in Eastern Washington. It had been quite some time since I had driven through that section of I-90 with such great weather conditions and I was struck by how beautiful the mountains and valleys appeared in the morning sunlight. I would often glance over at my father to see how he was enjoying the ride and each time I found him facing forward, one eye closed so that he could focus better on the road and make sure that I had not taken any wrong turns. And each time I was reminded of how painful it has been to watch my father's mental and physical health decline as it has. I remember taking similar types of trips with my family back in the "good ol' days." Dad was the driver, piloting his manly Ford truck with a large trailer in tow; he never seemed to get sleepy at the wheel (as so often happens with me) and he never had to rely on Mapquest or Google directions to tell him where to go. Now he is forced to be a passenger both in the car and in life, reliant on others (doctors and family) to dictate the direction of his life.
We made our only stop of the trip in Cle Elum in order to gas up and grab some lunch. It took three Fouts men to put gas in the Jeep as I provided the Safeway Club Card, Dad provided the credit card, and Jake had to listen to each of us tell him how to properly fill up the tank. We ate lunch at the Cottage Cafe, which is a restaurant my dad insists on stopping at each time we pass through the city. There is nothing particularly striking about the place, but it is a popular spot for other travelers passing through town as well as for people living in and around Cle Elum (a group that I believe truly encompass all that is "Eastern Washington country living"). In the times I have been to the restaurant as an adult, it has become one of my favorite spots to people watch.
From Cle Elum, we made a grueling 3-hour drive north on Highway 97 through Wenatchee and several other smaller towns to Omak. Though we did pass through some pretty country, I describe the drive as "grueling" because there was an inordinate number of vehicles on the two-lane highway and we hit a couple of traffic delays in our travels. When he was not trying to tell me how and when to turn, my dad would relate some tidbit he knew or experience he had had in each little town we passed through or point out a fabulous burger joint we were passing. Jake stretched out in the back and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sleep; every once in while he would roll down his window and stick his head out like a dog to test the outside temperature (which was in the nineties almost the entire trip).
We finally arrived in Omak around 4 PM. As we followed the highway into town, one of the first landmarks we passed were the grounds on which the Omak Stampede is held. I was amazed by the vastness of the facility and the number of campers, trailers, motor homes, and tents that were already staked out around the grandstands. We checked into our hotel, took a short rest, and then headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the opening ceremony for the Stampede's Indian Encampment. I was prepared for a riveting cultural experience that would include tribal dancing, music, and traditional dress. Though we did have the opportunity to hear some traditional Native American prayer, the "opening ceremony" was actually a dedication of a new pow-wow facility that was built for this year's Stampede and the festivities appeared to primarily be a celebration of the completion of the construction by the local tribe.
Disappointed, we left the pow-wow in search of sustenance. We found food at a restaurant near our hotel called the Koala Street Grill, which advertises itself as an Australian-themed bar and grill. We quickly discovered that the only things that were Australian in this place were the fake decorations and cheesy names they gave to the items on their menus; however, we decided to make the best of it. Because I had become a little agitated with Jake and he as we were leaving the Stampede grounds, Dad pointed and me and told the waitress "He needs a beer" when she asked for our drink orders...and then I had two. After we had ordered, Dad realized that he had been to this particular restaurant during a past hunting trip and related to us the circumstances surrounding his previous visit. The food we were served was awful. Jake and Dad ordered crab cakes, which were served as bite-sized nuggets that looked like they had come out of the frozen food aisle at Costco; my shrimp platter was not much better. For $60 for three people, the meal was a ripoff.
Tomorrow, I hope to approach the day with a better attitude. This may be one of the last opportunities I have to spend quality time on a vacation with my brother and father and I hope to make the best of it; I do not want to regret missing the opportunity to form a deeper bond with each of them.
Our trip began on a dreary, overcast Thursday morning in August. I have felt that there has existed a lot of tension between my father and myself in the past few months and this rift was already rearing its ugly teeth as we set off. I had wanted to leave at 9 AM and had reminded both my father and my younger brother several times the night before that that was our slated departure time. However, because of his current physical and mental limitations, Dad was slow to pack his things and needed extra help to make sure that he had all of the necessary clothing, medication, and hotel/ticket paperwork. Though I know these limitations are not his fault, I felt agitated at the time because I knew he would be upset if I had held up a departure time that he had set. To further add to my frustration, once I had gotten Jake and he loaded in the car and was finally able to pull out of the driveway, he informed me that we needed to stop by the bank because he needed to get cash for the trip. With clenched teeth, I drove to the bank, grumbling about how this was something that should have been taken care of earlier in the week. Luckily, the women that work at the bank are genuinely warm human beings and my mood was greatly improved after visiting with them. With a slightly better disposition, I was finally able to get us on the road by 10:30 AM.
As we drove, the sun broke through the morning clouds and by the time we had crossed Snoqualmie Pass, a beautiful summer day was greeting us in Eastern Washington. It had been quite some time since I had driven through that section of I-90 with such great weather conditions and I was struck by how beautiful the mountains and valleys appeared in the morning sunlight. I would often glance over at my father to see how he was enjoying the ride and each time I found him facing forward, one eye closed so that he could focus better on the road and make sure that I had not taken any wrong turns. And each time I was reminded of how painful it has been to watch my father's mental and physical health decline as it has. I remember taking similar types of trips with my family back in the "good ol' days." Dad was the driver, piloting his manly Ford truck with a large trailer in tow; he never seemed to get sleepy at the wheel (as so often happens with me) and he never had to rely on Mapquest or Google directions to tell him where to go. Now he is forced to be a passenger both in the car and in life, reliant on others (doctors and family) to dictate the direction of his life.
We made our only stop of the trip in Cle Elum in order to gas up and grab some lunch. It took three Fouts men to put gas in the Jeep as I provided the Safeway Club Card, Dad provided the credit card, and Jake had to listen to each of us tell him how to properly fill up the tank. We ate lunch at the Cottage Cafe, which is a restaurant my dad insists on stopping at each time we pass through the city. There is nothing particularly striking about the place, but it is a popular spot for other travelers passing through town as well as for people living in and around Cle Elum (a group that I believe truly encompass all that is "Eastern Washington country living"). In the times I have been to the restaurant as an adult, it has become one of my favorite spots to people watch.
From Cle Elum, we made a grueling 3-hour drive north on Highway 97 through Wenatchee and several other smaller towns to Omak. Though we did pass through some pretty country, I describe the drive as "grueling" because there was an inordinate number of vehicles on the two-lane highway and we hit a couple of traffic delays in our travels. When he was not trying to tell me how and when to turn, my dad would relate some tidbit he knew or experience he had had in each little town we passed through or point out a fabulous burger joint we were passing. Jake stretched out in the back and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sleep; every once in while he would roll down his window and stick his head out like a dog to test the outside temperature (which was in the nineties almost the entire trip).
We finally arrived in Omak around 4 PM. As we followed the highway into town, one of the first landmarks we passed were the grounds on which the Omak Stampede is held. I was amazed by the vastness of the facility and the number of campers, trailers, motor homes, and tents that were already staked out around the grandstands. We checked into our hotel, took a short rest, and then headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the opening ceremony for the Stampede's Indian Encampment. I was prepared for a riveting cultural experience that would include tribal dancing, music, and traditional dress. Though we did have the opportunity to hear some traditional Native American prayer, the "opening ceremony" was actually a dedication of a new pow-wow facility that was built for this year's Stampede and the festivities appeared to primarily be a celebration of the completion of the construction by the local tribe.
Disappointed, we left the pow-wow in search of sustenance. We found food at a restaurant near our hotel called the Koala Street Grill, which advertises itself as an Australian-themed bar and grill. We quickly discovered that the only things that were Australian in this place were the fake decorations and cheesy names they gave to the items on their menus; however, we decided to make the best of it. Because I had become a little agitated with Jake and he as we were leaving the Stampede grounds, Dad pointed and me and told the waitress "He needs a beer" when she asked for our drink orders...and then I had two. After we had ordered, Dad realized that he had been to this particular restaurant during a past hunting trip and related to us the circumstances surrounding his previous visit. The food we were served was awful. Jake and Dad ordered crab cakes, which were served as bite-sized nuggets that looked like they had come out of the frozen food aisle at Costco; my shrimp platter was not much better. For $60 for three people, the meal was a ripoff.
Tomorrow, I hope to approach the day with a better attitude. This may be one of the last opportunities I have to spend quality time on a vacation with my brother and father and I hope to make the best of it; I do not want to regret missing the opportunity to form a deeper bond with each of them.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
It's August. The summer is winding down, and with the end of the summer comes uncertainty. Cody will be starting another year with Americorps, Jake is applying for a house on Lake Tapps, and I am trying to get things in order for going back to school starting September. And I am so afraid of things not working out. There's just no way that three different schedules are going to work for appointments, at home watch, and on top of all that, cooking, cleaning, and keeping up normal daily lives. We've tried to slowly mention the possibility of hiring someone to lessen the load a bit, such as a caretaker "type". But try telling a Fouts (even worse a Fouts male) that they are in need of extra help.
I missed an appointment. First one all summer. It was a therapy session. The one and only appointment I would've gained anything from and I missed it. And it's not life or death, and it's not even that big of a deal, but it ate at me. For months I prided myself in being able to keep things together. Keep things going, keeping the days full... it's that the last couple weeks I just needed time to get away. And instead of it being a mind clearing, self emptying experience I was slapped in the face with irresponsibility. And the realization that I think I may have given all that I can give.
Brain Cancer patients (depending on their amount of surgeries and the intensity of their treatments) tend to lack everyday filters we use to express humor, observation, and everyday conversation. They tend to sound more senile, become more outspoken and blunt. Often times their humor can come off crude, abrasive, and offensive. And usually they don't know they're doing it. It takes a lot to just let things roll off your skin and tell yourself daily, "He doesn't mean it like that", "He's just joking". But after awhile it wears on you and you just kinda wish it'd stop. And the more you address an issue the more confused they get. Especially because in my family sarcasm and teasing are given as often as daily vitamins. And there are times I wonder if I'm being overly sensitive. I try to evaluate how tired I am and decide if maybe I just blew it out of proportion.. but needless to say... even at 21 you still wish you could get a little cradled from your parents at times.
I think, as I stated earlier, that the three of us maybe have given as much as we can while still being in the "child" position. I think it will take a lot for my dad to realize, as three adults, we just want to see him cared for in the best way possible. And that may include bringing another person into the mix.
Next week the four of us are making our way to Omak, Washington for the stampede. Stories and pictures will of course follow. If anyone has experience with a similar situation please share your stories and advice. I would love feedback on this one.
I missed an appointment. First one all summer. It was a therapy session. The one and only appointment I would've gained anything from and I missed it. And it's not life or death, and it's not even that big of a deal, but it ate at me. For months I prided myself in being able to keep things together. Keep things going, keeping the days full... it's that the last couple weeks I just needed time to get away. And instead of it being a mind clearing, self emptying experience I was slapped in the face with irresponsibility. And the realization that I think I may have given all that I can give.
Brain Cancer patients (depending on their amount of surgeries and the intensity of their treatments) tend to lack everyday filters we use to express humor, observation, and everyday conversation. They tend to sound more senile, become more outspoken and blunt. Often times their humor can come off crude, abrasive, and offensive. And usually they don't know they're doing it. It takes a lot to just let things roll off your skin and tell yourself daily, "He doesn't mean it like that", "He's just joking". But after awhile it wears on you and you just kinda wish it'd stop. And the more you address an issue the more confused they get. Especially because in my family sarcasm and teasing are given as often as daily vitamins. And there are times I wonder if I'm being overly sensitive. I try to evaluate how tired I am and decide if maybe I just blew it out of proportion.. but needless to say... even at 21 you still wish you could get a little cradled from your parents at times.
I think, as I stated earlier, that the three of us maybe have given as much as we can while still being in the "child" position. I think it will take a lot for my dad to realize, as three adults, we just want to see him cared for in the best way possible. And that may include bringing another person into the mix.
Next week the four of us are making our way to Omak, Washington for the stampede. Stories and pictures will of course follow. If anyone has experience with a similar situation please share your stories and advice. I would love feedback on this one.
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