<![CDATA[Author Brenda DeWitz Niman

<![CDATA[Author Brenda DeWitz Niman - Stories]]>Wed, 25 Mar 2026 05:37:24 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[The Bipolar Express]]>Thu, 03 Jul 2014 20:53:10 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/1

Mom holding me, and pregnant with #3

It was a hoot to write about our mom’s ability to create magic in Isopods, Jell-O and Chicken Necks. But there's another side to Mom's story. After her third baby was born in four years, postpartum depression and sleep deprivation led to the first of many emotional breakdowns that Mom endured throughout her life. She was eventually diagnosed with manic depression—called bipolar illness these days.

Mom was my best customer when I sold 110 boxes of Camp Fire mints to earn a week-long stay at Camp Namanu ...

I'm in the middle row, far left

As the camp-bound school bus accelerated, I smiled and waved a brave good-bye to Mom, Dad and my younger sisters. But I wasn't fooling myself. I was already homesick. At camp, I watched in envy as other girls opened packages and letters from home. You'd think I'd have been delighted when my name got called not once, but five times, during our last mail call on the bus ride home. But I was careful not to let anyone see my letters up close—I was afraid someone might notice Mom's unique backhand cursive. They might guess Mom was "nuts," like one of our neighbors called her. In my eight-year-old mind, what other explanation would there be for a mom to wait until camp was over to mail five letters?

I felt so conflicted as I read those letters on the way home. No one could write like Mom, and the letters didn't disappoint. But I was also frustrated and angry with her. Those letters would've meant so much more to me if she'd mailed them on the days that she'd written them. As I’m sure she meant to.

Mom with our four-year-old sister Dalene

Although, by that time in my life, I was kinda used to Mom’s ups and downs. Every day on the way home from school, I'd say a little prayer: Please, God, please let Mom be well when we get home. I didn't feel like I was being greedy. I wasn't asking that she be our magical mom every day. Just OK, that's all I prayed for. Sometimes, that's exactly what she was.

Our "fifth sister" Rosemary on the left

Then there'd be those amazing days, when my sisters and I’d come home to an upbeat, "I'm on my sixth load of laundry" mom. Or we'd walk in the back door to be greeted by a cloud of smoke, the pleasant aroma of tea and the enthusiastic political disagreements of Mom and our fun Scottish neighbor, Norah, mom to our "fifth sister" Rosemary. I’m not sure if Mom’s hands or mouth kept busier on those days. As the smoke grew thicker and the arguments got louder, she'd slice apples, oranges, carrots, and celery for our afternoon snack. We'd sit around the kitchen table taking it all in, while our youngest sister, Dalene—who inherited Mom's gift of gab—joined the sweet tea-with-milk club, until it was time for the moms to get back to business: fixing supper.

Mom during a bout of depression

Then there were those gray days when my prayers wouldn't be answered, and we'd come home to find Mom distraught, pacing back and forth, looking lost, wringing her hands and pursing her lips. Or worse. She'd be in bed, unable to interact with or, at times, even recognize us. Most devastating for me were the times when we'd come home to find that Dad had taken Mom to the State Hospital. Our Grandma from Minnesota or our local Grandma and Grandpa were there to care for us when Dad was at work. But without Mom, life was empty.

Mom feeling well

A naturally festive soul, Mom would be flying high long before the holidays. Though we’d try to keep our expectations low, when Mom was up, my sisters and I were along for the ride. As the mania increased, Mom would take on more and more responsibilities until she'd start feeling overwhelmed and stay up late to try to catch up. I remember getting up in the middle of the night to find her ironing sheets. The less Mom slept, the more wound up she got. The more wound up she got, the more her mind raced and the less she was able to sleep. It was a vicious cycle that left my sisters and me feeling helpless.

As a holiday approached, we'd brace ourselves for a crash—the nervous exhaustion usually culminating on the big day. Sometimes Mom managed to avoid a hospitalization, but the sadness that my sisters and I felt when Mom was down was overwhelming. At times we'd spend the remainder of the holiday visiting Mom at the hospital, where for the first few visits she'd be expressionless and mute, a stark contrast to our vivacious mom of a few weeks earlier.

Mom pregnant with #5

Then, after an evolving mix of antidepressants, psychotherapy, and Electro-convulsive therapy—a barbaric practice at the time, with no anesthesia—Mom would start to rebound. She'd make friends with the other patients, resume eating and smoking with gusto and start talking up a storm, anxious to get home and implement the plans she was dreaming up in the hospital. An eternal optimist, there was always something to look forward to: a new project, a volunteer opportunity, an upcoming holiday. When she returned home, our joy was tempered by our fear that she'd overshoot and end up right back in the hospital. But when Mom was feeling well, there was no holding her back or slowing her down.

Mom seated on left at a PTA meeting

She volunteered as secretary of her bowling league, a game she won trophies in. She enjoyed fundraising, selling popcorn every Wednesday in the front hall of our school, Woodstock Elementary, where she volunteered at carnivals and cake walks and served as a PTA officer. Mom led our sister Carol's Camp Fire troop, teaching crafts like making pincushions out of tuna fish cans and leading field trips. My younger sisters and I got to go along—caroling at the Odd Fellow's Home, touring a local fire station and the extinct volcano on Mt. Tabor, tobogganing at Snow Bunny Lodge on Mt. Hood.

A, B, C, D, and E

Most of all though, Mom was a proud parent and to our embarrassment, lived to brag about us—I'm guessing her Christmas letter was either loved or hated by its recipients. Blessed with a natural flair for vocabulary, Mom could make even the most mundane events entertaining. Her annual letter included the antics of Amicable A, Busy B, Carefree C, Dashing D, and The End, E—the boy she and Dad finally got after four girls—and if the letter didn't get finished by Christmas, to our chagrin, Mom added to it and sent it out at Easter.

Ally, Eric, Dalene, Dad, me, Mike, Mom, Carol

It's ironic that Mom's enduring gift to me is my brother and sisters. It was the responsibility, lack of sleep, and endless workload of being a mom that brought on her illness. Yet Mom wouldn't have had it any other way. She wanted a basketball team (although I believe she was thinking five boys). Her triumphant ups made her heartbreaking downs bearable, and I wouldn't trade my childhood with Mom for life with a "normal" mom. She taught by example that no matter how bleak today seems, tomorrow holds new possibilities.

Mom with her snuggle-bug Drew

Mom never truly left us—I cherish her presence in Carol's creative scrapbooking, my love of writing, Ally's musical talents, Dalene's flair for entertaining, and Eric's ability to tell a funny story. My hope as a parent and aunt is that my siblings and I pass on at least a small portion of Mom's optimism and enthusiasm to her grandkids, most of whom never had the exquisite joy of getting to know the magical person that we had the privilege of calling Mom.

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]]><![CDATA["Might as Well" - The Beginning]]>Thu, 28 Mar 2013 00:56:17 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/might-as-well-the-beginning

It started out with just wanting a bigger nook. Then we said the three words that Dr. Phil says are the worst three words in the world when you put them together: "Might as well." I think I'm far enough along in my PRSR (Post Remodel Sanity Recovery) that I can write about it now…

We love our sixty-year-old "cute” (why do I hate it when people call it that—it is) cape cod house in our tree lined neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. It’s just the kind of home that we hope to raise a family in. But it’s frustrating. We have no front entry and visitors trip over the threshold on their way into our living room. Once inside, there’s nowhere to put shoes or purses or coats. Our kitchen nook is quaint. Perfect for the two of us, but no more. We do have what one guest generously referred to as a mud room in back. It’s really just a landing with coat hooks and stairs going up and down—“Be careful not to fall down the stairs while you’re hanging up your coat”—but it’s better than nothing.

We debate for years. Move or remodel? Remodel or move? Our decision’s happening about as fast as I’m getting pregnant—meaning that it’s dragging on for over a decade. Plus, we live on a 55 x 100 lot. More house means less yard. When we're finally blessed with our son, we decide it’s time to act.

Our contractor drops by while we’re having our outdoor paint burned off—he lets us know we’d better get Drew tested for lead poisoning. We move to my sister's home and count our blessings when Drew tests okay. Though the lead paint spooks us, we hire an architect and commission some drawings. Unfortunately, as my husband puts it, “The plan’s a dog”—just an awkward expansion of our old nook, with the same-size kitchen and no mudroom.

Six years go by. It’s 2005 and the housing market’s going crazy. A close friend jokes that we’re never going to do anything. It’s just the push I need. “Let’s move before it’s too late!” We find a house a few blocks away with what we’re looking for: an open floor plan, a bigger yard. And a mud room! We make a full-price offer (hey, it’s the housing boom). No surprise—it's accepted.

Tears. Lots of them. Apparently, I don’t want to move (have I mentioned that I get kind of attached?) So back to remodeling. We hire the same architect, rationalizing that he kinda knows what we want. Plus we’ve already paid for all those measurements and he knows what we don't want.

Our architect takes all new measurements. We tell him we "might as well" add a guest bedroom and bath in the basement to go along with our new nook/family room on the main floor and master bath upstairs. He argues with us. He doesn’t think we should excavate. We insist. He reluctantly agrees. But he isn’t happy.

We wait a year until our new contractor’s available (our old contractor's taken his housing boom profits and retired to Arizona). It’s June of 2006. Perfect. We’ll be done by Christmas. We tell our neighbors to prepare for what’s ahead. Our agreeable next-door neighbor takes a sip of wine and laughs.

Next day, here come the excavation trucks. And here comes our next-door neighbor’s eighty-year-old mom, who’s visiting from out of town. “What the heck are you doing in your side yard? It looks like a mass grave! Are you getting ready to bury people? I’m calling my lawyer-son in San Diego!” I call Mike at work, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.” To be continued...

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]]><![CDATA["Might as Well" - The Middle]]>Thu, 28 Mar 2013 00:55:51 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/might-as-well-the-middle

At 6:30 am, the concrete truck rumbles down the block. Our next-door-neighbor calls—cajoling, begging, threatening—us to call it off. I peek out the shutters and see her talking to our other neighbors. They look anxious to see what's going to happen. I start to fold. My husband, Mike, stays strong. Of course, he’s on his way to work. We pay extra to get an "emergency" survey done, to double check we’re within our setback...

For a distraction, we rent the movie, Friends With Money. Not much of a distraction. One of the stories is about a couple who’re building an addition that blocks their neighbor’s view—they end up alienating their neighbor and getting a divorce. We should've just rented The Money Pit. At least it's funny—in a painful kind of way—and the couple ends up getting back together.

Our contractor finds a structural error that our architect made, hires an engineer and goes to the city with new drawings. Ca-ching, ca-ching—might as well get used to that sound. While we’re away, one of the architect’s lackeys comes by and photographs the work in progress. Later that week, we receive a letter from our architect disclaiming any responsibility for the remodel. Whatever. We never liked him anyway.

It’s hotter than heck and we can't use a fan due to the dust. We move to the basement. At 2 am we’re awakened by the most horrible screeching, grinding noise we’ve ever heard. Then we lose power. The noise is coming from our yard. Something to do with the remodel, perhaps?

Making sure to use the front door—we don't want to fall into the abyss in back—we meet our neighbors outside. Mike, an engineer who works for the local electric company, assures me that it’s unrelated to our remodel—a sagging branch making contact with a power line probably caused the arcing and outage. But the neighbors are eyeing us suspiciously. They don't have power either, and it happened in our front yard.

Our contractor talks us into finishing the rest of our basement. "Might as well," we decide, after all, it’s not going to look right to have an old part and a new part. Next day, Drew and I come home, open the front door and walk into a dust cloud so thick we can't see the living room. Our contractor's taken off for a funeral and has left his crew to cut concrete. Their only mistake—using a dry saw instead of a wet one. Mike calls from work to make sure our prized possession, our baby grand piano, is covered. "Umm... it is now."

Our contractor assumes we're on top of things. Boy, is he wrong—I seem to be getting progressively worse at making decisions. In fact, I’m turning into the least decisive person I know. But I'm doing my homework, spending inordinate amounts of time at places like A-boy, Home Depot and Consolidated Plumbing. Somehow I manage to pick out sinks, faucets, and escutcheons—whatever those are. When we choose an expensive tub for our Master bath, a salesperson talks me into an off-white designer color.

I bring a friend up to date on the remodel. She hints that she's not sure about the designer color. I panic. What was I thinking? I obsess all night, then call Quebec at 5 am our time. They can’t help me—they're just the manufacturer. When our crew arrives, I mention the tub. Our carpenter laughs and tells a story about an off-white tub he had that he’d scrub and scrub because it never looked clean. I pretend to laugh, then sneak off and call our salesperson, giving her the go-ahead to charge us whatever she needs to in order to make sure our tub is white: not off-white, not white-white, not blue-white, I want creamy white. I realize I’m starting to lose it—there are people dying in the world, and I'm obsessing about different shades of white.

I rationalize that eating at Mike’s Drive-In or cooking on a hot plate and doing dishes in a bathtub every night can contribute to one losing it. Especially when you're half-way across town looking at roofs when you remember you started dinner before you left and that there's rice cooking (or burning your house down) on your hot plate at home.

At least I have a photo of our old cabinets ...

Our "custom" cabinet guy isn’t helping. We want in-laid cabinets. Bill builds European or overlay. We like exposed hinges. Bill uses European. Bill laughs when I tell him I’d like cabinets like the ones we tore out, “Those were vertical-grain fir cabinets! They'd cost $70,000 to replace!” I hyperventilate as I drive to Rejuvenation Hardware (where we donated our cabinets) as fast as I safely can—well, I must have been going a little over the speed limit, because I receive a "looking kinda out-of-it" photo-radar speeding ticket in the mail a few days later. The Rejuvenation guy listens sympathetically, but he can't help me, “Sorry, those old-growth fir cabinets don’t last—they’re long gone.” I run into an acquaintance on the way out. She offers words of encouragement. But she looks worried about me.

... and our leaded glass panels

After several fifty-mile trips to Bill's cabinet shop to iron out our differences, our contractor calls. It’s time to pay up. “I can’t do it,” I tell our contractor. “Bill won't make what we want.” “Why didn’t you just say so? You can get your own cabinet maker.”

“Huh?”

I call everyone I know who’s ever done a remodel to see if we can come over and talk cabinets. We find a sought-after cabinet guy who just happens to have an opening. The best part about our new guy: he listens. But he doesn’t pamper. When I tell him I want our old cabinets replicated in our new kitchen with the leaded glass panels that I cleverly saved from our old nook, he's kind but firm. "Nope, those panels are too long. There won’t be enough clearance underneath. Besides, they'd look weird with the other cabinets." I sigh and drive them over to Rejuvenation. To Be Continued...

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]]><![CDATA["Might as Well" - The End]]>Thu, 28 Mar 2013 00:55:16 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/might-as-well-the-end

We’re way beyond what’s supposed to be a six-month remodel—Christmas 2006 has come and gone. Our contractor reminds us that though he's a patient man, he has his limits. We joke that it's a good thing we signed up to be on the 2007 Duniway Holiday Home Tour, a fundraiser for Drew's school. Our contractor's not laughing...

Our wall of windows is unveiled in our new family room, and we have a beautiful view of—the garage. Out goes Window #4, giving us wall space for coat hooks in our new back entry, and thankfully, blocking out the garage.

I finally decide on Muddy River for the outside paint color. Mike's busy painting the second coat when I drive up from the paint store with five more gallons. Ugh. It looks like Poop River next to the house of our neighbor-who's-not-speaking-to-us. Sorry, Mike. We're starting over with Zinc.

I decide to do all the indoor painting myself. That way if (or I should say, when) I get neurotic about colors, I can change my mind without upsetting anyone else. I'm lucky I don't get seriously injured when I forget I just painted the basement floor and slip and fall on the concrete, cartoon style.

Speaking of the basement, it's coming along. Oh, I do have to exchange our washer and dryer when the white clashes with our different white laundry cabinets—the good news is that we end up with the blue ones I wanted in the first place. And it only takes us a week to realize we can do dishes in our new laundry sink. Which brings up our kitchen sink—it's been a year since we had one. We're still waiting on our Dacor range, and the arrival date keeps slipping. (By this time, we've spent so much time at Standard Appliance, Drew and I have put on five pounds each due to cookie sampling—ever-disciplined Mike abstains.) I don't let on, but I'm secretly thrilled to have more time to pick out granite. The granite can't be installed until the range goes in (of course, we won't have a kitchen sink until then either) but I don't let on that entire seasons have slipped by during my granite search. I remember freezing in a coat, hat and gloves searching through warehouses. Now I'm sweating in shorts and a t-shirt.

Meanwhile, Mike decides we "might as well" replace some of our old drain pipes while we have workers on site. We rip into our den walls, one of the only rooms in the house that's still untouched, and take out... perfect pipe. Oh well, by now we're philosophical.

We do finish by Christmas. It's just Christmas 2007 instead of 2006. And we're on the Duniway Holiday Home Tour—a dream of mine. Funny thing is, we still don't have a front entry and visitors still trip on the threshold on the way into our home.

Drew and Cousin Austin celebrating in our new kitchen

Turns out, we use our spa bathtub only occasionally—who (besides Oprah) takes time to take a bath? But I like how it looks. Our new kitchen cabinets are awesome. Our cabinet maker reproduced our old leaded-glass panels. The bonus—no lead paint. I even located some hard-to-find copperish granite, to go with the copper tile backsplash that I love. The guest bedroom/ bath in our basement prove so inviting, my sister and brother-in-law (who, after observing how much fun we had, decide they might as well remodel) move in with us for a few—well eight—months. And after we take out a bee's nest that's on our neighbor's property, she starts speaking to us again. We really should've avoided adding up the cost of the remodel though—we could've easily bought a new house with the money spent. But I love our cute new-old home in our wonderful neighborhood, and I'm not moving. When Mike talks about pushing out our front porch to give us a real entry, I humor him with a smile, but I never get around to doing it.

Drew and cousins in our new nook/family room

I learned a lot during our remodel. Like there is such a thing as analysis paralysis. In fact, I'm not sure I'd have this web site if it weren't for the remodel. It made me realize I don't want to get to the end of my life and wish I'd done something instead of just thinking about doing it. So I'm putting myself out there—mistakes and all—and trying to remember to laugh at myself. After all, I might as well.

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]]><![CDATA[My First California Adventure]]>Sun, 17 Mar 2013 02:41:50 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/my-first-california-adventure

Writing about our son's first trip to Disneyland brought back memories of my first trip there. I was eight years old and in third grade. Our dad couldn't get Spring Break off from work, so Mom and Dad took us out of school in February for two weeks—the first and the last time they did that. I missed out on learning long division and it took me a while to recover at school. In fact, it took us all awhile to recover from that vacation.

The six of us rattled down Interstate 5 in our old Ford Fairlane two-door with the embarrassingly loud muffler (and no seatbelts or headrests)...

While Dad drove, Mom tried to relax and let precocious four-year-old Dalene entertain us with song, dance, and stretch bra commercials. Dalene had a captive audience in the backseat--seven-year-old Ally, ten-year-old "Princess Carol," and me. Yeah, Carol ruled the backseat, and when she felt like sprawling out, she'd relegate Ally and me to each side of the hump on the floor.

The Princess never missed a chance to tease Ally and me. When we’d stand up to rat her out, she’d give us a tug by the seat of our pants, we’d sit down to keep our pants on, she’d giggle, we’d laugh in spite of ourselves and the whole process would start over. I'm not sure why we suckered for it every time, but I guess it kept us entertained while Dalene napped.

I admired Carol's devotion to her spiral journal—her assignment for missing two weeks of fifth grade—where she'd scrawl in her beautiful cursive: "Dear Magic Maltshake..." She didn't have much to write about on the way to California, though I remember Dad kicking us out of the car to run a block or two when he'd tire of our backseat wrestling. And there was the spotting of our first palm tree and the funny feeling of sticking to the hot vinyl seats when we got to southern California—a new experience for us, coming from the moderate climate of Portland, Oregon.

Mom's and Dad's plan was to save on expenses by staying with Uncle Jack and his family in Altadena. Dad didn’t believe in major credit cards—that would be spending money we didn't have. I think Mom tried to prepare us for what lay ahead by telling us about Jack’s junk-hauling business. What Mom neglected to tell us was that Jack hauled most of the junk home. There were aisles in his home between stacks of stuff—it was like walking through a maze. And Uncle Jack had his ideas about nutrition. He put wheatgerm on our cereal and made us vitamin "milkshakes."

On the plus side, Jack had ponies! That was really something for us city girls. Now that I think about it, Jack lived in the city too. I'm not sure what his neighbors thought or if it was even legal, but we begged for turns to ride those ponies.

We hadn't been at Jack’s long before he and Mom got into it. Something about Jack thinking Dalene was too old for bedtime diapers and Mom thinking that it wasn’t any of his business. And though we'd started out shyly with our cousins, it didn't take long before we were fighting with them like they were siblings. We ended up moving to a motel with a Big Boy restaurant on site, which was fun for us kids. We loved the novelty of motel life and sitting at a counter in a restaurant. The only problem—the motel and meals weren't in our budget.

Mom and Jack reconciled long enough for a trip to Disneyland, where Jack hid some sandwiches in a diaper bag. When we entered the park, we got caught with the contraband. Even though we’d just eaten breakfast, we pre-ate lunch so we wouldn’t have to pay for the over-priced food inside.

Disneyland proved magical and Knott’s Berry Farm didn't disappoint. But it was the trip home that turned into the real adventure, when Princess Carol became Queen Carol and Mom and Dad ran low on cash. The plan was to avoid a night's motel cost by driving up Highway 101 in two days instead of three. That meant we could see the Redwoods during daylight before driving straight through the night to Portland.

As we approached the California border, the trees got bigger and bigger—the Redwoods were truly impressive. But it wasn't long before it started getting dark, lonely, and downright spooky. In fact, we'd traveled a creepy half hour without seeing a single headlight when we saw what looked like an accident up ahead. As we got closer to the amber lights we could make out the sign: Bridge out due to flood – Ferry 7 am to 6 pm. Now what? It was midnight. None of us wanted to wait out there in the middle of nowhere.

Dad turned us around and we headed back to sleeping Eureka, arriving about one o'clock in the morning. (Either we'd missed a sign in Eureka, or they hadn't posted one—we'll never know.) The six of us tried to sleep in the car, but it didn't take long before Mom had had enough. With Ally and Dalene in tow, Mom found a late night bowling alley where she had a blast sharing our story and leftover hot dogs with the friendly owner.

Meanwhile, Carol and I fought for space up front while Dad tried to stretch his 6'4" frame out in back. I'd finally fallen asleep when a policeman came by and scared me silly. I was sure he was going to arrest us, but he was just wondering what an eight-year-old was doing behind the wheel of a car. After listening to our story, the cop offered to let us sleep on some mats in the police gymnasium.

I woke up the next morning—disoriented, embarrassed, grateful, and... rested. After thanking the police chief for hospitality beyond the call of duty, we got to our next order of business—breakfast. Mom and Dad pooled their resources: three dollars plus a Mobil gas card.

There was a new development. Carol was relieved to find that her "severe acne breakout" had been re-diagnosed as a case of the measles. Ally and I offered up the backseat for the rest of the trip—we were happy to oblige, now that Carol had an excuse for her queenly behavior (and by then we were used to the floor anyway). While Carol rested in the car, the five of us trooped into a restaurant.

As Mom and Dad pored over the menu trying to figure out how to feed a family of six on three dollars, a young waitress overheard our plight. She quietly offered us a ten-dollar loan. Mom and Dad refused. The waitress insisted—she'd grown up in a big family like ours. I'll never forget how sweet that glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice tasted and after eating our fill, we got lumps in our throats as we thanked the waitress for her generosity and trust.

As the familiar bridges and hills of Portland came into view, we smiled and breathed sighs of relief. Carol was thrilled. She had loads of great stuff for her journal: eccentric Uncle Jack, our brushes with the law at Disneyland and in Eureka, her outbreak of measles, the flood damage and ferry ride.

Queen Carol had even more to write about after we got home—her subjects came down with the measles and ended up on another week of "vacation."

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]]><![CDATA[The Disney Express]]>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 01:41:01 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/the-disney-express2

After returning from a trip to Disneyland with our sullen teenage son, I couldn’t help but reminisce back to the first time we took him there. Maybe travel is only glamorous in retrospect. Or maybe not even then...
"Whoo-whoooo! All Aboard the Disney Express!”

Grandma, my four siblings, our spouses, two middle-schoolers and the little ones (four cousins under five) humored me with half-smiles as we pulled out of Portland's Union Station. I couldn't vouch for the others, but I felt like royalty. Because there we were, on our way to see Mickey, our sheer numbers qualifying us for our own train compartment—with our own restroom, no less. Believe me, it came in handy (more on that later). Maybe we'd been vulnerable to those, "So what are you going to do now? " "I’m going to Disneyland!" commercials, but we all felt that Grandma deserved something special. After all, we were celebrating her 100th birthday in a few days.

It wasn’t long before the clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the train put us into a pleasant Disney daydream. Maybe this was just the escape we needed. Riding the rails held such nostalgia for me and my siblings—with our railroading dad qualifying for half-price fares, it had been the only way our family of seven could travel when we were young. And having lost our mom three months earlier, it brought back memories of when we were together. Our compartment was cooling down nicely. Ahh, those train guys think of everything—I hate being hot when I sleep.

Several blankets and an extra layer of clothing later--ya know, there is such a thing as being too cool. A talk with the conductor and it's not long before our compartment starts feeling oh-so cozy. As visions of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell fill our heads, several family members start feeling queasy. They include my husband and sister-in-law, neither of whom were keen on the train idea to begin with. In fact, it's not long before our restroom starts getting lots of visits, and, is it getting kind of hot in here? I mean, like, I'm sweating. Another talk with the conductor, another assurance of comfort. Just ignore what's going on in the restroom, this is an adventure. Think Snow White, Cinderella... "Stop the train! Some kid just swallowed contact lens fluid!"

Pitch black. Middle of nowhere. Two hour wait. Paramedics on board. Finally, choo-chooooo, we're on our way to Fantasyland! One hundred and one Dalmatians, one hundred Dalmatians, ninety nine...

The ventilation system is having none of it—I’m shivering riding bobsleds on the Matterhorn—I’m perspiring in a mining car chugging under the blistering sun on Thunder Mountain Railroad. As often as my dream morphs to keep me in Neverland, the twenty minute cycle from a frigid 55 degrees to a sweltering 90 (combined with the sounds and smells coming from the restroom) cannot be overcome. As I contemplate counting Cruella DeVilles, I hear the sound of nervous laughter (oh, it's mine) as sis-in-law offers $10,000 to anyone who can get her into her own bed. Our eleven-hour late arrival into Anaheim gets us in just in time for an 8 am breakfast reservation with Minnie and friends. Most of us look like we've been run over, by, I don't know, a train?

Grandma, bright eyed and surprisingly bushy-tailed, gives us the once over with a sheepish smile, "You look exhausted. I didn't keep you up with my snoring last night, did I?"

To be continued...

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]]><![CDATA[California Misadventure (Disney Express Pt 2)]]>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 01:38:25 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/california-misadventure-disney-express-pt-21

Recovering from the Disney Express pretty much shoots Day One of our three-day Disneyland pass. We are nothing, however, if not determined. Those of us who can navigate take in the sights from Paradise Pier—the hotel I chose for the entire group over the Disney Hotel (same price) because it sounds so "resort-like" ...

Turns out Paradise Pier has an incredible view of the gigantic dirt hole that will become California Adventure the following year. Two-year-old Austin wants to stay behind to watch the excavators. Sis-in-law is still recuperating and would probably like to stay behind too. But she's a trooper, so she, Austin, and our brother join us as we climb aboard a tram headed for the Magic Kingdom. "Be sure to hang on to Grandma's wheelchair! Oh no...there it goes!”

"OK, so what shall we do first? I know what everyone will love--It's a Small World.” "No thanks. We're taking Austin to Tom Sawyer Island." Thank goodness sis managed to retrieve the wheelchair—it's propelling our group to the front of the line. And there she is. Sitting like the granny in National Lampoon's Vacation, on top of our boat, cruising along. It's a world of laughter, a world of tears, it's a world of hope and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, da da da, da da da...sigh, this makes it all worthwhile. Wait, she's asleep? Well, anyone who can sleep thru the Disney Express—just be sure to get a photo of her for those scrapbooks.

It's a world of...okay, I get where sis-in-law is coming from, I'm never going to be able to get that blankety-blank song out of my head.
Meanwhile on Tom Sawyer's Island...
"Where's Austin?"
"Don't you have him?"
"I thought you did."
"Where did he go?
Oh my god, we've lost our two-year old!"
"What were we thinking. We're on an island. Surrounded by WATER!"
"Waaaaaa", snivel, punch. "Why did you leave me?"

We're supposed to meet up with Uncle Jack at Disneyland, but he doesn't own a cell phone—it's a little like looking for a needle in a haystack. When we don't connect, he insists on making it up to us. Uncle Jack's one of those guys who headed to California as a young man in search of real estate gold. Unfortunately, he hasn't found it yet. In fact, Jack's not a young man anymore, and he's pretty down and out. But he'd never let that stop him from showing us Oregonians a good time.

Jack and a couple of his buddies "rent" a huge van, fifteen of us climb in, and we're off for a tour of what Jack considers LA's hotspots. We make sure to lock the doors as we travel through places that look downright sketchy. We're relieved as he pulls into Knott's Berry Farm to cap the night off with dinner at Mrs. Knott's Kitchen.

We're not sure how long it's been since Andy, Ken, and Jack had a good meal, but after they finish their heaping plates of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans, they start in on our leftovers. On our way out, they load up with all the biscuits and jam and butter packets their pockets can hold. We ignore the stares from the other diners. We'll never see them again.

Last day of our Disneyland three day pass. Rain. And I mean buckets of it. But we're from Portland, the land of liquid sunshine. No big deal. We rent yellow ponchos and away we go. There aren't even any lines. No one else wants to be there.

Our trip home is fairly uneventful. Oh, we aren't surprised when my pregnant sister has to run and jump on the accelerating train when she misses the All Aboard call. Or when we discover that our private compartment ends up being on the same ventilationally-challenged car we rode down on. Thankfully, Grandma is the only one not to succumb to the stomach bug making the rounds, but I catch her muttering things like, "Why can't we just fly like civilized people?" Now that I think about it, I never did tell her whose scathingly brilliant idea taking the train was...

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]]><![CDATA[Holding On and Letting Go]]>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 00:22:27 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/holding-on-and-letting-go

More than two hundred years ago Henry Ellis wrote, "All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."

I have friends who seem to have this down to an art form. They move on almost effortlessly, with nary a backward glance.

For me, the holding on part has always come easy. The letting go, not as much. Like having to let my mom go. Was it really that I didn't think it was her time yet, or would I have ever been ready to let her go? And I’m probably rationalizing when I tell myself that it’s hard to let go of our son because we waited what seemed like forever for him. Like letting go of his thick little paw that first day of preschool. Which happened to land on September 11, 2001 ...

I diligently follow the strict preschool rule of no electronics before school, only learning the horrific news of what's happening when Mike calls to tell me that he's being sent home (he works in the Portland office of the World Trade Center). We need to decide. Should we send Drew to school? Should we tell him what's going on?

I call the school. Yes, bring him to school. The worst thing we can do is alter our first day of school plans. So I take him, but I don't tell him what's going on because I have so little information and what I do have is so scary and he's only three years old for heaven's sake. I muster the courage to leave him there, holding in my grief—on so many levels—until I get home.

And I know I shouldn't have been, but I was unprepared when our teenage son informed me that he wouldn't be playing tennis with me anymore. Although I did manage what I thought looked like a real smile with an "I understand." Surely, I should have seen this coming. After all, thinking back, I did it too. I recall my big sister Carol's eighth birthday, when our mom said, "Look out the back door to see what your dad's up to.”

My little sis Ally and I ran to the back screen door with Carol and looked out. There was dad, standing by our rusty swing set, proudly displaying a sparkling girl's bicycle with matching turquoise streamers hanging off the handlebars. As the three of us raced out the back door, we did a double take. What was that parked in the shadow of our sister's stunning new bicycle?

My sister Ally on our beloved bike

Because there it stood on its trusty kickstand, a small but sturdy, spray-painted, navy blue boy's bike with big fat tires, looking like the unfortunate half-brother of Carol's sleek new bicycle. "Hey, Dad, who's that for? We don't have any boys in our family."

Dad's amused reply: "It's for you and Ally to share. With your big sister learning to ride, we thought you two might want to try it. The guys at the store threw it in for an extra $5. What do you think?"

What did we think? We thought someone must have made a mistake—after all, it wasn't either of our birthdays. Ally and I didn't care that it was a used boy's bike—it had two wheels, a pair of handlebars, and sported yellow handlebar streamers to boot. The only thing that glorious bike didn't have was training wheels.

No matter, there was a sloped dirt road next to our yard and if I started at the top, I could get some momentum going and make it a few yards before crashing. What I needed was someone to hold that seat and give me a little push. I'd beg Mom, Dad, or Carol to hold the seat and I'd take off hollering, "Hold on...hold on..."

When I thought I had my balance, I'd yell, "OK. Let go!" And away I'd go, trying to avoid potholes and rocks as I'd careen into a rosebush in our neighbor's yard at the end of the street. Before long, I had the scrapes, bruises, and bandages to prove I was learning to ride. And I loved it—the sense of freedom and adventure, the ability to travel smoothly and efficiently, the knowledge that I could get back home in a hurry whenever I felt like it.

As I thought back to my six-year-old self, I realized that the lessons I learned on that bike are lessons I keep relearning as I travel through life. I now understand how my mom’s bi-polar illness plays a part in my reluctance to let go—my fear of not getting filled up before something changes.

I'm thankful that I was able to let go of the angst of our mom's death, while holding onto and cherishing memories of her. And I'm grateful that she advised us, "Don't turn me into a saint when I'm gone." So wise of her, because now we remember the whole, imperfect person that she was, not someone unapproachable on a pedestal, but someone to be loved for all her imperfect humanness.

And when I finally was able to let go of the dream of having a child, we were blessed with a son. I'm thankful I didn't realize then that my most important (and surely most difficult) job as a parent is to let him go.

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]]><![CDATA[My Arch Enemy (by Midnight)]]>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 00:22:11 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/my-arch-enemyby-midnight

Last summer our son talked me into allowing him to use his life savings to purchase an iPad. My husband was against it. Turns out, he was right (I don't know what I was thinking). But the one who is probably most annoyed with me is Midnight...

"Drew, put down your iPad, I've got something to say. Put it down now, you’ve been on it all day. Will you get off your iPad and spend time with me? It’s been a long time, you have to agree.

"If you get off your iPad, we can go out and play. Do it right now before the sky turns to gray! Are you going to just sit there, and ignore me all day? Please get off your iPad and join me. Oh yay!

"I got you outside, and you don’t have a screen. There's so much to do, just look at the green. I got you outside, so you’ll focus on me. This is called nature; yep, that's called a tree.

"See, it’s not really so bad when you actually unplug. There are flowers and bushes, and there goes a bug. We can explore and experience, or we can relax. We can just lie here all day watching clouds on our backs.

"Or we can jump or climb high, and it's so fun to creep. We can tumble and flip, pounce on Mittens, or leap. Forget that darn iPad, that's lurking inside. It ruins our 'us' time, and it's hurting my pride.

"I guess I was just dreaming that you could let go—of that thing that controls you and interrupts flow. Now you’re back to your screen, and I'm back to fretting. It hurts it's a machine that you prefer petting."

P.S.
I Miss You

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]]><![CDATA[Isopods, Jell-O and Chicken Necks]]>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 00:21:33 GMThttps://www.brendaniman.com/stories/isopods-jello-andchicken-necks-oh-my

Have you ever had the privilege of being close to someone who has the ability to create magic? I'm not talking about the kind of magic where your uncle pulls a quarter out of your ear, though that's pretty cool too. I'm talking about someone who can take the mundane and turn it into something captivating. Our son's kindergarten teacher had it—I got to witness it first-hand while volunteering in her classroom. Ms. Cheney built excitement for weeks, whispering, "The isopods are coming, the isopods are coming." I didn't know what an isopod was, but I was as anxious to find out as those five-year-olds were...

I'm not what you'd call a gullible person. That's why I know our mom had magic. Yep, my siblings and I hit the jackpot—Mom was a genius at making the ordinary extraordinary. Mom had five kids, money was tight, and she didn't believe in wasting food. If Mom was having trouble selling something that she was serving, she had a knack for turning it into an exotic culinary experience. Plain old Jell-O became scrumptious strawberry with fresh bananas, luscious lime ala mandarin oranges, fruit-cocktail jubilee, or the one even Mom couldn't sneak by us: luscious lime (again?) with shredded CARROTS! "Hey, what kind of dessert is that?"

If her magic didn't work, Mom wasn't above resorting to such time-tested guilt-inducers as, "There are people starving in India." But she was so much better than that. Mom convinced my sister Ally and me that the neck was the most delectable part of the chicken, and I remember feeling like The Winner every time I ended up with it. Then one night as I was gnawing my way around all those tiny sharp bones, I looked up to see Ally biting into a nice, meaty chicken thigh.

Mom didn't let lack of money keep her from showing us the world, or showing us off, for that matter. As the holidays approached, she'd dress us in matching outfits and we'd board the bus for a magical downtown adventure. We'd get our hair washed and set at Phagan's School of Beauty, then head to Meier & Frank's to ride the monorail at Santaland and pose on Santa's lap. After eating our sack lunch, we'd "ooh" and "ahh" over the 'Twelve Days of Christmas' display windows before heading home. The fact that we came home empty handed didn't faze us. That was the magic of window shopping.

A pro at clipping coupons and saving box tops, Mom would dispatch my sisters and me to pore over catalogs to see what we could earn. One spring she sent a bunch of box tops in, and magically "bought" us matching summer shifts. On one of our window shopping expeditions, a photographer snapped us and we ended up in the newspaper—further proof of Mom's magical powers. I learned another lesson that day—don't believe everything you read in the newspaper—when the newspaper caption claimed Mom whipped up the dresses with a nimble thimble. We got a good laugh out of that, since we all knew Mom's magic did not extend to sewing or (as you can see) bang trimming.

But Mom was the master of free entertainment. A self-taught pianist, she'd pump the keys with such gusto that my sisters and I'd race to jockey for position around our old upright piano. A couple of us would harmonize, and though we probably had more enthusiasm than talent, we'd crank out Christmas carols, show tunes, and Disney songs by the hour. In the summer she'd pack a picnic, and we'd head to Washington Park for free concerts where we'd burn off excess energy somersaulting and cartwheeling while Mom and Dad got some much-deserved relaxation.

When I got to plan my own birthday party to the Oaks Park roller rink for my ninth birthday, Mom declared she'd provide nice shiny quarters for everyone to buy a treat. Mom knew what she was doing when she elected me to shine up those quarters. I worked for hours on them and though I've long since forgotten the party, I can still feel the magic of dispensing them.

What's the secret to creating magic? I wish I knew, because as a parent, I've never come close to making magic out of things like Jell-O or window shopping (let alone chicken necks). When our son was young, I tried every trick I knew to get him to join me in some housework. I remember channeling Mom with what I thought was a convincingly upbeat, "You know, work can be fun!" His reply, "No, Mom. That's why they call it WORK." Or I'd use my most spellbinding voice with a, "Wow, look at this sticker you could earn!" which would be greeted with, "OK, and I want that sticker because... ?"

Yes, it's pretty clear I didn't inherit the magic. Because Mom did make work fun. And she would have made me feel like I was the luckiest girl in the world to earn that sticker. So thanks, Mom, and Ms. Cheney, and everyone else out there who has the ability to create magic. Thanks for sharing it with the rest of us.

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