remembering C. Street

We’ve written before about Chris Street, our beautiful bird nerd friend who died from cancer on November 12, 2009, shattering our hearts.

C. Street, as most called him, loved mountains without discrimination, but I had the privilege of getting to know him in Glacier’s peaks, and as such he’s become a part of that core group of people missing from my life that keep me headed into Glacier’s wildest places, again, and again. My own beloved brother, Howard, with whom I first witnessed the cerulean perfection of Iceberg Lake; Steve Lee, my co-worker at St. Mary Lodge who first whispered a few of Many Glacier’s off trail secrets into my open ears; and C. Street, Layla Jane’s boyfriend with whom I spent one of the most delightful August days of my life, exploring Floral Park and Sperry Glacier. I cannot think of the otherworldly views from Floral Park, nor the turkey and dressing from Sperry Chalet, without thinking of Chris. Nor can I gaze knowingly at the tip top of Going-to-the-Sun Mountain without remembering his infamous summit on my wedding day, a summit he made with such power that he was seated in the audience as I made my way down the aisle at 5:00 sharp.

Today, Chris would be 31.

I think I’ll spend at least part of the afternoon with my weathered topo and a notebook, scratching out a few routes to try for Chris, this summer. Until then, I’ll see him in every majestic raptor that Maggie Rose points to and I cannot name, and I’ll hear his innate kindness reflected back in Layla’s patient voice, over a glass of wine, and I’ll know that it’s not much, but we’ll never stop remembering C. Street.

2013. Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.

 

Wings

Please excuse our absence from the internets. We are introducing Maggie Rose to her great grandmothers.

Yesterday, Maggie got her wings! And we didn’t have to buy the plane a drink. Keep your fingers crossed for smooth, safe travels.

 

on eras

This morning, I am searching my brain for the right words, which is quite frustrating to me, as my fingers should be flying across the keyboard.  For the first time in months, we have both taken a day off to do nothing, and Honeydew lies contentedly on the couch with our baby, watching Saturday morning cartoons.  In my office, I am surrounded by reminders of bills to pay and checkbooks to balance and Quickbooks accounts to analyze, but we have agreed that I will take a much needed hour and write.

Today marks seven years – seven - since my youngest brother, Howard, died in a fraternity house fire, along with two of his friends.

I am sitting here, sipping my coffee half-n-half, wishing I had an archaeology degree – like Brother Dear.

Looking at the last photo taken of my intact pre-Honeydew family, I think that such a degree might help me to write about what I have decided are the eras of my lives.  The word Paleozoic comes to mind, but then again, I am only thirty-one.

There is certainly the pre-Howard’s-death era, a gloriously innocent and privileged time in my life that lasted 24 years, as I was 24 when he died.

And there is obviously the post-Howard era.  Not so glorious.

But this morning, after Maggie had her breakfast, the three of us curled up on our bed, under our sunny, western facing window, and Maggie Rose commenced her morning routine: cooing, smiling, and laughing delightedly with her whole heart.

And I realized that for me, the immediate-post-Howard era is over.

I am not saying that Maggie’s birth filled in all the potholes in my soul that Howard’s death left behind.  Until the day that I die, I will keep the memories of the black grief that defined the immediate-post-Howard era, and the hard lessons learned.

But I can say that Maggie’s arrival has gifted me with a new set of tires with which to navigate said potholes.

Her birth does not make Howard’s death, and gaping presence in our lives, easier or better or different in its effect on my ability to handle screaming smoke detectors or gorgeous young men bursting with potential – dead or alive.

But from the moment Honeydew said, slowly, in a wondrous tone I’d never hear him use before, “It’s a … it’s a … girl!” I have known that I am in a new era in my life.

Go on, Mama said.

And I am glad that I listened to my Mama, that I did not let paralyzing grief turn into paralyzing fear, or rejection of joy.

Howard, how I wish you could hold Maggie on my couch this fine morning.  Love you so, Littlest Brother.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

Maggie’s hands

Are tiny, obviously.

Though I swear they grow bigger every day.

I look at Maggie’s hands and wonder about what she will touch in her life, what she will do with her hands, who she will love.

Will those fingers type out the next great American novel?  Will she pluck magenta wildflowers from our fields and weave them into verdant bouquets, like her great-grandmother?  Will we be able to finagle music lessons up here on the 49th parallel, so that pretty music might come from her fingers?

I can see that finding out will be the greatest adventure of my life.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  Photo credits to Jennifer Campbell and Layla Dunlap.  All Rights Reserved.

 

sneakin’ a cookie

Today marks the start of Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza, the party we throw each summer in honor of Howard Hillhouse Stone, my youngest brother, who died too young, seven years ago.

Seven years ago.  Hardly seems real.

The above picture of Howard is one of my favorites – his mischievous streak would certainly have approved of Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza, which generally involves tubing, dancing, Beer Olympics-ing, and most importantly, hiking together with a large group of those friends and family who love us best, in Howard’s honor.  I look forward to this week of the year all year, and my heart overflows with love for those friends and family who are here to say, silently, we haven’t forgotten.

Let the games begin!

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.