Today is Her Birthday. I’m Gonna Have a Meltdown

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Today’s my first daughters sixteenth birthday. I am verklempt.

I was never one to wish that my girls remain one age forever. I have enjoyed watching them grow and evolve from little bundles of joy who only sleep and eat and whine and fuss to big bundles of joy who only sleep and eat and whine and fuss. It has been truly rewarding.

Each age and stage has its good and bad parts. My least favorite parts were the potty training and the eye roll-door slamming-sassy stage that seems to be lasting a decade. My favorites were the snuggle bug, learning to talk and doing chores stages.  If your kids can’t scrub a toilet and make you a plate of spaghetti, what’s the point of it all?

When I first came to the realization and then acceptance of my infertility, I was scared because I so desperately wanted to be a mother. I was angry because I so desperately wanted to be a mother. I was sad because I so desperately wanted to be a mother.

My dreams came true one Fall day when our adoption case worker phoned me in the middle of the day when I was home ill to announce that I was to be a mother. From the first moment I laid eyes on her photograph, my heart melted and I was deeply in love. I vowed to that pixelated photo on my computer screen that I would be the best mother.

I promised her all kinds of crazy things like I would never get mad at her. I promised I would never yell. I promised that I would be there for every moment and every milestone. Eventually, reality settled-in, and I realized those things were unrealistic promises.

The day I met her for the first time I felt elated but scared. Would she like me? Would I love her, for real? We rode up the old musty court house elevator a few floors and were lead into a drab and dusty conference/interrogation room where I was handed my daughter. We sat for an hour on the stained carpeted floor wondering what goo the felons who had inhabited this room left behind. We gazed at her, held her, talked to her and fell in love with her while we protected her delicate baby flesh from the horrors on that floor.

Walking out of that building without my daughter was the hardest thing I had ever done. Any doubts I had about how much I could love a child I did not give birth to vanished. She was my daughter, as if she had been born to me. I just needed to wait one more week before I could take her home forever.

Over the years, even though I broke many of my promises, I feel I have done my best to raise her to be a strong, independent thinker who is kind and resilient. I raised her to be self-sufficient and savvy. I raised her with lots of love, lots of life experiences and lots of really good food.

Today I am filed with emotion not because she is getting older, but because I must fulfill one of my many early promises. Today I will hand her a beautiful handmade and engraved box that contains her history. It contains the love of not just her dad and me, but of her birth parents. Within that box she will find letters from the four people who love her the most that were written when she was just a newborn baby and promised to her for her Sweet Sixteen.

I worry that she too will be overcome with emotion. Even though I wrote one of those letters, I do not know what it contains. I am certain it is bursting with the love and joy and adoration I have always felt when I look at her. I am certain that she will cherish the contents of that special box. I know she will have many questions answered even if she did not realize she had those questions.

I am so blessed to have my girls and my husband. We have been on quite a journey the last fifteen years and nine months together. I have had many verklempt moments over the years and I look forward to many more over the next eighty or more years.

7 Lists From the Past Put Parenting into Perspective

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Fewer things make me happier than crossing an item off of a To Do list. In fact, I love the act of crossing things off so much that I often add previously unlisted completed chores and mundane tasks, like “brush teeth,” just so I can have a sense of accomplishment that a left to right swipe of my ink pen on the lined paper gives me.

Sometimes I amaze myself at the number of things I can get done in a morning. I do more before 11:00 am than most people do in a week, or so I like to think. I find an odd sense of pride in being busy and productive. I wish I could get the same sense of fulfillment from lounging around in my PJ’s, sipping coffee and reading a magazine. Wait, those things can be put on a list too!

I often wonder where and when my penchant for making lists arose. Was it born out of necessity as an adult I found myself with a never-ending stream of chores and work-related responsibilities? Was it a result of my "mommy brain" and its inability to remember what I ate for breakfast let alone my kids' names? Was it the result of my feeling compelled to track the daily schedules and responsibilities of three other people, not just mine?

I inadvertently answered my question, ending my supposing, when I dug through some memorabilia with the mission of finding a grade school picture. As I sifted through a progression of bad school pictures, old report cards and notes I passed (then inexplicably saved) to my schoolgirl friend that provided boxes for her to check-off indicating how mad she was at another girl (her choices included three boxes: 1. a smiley face, 2.  a frowny face, 3. a crying face), I happened upon an orange spiral note book that was nearly empty aside from a few frayed pages. Oh,and apparently my friend was crying face mad at the other girl, that's really mad!

The notebook's front and back covers were littered with mixed media warnings penned with black magic marker and rubber stamp sayings. The edict read “Don’t Remove Cover Because it’s Strictly Confidential.” The words remove and strictly confidential were authoritatively stamped delivering the strict warnings to those who might dare to peek. To make the point even more obvious, a smattering of strictly confidential stamps were splayed across the entirety of the orange shiny cardboard cover. Clearly, someone with high level clearance made this rule, not just anyone has rubber stamps with such demanding decrees.

Because I knew it was my 12-year-old self who had made the edict, I felt comfortable opening up the book to see what I'd believed to be so secretive. I'm not sure what I expected, but I was fascinate by what I discovered on the few remaining pages. My twelve-year-old self was a list maker too!

These lists revealed so much about who I was in my middle school years. What I learned about myself caused a mix of emotions to stir deep within. My words and my lists made me swell with tears, burst into laughter and ponder about the girl I was and the mom I became.

My youngest daughter is the same age I was when I wrote those lists. Up until that moment, I really felt like I was doing something wrong as a parent. I, like most mom's I know, am riddled with guilt. I second guess my every decision on this precarious path of parenthood. I am constantly finding my faults and rarely patting myself on the back for doing the best I can and maybe even doing it well.

I can't help but blame myself for the things I perceive to be my daughter's weaknesses or her needs. I question my role in her need to be better. Her struggles with reading and spelling I blame on my slacking on working with her more directly with homework. Her weak social skills I attributed to me not helping her reach out and make friends. Her obsession with television I thought could only be from my being too tired to make her entertain herself in more creative ways. Her tenuous relationship with her older sister must be the direct result of me not actively nurturing their relationship. Everything that is not perfect in her life must be because I'm not perfect.

All of those things worried me and caused me to beat myself up. If I was just a better mother she would be a Rhodes Scholar who was the most popular girl in the junior high and read Shakespeare in between her turns at the national spelling bee where she was defending her third straight title as world champion.

The discovery of my six lists made realize that I am my daughter or I was my daughter or my daughter is the me I used to be…. Whatever. We are one in the same twelve-year-old girl.

The good thing is that as troubled as I was at twelve, I grew-up to be a pretty okay person. The lists gave me permission to not be so hard on my mom-self. The uncovering of this historical gem gave me permission to admit that my daughter will get through this stage and evolve into a person who can spell and can make friends and can watch a lot of TV but still navigate real life experiences.

The 6 Lists

1. People I am Mad At: This listed family and friends and utilized a complex rating system to determine the degree of anger I felt toward them. The system was as follows: Check marks = sort of mad; double check marks = real mad or hate; and boxes with X marks = don’t like that much. The people who ranked the highest on my Mad At list were my sister and all the boys in 7th grade. Those damn boys. Mom and dad came in a close second.

2. Books I Like: Forever topped the list as it was Judy Blume’s porn for teens. I listed the “Pisacheo Persriostion” which I am pretty sure is supposed to be the “Pistachio Prescription.” My spelling was achroscus, I mean atrocious.

3. What I Need to Improve How I Look: Many of the items on this list were scratched off so I am assuming I met my high standards by accomplishing them at some point. Things I had yet to achieve included “no mustache, nice haircut and nice tan.” So, my mustache situation is mostly taken care of thanks a light zapping hair removal machine I discovered! I do have to pluck a few strays from time to time, but it’s all good. The nice haircut still eludes me as my hair is become thin, brittle and grey in my old age. The nice tan thing was never hard to come by with my olive skin so now I have leathery skin covered in sunspots…. If only I knew better....sigh. I scratched off some items  like "smaller eyes" and "no buty (beauty) marks" so I must assume I came to terms with my bug eyes and moles.

4. Things I like To Do: This list included "jumping off high things" and fighting with my sister. Currently, I am very afraid of heights and I no longer consider "jumping off of high things" as a fun way to pass the time. So, my feet are firmly planted on the earth. As of today, I am not a fan of fighting with my sister, but I won’t rule it out in the future. I do owe her a few “Indian Burns” (sorry, no PC term exists to describe this old torture technique from the school yards of long ago) and nails dug deep into her arm skin.

5. Things I Don’t Like To Do: “Be board” topped the list. Even then I could not lounge about doing nothing. Clearly, even practicing my spelling words would not help me while away the time. The boredom was too much to bear.. I really did not like being picked on by the 7^th grade boys which explains why they got so many double check marks on my "Mad At" list.

6. People I don’t Like That Much and Why was a revealing list about my relationships with my family. Apparently, a girl named Bridgette really drew my ire for unknown reasons. She stirred the harshest of my sentiments which I will not repeat here. Last I heard, she had a successful career in academia and I do not want my misplaced negativity to impact her future relationships and successes. I will just say, I’m sorry Bridgette. I knew not what I wrote. Of course, those 7^th grade boys did not fare well on this list.

7. T.V. Shows I Like: This extensive list includes nearly every single show aired on television that year. We had five stations including PBS and the local Cleveland station, channel 43. Channel 43 usually aired really bad black and white movies. Oh heck, everything was in black and white back then. Some of my favorites that somehow made the list include Benny Hill, Game Shows (all of them), and “all soaps on channel 3 and General Hospital from channel 5.” I was less of an aficionado and more of a boob tube glutton.

My lists have evolved over the years and usually revolve around things I must do rather than my likes and dislikes. I’m pretty sure if I actually documented my likes and dislikes I would run out of paper.

Finding these lists forced me to remember that I was not a perfect child. It made me face the fact that the things I characterize as needs in my daughter are just normal things that kids go through. We all have our strengths, but societal expectations force us to spend more time emphasizing the weaknesses of our kids rather than celebrating their innocence. We try to push our kids through the stages of development hoping that they will be stellar adults, but in this hastiness we deprive them of the luxury to make mistakes and be imperfect.

It is through the imperfect moments that we all grow and learn. Those moments enable us to be ourselves and understand what we want to improve upon. The individual must decide her own priorities otherwise she becomes inauthentic, and probably unhappy.

My twelve-year-old self was wise. She knew I would need a dose of reality 35 years in the future. So, she tucked those lists away for safe keeping. If I could, I would kiss her mustachioed lips in gratitude.

Junior High Lies Lead to Adult Sized Lessons

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

As a mandated reporter, I didn’t expect to find myself in the role of suspected child abuser. I should have been nervous and worried when I called the guidance counselor that day. I mean my daughter did just divulge that the school counselor asked her to explain why her friends had reported that her parent’s “hold her down and beat her.”

When my daughter first shared this juicy nugget of information that a parent never wants to hear, I cycled through a series of emotions. I felt fear, rage, pride, mirth and curiosity to name a few.

The 5 Emotions

1. My fear emerged from that primal place that opens when parents think that Children and Youth or Child and Family Services is waiting around every corner judging and plotting ways to remove our children from our care and place them in a foster home or an orphanage then lock us up behind steel bars for eternity. I mean who would complete all the forgotten and mundane chores like filling the napkin holder or changing the toothpaste crusted hand towel if I was carted away?  

2. My rage came from the fact that my daughter’s school “friends” have been causing her trouble all year long. She comes home daily in tears due to the stress of lunchtime table talk and what she characterizes as “bullying.” Perhaps these kids just found a new way to torment her and bring me down too.

3. My pride was rooted in the knowledge that she has friends who care enough to keep her safe by reporting what they perceive to be potential safety concerns to trusted adults. I am proud of the school for creating a safe place for kids to report concerns. I am proud that I have established an open and trusting relationship which allows my daughter to feel safe sharing tough information. I am proud that I have restrained my primal urges to hold her down and beat her as she finds new and creative ways to test my ever-thinning patience.

4. My mirth rose from the fact that I find much of what goes on in middle school a bit ridiculous. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. So, I choose to laugh as much as possible.

5. My curiosity propelled me to ask questions like “why on God’s green earth would your friends think that I hold you down and beat you?” The same curiosity drove me directly to the phone to dial the number for the school and press the extension number for the sixth-grade guidance counselor in hopes of diffusing the situation by pleading my case.

 "I must accept the fact that I will most likely never know the answer to the most basic questions.

My daughter is not the best story teller. Getting a straight answer is never possible. She takes more side streets and dead ends on her way to explaining every single thing in her life. I must accept the fact that I will most likely never know the answer to the most basic questions.

For example, I will ask her, What did you eat for lunch today? She will say, Well you see… and then proceed to tell me everything that happened before, during and after lunch without revealing what she ate.

This, of course, goes on for over an hour as she takes long pauses before embarking on tangents as each word she says reminds her of something else that she needs to tell me. My job is to keep her on track which usually requires fervent directives like, “Makena! Stay focused!” or “Makena, stop!” over and over until I finally forget what we were actually talking about.

"My prodding her for more information revealed a story that was bit more elaborate and much more disturbing.

On this day, her story required further investigation. Though I appreciated the brevity of her story, I felt more detail, as to how or why her friends believed I held her down and beat her, was important, very important.  My prodding her for more information revealed a story that was bit more elaborate and much more disturbing.

She told me that her friends did not say that we beat her, but rather, that we held her down so her older sister could beat her. Ahh, much better…ugh. While this never happened, I guarantee you that her sister has fantasized about doing this.

So, here I was waiting for the beep on the voicemail to leave my semi-panicked message for the school counselor because, of course, she was gone for the day. I too would have raced home at the end of the school day after trying to sort out the brain numbing issues of pubescent, emotionally immature and needy twelve-year olds. God love her.

I had to accept the fact that this drama would not be resolved until morning. After breathing in deeply and counting to ten, I plastered a look that mimicked calm and pleasantness on my face as I attempted to comfort my daughter’s fears that “the police were going to come and take you to jail.”

I must admit that I was listening carefully for the county car the social worker drives to pull into our driveway. I also knew that because I did not actually hold my daughter down and beat her, things would work out fine, or so I hoped.

My daughter spent the night worrying and apologizing. She insisted that she had no idea why her friends would say such a thing. I had a good idea why...she told them that.

My daughter loves to watch television, and she has a creative mind that likes to reimagine dramatic scenes. She acts them out while talking and gesticulating to herself in the mirror. Sometimes, I think her reality and fantasy worlds blur together. She better grow-up to be a rich actor and buy me a gorgeous lake house. She owes me that much.

"She was confident that we were good parents who do not hold their daughter down so her sister can beat her.

The next morning the counselor called. I thanked her for all she does and commended her on surviving a long year dealing with my daughter and her friends and all the drama that they created. My daughter spent many hours talking and crying to this counselor and I was truly grateful that she did not ignore or tire of her intense needs.

We laughed a bit at the dramas of middle school girls. We reflected on how things had evolved or devolved over the year. We danced around the real purpose of the call, did she call the authorities on me. Did she think I was a child abuser?

Not able to avoid it any longer I said, So Makena’s friends told you I beat her. She said, Yes, they did. Pause. Pause. Excruciatingly long pause. She wasn’t revealing her hand.

With a shaky voice and a half laugh, half cry I replied, You know that is not true, right? She responded in her best counselor voice, The fact that she went home and told you what happened and that you are calling today tells me my instinct to not believe the story was correct. I exhaled the breath I was inadvertently holding and took in some much-needed oxygenated air. I no longer felt woozy or faint.

She informed me that she had not called CYS “though she probably should have.” She told me she and Makena had a nice long talk and she determined that the information from the friends was false. She was confident that we were good parents who do not hold their daughter down so her sister can beat her. Yeah!

I work closely with families and have met hundreds over the years. Some are good parents some are scary parents. Most love their kids deeply and irrevocably. All of them make mistakes because parenting is tough, really tough.

Every parent fears that with each misstep some well-meaning neighbor or family member will call the authorities on them. Being a mandated reporter means that I am required to report everything I see that could be abuse. For example, if I see a car drive down the street with a small child not in a car seat, I am supposed to call that in to Childline.

We are living in a world where we are legally as well as morally bound to look after our littlest citizens and keep them safe. While it is uncomfortable, I am happy that we are holding adults, especially those who are charged with caring for children in a variety of capacities, accountable for protecting all kids.

Knowing when or if something is really abuse is not our jobs. Recognizing the common signs of abuse and alerting those whose job it is to investigate abuse is. While I am grateful that our school counselor knew that the stories of preteens are not always truth and therefore she should not react hastily by reporting heresay to the authorities, I would not have been angry if she had felt compelled to make the call.

We must make a lot of tough choices in the world. Just like I tell my girls, you have to trust your gut even if you might be wrong. Protecting ourselves and the children around us is so important. We cannot dwell on the what ifs especially if we are risking the safety, health or well-being of someone smaller and weaker.

How to Report Suspected Child Abuse

• Professionals who are mandated reporters must follow the rules of their county and state.
• Each state has a toll free number that anyone can call. Find your states number here: https://www.childwelfare.gov/organizations/?CWIGFunctionsaction=rols:main.dspList&rolType=Custom&RS_ID=5
• If you are unsure what to do, a crisis hotline will help. Call 1.800.4.A.CHILD (1.800.422.4453).
• A variety of other resources can be found at https://www.childwelfare.gov/aboutus/find-help/

Though nobody holds down my daughter and beats her in our house, this event provided us with an opportunity to talk about being brave and speaking up to protect those around us. It allowed us to examine hyperbole and how if we are not careful others may misunderstand irony and take our words at face value. If we are not careful, mom just might end up in jail and then who would change the toilet paper rolls?

Perfectly Aged

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

The other day my daughter asked my husband, What was the best age for you? Surprisingly he answered with thought and insight.

My husband has never been one to expose the fact that he can and does have deep thoughts. He prefers to keep things simple. Like a caveman, he grunts and shrugs his shoulders a lot when asked to pontificate on a personal topic. When pressed, he will huff out a semi-coherent response to questions that force him to tap into his emotions.

He told my daughter, after much prodding on her part, that his favorite age is right now. When asked why, he said, Because I get to be with you. I admit I was moved even though I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic. He loves sarcasm.

I believe his answer was genuine because we were at a restaurant after a long but good day with our girls. He had a perfectly seared rare Ahi Tuna steak and a cold beer in front of him. Life was good.

A few days prior, I spent some time with a dear friend who shared with me a book she was reading, Expectation Hangover by ChristineHassler. She revealed how it was helping her through a trying time in her life. She gushed over the author and told me about the various mental and emotional exercises within. The one she was currently working on challenged her to imagine what her perfect day would entail.

She took the challenge and mapped out her perfect day. Her response to what she wrote at first was to scoff followed by thinking, I can’t do those things because I don’t have all that I need. For example, my friend wanted to wake in the morning and slip into her hot-tub and meditate. She doesn’t have a hot-tub.

Rather than toss aside that identified need, she re-imagined it. She realized she has a regular tub and hot water. Why couldn’t she compromise a bit and soak in a tepid tub and meditate? She’s the best at making lemonade from lemons.

I recently had a birthday which, combined with those other experiences,got me to thinking about my perfect age and my perfect day. I believe I am nearing the halfway mark in my life which means I have a lot of years left to live. This is both daunting and exciting.

It is daunting because if I hurt this much at this age, what am I going to feel like at 90? It’s exciting because overall, I have had a full and interesting life, and I get many more years to do more stuff, meet more people, go more places, eat more food and drink more wine. Yowzah!

My life trajectory has been like most. My teen years were filled with uncertainty, unsureness, a roller coaster of emotions, and fears. Let’s just say I was a hot mess. My twenties were focused on me figuring out who I was and what I wanted. My thirties taught what it meant to be an adult. My forties were when I just started living my genuine life.

When I thought about my daughter’s question, I realized that my perfect age, hands down, is my forties. I loved turning forty and I celebrated with an amazing party in my beautiful yard with many of my family and friends. It was an extravagance, but it was the perfect way to mark the milestone of entering the fifth decade of my life. I treasure my memories of that day.

As a woman in my forties, I have finally learned to calm down and appreciate my life. I stopped worrying so much about what others think, and do what I want. At the same time, I started to become less selfish and self-absorbed, and appreciate each person in my life (this is an ongoing process). Most importantly, I really started to like myself because I was being myself. That has made me realize what it means to be happy, truly happy.

Now that I’m not working so hard at being someone I am not (read that convoluted phrase again), I have time to focus on what will make me better, stronger, happier. I have given myself permission to take care of me. I cannot tell you how this has improved my overall emotional state of mind. The quality of my life has improved tenfold. All aspects of my life are thriving: family, friends, career, hobbies, health…. Everything is better. 

Taking the cue from my friend and my desire to take care of myself, I spent some time imagining my perfect day. Maybe by allowing myself to know what would make me even happier, I can achieve even more.

Realistically my perfect day really requires a perfect morning, then everything else falls into place. Well, what I really mean is that by 1:00 pm I’m pooped.

15 Steps to a Perfect Day

1. I wake rested and refreshed to a warm sunny day. This has become easier now that my insomnia is under control.

2. I step outside into the fresh air and solitude only early mornings provide and go for a long walk or slip my kayak into still waters for a morning paddle. This is a bit more challenging as our region has more rain and clouds than the Pacific Northwest, and I don’t have a lakefront house (yet).

3. Next, I come home and make a delicious cup of coffee and sit to write while everyone sleeps. Of course, somebody usually wakes and my concentration becomes divided.

4. My family wakes and greets me as they ready themselves for the day without arguing and complaining. Hah. It rarely happens this way. The morning typically starts with arguing, but we try.

5. I slip off to work for a few hours to the job I love. On the weekends, I take my family on an adventure for the day exploring the community or cities around us.

6. I come home and take a short nap or meet a friend for lunch or coffee.

7. I wake or return and start prepping a delicious dinner.

8. I might work around the yard weeding or pruning my plants or clean the house a bit (I function best with things tidy).

9. I read for a bit. This might be Facebook posts or Instagram but reading is reading, right?

10. My kids talk to me about their day. Of course “talk’ means yell and bicker about how awful the other one is.

11. My husband comes home, cooks dinner and we sit as a family around the table talking and enjoying a meal together. We must avoid politics for this to happen.

12. The girls do the dishes and tidy the kitchen.

13. I watch a favorite show with my husband or maybe play a game with the girls. TV requires closed caption because the one child does not have a handle on her volume control.

14. I take a warm bath. This typically means getting that same warm and fuzzy feeling a from a glass of wine or two.

15. I slip off to bed by nine and sleep a deep and restful sleep. Maybe not so deep and restful, but definitely some sleep in between the night sweats and shaky legs (I didn’t say my forties were flawless)

Perfection!

Believe it or not, many of my days are pretty close to what I imagine to be perfect. I suppose writing it down will make it easier to accomplish. Writing it down helps to remember that I have what I want, except for that lake house.

At this moment in time, I feel perfectly aged. Maybe when I reach my fifties I’ll think back on my forties as another decade of learning how to get it right. Life is a journey full of adventures and missteps. All I can hope for is a bit of happiness tucked amongst the hard parts and the wisdom to hold those moments dear.

I agree with my husband that the best part of my life is the right now because I get to be with him, my girls and the real me.

Tell me your perfect day and if it is possible.

Summer Scenes: Save Our State Parks

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

The glittering and shimmering waves reflect the afternoon sun.

Kayakers and paddle boarders traverse the waters amongst the motor boats of fisherman whose wake emits the pungent odors of gasoline and earthworms.

Children’s laughter and screams of joy echo across the lake from the shoreline beach.

The lapping and splashing of the water against the peppily shore lulls fisherman, perched on the rocks above, into a deeper trance as they watch a red and white ball bob in the ripples hoping it dives beneath the waterline indicating the bite of a hungry fish.

Hikers traverse the paths that wind over and around streams and between the trees where bears and deer quietly hide waiting for the intruders to pass before continuing their hunt for tasty snacks.

Heron and ducks wade and float before suddenly diving into the cool water to retrieve their lunch seemingly mocking the patient fishermen nearby with how easy it is to catch a fish.

Campers collect and pile wood into a ring of rocks preparing to build a fire for cooking dinner, and later roasting marshmallows as they engage in a tradition as old as time: gathering with loved ones to share stories and bond around the flickering and warming flames.

Red checkered cloths adorn the wooden picnic tables as family’s gather to celebrate birthdays by sharing food and playing games.

Parents push kids on swings and catch them at the bottom of slides lifting them into the air and laughing together as they swing them around treating their child to the sensation of flight.

Dogs leap gleefully through the water chasing sticks and returning them to their owners only to repeat this over and over.

Hunters stalk their prey through the thick woods waiting patiently for the perfect shot of their arrow or rifle.

Apartment dwellers stretch out on the green grass and lounge under trees reading books, relishing the fresh air.

Groups gather for games of volleyball, Frisbee golf, horseshoes and corn hole laughing and enjoying the comradery.

Park rangers walk with children and adults teaching them about salamanders, birds, bears and all sorts of flora and fauna. They teach orienteering and conservation. They teach kayaking and camp songs for anyone who wants to learn

Walkers, hikers, bikers, boaters, swimmers, fishers, birders, partiers, campers. Families, individuals, young, old and in-betweens. The parks offer something for everyone.

With so many from all walks of life who use and love our parks, why is it that these parks are always on the chopping block when it comes to state budgets (at least in Pennsylvania)? 

Our parks have endured a multitude of budget cuts over the years. As a result, there are fewer rangers, lifeguards and maintenance staff. The bathrooms and bath houses are being boarded up and are falling into disrepair. Roads are rutted with giant pot holes. Trails are covered with fallen trees. Beaches are closed. Playground equipment is outdated and unsafe. Picnic tables are rotted and crumbling.

It is so sad to see such beautiful resources being allowed to become deeply neglected. Our parks are important to many. Without them we would be lost. We must treasure them and care for them. We must invest in them and keep them clean. We must save them.

7 Ideas to Save Our Parks

     1. Keep them clean and follow the rules: Don't be a litter bug. When it says carry in and carry out that means take your trash with you! 

2. Use them and tell your friends and family about them: Spread the word about how much fun you had and the beauty you saw. Share photos and tell stories. Invite friends on outings and hikes. Open eyes to all our parks have to offer.
3. Volunteer to maintain them: You can join organized volunteer days; contact the ranger to organize one; or simply take some time to clean-up the litter as you hike or boat. Keeping them clean sends a strong message that we respect the privilege of having the parks for our use.

4. Write the governor and state congress people about how much you love the parks: reaching out to those with the power to approve funding can be as easy as a phone call or as involved as showing up at their doorstep with your message.

5. Technology:  http://www.activenetwork.com/blog/technology-save-state-parks/

6. Take part in the educational programs: Many programs are free and just require a simple email registration. Use these programs and get your kids excited about nature and the parks. Many programs are geared to adult learners as well.

7. Use social media to talk about and share your experiences (feel free to share this blog). Social media with platforms like Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat offer easy ways to share your love with parks and get others on board with saving them

Other Resources

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/state-parks-money_us_570ff91fe4b0060ccda2b017

http://www.governing.com/topics/transportation-infrastructure/gov-state-parks-funding.html

Find Your State Parks Here

https://www.stateparks.com/index.html#findPark

Water and Joy: Summer Traditions Old and New

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Yellow Creek, PA
Photo by: Liz Kriston

As I glided through the morning mist, the sun started to rise higher into the sky drawing the steam up to join it revealing the glassy surface of the lake. In the warming morning, the brilliant blue dome above me was dotted with white puffy clouds, the kind that beckon you on lazy Summer days to lie back on a grassy knoll as you imagine them to be animals, locomotives, and presidential silhouettes. The smooth water below my boat reflected the brilliant sky making it appear infinite.

No others shared the lake with me that perfect July morning except for the birds that stirred on the shoreline making their calls in song to one another, and a deer sipping tenuously from the water’s edge. As my paddle sliced into the still waters, I propelled forward in an effortless glide. Immersed in that moment in time, my gaze fixated on the sky below, I felt as if I was flying.

Mesmerized by the sensation of flight and the beauty around me, I continued my journey across the lake grateful for my good fortune at discovering this amazing experience of kayaking. I came to the sport at an age when most are hanging up their hiking shoes, rubbing Tiger Balm into sore muscles, and plucking gray hairs from their aging heads.

I have always been drawn to the water. Water brings me a sense of calm and peace I experience nowhere else. Water fills me with joy.

My love for water was nurtured during long lazy summers spent on the wooded property on which my grandmother lived. A swimming hole sat below the house at the bottom of a that grassy knoll where I learned to gaze at clouds.

As I got older, Grandma loved to reminisce with me about the days when I, still in diapers, would arrive for my Summer visits leaping from my mother’s car as soon as she slowed in the gravel driveway. I dashed as fast as my chubby toddler legs would take me down the steep hill to the pond where I gleefully dove into the chilly water. Breathless, from the exertion and her laughter, Grandma would yank me out by my diaper scolding me in an attempt to conceal her amusement at my drive to be submerged in the cool, spring-fed pond.

My Grandma walking another baby from the pond

For years, I spent every summer submerged in that same pond from sunrise to sunset. The family referred to me as a “fish.” By Summer’s end, my eyes and nose glowed red from the hours I spent in the sunshine exploring the underwater world of that pond sans goggles. I chased fish, turtles, and inevitably, my cousins in games of underwater tag.

The water, and the sensory deprivation I experienced being immersed within it, created a much-needed refuge. My childhood, like many, was not always a happy one thanks to the turmoil of my home-life. The only place I ever felt completely at peace was in the water.

My childhood memories overflow with the time I spent swimming in, floating on, and lounging near that pond. Water became synonymous with my definition of Summer. I never fully recovered from the devastating loss of my water refuge when, without warning, my grandparents were forced to move.

Overtime, my life evolved. My unhappy childhood became a happy adult life, but even the happiest adult has stress. I searched to find that sense of calm and peace that that pond from my childhood instilled. I visited local lakes or traveled thousands of miles to gaze at and breathe in an ocean. These trips to water’s edge always lowered my blood pressure. With my stress released, I slept soundly, like the baby I used to be wrapped in my grandma’s arms and  nestled into her substantial bosom.

Being near water was mildly therapeutic, but I needed to be on it. Diving-in was tempting, but not always practical. Visions of me floating on the calm waters as I paddled a boat across the glimmering surface became commonplace. I considered kayaking as a way to bring me close to the water again.

A friend introduced me to kayaking on a girls’ getaway. We rented uncomfortable boats and wrapped ourselves in used life vests infused with the odors of sweaty tourists. Despite my discomfort and the assault to my olfactory senses, I experienced an immediate feeling of joy. I felt like that young “fish” I once was.

My husband bought me a kayak for Christmas that year. I spent the Winter sitting inside of it on the basement floor pretending the cement to be the still waters of a lake, longing for Spring so I could go for a float. Once the ice melted in the warming days and nights of Spring, I took my first solo paddle. I arrived at the lake feeling overwhelmed by life, excited to no longer be confined to my house.

Feeling a bit nervous, I launched my boat onto the vast body of water of the local state park. As I glided out away from the boat ramp and into the center of the lake, my nerves and stress evaporated a little more with each dip and pull of my paddle.

I discovered tiny inlets that the motor boats could not enter. I sat still allowing all of my senses to take in the smells, sounds, and sights of the quiet cove. I watched schools of minnows being chased by a bass under my boat. I glimpse the intense hues of the wildflowers of Spring that dotted the shore. I heard the song birds as they mated and built nests.

Surrounded by water, I finally felt like that little girl who found happiness in the pond at her grandma’s. All the stress of my life disappeared. I felt calm yet invigorated.

Now my Summer mornings often start with me launching my boat onto the misty calm waters of dawn. In those glorious minutes that I allow myself to indulge in the feeling of joy that the water brings me, I recall my grandma’s laughter and the feeling of safety and love that her embrace filled me with. I allow myself to fill-up with joy and to feel empowered to face whatever life has in store for me. When I paddle back to shore and load my boat preparing for the trip back home, I feel strong and daring just like the toddler I used to be all those Summers ago.

Frugal Fashion

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

My husband’s frugal fashion sense can be described as Old Navy couture. About three times each decade he will seek out the nearest Old Navy and spend about 22 minutes to replenish his wardrobe by digging through the shirts that are on sale, and buying about 15 of them. Upon returning home from his shopping spree, he rotates the crisp and clean new shirts into his supply of worn and frayed shirts found in his chest of drawers or his small but functional closet.

The old shirts’ destinies are determined by some unknown system that he devised and has refined over the years. Some shirts remain in the drawer rotating up to the top of the pile. Some shirts go to Goodwill. Some shirts go to the rag box. One or two of his most favorite shirts earn the highest honor that he can bestow upon a clothing item, they become his uniform.

My husband voluntarily wears what he calls “uniforms.” Growing up I had to wear uniforms in shades of blue and grey for 12 long years, but his uniforms are not nearly as cute as the ubiquitous catholic school girl ensemble I donned 180 days a year.

Each season he adopts a favorite outfit. These get-ups are dictated by comfort more than style. Newness and cleanliness don’t play a role in their selection. In fact, the more worn-out or stained a shirt, the more likely it will become his go to clothing item. No bright colors for him. Only faded and bleach blotched clothes will do.

The only clothes he seems to accept into his rotation of work vs. going-out vs. leisurewear come from his favorite box clothing store, or from the ladies with whom he works. Many years ago, these lovely ladies pitched-in and bought him his first pair of Crocs for a Christmas gift. Because it was winter, they were fur lined and black. He fell in love instantly.

Since then, he has purchased or been gifted at least five pairs of Crocs. All are the same style. You know, the ones that look like plastic clogs with holes and a strap across the back. He does vary them a bit by getting furless ones for warm weather. He even purchased a pair that were a dark khaki brown color which was a big departure from the basic black. I mean black does go with everything, but khaki is also a neutral, so he was safe.

When I say: He can wear them with anything, please don’t take that as me giving him permission or support in this footwear selection.

Nothing makes me more agitated then when he asks me out on a date and then gets “dressed-up” in one of his Old Navy plaid button downs made from a magic material that never needs to be ironed pairing it with either Old Navy khaki pants, newish Levi jeans, or if its warm out, a pair of khaki cargo shorts (not too long thank you very much).

Of course, he finishes off the outfit with a his “good” Crocs. Seriously.  He often tries to slip out of the house without me noticing what is on his feet. Inevitably, I give him “the look.” Upon seeing my famous glare that speaks volumes about what I am feeling at that moment, he drops his head with a sigh, pouts and pleads his case. His case is always but they’re comfortable. About half the time he relents and changes his shoes the other half I give up and let him keep the on damn man mules.

Don't these look comfy?

Women have been limping through life wearing nothing but uncomfortable shoes for centuries and this man can’t even put on a pair of loafers to take his wife for dinner?

The ladies at work bought him a very nice wool, olive green (his favorite color) sweater. He wore this sweater for years. He wore it for so long and so often that it became frayed and misshapen. It pilled and holes started to appear in several spots. Despite its sad appearance, he wore it daily with an equally sad pair of Levi’s and his black Crocs. It became one of his first uniforms.

I attempted several times to buy him a sweater that was similar to replace this raggedy one. He returned them all, or they got lost in the abyss of his closet where all the other shirts and pants I bought him ended up after he half-heartedly accepted them before stuffing them away. He wore this sweater so often that when I finally found a sweater that he accepted as a replacement, the ladies at work commented on how happy they were that he was finally wearing something different. 

They never bought him clothes again.

This Spring/Summer has seen two uniforms. He rotates between a red faded t-shirt he acquired for free by volunteering for a therapeutic horseback riding agency and a pair of tan khaki cargos that are ripped and frayed so much at the hem that his boxers peek out. He mocks boys who show their boxers by wearing low slung pants, but apparently seeing his underwear from the bottom is acceptable.

His second uniform is an Old Navy t-shirt he bought on sale for three dollars that has a clock face where all the numbers read 5. The assumption that it is always 5 o’clock somewhere helps him justify a Bud Light at noon a Saturday. This cocktail hour shirt is dark grey. He pairs it with dark brown frayed cargo shorts. His boxers show from these as well. He often tops of his uniforms with a tan Pittsburgh Penguins ball cap that has rust stains bleeding down from the button at the crown. Of course, his feet sport Crocs.

Recently, he had a serious fall while wearing his beloved Crocs. When entering the door to the kitchen of his camper, his Crocs, which are bulky and loose fitting, snagged the metal door frame and sent him plummeting to the ground. He could not stop his fall with his hands as they were holding a platter of freshly grilled steaks and veggies. Though he cut open his leg pretty badly, he attended to his wound only after meeting the five second rule (those were good steaks). 

I imagine he ate his dinner while holding on a compress of toilet paper onto his badly bleeding wound. I was not there, but I know how he rolls.

Because of this injury, he finally branched out and purchase himself a pair of brown leather Teva sandals that he is starting to wear more often in the name of safety more so than fashion. He still stares longingly and lovingly at his Crocs which he stores in various spots throughout the house and yard for easy access. Everything comes to a halt in our house when they become misplaced. It is a true emergency.

Though I would love to see him in clothes that compliment his good looks a bit more, I am resigned to the fact that we do not live in a fashion forward mecca. In fact, outside of a few college campuses and Millennial infested spots in Pittsburgh, most folks in Western PA aren’t particularly concerned about keeping up with the latest trends.

The typical Western PA resident wears shorts and t-shirts with a pair of flip flops when the temperature rises above 32 degrees. On colder days, a hoody is added for warmth. For special occasions, a pair of Levi’s or Wrangler jeans with boots snazz-up the t-shirt.

I have no idea who these people are or if their neighbors cook meth

For high profile situations, like being interviewed on WTAE after your neighbor was arrested for cooking meth, folks don their most valuable clothing item, their genuine Steelers' jersey. Nobody questions this decision. It’s considered haute couture.

Truth be told, I am not much of a fashionista myself. I admire beautiful clothes and how they look on the Old Navy mannequins. When I try them on, I’m always disappointed with how they cling in the wrong spot and accentuate the parts I want to camouflage. My posture is not as good as that fiberglass doll’s nor are my legs long enough to get the same draping.

The reality is that my formative years of developing a sense of fashion were dampened by that navy-blue skirt and vest ensemble I sported daily. Maybe I need to adopt an adult uniform just like my hubby.

I like that my husband does not feel the need to dress-up. I like that he that he can still fit into clothes from twenty years ago. I like to give him a hard time, but I wouldn’t change him for the world (I’ve tried. He just returns the clothes).