Author Archives: homegrownjules

12.01.19
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A Black Whimsy and BIG Love… my last love note to Grandma & Grandpa Hodel.

gma sassygmagma and gpa weddinggpa

Grandma passed on November 13, 2019 and it’s taken me a long minute to be able to write this. I started a list of some random anecdotes, and then would ugly snot-cry until I had to stop and fix my face (and my keyboard.) I’ve never mastered the art of graceful tears, as mine come in heavy crocodile streams and my chest shakes with emotion. I’ve always been pretty sensitive about all things home, and while I’m so thankful for the path I’ve taken and the choices I made many years ago, I’ll always have a soft spot for my farm upbringing in Illinois, and the many people that have built me.

My grandmother has been my soft place to land through most of my adult years…

Of course, she was the grandma who planned all things fun and shiny when we were kids, as she coordinated the Hodel family band, Honky Tonk’s Pizza, girls shopping trips, and excursions at the Ike lake. But the really good stuff for me started when I was 21 and moved away from home.  I couldn’t attend the usual family events—the Friday family nights, the weddings, baby showers, and holiday shenanigans, but my trade-off came in the form of long phone calls and connection that may have never happened in person.

She wasn’t all laughter and warm-fuzzies though, let’s be clear–she was sassy and pretty transparent—she’d tell me if I’d gained weight, if my skin was looking rough, or if I’d gone too blonde in my latest salon session.  She shamed me in front of Nicholas the time I’d brought Hardees for breakfast and tossed the hash-brown coins; she dug them out of the trash, told me I was “a wasteful child” and that Grandpa would love those in the morning for breakfast.  She kept me honest, was a voice of reason, but was also ahead of her time in the way that she accepted my alternative choices, and made sure that I knew that she loved and accepted Nicholas as “another grandson” long before she even knew him very well.

Nicholas and I used to spend an evening or a Sunday morning with her and Grandpa every time we came home, and game nights are still one of my favorite memories. We’d play Rummikub, cards, or dominoes, and she’d never even pretend to soften and let anyone else win; heaven forbid she lost, she’d say, “Oh Shucks!” bring out more molasses or Swiss Biberly cookies, and demand another game.

She made Swiss Biberlys every year in time for Christmas—a divine honey-pecan cookie that is made with more love and time that you can imagine. It was an old recipe from a McCall’s Magazine, and her and my great Aunt Edna made them every year like clockwork. After I’d moved away and wasn’t in attendance for the holidays, she’d make sure there was a stash in the freezer for our game nights when I was back home. My sister and I made them with her one year, and she’d done all the time-consuming part of the dough well before we came over, and it still took an entire day to roll the dough, fill them, and bake them off; they were seriously a bite of heaven and hard work, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’ve always joked that I was born in the wrong decade; I love the old-fashioned peacock feather hats, lace whimseys, old brooches, and antique candy dishes. Our modern townhouse is more of an antique show room, as I’m surround by her things: handmade aprons inside my pantry door, gingham kitchen towels hang from the oven handle, and I carry her floral hankies in my purse.  I’ll remember her constantly in the everyday treasures I use: the vanity set with the M inscription (for Mildred), the tattered coin purse filled with crayons, the old books that line the china cabinet, and the mint green scarf with moth holes, but still smells like her.

It’s difficult for me to express the loss I feel (and I’m never at a loss for words); but it’s because she was so much for me, and for so long. I think about how few people my age still have a grandmother, I know it’s super rare, and even though she was 97, I still feel like she had plenty of life to live. I know I’m lucky and blessed to have had her for so long, but it doesn’t soften her absence, or my selfish sense of massive loss.

After being married for several years, and answering the constant question about kids, I finally came clean to Grandma in one of our visits—we were sitting in the living room at her duplex in Eureka, eating hard candy from an antique candy jar.  “We don’t want kids, Grandma—we’ve thought about it, and I know it’s unconventional, but I just wanted you to know.”

Deep silence, a soft gasp… “Well, what will people say?! You know they’ll think you’re infertile.”  The moment was hysterically funny and oddly sad at the same time—while she would later try to change my mind and insist that it’s an experience every woman should have, in that moment, she was worried about perception as if I’d invited over the Elders of the church and failed to clean my windows and globes.

That was just like her, though; she added a bit of levity to moments that were so unexpected, and yet so honest at the same time.  She’d listen to anything I wanted to tell her and would literally answer anything I wanted to know.

“Grandma, how do chickens have sex? What’s the difference between the chickens that lay eggs and the ones we butcher for protein? Will the chicken feet compost into the ground when we bury them? Why didn’t you like Grandpa when Uncle Walt brought him home for dinner? What was my mom like in high school? What would you do differently if you could?”

I had endless questions, and over my adult years, our phone conversations were some of my very favorite moments. Sometimes I’d run a proper interview with prepared questions; sometimes we’d just chat about the current day-to-day, and sometimes she’d ask me questions about why I moved away, why I didn’t join the church, and if I was really sure I didn’t want kids. She was easy to talk to—as easy as breathing—and  in a world that has seems more and more superficial, I appreciated our relationship because it felt more real than almost any other.

So this Thanksgiving, while my heart still feels a little volatile and I know I’m not done mourning the loss of my last grandparent and a notable person in my own development, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for the way she loved me, the way she shaped me without even trying, and the way she has taught me to talk about family stories and open up with my mom, my aunts, my cousins. It would be easy to be far away (West Coast now) and not make the time and effort to really connect with family through the miles, so my favorite thing from her, is to take the time…send the email or text, make the call, and appreciate the time we have to connect on a real level with those who share our genes, our memories, and the greatest possible love. XOXO

 

08.11.19
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Tyler, and my Bleeding Heart

I was watering my front bed of flowers last night, as I’ve been out of town for a week and it never rains in Sacramento, so my flowers were seriously freaking out.  I had just started a heavy water on my “ketchup and mustard roses” when I saw a homeless guy limping in my direction. I’ve lived in the city long enough in Atlanta, and witness the excessive homeless here in Sac just long enough to know to avoid eye contact and pretend I don’t have a soul. I had ear buds in, and Don Williams was carrying on about Amanda, and her need to find a husband, so I had a distraction. But he stood in front of me, and I finally looked up, made eye contact, and removed my earbuds.

“Can you spray me, please?” Mind you, it’s 104 here, and without water or shade, it’s got to be unimaginable to survive. He was young…like 30s…in an old jersey and ripped sweatpants, and I noticed as he walked up that he had a notable limp.  I changed my sprayer to something lighter and said, “Sure..but I actually feel really weird about spraying you like you’re a plant….but okay.” I sprayed him down, and he thanked me profusely. “I’m Tyler, what’s your name?” Nicholas would kill me for engaging, but I told him my real name and asked him to hang on so I could grab a Gatorade from the downstairs fridge. I came out with a drink, and you’d have thought I gave him a savings bond and apartment to stay in. He cordially moved on….but my heart was bleeding.

I kept watering flowers and was battling the urge to go get him some food. I made a pork dish today, there’s pizza in the fridge, and I had just made Nicholas a sandwich. The amount of food that is wasted in our house makes me sick to my stomach.

But I waited too long.

I ran upstairs and grabbed a sandwich I had just made, wrapped it in paper towel and came out to find him, but he’s a fast limper and he was gone. I left it on the patio, in case he came back, or someone else, and then felt terrible that I had hesitated so long to do the right thing.

I know Sacramento has an enormous homeless problem, but at what point do we cease to be human? I know I can’t save everyone and I know it can be super dangerous, especially if they know where I live, but how do I turn my head when I know I have multiple meals I’m throwing away and someone outside my house is starving? He wasn’t on drugs…he wasn’t acting crazy.  He looked like one of the many young people I’ve read about that have timed out of the foster system and have no one in life.

I doubt I’ll ever be homeless because I have hundreds of family members that could always take me in if misfortune really struck. But what about those that don’t have any family, have timed out of a messed-up system and are taking one moment at a time on the streets?

I actually applied for a lot of jobs to work in the homeless shelters and/or work on the educational programs for re-integration. I believe in divine intervention, and am super thankful for the career path I found, but sometimes I wonder what I could have done if I had gotten a job in a different system.

I hate feeling helpless when my heart is bleeding, but I’m channeling Lynyrd Skinner and saying, “All I can do is write about it,” even though my heart knows there’s more I could do.

I told Tyler to “Take care of himself” like that’s helpful…but at least we had a moment to connect and he got a cold drink. Here’s hoping he’s got a place to sleep tonight, but I have a feeling I’ll be pretty restless.

 

 

08.10.19
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Tomato Talk, Honey-Bees, and Other Farm Goodness

Yesterday I got to run around an East Coast farm all afternoon—I was in Connecticut for a work summit, and the afternoon was dedicated to an excursion of our choice.  Ironically, someone I’d never met recommended via email that I check out this farm adventure, and I’m so glad I took her advice.

Stone Acre Farm in Stonington, CT is bordered by the Atlantic, and while it was 86 degrees, the town pulls an awesome ocean breeze every few seconds. About 40 of us stepped off the bus and onto a gravel lane that led to an open lawn area for lunch.  A local chef mixed up a variety of greens (and even some “weeds”) in a perfect summer salad, grilled jalapeno-Parmesan corn on the cob, and topped our pulled pork tacos with pickled red onion and cojita cheese. We sat in the sun on picnic tables, sunflowers in milk jars as our center pieces, and sipped local brews and ciders between bites.

It was divine. The food, the scenery, the company. I found myself tearing up a few times (and again now as I’m writing this) in the name of both nostalgia for my childhood and gratitude for the life I have as an adult that is so rich with adventure and opportunity.

After lunch, our farm education began in the form of a tour and strategically placed “stations” around the property.  We stood 10 feet from the honeybee swarms and hives while we learned about the importance of pollination, the purpose of the Queen bee and her drones (now there’s some girl power), and then got to taste this season’s harvest in comparison with another local honey. My mind flooded with memories of Rocke’s Honey (my paternal grandfather was a beekeeper) and I loved the gentle reminder of nature’s beautiful intricacies and the vivid memories of my Grandfather telling me to “put some honey on it” whether that was my sore throat, an open cut, blisters, or a broken heart.

Next stop was “tomato training” and I was in hog heaven. I had a custom tote-bag made last year with my favorite things printed on the front, and garden tomatoes made my top 3 short list. We tasted juicy heirlooms and dark yellow Sun-golds, and then traipsed through the dirt of the greenhouse to learn about pruning and plant “training.”  (Who knew you could train tomatoes to not only resemble a vine, but produce clusters of 15+ tomatoes instead of the usual 1-2?) I found myself sharing stories of growing tomatoes and sweet corn in central Illinois, and how proper protein is super overrated when you have a plate heaped with thick slices of salted garden tomatoes and “peaches and cream” corn on the cob from Uncle Kent’s field. As we walked to our last station, I was already scheming about adding tomatoes between my yellow roses on our rooftop patio in Sacramento…I just need to get my hands on some heirloom seeds and good dirt.

Speaking of dirt—last stop—composting.  I was in a navy dress and pearls (I’m fresh out of overalls, and somehow thought this was appropriate for a hot farm tour.)  Anyway, poor clothing judgement didn’t keep me from getting really excited about playing in the dirt. I don’t think I made any friends at that stop, however, as the rest of the group backed up a bit when our “teacher” invited us to get messy.  I played with a pile of regular dirt, partially composted-dirt, and super rich composted-dirt. Again, I was thinking through the logistics of a compost pile in the corner of our rooftop back home and chided myself for living the last 20 years without any composting. (Hopefully my husband doesn’t read this until my tomatoes are planted, and compost has begun so he can’t talk me out of being a farm kid in the middle of the city.)

After our stations, we had time to roam aimlessly about the property—a field of Queen Ann’s Lace bordered the back portion of the property with elaborate flower gardens next to the homestead. The “Yellow Farmhouse” has since been converted into a non-profit, educational space for all things regarding nature, farming, and cooking.

Pretty awesome. I was geeking out the entire afternoon and my heart was ready to burst by the time we boarded the bus to head back to the hotel.

**************

My family’s farm (in Metamora, IL) will always be my favorite place, as it’s a collection of my best childhood memories that have gently shaped me into the adult I’ve become.  I didn’t appreciate it too much as a kid, as my idea of a good time wasn’t gathering eggs through chicken poop, walking beans in the summer, or stacking split wood in the cellar.  But a day like yesterday reminds me of the goodness that I knew on the farm because it’s where I learned almost everything that matters to me now.

It’s where I learned about hard work, the power of Faith, the strength of family, how to properly compost, and how to best plant beans in straight lines.  It’s where I learned about broken noses, broken hearts, and broken fence.  I learned how to make jam, strip wallpaper, run a saw, preserve beef and butcher chickens.

It’s where I learned to drive…a 3-wheeler, a tractor, and a 5-speed stick shift on the back gravel road. (What I really learned, was that my dad had/has the patience of a saint, and that his attention to detail and requirement that I listen to all things about proper engine functioning was going to teach me patience, too, as I had to take it all in before I could even start the engine.)

It’s also where I learned to paint, mow in straight lines, play football, recycle before it was easy, and build a mean snow fort.

I credit almost all of my imagination and sometimes excessive creative thought to having a childhood void of pop culture. I learned to play, imagine, create, read, and write, in lieu of TV or radio entertainment.

I know general education, college, higher degrees, and ongoing learning are super important, but I’ll also argue that a proper farm education trumps everything else.

So thanks, mom and dad, for the farm degree and thank you “Yellow Farmhouse,” for the refresher and for carrying on a farm education through each lesson you provide the folks who visit your property.  Maybe you could take a page from Robert Fulghum and create a collection of vignettes: “Everything I need to know about life I learned from the farm.”

I’d buy a copy.

07.19.19
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Meet Zelda–A Cautionary Tale

Tonight, I walked around our hardwood floors barefoot.

I mean, I didn’t limp around the house; I legitimately roamed the kitchen without
insole-d tennis shoes, for the first time in over a year. (I know, I just made insole into an adjective.) This is kind of a big deal, and I mean the walking part, not the grammatical invention.

Just a tad over a year ago, we expanded our little family by beautiful Zelda, who(m) I’d been talking about for years.  The moment we walked East Atlanta and I witnessed pretty mopeds littering the side walk, I was pretty convinced that I needed a moped to buzz around the city streets–you can park anywhere! The little 50-cc model goes up to 45, which is the limit in most of the Atlanta neighborhoods, and I really thought it was my time to own one, but these thoughts were mostly in my daydreams as I sat in crazy traffic most days and had a pipe dream of running around the city after-hours on a smaller, easier way to navigate the packed streets and increasing millennial population.

With almost no adult discussion, Nicholas surprised me on my birthday with 2 helmets…I kind of thought they were intended to be bicycle helmets, as I had been talking about more cardio in our life.  After the 3rd package turned out to be googles, it was clear I had something more motorized in my future.

On July 12th, I worked a Gordon Food Service bash at PREP Atlanta and was a sweaty, exhausted mess when I pulled in our drive. But one view of a mint-green moped hanging out in the driveway perked me up. Nicholas had broccoli in the oven and sous vide pork chops brewing in the kitchen and had just finished packing us for my belated birthday weekend in the mountains.

I didn’t even change out of my Gordon polo and dress pants before Nicholas turned the bike over to me and said, “just run her to the end of the alley and back; dinner is almost ready.”  I hit the gas, got to the end of the alley and mentally scoffed at the idea of turning around. People rent these in Europe all the time–I’ll just take her around the neighborhood. I blew through a few blocks, grinning with the wind in my hair, and then started to circle back. I turned the last corner and came up on Drip and Vickery’s–both with packs of people on the patio. I went to brake as I came up on the boccie court, and rolled the gas handle forward instead.

I nailed the cement curb of the boccie court, flew off, and landed on my right knee. I had quite an audience across the street, so initially, it was only my pride that really smarted until I tried to stand. I couldn’t put any weight down, and my knee had shifted a couple of inches to my right. The pain shot through my leg, and I remember thinking that I must have dislocated my knee, and I just needed to get it popped back into place.  (I mean, when I was a kid, I broke my nose a few times–dad would straighten it out with a good pop in place, and when the blood stopped, I carried on as normal.)

When Nicholas came around the corner, I was still a little dazed, thinking about that relocation procedure and trying not to cry. I wasn’t visibly bleeding, so he assumed I was okay and tried to help me up…and then tears came. I couldn’t walk. At all. It was an act of God to get me on the back of the moped to ride the block back to the house and from there it was holy terror to Urgent Care for X-Rays, then to the Emergency Room for more X-Rays.  5 torn ligaments and a shattered tibia later, I was admitted, but “holding” for a room in Grady’s Trauma Center, as Emory couldn’t or wouldn’t do my surgeries.

I’ve never been admitted to the hospital before, never peed in a bed pan, and never felt so helpless in my entire life.  Nicholas was beside himself, which made it even worse, and the only silver lining was that I had an absolute angel who had a Sixth Sense to get in an Uber to trek downtown before we even knew how bad it was.

My Mother-in-Law, let’s just call her mom from now on, has this bizarre intuition that could probably be a career as a See-er. She said she felt a dark cloud all day that Thursday, and couldn’t place her mood; Nicholas texted her that I had an accident and she was in an Uber in under 5 minutes, sure that I was the black cloud she was feeling and needed to be with us. My leg had swelled beyond what my pants could handle, and she was there in time to help cut my pants off of me and hold my hand in between Nicholas.

The trauma unit was a special kind of hell.  I had 4 screws drilled into my ankle and thigh bone to attach a rod to the outside of my leg, forcing it to straighten out after days of holding it in a bent position from pain.  Once the sun went down, it was all night-terrors; I had to sleep with my leg in the air so that the swelling would reduce as quickly as possible for the second surgery. The walls were thin and I could hear the screams of other trauma patients all night long–there were 3 rooms in a row of screamers and no one could seem to quiet them. It was truly terrifying.  In those moments, I realized that I was likely the luckiest in the wing.

The nurses were either wrapped-out or fresh out of empathy, so struggling with bed pans, wipes, pads and all the other mortifying parts of being bed-ridden were even worse and I’d find myself asking for help and then apologizing for it; They’d forget to give me back a bed pan and leave the room, and then be super annoyed when I mashed the service button for them to come back. They’d fill my water and leave it out of my reach…meanwhile, I’m in soul crushing pain and literally can’t move except when I elevate the bed.

The second surgery repaired my ligaments with cadaver, and “installed” enough metal screws, rods and plates for me to be “bionic Jules” and set off airport alarms.  The pain coming out of surgery was like, well, I’ll be redundant.  It was a special kind of hell. I hallucinated with pain in the days and nights after, and poor Nicholas was alone with me on one of my worst nights.  I was convinced that I was Wonder Woman and I was going to fly off the table, fueled with pain….it was truly awful, and I didn’t have to be the one to watch helplessly.

And then the visitors started…dear friends bringing food that trumped the wilted lettuce and inedible “dinners” that Grady called food. Flowers littered my little room, and while there was no where to sit or spend the night, mom and Nicholas would rotate the schedule to be with me even when I was out cold from meds and pain.

I couldn’t walk for over 3 months, and as we lived in a 3-story town house, I learned to scoot down the stairs on my hiney and borrowed an extra walker from a customer so that I at least had a mode of transportation on a couple floors of the house. It was the heat of the Atlanta summer, and the effort to get ready and get down the stairs to catch an Uber was almost more than I could handle. I’d beg to get out of the house, only to cancel plans half way through the getting ready process because I’d be worn out and in so much pain that I didn’t care about fresh air and lunch anymore.

I was on disability, so I wasn’t supposed to connect with my team, which was insane to me, but the beauty of great relationships is that they usually can transcend the rules, and thank God for the amazing folks I had in my corner who showed up anyway, brought shrimp and grits, and cared enough to risk an extra phone call or house visit.

I learned a lot about relationships, my own expectations of myself and others, and really tried to practice gratitude for the many people in my life who kept showing up, even when it was really hard and inconvenient.  Mom continued to stay with me, bring my coffee to the living room, and “run” the stairs for door deliveries even though her own pain was much worse than mine. (Imagine trying to use a walker with a hot cup of coffee….it’s a real juggling act and never ended well.)

Friends came with goofy t-shirts, a croqueted bag to hang on the front of my walker for incidentals and silly coloring books and bubble wrap to add levity to an otherwise mundane day of pain, naps, and self pity.

Nicholas would come home with his usual “babaloo!?” greeting as he walked in the door and somehow put aside the stress of his day to check in on me, order or cook dinner, and be my safe space to remind me that this is just a chapter, and I would eventually recover. But my cabin fever was real, and I had an incredibly hard time staying positive as I couldn’t see past the pain, immobility and reliance on everyone else to do everything for me, from bringing food, cleaning my kitchen, picking up dry cleaning, and making grocery runs.  It’s quite humbling, as a control freak, to ask for help on nearly everything.

I packed away my cute wedges, heels, and flip flops, as once I was able to start walking, I could only wear the ugliest of shoes and still limped with pain with each step. It’s crazy how much I’d taken for granted the simplest life tasks of being able to get in and out of cars, walk like a “normal” person, and have the strength to run the most ordinary of errands.

I returned to work, attempted to be as normal as possible and jump back into all the work that leading a team can entail, but I felt like everyone expected me to be 100% and I wasn’t even close. My work ethic didn’t cooperate with what I innately knew were my physical limits; I felt like I was mentally drinking from a fire hose to get caught up, and then my body would shut down my best laid plans.

This is all to say that it was an incredibly rough season; I’m so grateful for the friends and family that loved us through this time, and as I come up on my “year anniversary” of multiple surgeries, I’m reflecting on that season, what it built in me, and what I learned about the folks in our corner who were willing to put their plans on hold to helps me/us out. We moved during my continued PT and I still (in theory) have a couple of months left before I’ll be cleared for everything except running. I don’t normally run unless I’m being chased, but I at least want that option, which will come in 1-2 years, according to the doctors.

While I’ll likely never be able to be as active as I once was, I’m grateful that it wasn’t any worse, that I had somehow signed up for disability for the first time with work, and that we had enough outside love and support to see us through a time that felt very dark and endless.

So walking barefoot? That’s a big deal; and while I know it seems ordinary to anyone else, it marks another stage in my progress, and requires a moment to really remember the pain, disappointment, cabin fever, and vulnerability that I felt then and contrast with the gratitude for the life I have one year later.

What a difference a year can make.

PS– Zelda’s name sake is from the 20s, Fitzgerald, and all things flapper.

07.13.19
by

Big Love and Mullets: A Rocke Family Anecdote

Family can be hard.

You can’t choose them or change them, but I’ve learned to love them hard for a million reasons. And the older I get, the more I appreciate our differences because the one thing that’s constant is the big love we share, and the even bigger love my parents have instilled for us to have Faith; over the years, they’ve really embraced whatever that Faith and Belief looks like for each of us, as we’ve not always chosen the same path, and while that has created some momentary dissonance, in the end, great love and faith has always trumped all the idiosyncrasies….and as I try really hard to root all things in gratitude, I’m most thankful for the nimbleness of our family and the willingness to really try to understand and table judgement in the name of a bigger love.

I mean, we might share the genetic “fisherman’s nose” (sorry Jeff, you and I got that one honest from Dad and Grandpa Rocke) but sometimes the similarities can end there. We all grew up in this DIY world together on Rural Route 1 (yes, that’s a real address) but we couldn’t have turned out more differently. But that’s what makes the Rocke clan pretty awesome–we still make massive effort to gather together even though we’re as different as you could imagine.

My oldest brother is a father of 5 kiddos (can you imagine??) and the Elder of our family’s church in Minneapolis; he is the master-mind and owner of an engineering company and his daily tasks are so far over my IQ that I have to take notes on things to Google later so he won’t think I’m a complete idiot.  (As I’m writing this, I’m not even sure that it’s an engineering company…but again, over my intelligence level. It’s something important.) Being the oldest (especially of 5) comes with its own set of challenges, none that I pretend to understand, and he continues to be our leader of sorts and make time for family shenanigans even when I know that it has to come from some personal sacrifice.

My only sister is an interior design genius that left an architecture firm to go out on her own a few years ago, and is a super-mom (of 3) who literally has her hands in every possible honey pot in Bloomington, IL. You need her to bring food for 150 high school kids after the Joseph Musical? No worries. Give her 2 hours notice. Want her to run Bible School or the Vacation Bible School program? She’ll do it in her sleep while she coordinates a mission trip to a remote place with no running water. I need a Xanax and stiff drink after hearing about her day, but meanwhile, she’s already on to saving whales or planning to re-do the entire backyard without using a handyman (insert her husband here, but I’m just focusing on the core 5 here.)

My middle brother is a total unicorn. (Sorry, Brad…but I always joked your fashion style would never find you a wife…lol.) But he married young, had 4 amazing kids and started his own Ag company before being an entrepreneur was even a thing. Like my eldest brother, if you ask him about his business, it’s so complicated I feel like I need a translator just to have appropriate responses. I do care, but it’s so over my head that I resort back to that big love concept and just embrace that he’s happy and try not to have a brain implosion when I try to understand better. He’s the calm, even voice of us kids, as I don’t know that I’ve ever heard him get loud or irrational like the rest of us so easily do. (And his little bum was just too cute not to share here.)

And my littlest bro…he’s the family trail blazer…He’s always been the strong willed one who knew what he wanted before anyone else could even hope to start tracking; we spent the most time together “on the homestead” before the West called him for ranching and all the wild things that entails, but he’s the hardest lover…we used to fight and act crazy, but I always knew he had my back and would love me over the disagreement. He’s the awesome dad of 3 kids…and he’s a grandpa..which is amazing and hilarious at the same time, considering he’s the youngest of us that had kids. In a lot of ways, he’s been my person as we’ve gotten older, which is pretty wild if you see us together, as he’s usually trying to start a farting contest and I’m worried if I picked the right nail color.

I bring up the rear, as the perfect child, of course. Just kidding. Nicholas (my hubs) and I wore matching “Black Sheep” t-shirts to our family bash, and while I think I’m pretty well behaved, it is kind of true…I left for Atlanta when I was 21, met and got engaged to Nicholas in 3 weeks, and later decided we didn’t want to have any children.  We live in California now, and while my life choices haven’t taken the traditional or expected route, my family has embraced our path and only care that we are happy and have some version of spirituality.

All joking aside…we’re an interesting bunch and we love each other in spite of any difference in life choices, and while I’m clearly biased, I think my parents raised a pretty awesome clan.

My parents have been married for 50 years. Seriously?! Can you imagine being married to anyone that long and still look at each other fondly? Well, they do…and my dad shared a bit of their story this week that none of us had heard.

My mom was pretty hard-headed (shocker) and had no plans to every marry. Now that’s something we ironically have/had in common. She was in school at Illinois State to be a teacher, which was somewhat unusual in her time and situation, as women were typically not college bound, and instead were more apt to take a church marriage and settle in to raise children. Somehow, my mom was ahead of her time and managed to not only do both, but do so with 5 hooligans on a farm with little money and the need and/or desire to grow and raise our food, sew our clothes and manage family camping trips every summer.

And my dad was the guy who openly said, “I’ll love her enough for the both of us.” Thankfully, while their engagement began as my mom saying yes because she believed it was God’s plan more than anything, she wound up loving him completely (duh–to know him is to love him) and 50 years later, they’re a love story that we could only hope to replicate. It’s the Faith-based, all encompassing love that transcends all else, and this Rocke, motley crew was and still is fortunate enough to see in action.

I’ve always joked about my parents’ frugality (and I’m a self-proclaimed exaggerator, so sometimes Nicholas doesn’t believe me and I have to fact check to be sure I had the core stories straight.) True story–mom made most of our clothes, matching whenever she could, cut our very uneven mullets (and sometimes permed them) and we all bathed in the same 2 inches of cistern (rain) water.  There was no such thing as expired food (because if it did come from a store and not from the garden) it was never going to waste…insert Mystery Meat Mondays and solutions for spoiled milk. I’ll spare you too many details here.

Their frugality in our childhood and understanding that there are more important things than store bought Levis and Guess sweatshirts were the reason that they could fund a beach trip like we had this week. Their generosity and constant need to make sure we all stay connected is one of the many things that I’m thankful for, as it’s too easy to grow older and grow apart.

We gathered in Hatteras, NC this last week to celebrate them (and my mom’s 70th, though she looks 50) and it was an awesome time to connect, laugh, and share the many stories of childhood with our spouses and kids.

Mom prepped a slideshow of old photos, and I took the liberty of sharing some goods here–hilarious. I know that only folks that know us or grew up in a similar way might be amused, but I wanted to share a taste of our Rocke childhood on RR1 and all the love that grew with us.

So because I like to cheers all things lovely in this world, here’s to you, mom and dad, the beautiful story that you’re still living, and all the goodness you’ve planted in the Rocke kids. I speak for all of us when I say that we love you more than we’ll ever be able to articulate in mere words, and we’re so thankful for your love, your faith, and you’re incredible influence in the adults we’ve all become.

PS–I still claim the kids’ table.

06.28.19
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Big Love and Belly Laughs

Nicholas and I only knew each other for about a week when I met Mom and Poppi–I taught by day and worked nights and weekends at Cafe Au Lait (next to Nicholas’ Target store), so taking off a Sunday to “meet the parents” was a welcome change of pace in lieu of making raspberry lattes and slicing over-priced cheesecake for a clientele that were often my high school students. (Insert humility lessons here.)  Poppi was grilling on the back deck, I went out to meet him, and it was as if we’d known each other forever. He hugged me straight off, started telling stories, and cracking jokes with that big belly laugh. My first memory was all love and laughter, and that couldn’t have been more perfect for me, considering I had moved to Atlanta a semester prior without knowing a soul.

He supported our wild 3-week engagement, kept the groomsmen in order right down to appropriate socks, and loved me as his own. He cooked up a storm every Sunday and there was no better place to be than next to him, stirring the red sauce, dicing garlic, and snitching the sauteed mushrooms for quality control.  The Rat Pack kept us musical company and we only turned it down long enough for Poppi to sit at the head of the table, bless the food and begin stories between bites.  Sundays were an event, and we were in no hurry to break up the dinner table party to clean up the kitchen. The priority was never the sauce-stained table cloth or scraping the meatball remnants from our plates. The priority was God, Family, Love, Food, Stories, and Laughter. In that order. Always.

Poppi is the reason I’m in the food industry now (story cataloged in other Pop blogs) and the reason that I could accept another job in the food industry as of yesterday. I would never have had the courage to even consider a change–but he taught me enough about confidence and cooking to be dangerous, and I took it from there.

Pop had a “weak heart,” the doctors always said, and 5 years ago that heart stopped beating; I like to think that he loved so hard his heart couldn’t keep up.

He was only in my life for 11 years, but that kind of BIG love will sustain me always–I feel him in every great sauce I make and this morning as I was picking 2″ basil leaves, I couldn’t help but think how excited he’d be that it’s growing like a weed in California soil and the homeless folks that terrorize my front flower bed haven’t touched it. I’m pretty sure he’s watching over it and probably spooks anyone who passes with his, “I got two words for you, and it ain’t Happy Birthday!”

But today, Happy Birthday is in order. I know he’s dancing to Sinatra while he sautes onions and San Marzano tomatoes, a rumpled towel over his left shoulder, and his seltzer close.  At some point, he’ll spill sauce from the taste-tester spoon and have a bright red splatter down the front of his white Hanes undershirt–“Italian war medals,” as he called them.

I often have dreams of him and when I started in the food industry, those dreams helped simmer my anxiety and night terrors, reminding me that I have a Heavenly Chef in my corner.  A couple weeks before we moved to California, I had a dream that Poppi and I were in a red sports car burning down Route 66–his laughter was so real and the air smelled like ocean salt and garlic.  Mom was staying with me in Atlanta still; I came downstairs to tell her and she said Poppi talked about a red sports car, and road-tripping the West Coast would have been so his thing. After that, I didn’t question the move anymore, as it felt like Pop’s nod of approval.

Happy Birthday, Poppi. Thank you for teaching us to cook slower, laugh louder, and love harder.

 

 

06.27.19
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The Clean Teeth Tribe

One of the many terrors of moving and packing up our life was the sheer panic when it actually set in that we have to start over and rebuild “our tribe” in Sacramento. I can’t spontaneously drop in on my girlfriends for a quick patio debrief, the swinging door of Sunday Funday no longer exists, the Sangria pool parties are so last season and I can’t Uber mom over to have a Bull marathon for the weekend. (Nicholas’ mom used to Uber over a good bit for weekend sleepovers, and after Nicholas left, she spent every day with me until I left, too.) Now, our tribe has to conquer a 5-hour flight, 3-hour time change, stale airplane breathing and mini bags of unsalted peanuts.

A notable part of our Atlanta tribe included our “PDS Peeps,” as Nicholas invited the (Pacific Dental Service) team and owner-docs over for meetings and social/team building time as often as he could;  eventually, we integrated them with other friends and family and every social gathering at Brasfield Square was sure to have a few Smile Generation folks in tow.

When Zelda (my mint-green moped) and I disagreed last summer and I shattered my knee, PDS was the first to send some love to the Trama Unit; and the love and support didn’t stop there.  We had the best of restaurant and home cooked Indian food delivered to our door, flowers in pink ball jars, thoughtful “couch-bound” care packages, and constant message of encouragement and offers to help. I ugly snot-cried at Nicholas’ going away party, and fully expected the work bonds in Atlanta to be a lucky anomaly that we would be hard pressed to ever find again.

Nicholas had a month head start in Sac, so by the time I moved, he knew enough to be dangerous, and was adjusting well to his team and new work climate, but short of my childhood best friend living in the bay area (anecdote to come), and an acquaintance from Atlanta, I knew no one else. I was prepared to hunker down, find a job, and settle into our new place without much support, as Nicholas has enough on his plate and I can be resilient for a while; what I wasn’t expecting was the Clean Teeth Tribe, California style.

Thoughtful invites rolled in immediately, in a sincere effort to make us feel welcome–local sporting events, farmer’s markets, trendy restaurants, birthday parties; it was so unexpected to be welcomed into intimate friend circles, not just big parties, but small groups where we were invited to meet childhood friends, families, etc.  I even got this rad coffee mug from a doc and his wife from their recent trip to Mexico….and I get texts wishing me well on interviews and checking in on me while Nicholas is traveling. In a world that is so consumed with being busy and relationships seem primarily digital, it is so incredible to be building a new life here based on authentic human connection and compassion that would ordinarily take years.

Last Saturday PDS hosted a mobile dental clinic for the Sacramento Children’s Home, and Nicholas and I went to “help” for the day–there was plenty of support, so I found myself just mingling and getting to know folks throughout the region. Every person I talked to asked me if I like it here, made suggestions on activities or restaurants, and genuinely wanted to know where I was in the job search. We’re so far from home, and yet Saturday I had the first sense of organic belonging and the realization that this is home now.

So here’s thanking our Atlanta “Clean Teeth Tribe” for being our people, loving us hard, and teaching us that job titles and seniority can be left in the bocce court out front while we just share this life thing together.

And here’s to the “Nor-Cal Region” for welcoming us with open arms, including us in pig roasts, brewery parties, and fancy sushi dinners; thank you for caring enough to text me about my pending job interviews, inviting me for dinner when you know Nicholas is in the bay, including us in The Best of Sacramento and local sporting events because you care that we embrace the city and feel integrated.

My headspace feels muddy some days as I’m still interviewing and working through some of my own crazy that’s too personal and inarticulate to try and share, but my gratitude trumps all, and for that, I’m really thankful.

PS– I’m working on a stash of denture ice cubes for a PDS bash…heheh.

 

06.21.19
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De-cluttering & Enemas: a real ‘clean out’ story

My husband, Nicholas, is a bit of a neat freak. He scrubs the counter tops obsessively to make sure there are no streaks, and if I leave a pair of heels on the stairs he breaks into a full body rash. Before I purged for the big move, he would regularly peruse the house for anything he thought he could discard, in spite of the fact that I constantly had a designated “Goodwill” box in the garage to assist in regular clean out.  Last summer, I was couch-bound for 3 months with a shattered knee, and he knew I wouldn’t scoot down multiple stairs on my hiney to check any recent additions to said donation box. And thus, about a quarter of my “treasures” mysteriously disappeared into the abyss of the local Value Village.

In his defense, he’s been (mostly) a good sport about my constant stream of family inheritances (I don’t mean one expensive vase….I mean, boxes and boxes of things from my grandparents, my parents’ farm, childhood things…the list is admittedly excessive.) In the last 4 years, we lost two of my grandparents, Grandma Hodel moved into the local nursing home, and my parents moved off the farm.  All of these changes and transitions were emotional and tricky for me living out of town, and I found myself claiming boxes of country and gospel records, candy dishes, floral china, toothpick holders…I even saved the “1-2-3 Enema!” recipe card from my Great Aunt Edna. I mean, what if Google implodes and I need a little GI assistance to the rescue?  I like to be prepared.

The pending move to Sacramento sent me spinning, and I called in my parents for de-clutter reinforcement. They drove 12 hours South from Central Illinois in their work clothes and tennis shoes with game faces on. I was terrified to leave to-do lists and disappear for work, but I knew that I didn’t really want to know what all they were purging.  I just knew I had to get rid of about 1/3 of our goods, as California real estate thinks everyone made big in the Gold Rush and a square foot costs 2 new borns and a pair of this season’s Frye boots.

Everyone survived the chaos…I mean, some of my things suffered a home displacement, but I couldn’t tell you what’s missing. I look around our Sacramento digs and grin at my little mighty mouse toothpick holder, the pearly white chicken candy dish, and the fancy decanter and shot glasses from Great Aunt Wilma, (who I can only assume had for decor and not functional use).

I appreciate a good de-cluttering session, as it actually has an emotionally cleansing power as well.  I’m thankful for the bits of our families that surround us in a modern

space that hasn’t been lived in before us.  The Pacific Railway runs right behind our patio, and as I type, it rattles my mom’s old metal picnic trays and the lid on the penguin ice bucket from Nicholas’ mom. For a fleeting moment, I forget I’m in the middle of the city and not one of the box car children on a rural adventure from my childhood story books.

I do think I should get a free pass for a year or so on any other clutter commentary from the peanut gallery…and in exchange? I’ll share the family enema recipe.

 

06.18.19
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Atlanta Ambassador Identity Crisis

I’m not originally from Atlanta, but I claimed it as my own, considering my “adult life” began there.

Anyone new to Atlanta was always sent to me–“ask Julie. She’ll give you restaurants to frequent, shops to visit, locations of the best schools, etc.”

Literally, they called me the “Atlanta Ambassador” and I loved it. Everyone got “Atlanta Magazine” the first Christmas, then locally made Atlanta neighborhood coasters, cuff links stamped with ATL…you get the idea. I never thought we’d leave, as my husband’s family and our friend tribe were our stability, and my family was an easy hour flight away.

I didn’t even know where to find Sacramento on the map, so when Nicholas read me an email from his CEO about an opportunity West Coast, I continued my Pinterest board for best new restaurants in Atlanta, and absent-mindedly nodded and smiled in support.

Fast forward 6 months from this seemingly neutral moment, and we’re moved into a townhouse in Sacramento. I mean completely unpacked, flowers and basil planted, security installed, fridge stocked with iced coffee and fruit punch crystal light.

I left a career I loved, the townhouse that we had just finished perfecting, and a chunk of my heart with our family and friends there.  AND, I left my position as the Atlanta Ambassador, of course. 🙂  Talk about some UGLY crying… with an entree-size side of identity crisis.

I didn’t breathe deeply for awhile…maybe weeks…
I unpacked and nested, set up new bill pay, searched for doctors, the best grocery store, a new nail salon, PT for my knee, bought furniture and agonized over a salon that wouldn’t fry my summer blonde.

And then I stopped, let my soul catch up to my body, and realized that a so-called identity crisis is a pretty awesome shot to look at reinvention. I mean, I think I’m pretty rad and am not looking for a do-over, but the next time a neighbor asked me if I did yoga, I thought (well, I used to do yoga…that sounds lovely. Maybe I’ll be a yogi here) and just like that, I “do yoga” 3 times a week in the local park (see sunshine shot below from the perspective of my yoga mat).

I planted the roses I always said I’d have… (the ketchup and mustard variety that are yellow on the outside and red on the inside). I water and chat with them every morning with my iced coffee and folk music before it gets hot and the job applications call me to get busy on my laptop.

Harold, my robin-egg-blue cruiser bike, is my main mode of transportation and if a certain opportunity works out this week, I’ll be able to even ride to work…how liberating is that?

I broke out my pink boxing gloves at a gym around the corner, swapped vodka for mint sun tea and visited the gun range for the first time. I tampered with the idea of wearing primarily camouflage fashion and going by GI-Jules, but my pearls look a little out of place, so that didn’t last long.  🙂

Nothing like the panic of leaving everything I know behind, and finding sheer liberation in the process.

I’m thankful for life’s changes that have given me time to reflect, breathe, reinvent, be intentional, and breathe some more…

10.23.18
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My Best Piece

February 8th, 2003…the night we got engaged. Three weeks after our first date. 🙂

October 18th, 2003 in Miller Park, Bloomington, Illinois.

One of our cruise adventures.

Happy Anniversary, Shug.  15 years of our journey together flooded my mind late last night, and for the first time in awhile, I wanted to get to some writing again, and I just wanted to catalog a few things…

We met and got engaged in 3 weeks. I mean, who does that? You could have been an ax-murderer and I wouldn’t have known yet…truth is, I just followed my intuition when you popped the question. I knew I wanted to spend my life with you, so why postpone any of the good stuff?  I didn’t actually know you terribly well (how can you in 3 weeks?)…but I figured I’d have the rest of my life to do that. I taught and coached high school and worked nights and weekends in a coffee shop, and you were working all kinds of crazy hours at Target, so our time together was any and all seconds in between; meanwhile, I hadn’t caught my family or friends up so 3 weeks and no warning? Obviously, everyone freaked out.

They said we wouldn’t make it. That we didn’t know what love is. We were too young. We didn’t have any money. We had our lovers and supporters too…baffled, but supportive and so excited for us. It’s a blur of both as I think back.  

Marrying you is the best thing I ever did. We say sometimes that “we married our best friend,” but that’s not really true. I didn’t know you well enough to say you were my best friend; you had a million of the qualities that make up the definition, but not enough time invested. Truth is, I fell in love with you, and you became my best friend. In a lot of ways, we “grew up” together, as we learned and changed a lot in our 20s. We consulted each other, and grew and changed enormously in our first decade or so.  I loved you from first words, but you became my best friend after doing life together and maneuvering all the things…good and bad.

It’s not like it’s always easy; we were two very different people jumping into a life together.

You’re a neat freak–like, you clean the counters three times every night before you can sleep well. And I actually enjoy clutter. It makes my heart happy.  Especially old farm trinkets that remind me of my parents or grandparents and have a good story. All the chicken candy dishes and Hodel’s Eggs envelope openers? Yes, please. Any old records or Rocke’s Honey paraphernalia? Yes, I’ll take all of it. You snore louder than all of the late night construction behind our house, and I have the worse night anxiety ever, so some nights, we’re a real hot mess just trying to get some rest (and we don’t even have kids). I have serious ADHD with home projects and will have 5 things started at once with no end in sight. (See my first point; this is not an easy tick to live with for someone who is a neat freak.)  I’m irrational with money–I’ll spend $300 on a spa visit but will almost only shop online consignment for clothes. You love a Nordstrom personal shopper, as if that’s what all the cool kids do. In spite of some of our differences and my ticks that drive you crazy, doing life with you feels like breathing.

Remember when we scrimped each month to have a $14 Chinese dinner at Oriental Kitchen in Auburn? When we had too much sun and too many cocktails at Caesar’s Palace and decided we should tattoo our wedding date in roman numerals? Or changed hotel rooms (and flights) 3 times to monopolize on free rooms in our favorite city? When we started a new adventure in San Antonio without knowing anyone…and had to rely on each other, almost solely? When your Dad died in Panama and we had to maneuver another country and try to figure out death certificates and legal docs in Spanish?  When you transferred back to Atlanta months before my teaching contract was up and we did long distance for a few months? When I broke my foot turning flips on a trampoline and 2 years later shattered my knee on a moped and you took care of me? (Summer of servitude part 1 and part 2.)

I never actually thought I’d get married–I never had the wedding day dreams of the perfect dress, flowers, and handsome groom. I just thought I’d be the cat-lady English teacher who got to go rogue in my single life and travel wherever I wanted–and I was pretty stoked about this idea when I left my hometown for Atlanta. While you hate cats and I gave up teaching 4 years ago, I still get to go rogue and travel wherever I want…with you by my side. How lucky am I?

It’s funny how life turns out in ways I could never have imagined, and I’ll never be more thankful than anything else in my life than our unexpected meeting, quick engagement, and long marriage.

You’ll always be “Mein Bestest Stuck.” (German for My Best Piece.)

XOXO