Thursday, June 21, 2018

Summer Break

Looking back on all the summers that I can remember in my life, I can tell you exactly what I was doing and where I was by the music I was listening to. And likewise, when I hear music from years gone by, I can always connect it to very specific moments from my past. Especially summers.

When I hear Gary Wright's Dreamweaver, it puts me right back into the passenger seat of my dad's Volkswagon microbus on a warm, starry summer night in 1976, as we traveled through the desert on yet another monumental cross-continental trek between Oregon and Texas. Every time I hear "Funky Town" by Lipps Incorporated, I'm transported back to July 1980, when (along with our Japanese foreign exchange student Naoko) I went to summer camp for a week and we had a disco dance on Saturday night. The summer I spent living in Greece, 1989, is indelibly etched into my memory by the music I heard nightly on the Paleohora Club's outdoor dance floor, like Fine Young Cannibal's "Good Thing" and Paula Abdul's "Straight Up."

These days the summers (and music attached to each one) sort of all roll together. Its getting harder and harder for me to pinpoint where I was and what I was listening to each year (although I did try to capture last summer, musically, and you can read - and listen - to it here).

I think its because during the summers of my youth I had more leisure time in the summers, and I spent it exactly the way I was supposed to.  Relaxing. I actually took a break on my summer break. I spent my summers swimming, laying out in the sun, rafting down the river, driving into the mountains with the windows down, falling in love, going to parties, reading books and mixed up in the middle of all that was listening to the hits of summer on the radio. It was always on.

Nowadays I don't get summers off, and although I spend more time driving from here to there, I find myself spending less time listening to the current hits on the radio, and more time listening to This American Life or the news. Listening to the news, as of late, feels like a cross I have to bear rather than something I do because I want to stay on top of what's going on in the world. Yes, of course I want to be informed, but at the same time I am profoundly saddened and disappointed by so much of what I'm hearing, that its painful to listen to. And yet, I do it. Because I refuse to be ignorant just to maintain my personal happiness. 

But this gal needs a break. A summer break.

So I'm making a promise to myself to try to live this summer more like I did in my youth. I'm going to spend more time driving with the windows down. I pledge to raft down the river at least once this summer (maybe twice). I'll go to parties, read a few books, and fall in love more deeply with my husband (Happy 5th Anniversary, my love, you have my heart). And I'm just going to relax more. And maybe sleep.

Lastly, I'm going to start my days listening - and dancing - to the music that I want to remember this summer by. I just figure that if I do this, not only will it be good for my mental and physical health and maybe even lower my blood pressure a bit, but I'm hoping that for the rest of my life - just like the past 50 years - I'll hear these songs and have happy thoughts about the Summer of 2018 to reflect on instead of remembering it as the summer we put children into concentration camps, or the summer my dad broke his hip, or the summer we fired my mom's caregiver for chauffeuring while intoxicated, or the summer I battled the Siphonaptera War (more on that later, after I've caught up on my sleep). Hope you enjoy the music as much as I plan to, but feel free to post your own favorite songs of summer in the comments section below, and perhaps later this summer we can have our own summer dance party (who's got a pool?) and enjoy the summer the way summers are meant to be.

Thursday, June 7, 2018

Ray Ray

Dr Ray

I've made a lot of short speeches to audiences at the Cascade Theatre over the years as Mistress of Ceremonies, but I'm about to make my most important appearance on stage yet this weekend when I deliver the eulogy for my friend Ray Saxer.

I was sitting in the on-air studio, hosting my afternoon radio show late last summer, when Ray walked in - all smiles as usual - and told me he'd been given an expiration date.

"Oh Ray, I've got food in my pantry that expired at least five years ago that I'm still eating. An expiration date is just a guideline," I said, but I immediately broke into tears. That's because I knew what Ray meant. His doctor had told him that his time was up, and had given him six more months to live.

Ray has been my close friend for fifteen years. Really more like a brother. I can't even remember where we met, but our friendship developed at Rene Joule, the little bakery across the street from my office when it opened in 2003. We started meeting up for coffee almost every day. When customers were lined up and they needed help behind the counter, Ray and I both would compete to see who could jump up and help out at the espresso machine. I think there were a lot of people who just thought we were lazy employees who only pitched in when it got busy. When the bakery closed, we started meeting for coffee up at Holiday market instead. And there were dinner parties, attempts to teach me how to wake board (never worked), costume parties (he had the best polyester leisure suit), and when the Cascade Theatre opened, Ray started volunteering behind the bar. He's got his own seat up in the balcony, KK308.

Ray's face was really well known around town. Especially if you ended up behind him in traffic!

Dr. Ray

Ray was also my chiropractor. You probably recognize the photo above, because it was plastered on the back of Ray's truck in an advertisement for his business. Dr. Ray cured not only a lot of my spinal aches and pains, but would let me consult with him about all kinds of other medical issues as well. Ray was also my neighbor, so there were times (many, many times to be honest) when I would ask Ray how early he was planning to be in the office the next day, and he'd just tell me to come up to his house and he'd adjust me in his living room right here, right now. Ray was even known to adjust people's pets from time to time. He was always going the extra mile, doing big favors like it was no big deal.

The Favor

Then one day Ray asked me for a favor. Some mutual friends had set him up on a date. Ray was taking her out to Whiskeytown on his boat, and he wanted to know if I'd go along as his wing man. Well, wing gal. It was weird, I know. But when you think about it, bringing along your best gal friend was actually a really good plan. Kathleen had someone to talk to while Ray was occupied with the mechanics of boating, and there was always a third person to throw up the flag when someone lost their footing water skiing and face planted in the lake.  They had so much in common. Both of them are just gorgeous people. Kathleen was friendly, energetic, as beautiful on the inside as on the outside, and athletic. Just like Ray. I gave her the wing gal seal of approval, not that he needed it. Love was quick to blossom with these two.

Reverend Val, with Kathleen and Ray on their (first) wedding day
It wasn't long before he asked for another favor...would I officiate their wedding? And of course I did, not just once but twice. The first time was a flash wedding on the Sundial Bridge with about ten people in attendance. And then I had to marry them again six months later after both of their families and friends demanded they have a formal wedding with a big reception. I can't blame them. Pretty much everyone Ray ever came into contact with became his friend. Everybody wanted to celebrate with them.

Life happened the way it was supposed to for a few years. There was the honeymoon phase. Then there was real life. There were more costume parties, ball games, birthday parties, two girls to raise, and businesses to run. Eventually Kathleen opened her own coffeehouse, so Ray and I started meeting up for coffee again. Ray's beloved dog Tiff (part canine, part human, part yeti) passed away, but more dogs and cats were introduced to their household.

The Diagnosis

Then in 2010 Ray felt something uncomfortable in his side. He was diagnosed with a rare, incurable form of cancer that grew alarmingly large tumors at a fast rate. But he never said the word cancer. Never. At least not to me. GIST, or Gastro-Intestinal Stromal Tumors is a cancer so rare that the American Cancer Society says only about 4,000 in the United States are diagnosed with it each year. But Ray was a rare guy. He acted like he just had this slightly annoying situation he had to deal with, instead of being diagnosed with a rare, unique cancer that not much is known about except that it kills people.
Have you ever seen a more handsome cancer patient
prepping for surgery?
Ray defied the odds for a long, long time. He refused to be defined by his illness. As an alternative healer, he sought out alternative healing for himself. He got on some experimental drugs that helped a lot, and he just kept chugging along for years. He endured several major surgeries to remove grapefruit sized tumors that left him with a long zipper-like scar up his middle, even had his spleen removed, but he just acted like it was a minor annoyance. He never stopped living his life, never stopped healing others. That energizer bunny just kept hopping along on batteries that never seemed to run down. Ray was a swimmer who kept swimming. A basketball player who kept playing. He was a runner who kept running, even as those tumors slowly started to outpace him. He did it that way for years. Eight years. So long that I think we all got a little lazy. We forgot Ray even had anything wrong with him. But honestly, I think that's exactly how Ray wanted it.

The Last Favor

So back to that day in my office, when Ray told me he'd been given six months to live. He pulled out a handful of papers and asked me for one last favor.

"Would you witness my will?"

That was a tough moment. It made it real. It meant the treatments weren't working anymore, and his doctor didn't think there was anything more that could be done to stop the inevitable. Ray made it clear that he wasn't planning to give up, that there were more options he was planning to explore, and he had a bucket list of things he was going to be methodically checking off (Half Dome and a trip to the Big Easy, to name a few). But just in case, it was probably a good idea to get his affairs in order.

He handed me the papers, and I'll admit I didn't even read them. I just signed them. He told me that the papers went over all the stuff he was leaving to Kathleen, and mentioned that he wanted to be cremated, and wanted his ashes sprinkled at his favorite place on earth, Yosemite.

Ray also told me that he was going to have a huge party. Instead of a funeral when he was gone, he wanted a celebration while he was still around to enjoy it.

In Hawaii, working on that bucket list
Just like he promised, Ray didn't laze around after the doctor suggested he give up. Ray worked on that bucket list. He found another doctor. He underwent more treatments and another surgery, and was determined to keep going. And almost exactly six months later, Ray had that party, on his 57th birthday in March. There were hordes of people there celebrating him for turning another year older. He was all smiles (but then again, when wasn't he), full of good spirits. I could see that he'd lost some more weight and was severely jaundiced, but I really didn't think it would be his last birthday. Maybe I was in denial, but I'd rather think that Ray's magic trick had worked. We all thought he was going to live forever. That he'd get through this. I didn't get much time with Ray at that party. He was in high demand. But at the end, we chatted for a few minutes, and I hugged my friend, and told him I'd see him soon. But that was the last time I'd get to hug him.

Three weeks later, on April 18th, Ray Ray finally slipped into that long final sleep.

It was the next day that Kathleen said, "Well you know what we have to do now, right?"  I had no idea what she was talking about. "After all," she said, "you witnessed it. His will. You must've read it, right?"

I confessed that I hadn't really read it, and with more than a little trepidation I asked her what she was talking about. Kathleen walked over to the desk, pulled out the will, and pointed to the paragraph, right there on the first page. The one that said that when Ray passed, his directives were that he be cremated, his ashes spread at Yosemite, and that at his celebration of life, everyone dress up in 70's costumes.

Yeah, he did that. That was Ray. Always a goofball, always up for a costume party.

Ray flanked by his good buddies Doug (L) and Bruce (R), goofing off, as usual.

The Eulogy

So I've got this amazing day-glo outfit (courtesy of Goodwill) that I'll be wearing when I step out onto the Cascade Theatre stage this Sunday afternoon shortly after 2pm to deliver a eulogy that is fitting for my rare, fun loving friend. I'll tell some stories, we'll listen to some of his favorite music (he loved The Grateful Dead, but he also had a thing for female power rock balladeers like Cher and Taylor Dayne), we'll play some Ray trivia, and then we'll watch a showing of his all-time favorite film on the big screen, "Jaws." It's a fitting film to honor a fun loving guy who grew up in New Jersey, and spent his summers on the beach as a lifeguard.

If Ray was a friend of yours (and I can pretty much guarantee that if you bumped into him on the street even once, you'd consider him a friend), you're invited. And if you can't make it, at least you can listen to Dr. Ray's Favorite Songs. It's the weirdest, goofiest mix of Grateful Dead, Cher and Bruno Mars, but anyone who knew him would agree, it's so Ray Ray.

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Old School (a best of, revised)

To put it mildly, I was kind of a rebel back in the day. I was the kind of kid who liked to march to the beat of my own drum. I just thought I knew what was best for me, and nobody else was going to tell me what to do or how to do it. In fact, if someone attempted to get me to march to the beat of someone else's drum, that was pretty much a guarantee that I was marching the other way. It made things difficult at home, made things difficult at school, and made things difficult at a couple of jobs.

By the way, welcome to a special "School's Almost Out" edition of Mistress of the Mix. It's a best of, sort of, because I wrote a lot of the words you are about to read below three years ago. But they are coming back to haunt me now as I prepare for a stint next weekend deejaying the all night graduation party for the high school my daughter graduated from a few years back. At first it was an honor when they asked me, now I'm kind of kicking myself. I'll get to that later. But first, let's talk about my stubborn independent spirit and then we'll get to how it's sort of come back to bite me in the back door. Twice.

 I was suspended from junior high for a week after standing up in English class and flipping off the teacher, in a verbal manner. She'd given me a C on a creative writing paper. I still don't think I deserved it. I lost my entire allowance countless times because my father would try to get me to behave by methodically docking money every time I didn't shut up. It didn't work. I left my first (and last) fast food job after six weeks, when the Taco Bell night manager instructed me to work the drive thru from register 1 (all the way across the building) instead of putting my drawer into register 6, right next to the window. I thought the way we did it during the day was far more efficient, and he wanted me to do it his way. So I let him do it all by himself.

 When I got to high school, I already knew I'd never run with the 'popular' crowd. I never played any sports, never officially joined any clubs and never got involved with any of the drama or music productions. The closest I ever got to joining anything was signing up for journalism and landing the position of Editorial Editor of the high school newspaper. Because you know how I am. Never seem to have a problem telling anyone how I feel about anything. I was never a cheerleader, never ran for any kind of student office, because I wasn't a dummy. I knew I never had a chance at any kind of major popularity contest. I ran with the punk crowd, was in a punk band and put on punk rock concerts, although truth be told, I was more of a new wave fan.

 But I was most definitely a known entity.

Me in 1984. I'm either laughing hysterically or screaming in agony because my collar's too tight.
 I was loud, never shut up in class, and spent a lot of time in the vice principal's office. I shopped almost exclusively at garage sales and army surplus or secondhand thrift stores. I had a closet full of 25-30 year old clothing that was probably just as ugly and garish when it was brand new. I wore a lot of little old lady dresses covered with gigantic flowers with a studded belts, rubber rain boots and brightly colored fishnet stockings. I was kind of a cross between Cyndi Lauper, Boy George and old school Madonna. I even had earrings made of barbie doll heads, weird hats that I wore over ultra-teased bangs, and the ugliest of ugly chartreuse shirts (which I think I wore for Senior Picture Day). Seriously. Compare these photos with the one above. Don't you see it? Less makeup and no recording contract, but other than that….

I'll tell you just how rebellious I was. Up until the year I graduated, our school had a senior graduation party that was very inclusive. All the students were invited, not just the Seniors. It cost $3.50, but covered the cost of roller skating from 10-midnight, dancing at a disco from then until 2, a movie from 3-5, swimming at the university pool after that, and breakfast at the vice principal's house. If you had a sweetheart that went to another school, no problem….bring 'em along. $3.50. It was a blast. I had so much fun, that I looked forward to my senior all-night party for three years.

And then, just when I was getting ready to graduate, along came M.A.D.D. (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers), and the universal, transcontinental idea of tossing the seniors a party in one location so that there's no driving around, and searching their bags when they come in the door so there'd be no opportunity for any hanky panky.

When the parents gathered all of the seniors together to tell us they were throwing us a party so we didn't have to worry about it, they'd take care of all the details, we were all for it. Until they told us there would be no roller skating. No swimming. No underclassmen invited. No boyfriends from other schools or over a certain age. And the cost? It was somewhere between $25-$50. Doesn't really matter which. We'll pretend it was $25. It was still a buttload of money in 1984, almost ten times what it had been in years past. It was outrageous, and a lot of the students were pissed. The whole school was abuzz. Some started talking about throwing a giant kegger up in the mountains.

I wrote perhaps the best editorial of my young life, listing all the issues we students had with their M.A.D.D. party, and asking them to make some changes to accommodate the students. I showed it to Darin Kavinoky, another Senior, to get his opinion. He turned the paper over,  wrote a quick petition supporting my thesis, signed it, and then passed it around school, where it was signed by several hundred other students, and then printed in the school newspaper, the Rogue News. Later, Darin became a lawyer. I see him giving his expert opinion from time to time on cable TV news shows about the court case du jour. He's even got his own show.

The editorial and petition got the attention of the moms. They wanted to have a meeting. So we met. Just me and them. I had a list of demands. They were unwilling to compromise. On any of them. Even the request to have a room with some pillows where partygoers could simply relax, maybe catch a little shut eye during the 8 hour party. Because what better way to celebrate the graduation into adulthood of 200 eighteen year olds than to search them, lock them in a room for eight hours, refuse to let them sleep, and then raffle off a used car at 6am?

We were at loggerheads.

So I told them I'd just hold my own party. The Ashland Senior High Alternative All Night Party.

I rented the disco for a 2 hour dance party, followed by a movie on a giant wall-sized screen, gave away tons of prizes donated by local businesses, and all of this was followed by breakfast, also donated by a local grocery store. I sold tickets for $3.50.

I'll be honest with you. The M.A.D.D. moms probably thought they'd won the battle, because most of the Seniors went to their party. Even Darin Kavinoky went to their party. In fact he won the freaking car. But my party was also a success, because all of my friends were with me. All the underclassmen were with me. There were friends who went to other schools who were at my party. And we had a blast. Best. Party. Ever. And since all of my friends liked the same weird music that I did (and since I was providing the DJs with the music), it was a bonafide new wave post punk alternative dance riot.

 Sometimes its hard to believe that more than 30 years have gone by since this all happened. Now I'm an old mom. Old enough to be a grandma, actually. Still loudmouthed, opinionated and on occasion I make some pretty strange fashion choices (just ask Linda Bott about the time I thought it might be a good idea to wear a table runner as a scarf on stage). I may be a responsible adult who's pushing 50, but otherwise I'm pretty much that same wild rogue that threw her own alternative all night high school graduation party.

Thirty years after that graduation party, my daughter graduated from high school. And the associated parents of that school asked me if I'd be willing to chair her Senior All Night Party. These days they call it Sober Grad. I tried to tell them that I might not be the best choice. But they didn't listen. We were already at loggerheads right from the beginning. But I did tell them I'd be the DJ.

They had no idea what they were in for.

That was three years ago, when I deejayed Sober Grad, and I'm happy to say everything actually went super smoothly. But I attribute that to the fact that at the time I had a high school senior living in my house. I was subjected to the hot teenage music trends of 2015 every day in my own home. But just to make sure I had my finger on the pulse of the entire student body, I asked my daughter to staple together a few pieces of notebook paper and pass it around to all the seniors, asking them to list their favorite songs current and past so I'd be sure to be as prepared as possible.
Well. Wouldn't you know it, they've asked me to do it again for the Class of 2018. Only things aren't working out so well this time. First, I asked my daughter if she'd come home from college that weekend to partner up with me. Three months ago when I committed to the gig, she committed as well. Now she's backed out, because she's got a film shoot that weekend. Priorities. Sigh. But she did reach out to a few current students on Facebook, asking for some of their favorite songs. I got a few. Not a lot. Then I reached out to another student at the school who I've known since she was a baby to ask if she could help me get a list going. She was gung ho, for about five minutes, and has now sent me her apologies for sort of flaking out, but did offer me a Spotify playlist given to her by a Senior girl called "Dance" that supposedly had songs that the Class of 2018 would really enjoy hearing at their party.

That list. Damn that list.

My daughter had already given me that same list. The exact same list from the exact same student. I won't mention her name, but there is no way I can play 96% of the songs on that list. All but two would never be approved by Tipper Gore. And back in the day, I had a bone of contention with her about her parental advisory stickers, but now, at the age of more than fifty, as I get set to play loud music for a bunch of high school kids locked in a building overnight with their parents listening in with their judgey ears, I just can't afford to be the rebel I used to be. I need that "Explicit Content" sticker so I know which songs to avoid at all costs.

Back to the "Dance" playlist. I thought that word referred to kids getting out on the dance floor and whooping it up. But no. If I'm to take this Senior at her word (or rather her choice of music), the dancing that's popular with the kids these days consists of dancing on a pole and twerking.

I'd like to share the lyrics with you, really I would, but I just can't even. Instead, let me just try to describe the first handful of songs that have been offered for my consideration. The first song, "Yiken" by Priceless Da Roc, is rapped by an African American male who is encouraging a woman to twerk her bottom down onto his appendage. Of course he doesn't use the word African American to describe himself, nor the word woman, and not the word bottom or appendage. Thirty times he used those words.
Priceless Da Roq. That outfit is priceless. 

I moved on to the next song, "Panoramic" by Dmac. Different African American man rapping about the same exact topic. About thirty seconds into the song he'd already used the N word three times, so.... next.

I just had to stop listening after the chorus of "Ayy Ladies" by Travis Porter, in which Mr. Porter discusses his intense desire for this...

 ...or perhaps to find a woman who will let him go in through the back door without putting up too much of a fight. What is that even about? (Just kidding. I know.)

So this whole exercise of being horrified over the list of songs these teenagers would like me to play (that I'm totally not going to play) has left me feeling like the biggest hypocrit and a fuddy duddy. I feel irrelevant. I feel like a puritan. I used to think I was pretty hip for a mom. Now I don't feel old school. I just feel old.

I'm kind of feeling sorry for myself. But I'm not giving up. I've only got a week to pull this together though, so help me out, would ya?

Some of you have teenagers, right? Some of you know what's what, and can help out a poor former punk and current classical music goddess tap into current music trends for high school seniors that don't rely on the N word? If you've got a teenager in the house, sit down with them and have them list a few songs for me in the comments section below, would ya?

In the meantime, I've been thinking about all the music I used to listen to back when I was in high school. The music I thought was cutting edge and alternative, and bordering on unacceptable, but compared to the audio assault my ears took on listening to just a few songs on that damned list, my 80's alternative music seems more on par with Christopher Cross and Barry Manilow now.

Its so depressing.

Anyway, check out this playlist of my favorite songs from high school days. There's only one little teeny tiny reference to masturbation, and one caca word, if memory serves (but it might not. I'm old). I hope you enjoy the A-Z New Wave playlist, and wish me luck. I'm gonna need it next week.

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

My Big Fat Gay Playlist

I'll be brief.

I'm taking you back to probably the year 2005. My eight year old daughter seemed a little confused. She was looking at a photo in my office and said to me, "No mama. That's not right." It was a group photo of dancers posing after a performance at a New Year's Eve fundraiser for the Cascade Theatre, and I was pointing out the people she knew.

I said, "There's Jana, there's James Santos, and there's his husband Brian."

She looked up at me, and said, "No mama. That's not right. Husbands don't have husbands. Husbands have wives."

I was kind of hoping she'd say that, because it finally gave me the opportunity to have a teaching moment. A good teaching moment, but one that had just never come up before in discussion.

"Well, actually, some husbands do have husbands. And some women have wives. It's allowed in Hawaii, Massachusetts, and eventually, someday, all the other states will get on board. At least I hope so. Because if you want to get married, and share a house and a bank account and maybe some kids with someone, I don't think it should matter if that person has the same plumbing as you do or not. So yeah, James and Brian are married."

I still think that was one of the most important lessons I ever taught her. That love is love is love. And between consenting adults, the heart doesn't necessarily care whether you have a penis or a vagina.

"Oh," she said. "That's cool."

And that was that. I was kind of surprised at the time that no more discussion was needed or expected on the topic. But I've also learned that while children need to be taught how to hate, they understand love.

That's all I think I really need to say about Shasta County's issue du jour. Except for the Big Fat Gay Playlist below that my daughter (now a Senior at Southern Oregon University, one of the most LGBT+ friendly universities in the nation) put together for you to enjoy.

I sure am glad that lesson stuck.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018


We sat there, dumbfounded, looking at my husband's DNA test results. At the top of the list, was a woman who - according to science - is my husband's first cousin. We didn't recognize her name. As first cousins, they'd share the same grandparents.  We clicked on her family tree. We didn't recognize any of her grandparents names either.

If you're just tuning in, before you go any further you should probably take a few minutes to back and read the last installment of the Mistress of the Mix - DNA Part One - where I began sharing my husband's journey to find his father. It's an incredible and touching story. But it's also gonna get read sad, real quick.

So back to Eddie and I, sitting in front of the computer. We didn't recognize the cousin's name. We didn't recognize the names of her parents or grandparents, either: Doyle, O'Farrell, Boren and Willis.

"These people are your grandparents, Eddie. Do you recognize anything about their names?"  He stared at the screen and shook his head. But I did. Somehow, I did. I couldn't tell you why my eyes kept going back to one particular name. I knew I'd come across it somewhere before, but it was stuffed so far back into the file cabinet of my brain, that I knew it would be impossible to ever retrieve the mental information.

So I picked up the phone and Facetimed the one person I knew would have the answer. Laura, Eddie's  middle sister.

I said, "Hey, Eddie and are sitting here looking at his DNA test results, and I have a question for you. Does the name Boren sound familiar?"

Laura started jumping up and down and shouted, "I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! I told you all along! It was the neighbor! That was the last name of the man mom used to disappear into the barn with! He was grandpa's next door neighbor!"

Indeed, as we looked into it further, we realized that the theory we had initially laughed off was correct. When Eddie's mom Margaret and her first husband Buddy split up, she and her two daughters went to stay with her parents, who lived in a duplex for Weyerhauser employee families in the little unincorporated community of Allegany in a very rural part of Coos County. On the other side of the duplex lived Ed Boren and his family.

Ed. His name was Ed.  My husband carried a last name that didn't really belong to him, but he had his father's first name. We'll never know if Margaret intentionally named Eddie after his biological father, or if Ed even knew that their tryst in the barn had resulted in creating a life, just like we'll never know if it was just a one time roll in the hay, or an affair of the heart that lasted years.

That's because they're all gone.

Margaret's remains are buried next to her grandmother in a little pioneer cemetery overlooking Emigrant Lake outside of Ashland. She passed two years ago when she tripped and fell while helping a friend up a short flight of stairs and hit her head.

Ed Boren's wife of 50 years, Faye, is also dead. We don't know for sure where her remains are located. But the funeral home that performed the cremation told me that they'd released them to Ed & Faye's daughter Vana who claimed that her intent was to bury her mother's ashes in a small cemetery behind their house, and they told me there's no reason to believe that she didn't follow through on that plan.

Except that Vana was arrested shortly after that and charged with murder. The story is so sad, so unbelievably awful, that I really don't even want to share it. I mean, we are talking about my husband's newly discovered half sister. So I'll try to be brief. But the murder she was charged with was her own mother's.

That's why the last name seemed somehow familiar. I'd read the headlines in the Coos Bay newspaper two years earlier, when Vana was in court pleading guilty to a lesser charge of manslaughter for neglecting her bedridden mother until the bed sores rotted away her flesh, exposing ribs and the metal of her hip implants. The medical examiner said it was the worst case of elder abuse he'd ever seen.

The article in the newspaper started out like this. "Emotionally shaken and weeping throughout the proceeding, Vana Boren stood before Coos County Judge Martin Stone and admitted that she contributed to the death of her mother last year." Vana, in a jail issued red jump suit and metal shackles, threw herself on the mercy of the court, and is now serving a pretty light sentence, all things considered. She'll serve less than seven years.

And of course, there's Eddie's biological father, Ed. We know where he is too. Ed died fifteen years ago, and was laid to rest in the Allegany cemetery. I found his newspaper obituary that told us he had been a log truck driver for Weyerhauser. He left behind a wife, a daughter, and a dog named Dude. The obit said he took pride in helping his daughter show her horse in 4-H, and Ed looked forward to fishing on the Snake River every summer.

Over the next few weeks, we found out a lot about Eddie's real father. I used the names in the obituary to start looking for cousins and aunts that I eventually tracked down on Facebook. We wrote to his half-sister in prison. She still hasn't written back. But one of the cousins accepted my friend request. She admitted to stalking Eddie's Facebook page (its not as if we hadn't done the same to hers), and said she could totally see the resemblance between Eddie and her favorite Uncle Ed.

That was the first time Eddie broke down and cried. When she wrote the words Uncle Ed.

See, that's what everybody calls my husband. Uncle Ed. Not just his sister's kids. Not just my nieces. But all of the kids in the families that my husband has adopted over the years. His buddy's kids, the neighbor's kids that he babysat, they all call him Uncle Ed, and he prides himself on being everybody's favorite uncle. He's the one that buys the most enormous Christmas presents every year. He's the one that walks into the house, opens the fridge, and says, "Come on kids, let's go to the store and get some food to put in that thing."

He never knew where that kind of care-taking gene came from, because it certainly didn't come from the people he thought were his parents. But somehow, Eddie had become the fierce protector of those he thought were incapable of defending themselves, which has not always ended well for him. But that's another story that will probably have to wait for that book I'm slowly writing.

The misty Millicoma River, near Allegany Oregon.
A few Saturdays ago, while my husband was up in Coos Bay visiting his sister Laura for the weekend, I called him and asked him what he was doing. He said he was sitting in his car, watching a tugboat hauling its freight across the bay. I said, "Why don't you go meet your father?"

We still hadn't seen even a photo of Ed. All we had was a description of him and a rough idea of where he was. There was no street address, only GPS coordinates of the Allegany cemetery. We knew it was up the Millicoma River near a little cluster of houses just past the old store, where the road forks. I texted Eddie a Google map aerial shot of the community pointing out where I thought the cemetery might be located, and he started driving up the river.

The screenshot I texted Eddie showing the tiny community of Allegany at the fork in the road.

I told him once he got to the fork to look for a road that went up the hill past the houses, and to start looking for the graveyard. Maybe it was by the church. Then the phone connection went dead, and I didn't hear back from him again for hours.

I waited for an eternity before he called me back, with the news of an incredible experience. He said that when he turned off the road, he found the little cluster of houses and the church. But no graveyard. He got out, looked around, and saw nothing moving except for a few dogs. He was ready to give up looking and was heading back to the car, when a man exited one of the homes to calm his dogs, and called out to Eddie, gently confronting him about why he was there.

Eddie said, "Well, funny story... my wife bought me a DNA test for Christmas to find out who my father is, and as it turns out, he's supposedly buried in a cemetery up here, only I can't find it. I was hoping to visit his grave. His name is Ed Boren."

The man just stared at Eddie. Not the stare down of a suspicious man protecting his home any longer, but the stare of a man taking him in, and recognizing the shadow of his old neighbor in my husband. The man opened the door, and invited him in. They sat down, and introduced themselves. Blaine Messerle began introducing Eddie to Ed Boren through his memories. He told him about the time the motor on the boat quit working while they were fishing on the river, and they had to break off branches from trees on the bank to paddle back up stream. He shared more information about the family tragedy that had ripped apart the community. He explained that Ed had been sort of the commander in chief of Allegany. He was a man who never raised his voice, but didn't tolerate drugs or troublemakers. Then after Ed passed, it was his own daughter who brought drugs and trouble into the family home. Things that would make Ed roll over in his grave.
Eddie at the top of hill next to the cemetery, overlooking the Allegany valley.
When they parted ways and Eddie started back towards his car, the neighbor pointed out a  green house up at the top of the hill, with a gate beyond it."That was your dad's house," he told him. Now it belonged to someone else who was in the process of saving it from disrepair. It had been sold, along with Vana's horse, to pay the defense attorney. "Go through that gate, and on up to the top of the hill. You'll find the cemetery. That's where your dad is buried. It's on private property, but I'm giving you permission to go up there. And after you're done, go down to the road, take a right, and visit Roger Lott. First house on the left." Eddie said he didn't want to bother another neighbor, but the man told Eddie that he really should go talk to Roger, who had lived in Allegany all his life and knew everyone. He was certain to have more  information that could help, he said.

Eddie thanked him, saying "I hope its okay that I come up here from time to time and ask questions to find out information. I just never even met him, so I don't know anything about him."

Blaine smiled. "Well, you can get to know him through us."

 Eddie finally made his way through the gate, up the road, and parked his car next to the small Allegany cemetery. He scanned the 84 graves, wondering where to start looking for Ed's. When Eddie had started looking for his great grandmother's grave ten years earlier, he had started on the left (and of course hers was the very last grave on the right), but old habits die hard. So he tromped through the spongy mixture of tree needles and moss over to the far left, and there it was. The first stone he walked up to. Edward Boren. US Army. Sep 15 1927 - Nov 23 2002. A hunter and fisherman. Eddie, meet Ed.

I don't know what Eddie said as he met his father for the first time, kneeling at his grave, wiping away fallen leaves and moss creeping through the engraved letters on his gravestone, but I know he talked to him. That's so Eddie. I know he felt an incredible sense of peace and closure, finally having the answer to the biggest question of his life. And yet, there was a sense of loss for a man he never knew, and most likely never would have been given the opportunity to know. The tears that flowed from Eddie over the discovery weren't in anger towards his mother for keeping his father's identity a secret his entire life, and not for the confusion of realizing he wasn't at all who he thought he was, but rather for the missed opportunity to have a father who might have taken him camping, fishing or trudging through the woods looking for a legal buck. He never had that.

Eventually he left the cemetery, planning to skip visiting Roger Lott and just heading back home, reluctant to show up unannounced on another stranger's doorstep. But Blaine had been so sure that Eddie should visit him, that he found himself pulling up to the Lott house. He walked up to the porch, knocked on the door, and went through the awkward, yet almost identical experience of presenting himself to Roger. The door opened partially, and he was greeted initially with some suspicion. As soon as Eddie explained who he was, the old man squinted at Eddie, and then he nodded, and said, "Yep, I can see it. You're his. Well come on in," and the door opened the rest of the way. They ended up talking for three hours.

Roger Lott had known Ed Boren for about 50 years. Not only that, he also knew Eddie's grandfather on his mother's side, back when the two families lived on opposite sides of the duplex. Back when Eddie was conceived. He remembered the day Weyerhauser's yarder tower tipped over and landed on Eddie's grandfather as he tried to make a run for it, breaking his back. He told Eddie the history of Allegany and how the Lott family operated the dairy boat that not only dropped off milk in the mornings, but picked up kids and delivered them to school. Roger said that Ed was a heavy smoker, and had been diagnosed with lung cancer, but a massive heart attack had killed him before the cancer could.

Roger also addressed Vana's neglect of her mother that led to Faye's death, and how it impacted the community. He said that after Vana was arrested, people began to break into the abandoned family home and had stolen pretty much everything that wasn't nailed down. It was then that he got a funny look on his face, and said, "You know what? I have something for you."

As the community had come together to try to save the house from ruin when it became vacant, someone had grabbed an item off the wall from Ed's house and brought it to Roger, the self-appointed historian of Allegany. Something that had no value to the tweakers and vandals, and seemed a shame to throw away. Roger had held on to it since there didn't seem anyone left to give it to. Until Eddie came along.

Roger went across the room and picked up a large homemade frame that had been fashioned out of a couple of tree branches and some fishing lures, and fastened together with common nails and twine. He handed it to Eddie, and said, "I think you should have this, if you want it."

The homemade frame 
In the frame were five photos in a collage that displayed the life and career of Ed Boren. A man in a blue checkered shirt, jeans and an orange hard hat. A man who had the same hairline, the same belly, the same stance, the same proud, extroverted smile as my husband. In one photo he stood in front of his logging truck. In others, he was in the truck. The last photograph was older, a black & white from 1960. It was a panorama of the Weyerhauser logging operation up the river that showed not only Ed's logging truck, but standing tall in the distance was the yarder tower Eddie's grandfather had operated back in the day, before his accident.

Did he want it? Oh yeah, he wanted it.

It might seem strange that my husband found such great comfort in this artifact from a man he never met; a man who's only connection in his life was to provide the sperm that fertilized an egg. It might also seem odd that a man whom he never met, and will forever be separated from by six feet of dirt became a father figure simply by finally identifying who he was. However, when you consider that for 52 years Eddie thought that the sperm donor responsible for half of his DNA was either a wife beating spiteful kidnapper, or a terror inflicting heroin addict who died in prison, this new information indicating his DNA came from a pretty regular guy was a huge relief.

Although Eddie's creation story involved a man who sneaked into the barn with the neighbor lady when his wife wasn't looking, there are some striking similarities that made so much sense to Eddie. Ed loved his family. His sibling was his best friend. He was a fierce protector of his community. He was a man who loved to wear a hardhat and work in the forest. He played hard, and enjoyed hunting and fishing, taking his boat out on the river, and telling boisterous, exaggerated stories. He loved life, and was everyone's favorite uncle. These things are also the core of Eddie. As if it was in his DNA.

Eddie drove home with the frame on the seat beside him, feeling a great sense of closure that he never thought he'd have. Eddie was finally getting the chance to shut the barn door on the life he believed he was destined to be shackled to, and open a new door to living the life he had created for himself.

When I shared the first half of Eddie's DNA journey, I created a DNA playlist. I received a lot of additional great song suggestions from readers that I was fortunate to be able to incorporate into the DNA - Part 2 Playlist, along with a couple of songs about hooking up in the barn. And if you've got more songs or DNA journeys or questions of your own, please share them in the comments section below. Maybe I can even help you solve your own family history mystery.


Thursday, March 22, 2018

DNA - Part One

I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Not just because it involves my husband crying some pretty hard tears and spilling family secrets, but because it kind of gives away the ending... the end of the blockbuster movie about my husband's life, just before the screen fades to black and the credits start to roll. And there will be one. Someday. Mark my words. I'll have to write the book first, then adapt it for a screen play. But every time I sit down to put the story of his life into words for you to read, it starts playing out in my head like a movie.

Let me set the scene for you, the way I see it in the theater of my brain. In the movie starring Matthew McConnaughey or maybe Owen Wilson. Its a misty Saturday afternoon in March on the Oregon coast. Fog rolls down through the Millicoma River valley off the hills, logged long ago by Weyerhauser. Where the west and east forks of the river meet, there's a small community named Allegany. Its mostly retired loggers and ranch workers. There's a total of about ten houses not counting the barns, a church, and a post office.  The store shut down years ago, but its still there. Someone's living in it. There's a little graveyard, but its on private property. You have to know how to find it. Its just past the last house on the right, through a gate, past a clear cut and tucked back among the Douglas Fir and Myrtlewood trees.  Kneeling down at the first grave on the far left is a 52 year old man meeting his father for the first time. He wipes away the moss from the engraved words on the cement marker, and wipes away the tears falling down his face as he mourns the missed opportunity of a father-son relationship.

That man - the one on his knees - is my husband.

When he was born in the fall of 1965, Eddie was given the last name of a man his mother had already divorced, but Margaret went to her grave swearing that man was his father. Their paths crossed only once, and that was on a telephone line. It was Eddie's 14th birthday. He was living in Eugene with his oldest sister after getting kicked out of school for fighting. For punching the principal, actually. He was trying to get a fresh start in a new town where his reputation wouldn't follow him. Or any school where the principal would take him. The phone rang, and on the other end was a man who's name he recognized only because they had the same last name.

He got right to the point. "I'm calling to tell you I'm not your dad. Your old enough to know. It ain't me. Your mom and I were divorced a year before you were born (which wasn't true), and I was gone long before that."

That part was true.

Buddy had left, then come back later and kidnapped the middle sister Laura, who was almost four. He walked right into his in-laws house where Margaret had taken her two daughters after they split up, and grabbed her. Ten year old Kathy held onto his arm and wailed, pleading for her daddy to take her instead and leave Laura, or just take her too. Not because things were bad at the grandparents house, but because she was afraid of what might happen to Laura if Kathy wasn't there to protect her.

But Buddy shook her off, threw Laura in the car and drove off down the road, Kathy running after him, crying. Buddy ended up taking his little girl all the way to Colorado. Then once he got there, he dumped her at his mother's house, telling her that Margaret didn't want her because she was sickly. The grandmother didn't ask questions, she just cared for the little girl until the sheriff showed up one day months later and started asking questions. Then the FBI showed up, and Laura was returned to Oregon. At least that's how the story gets told at family gatherings. We always assumed that when Buddy returned to kidnap Laura, somehow Eddie was conceived. That maybe Eddie was the product of rape.

Buddy told Eddie that if he didn't believe him, he should check the divorce papers. He even told him where to look, saying they were probably in that metal suitcase Margaret kept under her bed. If he had, which he didn't, Eddie would've seen that Margaret was granted a divorce in July of 1965 for reasons of cruel and inhuman treatment, which was a recurring theme with Buddy.

Buddy said a few more unkind words about his ex-wife, Eddie called him a son of a bitch, and the phone call ended. And that was it. The only conversation he'd ever have with his father while he was alive.

Until the DNA test.

Eddie always thought there was a chance Buddy might've been telling the truth. He had no idea what Buddy looked like, had never even seen a photo. But his oldest sister is small boned with a thin nose and dark hair.  Eddie is considerably more solid with strawberry blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. She looks southern European, and he could pass as a Viking. Or look really good in a kilt. His nose is rounder. His belly is rounder. But maybe that's just the pizza and ice cream.

We were discussing those differences about a year ago while visiting with the sisters, musing over their potential lineage when I suggested a DNA test.

Eddie said he thought it might finally tell him if his real father was indeed Buddy, or if it was another man, specifically his mom's next long term boyfriend, Donald. Donald - whose nickname was Red - died in prison, so they were told. But the kids remember him. Oh, they remember him. But that's another story. One I'm saving for that novel. But the short story on Donald is that he was a heroin addict with a mean streak who inflicted the kind of trauma on his family that no kid should ever experience.

Laura offered the theory that if Buddy wasn't his dad, she thought the most likely candidate would be one of the neighbors mom was always disappearing into the barn with. We all laughed, but then Laura said she thought there was a good chance that they each might have different fathers, and perhaps they should all get tested. Kathy chimed in and said that when Buddy had kidnapped Laura, and she had begged him to take her along, Buddy's reply was that he didn't think Kathy was actually his daughter, and the only one he was positive was really his - was Laura. One thing the three kids that shared the Tompkins name knew without a doubt was this: whether they were all full siblings, all half siblings or somewhere in between, they were family. And that would never change.

Eddie unwrapped his DNA test on Christmas morning, spit into a tube, and got the results back a month later. In the meantime, I had done extensive research on both Buddy and Donald. I knew they had both gone on to father other children. I knew Donald had a daughter who, coincidentally, lived right here in Shasta County near her mother for a time. She's got about 14 Facebook accounts, a new one for each time she got out of jail and got a new smart phone. There was even a small write-up about one of her arrests a few years ago in the local rag. We were nervous about the idea of reaching out to her, so we didn't, until we knew for sure. But I researched the family just in case, and knew all the surnames of his direct ancestors going back a few hundred years.

I could take Buddy's family back to the 16th century. His ancestors were some of the first settlers at Plymouth Rock. More recently, I knew Buddy had a daughter Linda in Kansas. Far enough away that it was safe to reach out. She was pretty, with the same black hair and thin face that Kathy has. Those two looked like they could be sisters. We connected. I asked her if she'd be willing to take a DNA test, and sent her one.

I also knew that Buddy and Donald were both dead, and had been for years.

The day we got the test results back, we logged in to Ancestry, and clicked on DNA matches. Linda had gotten hers back the day before, so if they were siblings, she should be at the top of the list.

Nope. She wasn't there at all.

"Well, that's settled," I told him as we looked at the computer screen. "Buddy was telling the truth. He's not your dad."

Even though no sibling came up as a match, there was one - a woman - listed as a close enough match that she was most likely Eddie's first cousin. That meant they shared a set of grandparents. She only had seven people listed in her family tree. We didn't recognize the woman's name, and were confident that she was not a cousin on Eddie's mother's side. This was the link to his father. Her grandparents were Doyle, O'Farrell, Boren and Willis. Names that weren't found anywhere on any of the family trees I'd created over the past ten years. Not his mothers, not Buddy's, not Donald's. They were all completely unfamiliar.

"I always knew I was adopted!"

"You were not adopted, Eddie. Hang on a moment, let me figure this out."

I spent five quick minutes looking at the other DNA matches. There were plenty of other cousins who popped up, lower on the list, that I was familiar with. Names I recognized from Eddie's mom's family tree. Cousins I had been collaborating with on genealogy work for almost a decade. He definitely wasn't adopted. But he also definitely wasn't the son of Buddy Tompkins.

Then I went back to that first cousin. I clicked on her family tree, and looked at the information she'd plugged in for each grandparent. Not where they were born, but where they had died. Two in Colorado. One in New Mexico. And one in Oregon. Not just Oregon, but Coos County. Where Eddie was born.

"These people are your grandparents, Eddie. Do you recognize anything about their names?" He didn't. But I did. Somehow, I did. I couldn't tell you why I kept staring at one of those names, and just knew it was something I'd come across somewhere before, even though it was stuffed so far back into the file cabinet of my brain, that I knew there was no way I could retrieve the mental information that I knew I had. So I picked up the phone and called the one person I knew would have the answer.

Folks, this is what they call a cliffhanger. This is that moment when I encourage you to take a few minutes and let it all all sink in. But stay tuned. Because the rest of the story is coming in the next edition of the Mistress of the Mix. But until then if you know how this story ends, don't spoil the ending for others, and instead stream the Spotify DNA playlist below.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Who Ya Gonna Call?

These days, when I visit my parents in Southern Oregon, the first thing I say when I walk in the door is, "Where's that damned cat?" If you didn't follow my saga of Lint, my dad's cat, back in January, let me catch you up with the short version of the story (although you can read the entire cat tale right here):

On the very day my mother returned home after a three month stint in rehab after getting hit a car, my dad's cat went missing. And the cat carrier. Things didn't add up, and through some seriously savvy detective work, my sister and I figured out that my mom's hired caretaker for the day was actually a cat burglar. After a couple of weeks we made a few phone calls, visited a few shelters, and eventually called the police. Although she denied involvement with the disappearance, a few days after the police questioned the young woman, the cat miraculously showed up 15 miles away in another city in a random lady's backyard. 

The cat carrier did not miraculously return, so my sister purchased another one. A soft sided carrier that zips open on one end which Lint loves so much she often sleeps in it.

Since her return, Lint has been the subject of a lot of attention, and my dad has finally begun teaching her some nifty tricks that are decidedly un-feline like. If you command her to sit up, she gets up on her hind legs and begs. If she demands entry into the house from a locked door, my dad will say, "Go AROUND, Lint." And dangit if she doesn't do exactly that. All the way to the other side of the house. And she fetches. I wish I had a video of it. If you throw her a ball of paper, she'll run, pounce on it, and then bring it back to you and plop it down so you'll throw it again. I think she learned it from my dogs.

She also generally rushes down the front steps to meet me at my car whenever I pull around the corner and up to the house, her little red bell tinkling as she runs toward us. 

But last time I visited, there was no tinkling of a bell, no little black cat running in our direction to meet us at the driveway. So my first words when I walked up onto the deck and through the sliding door into the house was, "Where's that damned cat? She wasn't there to greet me."

"I dunno," said my dad. "She's around here somewhere."

I plopped down into a chair and started talking to my mom, who likes to situate herself in one of those Scandinavian half barrel leather chairs that swivel around. She always sits facing the side of the house that's all picture windows and sliding doors so she can get the best view of the mountains on the other side of the valley from their house, perched on the side of the highest hilltop in town, looking down into the backyards of all their neighbors below.

A few minutes later something caught her eye, and she yelled for my dad to come look. We didn't see anything - at first - but eventually my mom's finger pointed out something high in a tree on the edge of the property line between my parents house and the neighbor below. It was that damned cat.

We estimated that she was about 30 feet off the ground at this point. But there was a lot more tree if she wanted to go higher. And she did. My dad and I walked out onto the cantilevered deck, and when the cat saw us, she crawled out even further on the branch, trying to get closer to us, but even when she went as far as a cat could go without falling off the end, she was still at least 20 feet away from the house, and even higher off the ground.

The rest of the day was spent trying to figure out a way to coax Lint out of the tree. And I already know what you're thinking. Nobody ever saw a cat skeleton up a tree. I get it. 

But you don't know my mother.

Every few minutes my mom - who stayed in that chair all day long - would say something to the effect of, "Well, what are we gonna do to get that cat out of the tree?"

Using that line about nobody ever seeing  a cat skeleton in a tree didn't work on her.

We devised all kinds of plans. The caregiver (a new and improved caregiver) and I went down into the backyard and stood at the base of the trunk with treats, calling the cat and trying to coax her back the same way she went up. There was quite a bit of movement in the right direction, but at one point Lint slipped, grabbed onto the branch for dear life, and decided she was fine huddled right where she was.

My daughter came over in the afternoon, and we came up with another bright idea that involved a long rope, a basket, a rechargeable battery pack from a remote controlled toy car that no one has played with in years, more cat treats, and my dad's weird rubber band collection. "Finally," said my daughter, opening up a drawer and removing a huge handful of used rubber bands of all sizes that in their previous life were wrapped around a newspaper, "Papa has found a use for these things."  

We secured one end of the rope to the heavy battery pack using about 30 rubber bands.  The other end we tied to the handle of a basket. Then we stood on the deck (and of course the cat was intrigued enough with us that she turned around and headed out to the end of the branch again), and took turns trying to pitch one end of the rope over the branch. The idea was to successfully hoist the basket up into the tree, that the cat would get into the basket by its own free will, and then we'd lower it down to the ground. Instead, we fell short on most of our throws, got the rope tangled in small branches the few times it landed anywhere near the tree, and we decided to stop altogether after almost taking out the neighbor's window. 

Frustrated and defeated, we reeled in the rope and convincing ourselves that if we just ignored the cat, she'd eventually come back down when she got hungry enough, we headed back in the house.

Meanwhile, back inside, mom had turned her barrel chair into a command center, and had surrounded herself with several phone books (who even has those anymore?) and a couple of senior resource directories, and was making phone calls. She was not giving up, dammit. It was 4pm on a cold Saturday afternoon, and she was not going to let the sun set without rescuing that feline. As I slid the door shut I heard mom leaving a message with her phone number, and I asked if she was calling the fire department.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm calling the window washers."  

It was kind of a brilliant idea, actually. It just seemed so cliche to call the fire department, but who else ya gonna call? Window washers actually made sense. Guys with ladders who aren't afraid of heights.  I was kind of impressed that mom had come up with this idea all on her own.

And then they showed up.

Three guys. One ladder. A blanket, a can of cat food and a bag of catnip. 

And these weren't just ordinary guys. I mean, they were, but they were actually incredible to behold. I felt like I was in a time warp.

They were freaking rock stars. 

And by that, I mean one looked exactly like a negative mirror image of Guns N' Roses front man Axl Rose with long, straight, jet black hair and a blue bandanna around his head, black jeans and a black leather jacket. Straight out of the 80's. 

The next guy seemed to have arrived directly from a 1992 Nirvana show at the Crocodile Cafe. Shaggy blonde hair, blue and white flannel over a dingy white t-shirt and jeans. He even smelled like weed.

And the third,  oh the third. My favorite. He was a dead ringer for Prince. When he went back to calling himself Prince, in the 2000's, straightened his hair and kept his bangs long. He had the perfect coffee and cream skin, a pencil thin mustache, and if I remember correctly, eyeliner. This guy - who could seriously make a living at parties as an Artist Formerly Known As impersonator - was clad in black skinny jeans and a Batman shirt. Anybody remember when Prince did the soundtrack for one of the Batman movies? Yeah. That happened.

Well, they did turn out to be super heroes.

The sun was starting to go down and time was a wastin', so the Cat Busters scoped out the cat in the tree, grabbed a long ladder from atop their station wagon, and headed down to the back yard. After a short huddle to figure out a game plan, they sprang into action. Axl stashed the can of cat food in his pocket, and started climbing the ladder, as Prince and Kurt Cobain held it in place. 

After he'd reached the end of the rungs, Axl started shimmying higher up the tree and out onto the long branch. Perched 20 feet further out on that branch, the cat just stared at him. Prince and Kurt left their post, and unfurled a thick blanket. I'm not sure if this was a measure meant to soften the landing of the cat or Axl, but either way it was adorable, even if it was futile.

Axl opened the lid, and stretched his arms out toward the cat. He inched a bit further out onto the branch, hoping Lint might get a whiff of Fancy Feast. He coaxed. He cooed. He said, "Here, kitty kitty." He argued with his fellow rock stars about what to do next. 

And then I remembered the cat carrier. Lint loves her cat carrier, right? It occurred to me that there was a slim possibility (instead of an absolutely zero percent chance if it was any other cat in the world) that Axl might be able to persuade Lint to get into the cat carrier, even if it was 40 feet off the ground. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My daughter ran down into the back yard and handed over the cat carrier to the rockers, and Cobain climbed up with the carrier. Axl shimmied back down the branch to the trunk, and grabbed it along with a long metal pole which I believe normally had a window cleaning squeegee attached to the end. He slung the strap around his neck, and climbed back out again in the growing darkness, stopping to rip open the bag of catnip.

I know, its super hard to see. But that's Axl down at the bottom, a bag of catnip in his mouth, ripping it open.
Way up at the top, that's Lint. The other rock stars are still holding the blanket, out of frame.
Axl climbed as high up and as far out as he dared, and - while holding the pole - reached around for the carrier. He unzipped the end, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of catnip. He waved it in Lint's direction, and then tossed the bag into the carrier, all while holding on to the tree. Then he unslung the carrier, slipped the long pole through the shoulder strap, and started slowly pushing it along the branch towards the cat.

And damned if that cat didn't just get up off her haunches, walk over to the cat carrier, and climb inside of it. 

She gingerly tested it to make sure the entire contraption wasn't going to tip over sideways and crash down to the ground (although Prince and Kurt Cobain were standing underneath holding the blanket again just in case). And then the second smartest cat in the world - because the smartest would've never gotten stuck up  a tree in the first place - just climbed right in. 

Axl ever so carefully used the pole to pull the carrier back towards him enough so that he could zip the door shut, then he backed himself down the branch, to the ladder and finally down to the ground as the audience applauded wildly, all three of us. 

When they brought the cat inside and let her out of the bag, I was amazed at how unfazed she seemed to be. But the guys were pretty stoked with themselves, and despite the cat's nonchalance about the whole episode the rest of us were totally impressed. 

After all the high fiving and going over their crazy scheme that actually worked, I said, "So this afternoon, were you all just sitting around getting high and watching Ghostbusters or something, and when my mom called, you thought, 'Heck ya, we can do this. We've got nothing else to do. Activate Wonder Triplet Powers!' and then you jumped into the Cat Busters mobile and saved the day?"

Axl, Prince and Kurt looked at each other and smiled goofily and said, "Yep, that's pretty much it!"

I asked how much they wanted, and they said they had no clue, they'd never done anything like this before, usually they were in the window washing business, not the cat saving business. I think they would've honestly done it just to be able to tell the story to their friends next Thursday night at Buffalo Wild Wings. but we took up a little collection and ended up with about $100, which they seemed happy with. They handed us one of their window washing cards, and I told them they should really think about getting business cards made up to advertise their new skill. 

Meanwhile, Lint remained nonplussed. She was stoned out of her gourd now, rolling around in a pile of catnip inside the cat carrier. 

That damned cat.

A crazy cat story like this one deserves a streaming playlist that is just as crazy. Check out Here Kitty Kitty, which weaves together a bunch of popular hits from each of my rock stars, plus some of the best kitty themed songs that I haven't already shared in the past. And then there's the songs that take it up a notch and unleash the catnip, from albums designed specifically to relax cats that are stoned on the stuff. Not even joking. You can't make this stuff up.