December Roses

It's amazing what a change of scenery can do.

Here is the view from our truck's windshield as we drove to Colorado Springs on Christmas Eve. It looked like this for five of the ten hours.

It was so tense that we neither spoke nor moved. Once we hit Price I thought smooth sailing was ahead, so I popped in Rosemary Clooney's "Snow." It would have been magical to pass through gently falling "snowglobe snow" while she crooned, but as we inched our way along neverending snow-packed whiteout I began to consider what would happen if we died. I knew that Cristall would steal my kitchen table and I hoped that all of my journals would end up in the right hands. After thinking about dying for a few minutes I turned the music off and decided we should concentrate more. Greg's knuckles were white and he wiped his palms on his jeans every minute. The best part of the drive was five hours in when Greg frustratingly broke the silence with, "If I wanted to be an ice road trucker, I would have been an ice road trucker."

Here is the view of the same stretch of road coming home from Colorado Springs. It was a much nicer drive.

RE called shotgun until Grand Junction, so I stretched out in the back and used Lucy's deluxe memory foam dog bed for my pillow. Thanks to noise-reducing headphones and the 4500+ songs on my iPad I didn't have to listen to one Jewel song over the truck speakers. Music is a wonderful thing. I started out with "Afterglow" by the Michael Hutchence-free INXS. (I may or may not have had a small shrine to Michael Hutchence in my late teens. I still have a magazine ripping of him standing with girlfriend Kylie Minogue tucked into my X album.) There is a woman that sings in Hindi at the end of the song, and it reminded me of the same kind of sound heard in Sting's "Desert Rose." That made me think of El Guapo's line, "You see, Jefe, a rose can bloom in the desert." (Durko kids quoted a lot of movies growing up. My own brain is 6% worthless movie dialogue.) Which then made me think of J.M. Barrie's quote, "God gave us memory so that we might have roses in Decemer." And since this December has been especially cold and barren, and since I was in need of some mental roses from warmer, happier times, I spent the remainder of my backseat shift recalling some of my life's rosier moments.

MY DECEMBER ROSES:

~a random assortment dedicated to Michael Hutchence and Sting and Peter Pan and Greg

• MY 2006 NEW YORK HAIRCUT. I was gifted a Haircut at Nick Arrojo's salon in SoHo, and since it was the be-all and end-all of cuts it deserves a capital H. Walking the streets of Manhattan with my asymmetrical, point-cut coif I actually felt like a model and wondered why the paparazzi weren't attacking me.
• THE FIRST TIME RE SAW THE OCEAN. I'll never forget her pink onesie and shrieks of delight over, oddly enough, finding a stick in the sand. She carried the stick all day.
• SKEEBALL, how do I love thee? Let me chuck heavy balls down thy narrow path with my arm's perfect pendulum until I have earned the 3,500 tickets necessary to buy a toy that can be bought at the dollar store.
• WILD RICE. I would choose it over potatoes, noodles and couscous any day of the week.
• CARL BLOCH'S "Healing at the Pool of Bethesda" AT THE BYU MUSEUM OF ART. It's my perfect day trip. Drive to BYU, park with ease at the museum, sit in front of the original painting for a few minutes, eat either a slice of focaccia upstairs or a slice of SLAB pizza south of campus, drive home. It fills my well every time.
• WEREWOLF. Once I was driving with my friend Michelle. There was a full moon, so I howled like a werewolf in the middle of our conversation. After the initial scare we laughed our heads off.
• RIDING ANY ROLLER COASTER OR GETTING ANY MASSAGE. Possibly the two best things to spend money on.
• MARIAH CAREY IN THE GREEN CIVIC. We had a little green Civic when we were first married. One December night Greg burst into our apartment, grabbed me, put me in our car, and proceeded to drive around the block while he blasted and sang along to Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You." He was so excited about his new cd and our first Christmas together, and I was pretty pumped about being married to him the 18 times we circumnavigated our block until the song was over.
• SIBLING BANTER AT RAT'S WEDDING. So much laughing. Wish I could reverse time and live under the same roof with them again.
• THE JOSHUA TREE DATE. I only went on a handful of non-Greg dates at BYU, but this one topped them all. A nice boy invited me to the symphony at Abravanel Hall. I wore my fancy burgundy dress and hot-rolled my hair. He picked me up and as we exited the parking lot of Crown Apartments he inserted The Joshua Tree into the cd player. He didn't skip any songs and the volume was perfect. The last song tapered off at the exact moment we finished parking downtown. So if you've ever wondered how far it is from downtown Provo to downtown Salt Lake City, the answer is One Unadulterated Joshua Tree.
• MOONLIGHT SNOWMOBILING AT DANIEL'S SUMMIT. Hauntingly beautiful, even if my feet were numb.
• THE POPPING SOUND OF CANNING JARS SEALING.
• BABY RE'S NAP HAIR. It always proved that she slept soundly during naptime.
• -$88 JEANS. I bought a pair of $12 jeans at Plato's Closet, washed them, wore them, and then found a $100 bill in the pocket. I called Plato's to find the original owner but Plato's said to keep it. Talk about a bargain.
• GRAND CENTRAL STATION. I never knew it existed, so you can imagine the breath-stealing thrill of stumbling upon the twinkling aqua masterpiece for the first time. I assume there are no benches in Grand Central because people like me would occupy them forever while admiring the ceiling, the chandeliers, the opal clock and the colossal windows. Also loved was the sound of Grand Central Station. It was like being underwater and hearing the echo of land conversation. Unexpected beauty is always memorable.

Cache of happy memories, thank you. You changed my mental scenery from whiteout to clear skies. We really are what we think, and I think I'm feeling better now.

Red Rover

Photo caption: My baby sister Natalie a.k.a. Rat a.k.a. Ms. Adrian If You're Nasty (a.k.a. also probably too young for my Janet Jackson reference) drew me this picture when she was seven, the year I went to college. I hold on to things.

My older sister Suz said it best (as she usually does) when she compared siblings to the people you hold hands with in life's version of Red Rover. Life will run at you with full speed, but if you have your family to hold on to tightly you can't lose.

She also inscribed the book we all wrote our parents: To Mom and Dad, whose decision to have a family has given me wonderful life-long friends. I've always had my siblings, my life-long friends, through thick and thin. November was thick and December has been thin, but they have been there.

SUZETTE is my Mother Goose with a mother's heart who can always squeeze one more into her gaggle or one more under her wing. She has checked on me every few days to assess my overall well-being. When she couldn't fix the IVF result she medicated me with an Etsy purchase entitled "Lot of 100 Vintage Christmas Smalls" that gave me hours and hours of endless crafting entertainment. She can always make me laugh by impersonating her husband or doing one of her voices. She can mimic anyone. When we were kids she was always in charge of me, whether it was being the Monopoly banker, taking me to the bus stop, teaching me how to drive stick or helping me with eye shadow the first day of 7th grade. We formed many clubs in the corner of her bedroom and she was always the president and I was always the secretary. She's still the president. She manages to oversee all of me and still run her own day to day.

CRISTALL lives in my same town and is lovingly known as "Aunt Cerstall" by my daughter. She is the big-eyed innocent that stops my bleeding heart with caramel bars, home-canned grape juice, puzzles, back scratches, long phone conversations, Eric Dowdle jokes and illegal eye contact during Bikram yoga. She is close enough to physically take care of me. This summer I got the stomach flu when Greg was camping with the scouts. TMI, but I threw up inside my bathtub. She brought me Gatorade and an US Weekly about Duchess Kate and then cleaned my tub. Say no more. That is what kind of sister she is. She can also recall movie trivia better than anyone I know. We were watching that old Hayley Mills movie The Moonspinners when we were home for Rat's wedding and there is some random extra sitting on a couch in a scene and she said, "That lady plays Edward's mother in Three Men and a Little Lady." I googled it and she was right, and the movies are 26 years apart. Serious talent.

MATTHEW is the illegitimate son of Jim Carrey and Chris Farley. He's the funniest person I know and has fathered four completely crazy boys. I call him Brother and he calls me Sister, just like the Berenstain Bears. Every phone call eventually ends because one of his boys is chasing a raccoon at the beach or just kicked their dog off the deck or just whacked another kid with a wooden sword. I have a voicemail of him singing me Hootie and the Blowfish that will never be deleted. When he was still single we were driving around together and he sang along to "I Only Wanna Be With You" in his super bass vibrato. It became our thing and we sing it to each other to be funny. After IVF this was my message: "Oh there's nothing I can do-ooooo, I only wanna be with yoooooo-ooooooou. Alright, so that might have not been the prettiest voicemail (sound of him chuckling at himself). Anyway, I just wanted to call and say hey. I love you lots. If you feel like calling me back I'd love to chat. Take care, Sister." Sometimes I can't believe my baby bro is all grown up with four awesome kids and a Maltese and a van down by the river on an island in Florida, but he is.

NATALIE is the amalgam of all the Durko kids with her own fresh face and approach to life to boot. She is a renaissance woman and can truly do anything. Half marathon? Check. Martha Stewart five-tiered chocolate cake? Check. Nursing school? Check. I would love her even if her cat DIDN'T sleep in a copy paper box. I loved Little Rat that drew me the Christmas picture when she looked like a Precious Moments doll in her Limited Too corduroys and grosgrain ribbon headband. But I love Mrs. Adrian just the same. Natalie always keeps it real. After IVF she called and said So do you want to talk about it, or do you want to talk about something else? Something else. I'm going to text you a picture of the crossbody bag I really want from Anthro. And then we talked about face oils and Sephora samples and aluminum-core stainless steel cookware and juicing recipes* and normal stuff, which made me feel like I could make it. Natalie is always down for a rapid fire game of wits. She's actually always down for anything. She's also the only well-rounded person I know that would text me about Cool Whip, but Durkoviches know how important Cool Whip is. Staff of life around these parts.

Red rover, red rover, keep sending it over. I'm equipped.

*Her recipe I refer to as NEWLYWED JUICE: half a bag of Cutie clementines (I did 7), 1 lemon, 1 grapefruit, 2 apples, 1 carrot. All shoved down the juicer. Super refreshing.

Gift Basket

My aunt can gild like nobody's business. She's my hero because she took every gilding class the Lower 48 offered and then flew to Italy to really kick it up a notch. On a trip to Florence she purchased this hand-carved shepherd from a nativity set. They sell them à la carte over there. She told me she loved how humble he was bringing a basket of eggs to Baby Jesus.

As previously stated, my whole life's dream is to go to Europe, so I really treasure souvenirs that come from the real and actual Europe. I keep this little guy behind the leaded glass doors of my secretary desk. It's where all my special things go, like the casting of RE's baby hand and the glass slipper from Greg's favorite Russian and my signed illustration from Richard Hull.

I sit at my secretary desk every morning while I write letters and pay bills. I stare at my special things. I have stared at that shepherd for hours. I have grown to love what he symbolizes.

Lowly shepherd knew that Baby Jesus couldn't eat food yet, but all he could give was what he had, and what he had were eggs. Does the Lord actually need anything from any of us besides our closeness? Our honest journey toward him? Our sacrifice?

This newly broken version of me, the one that is regenerating lost limbs and shooting down new roots and hunting for sinews and fibers to mend with, has recently felt like I don't have any gifts good enough to give away. I was Superwoman and now I'm not. I had a Superplan and it didn't work. I'm a shadow to my old giant. I'm so lost I don't even know what to write on my to-do list each morning. I'm still recovering in a total fog.

Serendipitous Wednesday, where I only received Christmas cards in my mailbox, hailed a letter from my FNDN (Forever Next Door Neighbor). She sent me a 5x7 that said JUST BE YOU. IT'S ENOUGH. Instantly I thought of the shepherd and his eggs and it all made sense: he gave what he had from who he really was and it was still accepted. Just give what you've got, Melissa. Just be you, even if it's a broken you, and it will be acceptable...even to yourself.

I feel a lot like that barefoot servant; sheepish about what could I possibly give this year. A less potent dose of my usual humor, a brave face, empathetic sorrow and a few homemade gifts? Maybe so. But they are mine to give, and they are enough.

*I love you, JP! Inspired, as usual.

*Interesting tidbit: "an egg" in French is "un oeuf", pronouned "enough". Funny that an egg is enough, no?

Good Fortune

Five days ago Greg took the day off so we could Christmas shop at City Creek together. I’m always down for City Creek since it means lunch at Bocata. As I hopped in the truck I asked, “Do you have Christmas music?” He said he did and we were on our way.

Big mistake. I should have asked more questions.

The CD he had was Jewel’s Christmas album. (I can only blame myself as I purchased it for him.) Greg has a thing for Jewel. Maybe it’s that she yodels. Maybe it’s that she lived in her car. Maybe it’s her breathy vocals. I don’t know, but hers was the first CD he bought after his mission and the love affair has never ended. My issue with Jewel singing “Joy to the World” is that she pronounces righteousness rye-chuss-snoss which sounds an awful lot like “snot.” The other worst song on the album is the Christmas remix of “Hands” that has a children’s choir and a bunch of extra cheese added. It’s like nails on a blackboard to me but, you guessed it, it’s Greg’s favorite song on the album. I realized on the way to City Creek that the Venn Diagram of Music I Like, Music Greg Likes and Music We Both Like has a VERY small overlapping section.*

On that lengthy drive to City Creek I clearly defined my personal version of Hell. It would be a place in which I was eternally employed at the Costco Photo Center/USPS in December where we only listened to Greg’s music and only ate American cheese and generic graham crackers while coloring pictures with Rose Art crayons. There could seriously be nothing worse.

Shopping yielded minimal results and then it was time for lunch. I got my Bocata and Greg got Chang Chang. He gave me the fortune from his cookie because I save all our fortunes in a box on my secretary. I have plans for them once I get a couple hundred. The fortune said YOU WILL SOON RECEIVE HELP FROM AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE.

Last night a gentleman called our home phone and asked if there was someone under our roof that was still missing a bike. Elation! Long story short: an observant good citizen named Wayne went to a lot of trouble to find out who the yellow bike he'd been watching for over a month belonged to.

That bike was one of the few things I didn’t buy at a thrift store and it had a lot of sentimental value. It’s the bike I rode my old dog Max around town in, right down to the night before we put him to sleep. I gave him a really long last ride and remember his ears blowing in the wind as he looked forward out of the basket with a bandana around his neck. It’s the bike RE and I had multiple adventures around American Fork on- pedaling to shortbread cookies, haircuts, pools, libraries, Cristall’s house and more. One summer night we all biked over to the Cinemark parking lot and had races. I won every race because my bike, in third gear, is unbeatable. After the races we ate Smart Cookies and called Greg "Tin Man" the rest of the way home because his bike was so squeaky. It's the bike that my neighbor told me looks european...and there's seldom little I'd rather appear than european.

Though it was exposed to the elements for over three months it is still in fantastic condition. My bell and lock are still on it. The two-toned leather seat and handlebars look as chic as ever. The gears still shift and the seat still feels right. It's as if it were never taken.

All this time my lost bike was only 3 miles away. It makes me wonder if other missing things are closer than I suspect, waiting to appear unexpectedly and in perfect fashion.

*We both love “The First Noel”, Whitney’s “Star Spangled Banner”, The Samples “Little Silver Ring”, Pet Shop Boys “Go West” and The Sundays "Wild Horses." And, to be fair, I do like one Jewel song titled "This Way" and I think she is an awesome yodeler. Also, I can joke about our musical preferences because they are a non-essential part of our marriage. When it comes to things that really matter we are on the same page.

Pause

I'm a Daddy's Girl. At age 36 I have now spent as much time living out of his house as I spent living in it. I miss being his little kid. To this day the thing I love about my dad most is that he swam with me.

He would come home from work, change into his Larry Bird trunks and pile us kids in the VW Rabbit. We swam at Stephen's Lake and sometimes he even bought us 35-cent ice cream drumsticks if we promised to eat all of our dinner. He would let us stand up through the sunroof once we turned on Portland Avenue and would steer funny so we would wiggle and scream. I'm sure my mother enjoyed the few hours of rare quiet by blissfully passing out on the sofa the entire time we were at the lake. Of everything my dad did for me growing up- the endless hours of providing via dentistry, his church responsibilities, driving the van across the country for summer vacations, mowing, grilling, making lemon bars, sewing our stockings, vacuuming on Saturdays- what I remember is the swimming. When I told him this he said, "Gosh, if I had known that's all you'd remember I would have done so much less."

Parenting is a thankless job. I am discovering this myself with a variably disgruntled tween. That said, parenting is also rewarding at odd and unexpected hours. Thinking about my dad this past week I found a forgotten memory from high school. It was my senior year, which stunk socially but rocked academically. For whatever reason I was having a terrible day. After dinner my dad came down to my basement bedroom and asked if I wanted to go to a movie. On a school night? His reply: WHY NOT? 

We drove to Biscayne Mall and saw the Kiefer Sutherland version of The Three Musketeers. When we exited the sparsely-attended movie it had snowed and his new black Lexus was white and so was the freshly covered parking lot. I held his hand as we made crunchy tracks to the car. I always held my dad's hand. He spun around the empty lot a few times and we went home. It was so late, and I still had seminary early the next morning, but I didn't care. My dad had taken me to a movie on a school night and simply loved me. He could have preached ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT or demanded to know what my problem was. He could have had a rotten day at work or been stressed about his own bag of worries, but I never sensed any of that. I just knew he made time for me on a school night...and that fixed everything.

I've thought a lot about that night, as well as the swimming, in reference to my own kid. What will RE remember about me? How clean my house is or my great cooking? No, she has nothing to compare it to. (This is the kid that proclaims, "I'm tired of this meat!" when I cook filet mignon. Once she eats a rubber steak at Sizzler she won't be tired of it...) She won't be thankful for her current security until she has to create it for her own children someday. My hope is she'll remember that I was there every day of her life to pick her up from school, but most likely she'll recall that I was a late riser and a grumpy morning person with insane bed head that wore her robe too much. In my heart of hearts I believe that she'll remember I always got in the pool with her and slid down the waterslides, too. I did that because of my own dad.

In the spirit of WHY NOT? I took RE for a couple's massage with me last week on a school night. She loved it. The whole time I was thinking, "Please remember this, kid. I feel like doing so much less right now, but I'm giving you my all. I'm giving it to you because you matter to me."

*Photo of a greeting card published by Rhapsodie. I go ape for things like this. Clever paper cutting = better than Kiefer Sutherland's acting in 1993.