What Chelan Means to Me: Heather Smith-Mateo #lovechelan #chelanfire

The #lovechelan logo was designed by Rose Weagant Olcott,
known as @dinmutha on Twitter. It is being used to raise funds
and awareness for Give Naked, a non-profit org which actively
raises funding for individual "gives" to meet the needs of those
who need assistance within the Chelan community.

This post is part of a series I will be running in the coming weeks, called "What Chelan Means to Me." It is my hope to share the stories of the grown (and growing!) children of the Chelan Valley, and its current and past residents, in order to raise awareness of the devastating fires which have ripped through our valley, and to help promote a beautiful, meaningful fundraising effort.

Visit http://bit.ly/lovechelan to view our fundraising progress, and to contribute. When you make a donation at any of the listed levels, you will receive a unique and heartfelt gift, contributed by someone who has their own connection to our peaceful community.

All funds will be donated to Give Naked, a non-profit organization which actively raises funding for individual needs through Chelan Valley Hope.

You can help by:

• Sharing this post through social media. Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram... However you connect with your people, please feel free to share.
• Using the hashtags #chelanfire and #lovechelan in your posts, to help us trend and to raise awareness and participation.
• Making a contribution to the Indiegogo campaign, linked above. Even donations as small as $25 are rewarded with a heartfelt gift!
• Praying for our community, in whatever way is sacred and meaningful to you.

Today's post is by Heather Smith-Mateo, a 1993 graduate of Manson High School, located on the shores of Lake Chelan. She currently works as a graphic designer in San Francisco, California.

I sat down to write this several times. I kept having trouble finding the words, not because I don’t know what it means to me but because it means so much. I could tell you about my first kiss, my first love, my first heartbreak, my first everything, really.

I could mention riding in the parade when I was a little girl, thrilled to wave at the crowd from the float, that same thrilled feeling when I was honored to ride in a float as Manson Apple Blossom Princess in 1993, and the wave of nostalgia I had when I rode on the back of a convertible with Heather Jeffries Coe and Amy Griffith Allan at the ten year anniversary of our time as princesses and queen.

1993 Manson Apple Blossom Royalty, left to right: Heather Smith-Mateo, Heather Jeffries Coe, Amy Griffith Allan

I could describe best friends, my parents, cousins, proms and homecomings and my first car (a totally 80’s Datsun 310 tricked out in black with hot pink stripes), playing on the softball team and yelling “Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye” when someone didn’t swing at a ball, learning ballet and how to swim from Pat Beratta and just a million other things but what they all come down to is: Home.

Heather, learning ballet in Pat Beratta's class

Manson is home. Chelan is home.

Heather, as a baby, with her father

I’ve lived in Moscow, ID for three years, went to college in Pullman, Washington for four years and lived in San Francisco, CA for the last 15 but no other place resonates in my heart the way Lake Chelan does. I feel like I’m my most authentic self there. I’m more relaxed and more completely in my skin.

Heather, enjoying the sun during a summer visit to Lake Chelan

Every time my dad considers selling the Cabana (his home on the lake) I have a complete meltdown. I want the best for him but most of what I envision for my long awaited future child revolves around teaching them to swim off the same deck, taking them to opening day of Lakeview Drive-in, showing them where I grew up and went to both grade school and high school, introducing them to local friends and family, watching the fireworks over the bay, tasting an apple picked right from the tree and, of course, their first Manson Apple Blossom parade.

The lake view from Heather's father's dock

I have traveled some since graduating Manson High School: Home of the Trojans, but the Chelan/Manson area is still the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

Home.

A panoramic view of Lake Chelan, from Manson

And no fire is ever going to change that.



***Cross-posted at SexyVeganMama.com



"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

What Chelan Means to Me: Christina-Marie Wright #lovechelan #chelanfire

The #lovechelan logo was designed by Rose Weagant Olcott,
known as @dinmutha on Twitter. It is being used to raise funds
and awareness for Give Naked, a non-profit org which actively
raises funding for individual "gives" to meet the needs of those
who need assistance within the Chelan community.

This post is part of a series I will be running in the coming weeks, called "What Chelan Means to Me." It is my hope to share the stories of the grown (and growing!) children of the Chelan Valley, and its current and past residents, in order to raise awareness of the devastating fires which have ripped through our valley, and to help promote a beautiful, meaningful fundraising effort.

Visit http://bit.ly/lovechelan to view our fundraising progress, and to contribute. When you make a donation at any of the listed levels, you will receive a unique and heartfelt gift, contributed by someone who has their own connection to our peaceful community.

All funds will be donated to Give Naked, a non-profit organization which actively raises funding for individual needs through Chelan Valley Hope.

You can help by:

• Sharing this post through social media. Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram... However you connect with your people, please feel free to share.
• Using the hashtags #chelanfire and #lovechelan in your posts, to help us trend and to raise awareness and participation.
• Making a contribution to the Indiegogo campaign, linked above. Even donations as small as $25 are rewarded with a heartfelt gift!
• Praying for our community, in whatever way is sacred and meaningful to you.

Some of you know (and the rest of you will, now) that I grew up in a tiny little village on the most beautiful lake in the world, Lake Chelan.

My graduating class was 24 people, and at the time, we were a "big" class.

Lake Chelan is a resort and vacation destination, and people from all over the world flock to its shores to enjoy the water, the mountains, the slower pace of life, and the local love.

Fresh, local apples

It's the sort of place where the village really does raise each child... As kids, if we were out misbehavin' in public, if our parents didn't catch us, some other vigilant mama or daddy would. In a matter of moments, we'd be appropriately corrected, and our parents at home would be waiting, with a stern lecture.

Curlytop, daringly climbing a display of pumpkins at a local business six years ago

It's the sort of place that inspires creativity. I don't know if living in the Chelan valley drives folks to create, or if creative types naturally end up here, but I count among my fellow grown children of Chelan numerous painters, sculptors, poets, authors, musicians, actors and more. It's as if the beauty of the valley comes spilling out through our pens, clay, paintbrushes, keyboards, vocal cords and brains. So much glory is impossible to contain.

View uplake from the deck of a house on one of the valley's smaller lakes

I've spent years in the cocoon-like sanctuary of Lake Chelan, learning to swim in the clear waters, eating apples fresh off the trees in my grandparents' orchard, sledding down the mighty mountains, sunbathing in the glorious rays with Sun-In streaked through my hair... It is where I had my first loves and inevitable heartbreaks, my first kisses, my first broken rules, attended my first "keggers," and delivered my only biological child.

There, too, I suffered a devastating miscarriage, and fell into the comforting arms of my "family" -- the friends, neighbors and co-workers I'd come to claim as my tribe.

The Chelan Valley is where I was encouraged to boldly pursue a love of poetry and writing, thanks to teachers like Mr. Korsborn and Mr. McClure. It is where I met Mr. Wright fifteen years ago, and began a new life with him that is beyond anything I could ever have imagined for myself.

Mr. Wright, the week we met in 2000

It was where my Princess truly became a princess, serving as Miss Lake Chelan royalty.

Celebrating Princess's election to the Miss Lake Chelan royal court

And the community? We take care of our own. When my brother was diagnosed with erythroleukemia, he required countless blood transfusions. Members of the community organized a blood drive, which offset the costs of his transfusions.

When individual families fall on hard times, their neighbors are there, to help them recover and get back on their feet. But... what happens when the loss is so great, we need to look outside our benevolent community for help?

That, my friends, is where we are, now.

Fires have ravaged our community, taking with them homes, memories, business, and... lives. So far, we've lost three heroic firefighters. Businesses have burned to the ground, leaving little but a scorched sign to mark what was once a thriving merchant-place. Houses have been destroyed, the photos and mementos of the families who once felt safe within their walls nothing more now than ash and dust.

We need help. As much help as possible. And so, I am asking all of you to please do what you can to help my home. Please see the introduction of this post for ways you can help, and come visit us, if you can! We'd love to welcome you into our family.

*cross-posted at SexyVeganMama.com

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

Skate or Die? Um… When Do You Need My Decision?

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut,
a.k.a. Prima Donatello, the webmistress
of Apple City Roller Derby

I should be skating right now—or, at least, wanting to skate. At the moment, I have no idea where my skates are, and I’m wondering how long I can claim I “can’t” find them.

Did I mention I’m moving? Maybe those skates will get lost in the move. I should be so lucky.

Back in January, I determined there is no room in the Year of YES for a derby girl dropout, but the prospect is becoming increasingly attractive. Every week, fewer and fewer girls show up, and everyone understands when a derby sister says, “I can’t roll with you girls anymore. I have to put my job/family/marriage/whatever first.”

I have seven kids. I’m not doing an excellent job of meeting the contract deadline for my cookbook. I just launched a new business. Did I mention I’m moving? If my mighty list of why-nots aren’t adequate, I also have The Foot.

The Foot is currently the bane of my existence, and the primary reason I’m finding all sorts of excuses not to skate.

Derby tracks turn left—always left. No one blows a whistle or announces over the loudspeaker, “It’s time for… reverse skate!” Sadly, like Derek Zoolander, I can’t turn left. For Derek, not being an ambi-turner meant losing runway contracts. For me it means wide, sloppy turns that make me a prime candidate for being forced off the track—or worse, rolling off it myself.

It’s all The Foot’s fault. My left foot turns inward at an angle so slight I lived 35 years before noticing it. Of course, I wasn’t on skates, with more protective gear than an NFL linebacker, trying to squat and navigate a hairpin on skates for even one second of those 35 years. When I roll forward, The Foot gradually “snowplows” into its straight counterpart on the right, ensuring I’ll learn to eat track. A lot of track.

I called my derby friend, Mia Feral, for advice. Mia suggested padding the inside of my skate to force The Foot into alignment, allowing me to skate in a straight line and “deftly leftly” cruise around the turns. Brilliant!

Sadly, The Foot didn’t buy it. Learning to eat track with a queen-sized pillow shoved into the front of my skate was neither fun nor effective. I tried loosening the front truck (it holds the front wheels in place) on my left skate to give my wheels a little more “play” and transferring my weight to the outside of The Foot, but only ended up with blisters and a bum ankle.

Now, I’m looking into structurally modifying my left skate by offsetting the plate (which holds the trucks in place) to the same degree as The Foot’s angle. That means drilling new holes in the bottom of my skate, and finding a huge protractor to stand on to measure The Foot’s degree of defiance. It will also mean a bit of drag when I skate, if I can skate at all, so I’ll be working my left leg harder than my right, which will probably give me a really interesting physique, in time.

I’m pretty much ready to quit. Except...

A couple weeks ago, I got a ride to the skating rink in Soap Lake with a young woman who had two canes propped in the back seat of her car. I didn’t ask any questions until my driver used those canes to make her way through the parking lot and into the rink. Readers, you know me—I’m a nosy mama. I asked my new friend what the deal was with the canes.

She had an inexplicable stroke last year. Her therapists were doubtful she’d walk again. Now, all she wants to know from her doctors is when she can SKATE.

There’s a reason our league motto is “Suck it up, Princess.” No matter what challenges I face with kids, moving, work, or The Foot, there will always be someone out there, showing me what it means to truly persevere. Now, I need to establish whether The Foot will simply defy me, or remarkably define me.

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

Bad Gratitude Monday: Family Treasures, Poetry & Cutter Racing

Did y'all know I've written a little poetry in my time?

Well, I have. You can stop laughing, now.

The thing is, I never had a gift for rhymed verse, though I wanted to. I totally wanted to rock that ABAB or ABBA or ABCBA rhyming scheme, but I actually sucked at it. I like to think I made up for it with my free verse, but only my English teachers and the few editors who actually published my poetry will ever know the truth.

My great-grandmother, though - she's amazing. She's darn near 100 years old and she can spout off verses she wrote sixty years ago. From memory. We should all be so blessed when we're nearing a century on this planet.

While tidying up my bookshelves today, I came across a slim pamphlet titled Madison Cutter Association Sixth Annual Winter Carnival: Saturday, February 14, 1970 - 12:00 PM. The cover features a photo of the championship team. I couldn't help but smile at the find, for two reasons: First, my great-grandpa Charlie was a cutter racer. I knew his name would be found inside the program as one of the racers. Second, Great-grandma Nellie was the cutter association secretary and poet laureate, so I know I'd find one of her written treasures inside.

I wasn't disappointed.

What is cutter racing? Go ahead; you can ask. Don't be shy. Cutter racing looks something like Roman chariot racing, but with weird little one-man open carts. Great-grandpa Charlie bred and raced horses for this foolhardy sport, and Great-grandma provided the color commentary with her writing.

Inside my antique program I found two poems attributed to Great-grandma. Dear Granny has macular degeneration, so she can't see that I'm going to share them with you, here. Let me preface the sharing by saying that I'm as protective of her copyright as I am of mine, so enjoy, but there will be positively no stealing - if you know what's good for you. That being said, here we go:

Cutter Fever

When the wind is getting chilly,
and there's snow and fog and frost --
There's a bug or virus comes to life,
and cutter men are lost.


They get the chariots and harnesses out
and oil and clean them up,
And start trying out their horses
to pick the very top.


They meet in Associations
and start setting up the rules,
So that every man will know them
and when to pay their dues!


A day is set and agreed upon
for the racing season's start.
And every driver feels elation
and quick beating of the heart.


"Will I go to World Meeting,"
is what every mind will say,
"or be eliminated as we race
each Saturday?"


No day too cold or snowy for
these NUTS who cutter race,
And you wonder how men and animals
can stand the grueling pace!


Then when it's finally over
and the finals have been run,
And the trophies are awarded,
then we know it's all been fun.


All the drivers that were losers
make a promise to their pride,
"Next year I'll get some horses
to take me to World Wide!"


(c) Nellie Hall 1970


A Cutter Racer's Prayer


God grant that I could own a team
A snappy pair of colts,
That can run their race in 23.0
And never try to bolt.


I'd have them with a nerve of steel
But gentle as a lamb,
If I could have a team like that
I wouldn't give a damn.


When I put the harness on
To race and go out on the track,
I'd want another picture
For my winning picture rack.


I think the sire should have some 3 bars blood
Or Joe Reed or maybe Dial
With a record on the Dams side
That is bulky in their file.


I'd like to win each race I run
To put me at the top
So that when the World Wide Days are held,
I wouldn't have to stop.


I'd like to win a few there, too,
And I would be so proud;
A trophy would be nice, dear Lord,
While we pose before the crowd.


This is my prayer to you, Lord
And don't think me out of line;
I'd settle for some horses
That win part of the time.


Amen.


(c) Nellie Hall 1970







What family treasures do you have to be grateful for, today?



Photo credit: All American Cutter Racing Association

4AM in Tokyo

Our sleep routine is all fouled up. We arrived at our Tokyo hotel early in the evening, took showers, made some "instant" peanut sesame noodles in the teapot and planned to find a place to have a drink. Instead, we fell dead asleep, wet hair and all.

We both woke up at 4am, thirsty. I remembered a 7Eleven downstairs, so we tossed on some clothes and headed for the elevator.

As we rounded the corner, I heard a low, rumbling noise, and when we turned, we saw a large man sprawled on his back, open wallet in his hand and cell phone next to his body. He was snoring loudly.

Mr. Wright shifted into EMT mode, checking the man's vitals and attempting to get a response from him while I picked up the courtesy phone, hoping the front desk attendant would understand me. I reported there was a man, unresponsive and unconscious, on the floor in front of the elevator.

Mr. Wright and I stayed with the man while we waited for the hotel staff to arrive. I picked up his hand and held it. It was warm... a good sign. Still, we didn't know if the man had fallen and hit his head, had a seizure, or what.

I patted his hand firmly. "Sir? Sir? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

By the time the hotel worker arrived, the man was beginning to murmur some responses. The worker called for backup and sent us on our way.

Turns out it was a case of too much sake. Still, we felt like heroes.

In Memory...

Helen Margaret Evans was born October 23, 1919 at Brown Place ranch near Oxford, Kansas to Lee Roy Evans and Amanda Albertine Cavener Evans. She was the sixth of seven children. In the spring of 1928, the family followed the harvest to Washington State, arriving in the fall. They camped in a park their first night in Seattle, and settled in Cathcart Heights, now known as Clearview, about six miles south of Snohomish.

During her high school years, Helen enjoyed singing as the soloist for the a cappella choir and graduated from Snohomish High School in 1937. She married Chester Clair Nichols on June 27th, 1937 in a double ceremony at which her older sister, Irma, was also married.

Helen and Chet moved to Manson in 1947. They built a home in 1948, planted a small orchard, were longtime members of the Methodist church in Manson, and were community leaders in 4-H and Boy Scouts. Chet built and operated an auto repair shop, and Helen sorted and packed apples while they raised their six children.

In 1965, they rented out their home and moved to Seattle, where Chet worked for Boeing. They became involved in the Methodist church on Queen Anne Hill and sold Chelan Valley fruit, grown by orchardist friends back in Manson. Helen was widely known in the Seattle area for her skills in baking and decorating cakes for special occasions. They returned to their home in Manson in 1975, later becoming grower-members of Manson Growers.

Helen was an avid reader, a talented baker, a lover of angels and a crossword puzzle enthusiast. She enjoyed collecting dolls from around the world and playing bingo with friends at the American Legion Hall in Manson and, more recently, at the Chelan Eagles. Throughout her life, she was an advocate for the physical, emotional and spiritual well-being of children, opening her home time and again to community children in need.

On September 23, 2009, with family members by her side at Wenatchee, Washington’s Central Washington Hospital, Helen went home to the Lord, joining her husband, who passed away on July 14, 1989 in Chelan, Washington.

Preceded in death by her husband and her six siblings, Helen is survived by her children, Herbert (Helen) Nichols; Chester “Nick” (Kathy) Nichols, Jr.; Sally Jo Styles; Mark (Patricia) Nichols; Melody (Dave) Stenerson; and Dawn Nichols; 17 grandchildren; more than 20 great-grandchildren, and several great-great grandchildren.

A memorial service will be held on Saturday, October 24, 2009 at 2:00 p.m. at the Methodist church in Manson. Services will be officiated by Rev. Laurie Aleona, and fellowship and refreshments will follow.

The family asks that no flowers be sent. Those wishing to honor Helen may instead make a contribution to their favorite charity in her name.