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



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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

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Book Review: Places We Never Went by Aliza Wiseman

When Aliza Wiseman found herself in the middle of a divorce, she knew she would never settle for dating just any guy to fulfill her need for romance. Instead, she created an imaginary paramour, and fantasized about all the things they did together, after they never met.

Places We Never Went: A Series of Imaginary Events is one of the most beautiful, charming love stories that never happened. The imagery is vivid, and the short escapes Aliza and her love, Orso, find with one another are not only delightful to read, but compact enough for mommies to take in between refereeing sibling fights and meal preparation.

Orso is suave, sophisticated, successful and adventurous. He's everything a girl would want in a make-believe lover, and he and Aliza experience snapshot after snapshot of romance, surprise and playful fantasy. Woodland picnics come complete with maître d' and a piano, and each and every cup of coffee is served with the promise of a sultry kiss.

Each story is accompanied by Wiseman's colorful cartoon illustrations, confirming her genealogy as the daughter of Al Wiseman, ghost cartoonist for Dennis the Menace.

Image used with permission of the author.

With language artful enough to be beautiful, yet casual enough for the reader to feel as if she is taking in her favorite blogger's recent post (a few smileys and commonly used abbreviations like "btw" make their way into the text), Places We Never Went is less a "book," and more a series of daydreams we've been allowed to sit in on.

Image used with permission of the author.

While Places We Never Went is available in a black-and-white paperback edition, I totally recommend the color paperback, because the color illustrations are charming. It's also available for Kindle and other e-versions.

Get your copy, and catch more glimpses of Orso and Aliza, at http://placesweneverwent.com. Tell Aliza I sent you!

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Car, Pay Diem

Photo credit

“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”

“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”

“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.

Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.

Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.

A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.

Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.

Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.

Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.

As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?

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The Bookies Lost Their Shirts AGAIN. We Made it Another Year, Mr. Wright!

I'm reviving this post from last year, because nothing's really changed, except that we are older now. Not a lot older, but older, nonetheless. Well, and mayyyybe we've put on a little weight. And maybe we've gained a bit of gray hair. Well, he has. Me? NEVER. At least, I'll never admit to it.


Enjoy the flashback!

Look... I had long hair once. That's me, June 30, 2004. Any guess what I was doing that day?

Let me tell you, readers: Mr. Wright's list of talents is extensive, and I am grateful for each one of those talents. He is, in no particular order:

• gorgeous
• a wonderful cook (he even caters to my vegan diet!)
• a rock-solid political strategist
• my Sanity Management Director
• a rockin' drummer
• a top-notch snuggler
• the only person on the face of the planet who FULLY "gets" my sense of humor
• a compassionate sounding board
• my equal when it comes to useless trivia (a huge feat, folks)
• the guy who tirelessly plays the "random lines from Eighties movies" game with me
• the sweetheart who picks the non-vegan Jelly Belly jelly beans out before giving me a handful
• a bigger deal than Bob on the Enzyte commercials, if you know what I'm saying...
• the only guy who beats me at Scrabble
• the dorkishly sweet man who carries pictures of my boobs around on his computer when he's away on business
• my favorite travel companion
• a phenom on the dance floor
• the sacrificial prince who makes coffee before waking me up and drives 30 miles in the middle of the night to buy me an emergency Diet Coke
• the attentive companion who makes sure I eat when I'm manically working on a project
• a guy that even my girlfriends like to have around on Girls' Night because he's so darned cool
• the wonderful father of our seven children
• my biggest fan and cheerleader (or is that "cheer king?")
• a saint for putting up with me

His favorite of our wedding photos:

My favorite:

That was back when we only had five kids, after all...

A friend recently asked me if I was a "trophy wife" when we wed, since I'm a newer, sleeker version than the original. "Maybe," I answered. "And I'm totally okay with that!"

GRATITUDE.

What are YOU grateful for?

Wedding photos by Dean's Photography

Single and Seeking

Photo source

When I graduated in 1992, I turned down a full-ride scholarship from University of Washington and took my $28,000 in scholarships to a small town called Nevada (pronounced “Ne-VAY-da”) in the state of Missouri.

My mission: To get a comfortable distance from home, be in a place where I wouldn’t meet any boys, and learn liberal arts.

In this particular case, “a comfortable distance from home” meant halfway across the country. I enrolled at Cottey College, a private two-year women’s college. The Cottey experience could pretty much be summed up in one of our favorite campus songs, sung to the tune of the World War I song “K-K-K-Katy”:

C-C-C-Cottey, beautiful Cottey
Oh, it’s a school of which I’m sure you’ve heard before-ore-ore.
Over the Ozarks, down the Missour-ah
And tonight, tonight you’re gonna hear some more-ore-ore. 

It’s a g-g-g-girls’ school, one of the finest.
Teaches liberal arts and gives you lots of poise-oi-oise.
If you get good grades, we’ll send you to Paris…
Oh, it’s got everything, oh, everything but… BOYS!

Naturally, the song fails to mention the sulfur water of beautiful Nevada, but that has a song all its own (“Nevada water makes you cower when you go to take a shower…”). It also fails to mention that every boy within two hundred miles develops a biological homing beacon, fixed on the campus, so there are always boys around.

Me? I was saving myself for my high school boyfriend, who had enlisted in the Air Force and I would later marry and have a son with. So I had noble intentions when I enrolled at Cottey. Still, I met a lot of boys… and the Divine Miss Teri B.

Miss Teri (we’re close, so I get to address her without her proper title of “Divine”) is pretty much the crazy sister I always wanted. If I want to go dancing all night, Miss Teri will shake her groove thang alongside me until the sun comes up. I have to admit – at my advanced age (I’m 36 today!), I want to dance all night less and less, but if I ever get the hankerin’, I know I can call on Miss Teri.

My dear college friend is a firm believer that every outfit can be made better with a tiara, every work week should include a bubble-blowing party, and breasts can and should be a weapon. Basically, she’s everything I’d be if I was still single, and not the mother of seven children. Tiara? Are you kidding me? If I can find two socks that match, I’m pretty much already feeling like royalty.

Which brings me to my big question: How in the world is this amazing woman still single? She’s gorgeous. She has a great job, she’s hysterically funny, has an amazing set of friends, and I think I mentioned the tiara.

Miss Teri B hasn’t found the right guy yet.

She has, however, found many of the wrong guys. Remember the homing beacon boys developed for my college campus? Miss Teri inspires a different type of radar. Namely, she attracts men who are unemployed, too old or too young, or simply gay. Indeed, Miss Teri has a collection of gay boyfriends to rival Freddie Mercury. Oh, and one gay husband, but let’s face it – nearly every woman could benefit from having a gay husband to get manicures and go shopping with. I’m thinking of finding a gay hubby myself, as soon as I have the time and desire to get a manicure.

So you could have knocked me off my barstool when I met up with Miss Teri at one of our favorite haunts in Seattle the other night, and she announced she’d met a guy who was not only gainfully employed, but age-appropriate and seemingly heterosexual, to boot. Frankly, the vodka was flowing freely that night, so you probably could have knocked me off my barstool, anyway, but her disclosure was shocking, nonetheless.

One of our Cottey sisters, Athena in Indy, blogs at athenainindy.blogspot.com – even though her name isn’t Athena and she’s no longer in Indiana – but what I really want to say is she’s currently involved with a man she calls Hoosier Guy. I suggested the new man in Miss Teri’s life should likewise have an identifying name, but she refuses to name him, because she doesn’t want to jinx her chances of it working out. So, I’m forced to refer to him as New Guy.

I’m holding a thought for Miss Teri and New Guy, because I firmly believe there is a perfect “someone” for everyone. I found my Mr. Wright, and I’m so glad I did. I have no intention of leaving him, because I don’t relish the thought of returning to the dating scene, no matter how many martinis it promises.

Still, if you’re single and seeking, hang in there. No matter how full your little black book may be with unemployed, age-inappropriate, sexually incompatible prospects, there will always be a New Guy waiting for you, and you may meet him when and where you least expect. In Miss Teri’s case, it was while bowling with her parents.

But, that’s another story, altogether.

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Meeting Mr. Right… Or was it Wright?

Mr. Wright and I will celebrate a number of years of marriage next week. Unfortunately, there is some question as to exactly how many years we’ve been married. The number of years isn’t actually in question by anyone but me, but I’d never admit to Mr. Wright that I can never remember what year we got married. Remembering my son’s birthday, along with the birth dates of six children I didn’t give birth to, completely exhausts my Important Dates to Remember function.

I remember the first time I saw him, though – August 25, 2000.

The summer tourist invasion had retreated from Chelan, leaving the locals bleary-eyed and stumbling around their little resort community; tired but already missing the extra cash liberated from out-of-town pocketbooks during the peak season. By the time mid-August rolled around, the college kids had returned to school, families were all settled into their fall routines, and the only people drinking in the bar were the local folks who’d served and smiled and suppressed weary sighs all summer long.

I managed the bar in a Chelan restaurant and, delighted by the opportunity to clock out early for the first time in a long while, I scooted onto a barstool, ordered a cup of coffee from my capable employee, and began entertaining a few friends seated at the end of the bar with an animated story.

My riveting tale was rudely interrupted by two boisterous out-of-town dudes who obviously didn’t get the memo signaling the official end of tourist season. (You know the famous local question, right? “If it’s tourist season, does it mean we can shoot ‘em?”) One of the guys ordered drinks from the bar, while the other sat on the vacant barstool next to me and commenced loud conversation with everyone in the room. Everyone, that is, but me.

The foolish newcomer spent nearly ten minutes greeting and engaging every single person in the place, leaning across me to talk, while his companion chatted with the bartender. The loud one was very good-looking, but he never so much as glanced at me.

The Gonzo Mama is unaccustomed to being ignored.

Nonetheless, that’s exactly what the oblivious male next to me did as I sat, arms folded, and fumed. Finally, he took a deep breath, looked directly at me, placed a hand on my arm and asked, “Oh – and who are you?” His tone said, “Why, I didn’t even see you there! Let’s be friends!” but his teasing eyes said, “I can tell it’s driving you crazy that I’m ignoring you, and I’m enjoying driving you nuts.”

“Who am I?” I sputtered. “Who am I? I’m Christina-Marie. I’m the manager here. This is my place, these are my people, and that’s my spotlight you’re warming your rump on. Just WHO do you think YOU are?”

The man flashed an arrogant smile and said, “Me? Why, I’m Mr. Right!”

With an impatient laugh, I countered, “Look, I’ve been a bartender for far too long. I’ve heard every lousy pickup line in the book, and that’s one of the oldest. You need new material.” I rolled my eyes and waited for him to slink away.

Instead, he handed me his business card.

As it turned out, the “W” is silent.

Photo: Snapped by a friend a couple days after Mr. Wright and I met. Look how young we were!

Bad Gratitude Monday (Blushing Bride)

Look... I had long hair once. That's me, June 30, 2004. Any guess what I was doing that day?

This week's Bad Gratitude Monday is all about Mr. Wright, as we prepare to celebrate our five year anniversary.

Let me tell you, readers: Mr. Wright's list of talents is extensive, and I am grateful for each one of those talents. He is, in no particular order:

• gorgeous
• a wonderful cook (he even caters to my vegan diet!)
• a rock-solid political strategist
• my Sanity Management Director
• a rockin' drummer
• a top-notch snuggler
• the only person on the face of the planet who FULLY "gets" my sense of humor
• a compassionate sounding board
• my equal when it comes to useless trivia (a huge feat, folks)
• the guy who tirelessly plays the "random lines from Eighties movies" game with me
• the sweetheart who picks the non-vegan Jelly Belly jelly beans out before giving me a handful
• a bigger deal than Bob on the Enzyte commercials, if you know what I'm saying...
• the only guy who has ever beat me at Scrabble
• the dorkishly sweet man who carries pictures of my boobs around on his computer when he's away on business
• my favorite travel companion
• a phenom on the dance floor
• the sacrificial prince who makes coffee before waking me up and drives 30 miles in the middle of the night to buy me an emergency Diet Coke
• the attentive companion who makes sure I eat when I'm manically working on a project
• a guy that even my girlfriends like to have around on Girls' Night because he's so darned cool
• the wonderful father of our seven children
• my biggest fan and cheerleader (or is that "cheer king?")
• a saint for putting up with me

His favorite of our wedding photos:

My favorite:

That was back when we only had five kids, after all...

A friend recently asked me if I was a "trophy wife" when we wed, since I'm a newer, sleeker version than the original. "Maybe," I answered. "And I'm totally okay with that!"

GRATITUDE.

What are YOU grateful for?

Wedding photos by Dean's Photography