Prologue

It's my dog's fault, really. Walking him gives me a great big giant euphoric high. I can't be sure whether it's the Colorado sunshine or the crisp clean air or the thrill of stepping away for a few effulgent minutes from my rumpled house that chronically, no matter how hard I strive to the contrary, appears as if a bomb daily erupts showering an array of broken pencils, candy wrappers, bits of balled up paper, various legos, hats, marbles, shoes who long ago lost their mate, dirty socks that can't stand the smell of even themselves, orange peels, and other assorted remnants of childhood that I can never seem to contain. These people, the ones I live with, care nothing for my immense and overwhelming orderliness cravings, nor the hazards to my mental and emotional well being when The Coveted Tidy Home is forever beyond my grasp.

Perhaps it's the endorphin releasing exercise, where for a brief moment in time, my brain, deluded by dopamine makes me feel as if I can do anything I set my mind to. It is then, when my Echo and I are out together and I am on top of the world, that I think to myself, I might just write a little book. Not the try-and-get-published kind, but the for memories' sake type. As a gift to give my debris scattering children. It all seems like such a fine and noble notion as my dog and I are free with only the open sky and the majestic mountains and the nature that never ceases to stir my soul and cause my spirits to rise. It's only once I return to the habitat of madness which I affectionately call home that doubts arise.

I question my ability to produce such a thing. I remember my loud, loud, hectic life where I educate students in six different grades. I wonder when I will ever carve the time to focus enough to formulate my thoughts into something worth reading. I recall my inordinate infatuation with the comma and that typo is my middle name. Good grief, I am in dire need of an editor. I think to myself, will even my offspring concern themselves with my heavily comma laden, typo riddled excuse for a book I painstakingly piece together for them in my not-so-spare time? What if they hate it? What if it lulls them to sleep? What if they use it to start a fire in their wood burning stove because their hippie granola mother taught them to make avoiding turning on the furnace for as long as possible a fun game game to play?

When my husband's grandmother, Mary recently died, which was such a bitterly joyful time because it was abundantly clear she was ready to rest in peace, we were given a stack of papers and photos of hers to keep. Pieces of history she had assembled together. Priceless, irreplaceable heritage that would be lost if it were not for her passion for history and thoughtful collecting over the years. My husband is fascinated, enthralled by this information. He pores over it slowly, carefully, purposefully.

So, it is in this vein that I carry onward. Thinking of my husband and his cherished roots, I will take my comma with me and pull it out at intervals far too regular, working together a bit of my book for my people. A slice of their history, a story told from their mother's point of view for them to hopefully, one day enjoy. If not, they can throw it in the rubbish bin, once they identify just what one is which will require them accepting the reality that it is a) not under the couch b) not on the bathroom floor and c) not stuffed behind the dresser. Given my status as a homeschooling mother of seven litterbugs, it might take me decades to complete. Be that as it may, I will do my best and press on.

May my sweet children, or their wood burning stoves, ultimately be blessed.