My Goose

Goose turned 29 today. I know you hear it all the time, however, I REALLY can't believe my baby is growing up. And doing it so well.

April 28, 1987. That day changed my life and I've never looked back.

Goose has a real name. It's Kadell Mark Deason. Yep. Kadell. While half-heartedly browsing through name-your-baby books, I ran across the name Cadell. I HATED IT. I couldn't believe that name made "the list" and I vocalized to anyone who would listen how much I hated that name. Problem is, I couldn't get it off my mind. I substituted a K for the C. I loved it. And that became his name.

Until...

Kadell was young when Mark flung him in the air while asking "How's my little goosebump?" And the name Goose came to be. On the first day of school, his desk was found because "Goose" was displayed loud and clear. He learned to write Goose long before Kadell was memorized. Friends, classmates, co-workers and family all know him as Goose.

I have been thinking about this blog for over a month now. I have combed through stories and thoughts and memories to share, yet, words elude me. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe the stories are too long to write. Maybe, just maybe, as I think of words to describe my son, they seem SO small, so inadequate, so trivial in the world that Goose has created.

My boy works harder than anyone I know. He loves immensely. His laugh is contagious. He's honorable and gracious and kind and generous in spirit and action. He is sentimental, loyal and is consistently and fearlessly compelled to do what is right. Don't mistake his kindness for weakness. He might cry while doing it, but he will knock you upside the head if needed.

When Daulton and Goose got married, I wrote Daul a letter symbolically giving "one of my five treasures" over to her. It was all a lie. Goose is MINE. I don't want to share his spirit or his strength with anyone. Yet, I puff with pride as I hear stories of how great my kid is. And he is, you know? He is.

And I'm proud.

Goose rocked 28 and year 29 holds limitless boundaries for this guy. Up is the only direction he can see and that's right where he goes.

Yes, he is kind and wholesomely good. But most of all? He loves his mom. And there is nothing finer.

It's a BAD word, but I used it. ALOT.

Let's face the facts. I swear. All the time. I swear when I'm happy. I swear when I'm mad. I swear when I'm excited, glad, upset, sick, or feeling absolutely nothing at all. I make an honest effort not to subject my readers to my potty mouth on social media of any kind. I have friends and family that don't have filthy language and I try to keep my sailor-talk to myself.

Except now.

Late Thursday night (March 31) my I-love-him-EVER-so-much brother-in-law, Gerald, brought his pretty-amazingly-awesomely-fabulous wife, Randi, and my cooler-than-cool-super-beautiful-inside-and-out niece, Camryn, from California for a visit while killing two birds with one stone. They came to watch my super-talented-handsomely-gifted nephew, Cody, pitch for the Arizona Wildcats as they played the Utah Utes and the BYU Cougars and of course the other stone was to visit ME and (I suppose) the rest of the family.

I spent Thursday cleaning the house, washing bedding and getting the house presentable for the visit and I was ever-so-tired when I collapsed into bed. Therefore, when the Deason clan came rolling in, I didn't lift my sleepy head from my pillow to greet them and left the welcoming job to Mark.

7:00 am rolled around and I figured the California visitors were brutally tired from their journey and had decided to run to the grocery store and get some food in the house before they awoke. I was throwing on some jeans, Mark was heading out of the house and Jaden was showering for school when I heard Mark come back in the house. "Oh good," I thought, "I'm going to ask Mark to start my jeep to get it warming up for me."

Nope. Didn't go that way.

"You're jeep is gone."

"What?"

"Yep. It's gone. Call the police."

"What?"

I looked out he window. My jeep was gone. I looked again, thinking I had maybe missed seeing it. It was gone. I called the police. I looked out the window. I couldn't believe it was gone. It was.

The police came. Took my statement. "Was there anything of value in the jeep?" "Heck yeah. My Tim McGraw CD was in it."

I went down the stairs to ask Gerald if my jeep had been there when he pulled in late last night. It was. Later, as we were all talking about it, Mark, Gerald and I had heard an engine rev up. I remember hearing it. And then I passed it off to someone speeding down the street.

I spent Friday and Saturday in a HUGE funk. I was shocked. I felt violated. I was angry and sad all at once. I kept looking out the window awaiting it's appearance in my driveway.

Yes. I had left the keys in it.

I have lived in this house for many, many, MANY years. I NEVER locked my front door. Mark and I used to leave our keys in our vehicles. I've left my purse in my jeep. My i-pod, my phone, cash, checks and personal belongings have all resided at one time or another without EVER being disturbed. Our neighborhood has changed enough that we have been locking our front door for a while now.

About a week before the stealing-of-the-jeep incident, someone broke into my jeep and Mark's truck. They took a few things. They were of NO value to the thieves. But the the realization hit that (duh) I need to remove my keys and valuables every night.

Tyson broke his ankle while playing basketball. Surgery was required and I found myself Thursday morning waiting at the Surgery Center to hear that my son was alive and well and would be back on his feet in no time.

Surgery went well. Tyson survived and will walk again.  I headed home. I was super upset about something that had happened and wanted to get home to Marks rational thinking. I pulled into my driveway, jumped out of my jeep and wobbled into the house. I didn't think NOT ONE TIME about my keys dangling from the ignition.

Is this my fault? I have relived that moment over and over and over. If I had just grabbed my keys. If I wasn't so dang emotional. If... If... If...

Whatever. I didn't do this. I didn't ask some moron to violate my trust. I didn't invite some stranger onto my property. And I sure as crap didn't give permission for my jeep to be stolen.

Sunday morning around 10:30 my phone rang. Provo Police. "We found your jeep." OHMYGOSH! They had found my JEEP! It was in American Fork. Mark got the address and we madly drove to the location. We pulled up to the house and a sinking feeling hit my gut.

"That's not my jeep." They had it wrong. This jeep was silver and ugly and dirty. My jeep is teal and clean and cuter than cute.

Mark's answer? "Yes, it is."

Mark got out of the truck to talk to the cop-guy waiting for us. I wobbled up the driveway to look at the hunk of junk that they kept calling my jeep. Yep. They were right. It was my jeep. You could see my Deason chick sticker. Albeit it was covered in this awful silver paint, but the outline of the sticker could still be seen. And I started crying. I opened the passenger door. The filth was abundant. I have had my jeep for years now. It is NEVER dirty. Ever.

I cried harder. My stereo was gone. My speakers? Gone. The ignition was ripped out and the jeep was not drive-able at all. What the crap did they do? They had the dang key!

The spray paint, the filth, the violation, the sick feeling... all of it summed up to "dumb ass." I said it over and over and over again. Then I lost it. I opened the passenger door and flung all the crap out.

Mark had called Goose and Daulton on our way to American Fork and they had met us at the stealer-of-my-jeep house. Goose yelled for Daulton to "Get mom out of here." I was having no part of it. I threw and swore and threw and swore. I kicked and hollered and yelled and bawled.

And we towed the jeep to our house.

Tuesday I began removing the spray paint. 3 gallons of paint thinner and scrubbing and working and swearing brought my jeep closer to the jeep that was before it was stolen. I scrubbed the inside. Gerald had found a needle in the jeep. Apparently the dippety-do-dah had overdosed in my jeep, someone had called the police, he was revived and carted off to jail. The tags were off the jeep. It was OBVIOUSLY spray painted and the police ran the VIN. Stolen. Mine. NOT YOURS.

His name is Kevin Ontiveors. Nope. I don't know him. He's a lost soul who decided that it would be easier to grab my stuff instead of working and getting a jeep of his own.

To every bad, there is a good. Yin and yang. Right? Sometimes it's more difficult to sift through the horrible. But it's usually there. This time it came in the words of the American Fork police officer who found my jeep and witnessed my mental and emotional breakdown.

When all was said and done and the tow truck was on the way. Mark pulled me out of the truck for a photo op with my new BFF.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

"It's okay. I forever say that 'worse things have happened to better people.'"

"Well, I don't think so."

I Need A Smoke Break

In August of 2015 Carrie Underwood released her album Storyteller. Smoke Break is one of songs. There was a period when the tune was played OFTEN on the radio, however, as the year progressed and new songs were released, I have heard it less often. Yep. I like her. I like the song. Good stuff.

The other day I was toodle-ing along, enjoying the warm sun and blasting my radio when this song came on. I boisterously sang along and thought "Man, I need a smoke break."

Things can be rough, can't they? 

Family. Kids. Relationships. Pets. Chores. Bills. Age. Health. Life. They all have ups and downs, don't they? At times, it feels like the stress and worry grabs control and dominates all waking thought.  

I had a pretty-amazingly-radically-awesome-oh-I-love-her-so-much neighbor that would periodically sit on her front porch and take a smoke break. I could see her chatting on the phone or sitting in silence. At times, I would wander over and sit and chat with her. Sometimes the smoke would waft through my open windows and I would fondly think of Brit. There were times that I vocalized "I wish I smoked." My reasoning? I envied that "take a break from life" opportunity a smoke break can provide.

I am a believer that it's the little moments that matter. The small talk at the dinner table. Snippets of conversation while driving to run errands. Comfortable silence while walking in a park. These moments speak volumes in a relationship. 

Maybe it's just as important to take those little moments and turn them inward. Maybe it's not so bad to forget the big things that smother us and take a moment to focus on the little things that inspire us. Maybe the crud that surrounds us will ALWAYS surround us but maybe we forget that joy is patiently waiting to be noticed. Maybe stress is the hare in the race we call life, but maybe, just MAYBE happiness is the tortoise. MAYBE peace and joy and happiness and comfort will prevail if we just be patient. Just maybe....

She said, I don't drink
But sometimes I need a stiff drink
Sipping from a high, full glass
Let the world fade away
She said, I don't smoke
But sometimes I need a long drag
Yeah, I know it might sound bad
But sometimes I need a smoke break

Angels Drive Mini Vans

A few months back, I found myself needing to go to the mall by my house. It was a quick run in and out event, so I gave no thought to swinging in there while I was "out and about". Epic fail. Oh, I can enter the mall without a problem. Leaving? Not so easy. I can climb steps and walk on an uphill grade unassisted like a "big girl". However, walking DOWN steps of any kind and/or if there is ANY sort of a downward slope a handrail is required.

I exited the front doors of the mall and was seized by anxiety. There was a step from the curb to the parking lot and it was HUGE. The only way to avoid the curb was to toddle down a sloped grade. There wasn't a handrail in sight.

I stood there. I looked at the curb and quickly determined that it simply wasn't going to happen. My gaze fell on the sloped cement. Nope. Couldn't do it. I began to panic. How was I going to get to my jeep? I debated walking in to ask someone at the customer service desk to render me aid. My face must have been plastered with pure panic because a guy walked up to me and asked if I needed something. I tearfully asked if I could hold his arm to step down the curb. He gallantly held it out for me and allowed me to clutch it in a death grip. I thanked him profusely and wobbled humbly to my jeep. I thought, "Well, that's it. I'll never again go to the mall unassisted." Then I bawled the entire way home.

My tiny little brain compartmentalized the event in the "Let's just forget it ever happened" drawer and a few weeks later I found myself needing to run in to the Provo Towne Center Mall REALLY QUICK. So that's exactly what I did. Sort of.

I made my dash in, hit the kiosk that I had to get to, turned around, walked out the doors and FROZE. What the crap was I thinking? I can't get to my jeep. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I had parked in a handicap space in the upper parking lot. I needed to go about 50 feet to the left in order to get to my jeep. I saw that I could follow the sidewalk to the front of my jeep and use the vehicle as a handhold to step off the curb. EXCEPT the sidewalk sloped downward toward the lot. That slope NO KIDDING looked like a gaping cavernous hole in the ground.

I began making my way along the sidewalk. As the ground sloped more and more, my legs shook and my strides decreased to minute proportions. The realization came that there was no way possible for my sidewalk strategy to work. BUT, if I could walk in the grass for three feet, I could circumvent the slope, get back on the sidewalk, head to my jeep and get the crap out of there.

No problem, right? I walk on my grass ALL THE TIME. I got this.

I stepped off to the grass and embraced my epic mistake. This grass was plush. Spongy. Mushy. Squishy. Deep. And I was stuck. I do mean STUCK. I couldn't get back up to the sidewalk and I could not make a SINGLE step in the grass.

I know you're probably thinking "Oh, quit being so dramatic." You would be wrong. I was going to be in the grass until hell froze over. There was no way around it.

A minivan was parked in the lot. Unbeknownst to me, a gal had exited the mall WITHOUT A PROBLEM and got in her van to drive away. She must have been eyeing my meltdown. Through my tears I heard, "Do you need some help?"

I grasped her arm and shook VIOLENTLY the entire way to my jeep. But I made it.

I watched with tears streaming down my face as she drove her van away.

Have I not said it a MILLION times? Take a minute and LOOK around you. Be the person that helps. Be the strong arm, the shoulder, the friend, the angel to those in need. You'll be better for it. I promise.

Yep. Angels drive mini vans. Who knew?

Waiting On The World To Change

The other day Shelby called me on the way home from work. Her day had gone a bit South of epic and she began processing. I've learned that Shelby typically finds her own way to an answer, so I sit, shut up and listen to her ramble back and forth until she lets go of her anger and lands. It's usually right where she needs to be looking.

"I just wonder what I'm doing to add to the problem."

There you go. That's my girl.

As my kids grew, arguments increased. You know the silly stuff. "She's wearing my shirt." "He doesn't clean anything." "Why do I always have to help?" "Why?" "How Come?" "What for?" "But HE... "But SHE..." "Why do you ALWAYS pick her side?" "You need to tell HIM..." My frustration level grew as they became more vocal and argumentative. I found I was constantly running interference and my questions were directed to the OTHER party in the argument.  "Why did you do that to her?" "Why did you hit him?" The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Right?

One day I changed my focus. I've never looked back. I only address the complaining party. "What can you do to help fix it?" "Be a part of the solution. Don't create another problem." "Haven't you learned that the only person you can control is yourself?"

I've said it before. It's my belief that in an argument both parties are correct. Disagreements typically stem from emotion and how can your feelings be wrong? If yours aren't wrong, why is it that what the other party is feeling is in the wrong? Doesn't go that way. Sorry.

What you are doing isn't working? Do something different. Investigate. Study. Ask. And, yes, sometimes BE QUIET. What you have to say isn't nearly as important as the person you are saying it to. Silence can be golden. Be golden.

Knowledge is power. When knowledge turns inward, the power is held in our own hands. Trust me. I need all the power I can get. I would guess that you do too. Arrogance isn't power. Judgment isn't power. Arguments aren't power. Fear isn't power. Change. Belief. Hope. Humility. Sacrifice. Love. That's what our souls desire. You want power? Search your soul and be your own change. You'll find that your change will inspire the change you wish to see in those that surround you.


Mahatma Gandhi said:

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world."

Be it.

That Familiar Pain

Friday falls into the awful-horrible-no good-terribly-painful category-list of how my days go. I had to put my dog down and it is KILLING me. I'm not kidding. I thought I could do this. I thought I could handle it. I know it was for the best. But I'm not kidding you when I say that I think of him EVERY single minute of the day right now. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't quit crying. I can't. I can't. I can't. And I don't see it happening any time soon.

Ernie came into my life seven years ago. A couple years before that, I had to put our Rottweiler friend, Bertha, down. I loved that dog. Immensely. I swore that I would never own another dog. Ever. No way. Wasn't going to happen. Nope. Nuh-uh.

Two years later, Mark and I were driving home and someone had puppies romping in a pen with a For Sale sign hanging on the post. We stopped. They were super cute and I surprisingly felt a tug on my heart. I told Mark that I thought I might be ready for a new dog. We asked the breeder if she had any Rotts or knew of anyone who bred them. She took our info, emailed us some pics and a few months later our Ernie flew in from Oklahoma.

Of course it was love at first sight.

Ernie kinda sorta resembled an animation. I swear to you, he was always smiling. Cracked me up. His eyes would smile, he would grin, roll his tongue out, wag his stump of a tail and promptly back up and sit on your feet. The dog was obsessed with his butt. Demands for butt rubbing were given to visitors. Feet were made for sitting on and there was no way to convince him differently. If you sat on the ground, he would sit on you. All the better for him if he was the one to knock you down. There was a time last summer that he rammed me so hard that my knee hyperextended. I was instantly on the ground, bawling like a little school girl. Ernie was so excited to have me in his territory that he promptly grinned from ear to ear, backed up and sat his big old 100 pound butt right on my chest. Great. I couldn't breathe, my knee was destroyed, I was bawling and laughing and howling and poor Mark didn't know what the crap to do for me.

This Fall, Ernie developed a limp. I wasn't horribly worried. Nebo (my Rhodesian Ridgeback grand puppy) had come to visit. He and Ernie loved to romp in the back yard. Because Nebo is a little more light on his feet, I figured Ernie had simply overdone it. Time passed and his limp didn't improve. We looked at his paw. We felt his leg. We stretched and pulled and examined and prodded and poked and found nothing. We figured he had done "something" and the continued stress of his weight was somehow preventing the healing.

A few weeks ago, we decided to take Ernie to get x-rays and find out what the crap was going on. Mark took him to our vet. They x-rayed and questioned and discussed and diagnosed. Bone cancer. Man, I'm starting to hate that vet.

Dr. Park wasn't too hip on the options available. This was a fast growing cancer and throwing money at the problem wouldn't make it go away and most likely wouldn't extend his life. He would just be sick and miserable and there was NO WAY that I wanted that for my pup. We took him home.

I watched my dog decline. I monitored his every sound and his every movement. I gauged his eating, his sleeping, his chewing of the bones, his pain pill intake, his "going outside" routine; if he did it, I watched it. Friday morning rolled around and I knew. I bawled and bawled and bawled and called STUPID Park Animal Hospital.

At 4:30 in the afternoon, Mark and I said good-bye to my furry friend. The room echoed with my sobs as I gripped Marks leg so he could hold my dog. And I felt that familiar pain.

If you are a pet lover, you know exactly what I mean. Ernie was a listening ear, a companion, a friend, a no-nonsense-I-love-you-unconditionally comrade. I miss my dog.

Holding On To Heaven

Okay. You get it. Every year I create a video for my family at Christmas. I create sweatshirts to match.

I think and ponder and design and gather and work and edit until it is all just the way I want it. It's quite a process for me, because it is MY GIFT to my family and it has to express EVERYTHING I want them to know. AND I only have a few moments to wrap a year of thoughts into a picture.

I comb through photographs to ensure that I represent every member of the Deason clan. I pour over songs and lyrics until I find the "one". I look at sweatshirts and colors and envision design. There is meaning in every part of the creation. EVERY SINGLE PART. No lie.

I usually begin my Chirstmas-gift-hunt around June. I pay close attention to songs on the radio. I look at color and styles of clothing. I lock away memories and thoughts and actions of my family and try oh-so-hard not to forget "epic" moments in order to represent them correctly.

So when Daulton sent me a song and said "this makes me think of you." I knew I had found my song. I told her as much (which is like pulling my teeth. I DON'T share my song choice, video, or design with my family. EVER.)

I came up with the design and colors for the shirts. It was GOOD.

However, I kept going back and analyzing my choice. Things weren't settling like usual. The song was for ME and represented me and MY life. I know I always say that it's all about me, however, the video and sweatshirts are for US. All of us.

Shelby calls me every day on her way to work. One day she called and we were talking about our family and the difficulty behind 2015. "I think we need to get back to basics. I think we each need to remember the good that we have and focus on that."

Shelby was right.

I am a HUGE Tim McGraw fan. I go every single year to his concert. He could sing every single song he has EVER recorded and it wouldn't be enough. I love him. I love him. I LOVE HIM. I do.

Because I love him OHSOMUCH, when his new album came out, I couldn't drive my 1993 Jeep fast enough to Target. I seriously stood in front of the cd's for a VERY long time gazing at my soon-to-be-newest-treasure. That cd is still in my player and is listened to every day since the release.

Did I mention that I love him? Sigh....

Maybe it's because I listen to this album so much, or because I LOVE HIM. Whatever the reason, I couldn't get the song "Top Of The World" off of my mind. And guess what? It fit

I did something I have NEVER done before. I switched everything up.

If I could line my family up, I would tell them...EACH of them...not to forget to find happiness in the life we have been given. I used to always say that if it became necessary, I would find happiness and beauty living in a cardboard box. We may not have much in the thing-owning world that we live in, but we top the charts in the gifted-family-that-has-everything world. They need to remember that. I need to remember that.

So, I guess the song was for me after all. See? I TOLD YOU. It IS all about me. Right?

The song begins with:

We could have a little double wide planted in an empty field
We could have a big old white picket wrap around on a hill
Don't make a difference to me baby,
Where the wind takes me, long as I'm with you girl
We could have something or nothing still be sitting on top of the world

Cause when you got love, like we got love
I'm holding on to heaven, holding on to you
When you got one, like I got one
Anyway you looking it's a hell of a view

Don't know where we're gonna be
But I know we're gonna be
Sitting on top of the world
So keep hanging on to me
Yeah, don't you wanna be
Sitting on top of the world

According the personaltao.com the "starting" definition to yin yang is:

Two halves that together complete wholeness. Yin and yang are also a starting point for change. When something is whole by definition it is unchanging and complete. So when you split something into two halves - yin/yang, it upsets the equilibrium of wholeness. This starts both halves chasing after each other as they seek a new balance with each other. 

Here is my madness:

I created the world on our sweatshirts using the yin and yang symbol. The "offset" letters are to represent the singular personalities necessary to make the entire Deason family complete. Not one letter is a duplicate of another letter just as our family members are not a mirrored. Yet the typeface comes from ONE font just as the individual in our family stems from the whole Deason unit.

There you go. We ARE on top of the world. We are unique and lucky and TOGETHER in this life. Don't forget it.

Shirt FRONT:

Duh. Because it IS pretty dang amazing..

Shirt BACK:

Enjoy my movie: