The people that got us through

I am aware that the title of this post may further your suspicions of me drinking too much due to stress. I assure you that it is far from the truth. While it is true that I like a good glass of wine with dinner I abhor getting drunk. In fact the last time that happened it involved a Mexican and a bottle of tequila. Let's just say that it wasn't a shining moment in my adult life.

I will say that I do like the taste of some alcohol. The complexities of various wines. The subtle differences between Scandinavian and Russian Vodka, or the memory a good beer evokes. I would be called more of a connoisseur of liquor more than a lush.

There is one taste that is like a good comfort. It may seem simple, even cheap, but the taste of Molson Canadian is one of my favorites. It is what I would call comfort beer. It symbolizes a great hockey season, summer barbecues, and a nice quiet evening at home with a pizza. In essence family time.

This last spring Derek (ok, I'll use his real name for this one) and I were forced to spend every waking moment with each other. Stuck in a tiny hotel room in a foreign country where we didn't speak the language. When your husband is your best friend this isn't such a bad thing. We spent our afternoons watching movies on the computer and fixing a little lunch. Just enough to satisfy us until dinner rolled around. Lunch consisted of a noodle bowl, some bread and cheese and on a few occasions a great Russian beer. Great memories.

On a different note yesterday we laid my Tiny Papa to rest. Our family gathered around at a cemetery in North Washington to pay our last respects to a great man. A prize fighter, a hard worker, a devoted husband, an avid fisherman, and a well respected man of 98 years old (I finally found out his age.) At the conclusion of the service we took the time to talk to extended family members. Meet people we never knew existed and reminisced about the life of our Tiny Papa. My immediate family had plans to have lunch together at a local casino buffet.

Sunday I declined the offer to join them, as I am not much of an Indian gaming person. I planned to do a little shopping at the outlet mall or try to catch Suzanne for a quick bit of coffee. My mom looked at me and said, "are you sure you wouldn't like to join us?" I tried again to decline, but she kept asking. I was hungry and my step-dad was paying. I hadn't heard from Suzanne and I really didn't have the money to go shopping. So I joined them.

My mom rode in the car with me and we had a lively discussion about faith and religion. One of the first times we have carried on such a conversation. As we sat at lunch I looked at my family. Mom, Mike, my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. A family that had just lost it's oldest member. A family that has stuck together through anything. A family that has taught me so much over the years. People who have made me laugh, taught me to be strong and defended me when the boys came knocking. I realized that there isn't anywhere else I would have been yesterday. They constantly reassured me that Pickle was coming home. Reminded me to have faith and repeatedly said they couldn't wait to meet him. What a comfort.

I said my good-byes to my family and hopped in my car for the long drive home through Seattle traffic. Hot weather and dumb drivers are enough to raise your blood pressure and set in the little bit of road-rage. By the time I got home I was tired and frustrated. But I opened the fridge and waiting inside was a bottle of Baltika. The Russian beer we drank on those quiet days in Khabarovsk. The first sip was like a reminder. We must make memories that last. Whether it be mint green furniture in a tiny Russian hotel room or your uncle brow beating you to eat more; it is these kinds of memories that you keep with you forever. It is what makes up family.