End of an era

Today would have been the first day of Zoo Camp 2020. But covid happened. Except the summer I took off to have James, I have been working at a summer camp in some capacity for 16 years. At the Oregon Zoo since 2008. That is long enough to witness campers become teen volunteers, teens become counselors and coworkers, and coworkers to become good friends of mine. Zoo Camp is part of the fabric of my being. And so today when I see on my calendar that it was supposed to be the first day of camp, I mourn what was taken away from me before I was ready to say goodbye.

I don’t know if the zoo or camp will survive the pandemic and these difficult times we are in. If they do, I don’t know if I’ll be part of them when they return. Life will certainly be different when we find out that answer, but right now, in this moment of time, I do desperately hope I can continue my work there.

It feels almost wrong to be upset about something like Zoo Camp being canceled while there are huge issues going on right now like the fight for racial justice and access to healthcare amidst a pandemic – especially for low income and poc communities. But Zoo Camp is a place that strives to be a safe haven for children of all backgrounds. As educators, we never knew which kids were there on scholarship, what a kid’s home life was like, or what challenges they were facing. Often we could glean glimpses into their lives after getting to know them over the course of a week and communicating with guardians. But as long as the campers were able to follow our expectations, all had an equal access to the magic of camp.

And that’s what I miss. The magic. The giggles over night while sleeping next to lions. The wonder in a kid’s eye when they see a unique animal behavior. Young scientists, artists, and friends blossoming all against the background of a bustling zoo. Collaboration between educators. Learning my team’s strengths and weaknesses. The most supportive boss I could ever imagine. Unique relationships with staff in other departments; I look back now at these people and consider them family. Kyle, the security guard, was always reliable to rescue me at night when I’d locked myself out of a building. Mark in custodial was always good for a high five and smile, even when he was going through the death of a family member. Beth in Predators was equally as excited to see me on grounds and share a few facts about animals with my campers. The countless faces and names I grew to know and love because of our shared mission to make that place a place to love animals. And those animals. My god the animals. I miss them all. Jackson, Chendra, Butters & Desi, Tuff. You were my magic. I hope you can become that again someday.

An Homage to a Mountain

We call her Luuwit (or Loowit) to honor the native peoples that knew her first, but you probably know her as Mt. St. Helens. 40 years ago today she erupted and changed the landscape of this area indefinitely. Our wedding anniversary also lands on this day, 33 years later.

Living in the shadow of a mountain that exploded so recently and another that has been quiet for a couple hundred years is at once breathtaking and frightening. We can see Luuwit from our new house on a clear day. Today she is snuggled in the clouds, shy on this big anniversary. Wy’east (Mt. Hood) can be seen on our daily walks when we get down the hill to a clear site line.

There are so many legends and lessons from Luuwit’s most recent eruption. But all day I’ve been thinking about how good it must have felt to release that pressure. Building for centuries. And then finally it’s gone, a literal weight off her shoulders. It was devastating. But it is now what separates this mountain from others in the Cascade range. People come from all over the world to study and marvel at what’s left. And what’s left is beautiful. New ecosystems are emerging, the peak is low enough for amateurs to summit, and we are reminded of nature’s power. I aim to be as impactful as Luuwit – turning death and destruction into discovery and beauty.

Before the shutdown, I was able to see an exhibit at the Portland Art Museum featuring the history of Mt. St. Helens with Adam and my mom. It was beautiful and eye opening. We often wonder what that day 40 years ago was like at this very house. My mom bought me a gift from the gift shop – a glass replica of the mountain; glass made here in Portland from the ashes of the eruption. It’s a gorgeous piece. Dark with shimmers of purple and green. Another beautiful result of a catastrophic day.

I celebrate you today Luuwit. I didn’t know you before your transformation, but I know you now and am lucky to see you on days that the clouds part. I see pieces of myself reflected in you and at the same time am humbled by your story. Thank you for your inspiration, your beauty, your lessons. I look at you and see hope for healing after a destructive event. Rest peacefully dear mountain. I know your story continues on.

Hard to see, but Luuwit is there above my head. May 17, 2020

(Some native stories about our local mountains: https://deptofbioregion.org/department-of-bioregion/native-place-names-loowit-mt-st-helens#)

Missing season

This year started off pretty great with the purchase of our first home. Then the Coronavirus hit; we’ve been isolating at home for 7 weeks today. We blinked and now it’s almost May. Despite how fast or slow time seems to be passing, one thing is a constant this time of year – I start missing James and our time together.

Of course I miss him all year round and think of him everyday. But in late April, the season, sunlight, and activities trigger those memories deep in my soul of what it was like the last few weeks of my pregnancy and for the 2 months that James was here. I go back in time and relive all the feelings of knowing our baby would be born different, but still holding on to hope that we could make a great life for him. I relive our days and nights together, how we savored every moment. And I long for those days in the hospital. It was a strange life, but we found our routine and built our community around James and his care. I miss his doctors and nurses so much. Our little room at the Ronald McDonald House. Lunches at the cafeteria. Morning rounds, discussing James’ care for the day. The generosity of strangers to provide meals for families at the Ronald McDonald House. Holding James at night while listening to our favorite NICU cds. Amy picking out matching sheets and blankets that complimented James’ personality. Flor’s bubbly personality that brightened our days and got us in trouble once or twice for being too loud. Kirsten’s stoic support and kind care that felt like a balm to our wounded hearts. Jeanne being there every single day. Sneaking away to the garden when I needed fresh air. The endless pumping. These are the memories that come flooding back this time of year. I relive the whole thing, every year.

I call it missing season. I miss it all. Even the hard days and decisions, because he was still there with us.

I find myself wondering about other people’s missing season. And I hope it’s not terribly too consuming for parents who’s child lived more than a couple of months. When the memories are years and not months, that must be simultaneously wonderful and awful. I treasure this time of year but it’s also so exhausting. I try to remember that it’s all there because of the love.

holding on to the ducks

I don’t know where to begin. The world is different now from the last time I wrote. Different on a global scale, and different on a personal scale.

We are in the middle of the Coronavirus pandemic (for anyone reading this in the future). It is inexplicable, as no one has lived through something like this before. I lost my job at the zoo after being there for 13 years. A lot of other people lost their jobs too or had hours or salary cut. It is a devastating loss. The zoo is home to me, and coworkers are family. I have slept countless hours there, eaten meals, rejoiced new births and arrivals, mourned deaths of both animal and human friends. No one knows what the future will look like. The animals are the top priority as they should be and they still have their dedicated staff looking after them. I don’t know if there is a place for me there once this all calms down; that is the scariest part. To have over a decade of my life ripped away because of this virus and not know if I will return – it’s a knife to the heart.

This loss, the unknown amount of time ahead of me, it pulls me back to the summer James died. There’s nothing to do but sit at home and mourn what you once had. Only this time I’m reaching into my toolkit that I put together from my lessons of grief. I’m diving into the things that help soothe my soul: baking, gardening, my bees, and writing. It doesn’t take the pain away, but it does bring a bit of light to my life in these dark times. Rainbows in the darkness you might say.

It’s been a very long time since I have felt James’ presence or like he has sent me a sign. I’ve been aching for it. The morning of my last day of work (before it was official) I was on my daily walk with Strider, my dog. Lost in thought, I was startled to see something move out the corner of my eye and realized it was a pair of mallard ducks hanging out in someone’s yard. They flew away before I could snap a picture, but I thought of them for the rest of the day. It is unusual since we live in a neighborhood technically in city limits. There is wildlife around, coyotes, geese, and lots of songbirds, but never ducks. The next day I was just as startled to see a duck again, but this time 15 blocks away in a different part of the neighborhood. One of my grief coaches said that ducks can symbolize “to reconnect with family. They can also help you deal with your emotions evenly and lovingly and guide you through the rougher waters of life. Duck reminds you that it may be a time for you to return to a place in your life where you felt safe and comfortable. The Duck’s cycle of power is spring and summer.” This struck a chord. I have seen the ducks twice more since.

The biologist in me wants to think that they are just here for breeding season and maybe ventured out further than before because there is less human activity right now. But the believer in me wants them to be a sign from James, telling me to turn back to these things that soothe me and lean on my family – Adam and Strider. I think these ducks can be both. A sign of nature continuing on despite this pandemic, but also a sign of how to deal with these unprecedented times. So I am holding on to the ducks, hoping they will help me through to the other side.

New Years reflections

Tomorrow marks a new decade with the turn of the calendar. Sometimes I think remembering the past year and setting goals for the new year is silly and fruitless; time is just a man made construct so what is one more trip around the sun really? But deep down, I know that reflection is important for growth and gratitude. So I’m sitting here on a grey, drizzly December 31st thinking about the last 12 months of my life.

2019 flew by in the blink of an eye. I’m uncomfortable with the way life is speeding up the older I get and wish I could slow it down. The year started with me getting really sick. My physical health has been a challenge the last few years and the new year opened with me realizing there’s only so much doctors can do to help me. However I did learn a few ways to help myself this year. I finally learned how to help my digestive system when it isn’t feeling well. And in the fall, the lesson of balancing periods of rest and activity finally set in as a grief coach helped me realize my default settings. While I am certainly not the healthiest I’ve ever been, I am learning how to listen to my body and respond with what will make me feel better.

As winter warmed into spring, I finally was able to explore mason bee keeping with all the free time I had, being the first year since 2013 that I wasn’t in grad school. I fell in love with my bees and have had a successful first year. It was pure joy spending my spring and summer in my garden with mason, leafcutter, and bumble bees.

Adam and I traveled to the midwest and deep down I knew it would be the last trip “home” of its kind. We made it out to the tallgrass prairie and I remained shocked at the pull I feel for Kansas landscapes. Although I consider myself a temperate forest west coast girl now, there is something that calls to me from the rolling hills, prairies, and sandstone dotted world that is Eastern Kansas. My heart has roots planted in this place and it breaks just a little bit when I think I may never go back.

Early May was tough with James’ birthday and Mother’s Day in the same weekend. It was my first Mother’s Day without a rainbow. There are no words to describe the pain of that weekend. Hopefully it will get easier as the years pass, but I need to prepare myself for it being hard every time since the two dates are so close together.

Luckily mid-May saw us traveling to Eastern Oregon for the first time. I fell in love with that corner of the state, the Wallowas, and Eagle Cap Wilderness. It was the perfect place to celebrate our anniversary and heal a bit in nature. More on this special place in a bit.

The summer brought a new job role for me at the zoo since 2009. I loved it but it was challenging and I was not entirely prepared. Being a leader is hard, especially when those you are working with don’t always have the same vision. I was humbled by my staff and the work that we do. It’s important to keep things light and fun, but not a day passed that I didn’t think about how this fun experience we provide for today’s youth will hopefully shape the adults they will become to be stewards for our world. It’s such a dichotomy and I am so proud of the group of educators I work with in how they approach this challenge. I was also super stoked to not be sleeping at the zoo every Thursday night for the summer!

Summer gave way to fall and I decided to be part of a support/grief group for a month, exploring my loss and how to live with that in hope and light. It was a great experience and I met some amazing women. I learned the 5 second rule which has helped get me moving as I mentioned earlier. And I was able to create a vision for my future. As I was digesting these lessons, I was invited to be on an unrelated podcast to speak about James and life as a bereaved mom. It was something I never imagined I would do, but I am so proud of. Please give it a listen if you haven’t yet.

The rest of the year was pretty quiet while at the same time, our path for the future was being strategically cleared. Adam and I made 2 big decisions which will impact the rest of our lives. One is a work in progress, the other hopefully we can reveal in a couple of weeks. I am really excited for 2020 and all it will bring.

2019 taught me a lot. About how to listen to myself and challenge myself. That my story is far from over, and that I still have a lot to tell about chapters already lived. When I think about one memory that sticks out as my 2019 highlight, it’s seeing Sacajawea Peak in Eagle Cap Wilderness.

We traveled to Joseph, Oregon in May for our anniversary after the suggestion from our friend Lea. Always wanting to explore further east, I asked her for recommendations since she lives in La Grande. Keep going east she said, recommending Joseph. I knew little about the Wallowas and Eagle Cap Wilderness but a brief internet search showed it would be a nice trip for us. The Wilderness is pretty rugged and the easiest hike we could find was Hurricane Creek Trail. It seemed like a good one where we could turn around any time we wanted while exploring this new landscape. At the trailhead a sign was posted that a cougar was spotted the day before and didn’t seem to be afraid of humans. I was slightly nervous and picked up a nice sized rock and put it in my pocket. We headed down the trail and my nervousness faded. This was a peaceful forest. The uneasiness that I sometimes feel closer to Mt. Hood was no where to be found. The day was perfect and we didn’t know what to expect on the trail ahead, but luckily did not cross paths with a cougar. About 1/2 mile in, I look up across the creek and see this gorgeous mountain standing tall over the trees. It took my breath away. It was totally unexpected. We had seen other mountains the day before, and I knew the Wallowas were a sight to behold, but this one was special. I didn’t even know its name. As we hiked the trail, the mountain remained in view most of the time. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I felt as though I had discovered a gem. We hiked several miles, picnicked in an open glade, marveled at the glaciers and watched the creek rush by. This was a special place.

Turns out the mountain was Sacajawea Peak, the tallest mountain in Oregon outside of the Cascade range. I was forever changed by that view, that place. It has stayed in my heart the rest of the year, after only a couple of hours there.


When I think of my year, that is what I think of. This wild place with an unexpected mountain and beauty that goes deeper than your eyes can see. Like the landscape of Eastern Kansas pulling at my roots, the landscape of Eastern Oregon pulls me forward. I want to go back, I need to go back. There is so much more to explore, even if it’s on the same path I was on before. And I know that my life mirrors this place. Wild and beautiful, with unexpected mountains. I will not tame this mountain (Sacajawea or loss) but I stand in awe of it’s majesty. I want to share this place with others, show them its beauty; but realize the wilderness is not for everyone.

In 2020 I hope to return to the Wallowas and gaze upon Sacajawea again. I also hope to continue to explore the mountain of my grief and continue working on a personal project that one day I might be able to share with you. As I say goodbye to 2019 I am so grateful for these unexpected chapters and moments in life. It’s not at all what I thought it would be like, but you gotta take the beauty where you find it.

Knee surgery

Seven years ago today, I checked into the hospital to have my knee cut open on the front and back to start the arduous process of fighting what everyone believed to be a non-cancerous tumor in my right knee. They called it PVNS, abbreviated for pigmented villonodular synovitis. Inflammation in my joint lining that had a 50% recurrence rate after being cut out. Some patients even endured radiation to get rid of it.

That spring and summer my knee blew up to the size of a small melon. I couldn’t straighten it all the way and it felt hot to the touch. Who knows how long something had actually be going on though. I remember seeing my doctor in high school about that knee. It was slightly irritating me, but I can’t remember in what sense now because it was so mild compared to what I experienced 15 years later. The doctor then said I just had an extended tendon in my knee. I used to sit with my right leg bend all the way underneath me. Maybe that was the beginning. Then, summer of 2012 after xrays and MRIs another doctor wanted me to come in immediately to discuss what they found. I’ll never forget what she said, “you have a very unhappy knee” followed by pigmented villonodular synovitis. My mind spun as tried to understand what she was saying. The only reason she even knew what this was after the imagine report was because a friend of hers did research on it in med school. I was given a handful of packets and sent on my way and told the surgeon’s office would be in touch.

Thank God my mom was in the room with me and my fiance in the lobby. I don’t remember much about the rest of that day besides just being confused about what was happening in my knee. I found a small support group on facebook for PVNS. Every person had horror stories. The surgeon who was going to treat me, likewise wasn’t very optimistic. She was one of two surgeons in the state that was an expert in this disease. My case was diffuse, or involving all of the joint so we had no choice but open surgery. I was devastated. This was the most challenging point of my life at this point.

The morning of Nov. 8, I checked in very early to the top ranked hospital. I couldn’t figure out my gown, and Adam had stepped out of my prep room for a second so I sat there naked until a nurse came around and helped me get my gown on. Then I had an anxiety attack. The anesthesiologist said she’d get me some meds to calm my nerves. I remember watching the ultrasound of my groin area as she found my femoral nerve to place the nerve block and then my general anesthesia quickly set in and I fell asleep.

The first thing I remember when I woke up was my surgeon telling me “the good news is you don’t have PVNS. The bad news is that we don’t know what’s wrong with your knee.” They had only needed to open my knee from the front and still removed my synovial tissue and did some other repair work, but being surgeons, admitted they were not experts on joint issues. I was furious I hadn’t insisted on a biopsy of the fluid in my knee to confirm PVNS. They just seemed so sure that’s what it was.

Recovery was hard. Crutches for 9 weeks. I had a bad reaction to some pain meds. My nerve block stopped working a few days before they estimated and we had to pull it out on our own at home. The pain was second only to delivering James without meds. Only this pain dragged on for weeks. I remember the first time I accidentally put weight on my right foot – searing pain like my nerves were on fire; I didn’t make that mistake again. And all of this happening during the holidays and 6 months before our wedding.

After I finished PT and checkups with the surgeon, I decided to switch providers. The next year I was on my husband’s insurance and decided to go with another network of doctors. I was just unimpressed with the way my case had be handled at this university based hospital. There was no care for the individual, or at least I felt that way.

A couple of years later my new doctors diagnosed me with arthritis, suspected rheumatoid arthritis. My knee blowing up was likely the beginning of that and I would have had to have surgery anyway. My medication has mostly been controlling my disease and I love my team of doctors. They cried with me when James died, celebrate my accomplishments, and really get to know me as a person and cater my treatment to what’s best for the whole me.

It’s likely that switching doctors put us on our path with James too. My obgyn sent us to the high-risk doctors who knew people at SCH and helped us make those connections. If James had been admitted to one of the children’s hospitals in town, I’m sure the outcome would have been the same, but I am so thankful for where we did end up. SCH is such a huge part of our story.

My knee is better now. I don’t have much muscle tone on that leg, and I still can’t fully extend it, but I am able to hike for several miles without getting tired. It hurts when I’m working too much standing on concrete and when I ovulate. But I can get around pretty well and know my limits.

I used to have PTSD about my surgery. I would replay that whole day and the following weeks in my mind. That has faded, like my scar. I now have even more horrifying stories to tell and sometimes wonder if living through knee surgery helped prepare me for our life with James. I know I’m not special. I know countless people have knee surgery. But it was a huge thing that changed the trajectory of my life.

So tonight I celebrate 7 years with a scar. I’m still learning the lessons it’s teaching me.

Sunset Ritual

Yesterday was the end of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It ends with the sun setting just as it begins with the sun rising. Yesterday was pretty special. My episode on the Podcast Andy’s Mom was posted. If you haven’t heard it yet, you can find it here: https://andysmom.com/2019/10/31/episode-10-james-mom/

We recorded the episode just the day before and when I found out that Marcy would be posting it on Oct. 31st I was thrilled; it would be the perfect end to the month of reflection. I was nervous before recording but once we started chatting, Marcy made me feel so comfortable with her effortless hosting and listening skills. The response so far has been amazing, so please continue to share my episode and her podcast so that we can normalize the conversation about child loss. I felt so happy and light after we recorded and after the episode was posted as well. It feels so good to share James’ story with a wider audience and hope that we can make the tiniest difference for someone else.

Yesterday evening I was cooking dinner and waiting for the sun to set when I realized I didn’t have enough whipping cream. I had to run out to the store and feared I would miss the sunset. Luckily the convenience store down the street had just what I needed and as I got back into my car, a Queen song was playing on the radio. James loved Queen when I was pregnant with him. So last night I knew that was him telling me he’s still with me and things are good. I drove home rocking out to Bohemian Rhapsody. The sun was setting in soft pinks and purples; I was thrilled I wasn’t going to miss it. Dropping off my cream at the house, I walked down the street to the intersection, the best spot to capture the sunset. I captured some photos, but the magic of the few moments the sun hangs on the horizon never translates well to the screen. Still, I was happy I caught that moment myself.

So I wrap up a month of grief reflections, perhaps for the first time, with hope. Hope that my story may help another bereaved parent, that James’ lesson of love is still changing the world, that my future is still bright and full of potential adventures. Of course I would love to have James with me here in the flesh. But deep down I know his spirit was too bright to remain in this broken world. The work he is doing from the other world is beyond my comprehension – I can just feel it in my bones as I struggle to put into human words what he’s doing.

Thank you to everyone who is witnessing my journey. It’s full of grief and hope and twists and turns like I never imagined. But it helps me to walk each day knowing I have a community of people listening the best they can. But I have one request from you: Just because Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month is over, doesn’t mean I want to stop the conversation about James and other children who have died. Please keep them in your thoughts, help them guide your daily decisions, talk to me and other people about them. It means the world to me, and other parents of angels.

Gifts in Grief

I just finished an amazing conversation with Marcy Larson for her podcast Andy’s Mom. She’ll be posting the episode tomorrow  which feels like such a great way to wrap up Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

Thank you so much for the response to my last post. The support and the acknowledgement of my grief helps the broken places feel put back together ever so slightly. But here’s the thing: that grief lives side by side with my love for James. Marcy and I talked about this quite a bit. Please don’t shy away from my grief, it just means that I loved him so much.

And yes, that love is a gift in grief. James opened my world to a type of love I didn’t know existed. For him, for his caretakers, for my husband, for my community. For myself. It’s hard and scary to love the way he taught me, but I do it anyway. Because I know it is my purpose. I know that I can turn my pain and darkness into light and hope for others.

If given the choice, I would do it all over again. The traumatic labor and delivery. The endless days in hospitals with a steep learning curve of medical lingo and second guessing what was best for our baby. Hours of pumping and giving literally everything I had for this tiny person. Holding him in my arms as he took his last breath. All of it. Because he was my teacher and my true love. I am on a better path because of him. That is my gift in grief.

Dear World

It’s still hard. Every single day. Some days, like today, are harder. And I often, like today, can’t pinpoint why. Opening up to my grief is exhausting. But living a busy life that makes it hard to acknowledge my grief is also exhausting. Right now I’m in the super slow days of fall, with not much to do besides projects at home. I try to keep busy, but it’s hard to keep my mind off the fact that James is gone. Spending a whole month reflecting on and bringing awareness to infant loss opens a lot of wounds that have been covered up most of the year.

And then a few week ago I was invited to be on a podcast called Andy’s Mom about child loss. I’m so excited to be able to share James’ story but I’ve been going through the details trying to decipher what will be the best parts to share to help other families. And revisiting some of those details has started to rip my heart open again.

AND THEN, Adam and I discovered that there was a whole journal article written about James that we didn’t even know about. A case study about his medical condition and PIK3CA genetic mutation. We discovered it in a list of recently published articles in the vascular team’s newsletter from SCH. I went through about a dozen emotions within 5 minutes of discovering the article. Anger that no one on the author team bothered to inform of us the publication, pride that the medical world can learn something from our little boy’s short life, relief to see pictures of his malformation because I don’t have any and was forgetting what it looked like, shock at pictures of his brain after autopsy, and most of all despair at how helpless we were to help provide a positive outcome for him. The article detailed every major chapter of James’ medical history, from my 20 week scan where we found out about his malformation, to the complications that arose from his disease, and finally through his autopsy and what that revealed. To see his life written in just a few pages, so clinically, without any mention of James as a person is heartbreaking. To read an unbiased account of how hard he really had it. But also knowing that most of the doctors on the author list knew James personally; he was more than just a baby with a rare disease to them. I understand completely that medical articles have to be written this way; I also understand why they didn’t tell us it was published. But it was hard to find that article and relive the reason that James isn’t here today.

I try to hold onto the love. The magical moments we shared during our time together. But it’s so hard.


Creative Heart

There are lots of ways that I have used my creativity in my grief. Cooking, baking, and gardening are my most often used creative tools. I’m a nurturer at heart and those activities help me to fulfill that role. Writing is my preferred creative outlet, but I don’t practice enough. That is why I love this project, it’s encouragement, prompts, and a reason to write. I still hope to one day put all of James’ story into one cohesive piece. I just need to find the courage to sit down and do it.

One creative grief outlet that took me by surprise was painting rocks. A friend of mine did it as an activity with her kids and wrote James’ Love Project page on the back of the rocks. Last year our family decided to try painting rocks ourselves and started hiding them around parks and places we would visit for strangers to find and brighten their day. I did a series of rocks on the birthdays of the children of the mommas I met at my first retreat. It was such a special way to connect with those angels on their birthdays and each one was surprisingly different. Adam has gotten into rock painting too and does gorgeous landscapes.

We have heard back from only a fraction of the rocks that have gone out into the world but some of the stories are amazing. One that we took to Maui came back to the mainland and was found in Washington by a family on a memorial hike for a loved one. The rock had a butterfly on it which was their symbol for the family member that had passed. Another rock made it’s way to Iceland and the little girl who found it used it as part of the decorations for her birthday party.

We know that our Love Rocks have touched more lives. It’s a special way to honor James and his love through creativity.

(Sacajawea Peak in the Wallowas painted by Adam)