My Real-Life Fairy Tale (Part 4)

Extended Family

My dad’s parents, Mama and Papa (“Mam-aw” and “Pap-aw” – more on them here) lived about 45 minutes away in Des Moines, Iowa, and I spent many days at their house soaking up the love, the Kraft mac n’ cheese and the black and white reruns on Nick At Night.  During the day, we embroiled ourselves in badminton in the front yard, Mama schooled us in board games at the dining room table – especially Scrabble & Tri-Ominos, and Papa took us on walks down the hill and through the wooded spillway to the candy store. We were sure there were bears and snakes in those woods, so we would hold his hand tight as we scanned the “woods” for monsters.

Our 40 feet of impenetrable jungle, past which lies the candy store.

By the time we returned, it was usually time for dinner.  After we had set the table and taken turns praying, we feasted on Mama’s home cooking while we begged Papa for more war stories. He was a bombardier in WWII, but he didn’t really want to talk much about the war, and the only references we had for gunplay were what we saw on Bonanza and The Lone Ranger. So when we asked him about the “hole” in his chin, he did not explain to us what a “dimple” was, but instead told us that was where the Indians shot him with an arrow during the war.

Nighttime always found my brother and me on Mama’s lap, where she read us whatever books we chose from her library of Rand McNally and Little Golden Books. Our favorite was “What Happened to George?”, the story of a pig who ate one too many donuts and then exploded.

Even as I grew older, I never remember hearing a single negative word directed at me from either of them.  Just tons and tons of love and positive reinforcement.

My summers were spent in Ohio with my mom’s parents (Nanny and Pa), her only brother, and his two boys.

It was the picture-perfect American childhood summer. To this day, the heavy Midwest humidity that feels like suffocation to most, still feels like freedom to me! Stepping off a plane anywhere east of the Mississippi, I am instantly teleported to a baseball diamond on my grandparent’s front field, where the Cincinnati Reds battled the Oakland A’s in game seven of the World Series nearly every day in our playtime imaginations, and Nanny’s southern cookin’ awaited both teams each night.

Each morning offered another 16 hours of limitless exploration, full of motor bikes, bottle rockets, and whatever creative uses we could find for those metal lawn darts. The nights were lit by a billion fireflies over the fields of soybeans just past the back porch. Each night we caught as many of the lightning bugs as we could fit in a mason jar  that we placed over the TV and fell asleep watching whatever movies we rented at the library – usually Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, a couple Star Trek movies, and a host of John Wayne classics.

My uncle was – and still is – a legend in the world of mini-rod racing.  It seemed he couldn’t shake first place.  It just followed him everywhere he went.  His tractor was “The Sting” until he retired and another racer bought the tractor and the brand, but still couldn’t ride to victory.  When my uncle un-retired, he built “The Sting Again”…and won again.  And we had front row tickets whenever we wanted to tag along, from Illinois to Tennessee and every surrounding state.

The first hundred dollar bill I ever saw in real life was from his winnings.  (After this experience, I proudly told my friends that my uncle was…maybe not a millionaire, but “definitely a thousandaire!!”)  But as amazing as that was, it seemed just ‘a day in the life’ for him.  Because, while he moonlighted as a turbo-charged superhero, during the day he hand-spun aluminum wheels for nearly all the monster trucks in the United States.  Bigfoot, Gravedigger, all the legends – drove to his shop to pick up their monster wheels.  And when we were in town, we got to meet them.

In almost every way, Ryan seems to be a carbon copy of my uncle.  Not just in their personality, mannerisms, and worldview, but in the way they conduct their lives.  In addition to racing mini rods and spinning monster wheels, my uncle also helped run my grandpa’s tractor service company and farmed the acres of land between their house and my grandparents’.  Later he managed his son’s music career, and joined the boards of major Midwest organizations.

He knows everyone from every industry and seems to be a high-level professional amateur in every endeavor that catches his attention.  A trip to Ohio usually meant learning about some industry my uncle was newly leading.  Whatever he’s producing, he’s always had more orders than he can fill, and he still doesn’t have a website because he still doesn’t need one. He’s Ronald Freaking Wysong, and still too humble to ever accept that mantle.

It was also in Ohio that I got to visit with all four great-grandparents on my mother’s side. Most of my dad’s side did not survive to meet me, but we dependably received long, endearing letters and maple syrup from his great aunt and uncle in the syrup business in upstate New York (who I visited in person once in early July of 1995).

To the west, my dad’s sister and her family were occasional, but wonderful influences, loving on us, taking trips with us, and introducing us to NBA Jam on their Sega Genesis.  My family connections were vast, diversified across the nation, and I had no doubt they were all rooting for me, no matter what.

Teen Years

During my final years in Boone, I remember spreading a towel on the white shag carpet of our living room so we could eat, propped up on our elbows over our Kid Cuisine TV dinners, while we watched Michael Jordan fight his way to championship ring after championship ring. Superheroes were real and anything was possible.

In the spring of ‘92, my dad finished the church building project he had single-mindedly both imagined and executed. And at about that same time, my mom finished her college degree in education from Iowa State University. It was time for us all to ride the winds of change.

My parents felt God calling them across the country to a small church in a suburb of Sacramento. This dying church was in need of an overhaul, just like my dad had done in Boone; and the school was in need of an educator with a talent for administration, just like my mom had been training to do. And if California was home to Kelly Kapowski, I knew this was going to be a perfect fit for us all.

My magic-trick-performing entrepreneurial spirit followed me to the coast, and I began selling Olympia greeting cards door-to-door (but mostly congregant-to-congregant).  Our ISU music teachers were replaced by Northern California jazz greats.  Ryan studied with drummer Rick Lotter, and I fell in love with jazz under the tutelage of woodwindist Mike McMullen, and later, pianist Dr. Joe Gilman.

Mom continued to homeschool us with the same expectation of excellence as always: our best.  Neither of us were valedictorian, but we could both earn straight A’s, and she knew it, so that’s all she required.  We didn’t have to be the best.  We just had to be our best.

Thanks to her influence, my brother and I continued our love of learning, earning several degrees from INSTE, ARC, and CSUS.  He focused on ministry and computers, while I studied communications and music.  College wasn’t nearly the intimidating prospect it was for many of our peers, given the experience we had at ISU and the homeschool education she gave us right up through our last year of high school, where we transitioned into the school that she ran with just as much diligence as she had run her own homeschool.

In my teen years, we attended church camps in the summer, first as attendees, then as counselors, then as clown and puppeteer assistants to my keynote-speaker mother, and, eventually as the keynote speakers ourselves.

 

 

Over those years, my parents continued to offer our home as a refuge to people who were genuinely “between places at the moment,” or who just needed a safe place to land temporarily.  So we had several adopted brothers and sisters who utilized the Coller hospitality.  In California, we were thousands of miles from our relatives, but our loving “family” was always bigger than ever.

In the summer of ’93, the Trafzer family was looking for a homeschool program to join. My mom ran the program nearest their house, so the Trafzers decided they would join. Wendy Trafzer and I were both in 7th grade, so we saw each other once a month for the homeschooler’s “On Campus Day”. Wendy and I both played instruments, were at the top of our class, and were born exactly one day apart. The similarities mounted and I enjoyed this chick even more each time I saw her.

Eventually Wendy and I both quit homeschooling and joined the on-campus students. I grew into the role of Big Man on our quaint campus, and as far as I could tell, Wendy had it all: she was hot, she was smart, she was talented, and she was hot.

Everyone teased us about being a couple, but neither of us was quite sure we were ready to admit it to the world or ourselves.  We never officially went on a date but we spent nearly every day together, fully engaged in the church leadership activities and the groups we led together.

Married Life

Wendy and I graduated together, attended college together, and by the spring of 2003, I couldn’t take it any more. I proposed, she said yes, and we wed two days after the following Christmas in Bodega Bay.

I was a part time musician, and during the week, we both taught full time at the school. But between the final bell on Friday and the start of school the following Monday, we spent our weekends on spontaneous adventures wherever our blue, 1990 Chevy Silverado would take us, and some places it wouldn’t.

My barefoot beauty on the bench seat beside me, and Garth Brooks blasting through our aftermarket Kenwood stereo, we were a picture-perfect mix between a country song and a Disney fairy tale, complete with a sidekick named Bentley, the cutest Maltise Yorkie you ever did see.

We lived 446 miles from Disneyland, but we made the coastal drive so frequently, we had season passes. Occasionally, half-way to Mickey’s place, I’d look over and ask, “Wanna hang a left this time?” Wendy is always down for any adventure with her man, and a “yes” meant we’d be catching the 58 East to Vegas. Each time we tried something new. We watched all the shows up and down the strip, stayed in most of the hotels, and did some things…that will just stay in Vegas.

But Vegas wasn’t our only detour. We rode tens of miles on horses on the beach and rode thousands of miles on my 1200cc motorcycle. We snowboarded the Sierras and trekked to the concerts of all our favorite legends. We got face to face with the whales in the Pacific, and foot-to-foot with the famous at the Hollywood stars. We toured the museums, basked on the beaches, and parked in places we got towed. We skydived, swam with sharks, and snorkeled the beaches of Hawaii making friends with the native turtles. We kissed in front of the White House and shared an embrace at Orlando’s Epcot Center.

[Redacted] A beach towel, a backpack, and at least two wheels was all we would ever need…or so we thought.

As a part of my musical career, I toured as the saxophonist for the Sac Metro Gospel Choir, performing our 2005 album “Get Thee Behind Me” across the United States. Coming off the road, we celebrated Martin Luther King Jr. Day together in 2009. On the drive home, Wendy sat on that cloth bench seat beside me and hit me with a coy grin that means the same thing at this point in every perfect story: I was about to become a dad.

Kids

We both quit our fulfilling teaching jobs so I could support the family on a single income as the new Juvenile Drug Court Coordinator for Sacramento County. The due date finally arrived and that perfect little princess changed my life forever. Vegas and Disney suddenly seemed like pathetic trinkets compared to the eternal bliss I experienced every time I looked in her perfect blue eyes.

Just thirteen months later, God gave us a healthy baby boy, and I learned that infinite love can, indeed, still be multiplied. Babies were my new obsession and Wendy was as down for that adventure as she had ever been for taking those left turns down the coast. Wendy is nothing if not consistent, and nearly every year, like clockwork, we added a new pregnancy until we had 6 perfect little monkeys, one at a time: girl, boy, girl, boy, girl…girl. (It’s okay. It fits – that last one…she’s a rebel.)

We’re done with the baby stage now. We just used our last diaper and we won’t be buying another until grandbaby time. It’s true, I miss rocking an infant to sleep and kissing the velvet hair of the most precious bundle of poop and tears, because nothing grounds a human like the hiccup of a newborn, or the squeeze of five fingers that seem too miniature and too precious to be real. Or the unfiltered giggles that erupt from a baby like explosions of rich life being carelessly flung from this ball of infinite potential, because they just have that much joy to spare.

But as much as I loved the baby stage, I’m also loving the second half of “bitter-sweet” as they grow older. We’re finally reaching the season of life where we can get back to our adventurous roots. So nearly every weekend, the eight of us brush away the Cheerios that are ground into the seats of our dilapidated but dependable Suburban, we buckle up, and head out to the destinations that are not open to newborns nor the faint of heart; to explore wherever our family motto leads: “Say ‘yes’ to the adventure.”

Conflict

That’s the official story and it’s all true. But simplicity is usually just a thin film laid atop a truth. Scratch the surface and truth always gets messy.

In fact, acknowledgements like those are precisely the kind of irritating honesties that placed me on the outside of the family circle since I was old enough to express them. I lived in a universe that required clean angles, bright lines and defined roles. Black-or-white, good-or-bad, in-or-out.

That training still haunts my perspectives to this day, but my open nature is persistent.  The more earnestly I questioned, the further the trinity felt from me, and I from them. I sincerely wanted – and still want – their acceptance, but I cannot not question.  I did not escape because I was smarter or better than my brother. I escaped because, like steam in a warming tea kettle, escape was my destiny.

So, perhaps only one fact remains that can boast the endorsement all four of us Collers: I was never cut out to be one.

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Tale Of Two Cities