Friendship

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Sunday afternoon, the Denver Botanic Gardens, every living thing humming along happily at its peak. We breakfasted at my Grandpa’s (Hello!). I made smoked salmon (from Alaska!) benedict on super soft challah, roasted asparagus, and a fruit cup of last hurrah strawberries, plums, and Palisade peaches. I was smart enough to think ahead, concocting the richer than rich hollandaise (the hubster’s FAVORITE breakfast topping) the evening before, no stir, stir, stirring while mad with hunger after our hour-long drive north. To use Grandpa’s word, it was “delish.” He liked my apple jelly, too.

We met our friend Rob (fun shot!!) at the Gardens, our first meeting since arriving back, ambling and snapping photo after photo, falling into our usual and quite wonderful routine. Mostly of details, nature front and center, some man made delights, too, we hold no prejudices.

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Cusp

When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. – Maya Angelou

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. – Unknown

I am learning, both the potency and urgency of these quotations. A little late in the game, maybe. Maybe right on time. Either way, I’m ready. Ready to have relationships that nourish rather than drain. That uplift rather than crush. That embrace rather than judge.

I am paying C A R E F U L attention. I am listening. Hearing all of your words. Observing all of your actions.

It used to be that I brushed aside small criticisms of my person. Large criticisms, too. Slights. I made excuses. I didn’t believe, without articulating it as such, that I deserved better. That I deserved kindness and respect. That others were more important than me, my thoughts, my feelings.

Times have changed. Show me who you are, and I will believe you NOW, the first time. For some, it may be the 100th. But it will be the last.

These words, seen so clearly, seem a bit harsh to my eyes. But when I look back on the hurts and failed relationships of my past, where I was disrespected and unappreciated, I know I need their simplicity, their clarity.

I’m ready for all the goodness and light I deserve.

See you on the other side. Or maybe not…

Hey there, ho there, hi!

Much of the random and sundry this Monday afternoon, list style:

  1. Pilar, neighborhood rabbit. Thusly named by enforcing sexist stereotypes of size. Pilar is a small bunny. Her larger companions are named Pedro. They woo us daily with cuteness and by gobbling dandelion after dandelion.
  2. Teeny-tiny cacti, no bigger than the smallest cornichon!
  3. Cracked mud after a big rain.
  4. Ever beautiful Palmer Park.
  5. Evening walk – weeds and skateboarders.
  6. Flying and posing with Megan at the Air Force Academy. Egads, we had a marvelous time!
  7. Not pictured: If you value your time and sensible heart at ALL, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT see The Lobster. It is gruesome and horribly wicked and cruel. See Maggie’s Plan instead. It’s fun and silly and New York-y, plus Julianne Moore with an accent. I LOVE HER!!
  8. Also not pictured: Holy crapper doodle, we have counter tops in the kitchen. No more plywood! No more splinters! Just plain awesome. Tile backsplash in t-minus nine days. Woot!
  9. Also not pictured, part 2: We saw Saturn with the telescope! Saturn!

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On my mind…

I went to my first Superbowl party this weekend, the woman who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about football. It was fun and strange, me wearing a generic orange sweater in a room full of jerseys and true sports fan garb; people who know players and statistics and care about what is happening; people who, mid-sentence, punctuate conversations with long pauses so as not to miss an important play.  We ate and ate, guts busting with tasty vittles, a.k.a. edible provisions, ha! I saw that definition when making sure I had vittles spelled properly because my checker gives it the evil red underline.

The party was at my friends Amy and Don’s house. Amy and I were on the periphery of each other’s lives from middle school forward, and most recently excellent Facebook pals. And Don was one of my dearest friends in high school. We had a free period together and would beg off to some quiet place to read and talk and share secrets. I hadn’t seen him in…I don’t even remember any more, a long time. And it was true and lovely, the old cliche about picking up where we left off, the feeling of immediate comfort in the presence of a friend. I gave him big squeezy hugs to let him know. That’s what I’m about.

The offer on the house we like was accepted, so thank you for the positive thoughts! Since it’s not our first rodeo, we are cautiously optimistic and giddy-leaning, hoping there aren’t any awful surprises once the inspection draws the curtain back on Oz. If all goes well, we close on the 29th, F A S T! Not that it wouldn’t be wonderful. The past year has been such a strange one, with us bouncing around, filmy apparitions uncertain of who and what we are sometimes. How lovely it will be to feel grounded, to make a home, to cultivate a patch of land, practically from scratch. A couple nights since, I have kept myself up late, hatching plans in my head, this tile here, that plant there, everything minimal and clean and neat and nodding toward the southwest. Yeah, that’s it.

 

And a few things, just because:

Do you know about Blank on Blank? Wonderful interviews from famous people, once thought lost, the interviews, not the people, though some are technically lost via death. Anyhoo. They are generally short and wonderfully animated. My faves include Elliott Smith, Louis Armstrong, and Robin Williams, representing wonderful ends of the artistic spectrum.

I’m missing my favorite Pittsburgh massage therapist, Angie Miller, very much as of late. We were kindred spirits and always had a magical time during our sessions. If you’re local and in need, please do yourself a favor and go, go, go!

My friend Whitney Lowe is marveously talented with clay (that’s his work up there) and has a show at the Hatton Gallery at Colorado State. What great luck to get to see him and his beautiful pieces last week! You can see the show for a bit longer, however.

 

Today, this 30th day of December, is our last in Pittsburgh. The house is sold, quiet, and for a short spell, empty. Our car is packed to the gills and ready to roll along home to Colorado. Colorado, where we were born and raised, landlocked anchor to our drifting hearts.

When we are far greyer than we are now, and reminiscing about our life, we’ll gaze at each other and say, “Do you remember that year we lived in Pennsylvania?” We’ll wonder aloud if maybe it was a wild shared dream, the two of us living in what our friends called the mansion, a century-old beauty of red brick, chock full of gleaming wood, stained glass, four fireplaces, and three stories, the top most we rarely visited, save to gaze upon and photograph the sky.

We will, always and forever, be glad for our choice, to have been courageous enough to pick up sticks and live on the other side of the continent and known yet another part of America: the undulating hills, hardwood forests, ravines and deep river valleys; the diversity, having come from the whitest city of Portland; the kind faces of generations of poverty and souls broken by back-breaking labor, giving all they had; the vast brick mansions, museums, and every last vestige of the steel age; the wretched air pollution and ridiculously high property taxes that buy virtually nothing ($7,200 on a $200,000 house!); the road trips to places we had longed to see: Pennsylvania, Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, the New York and Quebec countryside.

We will smile, conjuring the streets of Bellevue: the kids of all ages at the skate park, the fabulous library, the lights at holiday time; the pitch perfect weather and four gloriously distinct seasons; the new vocabulary and that crazy Pittsburgh accent, how we drove sahth on the parkway with a bunch of nebby jagoffs to go aht dahntahn, bought groceries at the Giant Iggle, and watched the STLRS play.

We will remember surviving and thriving during a year of massive grief and wonder: a mother with breast cancer, a cousin with a cancerous brain tumor, a soul broken enough to attempt suicide, the sorrowful loss of our beloved cats and our two grandmothers; the quiet evenings of summer, lying, jubilant and awestruck, under a sky alive and shimmering with fireflies; the hills ablaze with the dazzling colors of fall; having walked and driven, mile after mile, eager and curious, to big places and small spaces, forests and towns, and gotten lost, lost, lost.

We will be glad to have learned more of our own selves, the roots we never knew we had: how living in and amongst the rolling hills and winding roads of Appalachia drove us absolutely mad, and flat cities with grid systems make us as giddy as children with a secret; how we found a gaping hole in our collective soul, one that could only be filled with the nearness of our aging family and the dreamy-big skies, sage scrubland and open spaces, and mountains, giants snow-capped and cloaked in evergreen, of the West; how there was simply no substitute for being T H E R E.

Most of all, we will be grateful to have such marvelously generous and big-hearted Pittsburgh friends: Peggy. Mike. Kristen. Patrick. Dale. Therese. Dan. Janet (times two!). Ron. Megan. Tricia. Jonathan. Andrew. Kelly. Beth. Peter. George. Jordan. Rose. The beautiful women of the Non-Native Pittsburgher Women’s Social Meetup. The Sisters at Bethany House. The creative men and women of my Writer’s Group. The kindly businessmen and women of Bellevue. The cashiers at the Whole Foods in Wexford. To all, we give our love and sincerest thanks.

It was a great and wonderful year. Here’s to an even better 2016!

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