Remembering

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Hello from Colorado! I’ve been there and back again, a full dance card with not nearly enough slots for everyone and everything dear to me. So I pick and choose and hope not to offend.

I took this photo and the one above at 44th and Tennyson, a gem of a neighborhood with many a fine place to eat (I had really good pizza and spumoni gelato at Parisi’s), sweet and curious shops, and that bit of old that always sends my heart singing.

At Washington Park now, and this Red Winged Blackbird sang its heart out for me.

The hubster grew up across the street from the park, so it is always fun to return and see it from his childhood eyes. He darts about with enthusiasm, gesticulating and speaking rapidly, showing me his his favorite trees and hiding places and soccer fields. It’s like he’s just returned from play and more than twenty years has not elapsed.

Though much has changed, the essence of the park remains the same, with soft stone faces and the snow capped peaks looking down on boisterous children, runners, and scores of of people making new memories.

This is the gate to his best childhood friend’s yard. We stood reverently while he reminisced of epic Star Wars battles, mischief, and fun. It’s much smaller than he remembered but no less special.

The hubster and I met in Fort Collins and spent much of the first two years of our time in and around the city. This is College Avenue.

It has its own fine patina and scores of new places, too.

Old Chigago is the site of our first date. I wore a denim skirt and a cream colored blouse with Indian Head Nickel button covers. He wore rolled up jeans, a rugby shirt, and the most dazzling smile.

Stopping for coffee at the new-to-us Bean Cycle and Wolverine Farm. We sipped fine beverages and bought a lovely book.

I made a friend there, too. Peek-a-boo…

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You were born together, and together you shall be forever more.

You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

You shall be together even in the silent memory of the universe.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love;

rather let it be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Sing and dance together and be joyous,

but let each one of you respect the other’s individuality.

Kahlil Gibran

 

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I don’t know what my life would be without The Doors, some cavernous gaping void aching to be filled, most likely. A lifetime of memories of and with my Dad, and countless hours listening and singing and dancing along on my own. A wild, crazy love borne in the womb.

So it is with great sadness that I bid adieu to Ray Manzarek, keyboardist extraordinaire.

Break on through, Ray, and say hello to Jim.

photograph by Michael Ochs

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I am reading Mark Spragg’s Where Rivers Change Directions, savoring the pulse of a life vastly different than mine, yet so much the same: friendship, hard work, the confusion of love, loss, the dynamics of family, intertwined with a rural Wyoming life, much of it spent on horseback. Normally I am a swift reader, devouring books in short order, but this one will be eked out, pages pored over, a slow eddy in a vivid stream of thought.

My dad worked nearly his whole adult life at Coors, and when I was a kid he was on the swing shift, the majority of our shared moments spent in the brief window before I left for school in the morning, him sitting at the head of the dining room table, reading the Rocky Mountain News. The first time I remember being alone with him was on summer vacation, most likely, or some rare sunny weekend with him off work, running errands in our sky blue Monte Carlo (I loved that car!), no seatbelts and me peering over the dash in the front. In another first, we stopped at a convenience store, and he let me pick out a treat. There was no dawdling in my choosing, a bag of Circus Animal cookies, the allure of pink and bright sprinkles too dazzling for my girlish heart to pass up. I’d never tasted anything like them, which was made better by the fact that my Dad bought them for me, on a treat of a day, and I didn’t have to share, though I did, with him.

I had my second shirodara treatment last night. It is an Ayurvedic practice where warm oil is slowly dripped onto the center of the forehead. The hubster says it sounds like some form of torture, but that could not be farther from the truth. It is calming and peaceful, great for this spastic writer’s mind. I highly recommend it, along with my practitioner, the kind and knowledgeable Rose. That and my morning yoga practice have me floating today, despite a heavy heart over the tragedies of the week.

Last weekend was one for labor, donning garden trousers and wellies. I fertilized the lawn but did not mow before it rained, so it is a wild emerald belly tickler for the birds, cats, and squirrels. The hubster joined me on Saturday and Sunday to cover half of the front yard in a multitude of cardboard and bark mulch in preparation for native plantings this fall. I love the look of a woodland, dappled shade and rambling wild berries and ferns, so that is what it shall be. We also dug new beds in the back for blueberries, strawberries, and rhubarb. I am proud to say I did it all without so much as a blister, which is rare.

And today, this afternoon, a bath to wash out last night’s oil, and a walk with my sweet friend Amy. It just gets better…

 

 

Ferret

I wonder if there is a quotation somewhere, one not revealed to my constant digging, that asks, as we pass that middle of life, if we spend near as much time reminiscing as we do in the here-and-now. Sometimes I get lodged in that past space, cozy and hateful of disturbance, moments of the fil-um of my life rendered with such stunning clarity that I simply want to stay. If only I knew the proper handshake or combination of words and gestures, I might actually step behind the curtain of my fading memory to reveal all.

In the mean time, I collect snippets and ferret them away for safe keeping, like these spent with my brothers, two and four years my junior.

Running wild and barefoot and fast, fast, faster, down hills on a bicycle without brakes.

Splashing in cheap plastic wading pools before dashing through icy cold sprinklers in Underoos.

Turning out elaborate Matchbox car cities of dirt, rocks, leaves, and soaring imaginations.

Frittering away the time in the creek. Fashioning shoe laces into crawdad lures.

Playing baseball, swinging, spinning, and spending hours as badminton-playing tennis idols on the back lawn:Ivan Lendl, Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe.

Eating popcorn in a circle of sleeping bags on the same lawn, eyes darting in a mad satellite search.

Dawdling on the path from school, coats fastened into fantastic flapping capes.

Diving grimy hands into the cookie jar to rise triumphant and crumb laden before demanding, “What’s for snack?”

Huddling around games of Monopoly, Clue, and Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Conjuring games of “lava” and “wu-tang.”

Fighting for our favorite cushion on the couch.

Tromping and digging caves in the snow.

And laughing, so very much, at everything and nothing at all…

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