Under a Red Roof

Ten Years Gone

September 11, 2011 in Loving, Remembering by Colleen | 1 comment

The hubster and I were on vacation on September 11th, waking up at a bed and breakfast in Anacortes, Washington. There was no television, so we were half-listening to a Canadian radio station (in French) as we chatted happily about our plans for the week, glad we had decided to visit this remote place instead of our first plan to visit New York City. In between our talking, I remember thinking that the radio hosts were getting pretty worked up about some sort of hypothetical terrorist attack. Then they started talking faster, and, for me, a bit incomprehensibly before saying, “Oh mon dieu! Mon dieu!” At that point, I knew it wasn’t a hypothetical situation and told the hubster we better search the dial for something in English. Then we knew. The “mon dieus” were the first tower collapsing and our world changing.

We went to breakfast and the truth of the morning hovered like a pall, affecting everyone with its ripples of darkness, and occasionally letting in more light. At first, it was quiet, guests eating in disbelief and wonder. Soon, however, another couple arrived, angry and ready to bear arms against any and all who disagreed with their brand of thinking. All while I ate my sausage and eggs. I decided I didn’t like B&B’s anymore.

Then there was the question of travel. We were meant to take the ferry to Orcas Island later in the morning, but there were serious doubts it would be running. At that point, no one knew what other modes of travel would be hijacked or sabotaged. It was such an awful, conflicted feeling. “I want my vacation to go on, despite the world crashing down.” And then, just like that, it did. We loaded our car onto the ferry and chugged along the water, admiring the views of land and sea under a bright blue sky, all the while feeling rather heavy and sad.

We arrived and did all the normal activities one expects, getting a little lost before gaining our bearings, shopping for groceries and at the touristy shops, eating the pure goodness of a lemon-slice pie at a cute-as-can-be restaurant, walking, hiking, reading, star-gazing. We were lucky and knew it, heart and soul.

Most striking were the absences. So many of my memories are like films, a Super 8 reel peppered with soundtracks of voices, laughter, music, animals, passing trains, planes, and automobiles. This would not be the case, here, in this place, for there was a dearth of sound. Hardly anyone spoke, anywhere, save to convey essential information. Then there was the house. It lay just a few hundred yards from the end of the road, a beautiful, contemplative spot, surrounded by gardens, a view of the water, and still more quiet. There were no trains, certainly no planes, and not a single automobile sound penetrated the woods. What’s more, there was no television or newspaper, absolutely no image of the tragedy that occurred. So in my normally vivid imagination, when I thought about what happened, there was a distinct blackness and the occasional radio voice to fill the void.

Ten years gone. Has it really been so long? Now there are pictures, horrible and terrifying, and sounds equally so, and a change in perspective with the fluidity of time. Before, the only loss was of my naiveté. Now, my brother is a firefighter, living and breathing, yet he is every single one who died that day. The shy smile, the tilt of the head, the conviction to move forward before all was lost and we had to start anew, every single day.

Authentic

June 7, 2011 in Friendship, Remembering by Colleen | 1 comment

Eleven years ago, I said goodbye to a friendship I’d had since I was twelve years old. We met sitting on the wall in front of our junior high, the popular hang out spot before school, the place for strutting, posturing, proving. She had one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever known and perfectly styled hair. She was funny, too, using physical gestures and silly sounds to make a point. We became better friends in ninth grade English and were practically inseparable during high school, meeting up between classes and spending hours on the telephone. Mostly, we drove and drove, through neighborhoods near and far, back roads and ill used highways, looking, seeing, wondering, and examining all that matters to two young girls: boys, clothes, hair, school, parents, music. We stole away after long shifts at restaurants, smelling of grease and Italian food, to spend hours up Boulder Canyon or at the Denney’s where we both ate salads and she chewed on ice, me filling her glass with mine. There was nothing I couldn’t tell her.

I met the hubster because of her. She was his next door neighbor in the dorms and the reason I went to the hotel kegger where he and I talked and talked that first night. She met a man shortly before I got married, and they lived together while finishing school. I never really liked him. Though he was smart and handsome, he had a very subtle unkindness to him, belittling her in small ways. Though I never mentioned a word to her about it, it eventually got to her, too. I felt such relief. My friend would find someone better, kinder, softer, and I told her as much. I loved her, and she deserved the best.

Probably a year after that, she told me they got back together. It had been six months. My stomach caught at the thought that she kept it from me for that long, but what I really wanted was her happiness, someone to treat her well. I wanted her to have what I did (and do), that friend, that complement, that indescribable perfection, a true partner. That he wanted to be this man for her was wonderful, as long as it was true.

Maybe she didn’t believe me, or maybe it was something else, some other wrong I could not right without the knowledge of it passing. Our relationship started to change. We were both busier. We spoke more and more sporadically and saw each other even less. She canceled important plans at the last moment or forgot them altogether. Yet I didn’t see it coming, the crisp white envelope, return address with only her first name: a wedding announcement, wishing I could have been there. The problem was I hadn’t been invited. I bought a gift and wrote a letter that I never sent, my heart too badly bruised.

Until recently, whenever my mind wandered to a place where she was, I felt this heart shaped regret that I should have remained silent. Silence, unlike words, is without regret, as the saying goes. But I’ve come to realize that same silence carries substantially more weight, and is far more burdensome than words ever could be. It’s a slow acting poison, each obfuscation rendering a micro dose of spirit killer. Truth is my modus operandi, though I have paid dearly for this authenticity.

Our beautiful friendship ran its course. I did the best I could. She did the best she could. No regrets remain.

Charmed

April 29, 2011 in Admiring, Loving, Remembering by Colleen | 3 comments

For Christmas when I was seven years old, I asked for, and quite thankfully received an alarm clock. It was red metal with two charming brass bells on top and an unabashedly cheerful yellow happy face. It lulled me to sleep with a marvelously sure and steady tick. Though I didn’t really need and alarm clock at such a young age, as I was a naturally early riser, it came in handy. I was an enormous fan of Jerry Lewis, and for reasons unknown to me at the time (but of which I am well aware now), his movies only came on at odd hours when everyone else was sleeping. So I’d happily set my alarm, hear the pleasant ring, and go upstairs to cuddle under one of Great Aunt Mary’s crocheted afghans on the sofa and laugh and delight at Mr. Lewis, and if I was lucky, his friend Dean Martin. Sometimes my brother Chris would join me, and we’d laugh together at Jerry falling upstairs or infuriating Dean.

Then, in 1980, I became obsessed with a certain preschool teacher named Diana and her handsome Prince Charles (Yes handsome, and I still find him so). Once again, I wound my clock, and the bells awoke me to a brand of pageantry previously unknown to me. This happens in real life? There are actual carriages? Enormous dresses with twenty five foot trains? Trumpets? Balconies for kissing? I was charmed. I spoke often and fondly of the Prince and Princess. I’m pretty sure I even wrote the couple a letter or two. I definitely collected books of their great day and honeymoon, and even had my own scrapbook filled with photos and news articles that I and my grandmother and whomever else I could enlist collected.

Then, in 1997, I found myself coming full circle, sleeping on the living room futon (Why do young people make the mistake of buying these? Don’t do it! They really are terribly impractical and even less comfortable!) in our apartment in Denver, to rise early one last time for Diana. I cried a lot that morning, mourning a treasured part of my childhood as well as the unimaginable void in the lives of her two heartbroken young sons.

And to today. I did not rise early but did manage to have perfect timing with a full recap of all the splendid moments. Kate looked lovely (her dress exquisite and perfectly tailored), the Prince quite handsome (the red!), and both incredibly nervous and happy. Bless their hearts, I can’t imagine having the whole world watch my wedding, though they would have gotten a good laugh when the ring would not go on the hubster’s finger and the judge whispered, rather pleaded, “Help her!” A glorious day! If only we’d had use of the Aston Martin with that JU5T WED plate. That would have been the tops!

So my heart, as usual, is full. I’ve seen the promise of a new life together, and illuminated bits of my own happy past, but I’ve one more, and it is rather good. At my tenth high school reunion, my friend Kelli Edwards (now Capra) made a point to tell me she thought of me when Princess Diana died. For me, it was the highlight of the trip. She’d remembered after all those years. I was deeply touched and remain so. It is amazing how events like these touch our lives, adding something immaterial yet so tangible and dear. Here’s to starting a new cycle of memories, ones to cherish, for sure.

Good Funny IS Timeless

April 20, 2011 in Remembering, Watching by Colleen | 1 comment

The hubster and I watched Mr. Mom earlier this week, a video tape which, as kids, my brothers and I literally wore out from watching it so much. When bits of the storyline kept popping into my head, and I began to wonder if it really was worth wearing out a video tape as a tween-teen, I could not help but put it at the top of the Netflix queue. Unlike Meatballs, I did not cringe in horror and immediately stop the train wreck from polluting my mind with garbage.

If you don’t know the story, Jack is laid off from a job in the auto industry and his wife, Caroline, finds work before him. He stays home with their three kids, going through all the phases: overwhelmed and clueless; chubby, bearded, and obsessed with The Young and the Restless; eventually rising to uber-efficient power Dad status. We also watch the travails of a “pretty” mom with a job in the early eighties. I don’t think it could be much more politically incorrect.

We watched and laughed, grateful that you can go back, sometimes. Though it had its cheesy moments, it was still funny and sweet, and made me remember my long ago days with a “woobie,” though mine had no fancy title. It’s a great cast, too, all perfect for their roles – Michael Katon, Terri Garr, Christopher Lloyd, Jeffrey Tambor, Ann Jillian, and those adorable kids.

Which reminds me, when I worked at the Gap, I sold a leather jacket to Ann Jillian. She was super nice!

I might as well keep it going. Here are all the “famous” people I can recall seeing or meeting:

Jimmy Stewart – I ditched a day of college to meet him at the Tattered Cover – totally worth it!

Andy Garcia – filming a scene near the Tivoli in Denver.

Will Smith – filming a scene in New York.

Kelly Ripa – walking her little boy in a stroller on Prince Street in NY.

Gary Hart – I rode an elevator with him. There was NO monkey business.

Boy George – buying sushi at Alfalfa’s on Capitol Hill in Denver.

Johnny Rotten – back stage at Red Rocks.

David Wilcox – twice – once in Denver at a signing and once after a show in Boulder.

Quiet Riot – back stage at Big Mac (that truly dates me doesn’t it?).

This one is going waay back – Steve Railsback from a movie called The Golden Seal with my very first BF from elementary school, Ann. I think the seal was there too!

Tags: Movies

Tradition

December 10, 2010 in Making, Reading, Remembering, Spotlighting by Colleen | 2 comments

It’s baking time Under a Red Roof: spritz cookies, pumpkin bars, mint sandwich cookies, sandies, and walnut fudge, yum, yum! It’s a lot of work, but like the jazz on the hi-fi during it all, there is a certain pleasure and flow in the mixing, rolling, tasting (just a little), and packaging. It is endlessly satisfying, especially when I think about someone I care about enjoying bite after bite.

It also reminds me of one of my favorite holiday pastimes, reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory aloud with the hubster. It is a magical time when I am transported, via the power of the word, to a place I have never been but know as intimately as my own home. Buddy and his cousin are there, rolling the wicker buggy with Queenie trotting along side. We dream, explore, hide our money in a coin purse under the floor boards, and make fruitcakes and high flying kites. It is the purest form of love.

Just as much as I love the story, I love the act and rhythm of the reading. The hubster and I sit on the sofa, impossibly close, and I begin, my voice as clear as the sky on that first morning, until it isn’t, and the tears come. He smiles and wordlessly takes the book from me, taking up where I left off, continuing until the tickles in his throat signal it is my turn again, beginning the cycle over: clear words, tears, exchange, clear words, tears, exchange. Then it is over, and I marvel at the distance traveled in twenty-nine pages.