Remembering

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They’re looking at each other.  Do you feel the love?

When we first got our cat Paris (14 1/2 years ago!), and her personality revealed itself (half fruit, half nuts), our vet recommended that we get another cat.  To be precise, she said a male kitten to help bring her out of her shell.  The vet being the professional, we admitted our ignorance and presumed she was absolutely correct.  So, at our first opportunity (a nice house and yard for everyone to live happily ever after), we got Milo, a tiny male kitten, just what the doctor ordered.

Eleven years later, despite his utterly adorable face, we are still paying the price.  Paris, Ms. Half Fruit Half Nuts has NEVER gotten over becoming a big sister to this oafish little man.  Moreover, Milo has never ceased to be confused (and riled, look at him – he’s not entirely innocent) by his big sister’s puzzling behavior.  Paris will initiate play, and the two will romp happily together for approximately one minute before we suspect this dialog occurs in the mind of our little princess, “Whoa!  Whoa!  What am I doing playing with this evil interloper?  He took away my lush life!”  Then the screaming begins.  This is no exaggeration either.  Paris screams, very LOUDLY, all because the vet said she needed a friend and her stupid humans believed this sorely mistaken person.   Bless her heart, what Paris really needed was a throne.

Oh, but they are cute, and cuddly, and our kitty cats.  I am grateful for them and all they bring into our lives, well, maybe except for the vomit and the dirty litter box!

Hello Everyone!  Will you look at that grin plastered on my face?  It’s me, quite giddy that I’ve bridged the twenty years since I’d been in the presence of my friend here, someone very dear to my heart, Ann Balderston.  Actually, now she’s got another “B” name but will always be Balderston to me.  We met in first grade, and though I have zero recollection of our actual meeting, I feel fairly certain that it must have been like lightning striking, because we were pretty much attached at the hip for the next two years.

Every day, on my way to school, I walked to Ann’s house and picked her up before spending the day at Thomson Elementary.  As we both had Ms. Weiss (my favorite elementary school teacher – I had her in first, second, and sixth grade, lucky me!), we’d spend the whole of the day in each other’s presence and rather happily, too, class, lunch, recess, walking home.

As one might expect, I would, quite often, spend the afternoon at her house, playing house, or with dolls, creating wonderfully imaginative schemes to keep us entertained for the ages.  It was such a special time in my life, full of magic.

Part of that, I’m sure, stems from the many firsts tied to our friendship.  She was, my first best friend, the first person to whom I told my secrets and dreams and felt a deep spiritual connection.  It was at her house that I first heard a foreign accent in person, for her mom, ever so sweet and kind, was from England and spoke like someone out of the movies.  Also, it was at Ann’s that I first had tea with milk (and lots of sugar), wax beans, and SPAM – such an adventure!

On another magical occasion, my very first sleepover, I remember sitting in my night gown at the table in the kitchen, sipping tea while Ann’s mom told us a story of some sort.  I wish I could remember what it was about.  We retired to the basement and our sleeping bags and giggled well into the night.

Quite appropriately, it was with Ann that I first found my love of dancing.  This was well into second grade, and being the time that it was, our school was hosting an afternoon fundraiser in the form of a disco.  We played Abba record after Abba record, dancing queens holding hands and twirling around her living room getting ready for the special day.  Sadly, my Dad decided I was too young for such adventures, so Ann went solo, and I imagined us spinning like tops under a glittering disco ball.

Then, as it happens with magic, the spell wore off.  Ann’s family moved to Florida, and I to other friends, other wonders.  She did return the next school year, but by that time we were different somehow, and though nothing happened to make us drift further apart, nothing happened to keep us together either.

But now, in the ever sweet present, we have found each other and a bit of that magic again.  It seems, on many levels, we’ve led parallel lives, both with sweet husbands, cats, bubbling concoctions, gardens, and peaceful, earth-loving ways.  I guess some things don’t change at all.

Also, more photos from my Colorado trip.  Top to bottom:

The Arvada water tower, The North Wing of the Denver Art Museum (Architect Gio Ponti – gosh, do I ever love this building!),  A horse sculpture and beautiful paintings inside the museum, and the last four of Golden, Colorado, home of Coors Beer (my dad worked there for more than thirty years!) and the School of Mines.

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Do not depend on the hope of results…you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to that you expect.  As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself.

Thomas Merton

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Teddy Kennedy passed away today.  Though I did not always agree with his politics, I most certainly appreciated his passion, wit, and devotion to serving this great nation I call home.  He reached out to people across the country, and more importantly, across the aisle, to create legislation that he hoped would benefit all Americans.

In his own words, what I believe made him a fine man and servant of our nation:

“For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.”

“I hope for an America where neither ‘fundamentalist’ nor ‘humanist’ will be a dirty word, but a fair description of the different ways in which people of good will look at life and into their own souls.”

Thank you and rest in peace.

Writer and director John Hughes died yesterday.  He had a heart attack while out walking in his Manhattan neighborhood.  I hope that there was some comfort to that, in walking around the city that is home, dying surrounded by the familiar.  If I were able to choose, I think that would be a pretty good way to go, don’t you?   Then there is the enviable way that Nico died, while out riding her bicycle.  I wonder if she was singing, when suddenly it felt like she was flying, E.T. style, out of the beautiful day to day and into the sweet hereafter.  Until it is our time, I suppose we’ll never know.

I am digressing, however, for this post isn’t about dying or flying, but the films of John Hughes.  Boy did I love his movies!  When I originally started writing this post, I included details from my favorites and why they were so special, but that somehow tainted the magic of  the stories I return to again and again.  So instead, I leave you with my favorites (one might surprise you!) and your own precious memories to conjure…

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