I realize I need to finish the last post, but it's a weighty topic and for now, I want to flit away to something lighter.
Yesterday, I was offered another job. In short, a better, more lucrative job that allows me to continue the retail marketing post I already have. It's also an opportunity for me to more directly help others, working for a senior health care company that specializes in providing benefits to the low-income, disadvantaged population.
"This gets you more of that social services aspect you said you want in your life," Vickie, the program director, says.
The call comes out of the blue while I am making dinner for the African. My kitchen counters are pockmarked with dirty pots, pans and utensils. Onions, mushrooms and garlic sizzle softly on the back burner. Pasta simmers on another. I am blending with a hand mixer a combination of sweetened condensed milk and some powder that promises to yield cheesecake.
Bowling for Soup rumbles from the stereo. I sing along and drink white wine. The glass is sticky and blotched with traces of syrupy milk.
I turn to discover my dog has vomited on the virgin white carpet. Twice. She is eating it. I keep singing and pretend not to notice.
When the call comes, I am startled to hear that it is Vickie, for whom I have been working on a contract basis through an East Coast marketing company, and flabbergasted by her offer to contract with me directly. "You come up with some figures for me. I don't know what range you're thinking, but I know you're worth a lot. I don't know if I can afford you, but let's talk and see."
After a year-and-a-half of feeling useless at my job, and a lifetime of being underpaid, her words almost provoke laughter. Instead, I say, "Yes, I'll give that some thought. Let me get back to you."
I hang up and stand there, a cream cheese-covered spatula in one hand, a wine glass in the other, staring unseeing out the sliding glass door. Truthfully, I don't yet quite understand what has just happened.
A few minutes later, I open the door to Roger, who is smiling and more handsome than I remember. He kisses me, and with the sexiest accent that has ever hovered an inch above my ear says, "How are you? It's good to see you."
It is lately as though my life is a Disney movie. With a PG-plus rating.
I can't see them, but I think they're out there - a no-nonsense director and a cast whose members I mistake as regular folks in my life.
I hear him faintly in the background of these recent days.
"OK folks, start the fans for the cool breeze.
"Now, cue the guy. That's it, Roger, you're on.
"The phone - ring it now. Vickie, make the offer.
"And you, open the door for her at the grocery store and smile.
"Now, dim the lights. Bring up the stellar sunset."
And there am I, the unwitting protagonist, answering the phone, staring in awe at the sunset, kissing the leading man.
These flawless phases in life can't last, I know. Enjoy it while you can; the phrase becomes a mantra.
Roger's visit is the icing on it all. Last week, I volleyed back and called him. This time, I reached him live, and when he heard my name - I swear - his voice lit up. He asked to see me immediately and was disappointed to learn it would be a week before my schedule allowed it.
Finally, it is here.
We have a fabulous evening. We eat, we linger on the patio and drink wine, and sit alone in the hot tub. We talk, a lot, about his youth in South Africa, our jobs, our children and our families. I sense no secrets, no hints of a troubled past, not even of emotional trauma. Nothing but niceness laced with a surety that doesn't extend to arrogance. I search hopefully for flaws - something to which I can point as sound reason for a future rejection - and came up empty handed. It's the third date, damnit. Something sure as hell should have come out by now.
Instead, I see only more remarkable features. If the man was a car, I'd have fallen for the clean lines, the powerful build, and the fact that it looks as fine from the front as the back. I'd have driven him off the lot, deeply, happily in debt.
He gets out of the hot tub, and I note the perfect V that forms from his waist to his broad shoulders. I think my jaw has come unhinged; surely, his back is burning. He turns to offer his hand to me. Cue the towel dropped carelessly around his neck. Flash the rakish grin.
How did I get so lucky?
But then I feel the seeds of a potentially large problem plant themselves inside me. They are small for now, but they're already wrapping sturdy roots around my core, and I know from past history that they grow with feverish speed and have weedlike tenacity. It starts as a twist in my heart at something he says, the way he tilts his head, a turn of a phrase, the simple fact that he listens to me so attentively, that he hears me so well, that he smiles so often.
I am tipping.
Where is the weed killer for my all-too-fertile heart?
When he leaves, things between us are again left vague. I resolve to keep them that way. I decide to push back from what I want the most, to be cool and safe. (I hear you laughing. But pay attention; the director is shushing you.)
Perhaps I should look at it all through a different, wider lens. The truth, if I only see it as such, is this:
Vickie's right. I am worth a lot. It's those before her who under-valued me. It's the jobs I chose to take, the famously low-paying career I optimistically began 20 years ago, that led me to believe I was worth less than I am.
It seems Roger is an unexpected and precious find. But so, I know, am I. And I dare not be so dazzled by these initial impressions that I lose sight of that. In the end, I believe it's him who's really the lucky one.
That aside, the beer-drinking guy with the Weimaraner is out there somewhere, too. And the cool evening breeze has been cued up. Ally needs a walk. I grab her leash, forgo the beer and we step out into the summer evening. The next act is about to begin.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Friendship, Part I
We are all surrounded by fascinating people, people whose stories deserve to be told. I'd like to introduce you to one of who is part of my world. This is the story of an unusual friendship, forged from tragedy. A friendship that crossed boundaries I would have thought bridgeless.
When I was a reporter at the Summit newspaper, we got word of a very strange story. A 2-year-old had died suddenly in a Silverthorne house. His parents, both charismatic Christians, were praying for their dead son's resurrection. His corpse was in their living room, where friends and family had gathered to pray with them.
This is the kind of story that we cynical, gallows-humored journalists live for. A tragic story turned bizarre, and bizarre to the level of national interest. My heart both plunged and leapt, plunged for the horror of a child's death and leapt at the thought of how far this story could go. Silverthorne was among my beats, so it unquestionably was my story.
I called the police officer who was on duty that day and he refused to give me the family's name. They deserved their privacy, he said. I agreed, but told him I also had a job to do. I told him, too, I would file a Freedom of Information Act request if he refused, reminding him the deceased's name was public. Reluctantly, he gave me the name.
The newsroom jokes started almost immediately. I joined in. In fact, I lobbed some of the best of them.
Then I heard details that stilled my tongue.
It was a wintry Sunday morning. The boy's mom was fixing breakfast in the kitchen and took a break to play tag with her sons, 2 and 8. The three of them chased one another around the living room, laughing. Whether the 2-year-old grabbed the filing cabinet or it gave in to gravity's pull on its top-heavy drawers is unclear. But the filing cabinet fell on the happy toddler. He died instantly.
As his mother later told me, "One minute he was there. The next, he was gone."
Robby was 6 when this story broke. I tried to imagine what she saw, to understand how completely and permanently her life changed in that second, how surreal the scene must have been.
I had the family's phone number and was ready to conduct the interview. But as the one-liners continued to fly all around me, I grabbed my notebook, went upstairs to the conference room, and closed the door behind me.
My heart was in my mouth as I dialed. Interviewing a grieving family seemed in poor taste to me in any circumstance. Calling to interview a grieving family because their method of doing so seemed freakish felt like not just an intrusion, but a kick in the gut to these people and their beliefs in their worst, most vulnerable hour. I did not expect them to speak to me.
The father answered the phone and greeted me warmly when I identified myself. Before I could offer my condolences, he said, "Aren't you the reporter who wrote that series about depression?"
Paul was a therapist, he said. "Those stories were wonderful," he said, mentioning the county commissioner with chronic depression who had been central to the story. "People in those kinds of positions should talk more about depression instead of hiding it. It would help so many others. Thanks for writing it."
I felt the first threads of a bond forming across the telephone wires. Paul had taken me completely by surprise and warmed my heart with a few well-chosen words. This kindness while he grieved his child.
Paul talked about his son's death with a candor that surprised me. He admitted their approach might seem strange to others, particularly since the child had already been embalmed. But God has resurrected people from the dead before, even in modern times, he said, and it could happen again if He willed it so. He knew this beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"Nothing happens if we don't ask," he told me.
In either case, the family's faith was unshakable, Paul said.
"If we think in our little pea brains we can understand it all and it has to make sense, we'll never understand that God's ways are higher than ours," he said.
I felt his belief, and somehow, I understood it. While it was not my way of thinking, who was to say he was wrong? And who was to mock this family's form of grieving? I wondered what I would do in the wake of such a loss, how fiercely I might cling to the idea of a second chance, how desperately a parent's fingers might clutch the hands of hope.
Suddenly, he spoke again. "You're not quoting me on this, are you?"
I stammered, and felt my face flush. "Well, that's what I hoped to do," I said. "That is why I called."
Paul was silent.
"I don't know if we want that," he said. "Can I ask my wife how she feels and call you back?"
I agreed.
I walked back downstairs feeling changed. The incredible situation that had moments before seemed laughable had been turned on its head for me. I felt a deep respect and admiration for this family and the strength of their faith, a confidence so strong they shrugged off the knowledge that others would feel sorry or laugh at them as though it were a pesky fly. The task at their hands was far more important.
I tried to relate this to the rest of the staff and while I struggled for words to explain it, some sense of it must have come through because the jokes stopped. The tone of the conversation changed. We spoke of strange, unexplained, seemingly miraculous stories we had heard, about death and children and loss.
Later, two co-workers told me the story changed them in ways they found hard to explain. It touched us all, a rare occurrence among jaded reporters.
Paul called back within half an hour. "OK, we've agreed it's all on the record," he said. "We're leaving it in your hands."
We are all surrounded by fascinating people, people whose stories deserve to be told. I'd like to introduce you to one of who is part of my world. This is the story of an unusual friendship, forged from tragedy. A friendship that crossed boundaries I would have thought bridgeless.
When I was a reporter at the Summit newspaper, we got word of a very strange story. A 2-year-old had died suddenly in a Silverthorne house. His parents, both charismatic Christians, were praying for their dead son's resurrection. His corpse was in their living room, where friends and family had gathered to pray with them.
This is the kind of story that we cynical, gallows-humored journalists live for. A tragic story turned bizarre, and bizarre to the level of national interest. My heart both plunged and leapt, plunged for the horror of a child's death and leapt at the thought of how far this story could go. Silverthorne was among my beats, so it unquestionably was my story.
I called the police officer who was on duty that day and he refused to give me the family's name. They deserved their privacy, he said. I agreed, but told him I also had a job to do. I told him, too, I would file a Freedom of Information Act request if he refused, reminding him the deceased's name was public. Reluctantly, he gave me the name.
The newsroom jokes started almost immediately. I joined in. In fact, I lobbed some of the best of them.
Then I heard details that stilled my tongue.
It was a wintry Sunday morning. The boy's mom was fixing breakfast in the kitchen and took a break to play tag with her sons, 2 and 8. The three of them chased one another around the living room, laughing. Whether the 2-year-old grabbed the filing cabinet or it gave in to gravity's pull on its top-heavy drawers is unclear. But the filing cabinet fell on the happy toddler. He died instantly.
As his mother later told me, "One minute he was there. The next, he was gone."
Robby was 6 when this story broke. I tried to imagine what she saw, to understand how completely and permanently her life changed in that second, how surreal the scene must have been.
I had the family's phone number and was ready to conduct the interview. But as the one-liners continued to fly all around me, I grabbed my notebook, went upstairs to the conference room, and closed the door behind me.
My heart was in my mouth as I dialed. Interviewing a grieving family seemed in poor taste to me in any circumstance. Calling to interview a grieving family because their method of doing so seemed freakish felt like not just an intrusion, but a kick in the gut to these people and their beliefs in their worst, most vulnerable hour. I did not expect them to speak to me.
The father answered the phone and greeted me warmly when I identified myself. Before I could offer my condolences, he said, "Aren't you the reporter who wrote that series about depression?"
Paul was a therapist, he said. "Those stories were wonderful," he said, mentioning the county commissioner with chronic depression who had been central to the story. "People in those kinds of positions should talk more about depression instead of hiding it. It would help so many others. Thanks for writing it."
I felt the first threads of a bond forming across the telephone wires. Paul had taken me completely by surprise and warmed my heart with a few well-chosen words. This kindness while he grieved his child.
Paul talked about his son's death with a candor that surprised me. He admitted their approach might seem strange to others, particularly since the child had already been embalmed. But God has resurrected people from the dead before, even in modern times, he said, and it could happen again if He willed it so. He knew this beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"Nothing happens if we don't ask," he told me.
In either case, the family's faith was unshakable, Paul said.
"If we think in our little pea brains we can understand it all and it has to make sense, we'll never understand that God's ways are higher than ours," he said.
I felt his belief, and somehow, I understood it. While it was not my way of thinking, who was to say he was wrong? And who was to mock this family's form of grieving? I wondered what I would do in the wake of such a loss, how fiercely I might cling to the idea of a second chance, how desperately a parent's fingers might clutch the hands of hope.
Suddenly, he spoke again. "You're not quoting me on this, are you?"
I stammered, and felt my face flush. "Well, that's what I hoped to do," I said. "That is why I called."
Paul was silent.
"I don't know if we want that," he said. "Can I ask my wife how she feels and call you back?"
I agreed.
I walked back downstairs feeling changed. The incredible situation that had moments before seemed laughable had been turned on its head for me. I felt a deep respect and admiration for this family and the strength of their faith, a confidence so strong they shrugged off the knowledge that others would feel sorry or laugh at them as though it were a pesky fly. The task at their hands was far more important.
I tried to relate this to the rest of the staff and while I struggled for words to explain it, some sense of it must have come through because the jokes stopped. The tone of the conversation changed. We spoke of strange, unexplained, seemingly miraculous stories we had heard, about death and children and loss.
Later, two co-workers told me the story changed them in ways they found hard to explain. It touched us all, a rare occurrence among jaded reporters.
Paul called back within half an hour. "OK, we've agreed it's all on the record," he said. "We're leaving it in your hands."
Monday, July 17, 2006
In the past couple of days, it's crept up over me - this feeling of calm and softly, almost audibly humming happiness. Whatever funk has held me down for the last couple of years - the same low-grade depression that prompted me to start this blog - seems finally to be floating away.
I am self employed. I am not falling on my financial ass, or fearful that the bottom will someday crash out from under me and send me reeling. I am learning new things, am back on my road bike after years of leaving it in storage and ignoring the news that was part of my everyday life for so long.
In fact, I have not read a newspaper in more than a month and when I do a quick CNN check, see all that I've missed. There is increasing unrest in the Middle East, and gas prices are soaring. I check the date to be sure this is a current issue.
I still have no friends yet within this complex. My son is impatient for me. "Mom, you need to meet someone!" I can't explain to him that it's different for adults than kids. We can't just walk up and ask, "Wanna jump in the pool with me?" and race them to the edge. I also can't explain very easily that I'm starting to strike up the casual conversations that eventually lead to adult friendships. I am much more anxious for him to make friends.
Besides, two of the friends I treasure most are in the metropolitan area. More are just down I-25, and just up I-70. I'm in the center of the circle now, further from some but closer, overall, to them all. The rest will come in time.
A single mom, her teenaged daughter and son see me walking Ally down the sidewalk. "Hey!" the mother shouts. "Where's Robby?" Her 9-year-old son, whom we met at the pool a few days earlier, peers beyond me hopefully.
This makes me happy. Someone already wants to know his whereabouts. Someone knows his name and not mine.
Robby is with his father on this particular day, however, and can't accept their invitation.
"You tell him he's welcome at our place any time," she says, smiling brightly. I see a potential friend in her face.
As my spirit lifts, I notice something else happening to me. Thoughts that have turned inward for so long start to angle in a new direction. To places outside myself. Maybe unhappy hearts have to focus first on healing themselves before they can be much good to others.
I think about that CD I've been meaning for months to burn for my sister - one of those no-reason-at-all gifts I wanted to surprise her with. The liner notes say it has a guaranteed smile effect. I write it down on my to-do list. (And hope she does not read this before then).
I think about the friend I willfully lost late last year and for the first time, genuinely hope she's doing well.
And the friend who just learned the baby she and her husband had hoped to adopt has instead been adopted by the foster parents, this news coming four years after the death of her 2-year-old son. What on earth can I do for this kind woman whose mother's heart, so ready to embrace a child, has been broken yet again?
I think about some of the other gentle and battered souls who came to the bipolar support groups in Colorado Springs. It's time, I know, to get back into volunteering with DBSA.
I think that I have not felt so quietly happy in longer than I can remember.
Poor working conditions infiltrate every aspect of your life, I've read, no matter how much you believe you close the door on it all at the end of the day. I pshawed this, but now I know it's true. What's making me happy goes beyond that, but it starts with shrugging off that surprisingly heavy burden, and all else radiates from it.
The complex here pulses with life. I fall asleep, windows wide open, to the sound of air conditioning units on the building across from ours. I wake to the sounds of I-25 and small planes jetting out of Centennial Airport. I can tell what time it is by the volume from the traffic. To some, all these sounds would be troublesome. To me, it is soothing.
At midnight on Saturday, walking my dog with a beer in hand, I run into three other people walking their dogs - one of them also casually sipping his own beer. We greet one another like old friends. People are becoming familiar to me by their dogs - the big guy with the two Chihuahuas, the tall, good-looking man with the Weimeraner, the friendly lady with the peppy mixed breed, the father with the pair of black standard poodles, the half dozen folks with golden retrievers - harder to distinguish but becoming individuals as well.
At 9 p.m. on Sunday night, a dozen people are in the pool area, more than half of them 20-somethings having an impromptu hot-tub party. Another trio plays sand volleyball in the court just behind the pool. From my window, I can see a mother with a child on her lap, their two heads bent over a book. I see another woman putting away laundry. A man is sitting on his patio, legs outstretched and resting on the top rail of the short fence that surrounds it, eating a bowl of ice cream.
Life. Is. Everywhere.
And it is sweet.
I am self employed. I am not falling on my financial ass, or fearful that the bottom will someday crash out from under me and send me reeling. I am learning new things, am back on my road bike after years of leaving it in storage and ignoring the news that was part of my everyday life for so long.
In fact, I have not read a newspaper in more than a month and when I do a quick CNN check, see all that I've missed. There is increasing unrest in the Middle East, and gas prices are soaring. I check the date to be sure this is a current issue.
I still have no friends yet within this complex. My son is impatient for me. "Mom, you need to meet someone!" I can't explain to him that it's different for adults than kids. We can't just walk up and ask, "Wanna jump in the pool with me?" and race them to the edge. I also can't explain very easily that I'm starting to strike up the casual conversations that eventually lead to adult friendships. I am much more anxious for him to make friends.
Besides, two of the friends I treasure most are in the metropolitan area. More are just down I-25, and just up I-70. I'm in the center of the circle now, further from some but closer, overall, to them all. The rest will come in time.
A single mom, her teenaged daughter and son see me walking Ally down the sidewalk. "Hey!" the mother shouts. "Where's Robby?" Her 9-year-old son, whom we met at the pool a few days earlier, peers beyond me hopefully.
This makes me happy. Someone already wants to know his whereabouts. Someone knows his name and not mine.
Robby is with his father on this particular day, however, and can't accept their invitation.
"You tell him he's welcome at our place any time," she says, smiling brightly. I see a potential friend in her face.
As my spirit lifts, I notice something else happening to me. Thoughts that have turned inward for so long start to angle in a new direction. To places outside myself. Maybe unhappy hearts have to focus first on healing themselves before they can be much good to others.
I think about that CD I've been meaning for months to burn for my sister - one of those no-reason-at-all gifts I wanted to surprise her with. The liner notes say it has a guaranteed smile effect. I write it down on my to-do list. (And hope she does not read this before then).
I think about the friend I willfully lost late last year and for the first time, genuinely hope she's doing well.
And the friend who just learned the baby she and her husband had hoped to adopt has instead been adopted by the foster parents, this news coming four years after the death of her 2-year-old son. What on earth can I do for this kind woman whose mother's heart, so ready to embrace a child, has been broken yet again?
I think about some of the other gentle and battered souls who came to the bipolar support groups in Colorado Springs. It's time, I know, to get back into volunteering with DBSA.
I think that I have not felt so quietly happy in longer than I can remember.
Poor working conditions infiltrate every aspect of your life, I've read, no matter how much you believe you close the door on it all at the end of the day. I pshawed this, but now I know it's true. What's making me happy goes beyond that, but it starts with shrugging off that surprisingly heavy burden, and all else radiates from it.
The complex here pulses with life. I fall asleep, windows wide open, to the sound of air conditioning units on the building across from ours. I wake to the sounds of I-25 and small planes jetting out of Centennial Airport. I can tell what time it is by the volume from the traffic. To some, all these sounds would be troublesome. To me, it is soothing.
At midnight on Saturday, walking my dog with a beer in hand, I run into three other people walking their dogs - one of them also casually sipping his own beer. We greet one another like old friends. People are becoming familiar to me by their dogs - the big guy with the two Chihuahuas, the tall, good-looking man with the Weimeraner, the friendly lady with the peppy mixed breed, the father with the pair of black standard poodles, the half dozen folks with golden retrievers - harder to distinguish but becoming individuals as well.
At 9 p.m. on Sunday night, a dozen people are in the pool area, more than half of them 20-somethings having an impromptu hot-tub party. Another trio plays sand volleyball in the court just behind the pool. From my window, I can see a mother with a child on her lap, their two heads bent over a book. I see another woman putting away laundry. A man is sitting on his patio, legs outstretched and resting on the top rail of the short fence that surrounds it, eating a bowl of ice cream.
Life. Is. Everywhere.
And it is sweet.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Today, I rollerbladed for the first time, held hands with my new boss and fought off a pair of coyotes who aimed to have George for dinner.
My boss is a cheerful woman about my age who works and plays hard. She is happily married to her college sweetheart, who works downtown. Not only does she need help with her burgeoning home-based marketing business, I believe she is lonely. So, too - the new kid in town - am I. This promises to make for an interesting relationship.
For blog purposes, since I haven't asked permission to use her name, I will call her Jenny.
We had a concentrated, but good day of work and at the end - since I'd complained that I knew no one and had no plans - she suggested we go rollerblading. I told her this would be amusing for her, excruciatingly painful and humiliating for me. Particularly since I was wearing a mini skirt. But she insisted I try. She found a pair of blades for me and we loaded into her Jeep and drove to the trail head.
I sat on the grass, facing away from the street, to strap the shoes on. There was no way to do it without the skirt hiking up to obscene levels. By facing away, I felt I was saving the traveling public, perhaps preventing a horrid crash.
I surprised myself when I actually stood up, and did not immediately go crashing to the ground. I surprised myself further when I rolled down the trail. The speed began to build - from 1/32 miles per hour to 1/16. Terrified, I flung myself off the trail and onto the grass. I stumbled, but stayed upright.
All of this was normal, Jenny said. I was doing wonderfully.
We continued on at a snail's pace, she coaching me with remarkable patience, blading confidently backward so she could observe my progress. After hurling myself into the grass several more times, I made it down the hill that no biker would even have noticed was there. Then, we came to an equally tiny uphill. My boss rolled up it slowly, gracefully. I simply stopped. Like the wheels of a car stuck in snow, my feet shuffled back and forth. But I went nowhere.
She turned around. "What is that you're doing?"
"This is for your amusement," I said. "I could go if I wanted to."
Jenny held out her hand. "I'm not gay, take it," she said. And she pulled me up the little upgrade onto more level ground. She instructed me to push out, one by one, with my feet. This produced forward motion, which was actually pretty cool. We rolled hand in hand for no more than a minute, underneath massive trees, past a flood-swollen stream, me in my mini-skirt, she in practical, smart khaki pants. I wished for a camera.
The whole experience went far better than I'd expected.
"What else haven't you done?" she asked when we returned safely to the car. "You ever golfed?"
"Mini," I said. "That's it."
"That's no good," she said. "Next Friday, if you don't have anywhere you have to go, I'm taking you out on the golf course."
Next Friday, I predict, someone will get clocked in the head with a golf club. I only hope I do it to myself.
By the time I got home, the sun was progressing speedily west. I decided it was time to put George to the test. I packed him under my arm, tucked Ally's leash into my free hand and led us all to the wide, open, rolling field behind our complex.
There, I set him down, leash-less and harness-free. My fear had never been so much that he'd run away, as that he would freak out in our strange, new setting, perhaps bolt out of sight and get lost. Even more so, that in an area so much more dog- and people-concentrated, someone - human or dog - would stake their claim on him.
I held my breath as he looked around his new environs, cautiously looking back over one shoulder toward the Jack Russll terrier and his master disappearing behind us in the distance, then over to the weeds blowing in the wind on all other sides. He dropped to the dusty path and rolled in the dirt. His eyes had a wild glint in them.
Satisfied, he did what he's always done - trotted along after me and Ally like a little dog. George hadn't been free in 10 days. The joy was obvious in his every move. He sometimes raced ahead of us in excitement, then dropped again to give himself a dirt bath, careened off into the field, then veered back onto the trail with us. I got caught up in his feline joy and sprinted along with him for a few yards. He seemed to know it was a playful race and added a burst of speed to jet past me.
And then, I saw them - two gray shadows zipping silently toward us in the dusk. It was a pair of coyotes.
I grabbed George so fast I scared him.
Ally ran toward the coyotes, and they circled around her. They appeared to be playing, darting in and out on all sides of her. She growled, yipped and whirled in an attempt to keep them both in her sights.
I did not fear for her life - she outweighed the two of them together - but I did fear for her heels.
Coyotes, I've been told, seek to render large prey helpless by tearing the Achilles heel. This seemed clearly their approach to Ally. I watched as one pranced in front of her, keeping her eyes forward, while the other dove in behind her tail and nipped its teeth at her back legs, narrowly missing its mark. I could almost admire their technique if it hadn't been my dog they were plotting against.
We had seen coyotes many times before when we hiked in a forested park near our Colorado Springs home. But there, they had only occasionally shadowed us from the bushes and never had emerged into the open, much less given chase. This was open prairie, without a tree in sight, and apparently, the rules were different here.
My dog is about 75 pounds of black, silky hair and muscle. She is loyal. Other dogs excepting, she is gentle. She is beautiful. But I've never been sure that she's overly smart.
Perhaps her reaction was the same as any other dog's would have been. She charged the coyotes over and over. When she ignored them, they hung back, seemingly bored. But Ally couldn't resist and back she'd return to them for another feral dance.
I could do nothing to stop their freakish game with Ally, for George had seen them, too. His little body tensed. His claws emerged from their pads. He moaned and twisted, trying to escape my clutches so he could flee the coyotes.
This wasn't an option. Smart as he was, I knew he wouldn't get far. In my mind, I had a sudden vision of George running across the field and a coyote floating ghostlike up behind him, then plucking him up from the ground into its mouth.
I held onto him fiercely, even as his claws dug into me with equal fierceness. He didn't scratch. He sought purchase, his claws making tiny punctures in my arms. He tried to climb up the side of my neck, my shoulder, my arms, anywhere.
I yelled at the coyotes, adding to the confusion. I lunged forward toward them. This made them retreat, but only for a few seconds, and whenever I stepped closer to them, George writhed maniacally. I couldn't bend to pick up rocks to throw at the coyotes; my arms were too full of orange tabby.
The pair of them continued circling us for at least five minutes - an eternity when you're clutching an animal rigid with terror and watching helplessly as your other pet grows weary and confused by the games only wild animals know.
We crossed up high on the ridge, next to the golf course where three men on riding mowers worked. This did the trick. The coyotes faded back.
George wiggled again to get down, but still I refused.
Ten minutes later, when we were safely back on the complex grounds, I placed him gently on the sod. He shook himself off, looked over both his shoulders, then resumed his business-like trot a few yards behind us.
We are home safe now. I can hear someone's stereo thumping from another apartment somewhere on this floor. I note that the parking lot is less than half full. It's a hot July Friday night - people are out celebrating.
And while I'm as anxious as ever to make friends and be out on the town with them, I've had my own Friday night walk on the wild side. For now, that will have to be enough.
My boss is a cheerful woman about my age who works and plays hard. She is happily married to her college sweetheart, who works downtown. Not only does she need help with her burgeoning home-based marketing business, I believe she is lonely. So, too - the new kid in town - am I. This promises to make for an interesting relationship.
For blog purposes, since I haven't asked permission to use her name, I will call her Jenny.
We had a concentrated, but good day of work and at the end - since I'd complained that I knew no one and had no plans - she suggested we go rollerblading. I told her this would be amusing for her, excruciatingly painful and humiliating for me. Particularly since I was wearing a mini skirt. But she insisted I try. She found a pair of blades for me and we loaded into her Jeep and drove to the trail head.
I sat on the grass, facing away from the street, to strap the shoes on. There was no way to do it without the skirt hiking up to obscene levels. By facing away, I felt I was saving the traveling public, perhaps preventing a horrid crash.
I surprised myself when I actually stood up, and did not immediately go crashing to the ground. I surprised myself further when I rolled down the trail. The speed began to build - from 1/32 miles per hour to 1/16. Terrified, I flung myself off the trail and onto the grass. I stumbled, but stayed upright.
All of this was normal, Jenny said. I was doing wonderfully.
We continued on at a snail's pace, she coaching me with remarkable patience, blading confidently backward so she could observe my progress. After hurling myself into the grass several more times, I made it down the hill that no biker would even have noticed was there. Then, we came to an equally tiny uphill. My boss rolled up it slowly, gracefully. I simply stopped. Like the wheels of a car stuck in snow, my feet shuffled back and forth. But I went nowhere.
She turned around. "What is that you're doing?"
"This is for your amusement," I said. "I could go if I wanted to."
Jenny held out her hand. "I'm not gay, take it," she said. And she pulled me up the little upgrade onto more level ground. She instructed me to push out, one by one, with my feet. This produced forward motion, which was actually pretty cool. We rolled hand in hand for no more than a minute, underneath massive trees, past a flood-swollen stream, me in my mini-skirt, she in practical, smart khaki pants. I wished for a camera.
The whole experience went far better than I'd expected.
"What else haven't you done?" she asked when we returned safely to the car. "You ever golfed?"
"Mini," I said. "That's it."
"That's no good," she said. "Next Friday, if you don't have anywhere you have to go, I'm taking you out on the golf course."
Next Friday, I predict, someone will get clocked in the head with a golf club. I only hope I do it to myself.
By the time I got home, the sun was progressing speedily west. I decided it was time to put George to the test. I packed him under my arm, tucked Ally's leash into my free hand and led us all to the wide, open, rolling field behind our complex.
There, I set him down, leash-less and harness-free. My fear had never been so much that he'd run away, as that he would freak out in our strange, new setting, perhaps bolt out of sight and get lost. Even more so, that in an area so much more dog- and people-concentrated, someone - human or dog - would stake their claim on him.
I held my breath as he looked around his new environs, cautiously looking back over one shoulder toward the Jack Russll terrier and his master disappearing behind us in the distance, then over to the weeds blowing in the wind on all other sides. He dropped to the dusty path and rolled in the dirt. His eyes had a wild glint in them.
Satisfied, he did what he's always done - trotted along after me and Ally like a little dog. George hadn't been free in 10 days. The joy was obvious in his every move. He sometimes raced ahead of us in excitement, then dropped again to give himself a dirt bath, careened off into the field, then veered back onto the trail with us. I got caught up in his feline joy and sprinted along with him for a few yards. He seemed to know it was a playful race and added a burst of speed to jet past me.
And then, I saw them - two gray shadows zipping silently toward us in the dusk. It was a pair of coyotes.
I grabbed George so fast I scared him.
Ally ran toward the coyotes, and they circled around her. They appeared to be playing, darting in and out on all sides of her. She growled, yipped and whirled in an attempt to keep them both in her sights.
I did not fear for her life - she outweighed the two of them together - but I did fear for her heels.
Coyotes, I've been told, seek to render large prey helpless by tearing the Achilles heel. This seemed clearly their approach to Ally. I watched as one pranced in front of her, keeping her eyes forward, while the other dove in behind her tail and nipped its teeth at her back legs, narrowly missing its mark. I could almost admire their technique if it hadn't been my dog they were plotting against.
We had seen coyotes many times before when we hiked in a forested park near our Colorado Springs home. But there, they had only occasionally shadowed us from the bushes and never had emerged into the open, much less given chase. This was open prairie, without a tree in sight, and apparently, the rules were different here.
My dog is about 75 pounds of black, silky hair and muscle. She is loyal. Other dogs excepting, she is gentle. She is beautiful. But I've never been sure that she's overly smart.
Perhaps her reaction was the same as any other dog's would have been. She charged the coyotes over and over. When she ignored them, they hung back, seemingly bored. But Ally couldn't resist and back she'd return to them for another feral dance.
I could do nothing to stop their freakish game with Ally, for George had seen them, too. His little body tensed. His claws emerged from their pads. He moaned and twisted, trying to escape my clutches so he could flee the coyotes.
This wasn't an option. Smart as he was, I knew he wouldn't get far. In my mind, I had a sudden vision of George running across the field and a coyote floating ghostlike up behind him, then plucking him up from the ground into its mouth.
I held onto him fiercely, even as his claws dug into me with equal fierceness. He didn't scratch. He sought purchase, his claws making tiny punctures in my arms. He tried to climb up the side of my neck, my shoulder, my arms, anywhere.
I yelled at the coyotes, adding to the confusion. I lunged forward toward them. This made them retreat, but only for a few seconds, and whenever I stepped closer to them, George writhed maniacally. I couldn't bend to pick up rocks to throw at the coyotes; my arms were too full of orange tabby.
The pair of them continued circling us for at least five minutes - an eternity when you're clutching an animal rigid with terror and watching helplessly as your other pet grows weary and confused by the games only wild animals know.
We crossed up high on the ridge, next to the golf course where three men on riding mowers worked. This did the trick. The coyotes faded back.
George wiggled again to get down, but still I refused.
Ten minutes later, when we were safely back on the complex grounds, I placed him gently on the sod. He shook himself off, looked over both his shoulders, then resumed his business-like trot a few yards behind us.
We are home safe now. I can hear someone's stereo thumping from another apartment somewhere on this floor. I note that the parking lot is less than half full. It's a hot July Friday night - people are out celebrating.
And while I'm as anxious as ever to make friends and be out on the town with them, I've had my own Friday night walk on the wild side. For now, that will have to be enough.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
P.S.
The cart escalator is just OK.
Yes, I went back Saturday evening. Robby spent a double overnight at his cousin's house. The apartment came together amazingly well - and quickly.
Then I got suddenly, achingly lonely, realizing I'd spent 36 hours completely alone. Two solid days of rain didn't help.
In this fit of social isolation, I called the African. After three weeks, I'd firmly decided he was a waste of time - no matter how fine a waste. But making contact seemed a good idea on a dreary, lonely day. So I prepared a witty line. I would wish him a happy belated Canada Day, since he's from there and all. I prepared to leave it on his voice mail - a saucy, hey-how's-it-goin', devil-may-care kind of a thing. No invitation to call, just something to make him smile - and then, of course, call.
I rehearsed it in my head, not just the words but the flippant tone.
Not only did he not answer, it didn't even go to voicemail. Instead, the worst thing possible happened. The message alerted me that his mail box was full and unable to take new messages. I cursed this, realizing my caller ID would show up with no reason for the call. That could appear desperate, or something. Damn.
So ... I went back to that super Target. Yes, I needed dog food, cat food, etc., but I went in part because I just wanted to get out. How sad is that?
I even wore a nice shirt and casual heels, thinking I might stop in at this little sports pub next door. But I chickened out; I've
never been good at the single female out-alone thing. I think the bartender secretly snickers when you look around and say, "Well, where could she be? Something must have happened! You might as well give me another; I just know she'll be here soon."
I contented myself instead with a two-minute exchange with the Target checker, a nice lady who seemed to think I was amusing. Even though I checked out near the elevator (and close to my car), I pushed my cart to the opposite end of the store so I could use that cart escalator. Very cool, but still in all, not the stuff of which smashing Saturday nights are made.
I am anxious to make friends. I'm surrounded by 700 units of people, and I know no one - the bank clerk doesn't count. I know it takes time but patience has never been my strongest suit.
Robby came back today and it was like a mini party. We ate ice cream and watched movies. We took a walk in the relentless rain. Ally chased rabbits and Robby skateboarded. We decorated his bathroom. We went - again - to the super Target, bought shower curtain rings and put the tiny package in a cart so we could launch it down the escalator. Robby was ecstatic.
I was horrified - a couple of the checkers smiled at me in recognition.
For those several hours, I forgot I had no friends here yet. After all, my best little buddy was already with me.
The cart escalator is just OK.
Yes, I went back Saturday evening. Robby spent a double overnight at his cousin's house. The apartment came together amazingly well - and quickly.
Then I got suddenly, achingly lonely, realizing I'd spent 36 hours completely alone. Two solid days of rain didn't help.
In this fit of social isolation, I called the African. After three weeks, I'd firmly decided he was a waste of time - no matter how fine a waste. But making contact seemed a good idea on a dreary, lonely day. So I prepared a witty line. I would wish him a happy belated Canada Day, since he's from there and all. I prepared to leave it on his voice mail - a saucy, hey-how's-it-goin', devil-may-care kind of a thing. No invitation to call, just something to make him smile - and then, of course, call.
I rehearsed it in my head, not just the words but the flippant tone.
Not only did he not answer, it didn't even go to voicemail. Instead, the worst thing possible happened. The message alerted me that his mail box was full and unable to take new messages. I cursed this, realizing my caller ID would show up with no reason for the call. That could appear desperate, or something. Damn.
So ... I went back to that super Target. Yes, I needed dog food, cat food, etc., but I went in part because I just wanted to get out. How sad is that?
I even wore a nice shirt and casual heels, thinking I might stop in at this little sports pub next door. But I chickened out; I've
never been good at the single female out-alone thing. I think the bartender secretly snickers when you look around and say, "Well, where could she be? Something must have happened! You might as well give me another; I just know she'll be here soon."
I contented myself instead with a two-minute exchange with the Target checker, a nice lady who seemed to think I was amusing. Even though I checked out near the elevator (and close to my car), I pushed my cart to the opposite end of the store so I could use that cart escalator. Very cool, but still in all, not the stuff of which smashing Saturday nights are made.
I am anxious to make friends. I'm surrounded by 700 units of people, and I know no one - the bank clerk doesn't count. I know it takes time but patience has never been my strongest suit.
Robby came back today and it was like a mini party. We ate ice cream and watched movies. We took a walk in the relentless rain. Ally chased rabbits and Robby skateboarded. We decorated his bathroom. We went - again - to the super Target, bought shower curtain rings and put the tiny package in a cart so we could launch it down the escalator. Robby was ecstatic.
I was horrified - a couple of the checkers smiled at me in recognition.
For those several hours, I forgot I had no friends here yet. After all, my best little buddy was already with me.
It is raining and I am unpacking.
Ally is laying next to me. This is not pleasant because she has had a small skunk encounter. Shampoo and tomato paste - the best I could come up with - has not worked and I'm hoping it will just fade away. Meanwhile, well, she's even funkier than usual.
Robby is about 10 minutes away at his first cousin's (my ex's brother's ex-wife -- follow that?!) house. He spent the night there last eve, reacquainting himself with the 12-year-old boy he's seen all too rarely over the years. I love this connection for him, as well as the re-connection he's making with my ex's mother and brother - both 15 minutes away. We have spotted several 10-year-old-ish boys wandering our apartment complex. Robby is still mustering up the courage to speak to them. I love this potential connection, too.
I explore the complex with Ally by my side - a little farther from my side than normal - and without turning my head to actually look and acknowledge, I notice lots of small pick-ups with single male drivers passing by. There are no women in the passenger seats and the music typically is blaring. These most certainly must be bachelors. I love this potential connection as well.
I have felt frustrated and discontent - with my closet a post-move receptacle for everything that goes nowhere else and artwork leaning against every wall - until today. Today, I clear the cluttered pathway into the walk-in closet - my first! - hang clothes, organize my shoes and find a hidden spot for the litter box. Somehow, that clears my brain for the real work of making our pretty little apartment home.
Suddenly, I look around and it all falls into place. I can't move quickly enough to pound nails and hang art.
And as each piece finds its new resting place, my discontent fades further. Slowly, color begins to splash every room. Venice, Klimt, the dancing martinis and the cartoony black cat in a field of pink-and-yellow flowers slide home on the walls, making our new space familiar and warm.
I take a break to find the closest liquor and grocery stores, and stumble upon a PetCo where I spend an embarrassing sum of money on a cat harness and leash for George. Both are laughably thin. Both also are bright blue with reflective, silver/white tiny paw prints traveling their lengths.
My car turns toward home, and then I see it in my rear-view mirror - the familiar red target on the side of a building. I take a U-turn at the next intersection and head back. The Target sits up on a hill, glowing down so that sharp-eyed interstate travelers and mall shoppers can see it. It is monstrous. Not just a Super Target but a mega Super Target. It has its own parking garage, with an underground level. Inside, I see escalators leading down to the subterranean parking area. One of the escalators is bizarrely wide. A sign reads, "Carts only." I stare, feeling like a country bumpkin in a brand new world.
The checker tells me this is the largest Target ever built. The biggest Target ever - a mile from my home! I feel like I've just gotten a peek at heaven.
This area of south Denver is recently developed, and everything is so new it practically sparkles. Even the bank is unlike anything I've seen before. Bank clerks don't stand behind a long, formal counter, but at thin counters with only a pedestal support below. It has a futuristic feel. I half expect to see clerks dressed like Jane Jetson.
The clerk who waits on me is young, blonde and cute. I ask for a cashier's check to be made out to the apartment complex.
"That's where I live!" she says. She tells me she loves it there, and answers my rapid-fire questions enthusiastically. We are so deep in conversation that she makes a $3 error on the check, and I have to return later for a replacement.
Robby stands in the lobby, waiting. We walk out together and he looks up at me - not nearly the distance it so recently was. "You know what I was thinking when you were in there? I was thinking you guys are gonna be friends."
"Yes, but Robby, she's so much younger than me," I said.
"So?" he says, with a wisdom that momentarily surpasses mine.
Robby and I are adjusting well. Even George is coming along, but at a snail's pace. We tried to walk him with his new get-up last night. It was a painful process. He tried to squeeze his shoulders through it, laid down, stood up, all the while lashing his tail. Sometimes he started trotting down the sidewalk with us, a model of proper behavior. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and started the whole rebellion over again. This will take time.
Life for us all feels so much different than it did a week ago. To me, the newspaper seems a world away and when I think of it - which is surprisingly rare - it feels like a bad dream. For now, the world is bright with possibility.
As we drove away from Colorado Springs Wednesday, the moving van in our rear-view mirror, Boston's "Long Time" came on the radio.
"This could be our farewell song, Robby," I say. He ignores me, but I hope he is listening to the lyrics.
(And since black-and-white printed lyrics don't resonate like the song, I hope you will call up the tune and put music to them. Close your eyes and maybe you can be right there with me and Robby, but in the back, which unfortunately puts you next to the funky dog.)
It's been such a long time
I think I should be goin', yeah
And time doesn't wait for me, it keeps on rollin'
Sail on, on a distant highway
I've got to keep on chasin' a dream
I've gotta be on my way
Wish there was something I could say.
Well I'm takin' my time, I'm just movin' on
You'll forget about me after I've been gone
And I take what I find, I don't want no more
It's just outside of your front door.
I try to sing along, but emotion chokes my throat closed.
I see Pikes Peak disappearing over my left shoulder. But I bring my eyes back to the road, which is taking us swiftly north.
It is taking us home.
Ally is laying next to me. This is not pleasant because she has had a small skunk encounter. Shampoo and tomato paste - the best I could come up with - has not worked and I'm hoping it will just fade away. Meanwhile, well, she's even funkier than usual.
Robby is about 10 minutes away at his first cousin's (my ex's brother's ex-wife -- follow that?!) house. He spent the night there last eve, reacquainting himself with the 12-year-old boy he's seen all too rarely over the years. I love this connection for him, as well as the re-connection he's making with my ex's mother and brother - both 15 minutes away. We have spotted several 10-year-old-ish boys wandering our apartment complex. Robby is still mustering up the courage to speak to them. I love this potential connection, too.
I explore the complex with Ally by my side - a little farther from my side than normal - and without turning my head to actually look and acknowledge, I notice lots of small pick-ups with single male drivers passing by. There are no women in the passenger seats and the music typically is blaring. These most certainly must be bachelors. I love this potential connection as well.
I have felt frustrated and discontent - with my closet a post-move receptacle for everything that goes nowhere else and artwork leaning against every wall - until today. Today, I clear the cluttered pathway into the walk-in closet - my first! - hang clothes, organize my shoes and find a hidden spot for the litter box. Somehow, that clears my brain for the real work of making our pretty little apartment home.
Suddenly, I look around and it all falls into place. I can't move quickly enough to pound nails and hang art.
And as each piece finds its new resting place, my discontent fades further. Slowly, color begins to splash every room. Venice, Klimt, the dancing martinis and the cartoony black cat in a field of pink-and-yellow flowers slide home on the walls, making our new space familiar and warm.
I take a break to find the closest liquor and grocery stores, and stumble upon a PetCo where I spend an embarrassing sum of money on a cat harness and leash for George. Both are laughably thin. Both also are bright blue with reflective, silver/white tiny paw prints traveling their lengths.
My car turns toward home, and then I see it in my rear-view mirror - the familiar red target on the side of a building. I take a U-turn at the next intersection and head back. The Target sits up on a hill, glowing down so that sharp-eyed interstate travelers and mall shoppers can see it. It is monstrous. Not just a Super Target but a mega Super Target. It has its own parking garage, with an underground level. Inside, I see escalators leading down to the subterranean parking area. One of the escalators is bizarrely wide. A sign reads, "Carts only." I stare, feeling like a country bumpkin in a brand new world.
The checker tells me this is the largest Target ever built. The biggest Target ever - a mile from my home! I feel like I've just gotten a peek at heaven.
This area of south Denver is recently developed, and everything is so new it practically sparkles. Even the bank is unlike anything I've seen before. Bank clerks don't stand behind a long, formal counter, but at thin counters with only a pedestal support below. It has a futuristic feel. I half expect to see clerks dressed like Jane Jetson.
The clerk who waits on me is young, blonde and cute. I ask for a cashier's check to be made out to the apartment complex.
"That's where I live!" she says. She tells me she loves it there, and answers my rapid-fire questions enthusiastically. We are so deep in conversation that she makes a $3 error on the check, and I have to return later for a replacement.
Robby stands in the lobby, waiting. We walk out together and he looks up at me - not nearly the distance it so recently was. "You know what I was thinking when you were in there? I was thinking you guys are gonna be friends."
"Yes, but Robby, she's so much younger than me," I said.
"So?" he says, with a wisdom that momentarily surpasses mine.
Robby and I are adjusting well. Even George is coming along, but at a snail's pace. We tried to walk him with his new get-up last night. It was a painful process. He tried to squeeze his shoulders through it, laid down, stood up, all the while lashing his tail. Sometimes he started trotting down the sidewalk with us, a model of proper behavior. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and started the whole rebellion over again. This will take time.
Life for us all feels so much different than it did a week ago. To me, the newspaper seems a world away and when I think of it - which is surprisingly rare - it feels like a bad dream. For now, the world is bright with possibility.
As we drove away from Colorado Springs Wednesday, the moving van in our rear-view mirror, Boston's "Long Time" came on the radio.
"This could be our farewell song, Robby," I say. He ignores me, but I hope he is listening to the lyrics.
(And since black-and-white printed lyrics don't resonate like the song, I hope you will call up the tune and put music to them. Close your eyes and maybe you can be right there with me and Robby, but in the back, which unfortunately puts you next to the funky dog.)
It's been such a long time
I think I should be goin', yeah
And time doesn't wait for me, it keeps on rollin'
Sail on, on a distant highway
I've got to keep on chasin' a dream
I've gotta be on my way
Wish there was something I could say.
Well I'm takin' my time, I'm just movin' on
You'll forget about me after I've been gone
And I take what I find, I don't want no more
It's just outside of your front door.
I try to sing along, but emotion chokes my throat closed.
I see Pikes Peak disappearing over my left shoulder. But I bring my eyes back to the road, which is taking us swiftly north.
It is taking us home.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Packing up a home is not a job. It's a process.
It's raining and I'm packing, eating Cheetos and drinking apple juice. My progress is slow because I'm reminiscing, weeding through a box of old letters and newspaper articles from my long career in journalism. I've parted with many an old item. I've saved more than I should.
Here's a sample of what I've found so far:
• A Hawaiian angel pin with a gorgeous pink-and-blue flower pattern across its little robed body. I can't remember who went to Hawaii and brought this back for me. It's perfectly useless. I don't wear pins and it will continue to sit in a drawer where no one sees it. But the colorful pattern makes me feel happy and somehow hopeful. Saved.
• At least a dozen sealed condoms in every color of the rainbow, including a black-labeled, apparently extraordinary Kama Sutra condom, plus a four-pack that promises a quartet of fruity flavors. Do these things go bad? Even after five years? I think not. Saved.
• A ticket to a Colorado Rockies April 19, 2001 baseball game, with the name "Iain" scrawled in my hand across the bottom. A card that accompanied a dozen roses sent by Iain from Seattle in on Valentine's Day 2001. "I love you, and miss you. Can't wait to see you again!" My throat aches. Both saved. (I know, I know, but not just yet.)
• A Denver Post front page with my bylined story above the fold. Saved.
• An old checkbook with an entry for Gail Meinster, the court advocate in our custody battle who wasn't supposed to take sides but who became my friend anyway. Tossed.
• A Hallmark envelope thick with a letter bearing the return address of "Alisa Nelson," a once-dear friend who broke our friendship with a slap to my face in a Galveston, Texas park. The story is long, and years later, I'm not so sure I was right in what I said to provoke that slap. Far too late for second thoughts. Tossed, not re-read.
• A container of peppermint-flavored "Dick Tarts", a present for my 40th birthday. Tossed. (Sorry, April)
• A copy of a wedding certificate, sealing my marriage to Zach on ... July 9? How could that be? For years, I've thought it was July 24. I wonder just what July 24 really is. I forget to check the year but am quite sure it was 1993. But it's entirely likely I'm wrong on that, too. Tossed.
• A newspaper clipping of a Christmas Summit Daily News staff photo taken almost 10 years ago. I'm holding a baby Robby. Even though most of us were in our early 30s, everyone looks ridiculously young to me, all with open, optimistic, watch-out-world smiles and nary a gray hair. Saved.
• Two letters sent around 1990 from my friend Lane to my then-new home in Dillon, She was on the hunt for a new job and had just met Bill, now her husband of several years. She refers repeatedly to Z-Man, my ex, and the Nookster, the Alaskan Malamute we later, tearfully, put to sleep in the wake of two vicious attacks on other dogs. We are still good friends, but oh, do I see in her flowing cursive how our lives have changed. Saved.
• A copy of the entertainment section I created for Summit Newspapers, with a cover story called "The Best Part of a Man." A massive, smooth male chest is spread across the cover. The layout inside includes photos of another man's chest (this one hairy), shoulders and eyes, It's a story in which I surveyed women about their favorite things about men - including characteristics like sensitivity. I cannot believe the paper allowed this. I cannot believe I wrote it. The winner, by the way: chest. Saved.
• A mini travel blow dryer with extra, European outlet connections from a 2000 trip to Italy. Connections, tossed (it's not that I won't go back; I just haven't blown dry my hair in years). Blow dryer - damn cute - saved. (I didn't say these decisions would be logical, did I?)
• A decade-old interview and photo of me in the Summit papers' company newsletter on my coverage of a murder trial, a rare happening in mountain resort communities. My final quote was this: "I'm in journalism for life. I know I'll never be rich, but this is my passion."
Tossed.
It's raining and I'm packing, eating Cheetos and drinking apple juice. My progress is slow because I'm reminiscing, weeding through a box of old letters and newspaper articles from my long career in journalism. I've parted with many an old item. I've saved more than I should.
Here's a sample of what I've found so far:
• A Hawaiian angel pin with a gorgeous pink-and-blue flower pattern across its little robed body. I can't remember who went to Hawaii and brought this back for me. It's perfectly useless. I don't wear pins and it will continue to sit in a drawer where no one sees it. But the colorful pattern makes me feel happy and somehow hopeful. Saved.
• At least a dozen sealed condoms in every color of the rainbow, including a black-labeled, apparently extraordinary Kama Sutra condom, plus a four-pack that promises a quartet of fruity flavors. Do these things go bad? Even after five years? I think not. Saved.
• A ticket to a Colorado Rockies April 19, 2001 baseball game, with the name "Iain" scrawled in my hand across the bottom. A card that accompanied a dozen roses sent by Iain from Seattle in on Valentine's Day 2001. "I love you, and miss you. Can't wait to see you again!" My throat aches. Both saved. (I know, I know, but not just yet.)
• A Denver Post front page with my bylined story above the fold. Saved.
• An old checkbook with an entry for Gail Meinster, the court advocate in our custody battle who wasn't supposed to take sides but who became my friend anyway. Tossed.
• A Hallmark envelope thick with a letter bearing the return address of "Alisa Nelson," a once-dear friend who broke our friendship with a slap to my face in a Galveston, Texas park. The story is long, and years later, I'm not so sure I was right in what I said to provoke that slap. Far too late for second thoughts. Tossed, not re-read.
• A container of peppermint-flavored "Dick Tarts", a present for my 40th birthday. Tossed. (Sorry, April)
• A copy of a wedding certificate, sealing my marriage to Zach on ... July 9? How could that be? For years, I've thought it was July 24. I wonder just what July 24 really is. I forget to check the year but am quite sure it was 1993. But it's entirely likely I'm wrong on that, too. Tossed.
• A newspaper clipping of a Christmas Summit Daily News staff photo taken almost 10 years ago. I'm holding a baby Robby. Even though most of us were in our early 30s, everyone looks ridiculously young to me, all with open, optimistic, watch-out-world smiles and nary a gray hair. Saved.
• Two letters sent around 1990 from my friend Lane to my then-new home in Dillon, She was on the hunt for a new job and had just met Bill, now her husband of several years. She refers repeatedly to Z-Man, my ex, and the Nookster, the Alaskan Malamute we later, tearfully, put to sleep in the wake of two vicious attacks on other dogs. We are still good friends, but oh, do I see in her flowing cursive how our lives have changed. Saved.
• A copy of the entertainment section I created for Summit Newspapers, with a cover story called "The Best Part of a Man." A massive, smooth male chest is spread across the cover. The layout inside includes photos of another man's chest (this one hairy), shoulders and eyes, It's a story in which I surveyed women about their favorite things about men - including characteristics like sensitivity. I cannot believe the paper allowed this. I cannot believe I wrote it. The winner, by the way: chest. Saved.
• A mini travel blow dryer with extra, European outlet connections from a 2000 trip to Italy. Connections, tossed (it's not that I won't go back; I just haven't blown dry my hair in years). Blow dryer - damn cute - saved. (I didn't say these decisions would be logical, did I?)
• A decade-old interview and photo of me in the Summit papers' company newsletter on my coverage of a murder trial, a rare happening in mountain resort communities. My final quote was this: "I'm in journalism for life. I know I'll never be rich, but this is my passion."
Tossed.
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