Twenty years ago, I didn't know the difference between a Democrat and a Republican. My friend Lane and I were riding bikes on a quiet street in Monument, where we were both reporters, when I asked her to explain the differences to me. I think she said that while there was much more to it, Republicans were basically about supporting big business and Democrats concerned with social issues.

As a young reporter, one might think this subject would have held more interest for me. But I asked her not a single follow-up question. My mind went almost immediately back to Dennis Lucero, with whom I had made out once or twice and who likely would be at the pub that evening.

Quickly, likely the night I encountered him at said pub with a gorgeous woman on his lap, I would learn that Dennis Lucero was a complete dog of a man. Much more slowly, I would learn more about the two major political parties.

Over the years, I saw myself begin to lean left. Almost imperceptibly at first. Perhaps I had always tended this way, but it hadn't been something of which I was conscious. My interest in politics and issues grows now at a far more rapid rate. And while I will never consider myself politically savvy, I now lean enough to the left that I'm just slightly lopsided.

The tiny grain of curiosity that, at 23, prompted me to ask my friend that ignorant question has grown into a hunger.

I attribute my late-coming interest in liberal politics to several things: My years as a reporter, most of them spent in free-living, liberal mountain ski resort towns, and particularly my three years as a reporter in uber-conservative Colorado Springs where right-wing politicans, leaders and the resulting issues were unavoidable. I attribute it even to the breakdown of my early 20s, which left me a less judgmental and more empathetic person. But most of all, I give credit for it to a former co-worker, the person to whom I sent my December letter and who I believe is now part of my past. The passion with which this rather hot Democratic editor spoke of politics prompted me not only to fall in love with him, but in part with the subject itself. If there's a purpose for everyone who comes into your life, perhaps his was not to be the soulmate I'd believed he was, but to pique my interest in issues far larger than myself.

Because of that combination of influences, I pay far closer attention to the news. I read articles about politics that would have put me to sleep a few years ago. On the front seat of my car is a case for Barack Obama's "The Audacity of Hope" book on CD. I need, even yearn, to know more about Hillary Clinton.

I recently volunteered to help with the Democratic National Convention coming to Denver in August. My friend Dave assures me I'll be standing around with seniors checking credentials. To him, this is tedious and below me. To me, the prospect is thrilling and frankly, given the surge of interest in this election, I think he's wrong about the seniors. "You need to get invited to the parties," he says. "I'll get you in. Don't worry." I'll take this, too. I'll take it all. I want to be involved, period.

I feel a thrill of pride when a thoroughly Republican manager in our company stops to talk to me about the presidential candidates, asking whom, as a "good liberal," I'm supporting. In truth, I do not yet know, but the fact that he thinks my opinion valid comes as a pleasant shock. The fact that he thinks me far more liberal and wise than I actually am, well, that part I'll keep to myself. So far, I have the wool pulled over his eyes. I like it there. What he doesn't know is that I've been uncommitted my whole life.

Until now.

Last week, I registered as a Democrat.

I was prompted to do so by the words of a conservative radio talk show host, who asserted that nonaffiliated voters are, in so many words, dead weight. People too wishy-washy to choose sides and who instead sit safely on the political fence. Pick a side. Dig into it. If you find in the long run it isn't for you, switch. But do, indeed be, something, he urged. I did something. I sat down at my computer, pulled up the county's election division Web site and, at 43, committed myself to a party.

Barack Obama, Bill Clinton and George W. all descended upon Denver in the last two days. Obama drew 18,000 people, overflowing the University of Denver arena and another building quickly opened to handle the crowds, still leaving 4,000 more standing in a soccer field, hoping for a glimpse of him. Clinton drew 3,000 to the same arena. George W., here for a private fundraiser, drew little but ill will when his motorcade closed down I-25 in both directions during the evening rush hour.

It is the talk of this big town. I heard two elderly ladies discussing it when I left Target this eve. "No, Obama was yesterday morning. Clinton was last night and Bush was today," one gray-haired woman said to her bench mate.

I smiled at this. The sense of excitement for these visitors is, to me, not unlike that which built week-by-week around the Rockies' winning streak and subsequent trip to the World Series. Something so big that it unites the residents of an entire city in a common fervor. It's a feeling that will only grow in Denver as the dates for the convention draw nearer.

I knew Obama was scheduled to appear. Somehow, I had not known Bill Clinton was coming, too. The dramatic decrease in the size of the crowds was due, in part, to a small blizzard that whirled through the metropolitan area around 6 p.m., as well as in the times of day in which they spoke. Obama spoke in the a.m., Clinton at 9:50 p.m.

I was disappointed to a far greater degree than I'd have imagined that I missed a chance to see and hear Bill Clinton. With a crowd of 3,000, in an arena designed to accommodate 10,000, I'd surely have been close to the man. Instead, my friends and I went dancing last night. How I wish, that instead of watching cowboys attempt to dance to hip hop, and brothers try the Boot-Scootin' Boogy (an entertaining evening to be sure), I'd have been at that arena.

In the wake of this crushing disappointment, I realize just how far I've come. How much I have changed. How much more I will evolve as the years, even these next few months, go by.

When I arrived home today, weary from sitting in the backlogged traffic created by W., I saw in my pile of mail a small postcard from the Douglas County Election Division. I received a similar one only a few weeks ago, when I'd registered my change of address. That card identified me as "unaffiliated." This card was different. I scanned it to make sure they'd made the change. It was so unobtrusive I almost missed it. Under a small box labeled "Affiliation" was a single letter: "D." This letter elicited in me a tiny thrill, and I felt immediately silly for it, not understanding why this affected me anymore than I understood my reaction to the Bill Clinton near miss.

Perhaps that understanding will dawn as time goes by. Perhaps this is more significant for me than I know. Time will tell.

And so I missed Bill. I've got another shot in August, and then I'll see them all. You can bet your boots on it.

The event was advertised as a way to learn how to harness positive emotions and live the life you want. It was based on a theory called the power of attraction, a theory that I believe has validity but that has become its own mini-industry with books and so-called professionals flooding shelves and airwaves to proclaim its magic. Simply put, the idea is that you get back what you put out. Positive attracts positive and passion draws passion, be it at work, home or play.

This meeting, which I found on the Meetup site I routinely peruse for unusual things to do, was based on the movie and book “The Secret.” I have never read the book but have read others like it, among them "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People," and heard enough to get the gist of it. Two friends I highly respect said "The Secret" was “worth a read.”

Beyond that, it was Wednesday night. And I needed a break from Exercise TV and boxed wine. What had I to lose besides a stomach not quite as taut as it could be?

The meeting was held at a remodeled convention studio in a sketchy part of town. The closer I came to it, the more I thought about turning around. My car was wending its way behind the Broncos stadium. The stadium looks nice on TV, but notice they never pan around the immediate area much. That’s cuz it’s ugly. A blue-collar neighborhood peppered with soup kitchens and dollar stores. I know. I love dollar stores.

But the building itself looked nice enough, and the only person I could see well wore a suit. Surely this was a respectable event.

About 20 people milled around a lobby, all of them wearing “Hi, My Name Is” tags. Two women sitting at a table asked me to register. I filled out a piece of paper with my name, address and phone (all fictional, as usual).

“What is your name?” asked one of the women as she prepared to fill out my name tag. “Oh, Jane!” She smiled at me. “I like that name.”

A dash of red lipstick clung to one of her front teeth. I debated telling her.

“Thanks,” I said. “You really don’t hear it much, even if people do think it’s common.”

“Oh, I agree!” she said, flashing her red tooth at me again. “Well, my name’s Linda. How often do you hear that?”

She winked at me. “Women of a certain age, Jane.”

I stared at her. She was at least 15 years older than me. She wore her gray hair cropped close to the sides of her head. She was heavy, and reminded me far more of my mother than any women my age I knew.

“What are you saying?” I asked, grinning sweetly. “I don’t even know Janes my own age, much less older.”

But Linda failed to note, or simply didn’t think, she’d gaffed. Well, fine, I decided. She could walk around all night with lipstick on her teeth. I would never tell her now!

It was at this point that I probably should have left. Barely in the door, I’d been, however unwittingly, insulted. Plus, they wanted me to wear a name tag. How much worse could it get?

But I stepped aside and gazed at the knots of people gathered here and there in the lobby. Among each group of regular looking folks, identifiable by their blue jeans, was a suit-and-tie wearing man, grinning – like good old Linda – a tad too widely. In each case, the suit was speaking and the people around him were listening intently, smiling in sync with him.

Instinctively, I steered clear of them and stood by myself near the back of the lobby, waiting for them to open the doors to the conference room.

One other person stood aside similarly, an Asian man in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans. He looked to be about my age. That is, about 15 years younger than Linda.

But I didn’t speak to him either. Something about this set-up felt, well, greasy to me and I didn’t trust anyone. It wasn’t just Linda, or the insanely happy suits. The huge black signs in the lobby added to my sense of unease.

“Welcome to SGR Club!” they heralded. Above, the words read, “The Science of Getting Rich Club.”

And below, a photo of an elderly gentlemen leaning on a desk. “I’ll teach you the principles of living the life you want and how to create income opportunities!”

None of this was what I had expected. The signs and material I’d seen so far seemed focused on wealth, not happiness. And “club” implied dues. I found the name, "Science of Getting Rich," repulsive.

Before I could come to a decision about staying, one of the happy suits opened the conference room doors and invited us in.

I trailed in among the last, along with the Asian man. We both sat at a table near the back with a large, blonde woman.

I saw more of the huge black signs, a computer set in Power Point mode and pointing at a massive screen. The elderly gentlemen smiled at us from every corner of the room.

“Pretty awesome, isn’t it?” said the woman next to us.

She slid a flyer across the table to us, her new companions.

“The Zen Swing,” it read, “Great for meditating, relaxing and entertaining.”

“This is mine!” she said, pointing excitedly to the picture on the card. “I’m getting a patent on it.”

I stared at the photo of a child seated in a canvas swing, one of the variety of chairs you see at Renaissance Festivals and arts and crafts shows nationwide.

I stared, too, at the woman’s hands, which were disturbingly large.

Her face was broad, full and bland. She wore a lavender tank top and I noticed a massive sweat stain underneath one breast. Or what appeared to be a breast. It was clear to me that my new friend was a man.

“What’s so different about this than any others like this I’ve seen?”

I asked.

She smiled at me indulgently. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s this!”

She pointed to the huge metal, triangular frame from which the swing hung. It looked like a frameless teepee, and occupied a space as big as my backyard.

“Wow,” said the man next to me. “I don’t have a yard that big.”

“Well,” she said, “you’d just have to buy one! And if you keep coming here, you’ll have the money for a yard that big!”

“You’re not here by accident, you know,” she said, leaning toward us both. “You were drawn here tonight for a reason. Every step in our life brings us closer to what we want, if we just listen. It’s all in the cards for you now. You’re in the right place.”

She smiled beatifically. I wished I’d chosen any other seat in the house, though I suspect similar messages were being relayed at those tables, too.

The woman asked for our business cards. I lied and said I didn’t have one with me. The man next to me pulled out his wallet and fumbled around in it, then looked up sheepishly. “Sorry, I don’t have one either.”

“Well that’s OK,” she said. “Just write it down here.”

She slid a piece of paper toward me. I wrote down a fictitious e-mail address. I saw the man’s pen pause, and then he scrawled what I also was sure was a false address on the paper.

Then, to our relief, the presentation began.

A young, suited man named Lance took the microphone and spoke, his tone overflowing with passion as he read every single word from a sheet of paper laid on a table before him. Occasionally, he’d look up, smile brilliantly and raise a fist or hand to emphasize a point. But even I, as a beginning Toastmaster, knew his speech skills needed serious work, not jut for presentation but content.

Lance explained that he’d come to the SRG by some miracle, I think it was. He had been, for all intents and purposes, saved from a life of poverty into one of huge wealth. Or at least he was sure it would be that way; he was with the program and walking it every day.

“Who would like more abundance?” he asked in a booming voice, looking up at the dozen tables scattered throughout the room.

To my shock, the response was rousing. “We would!”

“Who would like more happiness?” he asked.

“We would!”

“Are you ready to have fun tonight?” Lance asked.

“YES!” shouted what sounded like a massive crowd of people.

“I didn’t hear you!” he teased, grinning.

“YES!!!”

Someone whooped. Someone else cried, “Yeah!” with the excitement of a cowboy conquering a bucking bronc.

I was astounded. Who were these people? The Denverites I knew did not respond like this to anything but a sporting event.

Then I noticed that at every table but ours, either a suit or a commonly attired person wearing a black-and-yellow SGR name tag sat. Their grins were all identical – massive and nearly plastic. When they shouted, several of their tablemates seemed to get caught up in it all, and respond with equal gusto. I noted only a handful of people who sat back in their chairs, expressionless and reserved.

My Asian friend, who sat as I did with arms crossed, glanced back at me and very subtly rolled his eyes. I felt a flood of relief to know I was not alone in this insane asylum.

Lance introduced RaeAnn, a pert, middle-aged lady in an ill-fitting black suit who, I quickly learned, possessed speaking skills only slightly better than Lance’s. She only sneaked peeks at her notes, but still, she clung to them. Unfortunately, she also shared with Lance a strong set of lungs and a thunderstorm of passion.

“Hi, I’m RaeAnn and I am financially free!” she said. The crowd roared its excitement, applauding her wildly.

I thought again about leaving. I knew that within 20 minutes, we’d be asked to buy something. Something big. I knew also that the SRG Club felt like a cult with its leader, the elderly gentlemen on all the signs and flyers, appearing to me a grizzled version of Jim Jones.

But I was already there. The night was cold, the drive had been long and Wednesday night TV was crap. Most of all, I realized this would make a great blog.

RaeAnn reminded us that the principles of the SRG club were based on “The Secret.”

She looked at her notes, paused dramatically and, eyes still fastened on her cheat sheet, shouted into her microphone, “Based on what?”

“The Secret!”

“Welcome to this movement!” she said. Pause. “Welcome to this what?”

“Movement!”

It both amused and frightened me that no one else, except perhaps the Asian man whose back was turned to me, was fighting back laughter.

RaeAnn instructed us to figure out the most important thing in our lives.

“That’s your main thing,” she said. “Now, the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”

Her radiant smile indicated to us she’d just passed along some golden pearl of wisdom.

Then she paused and I knew the audience participation part was next. “To keep the what?”

“Main thing!”

RaeAnn asked us to consider our passion, and then realize we could all make money doing what we loved best. We received worksheets on which to jot down the things we loved most.

The Asian man revealed he loved most of all to dance, but simply wasn’t good enough to earn a living at it. He indulged in salsa and swing outside of his civil engineering job. I noted again the tight shirt, and the muscles bulging underneath it. A dancer’s body. I liked him for having an artistic bent. I wanted to see him dance, but stopped short of asking him where he practiced his passion.

I revealed my love of writing, and the fact that journalism didn’t pay well enough.

Blessedly, the manly blonde had vanished somewhere between Lance and RaeAnn.

RaeAnn asked several audience members to talk about their passions. Each person who stood received a generous round of wild applause just because, RaeAnn said, “it’s nice to be recognized, isn’t it?”.

RaeAnn soon revealed that we were lucky to be there, lucky because just by coming, we were able to take advantage of a special membership fee offered to no one else. A membership package including CDs, books, an MP3 player, access to live conference calls with our elderly leader and a ticket to a future conference – that alone valued at more than $2,000 – all wrapped up in a leather binder.

The market value of this, she exclaimed excitedly, was $8,000. Ours for only $1,995.

RaeAnn emphasized there was no hurry or obligation associated with the offer. We could return to the weekly SRG meetings for free as long as we wanted. But of course, the knowledge we could glean from the meetings was limited. The true secrets were in the package!

My Asian friend, whose name I never learned, turned to me and whispered, “Are you coming back next week?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded, and in the way he studied me, I could see the law of attraction at work. I saw that if I did just one or two things differently, if I tipped my head, asked a single question or smiled with the right degree or sincerity, he would ask for my phone number.

The woman decides, a man had told me years ago. The woman always decides, he said, it’s never our choice.

For the first time in my life, I saw clearly that this was the case. I was startled by the realization. But I did none of those things, and am left to wonder if I made the right choice.

“Well hey, it was nice meeting you,” he said, gathering his notepad and scooting out of his chair. “Best of luck.”

“You, too,” I said. “Keep dancing.”

He was barely gone with a young suit stood before me, grinning maniacally. I wondered if his jacket concealed a winding mechanism, if RaeAnn or the elderly mentor possessed the key that kept these strange beings walking and talking in alien manner.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“Great,” I said. “But I’m gonna go home and think about it.”

He frowned for the first time all night. “What’s there to think about?”

I paused and stared at him, trying to think of an answer that would clearly indicate to him he was wasting his time.

“I’m really not sure,” I started, watching him lean toward me, “I want to be rich.”

The winter day was cool and sunny, the beer dark and cold, the cocktail sauce on the cold shrimp hot with horseradish. My friend and I were passing a blissful afternoon on Boulder's Pearl Street Mall, when she said something that struck me to the core.

She was speaking of her husband. “After all these years together, after all that man’s put up with from me, he still loves me. I find that amazing.”

Actually, I think she said it more lyrically than that, but I’ve been wracking my brain for several minutes for the exact phrasing and screw it, that’s to the best of my recollection.

Then she added, “That’s why I’ll allow things like the 8-foot mounted swordfish over the bed.”

I throw that in apart from her first quote because it just doesn’t quite jibe with the beauty of that initial phrase. But I throw it in anyway because it’s damn funny, and makes a point of its own.

But back to that word: Amazement. It could be used to describe anything awe-inspiring, from a horrible accident to a football game won in the last few seconds of overtime. But when my friend said it, it sounded like neither of those things. It sounded like something holy, like a miracle.

Her words struck me, too, as amazing. And incredibly cheering.

For it seems to me love should be amazing, an idea I have sometimes feared is naive, based on my own inexperience. To hear someone so deep into a relationship say that it exists sends a shivers down the spine. I suspect this is one of those key elusive elements found among solidly bonded couples.

You could say it points to a sense of insecurity. But I think not. I think it indicates a sense of reverence for this most transcendent of emotions. For love, which sees all and enfolds it all into one bear hug of an embrace.

It’s the same shiver of recognition and deep yearning I feel at hearing Alanis Morissette’s “Everything.” This idea, this grand hope, brings me near tears every time I play it.

You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can’t relate
And you’re still here

My sense is that my last relationship, already strained by a distance of several states, ended almost two years into it when he saw me in a clinical depression. Knowing about the bipolar disorder was one thing, dealing with it quite another. I’ll never know for sure because after that, he simply stopped calling, and changed his phone number.

I’m left with the idea, nearly a conviction, that something that is part of me, a factor I don’t think I can change, was unacceptable to him. So ugly that he ran. So now I wonder, next time a relationship turns serious, what will happen when I reveal my not-so-pretty history, my unpredictable disorder? What will happen, too, when I expose the character flaws that can’t be attributed or blamed on bipolar disorder?

Wouldn’t it be amazing if he loved me anyway?

Even though I sometimes feel alone in this, I know I’m standing hip-to-hip in a cavernous room full of like-minded people. Whether single or part of a couple, we are all far too aware of our flaws, all far too unaware of how amazing we each are, how deserving of love.

I sometimes have a hard time picturing that all-encompassing variety of love. But last weekend I saw it, written like a poem on my friend’s face.

It was, quite simply, amazing.

Ten days or so ago, my phone rang with happy news. The downtown comedy club was giving me tickets to an upcoming show.

Basically, this means Comedy Works has a show that is not selling well. So they pick a name out of their fish bowl, call you and say, “Congratulations! You’ve won a shitload of $5 tickets!” This all sounds good. Twenty $5 tickets for you and your closest buddies!

But it quickly turns into a popularity test. Is it possible you have 19 friends?

If you’re like me, you e-mail a list of folks, stretching the definition of “friend” to include anyone on your e-mail list living in the Denver metro area whom you’ve seen laugh. You tell them, with great excitement, about the awesome deal you have for them – realizing only later that if they’ve ever been to the Comedy Works, they, too, have gotten this same phone call and done this same weeknight scramble.

Then, you sit back and wait for a flurry of e-mail responses. Who wouldn't want to go?? After all, it's some comedian of whom you've never heard! But he must be good. He's been on HBO! It says so right there in the mailer the club sent along with the tickets that look mimeographed.

No one responds immediately. Perhaps, I think, I'll manage to assemble half a dozen. But the e-mail inbox does not fill.

Come on, people! It’s a Wednesday night! That’s a good night to be going out. A perfectly fine night. Easy parking. Light traffic. The works!

I emphasize that the club will be calling for an RSVP list, that it’s vital to know how many people are coming some time in advance. Still … no reply.

One person finally e-mails that she’ll check with her SO and get back to me.

Two days before, two other people e-mail that they’re working, or their spouse is working, or they’re working on an excuse not to go, or something.

What I end up with is this: One friend. Her boyfriend. And his married brother, whom I’ve never before met.

We decide to carpool. On the night of the big event, the married brother hops into boyfriend’s RV with a six-pack cooler in hand. The door is barely closed before he opens it, pops off a bottle top and begins drinking. He pauses for a second when his brother introduces him, to reach around, shake my hand and mumble a “hey, nice to meet cha.”

We are 10 minutes into our half hour drive when he pops his second beer. He does not offer to share. Despite drinking an additional five beers before night’s end, he does not become obnoxious. I realize this likely is because his tolerance is quite high.

Parking is not easy. Or cheap. It is $15. There is much grumbling about this between the driver, brother and friend. But hey, we’re half a block from the door! This does not seem to cheer them and I realize that the trio accompanying me on this merry adventure is grumpy.

Because I have no cash to contribute to the parking fee, I buy boyfriend’s ticket, and offer to buy the first round. No one objects.

In the blink of an eye, the $5 ticket has morphed into a $30 entry fee. I swallow hard, knowing there is still a two-drink-minimum purchase during the show.

Oh well. It’s a night out downtown.

The only other problem is that my friend, who is under probation for a DUI, subject to random breath tests and who had testified she will not drink or smoke for nine solid months (and who does not read this blog), orders a beer while we're still standing in the lobby.

Boyfriend frowns. “You might have to blow tomorrow,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “One drink leaves your system in .43 hours,” she says. “It’ll be out of my system by the time they can get me in.”

I realize this statistical information is what she’s gleaned so far from her alcohol classes. And who said it would be a waste of time?

“Besides,” she says, “I’m only gonna have a couple. C'mon. Let's step out and have a smoke."

A couple, as it turns out, means four.

Their drink orders come fast and furious. Before I am halfway through mine, they order another. Each time, the waitress turns to me with a thinly disguised sneer. "And you? Are you ready?"

"No, not yet," I say, stopping just short of offering an apology.

Midway through the show, my friend leans over and whispers, “He’s all freaked out because I’m drinking.”

I whisper back, “I am, too.”

She ignores me for the rest of the show. Grumpy, like I said.

This is not my problem, I tell myself. Relax and enjoy.

Show over, we clamber back in the SUV and hit the road. Married brother pops a beer, takes a pull and laughs. He turns around and grins at me.

“Funny shit, eh?”

I give him a broad, genuine smile and a nod of complete agreement. "Yeah," I say. "Very funny shit!"

This morning, I programmed the Comedy Works number into my phone. Next time they call, I'll be screening.

It looks like nothing more than a Christmas card envelope, a bit thicker than most, but a boxy, standard card-shaped envelope bearing a cheery, seasonal return address label, and a Kwanzaa stamp (just for the sake of being different). It slides down the metal ramp into the blue mailbox standing sentinel outside the King Soopers store. Slides away and disappears from view. Out of sight. Out of control. Irretrievable.

It is, of course, a Christmas card envelope. Sealed inside is a card complete with hokey greeting, its front adorned by three grinning, glittering snowmen on an equally glittery sled. Inside, too, is the Christmas photo everyone receives: A woman, her son and off to the side, a dog who refuses to cooperate with the photographer, standing in front of a suburban split level home. The woman's arm is around the boy, reaching out to touch the dog. The gesture is protective, as though she is holding on to all the things she loves, right here, right now. As though by doing so, the boy, who stands just slightly apart and this year less than a foot from her full height, will never leave her side. As though by keeping a hand on it, the old dog will never die. It is a snapshot of a little family, one some might call nontraditional but a unit of a size and composition that, in 2007, is almost more common than not.

But what makes the envelope fat is the third piece of paper, one no other card recipient receives.

It is a love letter. It is, however subtly worded, an ultimatum. It is a confession. It is a plea, a paper hand extending fingers shaky with hope that someone will take them, shaky with fear and sad expectation that they will be left dangling. It is a goodbye. It is one of the bravest, most terrifying things the woman in the photograph has ever done.

Once it disappears down the chute, there is grocery shopping to be done. Regular, everyday life to live. Routine tasks to complete. With the letter released from sweaty hands, with an answer forthcoming either in silence or in a response, everything is for the next several moments off kilter. The lights in the grocery store are too bright. People's faces look almost cartoonish, comically warped. Sound has a brightness, a bizarre quality that nearly elicits laughter. To walk is to float. The senses are either on razor-sharp alert or dulled by a sudden wash of rarely released brain chemicals. All is surreal.

The world tilts so because now, after years of hope, belief and unwavering faith in a relationship, a man who has been silent for months and physically absent for more than a year, this letter pushes for an answer. If it comes in silence, the belief is no more than fantasy and wasted emotion. If it comes in the form of a response, faith is rewarded. Life will never be a fairy tale but it could be, just might be, something wonderful. A relationship built on commonality with a beautifully flawed, complex, brilliant individual. A person loved not for his gender, but for the complex mix of emotions and characteristics that make him human. A person loved, however cliche it sounds, for his soul.

Either way, the letter is a beginning. If only in the form of freedom from the not knowing that binds tight.

Three weeks later, the answer is surely here. The letter does not come back. The phone does not ring. The name that makes this heart race when it appears in the G-mail inbox did not appear.

This roller coaster ride began almost four years ago. It comes to a halt not with the screams of white-knuckled fright, cries of frustration or whoops of joy that marked its course, but with the loudest sound of all: Silence.

Snow drifts down, in that steady, not-too-heavy, I-mean-business pace that indicates it will, as forecasters predict, fall all day.

It is another vacation day for me, one of only five I’ve taken over Christmas that, thanks to the timing of the holidays, appears to add up to 10. I’ve been almost forced to take them because I ended the year with so much extra vacation time: 120 hours in all. The tally will drop to 80 as the year ends. Still a damn shame. I didn’t use the time because I couldn’t figure out where I wanted to go, or what I wanted to do.

I sleep until almost 9, and wake feeling fabulously rested. I try to push off the sense of dread that battles with my consciousness almost upon the opening of my eyes. It is a vacation day, my son is gone and I have no concrete plans.

Thoughts of shopping dance through my head and then exit to the side. Chase Manhattan tells me my checking account is down to $5. Tomorrow is payday, but debit cards are instantaneous and the mortgage payments I’ve put off in favor of Christmas presents wait to consume my paycheck with hasty greed.

Besides, shopping isn’t what I need. It’s an activity that brings mini sparks of joy, but distracts me from the fact that I feel completely without focus. And have for so very long now.

The job feels meaningless. In fact, worse than meaningless. It fills me with a sense of dread that I am beginning to realize no salary or incentive package can permanently alleviate.

With Pam out of the neighborhood and onto a boyfriend, my social life is lackluster again. Our once-daily contact has faded with amazing speed to maybe a couple times a week, and then almost always no more than a phone call.

Although I have good friends in Denver now, I see them rarely and reach out to them infrequently. They have lives of their own and I often feel it is hard for them, when I call out for help, to comprehend how desperate is my need.

Most of the time for these last several months, I find it hard to hold up my end of conversations, and as though I have little to contribute that is original, amusing, beyond the routine. Wasn't I sparkling once? Fascinating even to myself?

My love life is achingly empty, as it has been for years. I try, bravely I think, to reach out to the one person who has so long remained my shining hope. He does not respond. That light, which has grown so small and flickering over the months, goes out and I am in the dark, grasping for a switch, desperate to believe my hope was grounded in something grand, and not merely a sad mistake.

In an effort to dispel the gloomy thoughts that swirl around me in my house, I wipe snow off the car and hit the lightly traveled, snowy suburban streets.

My unfashionable but sturdy Saturn moves without pause, studded snow tires biting into the snow with seeming appetite. I feel confident, taking pleasure as I always do in driving in weather that leaves others cowering in their homes.

Even the library parking lot, usually a bee’s nest of SUVs and sedans vying for close-in parking, is quiet. I dump a book, “The Dummies Guide to the Middle East,” and two movies – one 16-year-old sugary sweet and one 40-something depressing – into the return slot. Immediately, I find my second book choice from yesterday, “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Middle East Conflict” and grab it. I hope fervently that it, unlike the Dummies Guide, doesn’t make me feel stupid. How can anyone possibly read a book with such a title and fail to grasp what the author is saying? But I did it! Perhaps I should feel a sense of accomplishment? Then I move to the DVD stands in search of new movies. The DVD section is always popular. Even on this quiet day, four or five people stand in various spots around the two sections of selections, eyes roving the titles.

I am absurdly happy to find a vacant spot, an entire back side of DVDs no one else is purusing. Here, I can scan titles to my heart’s content, without worrying I am in someone’s way or waiting for someone else to finish. My joy is short-lived, however. A tall, blonde woman walks around the corner and stands slightly behind me, to my immediate left.

Even though I was clearly there first, she is scanning the titles in the same section, standing directly in my personal space. I feel uncomfortable and ridiculously resentful. I decide to stand my ground. Clearly, she does not know or is choosing to ignore library etiquette. Which loosely and nonverbally goes that when someone is perusing a section of anything at all, the second person should either stand far back and politely wait, perhaps even start reading a book they’ve picked up so as not to give the person any sense of urgency, or, best of all, move on to another section and come back to the other later, when the first person has gone.

Since she is not abiding by these simple rules, I squat there, peering at titles and occasionally grabbing a cover to read the back, far longer than I intended. I sense her resentment. But I stand firm, so long that she finally moves to another section. Or, more likely, simply finishes reading titles over my shoulder and moves on.

I feel petty but somehow amused. Doesn’t everyone think along these same lines at least once every day? Annoyed by the slow driver in the fast lane, who surely is not distracted or lost in thought, but driving there just to piss you off. Frustrated by the woman in front of you is writing, of all the archaic things in this world, a CHECK! Or is it just part of my misery, that I am so tied up in feeling bad I believe others are out to make me feel bad, too. Is this normal, or is this terrible?

Whatever it is, I know I am not alone, particularly at this time of year, in feeling pain. My divorced friend, new to my life in the last year, says her eyes filled with tears when she looked up during Christmas dinner, saw her happy, coupled relatives and felt overwhelmed by loneliness. Another friend’s mother cries over the phone to me on Christmas Day, beaten by fresh news of her daughter’s impending divorce. Three days before Christmas, another friend asks her husband to leave their home. The newspaper tells of a small girl dying on Christmas Day when she rides her new bike into the street in front of the family home.

My troubles are so small by comparison. The surface of my life a pretty package for which I should be grateful, but the loneliness underneath real.

In my core, I am optimistic, blindingly so. The best part of me hasn’t yet been tapped, I believe. It is waiting for me, the only one who holds the key, to open the floodgates and break it free.

I look up from this writing and see that the snow is still falling. I will find what I need to open those gates, and soon I believe. But not now. Now, at this moment, everyday life is calling. The driveway needs to be cleared, and I am headed for the shovel.

My son still believes in Santa Claus. Or at least, at 12, he's hanging on to some shred of that belief, because he must have serious doubts by now. Or maybe he is very elaborately leading me to believe in his belief.

Thus, I either did a very good or a very bad thing on Christmas Eve.

My ex and I bought the same present: Guitar Hero III, a computer game that seems sort of not-so-bad and perhaps even educational in that the player, equipped with a guitar specifically designed for the game, "plays" the notes as the music - represented by flashing lights - unfolds on the screen. It meets the Mommy Test of acceptable computer game, likely because I actually want to play myself.

By the time I discovered my ex had it, it was too late to exchange the game. So, at about midnight on Christmas Eve, having wrapped and situated all the gifts under the tree, stuffed the stocking and tossed into the trash can a cookie or two to give the appearance of a snacking Santa, I sat at my computer and wrote Robby a note.

The note came from Santa, natch, and read - partially - like this:

"Ran into your mother, who as you may know is a bit of an insomniac, this evening here. We had a lovely chat about you, but when I shared with her your wish list, it became clear I had erred and sent you a duplicate gift to your father's home."

I debated adding that since his father lives in bumfuck, it's easiest for him to exchange my gift instead of his dad's, but refrained.

Santa/I instructed Robby in the return of the gift, and that he should get himself another toy or game he wanted instead. He also encouraged Robby to keep up the good work at school, and "Help your mom around the house as much as possible; she appreciates it more than you can imagine."

I debated rephrasing this to say, "Do whatever your lovely mother says. You're 12 now for God's sake, the only man in that big house she bought almost entirely for you -- and I'm still watching." And refrained again.

Instead, I ended it with:

"Know that you are truly among my shining stars."

Signed, "Santa C."

Santa/I then added what I thought was a rather humorous P.S. It touched on a subject Robby had brought up a few weeks ago, about a news story he'd heard that Santas nationwide were being discouraged from saying 'ho-ho-ho,' for fear some women would be offended. "Isn't that ridiculous?" Robby had said.

Santa apparently agreed, as he wrote: "I enjoyed over-hearing your observations about the 'ho-ho-ho' debacle; what a bit of rubbish that was, eh?"

I taped this missive to the Guitar Hero III box and collapsed into bed.

He woke me at about 6:30. "Mom, come read this!"

Still bleary-eyed, I pored over it, feigning great surprise and amusement. "Oh yeah!" I said. "Gosh, I was so tired I barely remember it, but we did meet last night!"

Robby didn't ask any follow-up questions, such as, "What was he wearing? Is he really fat? How did he get in? What did you say about me?" or other such things that should have come naturally. And when the neighbor boy, who is 9 and definitely still a believer, came by to see Robby's gifts, he said "no" to my suggestion that he share the note with his friend.

Yet later, when the neighbor kids had come and gone, I saw him reading it again.

I am left to wonder what this means. I had been quite sure, based on the fact that he wrote separate wish lists for both his father and I, that he had abandoned the whole Santa thing. I had felt certain of it, too, because he grinned at me slyly while we shopped at Christmas Eve and said, "Are you getting things for me?" But I'd been sure mostly because he's 12, living in a modern world, where secrets about everthing from Santa to the birds-and-the-bees are early on disabused.

I was, in fact, relieved by the idea. No more watching my words, staying up til the wee hours to slide presents under the tree, remembering to put "From Santa" on some gifts and "From Mom" on others. No more deception, period.

But the balance beam we parents walk on this issue is so very thin. If we ask our children about their beliefs, we surely cause them to question it in their minds, perhaps even to question us. And almost none of us are really ready to break that magical bubble. On the other hand, we'd rather they learn it from us - the creators of the dream - than some playground friend who feels duty bound to share his newfound knowledge.

Yet he lives in a different world than many children, attending a school of only 25 K-8 students. How many of those 25 still believe? And how many of the rest know not to say anything? Could it be all 25, in one way or another, keep Santa alive? He is also an only child, without siblings to leak information to his ears.

So I say nothing. And wonder.

My son is smart and sensitive, particularly, I think, when it comes to his father and me. He relays to us both almost nothing but necessary information about the other and about his lifestyle in each home, rarely dropping a hint as to which home - if either - he prefers. After at one point telling me he hated his stepmother, he later said everything between them was fine. I do not know the truth of this matter, and do not ask because I believe he will varnish his answer.

So it seems plausible to me he's keeping up the charade not for himself, but for us. Because he believes we enjoy it and that it might hurt us to realize he is growing up, leaving such things behind. Perhaps he read the note so fervently because he realized it was from me, and found it amusing, maybe delighted that I had called him a "shining star."

Years from now, I'll have the answers to these questions. Someday, it will be safe to ask him if he thought Santa really wrote to him.

But for now, I stay quiet. And while part of me bemoans the drudgery of keeping up the ruse, another part of me hopes my son still believes in Santa. That, in a world over-run with bad news and broken hearts, he will always believe; if not precisely in Santa, in this wonderful intangible the jolly old fellow represents. That he believes forever in magic.

About half an hour ago, in the tall grass of the park near our home, I found George's tail.

It was near the ditch George liked to explore. Overgrown with bushes and low trees, stretching the length of our big park, it is a regular cat heaven. When we'd walk there, he'd disappear into this area, jumping out at us from time to time as if to say, "Surprise!". Once, we found him high up in a tree, looking down at us with great amusement in his green eyes.

At first, I dismissed this small tuft of fur as some cat's tail. Not mine. The spaces between the orange tabby stripes on this five-inch section - all that was left of this little animal - were too wide. I picked it up, studied it and dropped it. At the opposite end of the park, I turned around and ran back to it.

I brought it home and pulled out the photo album, searching for the picture of George with his tail, curled like a question mark over his head, walking toward me. Undeniably smiling.

Shocked, I noted the spaces between the stripes of his tail. The white tip, which I had never before noticed. Everything, down to the depth of color, was the same as the piece of fur in my hand.

I thought I had dealt with the loss of George, but this sight, an undeniable statement of his death, brought it all back. The most recent picture I have, of George stretched out on the carpet staring with some measure of boredom at a small, very much alive garter snake he'd brought into the house, is thumbtacked above my desk. I think I kept it there out of some small hope that the animal communicator was right and someday, he'd return. The picture was there to remind me that he could be out there, locked in someone's house somewhere, one open door away from home.

I have sat here, crying, morbidly stroking this stiff piece of tail, its texture just the same as George's soft coat. It's like I am petting him for the last time.

I'm meeting a friend out for a birthday drink in only about half an hour. It's time to wash my face, reapply my makeup, and throw away all that remains of George. Throw it deep into the trash can where Robby never will see it.

And think ahead to the kitten I plan to put under the Christmas tree for my son.

That little feline will be loved well and kept completely inside. Likely, all that love will create a cat with huge personality.

But I know, as I knew when I owned him, that George is that rare pet that comes along once in a lifetime - the best of its species, the one against which all other cats or dogs must almost unfairly be measured. These are the animals you feel lucky to own. As though this creature chose you, knowing you deserved and needed such a dazzling spark of life.

Perhaps, that day we first saw him in the Buena Vista Animal Shelter, when he so immediately captivated Robby that my son refused to even look at the younger kittens, that's what he did. He chose us.

Back from my drink, under dark skies, I take Ally for a walk to the park. George's tail is in my hand. I'm bound for the trash can there. I walked around on the path, away from the trash can that borders the softball diamond, north toward Kohl's, away from it again. I brush the fur across my cheek. I do not want to let it go. What harm would it be to carry it in my pocket? Something soft and reassuring, a reminder of something so fun and alive.

How much this desire is like other things in my life, surely in everyone's lives. I struggle with letting go of relationships that are dead. I cling to memories, to anything really, any small sign of hope that perhaps things can return to the way they were. I don't let go, no matter how damning the evidence that something is dead. Accepting the loss is giving up, losing control. How difficult that is for us all.

I almost walk by the trash can. It is with true effort that I stop the movement of my feet. I pull off my glove, stroke the fur with my hand, hold it over the can, hesitate and let it go.

POSTSCRIPT

As a final tribute, I'm posting here part of an old entry about George.

Jan. 19, 2006

My dog, cat and I went for a walk in the falling snow tonight.

Yes, that's right -- my cat goes, too.

George walks with Ally and I in rain and sun, dark and bitterly cold.

I used to shorten my walks when George first began accompanying Ally and me, conscious of his very short legs and a lung capacity I foolishly thought was compromised by size. Then, after several attempts to carry him in which he kicked and struggled to be free, I realized he likes our evening strolls. He follows Ally and me up and down the streets of our hilly neighborhood on walks that sometimes last 90 minutes.

Passers-by sometimes pull over, peering out of their car window to ask, "Is that your cat?" Yes indeed, I say, that's my cat. "He thinks he's a dog," I say this part in a loud whisper, so they understand how delicate is his image, and how deeply entrenched this conviction is in his wee kitty head. They laugh uproariously and pull away, shaking their heads.

Tonight's weather seemed to suit him especially well. I think it suited all three of us well.

We walked on sidewalks deep with snow, snow so fresh that almost no one had yet shoveled it. George alternated between lagging behind, sometimes crying piteously for us to wait, and sprinting past us, his tail fat as a bottle brush with excitement. He ran repeatedly off the sidewalk into the deepest snow -- more than knee deep on a cat. He chirped when I bent to pet him, so happy he didn't just bump his head against my hand but stood on his hind legs and arched his orange neck grandly to do so.

Ally loped ahead of us for the most part, sometimes giving short chase to nervous rabbits, sometimes dragging her snout through the fresh snow and snorting as it went up her nose. She dropped and rolled in it on her back, turning for a moment from black to white, two coal black eyes looking out from her snow-packed face.

She's a fine pet, too, with a serious and gentle soul. A dog trainer who met her told me she would kill to protect my son Robby and me. But I realize, with some measure of guilt, that she hasn't crawled under my heart like her quirky little brother.

He's a strange little fellow, with an admirable and comedic spirit. I already know he's the best cat I'll ever have.

Christmas brings with it a whole world of home ownership about which I had forgotten: Decking the halls.

As luck would have it, Peacock Drive lives up to its name. As of Dec. 2 - more specifically as of about 20 minutes ago during my most recent night time stroll - our street is most flamboyantly lit of all those in our sizeable neighborhood.

Some streets are almost entirely dark. On ours, you could read directions from a prescription bottle standing in the light from a dozen different, dazzling houses. Peer pressure definitely is at work here.

It began last weekend. I suspect it will continue to build through at least mid-month.

On an unseasonably warm late November Saturday, five neighbors on the northern end of the street - all either next to or directly across from one another - spent portions of their afternoons decorating their homes. I saw them scrambling across rooftops, balancing on ladders, tucking extension cords behind bushes and into sidewalk cracks, dragging unrecognizable inflatables into position on front yards.

That night, they lit up like five little Christmas trees, all in a row.

I walked by them later, alternately impressed and aghast at what I saw. A white elephant, standing about three feet tall and fairly dancing with white lights, balanced a gift wrapped in cheery red paper on his trunk, slowly lifting and lowering the trunk as though to say, "From me!" A small train appeared to roll through that same yard. Four three-foot tall cylindered trees, no more than circles of white lights, formed a mini-forest there. An inflatable Mickey Mouse, smartly attired in green and red, beamed at passers-by. White icicle lights bedecked both upper and lower level. Blue net lights cozied up to each bush. Large green and red candy canes lined the sidewalk. That was one house.

The others were equally as spectacular. An inflatable Grinch here, a family of caroling snowmen there, sets of those creepy white wire reindeer with eerily slow-moving necks grazing and staring from this yard and that yard, lines of lights that created a flashing diamond on the roof of one house, multi-colored lights that wrapped completely around the second story of another house, 16-foot trees lit from stem to stern, two sets of Santa and his reindeer flying into the dark of night from the roofs of neighboring houses. Logistically, this setup didn't work. If put into motion, the two sleighs definitely would have collided mid-air, spewing toys and reindeer parts all over Peacock Drive. Aesthetically, however, it was a pleasant sight.

These homes were not just decorated. They were decked out.

Down on our end of the street, the homes stayed dark. But pressure was building. Something I heard tell of called Keeping Up with the Joneses was at work.

For myself, I felt a pit deep in my stomach that slowly crept around and lodged itself near where - were I male - a wallet would rest. This was a financial investment I hadn't considered, and six years of house-free living had left me completely unprepared. But though I had not the advantage of fancy tools, dual incomes and Home Depot Visa cards, as the new and lone single female on the block, my house had to give a respectable showing.

Saturday, Robby and I melded with the throngs at Wal-Mart and emerged unscathed, having swiftly snapped up the last three boxes of mulit-colored icicle lights. I had admired them on several houses on nearby Mercury Circle. They were flashy, yet cool and a bit cutting edge. Best of all, no one on Peacock Drive had yet selected them.

Three hours later, fingers numb, my son having long since deserted me for warm, indoor play at the neighbors' house, I plugged in the lights that spanned the eaves along the house's lower level, stood back and grinned at the sight. My smile did a fast flip.

A 9-row section of lights, smack dab above the garage, stared at me blankly. An obvious gap in an otherwise perfect set of teeth.

I got out the ladder, jiggled, then pushed in each individual bulb in the section, hoping for the flash of light that never came.

Cold and discouraged, I retreated to the house and a cold beer.

An hour later, refueled and ready to do battle, I came back out. The spare bulbs were in hand. I was ready to pull out and test each bulb in the striking section.

Except that now, there were two. Two 9-row sections of broken teeth.

In a fury, I yanked them down. What had taken three hours to uncurl and put into place took five minutes to remove.

Alone this time, I returned to Wal-Mart.

The clerk tisked. "Oh," she said, looking at the boxes. "We've had lots of trouble with those."

I exchanged them for six $2 boxes of cool blue mini lights. No uncurling required.

My house looks, well, nice. But rather boring when compared with the beauty queens down the street. Thank God my nearest neighbor opted for the sophisticated look of plain white lights. That way, I don't feel quite so mousey.

Suzanne, the matriarch in that house, said they long since gave up on putting on a show.

She nodded toward their home as she explained this. I noticed a quartet of simple green-and-red wreaths attached to each post on the front of their house. A string of garland ran along the eave from the garage to the end of the front porch. A small herd of wooden reindeer stood near the front door.

"I'm really big into making sure it looks nice during the day, too - not just at night."

I nodded, and felt the pit return to my stomach as I looked at my house. Bland and normal in this late afternoon hour except for the strand of unlit lights that were visible only if you knew to look for them. This was an entire new aspect of which I hadn't even thought.

But I will let this one go for my first winter, and resign myself to the fact that it will take years of collecting to reach the lavish levels of many of my neighbors. The true test of homeowner winter preparedness is still to come. Blizzard season is right around the corner, and I am prepared to meet it.

As of Tuesday, for the first time in six years, I own a snow shovel. Steel core shaft, sure-grip resin sleeve, graphite construction, long-lasting galvanized wear strip. In a very serious shade of gray.

Last week, I toyed with the idea of discontinuing, or significantly lessening, my medications. It's an idea I've been mulling over on and off for months actually. I've felt off, sad, purposeless and unmotivated to really do anything to change it. When someone attempted to joke with me - rare in my line of work - I felt hard-pressed to come up with a response. Hadn't I once been quick witted? Was I, perhaps, just getting old?

The vivacious me I know and love felt nowhere in sight, and I missed her.

Today, after four full days of socializing with friends and celebrating this thing called life, I saw her again in the mirror. Weary and worn, but definitely there.

I realized that it is not the pills, or lack thereof, that subdues the real me. It is working home alone, and even when working outside the house, seeing through projects for which I have little passion. I have known this for some time, but how I will change it is unclear. My boss just gave me a raise, a generous raise, well over the cost of living. The job is not difficult, or unpleasant. These things make the idea of leaving seem a fool's errand.

But my despondency came, even more so I think, from not reaching out to and seeing friends on a regular basis.

My son spent Thanksgiving with his father. I dreaded the long weekend without him. Beyond Thanksgiving Day, spent with my friend April in Colorado Springs, nothing was planned. What would I do with all that time? I put out a few tentative phone calls and e-mails to friends, but somehow, expected nothing. I'd finish some half-completed house projects, take Ally for long walks, do some Christmas shopping, hopefully meet a friend for lunch.

Then, the phone rang. And never stopped.

My friend Lane, wanting to meet Saturday for window shopping and lunch in Denver's swanky Cherry Creek North. Diane, saying she'd love to go dancing Saturday night. Pam, wanting to head out for appetizers and drinks Friday eve. And these things preceded by a Thanksgiving Day dinner and drinks out in downtown Colorado Springs with April and Pam. A pub crawl Wednesday eve with the members of one of the singles socials group with which I've pushed myself to re-engage.

Pam, who is between homes, is staying with me on and off until the first of the year. An arrangement I'd first thought would be tension filled has been anything but.

Friday eve, she and her boyfriend waited downstairs while I primped to go out with them. I realized I felt happy. Anticipatory, but also, happy right there in my house, at that moment. It was, I realized, because of the sound of people coming from below me. Friends, laughing and conversing comfortably in my living room.

The feeling overtook me again Thursday morning when, Pam and I, both a bit punchy from the previous evening's pub crawl,
hung companionably in the kitchen together. I stood at the counter, unwrapping cream cheese, pouring milk and mixing the ingredients for the caramel apple cheesecake that would top our later dinner in April's home. Pam read the paper. We both drank coffee. Neither of us wore makeup. We chatted and joked.

And I felt happy.

It returned Saturday, as Lane and I wandered the streets and expensive shops of Denver, discussing subjects sometimes painful, sometimes light. No matter the subject, I was content deep in my core because my company was the finest. Time with Lane, among my oldest and favorite of friends, is precious. Always soothing and good for the soul.

I drove home, thinking back on the afternoon and ahead to the evening. Thinking, this is a good life.

Diane and I danced until bar time last night. We danced more with one another than with anyone else. Once we began, we scarcely stopped. We danced until our feet ached. And danced some more.

And at some point, fairly early in the evening, what hadn't happened for me in perhaps a year or more did. The music filled me up and overtook me. I danced without thought, scarcely conscious of anyone else, of anything else, but the music. I danced, as the saying goes, like no one was looking. Indeed, I cared not a thing for who stood along the sidelines, or whether or not I had a partner.

It has been months since I bought a new CD, typically listening to the background noise of a Top 40 radio station rather than seeking out something interesting and unusual. I'd questioned, at times, whether my love of music had faded and it simply wasn't as important to me as it had once been.

But here it was. As powerful as ever.

And here, too, was I. Here I had been all weekend.

Overwhelmed with music. Surrounded all weekend by those I love. My house overflowing with laughter, my heart warm with happiness.

I missed my son, yes. But I'd missed myself, too. Getting her back, finding me and discovering I've been quelled but not extinguished, was invaluable. Now, the question is, how do I keep her?

In an effort to find another venue for Robby to meet kids who will be attending high school with him, I
tried the neighbors' church this last weekend. They said it was called Cherry Hills "community" church, which sounded nice and friendly, kind of country homey, to me.

And I love my neighbors. Their children are models of good behavior, and Robby's almost-constant weekend companions. They find me amusing -- whether laughing with me or at me, I can't be sure, but still, I'm flattered. Their parents have helped me with many a household chore since I moved into their midst, loaned me rakes and weed whackers, fixed plumbing problems on a moment's notice, watched my son and happily accepted my meager offerings of gratitude: beer and gin. So I figured it must be OK.

So Sunday a.m., Robby and I set off on yet another in a series of religious experiments -- which, by the way, he hates with a polite, mostly unspoken passion. We pulled in with minutes to spare, but enough, I thought, to make the service. Then I saw Douglas County Sheriff's cruisers, parked near the entry, lights flashing. At first, I thought some horrible accident had occurred right at the church entrance. Then I realized they were directing traffic.

"Lot FULL," a sign before us read.

The deputy waved us into another lot, some distance from the church entrance - which appeared to be less a church than an institution, a massive brick expanse larger than most urban office buildings.

We found a spot and began our journey to the doors. It was a walk of at least three football fields.

But my neighbor and her son was waiting outside the entrance, and she waved away my apologies. We led Robby and her son to a mysterious room in which they would receive their own form of religious instruction.

I walked in like a lamb to slaughter, with a completely open mind and optimistic hope that I had finally found something -- less loosey-goosey than Unitarianism but not quite so heavy as Catholicism feels to me -- that would click with me.

I noticed the area most would call the nave was large. Too large for the word, I thought. But it had a breezy, open feel I liked.

Besides, music was playing, a woman was singing and it was awesome. The church had an amazing sound system and a full
band. Even screens up above that broadcast close-ups of the singer. A good idea since I later realized there were 3,500 people in the room, more of an auditorium with a second layer in the form of a full balcony than a chapel.

So, I was still impressed.

Then the preaching began. And very soon into it, the pastor - whose mike was set so loud that his voice boomed in my chest - said he believes that people who don't tithe will "go to hell!" And within five minutes of that, he said the words "evangelism" and "Billy Graham."

I realized I was in deep doo-doo and had naively walked into the very kind of church I rail agains. These types of churches were among the reasons I wanted out of Colorado Springs. The-Bible-is-rule, we're-right-and-you're-wrong kind of churches.

I suddenly felt like a traitor in their midst. And completely out of place. And I also thought, how amused my friends would be if they could see me now. Darn near front and center at an evangelical mega-church.

As his words sank in, many of them feeling almost like a physical slap to my face, I also felt a sinking sensation in my heart. I truly want to find a religious sanctuary, a place that resonates with me such that I can share it with my son in deepest sincerity, and a place brimming with children for Robby to befriend for years to come. But even for Robby, and even though I'm yoga-flexible, this was farther than I could bend.

I talked briefly with my neighbor later that day. She inquired about the service and when I expressed some doubts, her response showed me she was a true believer. She stressed that tithing was in the Bible, and that the Bible was written by God. Her voice held such a tone of insistence that I felt myself shrinking, as I always did from this type of discussion. She said she felt it was a bad first sermon for me to hear, but that not all sermons can be inspiring. This pastor, she said, with sermons such as this, teaches us how to find our own salvation.

"But isn't that," I wanted to say, "a bit selfish?"

I envisioned these Biblical orders as pennies dropping into a penny jar. Tithing amounted to a penny here and a penny there -- more money donated, more pennies in the jar. And eventually, when they had done enough of these Bible-ordered deeds, the full penny jar became Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Offer it up to the God you believe in, and the gates of heaven swing open. You have been saved!!

"And just how," I also wanted to ask, "do you know the Bible was written by God? How can you be so sure of any of these things? How can your faith be so unflinchingly strong when all I have are more and more questions?"

But I offered no further quarrel.

Religion and politics. What do they say? Don't talk about 'em. Just love your neighbor. Period.

Later that evening, I took a long walk with my friend Diane, who is of the middle-of-the-road, tolerant, sometimes admittedly uncertain Christian variety I like. She gasped when I told her where I'd been. "Oh God, Jane! If you'd told me where you were going, I could have warned you. That's one of THOSE churches! I can't believe you went there!" She proceeded to laugh uproariously.

This gave rise to a rousing theological discussion, which we both thoroughly enjoyed, and which ended, naturally, over beers and a cheese-drenched plate of nachos at Old Chicago.

Needless to say, Robby and I won't be going back. I will find a gentle way to tell my neighbors. Perhaps, I've thought, by saying that "it just didn't hit home for us," and hope that it won't hurt our friendship. Because they are loving people, I know we'll be just fine.

And as for me and Robby? The search may continue, or it may not. I may just have to simply accept that I will never have a sense of religious certainty, and go back to doing what feels right to me: Living the best life I can, helping to brighten the way for others through acts both big and small. Trying, always trying -- with remarkable - hopefully even amusing - imperfection.

An unrecognizable phone number flashed on my cell screen Sunday night. I let it go to voicemail, then, immediately checked the message. (This is how we all do it, right? Pretend not to care, then rush to hear who's trying to reach us!)

The voice was familiar from the first syllable. Male, southern, polite, older.

He introduced himself as a blast from the past. His name was Ron. He was the father of a young man whose trial I'd covered in Summit County a decade ago. Andrew, who could not have been much older than 20 then, had hit a man in the head with a rock during what allegedly was a drug deal gone bad. Andrew reportedly was shocked to read two days later in the paper that the man had died; he fled home, to his father's house in North Carolina, where police found him.

"Andrew's been incarcerated for 12 and a-half years," his father said. "He was locked up that day they came to the house and he's never been out since."

Ron and I had become friends during the course of the trial, which lasted 17 months. I know this because Robby was not yet born the day the victim, John, died in a vacant lot on a cold March night in 1995. My son was a year and two weeks old when the gavel sealed the jury's decision and Andrew's future in late September 1996.

There was never any doubt that Andrew was responsible for John's death. The debate was over intent. Andrew maintained he had acted in self defense, and knew he had hurt the man but did had no idea he'd struck him with enough force to kill.

I believed this was true. I had sympathy for Andrew, as well as for John's family, few of whom attended any of the court proceedings. But this was the way for me with all three murder trials I covered during those years. Horrid as the crimes were and much as I believed a sentence was in order, I always believed the accused's account. As a juror in all three cases, I would have found for second-degree murder. The juries always blind-sided me, each time coming back with a first-degree murder verdict and life sentences.

Some might say I am just a wee bit of a bleeding heart. It is, I believe, what made me a good reporter. I could always see both sides.

But anyone could have seen his father's heartbreak. He was a kind, gentle man, nearly broken by the chain of events. We sat in the same courtroom for hours at a time, with breaks between court appearances that sometimes lasted months.

Ocassionally, near the end, he took me to dinner. He talked little of his son. I think he was unable.

Closer to his son's age than Ron's, I never had a romantic thought toward Ron. He was married, though I only once saw his wife in the courtroom with him - on the day of sentencing. He is also a good 20 years older than me. I suspected he might have felt some small something for me, but I never encouraged it or acknowledged that I even had an inkling of such a thing.

We had exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years after the trial ended, then those had trailed off, too.

Now, he was calling to say hello. He was going home Monday after spending a few days in Colorado, visiting Andrew in a state facility. Ron had gotten my number from Brad, in an e-mail Brad had sent him some time ago.

Some time ago indeed. Brad has been dead for more than 13 months now.

We talked briefly about Brad's accident. Brad had correponded for a time with Andrew; I knew he had hoped to write about those exchanges someday. Regardless, Ron said Andrew and he had "kind of hit it off." His other two sons were doing well, he said.

"I know it sounds cold, but life does go on," he said. "I have two other sons to care for. You do your best by them, and you do your best for the one that went astray."

Ron he came to Colorado from his home in North Carolina three or four times a year, he said. "May I take you to dinner next time I'm here?"

I marveled at the polite, southern style with which he posed that question.

I said certainly and look forward to that time.

After we said goodbye, my mind filled with memories of the trial. The most significant for me happened the day the jury reached its decision.

I was but a month from leaving Zach, yet in my memory, I was already single. For some reason, I had no care for Robby that day and had brought him with me to the Summit County Justice Center. My reporter friend Jane held him while I sat in the courtroom, listening to the verdict.

As the judge read the unanimous decision, Andrew's shoulders sagged and his head fell to the defense attorney's table. I saw his back shaking with soundless sobs.

Just outside the doors, Robby began to cry, a distinct sound audible to all in the courtroom. It faded abruptly as Jane walked down the hallway with him, away from the courtroom.

It was an absurb thought, I knew, but I wondered if he could feel the boiling emotions from behind the doors.

The horrible irony of that moment stays with me today. One son lost forever, another lost to a lifetime of imprisonment and hopeless regret, and another whose life was just beginning.

As parents, we resolve to protect and even save our children from life's worst experiences. Yet at some point, we all have to open the door, hope we've taught them how to fly straight and true, and let them go.

That time approaches for Robby and me, I know. He's flapping his almost teen-aged wings, moving toward the door. But I've got a few more years. Enough time still, I hope, to teach him well.

After a month of planning, construction and worry, and with help from a host of volunteers, I successfully hosted a kids Halloween party for the single parent group to which I belong. Our basement, including Robby's room, became a mini haunted house, the upstairs a gathering place in which children ingested sugar in mass quantities and parents turned a temporarily blind eye to it.

When the real lights went down and the black and strobe lights came on, when the characters did their frightful things and the motion-activated floating skull began screeching at each youthful visitor who descended the stairs, the haunted house was a success. A little frightening - but just a little, mind you - even to Robby, who had been through it many times in the light of day. Two children even refused to come down the stairs, and were later only coaxed there when the lights came up -- a sure sign of success!

From the day the sun rose Saturday, I was stressed, moving nonstop, cleaning in preparation for a party - always a questionable activity - baking the brownies that would be rolled into objects one could easily mistake for dog poop, checking lights, putting on my costume and, as pre-party volunteers began flowing into the house, directing, directing, directing.

Every "What needs to be done?" was met with a very specific response. There was no time to waste. We faced a deadline. This is always when I am at my most focused and effective.

"It's going to be fabulous," David, another group member said. "You can relax."

But I couldn't. Matt needed an extension cord. Diana needed wax paper for the caramel apples. Sara needed tape. These were items only a homeowner could find.

So, headless-chicken style, I kept moving.

From the haunted house to the pinata, the party went off without a hitch, and with ample screams both of delight and fear.

After the basement closed for haunting, I stood in the driveway with David and another single dad.

"It was awesome!" David said. "You should be proud. And now you can relax."

"Sort of," I said, "I have a house full of people."

"They're fine," he said.

I knew that what he said was true, but as we spoke, I saw three sucked-dry silver Capri Sun packages littering the lawn. Inside, orange candies once attached to brightly decorated cupcakes dotted the carpet, the kitchen table was smeared with small hand prints, the counter gooey with caramel. Children shrieked and ran inside the house, and I, the mother of one, well-behaved 12-year-old boy, felt overwhelmed by the swell of activity.

He was right. The adults and children were fine, but I was not. Now, I wanted to clean. I wanted my house back. I wanted the month of preparation truly complete.

I felt somehow wicked, ushering the last guest out with such relief.

"Can I help you clean up?" she asked. I could see she felt guilty leaving me what the party's remnants.

"No, thank you. Really I'm just fine," I said, not adding that the best way she could help me was to leave.

I tackled the house and quickly, night time came. For a change, I slept soundly.

After breakfast today, Robby ran, as usual, next door to play.

I sat inside, thinking of all I still needed to do.

There was, for instance, the dog to be walked. I leashed Ally and walked the half block to the park. I looked up at the sky and saw, for the first time, what a truly beautiful Indian summer day it was.

I forced my step to slow, then stop, then lowered myself to the ground. I sat in the grass. And let myself be.

The breeze stirred my hair. The sun warmed my skin. Traffic on nearby Quebec hummed steadily. Occasionally, during those lovely 10 minutes or so, Ally ran to me, her mouth open in what was clearly a laugh, dropping the ball at my feet in a request for a throw. But at 11, and tires easily. Her demands were few; mostly, she lay in the shade, gnawing happily on the tennis ball.

I stared at the grass and noticed a small bee hovering above a patch of it a few feet away from me.

My thoughts meandered.

I relaxed.

I realized, too, how rare a moment it was. How infrequently I allowed myself these moments.

Months ago, I joked with my yoga instructor - then and still now my realtor - that I loved the workout aspect of yoga but hated "the part at the end where you just lay there." I felt it was a waste of time, I said, when I had so many things to do.

He smiled, that semi-amused, patient and somehow simultaneously wise smile that only few people can manage. "Consider," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Just consider for a moment, will you?" He paused. "That you never allow yourself to relax."

I laughed and gave him some lightly flippant response. I could never disrespect Mike, but the idea struck me as silly. Until later, when I thought about it again.

When I have free time, I typically think not about how I can enjoy it, but what I must do. When the newspaper sections pile up, unread, I no longer look forward to reading them as pleasure, but as an obligation. I paid for them. I must read them. E-mails become not a fun way to communicate, but obligations; I cannot neglect my friends by failing to respond in a timely manner. I consciously think about scheduling my social life. I list it among my "goals for the day," a piece of paper I print out and tape on the wall in front of my computer each morning. It is here now as I type: Goals: October 24: Schedule at least one social event this week." When Robby and I watch a movie, I cannot sit still but jump up repeatedly; there's dog hair on the floor after all, I have to get it while I see it; popcorn must be made, drinks poured and while I'm up doing those things, there are a half dozen others I can do, too.

Perhaps it's the fallout of life as a single parent and homeowner. Always something to do and clean, always somewhere to be.

Perhaps it's fear of what I will find if I stop. Maybe I'm running. From loneliness, human-to-human commitment and time.

But I suspect that while some of us are more dubiously practiced at it then others, this is something of which we all are guilty.

We forget to drop our hands, relieve ourselves of what are so often our self-imposed burdens, let the tension melt from our so frequently tired bodies. To just stop. And simply be.

Why Charles Went To West Virginia Seeking Virgins

I do not know if a man named Charles ventured west in search of virgins, although I suppose in the history of time some horny lad named Charles, frustrated by the lack of pure women in his own burg, traveled west in hopes of finding chaste young women.

(And likely was disappointed. Digression. Sorry.)

All I know is that this particular Charles helped my son pass his capitals-and-states test.

Charleston, West Virginia. See?

My son came to me two weeks ago with tears in his eyes. Now, I know I mention his teary eyes quite often here in the land of blog, but that's because the occurrence is so rare. He's a good student who takes it all seriously, sometimes too much so, I think. It was a Sunday and he was taking his second test on the states and their capitals the next day.

"I only know a quarter of them," he told me, just minutes before we left on his return trip to the mountains.

I suggested printing out maps of the United States that showed states but no cities. If you can see it, I said, maybe then you can remember it. Quickly, I found some online and printed out about 10 copies, leaving him plenty for practice. He stuffed them in his homework binder and we loaded up for the ride. I saw by the expression on his face it had done little to soothe him, or bolster his confidence.

I remembered my mom grilling me on the states and capitals. Repetition was key, or at least part of it.

"How about I quiz you on them?" I offered.

He nodded and handed me a sheet on which each state and its capital was printed. I laid it on my right thigh so I could glance down at it while I drove.

"Alaska," I said.

He was silent, then finally sighed and said, "I don't know."

My mind worked. I think I even heard a rusty squeak as the gears began to turn.

"OK, Alaska has like three months of solid sun or something, right? I don't know when they are but let's say, since summer is sunny, that it's June - the month that school gets out and summer begins."

"Juneau," he interrupted me.

"Yes!"

And so we started down the line.

Some were easy. For Arizona, I asked him to think about the phoenix bird in Harry Potter, and the phrase that a phoenix rises from the ashes. Arizona is so hot it creates ashes, and from there, the phoenix comes.

Some were ridiculous.

"When Columbus saw the Indians in the new world, he probably said, 'Oh! Hi! Oh!'," I said, making an expression of surprise.

"God, that is so stupid!" Robby said, laughing.

"It is," I agreed. "But will you remember it?"

He nodded, trying in vain to hold back the laughter.

After each state, I went back to the beginning and quizzed him from Alaska on down. He soon began to roll his eyes with impatience at it, but his answers were rapid fire, without hesitation.

Halfway through, I suggested we stop. "Your head needs a break from this," I said. "Then your dad can take you through the rest."

"No," he said, grinning. "Let's keep going."

To my happy surprise, I realized he was having fun. It wasn't homework. Now, it was a game.

I found myself enjoying the challenge of making them as outrageous and memorable as possible. There was South Dakota. How could he remember Pierre? He didn't know a lick of French, and it related to nothing kidlike.

"Well, South Dakota is one of those big states without a lot of people in it. In fact, it's so big and empty you could pee in the air and no one would notice!"

"Mom! That's sick!" Robby said, grinning ear-to-ear.

"What's the capital of South Dakota?"

He tried unsuccessfully to fight a smile. "Pierre."

By the time we reached his dad - nearly an hour and a half of quizzing later - Robby's confidence had returned. He jumped out of the car and threw his PS2 and homework binder into his dad's truck. I started to step back into my car, but he came rushing back, his smile as wide as his arms, and locked me in a hug.

I kissed his head, and whispered, "Don't tell your dad about West Virginia."

He nodded and grinned conspiratorially.

Three days later, I found a message on my cell phone. "Mom, I got 100 out of 100 on my test! I thought you'd want to know that and ... well, more when I see you."

For reasons far removed from Robby's of just days ago, now it was my turn to get teary eyed.

George has not returned, and I have lost hope. The animal communicator will say my lack of faith is precisely why he has not, and now will not, come home. That because I am no longer urging him to return, he will stay where he is.

This would be funny to me if it were not about George. And of course, she has not yet said this. Most likely, I am anticipating a guilt trip because I already feel guilty.

I suggested to my son we take down the "Lost cat" signs in our neighborhood and he shook his head. When I looked at him, I saw tears in his eyes. So I waited until he returned to his father's, then walked around the neighborhood and tore them from the stop signs and mailbox units to which they'd been secured for nearly three weeks.

We will wait six months, he says, to get a new cat, because "George won't like it if he comes home and finds another cat."

Me, I'm thinking Christmas. I'm thinking a carefully wrapped, breathable container under the tree, packed with a wriggling orange, tiger-striped kitten.

I'm committed to writing more often again here, and about lighter subjects for God's sake! Look for exciting titles, such as Why Charles Went West in Search of Virgins and Me & Carol: My Eternal Brush with Celebrity. You'll understand. Meanwhile, kinda puts ya on the edge of your seat, don't it?

But the hour is late, mostly because I spent the last one searching online for news of Sept. 20, 2007 - the day my friend Lu's daughter was born. I'm going to meet little Autumn tomorrow. I picked up today an adorable Osh Kosh B'Gosh hoodie and pink matching pants. I felt a wave of sorrow while perusing the racks in Osh Kosh B'Gosh, remembering my own days of shopping there for a wee Robby whose long since outgrown snap-crotch overalls and shirts adorned with fuzzy-textured, bright red trucks and spotted giraffes.

Cute as it was, it seemed not quite enough.

So, I Googled and printed news of the day she was born. I tracked down entertainment and environmental news, including a long story on Wal-Mart's efforts to "go green," perfect for this dedicated environmentalist, mountain-dwelling friend of mine. I printed out the Summit Daily News movie listings for Sept. 20 and a copy of an editorial from the same paper.

I am quite proud of myself, and can only imagine that you all are in awe as well, high-fiving me in your minds. (Thank you very much.) My gifts usually lack in creativity. They may be nice, but are not typically very remarkable. I read about this idea in a magazine, which makes me prouder still: Reading about a cool suggestion is one thing, actually remembering to do it quite another.

At any rate, all this research, after well over a year away from daily newspaper life, has quite exhausted me. And tomorrow, I have a baby to hold - another pastime from which I have too long been absent.

George is missing.

It's not uncommon that he is gone one night. But we have passed a second night, and now are on to the third.

My sleep was fitful last night, dreams of lost George intermingled with images of Robby, the two of them lost together.

I turn again and again yesterday and today from the kitchen to the window that overlooks the backyard, expecting to see him there, peering into the window back at me, his little face appearing to light up as it does when he knows I've seen him and am coming to open the door. But he is not there. I see only a scattering of yellowish orange leaves on the green patio. I try not to think about the symbolism of the dead leaves and our missing George, but it is a comparison so obvious as to nearly be comical.

My boss says her daughter knows some people who are animal communicators. "Tell me his name and send me his picture," she advises. "I'll forward it to them and we'll see what they can tell us. Maybe they can see if he's locked in somewhere, or if he's lost. They're pretty good at this, really."

I believe. At this moment, the idea is not the least bit humorous.

"Meanwhile, I want you to picture George and talk to him in your head," she says. "I know this sounds crazy, but animals pick up more than we know, especially cats. Tell him you want him to come home."

I hang up the phone and do as she said. "Come home, George," I think. "We are not a family without you."

How awful it is; I would rather something have happened to my dog than to our cat. I hope that she cannot sense this.

"Where is your brother?" I ask her. "I'm worried about him."

She looks up at me with her solemn eyes and wags her tail tentatively. I stroke her head gently.

A young, sympathetic-appearing woman at the Denver Dumb Friends League leads me through room after room of cats. A long-haired orange tabby looks up and meows at me. Another orange tabby sleeps. I look at him more closely; his nose is pink, without George's black freckles. Besides, George would have stood up at the sound of my voice.

I ask the hardest question last. "Do you have any dead cats?"

"Yes," she says. "But none like him. The best thing for you to do is to call Waste Management."

I nod curtly, as though we are talking business, and feel no shame as my emotions rise to betray me. Red-rimmed eyes can be nothing new to her.

Tomorrow night, I pick Robby up for another weekend here in our home. I will have to tell him, and watch his face twist as his small heart breaks.

Where is our crazy little Georgie-cat? I cling to hope, even as it grows slippery.

My cat George brings me gifts on a regular basis. Last week, he outdid himself.

George is 6, and a seasoned hunter, but always he is perfecting his skills, challenging himself to bigger and more elusive prey. Over the years, he has graduated from mice and birds to fully grown rabbits and, during the last few months, snakes.

The snakes hang out in the rocks decoratively placed around The Tree (for its size and beauty, it is now considered nearly a family member, well-deserving of capital letters) and in the drainage rocks at the edge of our neighbor's lawn. They are garter snakes. Small, harmless, helper snakes with a lust for insects and no desire for human - or feline - interaction.

George is whittling away at their population, certainly wreaking serpentine grief among the clan.

He brought the first snake in about six weeks ago. Robby reported seeing a live one curled on the carpet. He picked it up, took it outside and released it.

The next was not so lucky. It, too, was curled onto the carpet, but it would never uncoil again. I dumped this stiff bit of reptile into a Wal-Mart bag and gave it a proper burial in the trash can at the nearby park.

In the weeks since, we've found them here and there, some dead, some alive, all in the basement. The live ones are released, the dead get a visit to the park.

Last Tuesday, I found yet another. Definitely dead.

I saw it, what was left of it, during a search for a set of curtains hastily unpacked and jammed into a place uncertain. The cabinet in Robby's basement TV room was my best guess. I had just the place for them, and, excited as always at the prospect of decorating, flew down the stairs with that weird little surge of joy only female homeowners can understand.

The cabinet in which I was sure the curtains were stored was streaked with dried blood. Hanging from its door was a snake's body. Rather, a portion of a snake's body. The portion I could not see was trapped in the cabinet door, it appeared. The portion I could see was only about six inches long, tapering off into an umblicial-like cord of dried blood.

Dear little George apparently had torn the thing apart as it hung, suspended, from the cabinet. Just how this had transpired I did not know. Or care. My gag reflex sprang to life.

I pride myself on my farm girl upbringing, which I believe makes me tough and not easily shaken. In the wake of George's successful hunting trips, I've cleaned up many a rabbit's head. Black, shiny, sightlessly staring rodent eyes don't particularly bother me. Nor do the bits of intestine sometimes left behind. Dead birds, mice, stiff but intact snakes? Bring them on.

This was none of those things. I approached the body with a paper towel in hand, and wrapped it around the six inches of body remaining. I tugged, lightly. The hose-shaped object was going nowhere. I tried to raise the top of the cabinet up with my hand. It barely moved.

I envisioned the snake's head on the other side. I envisioned it separating from the body if I pulled hard. I envisioned myself puking on Robby's carpet.

I ran back upstairs, my homeowner joy replaced by near buyer's remorse. This was one of the aspects of homeownership upon which I'd never counted. I felt ill-equipped to handle it. I was no longer the proud, independent divorcee who single-handedly maintained my wee homestead. I was merely a woman, in need of a man.

I called the neighbor.

Mike was at my door within 10 minutes. He entered carrying a gallon-sized flashlight, a wrench and thick, canvas gloves -- appropriate tools, I thought approvingly, for a bloody snake of undetermined but surely massive size. I ushered him downstairs. He stared at the cabinet door. He grimaced. I felt thoroughly vindicated. Even a being ruled by testosterone was repulsed by the sight.

That was all the satisfaction I got. Mike walked over and gave the top of the cabinet a firm yank. It fairly flew up, making a three-inch gap from which he pulled the snake. He removed about three, thin inches of snake tail, which he dropped into his own Wal-Mart bag and took with him.

"Hopefully next time, I'll call with a real emergency," I said, thanking him and feeling small, helpless and oh-so-typically female.

He waved it off. "For most people, that is a real emergency."

I wanted to say, "But I am not most people!" But realized this was not the time or place, and that my voice would lack conviction.

I still cannot figure out how the snake got into its fatal position. My best guess is that George brought it in live and let it go, that the snake slithered up into the cabinet in an attempt to escape and, discovering there was no out there, turned around and came out -- into George's waiting claws and teeth. For George, batting at the helplessly dangling reptile must have made for a merry game.

Yesterday, I watched George catch another snake. He waited with that impressive hunter's brand of patience, then jammed a paw between two rocks and pulled up a pitifully small fellow. George's mouth closed around it, and I saw the snake coil. Tail straight up with obvious pride, George carried it into the backyard and down the steps into the basement.

I ran for the camera and took several pictures of feline and serpent before releasing the unharmed but surely changed small snake into rocks. I took them to record so people would believe my stories of George's snake-hunting prowess. But mostly, I took them to send to a dear friend, who is terrified of snakes. She will never, she says, set foot in my basement again. And George, whom she once adored, now gives her the shudders.

As for me, I'm closing the sliding glass door at night now. It's the portal through which George travels on his nightly excursions, and it has remained open every day since we moved to Peacock Drive. My excuse is that it's getting killed. But the truth is, I think George needs to get reacquainted with his food dish.