Category: Life

My top odometer reading of any car I’ve owned. Seeing the 9’s turn into 100,000 isn’t near as fun on a digital monitor as it is on analog.

Final photo.

I have never cared much about cars —their make, their model or how many horses are under the hood. I only cared if it started. In my early driving years, my love went as deep as the thoughts I had when I put the key in the ignition, while quietly reciting the mantra, “please oh please oh please, start.” If it started, and I’d say the odds were about 70%, I loved the car. If it didn’t, I hated the car and would have to think where the nearest pay phone was so I could call Dad to bail me out, which he always did, without fail. If I was at home, it meant scrambling for a ride or going for my last ditch option of calling in sick. That was as far as my caring went for cars went. I didn’t have a car when I was in high school, but had friends that did and that worked out fine because I really didn’t like to drive and preferred being a passenger over being the driver. I don’t remember buying my first car, a VW beetle (1968), but the price tag of $400 comes to mind. This seems like it should have been something I would have remembered, but I don’t, proving my point of not caring much about cars.

The first car I do remember purchasing was in 1977 and I remember it because it was my first introduction to financing. It was a light blue ’74 super beetle, and yes, adding the “super” to the car’s title was significant. It meant it had a dashboard instead of a flat panel where the instruments were located. The back windshield was also larger and the car was two inches longer than a regular beetle – hardly enough to market the extended leg room. It was $1500 and I financed it for two years, with payments of $65.00 a month — an amount that gave me a pit in my stomach.

Dad took me to Olathe Ford to help me find a cheap, safe, used car that I could afford. That meant having to walk past the shiny new Fords with stickers in the windows to get to the not so shiny used cars that were parked a football field away. It was like walking through a department store with beautiful clothing and heading straight out the back door to stacks of old clothes at someone’s garage sale. One day, I thought, I’ll be able to stop and look at the new cars and maybe even buy one.

When we spotted the ’74 VW, I was thrilled. It was an OK color (light blue), wasn’t very expensive and was relatively new (three years old) and because it was a VW, it was familiar. I learned how to drive in our family’s 2nd car, a white 1964 VW so knew the ins and outs of the car along with the quirks, and with VWs, there were many. It looked perfect and I was ready to flag a salesman over but Dad told me not so fast. He thought he recognized the car as being the same car the vice principal at the high school where he was a guidance counselor had driven. I didn’t see the problem. If he knew the previous owner, all the better as he’d have more information as to how well the car had been taken care of and why he had traded it in. He agreed, but it wasn’t that simple. Because the vice principal of the school holds the disciplinarian role with the students, they often become the recipient of pranks during the weeks before senior graduation. I still didn’t see the problem but Dad thought it would be a good idea to stop by and have a chat with the vice principal, Dr. Burns, to get more information about the car. This was the beauty of growing up in a small town. To stop by someone’s house, without invitation or warning, to obtain details on the car he had traded in, was not considered odd or invasive in the least. And so we did just that. We left Olathe Ford and drove the short distance to Dr. Burn’s house. He confirmed that yes, the ’74 light blue VW had been his and he had taken meticulous care of it since buying it as a new car a few years earlier. However, the car had been lifted up by a group of seniors and returned to its parking spot upside down. When Dr. Burns found his car at the end of the day in the parking spot where he had left it, but upside down, he took it in stride and found a handful of strong boys to return it to its upright position. He said other than that, it was a good car. Somehow that story made the light blue VW even more desirable to me. It had an interesting history that I would be adding to, although I doubted it would become the subject of pranks under my ownership.

I had a lot of history with that car. I loaded her up with all the possessions I could squeeze into its small interior and moved across the country to Phoenix. One of the guys I worked with at King Radio had a luggage rack he said he’d be happy to donate to the cause, which I gladly accepted but only if he’d agree to attach it. I strapped boxes onto the precariously attached rack and realized several miles into my journey that it had been a terrible idea because it slowed my already slow speeds down to a top speed in the low 50’s. It also added a background noise of wind whistling through it the entire journey. The car was not turned upside down by students under my ownership, but I did have my share of adventures with her.

I owned that light blue ’74 VW for six years, four years after my final monthly payment. The last two years I owned it, I commuted daily to the University of Kansas, 45 minutes from my apartment. Because I dealt with car issues more than once during those two years, my fiancé worried about its reliability and safety and bought me a Subaru. The next week, I sold the VW to the first person who responded to the ad I put in the paper. He gave me $200 less than the $700 I was asking, but I was happy with the $500. I’ve never been good at negotiating. I did not consult a blue book for pricing but rather based my price of the car on the cost of the wedding dress I had chosen ($500) and added another $200 for a rehearsal dinner dress and shoes for both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. Later that day, I went to the bridal shop and put twenty five twenty dollar bills on the counter and walked out with my wedding dress. The rehearsal dinner dress and shoes for both, had to wait.

I still don’t care about cars, at least not much, but what I realize is that I develop strong attachments to the vehicles I own, maybe in part, because I don’t trade them in on a regular basis. We are usually together for at least four years, a long enough time to form bonds. Last week I traded in in my well-worn 2016 Rav 4 with 113,572 miles on it. I owned it for eight years, a personal record for me. I was at the dealership for a routine tire rotation when I purchased the new car. It was an impulse buy. For readers who haven’t read earlier blog posts, I once impulse bought a condo when I went into the bookstore in Frisco, Colorado to buy a book. I’m not good at making decisions but am good at impulse buys, which shortens the decision making process to something that doesn’t even feel like decision making. I started thinking about a new car in 2020 but was told by my brother, who is in the business, that it wasn’t a good time to buy as inventory was low. I assumed things hadn’t changed when I went in for routine maintenance and I saw a shiny, bright, white Rav 4 in the parking lot. I have to back up a bit here and share that while I was doing my physical therapy at Boulder Orthopedics, my view from my exercise bike on the 2nd floor, was the Boulder Toyota dealership. I watched new cars come in and go out for test drives. So maybe it wasn’t such an impulse buy. Maybe my intentions on a new car had been set while I was working on a full rotation on the pedals with my left leg. The day before Thanksgiving, I ended up driving home from the dealership in a new car and left my old car behind. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was someone on an exercise bike in the physical therapy room watching. I’m guessing not.

Before handing over the keys to my car, I told my salesman that I needed a minute to say my goodbyes. He understood, or at least he pretended to understand. I sat inside the car that I had just spent nine hours in the day before when I returned from Kansas City after celebrating my Mom’s birthday. I thought back to all of the trips I made in that car. It took me back and forth to Kansas City four times a year for the past four years, except for the one time I flew so I could see the new airport. Filled to capacity, she moved me from Leawood, Kansas to Boulder, Colorado and listened to me sigh and cry all the way to Salina, Kansas then, as if a switch had been turned on, finished the journey with hope and anticipation. A year later, I made the drive to South Egremont, Massachusetts by way of Kansas City because it was fall of 2020 and quarantining had kept me from my sisters. I missed them. I drove through eight states to get to Massachusetts, and with each state line crossed, the Covid protocol changed, from the span of full on masking outside while pumping gas, to mask shaming and denial that Covid was even a thing. She took me to countless trailheads in the Boulder area and my first hiking meet up group where I was reluctant to get out of the car, but eventually decided to put my insecurities aside and go for it — a decision I’m still grateful for. She helped me find my way around my new town, which wasn’t nearly as hard as I anticipated and got me back on the mountain roads that I had driven so often during my time in Frisco, Colorado but in the flat lands of Kansas, had lost my edge. I came home from the hospital with a new knee in her (with one of my sisters behind the wheel) and experienced the intense pain of getting in and out of her the first few weeks after surgery. I felt nostalgic and a little sad to tell her goodbye, knowing that several years from now I’ll be sitting in the car I had just bought with similar feelings of nostalgia. She’s a Toyota, not a Ford, but that day of walking past the new shiny cars with stickers in their windows some 46 years ago, did not go unnoticed.

My last car was never named, but I’m into naming things these days, which started with my new left knee. I named her Loretta. My 4 year-old granddaughter suggested Sparkles or Sprinkles or Cupcake and my 6 year-old grandson was pushing for Bud, but she looked like a Loretta to me. Loretta and Laurie… here we go. Let the road adventures begin.

I’m several days out from my 50th high school reunion, which means I’m still in the energetic flow of conversations I had, faces I tried to remember and hugs that took me back to times when the self that I am now was still forming. I have to grab my words before the event loses its sense of urgency and life returns to my present day normal.

Spending two evenings in a roomful of people who are the same age as me and share many of the same memories, some dating back to elementary school, is powerful and becomes even more so with time. With the exception of my siblings, my cousins and my parents, there are no other people in my life that can say they “knew me when…” and that alone gives this group of 65 or 70 people a weighty connection. Some I only talk to at reunions and others, when I see them, I’m reminded of how lucky we are that our friendships are still holding strong after more than five decades. We are not the same people we were five decades ago when we walked across the floor of our overly packed high school gym in steel blue gowns and mortar boards to receive our diplomas, but those teenagers still live quietly inside of all of us. For many of us, it’s the only age we are remembered by in this group of people.

So many of the people I surrounded myself with on Friday and Saturday night hold parts of my memories that I have forgotten. They were witnesses to parts of my life that I sometimes wonder if I’m remembering correctly or if they even happened at all. They can give me clarity — where I was, who I was with and did I look happy? They are still able to confirm my presence at the party, the dance, the sleep over or waiting tables at Denny’s. They can also tell me that I wasn’t there, even though I wanted to be, so much so that my memories may have penciled me in, because I was grounded or had family obligations. Sadly, the grounding happened on a pretty regular basis in my later years of high school. I didn’t do well with rules. I also didn’t do well with being grounded and devised my own escape routes, but that’s another story for another time.

Four of us, from four different parts of the country, all stayed with Terri and her husband, Lawson, at their beautiful farm house in the suburbs of Kansas City for the weekend. Mornings drinking coffee in our pajamas at her kitchen island, quickly rolled into afternoons, still talking, still with more stories from so many years ago. We are five women who have been friends for over 55 years. It’s a gift that grows in value with each passing year. As I sat in that kitchen rehashing not only the night before, but decades ago, there were moments that I looked around the room and we were 16, not 68. Time disappeared.

For the Saturday night event, we had name tags that had our senior picture on them next to our name. Even without the reading glasses (that most of us needed), it was easier to steal a glance at a photo than try to read a name. At the Friday night event, we only had name tags that we filled out and attached, although not everyone complied, which meant for some awkward comments of “of course I remember you” when of course I didn’t. It felt like an appropriate time to lie.

I saw a classmate who I easily recognized even though I hadn’t seen him since the last reunion 10 years ago. I approached him, called out his name and came in for the hug. He responded appropriately then discretely began to move his head to the side like he was looking for something — the something being the rectangular white badge I had affixed to my shirt with my name written on it in bold black ink.
“ You don’t know who I am, do you?” I asked him.
When he was close enough to read my name tag he said my name out-loud with surprise and gave me a big hug. There was more grace in not remembering or recognizing classmates at the 50 year reunion than at past reunions. After all, 50 years is a long time and very few of us looked like we did in high school. I had brown hair at the last reunion for starters. There were a few who hadn’t changed, or aged it seemed, but unfortunately, I didn’t have time to ask those few exceptions about their skin care regimens during our brief time together. Time was short. Too short.

These people, some of them friends since my early grade school days, hold parts of the stories I’ve lost and I do the same for them. For the most part, none of it matters as it’s been such a long time, but to have a touchstone to my past that is as real as the person in front of me is a gift of time that I cherish and the reason I’ve made it to every reunion so far. I came close to almost missing this reunion though and was still on the fence four days before the Friday night event. I would only be one month out from a total knee replacement the weekend the reunion was scheduled. When I told my doctor I was hoping to go to my reunion at four weeks out, and make the nine hour drive as I knew it would be too soon to fly due to the risk of blood clots, he was apprehensive. He gave me one of those “let’s wait and see” answers, which I learned growing up usually meant no. He doesn’t know me though or how hard I will work towards a goal of something I want. I had an appointment the Tuesday before the reunion weekend and he told me he was amazed with my determination and setting my sights on my 50th reunion had worked. He said it was a go, told me to have fun and not forget to elevate and ice when I had the chance. As he was leaving the room, he turned around and asked me how many years on the reunion. I proudly told him 50, then realized how old that sounded. 50 is a big number and even bigger when talking reunions. We’re past middle age, but not ready to claim “old” or “elderly,” which is more in line with my parents. We don’t know what to call ourselves.

I’m home now, after taking two days to make the nine hour drive, to make the journey a little easier on my knee. I’m usually a barrel through, eat in the car kind of road tripper (ask anyone who has ridden right seat with me), but this time I was forced to slow down and stop every hour and a half to walk around. Given that it was pouring rain for most of the journey, a lot of those walks were through truck stops, the bigger the better. I was wandering up and down the aisles with shelves lined with camo gear for so long that one of the employees asked me if he could help me find something. I told him no. I was just browsing. I looked suspicious. Who browses up and down each aisle for 15 minutes in the hunting section of a truck stop?

My house that is almost always quiet, seems exceptionally quiet now. Unlike the two nights I spent staying up until after 1:00, I was tucked in by 8:00 on the night I got home. Granted, it was 9:00 central time, but it was still early. I was exhausted and my knee was not happy with me. I apologized to Rhoda (my new knee) and reassured her I’d be more mindful of her care once home.

I miss my high school friends. There is a fragility that lingers long past the goodbyes while wondering what the next 10 years will bring. Or are we at the point, given that we’re 68 years old, that the space between reunions should be shortened? The poster with the 60 plus names of classmates who had passed was hard to look at and hard for me to take my eyes off of. We are all the same age. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who wondered who in that room Saturday night would be added to the list of names on the poster the next reunion. Reunions are a rare visual of the passage of time and it seems like the accelerator pedal is being pushed a little harder than I’m comfortable with.

When I was 14, Terri, who was hosting me all weekend, gave me a journal. It was larger than the typical journal with 8×10 pages and a black cover with gold embossed trim. It was by far the fanciest journal I owned or had ever seen for that matter. On the inside cover she wrote, “Blank pages await your inspiration.“ I remember being very moved by her gesture. She knew I wrote and I’m sure I shared some of my work with her (bad poetry that makes me cringe), but it was her seeing and acknowledging something inside of me that had begun to percolate, that was so touching. I filled every page of the journal that resides in a trunk packed to the brim with other notebooks and journals filled with essays and letters. When people talk about what they’d grab in a fire, I think of myself hoisting the large trunk down 28 steps, hopefully with a knee that is stronger than it is today. Before I left on Sunday, she gave me a journal she bought for me a while ago but had forgotten to give to me. Just like the one she gave me 50 plus years ago, this one will also be filled in time. It is just one of the countless threads of connection I was reminded of throughout the weekend. Threads that have woven themselves into my beautiful tapestry of life, one memory and one row at a time. I added a few rows to that tapestry this past weekend. The colors may not be as bold as they were 50 years ago and you may have to move in closer to see the true beauty, but it’s still there in all of its glory. Row after row, memory after memory. “Blank pages await your inspiration” — for living, for writing, for life. I’m still holding onto those words.

To all of my classmates who had a hand in shaping the person I am today and showed up in person so I could hug you and share memories with you, thank you. You are my “I knew you when…” friends and that, holds a lot of weight… more with every passing year.

A good spot to meet friends.

A few weeks ago I accepted my neighbor’s invitation to a party at his house.    It was the same house,  but different owners, where I had gone to a New Year’s Eve party a few months after I moved to Boulder.   I had met Ann while shoveling my front sidewalk, our houses only separated by one house.  She told me she was shoveling our neighbor’s walk also, something that the first on up did given that the distance between the houses is so short.  A few weeks later there was an invitation in my mailbox for her and her husband, Robert’s New Year’s Eve party. She told me it was an annual event in the neighborhood and because her husband was Scottish, they rang in the New Year at 3:00 pm,  midnight in Scotland.   It was my first invite since my arrival to Boulder and I was thrilled. On December 31, 2019, with the late afternoon sun pouring through the windows,  I raised my glass to the new year, while thinking what a good year it would be.  Even the number seemed lucky — 2020.  Of course little did I know.  Little did anyone know.  

On that New Year’s afternoon, I spent a lot of time conversing with a woman who happened to share my love of hiking and had all sorts of trails and trips to share with me. I felt a strong need to seize the moment with this new found, almost friend, and make sure we had a roughed-in plan for a hike in the near future before we parted ways.  My behavior reminded me of the summer I rented a condo in the mountains for two months and not knowing a soul went into the bookstore, met the owner and was determined not to leave the store until we had a some semblance of a friendship in the making.  The word desperate comes to mind and that afternoon, I was claiming it again. I was at a New Year’s Eve party where I only knew one person and wondered what I’d do when the clock struck 3:00 and the kissing began. I started thinking about my exit plan as soon as I arrived. The front door would be the easiest way to sneak out as everyone was gathered in the kitchen at the back of the house. Every time I’d eye the front door, I’d tell myself I had to stay a little longer, at least until we rang in the New Year.   I felt like the new kid on the first day of school or the insecure girl at a Junior High dance who felt like a brown shoe amidst a sea of strappy patent leather.  My sense of awareness as to my presence and its awkwardness was heightened while I navigated the discomforts of “where should I stand?  Am I acting too eager?  And is it too soon to reload my plate?”  And then I found the woman who liked to hike so parked myself right next to her with determination and a plan. Our conversation ended when the clock struck 3:00 and we all clinked glasses of scotch. I didn’t have an invite to hike. I had lost my momentum, but that was OK. I had stayed at the party until the stroke of 3:00 and felt proud of myself for that.

Six months later, while in the throes of covid isolation, the New Year’s hostess, Ann, texted me and invited me to dinner. She told me she felt we had just started to get to know each other at the party and she wanted to be sure our friendship continued. She also reassured me that the dinner would be “covid safe” and we’d eat socially distanced and outside. When I arrived, through the alley and not the front door as instructed, I saw two set tables on opposite ends of the covered back porch — one with two settings for her and Robert, and the other with a single setting for me. She told me she cooked our meals in separate cookware and wore a mask the entire time. It was a lovely, yet odd dinner. Except for when we were eating, we left our masks on, only lowering them to sip our wine. Hearing the conversation was difficult not only because of the masks, but because we were seated so far from each other. As I was walking home, two doors down and through the alley, I thought about the effort Ann had put into insuring the dinner was safe. It had to be the most gracious, generous and kind dinner party I had ever been to. A year later, they moved to Winter Park and short of a few texts, we are no longer in touch. The new owners, who have been there for almost two years, were the ones who invited me to their party a few weeks ago. I was flattered by the invitation as I don’t know the couple well, short of seeing them pass by my house on walks or texts between us sharing information regarding a fencing company he shared with me. I gladly accepted the invitation, mostly out of curiosity to see the changes, if any, they had made to the house.

When I arrived, the house and porch were crowded with people, most at least ten years younger than me. I only knew Matthew and wasn’t even sure which one was his wife. I reminded myself that in all fairness, they both travel internationally for extended amounts of time for their jobs so are gone a lot. As I stood on the porch, that had been set up with chairs placed around the perimeter and a large table of food in the center, I couldn’t help but think back to Ann’s dinner invitation three years earlier. Although they had made some changes in the back yard, the patio was the same and in my mind I could see the two tables, one set for two and the other, on the opposite side of the porch, set for one. I couldn’t help but smile while I stood in the space between the two invisible tables. I took my “covered dish” into the dining room and was hit by another wave of nostalgia. On Dec. 31, 2019, in the middle of the afternoon, I was also setting down a dish to share, while feeling apprehensive and insecure. Had I brought something that everyone would like? What if I had to take a dish home with only one spoonful removed? This time, I was the only one in the room, which gave me the opportunity to stop and remember, without drawing attention. I set my Greek salad down, without concerns of taking a nearly full dish home and looked towards the seating area between the kitchen and the dining room, which looked very similar to the way Ann and Robert had arranged it. Only the furniture was different. I found the spot where I remember standing with an untouched glass of scotch in my hand, trying my hardest, to connect with the woman I had pegged as my future hiking pal. I wanted desperately to leave with a hiking date penciled in on my calendar, or any social engagement for that matter. I had moved to a town where I only knew my daughter, my son-in-law and my grandson, Arlo, who was not yet two, and knew that the biggest part about feeling settled had nothing to do with emptying boxes and filling cupboards. I needed friends and I needed plans on my calendar and that New Year’s Eve, I was all in, sacrificing my pride in the process. Of course I had no idea that a short three months later I’d be quarantining alone in my house for six weeks, whether I had made new friends or not. In all my attempts that New Year’s Eve to snag a friend, I lost sight of the fact that I already had one, Ann, who would later be the only other person I would see socially during my covid isolation besides my daughter and her family, and only from their car window or the other side of my yard as they delivered groceries.

Shortly after we rang in the new year with the country of Scotland, I found an opportune time to make my exit and collected my dish from the dining room that looked like it had one spoonful removed, possibly two. I quietly made my way out the front door without goodbyes because who wants to be seen carrying an almost full dish home. I walked down the sidewalk, past the house that sits in-between Ann’s house and mine and lingered on the sense of pride I was feeling. It wasn’t what I expected nor had I snagged a hiking date, but it was good.

A few weeks ago, I had mingled my way through the same kitchen, dining room and porch of the house that was now Matthew’s and his wife. I engaged in interesting conversations with people from as close as a few blocks away and as far as New Zealand and Tanzania. I didn’t worry about where or how I was standing or if it was too soon for seconds. At midnight, and with a house still filled with people, I gathered up my dish, gave my thanks to Matthew and his wife who I was happy to finally meet, and said my goodbyes. I walked the short distance through the alley to my house carrying my dish, which was empty. Totally empty.

As I walked up the steps to my back porch, I stopped to take it all in. I had felt comfortable enough at my neighbor’s party that walking in and only knowing the host hadn’t been an issue. I wasn’t trying to pencil in hiking dates or get phone numbers for friends I hadn’t yet met. None of that mattered this time while I attended a party at the yellow cottage two houses down from me with grapevines that now formed an open weave ceiling over the far end of the back yard. The same house that had a back patio that one night had been arranged with a table and chairs set for two at one end and a table for one at the other.

I had started going to an exercise studio shortly after my arrival to Boulder and a few weeks in, the owner stopped me on my way out and told me she was running a special and I could bring in friends for unlimited free workouts for the next week. I hesitated, not sure how honest I wanted to be, then figured why not and told her thanks, but I didn’t have any friends. She looked up at me with deep concern and sensing her discomfort, I quickly added, ”well, not yet!” I realized while walking out to my car that I had shown a vulnerability not only to the studio owner, but also to myself. When, if ever, in my life had I uttered the words… “I don’t have any friends” (locally, and at the present time, I’d later clarify). And who was this person who was showing such vulnerability at the risk of her pride? Is this what new beginnings, if you you’re honest, really and truly look like?

Four years is a long time and it’s also the blink of an eye. I remember the excitement I felt the first time I saw someone I knew at the hardware store and the first time I had to turn down a social engagement because I was already committed. All rungs on the ladder I’ve been climbing without even realizing it until now, when I feel like I’ve made it to the roof, which offers both better views and greater perspective. I can look down and see where I started but not where I’ll end up, which is the fun part. My earlier urgency to connect has been replaced by a calm, open-minded curiosity with no expectations, and in that process, I have quietly found my way home.

A few nights ago I was in the square in Santa Fe, killing time before my dinner reservation. I overestimated my shopping time and had 45 minutes to kill before my reservation. I’ve spent many a morning or afternoon finding my way through the countless shops and galleries in Santa Fe and have always enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, but on this latest visit, it seemed that every shop had a whole lot of what I already owned, so after wandering through a few galleries and getting dreamy eyed about the antique rugs or paintings with price tags that had too many digits, the shopping didn’t hold my attention, I went inside the courtyard where the outdoor tables for Casa Sena were and saw three people seated at the bar. Bars are always a good spot to land because bartenders are usually more than happy to chat or lend an ear. I set my things down and took a stool in the center of the bar and ordered a club soda. When the woman seated at the end of the bar, three stools down, heard my order, she turned in my direction and said in a loud and bossy voice,
“Froze! (as in frozen rose)… you have to get one of these. Not a club soda, Carla, get her a froze!”

I noticed the almost empty glass of frozen rose in front of her and two empty glasses lined up next to it. Maybe the bartender hadn’t removed them as she was using them to keep count. She later told me that three drinks were the limit without food and five with food. I wasn’t sure if that was their restaurant rules or Santa Fe rules, but it looked like they were being enforced.

“No, I’m good. It’s too hot out right now for alcohol. Club soda’s fine.”

She readjusted herself on her barstool so she was facing me and told me her name, which I immediately forgot and told me the couple’s names of who were at the other end of the bar, along with Carla, the bartender. I followed with my quick introduction, as I didn’t really want to get involved in conversation with her. Some situations are easy to sniff out and you instinctively know to stay clear. I was perfectly content chatting with the bartender or just keeping to myself, but the anchor at the end of the bar had other ideas.

“Carla, get her a frose.”
“Maria,” the bartender said. “My name’s Maria! I don’t know why you keep calling me Carla.”

The lady whose name I immediately forgot ignored Maria and leaned towards me and said,
“I bet you’re a writer. You look like a writer.”

OK, annoying as she was, now she had my attention, even though I still wasn’t interested in engaging in a conversation with her.

“I am,” I answered, “and that’s interesting you’d say that.”

i already knew I had said too much when she started leaning towards me even more. She said something about the couple at the other end of the bar, who just gave a nod and I could tell they were also trying to keep their distance and were likely grateful that I had moved into the spot closer to the getting drunk on frozen rose woman.

She asked questions and I gave one word answers, trying my best to subtly let her know I wasn’t interested in engaging in conversation. She didn’t take the hint.

“Where are you from? I’m supposed to be meeting a man here but he didn’t show up. I’m 60, he’s 45. Do you think that’s strange? Good or bad? Carla! I think Laurie needs a froze! Are you staying here? I’m not from here. I live outside of Denver, but I’ve lived everywhere. My husband was in the military.”

“It’s MARIA, not Carla,” Maria the bartender said, then glanced over to me and shook her head.

The one sided conversation continued with me answering only when I had to. She became more and more persistent and given that I didn’t want to be rude, I gave short answers and no eye contact, but it didn’t seem to be slowing her down. After I finished my drink, I went over to the hostess stand and asked if I could be seated. She told me they had staffing issues and wouldn’t be able to seat me until my reservation time – in 15 minutes.

“You don’t have to do anything.. just give me a glass of water and I’ll wait at the table.”

She looked confused.
I continued, “I’m trying to get away from the woman at the end of the bar.”
“Oh… of course. Maria told me she had to cut her off and she didn’t seem very happy about it. She told me not to worry, they’d find me a table and she then led me to a table that was as far away from the bar as possible. As soon as I was seated, the woman , who in my mind I’m now calling “Flo,” approached my table, seeming much more drunk to me now that she was upright.

“How come you’re sitting here all by yourself? Are you waiting for someone?”
“No, I’m by myself.” This was all information I had told her earlier.
She nodded with a string look of concern on her face then asked,

“Do you want me to join you? It seems so sad that you’re going to be eating alone. I’m an extrovert. I would never eat alone.”
“No, I don’t. I’m fine. Actually, I like eating alone. And I’m also an extrovert.”

I picked up the menu and started scanning my options while trying to give her the message to leave me alone, which clearly wasn’t working.
“Are you sure? You’re just sitting her all alone… and….well it seems….
I interrupted her, “Yes. I want to eat alone. I like eating alone. Have a nice evening.” And I went back to my menu reading, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She stood next to the empty chair at my table for at least a minute, rocking back from one foot to the other, then left. My waitress showed up right behind her.

“We’re so sorry… the bartender cut her off but she doesn’t seem to want to leave,” the waitress told me apologetically.

“No worries,” I said, then placed my order and enjoyed a lovely dinner but the drunk frozen rose, Flo, said something that I would subconsciously tuck away. That subconscious thought would resurface the next night when I decided to dine at the lodge. As usual, I arrived for my reservation 20 minutes early so went to the bar and ordered an aperol spritz because it seems like the thing to do these days. During my 15 minutes of sitting, I was asked by the bartender, two waiters and the hostess if I was waiting for someone. The hostess, who I had said earlier that I wanted a table for one, said she was ready to seat me but had the other person in my party arrived? When I said no, there wasn’t another half to my party and it was just me, Flo’s words entered my mind…”it just seems kinda sad…”. Everyone but me seemed to be concerned about the missing person at my table for one. I regretted that I added the “just” before “me.” It sounded apologetic and I wasn’t. As I was being led to my table, I couldn’t help but scan every visible table in the room and a few on the patio for a head count. I confirmed what I was already pretty sure of — I was the only table for one. Even at the bar everyone was paired off. I sat at my table, suddenly aware of an awkwardness I was feeling that hadn’t been an issue when I sat at almost the same table two nights ago. But it was drunk Flo that put these ideas of “aren’t you sad, don’t you want someone to eat with you?” into my head.

I’ve done a lot of things that I now look back on as a scary and by myself — hiking to the top of 5 14’er mountains in Colorado, flying to Ghana to volunteer on my own when my friend who was supposed to go with me ended up sick in Atlanta and driving from Boulder to western Massachusetts to see my sister during Covid. I could go on, but now, I wonder if dining alone should be added to my list? I didn’t feel sad, much to Flo’s dismay, I’m sure, to be led to a table for only me, but have to admit, watching the hostess scoop up the extra place setting, almost like she was trying to do it so fast that I won’t notice, gave the dinner for one an awkwardness that I hadn’t thought of before. Flo had me overthinking the whole “dining solo” concept, or doing anything alone, which also concerned Flo, but it was exactly what she was doing given that her date had stood her up.

As I was leaving the restaurant, there was a man, probably about my age setting up scaffolding for an art show next to the pool. It was going to be projected onto the water and although he explained what he was doing, I had no idea what he was talking about. We had a nice chat though and he invited me to the show but I told him I was leaving the next day.
“Flying home?”
“No. Driving. With some stops along the way, not exactly sure but probably Taos and eventually Boulder.”
“Oh, kind of like a Jack Kerouac, on the road, trip?”
“Well not really but I appreciate the comparison.”
“Are you by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You’re brave.”
I didn’t think so, but I had dined alone and that act was starting to sound brave to me, but I decided not to share that with him.
“Have a good trip, ‘on the road,’ and be careful.”
I smiled, wondering how I’d live up to the ‘on the road’ name as well as the brave comment. Brave? Hardly. I have a cell phone, AAA road insurance and a car that’s in good shape. Brave is when you have none of those and are in a country whose language you do not speak and you don’t know where you’ll be sleeping after dinner, which now has you concerned having downed all the water that has been poured for you as well as eaten the lettuce garnish. That’s brave. Maybe dining alone is also brave, but I’m still thinking about that one as it seems too easy. I guess we all have our own version of bravery.

I used to think it was brave to bring three kids under the age of four into a restaurant, which I did many times solo, and is also probably where I developed the bad habit of eating so quickly. But a road trip with a few stops, hardly. So along with the notion of dining alone being sad according to Flo, now I had artist Jack’s words about bravery to contemplate (my made up name, short for Jack Kerouac of course). His words hold more weight than Flo’s and they were delivered to me sober.

At breakfast the next morning, I asked for a table for one, eliminating the “just,” but breakfast isn’t the same as dinner. I wasn’t alone with my table for one. In fact, I’d say the majority in the lodge coffee shop were tables set for one, with lap tops as their dates. I couldn’t help but think about Flo’s words “but you look so sad.” No one looked sad. They all looked happy to be left alone.

Flo’s words returned to me while dining alone, again, in Taos the next day, now comfortable with dropping the apologetic “just” at the hostess stand. Flo was wrong. Flo was also drunk. It doesn’t feel sad or lonely or conspicuous to me to be solo in restaurants. In fact, it makes me feel brave and brave makes me sit up a little straighter in my chair and ask the waiter what their top shelf gin is. Not that I’m a gin drinker, but it sounds confident — like something a brave person eating alone would ask.

I have loved the Adirondacks from the first time I experienced them almost three decades ago, thanks to my sister, Susan, who showed them off to me when she lived in Montreal. I love the smell of balsam in the air when you enter the small town where we stay and take Susan’s cue to roll down the window and stick my head out like a Labrador retriever — taking it all in, one inhale at a time.  I love that most of the businesses that line the main street in town have not changed and the waitresses at the Noonmark Diner are still not friendly and the pies are still good.  

On my most recent visit, Susan and I stayed at the same inn where I had stayed during one of my first visits to Keene Valley— The Trail’s End Inn, a 1902 Adirondack lodge that sits at the end of a long dirt road with views of mountains and trailheads within walking distance. Iconic, picturesque, and once you’ve stayed there a few times, you get to add “home” to that list.  There are several other lodging options and another favorite is the Dartbrook Lodge, where I’ve stayed a few times.  It has a grouping of log cabins with large front porches and interiors that look like Ralph Lauren had his hand in the decorating decisions.  Not one detail of the interior, or exterior for that matter, had been overlooked.  It was my idea of absolute decor perfection, Adirondack style.  As beautiful as the cabins were in their rustic, aged, distressed, bent-willow style, I prefer the creaking floors and lumpy mattresses to the Navajo inspired rugs,  large stone fireplaces and beds with down comforters. Maybe because it holds so many memories for me and as much as I love walking into a hand-hewn log cabin whose decor I’ve tried to emulate in places I’ve lived, give me mismatched quilts, bad water pressure and lumpy mattresses.  Especially when those lumpy mattresses are in a screened-in sleeping porch that is so divine that not sleeping in it simply is not an option, even if that means going to bed in your coat.

When Susan and I started making plans for the Adirondacks portion of my visit to see her in Massachusetts,  my only request, besides our lodging, was to hike Rooster Comb.  I wanted to revisit the trail that had challenged me every time I’ve been on it, even though Susan insists it is not a hard hike.  Out of the many hikes I’ve been on in the Adirondacks, I have the most history with Rooster Comb.  Actually, my family has the most history with Rooster Comb.  My son-in-law proposed to my daughter at the top of Rooster Comb, I earned a 3 inch scar just below my left knee when I slipped on a mossy piece of granite on the way down once and my family has all done the hike and probably more than once.

And so we did just that.  After the rain had cleared, kind of, we made our way up the trail, a gradual climb that one local guide book refers to as a “relentless uphill hike.”  After almost four years of hiking a few times a week, I now have a better grasp of the assent of a trail’s relationship to distance to determine difficult and with 1,900 feet of assent and only 4.7 miles to cover that assent, I now understand my years of whining about the difficulty of the trail.  There’s only one tiny stretch that is level and every inch of that level feels welcoming.  Susan said I’d feel differently about Rooster Comb after hiking as many miles as I have in Colorado, and with altitude, which is why I needed the revisit.  I needed to know if what my memory had been telling me all these years was accurate (probably 10 since I last hiked it).

The weather was perfect—cloudy, with a few sporadic raindrops and neither hot nor buggy.  I  remember doing the hike one August several years ago with bandanas that we had tied onto our faces from our necks to just below our eyes because of the annoying swarms of black flies.  But on this journey up Rooster Comb, the black flies stayed away.  They’d make their appearance later in the summer. 

When we got to the huge rock with the tree growing up and around it, Susan told me we were half way.  Already?  The guidebook was right that it was an uphill hike, but relentless?  Hardly.  When we got to the top, we didn’t even bother to get comfortable and start fishing snacks out of our packs because the gnats were thick.   Better than black flies, but not great.  We lingered long enough though to take in the incredible views — softer and gentler than the rocky views I’m used to, but just as spectacular and grand in their beauty. The revisit felt good and my return as a seasoned hiker became a measure of not only the strength I’ve gained in my last few years of hiking, but my patience as well.  We only passed a few other hikers and Susan hiked ahead of me, as she always does as her pace is faster than mine.  We’d stop periodically to share something we had thought of (or so I could catch up), but most of the conversations that morning were with myself, inside my head, as I tried to absorb what every mountain trail tries hard to tell me and that is to slow down, have a closer look and enjoy the incredible gifts that nature is offering up that so often go unnoticed.  That morning I noticed.  

I was mindful of my steps as we neared the end of the trail, when legs tend to get wobbly and sharp mossy rocks are tripped over, leaving scars as memories.  When I fell on one of those mossy rocks, 15 years ago, I was wearing shorts and my leg was bleeding so badly that I took the bandana off of my head and tied it on my leg like a tourniquet, although I knew nothing about tying tourniquets, but it kept the blood out of my socks.  I remember both of us laughing, I mean really laughing, with Susan taking her cue from me that it was OK to laugh after seeing I was OK, because for some reason, falling is funny, whether on a slick floor or a mossy rock.  We patched the cut up when we got back to our room and I made the hasty and probably unwise decision to not go to an emergency room for stitches, given the scar I have today.  As Chris Cleave says in his book “Little Bee,” scars are reminders that we survived.  My reminder is front and center for me, where I see it so often that I no longer see it, short of a random reminder to slow down around wet, mossy rocks.

It rained all night and we slept in twin beds, with our beds pushed up against the screens — a familiar sleeping arrangement for us that dates back to our childhood. There was a roof overhang, so we didn’t get rained on, but I don’t think even the rain would have stopped us.  We probably would have just pushed our beds away from the window and stayed on the porch.  The bed in the room on the other side of the sleeping porch, remained unused.  It was two of the best night’s sleeps I’ve gotten in a long time.  According to my fit bit, 10 hours of good sleep.  Susan thinks they should use the room for sleep deprived people — a sleep clinic that would offer guarantees of a good night’s sleep, especially if there was rain in the forecast.

There are some places that get under your skin and crawl their way right into your soul.  They find their way into your happiest day dreams and become the backdrop to so many scenes  where stories are told to others and silently to yourself.  Keene Valley, New York and the Trail’s End Inn are two of  those places for me.   This most recent visit felt different though, almost like an itch that was finally getting scratched.  I started thinking about solo writing retreats and tucking myself into the sleeping porch with a notebook and a pen and a steaming cup of tea on the night stand with the coziness of a Rosamunde Pilcher novel.  I’m not sure why I haven’t done it before.  Maybe because I have had so much fun with Susan on our Keene Valley trips, a place she knows well having rented a cottage there for weekends of hiking when she lived in Montreal.  I have no doubt that my itch of my own pieced together writing retreat will get scratched and the views and the sounds of the early morning birds and the gentle breeze that holds the scent of balsam will be my fodder for words on the page.   If I’m lucky, it will rain every night because  getting to sleep in a screened-in sleeping porch with the background sounds of a gentle rain, is just about as good as life gets.  

In the late summer of 2020, during the throes of covid and quarantine and trying to adapt to the reality that it wasn’t going to be over in a few weeks or months, I turned 65. The best part of turning 65 is Medicare and Social Security. My 50 year-old self would do a big eye roll in response to the importance I now give to those words —Medicare and Social Security. Seriously? Medicare and Social Security? But I stand by those words now. With the enrollment of Medicare came a physical, much more thorough than the ones I’ve had in the past, including baseline tests for physical and mental agility. The best part was it cost me nothing. As with every physical, there was blood work and with that came the bad news about my cholesterol, which is higher than my doctor wants it to be. I’m used to this and have gotten a pass over the years because my lifestyle and my other numbers are good. Still, I always feel let down when all the dietary changes I’ve incorporated along with considerable daily exercise, barely sway the needle in the right direction. This is the part of the physical when I say,
“Can we return to talking about my blood pressure?”

My blood pressure is what I like to lead with — numbers that almost always elicit a compliment by whoever is taking it. It gives me a cushion of confidence before the comments on the cholesterol numbers begin, which are always disappointing. My doctor decided she wanted me to have an aortic scan and if it came out without plaque, she would be willing to overlook the cholesterol numbers (at least my good cholesterol is high making for a good ratio, but the bad is still bad).

A few weeks later, I made a trip into Denver for the scan. I had not had an aortic scan before so everything was new and out of both nervousness and curiosity, I asked the technician a lot of questions. He was more than willing to answer. It was a slow day.

After the scan, I asked him if some people ever struggle with the 30 second breath hold. It felt long to me, although do-able.
“Yes, they sometimes do, he answered, but the fact that you have a long heart helps you. It allows for deeper breathing capacity.”

“My heart is long, I asked, as in not short??”
“Yes, long. People have long hearts and short hearts. One is not necessarily better than the other. Yours just happens to be a long one.”

What? I have a long heart? I’ve never heard of such a thing. How was it I had lived 65 years and someone is just now telling me the shape of my heart? Fortunately, the scan of my long heart turned out fine and plaque-free but thoughts of what the technician told me lingered.

The very nonchalant manner in which the news of my long heart was delivered kept me from worrying about it, but I was curious and did what most people would have done once I got home. I put Google to the test.
“What does it mean to have a long heart?”
Nothing. Enlarged hearts, symptoms of heart attacks, scary medical stuff and broken hearts, but nothing about a long heart. I was intrigued, curious and beginning to wonder exactly how much training, education and experience the technician who shared the information with me had.

I love thinking about the physical attributes of my heart, barely a side note when compared to the amount of time I spend thinking about its emotional qualities. Did it become long because of all it holds? Of course not, but I like thinking about my newly discovered attribute in this manner. The muscle in my chest that gives me life with its constant beats needs more consideration than I had been giving it. Clearly, I gravitate more to thinking about my emotional heart rather than the physical, but now that someone was actually able to give me a brief description of my heart, I can’t help but envision a long, pumping vessel, that looks stretched while trying to hold far more emotions than what it was designed for, like a knit bag that has grown long with the weight of its contents. Whether or not the technician, who started this whole ordeal, was giving me an observation based on trained eyes or just a quick and possibly not accurate conclusion, I carried those words home with me and now, 2 1/2 years later, I’m contemplating them again.

Does my long heart still hold the shape of a valentine? (I know hearts don’t actually look like the valentine shape we associate them with, but it is how they’ve been represented historically). Has the record of my emotional life actually changed the shape of my heart? Clearly, I’m not done with this subject. I googled it again, this time resulting in cardiologist, Sandeep Juahar’s Ted Talk, where he addresses “the mysterious ways our emotions impact the health of our hearts—causing them to change shape in response to grief or fear.”
He spoke of examples where hearts actually did change their shape after being subjected to periods of stress and or grief. Ah ha! Now I’m getting somewhere. Maybe, just maybe, the stress, the fear of the unknown, the loneliness of a solitary quarantine that happened just months before my scan in the unforgettable year of 2020, really did change the shape of my heart. Or maybe I was born with a long heart instead of a short one or one that simple resides in the middle measurement.

My long heart and all it carries — the love, so much love, the hopes, the desires, the fears, the dreams, the memories, both the good ones and the bad ones, the very essence of my being and the creative and curious element that has made writing such a necessary part of my life. It is the most precious of packages. It needs more attention.

The very same long heart that ached for months after I saw my dog get hit by a car when I was in the 3rd grade is the same heart that only recently felt the pain of learning that a former classmate of mine had died. Metaphorically, there’s a lot of expansion going on in my already long heart. It makes me think of the umbilical cord that I’ve written about that emotionally still connects me to my three children, all living in different parts of the country. The physical feels easier for my mind to grasp with visions of three cords that originates with me, and stretch out to the other side of Boulder, to Portland and to LA. That I can visualize. That I can understand. But it’s the emotional aspect that is out of my grasp. All that enters the heart — first loves, bad break ups, the birth of my children, moments of ecstasy and joy, heartbreaking sadness that is so deep it is felt physically, are all mingling around together in the space of my heart. Maybe they are organized into groups, I am a virgo after all.

All of this, including the shape of my heart, I had forgotten about until I was going through a stack of my many notebooks looking for inspiration. On that day in August of 2020, after googling “long heart” with no success, I wrote brief notes in one of my notebooks and underlined “long heart.” I always think I’ll remember, but always right things down, just in case. I didn’t remember being told that I have a long heart. Thank goodness I write things down. Thank goodness I never throw notebooks away. Today I feel more curious and more intrigued than I did in 2020. I had other concerns then, such as how to maneuver through this new masked-life doing my day to day chores, while trying to remain healthy and covid-free.

Sandeep Jauhar ended his Ted Talk by saying,

“The emotional heart intersects with its biological counterpart in mysterious ways.”

I give that intersection a lot of attention, heeding both the advice of the medical community I surround myself with, and an acute awareness to the emotional life I hold in my heart. My heart may be long in its physical appearance, according to the young man in the light blue surgical scrubs, but it’s what it holds that has me returning to this subject again, 2 1/2 years later, with continued interest. Maybe it’s the longing inside my heart and not the length of my heart that holds the power — the longing to make sense of my world by organizing it into words tucked away in notebooks — notebooks that have held what I thought my mind would, but didn’t. But my heart, that long heart of mine, has never forgotten.

Covid. Round two. It’s surprisingly similar to round one that I had almost exactly a year ago. Last year two days after my return from Key West in late Jan., I tested positive. This year, two days before I was supposed to go to Key West, I tested positive. Key West in January may be off the table for me – at least until next winter when I’ve forgotten about my Key West/covid connection. I had a hunch I’d see the two pink lines, but remained hopeful. I had just come from Portland where I helped with my son, Thomas, daughter-in-law, Brooke, and two granddaughters, under the age of three, make their move from Boulder. Two days into the trip, sickness started spreading through the group, starting with Brooke, then the girls, and finally Thomas. I felt fine throughout, cautiously nervous, but fine. As was predicted by the medical community, this winter has become a rough one for families with kids because of weakened immune systems – a result of two years of social distancing and masking. Kids need germs to strengthen their immune systems, their parents too for that matter, which they are now getting with every cough, sneeze and fever their kids are gifting. I was surprised when Brooke brought the covid tests out, I’m not sure why, but it felt like it had been so long since we were getting the boxes of two tests out and reading yet another set of instructions because none of them are the same. But she was smart to do so and neither she nor my son were surprised with the two pink lines showed up immediately on their tests. Thomas told me to “save myself” and suggested that I might want to quarantine in my room at our Airbnb for the remainder of my stay. It was good advice because I had a trip to Key West booked five days after my return to Boulder. Knowing that there was a three year-old and a six month-old in the room, who both stretched the limits of cuteness, made quarantining in my room, even if only for a few hours before bed and another few in the morning before my exit, very difficult. At that point, while trying to do my best to not catch the covid germs that were permeating the rooms of our airbnb, I hadn’t thought ahead to the next morning when long hugs with tears because my kids and their kids would now be living in Portland and not down the street from me in Boulder, would not be an option. Waves at a distance would be the stand-in goodbye. I also wouldn’t be giving hugs to the person who would be driving me to the airport because it wasn’t my son, but rather an anonymous Uber driver and having the masked woman in the back seat reach forward for a goodbye hug, would have just been awkward. Instead, I would catch the middle-aged Uber driver glance back at the me as I sobbed all the way to the airport. I think he wanted to ask me if I was OK, but also didn’t want to intrude on my privacy. I’m sure he’s seen it before. Airport runs usually follow tearful goodbyes. It was painful. So painful. Thankfully my mask muffled the sobs.

Once checked in and settled in at my gate with lots of time to spare, because unless I’m at least an hour early, I’m late, I realized that maybe, just maybe, not being able to hug goodbye had been a blessing. How do I hug a three year-old who knows I’m leaving but can’t fully understand what that leaving and moving to another state really means? The same three year-old who now refers to her dad when she’s around me as “your son” as in “do you want to sit by your son at dinner?” also told me that she loved being my “neighbor” and we will still have lots of play dates even though she wouldn’t be living in Boulder. I agreed, then added I would need a little more time to plan those play dates. How would I have kept that hug, like all the rest of the rest of our hugs, happy and affectionate, while trying desperately to not show my sadness? Hugs don’t come with tears after all, or at least not when you’re three. At that point, my mind was still swirling around departures and my sadness of leaving. Meanwhile, covid was sitting by patiently, waiting on the bench to be called into play.

I got home in the evening and did as I always do when I get home from traveling late in the day. I left my suitcase in my front room, where I’d unpack it the next day, taking the dirty clothes downstairs and the remainder upstairs, where I’d finish unpacking and begin my repack for my upcoming trip to Key West. I’m never in a rush on the unpacking. It’s my way of extending my trip just a tiny bit more. Besides, I’m usually tired and my waiting suitcase always looks like a lot less work in the morning.

The next morning, for safety’s sake, I did a covid test. Holding onto the comments Thomas and Brooke had made about my strong immune system, I was proud to see a negative. And so I unpacked, and began to repack my bags for Key West, feeling relieved that I had emerged covid-free after being surrounded by it for a day, or at least that I knew of. The next day, I tested again, because I wanted to be safe. As soon as the two pink lines showed up on the test, which was pretty fast, I did the math. Then I did it again trying every which way to make it work. No matter how I counted the days, there were not enough of them for me to get to the other side of covid and still be able to make it to Key West. Even if I felt OK, I wouldn’t be safe. My head began to hurt, my body ached and I felt feverish. It was almost as if the two pink lines were the signal for the symptoms to begin. I unbooked my flight, called my sister and went back to bed. Two days of feeling like I had the flu with the addition of a headache, made for a pretty good 48 hour pity party for me. Every time I’d walk into my room, I had to walk around the already re-packed suitcase, filled with clothes I had so carefully chosen for 5 days of fun in Key West with my sister and brother-in-law. I’m still walking around that packed suitcase, on day eight and have decided to leave it packed until the day after I would have been coming home. At that point I’d be emptying it anyway.

The thing with covid that’s hard, or one of the many things I should say, is that once you start feeling better, you still have a few days left quarantining, or at least you do if you’re going to be a good person. On day seven, my daughter, Emery, and grandson, Arlo, brought me flowers and arnica oil for my wrist and just like in 2020, I stood just inside the doorway and they stood several feet away in my yard. Deja vu. I realized they were the first people I had seen in seven days. Quarantining alone is strange. How quickly I had forgotten that I had done it before. Almost three years ago and for seven weeks, not seven days. But back to the visit from my daughter and grandson…Arnica oil you may be wondering? What’s that and what’s it for and what happened to your wrist? Arnica is used to speed up healing, especially with bruises. It was an appropriate gift. The day I got back from Portland, when I was still thinking I was covid-free, I went out for a walk in my neighborhood. We had had a lot of snow that was only partially melted, leaving icy patches on the sections of the sidewalks that hadn’t originally been shoveled. I put my micro spikes on my boots in anticipation of those icy spots, but after about a mile of walking, all on dry sidewalks, I became very self-conscious by the sound my boots were making – like tap shoes on the side walk. The sound reminded me of my sisters and my leather-soled school shoes that we would attach thumb tacks to in a sad attempt at making our own tap shoes. It was a nostalgic sound that soon became annoying so I removed the micro spikes and carried them for the rest of my walk. When I was close to my house, so close I could read the numbers on my car’s license tag, I slipped on the ice and fell. Here’s the sad thing – I saw the small patch of ice and was carefully maneuvering around it when I fell. I can’t even say that I wasn’t paying attention, because I was. The fall felt like it was in slow motion and I had enough time to make a plan, which was to break it with my dominant and stronger hand – my right one. I’ve used the phrase “I don’t want to break a hip” too often in passing as an exaggerated expression for being cautious but that’s exactly what I was trying to not do – not break my hip. As soon as I was upright, which was immediately because of the humiliation of someone seeing I had fallen and would rush over to make sure I hadn’t broken a hip, I thought ahead four days and how it would be to maneuver through the airport with a hand, unfortunately my right hand, that couldn’t grip or lift. I’d manage. Then I thought about going to a quick care clinic near my house to see if my injured hand needed more than ice, like maybe a cast? Nah, I’d manage. When I got home, I applied ice, added a British crime drama to the situation, and a few hours later, went to bed. The next morning, after the two pink lines jump started my symptoms, and still with a hand that still couldn’t grip the handle of my coffee cup, I had my answer on if I should go get it X-rayed. I felt too sick to take on that task alone and now knowing I had covid, I couldn’t ask anyone to take it on with me and so I kept applying ice and crossing my fingers it wasn’t broken. My sadness had now extended into its second act with no intermission.

After a few days, I started feeling normal again, and my hand, although still sore, was getting its grip back. I was starting to feel back to normal, tired, but normal, but not done with my quarantine and still showing a positive on the test. This is the tricky part of covid – feeling ready to be back out in the world again, but if I wanted to be a decent human being, I needed to stay put. This was when the kitchen cleaning began. Actually, a deep organization is a better word because I like organizing far more than cleaning. Then the label maker came out. Now, for most, that doesn’t seem like a scary event, but when you’re a virgo, with a lot of free time on your hands and have to stay home, it can lead to a slippery slope of perfection inching its way towards obsession. By the end of the day, I had labeled each and every one of my mason jars filled with staples that line my pantry shelves and had further grouped my spices from savory and sweet into their prospective regions – Italian, Indian, Mexican and all dishes with cumin. I can do no more. My kitchen is organized to within an inch of its life. My wrist, although black and blue on one side with a slightly yellow cast on the other, is sore, but can grab a coffee mug so I’m no longer worried. My two act pity party is done. I’m bored and I’m waiting for a negative test. I’m also tired of being alone in my house, but there’s a big irony to that statement. While alone in my house and sitting in my very organized kitchen, I started researching places to rent a cabin for a week or two for a solo writing retreat. Yes, this person who is tired of being alone in her house, waiting out the clock on a covid quarantine, was researching solo getaways in a cabin in a remote place. Even though I’ve kind of just done that, and my home is my personal retreat, it’s not the same. My home beckons me to label jars and alphabetize spices and reread boxes of letters I’ve saved, instead of diving into the project at hand – writing. I still want to find that retreat, but the timing doesn’t seem quite as urgent.

This latest covid journey has been a test for me and I can’t say I’m good or confident with taking tests, but they continue to show up, regardless. It was so easy to put on the cloak of pity and wallow in the sadness of not being able to hug my kids and grandkids goodbye and having to cancel my trip to Key West, yet while in the throes of that wallowing, I heard from two different friends who were going through far more than delayed hugs and a trip to Florida. One was dealing with her mother’s final days in hospice and the other was trying to navigate her husband’s recent diagnosis of terminal cancer. Prospective. It always shows up on time and is usually bearing gifts. I still missed hugging my now Portland family goodbye and I still missed my trip to Key West, but both of these events can be done again. It’s not permanent and it’s not cancer or hospice. It’s a covid inconvenience. Does that mean I’m not sad, angry and disappointed? Of course not. I’m human. But I’ve been given the timely gift of perspective in the form of different lenses to view my situation.

It’s time to stop walking around the suitcase in my bedroom and unpack it. I’ve been reminded enough.

Today I was humbled by my age. I don’t think about being “old” – what’s old anyway? But I did learn that when it comes to technology, I’m far older than I realized. This was confirmed after 3 trips to the Apple store in less than 24 hours. I bought a new phone (I think the highest number, whatever that is) a few months ago. It’s new, cutting edge, and I’m happy with it, especially with the quality of the photos, although there’s one thing I wish they hadn’t messed with and that’s the security. Rather than give my phone a quick swipe of my thumb, the newest model is facial recognition and even though my phone recognizes me with a mask, if I add sunglass, my phone has no idea who I am. In Colorado, if you’re outside, you likely have on sunglasses as it’s a very sunny place. We’re all in disguise in masks and sunglasses so my phone not recognizing the disguise makes sense. I didn’t like the change and the thumb print was a lot easier, but I’m open to new ideas – keeps me young, right?

When I bought the phone the Apple sales guy convinced me I needed to get Apple care – something I’ve never purchased before because it seemed like a waste of money to me, like trip insurance, which I’ve also never purchased (until Covid). I was hedging on the add on when he told me that they’d give me a lot of money for my trade in (I’m not sure what “a lot” is), but because my screen was so cracked, they couldn’t give me anything. Nothing. Not even $2.00. After hearing that, I caved. He told me because I was buying the Apple care, I could skip on the screen protector. Bad decision.

Last week, and less than a month after my new phone purchase, I dropped my phone, as one does, and it landed on my driveway in precisely the exact spot to cause a whole lot of damage. My Apple care insurance became worth every cent. I have no problem with a cracked screen and have had screens so cracked that I had to be mindful to not cut my finger when opening apps, so this didn’t seem a whole lot different until I realized that the camera – not the camera that takes photos but the one that knows my face for security, was damaged, or more accurately, ruined. So I went to the Apple store, thankful for my Apple care and figured I’d just wait there while they sorted me out with a new screen. Well, when the new screen involves a camera, it’s more of a “come back in 5 hours situation.” So I left the store and returned home for the wait. It felt nice, and at the same time, uncomfortable, to not have my phone. What if there’s an emergency? What if my girlfriends are planning a hike the next day and I’m don’t get the message of when and where? What if my daughter wants to go to coffee or sends me a cute photo of my grandkids You know, dire stuff. Yet at the same time, it was nice to be untethered.

When I returned to the Apple store, exactly 5 hours later, there was a bit of a scramble and some hushed conversations among a handful of employees when they saw me. I was told to go over to one of the tables and wait and someone would be over to help me. Several minutes later, I was told by one of the employees that it would be a little bit longer and the store closed in 20 minutes so they hoped it would be done, but if not, I could come back the next day I’ve been patient and nice and cheerful and gracious up until this point then I got real.
“Tomorrow? No. That won’t work because I need my phone.”
It’s possible I added “for my job,” which was a total lie, but I needed to get their attention. There was a lot of going to the back room and more employees getting involved in the conversation, then the woman who I had been working with told me there was a problem. While they were fixing my screen, it appears they broke my phone and because of that they were going to give me a new phone. Normally, this would be great news. A new phone! But the phone I brought in was new and the thought of reloading passwords and the whole Apple ID situation, gave me a nothing but dread. I suppose they were trying to make the not so good situation better and help the silver-haired lady who needed her phone for her “job,” so I took the new phone, thanked them for their help, and left, the doors being locked behind me because it was closing time.

When I got home, I realized that my phone not only would not make or receive outgoing calls, but wasn’t receiving texts either. It was no longer a phone but rather, a camera and a social media connecting device. It appeared that in their haste, there was no SIM card – E-SIM or otherwise, so phone calls were impossible (just listen to me with all that tech talk… I was educated this morning…)

Four hours was one thing without being able to text or make a phone call, but close to 24 hours was another. All of sudden I had a lot of calls to make – people to talk to, plans to make, texts to send out etc. It’s when it becomes impossible that it also becomes urgent. Spoiler alert: once my phone was fixed and back in my hands, I could have cared less about making a call.

I got to the Apple store 15 minutes before opening the next morning – 9:45 sharp because I didn’t have an appointment and wanted to be seen first. I explained the situation to the front-door greeter/decides who you need to see guy, and instead of getting the expected, “Oh no! That’s awful… we’ll totally take care of it because obviously it was our fault,” I got an, “OK, I need the account number of your wireless carrier. Like I just happen to have that on me… sheesh. Fortunately, AT&T is only a block away from the Apple store so I walked over, was the only customer and was waited on by a very kind, young, outdoorsy looking guy who took care of the whole SIM card situation and also got me going on a better plan that’s going to save me $25 a month. He told me there was a big savings if I had AARP, then stumbled around his words and said, “Well… you know… if you’re old enough and all…”. I appreciated the effort on his part and the $25 a month saving to boot.

Unfortunately, there was one more glitch that sent me back to the Apple store. The old Apple ID/password rabbit hole. I know my Apple ID and I also know my password and even I’m surprised by that, yet my phone was telling me I didn’t know it. When I walked through the door of the Apple store, several employees now familiar with me, one of the nicer guys helped get me sorted out on the Apple ID issue which really wasn’t an Apple ID issue at all, but rather, was an issue with no credit card being on file (I hadn’t gotten that far on loading my phone with credit cards etc. at that point.). But before he realized that, he asked me if I was SURE I had put the password in correctly and maybe I should try it again, you know… just in case? Followed by “are you sure that’s your password?” Do you think he says that to the 24 year-old woman who has a similar problem? I’m proud to say the problem wasn’t me not knowing my password. That gave me a real sense of pride because I know the answer they usually get when they ask anyone over 50 if they know their Apple ID password.

I remember once many years ago going to a concert at an outdoor venue with several of our friends from the neighborhood. We were all in our early 40’s and although we looked every bit of 21, you had to have an ID to get the wrist band that would allow alcohol purchases. One of the women with us didn’t happen to have her driver’s license with her and her husband told her to just show her Jones Store credit card because only old people shopped at the Jones Store. Not only was he funny, but he was right. The Jones Store was always a favorite among the moms and I don’t mean MY group of moms, I mean OUR moms. That thought came up as I was leaving Apple. We were already placing judgement on our ages in our 40’s – we had no idea what going into an Apple store that is so uber hip that there isn’t even a check out counter, would feel like 20 years later in our 60’s! Humbling comes to mind first.

I thought about my parents’ frequent trips to either T-Mobile or the Apple store and my frustrations with them when trying to help them with passwords or the ever tricky Apple ID, which is a whole other story. I feel the frustrations with them that my own kids, and the nice guy at Apple, felt with me. The learning curve on technology is getting steeper and steeper and I don’t feel like I’m in the right footwear most of the time to make the climb. Maybe if they sold Apple computers at the Jones Store (which I don’t think is in business anymore…), I’d feel more at home or more confident.

I know that when that nice guy that helped me goes home to his wife or his husband or his roommate or his little brother and one of them asks how his day was – (just typing that makes it sound unlikely but for the sake of the story, bear with me), he might talk about yet another “grandma lady” who couldn’t figure out her phone… you know, the usual stuff. My go to when I’m feeling inadequate, insecure, behind the curve or in an Apple store needing help, is to want to respond to the tech’s questions that I don’t understand, with something I do understand – like yarn overs and cables in knitting, or what plants are the best for a xeriscape garden or which nearby trails offer the best views, but it doesn’t work like that. It was like when I had to answer an essay question in one of my classes in college that I didn’t know the answer to, but instead, would write paragraphs about what I did know. I didn’t answer the question asked, but would show the professor that I had studied – just the wrong stuff. I never got credit for those efforts, although I always did get comments.

I feel like my generation is the sandwich generation when it comes to technology. My kids, rather than teach me what to do, will just ask me to hand over my phone, my iPad, my computer then will go in and out of screens, type in some stuff and voila it’s fixed. I do the same with my parents, albeit on a much simpler level. My parents, on the other hand, although they use the technology they have and text and email and even wander over to Facebook on occasion, would be just as happy to get the phone call or the printed photos in an envelope in the mail rather than on their computer. I want the technology, but don’t want to have to go in very deep on keeping up with the changes. I guess that makes me sound old – like a sales rack shopper at the Jones Store. So be it. Until my phone breaks again, or there’s a glitch on my computer or anything with buttons and lights, I don’t know what I don’t know, although I can sure type paragraphs about stuff I do know, if the need ever arises.

 

No.  I didn’t lose my cat.  I don’t even have a cat, but while walking into the grocery store a few weeks ago, this sign struck me so much that I decided I needed a photo of it on my way out.

I hope the owners of the cat haven’t lost hope and better yet, have had their lost cat returned to them and forgot the small detail of removing the sign.  It’s hard to lose things, especially things dear to you, and even worse when those things aren’t ever found.  My brother-in-law’s philosophy on losing stuff is that when you find it, you’ll love it even more than before losing it.  I’ve tested this theory, multiple times, and its valid.  It also has you keeping just a little better track of those lost and now found items, partly because you love them even more now that they’ve been found.

So as I wandered through the grocery store where I saw this sign,  I couldn’t get the “lost” part off my mind.    I seem to be spending more and more time these days looking for lost things and although I know a very big part of this is simply that I’m not present and am doing more than one thing at a time.  I suppose age is most likely a factor, then again, this behavior began when I started having kids,  so age doesn’t get all of the credit.  Distraction and multitasking are the perfect environment for stuff to get lost.

I do too many things at once, a holdover from a time when I had 3 kids under the age of 5.  My Mom once found a full cup of coffee in my linen closet.

“Oh, hey, thanks, Mom!   I was looking for that!”

No doubt I was talking on the phone, nursing a baby or putting towels away when the coffee went missing,  most likely all three.  Full cups of coffee are easy to replace.  Treasures, not so much.   I guess it only seems like it’s the treasures we lose because honestly, who cares about the other stuff, unless it’s something you don’t care all that much about but vitally need – car keys, driver’s licenses, the charger to your phone.   It’s the good lost stuff that gets search energy and although much of it I know is probably lost forever, I still find myself randomly looking under the bed or through coat pockets, always with hope.

My Patagonia hat.  The hat I actually bought in the El Calafate airport  in Patagonia when I realized it was going to be colder than I had anticipated. It’s not a color I would have ever bought, but it fit and instantly became a favorite.  I wore that hat for 4 years and then it was gone.  I actually wore it to bed when I had a bout with the flu, not because my head was cold, but because it made me feel better.  When I realized it was gone, I retraced my steps, not many as I was sick and only left the house once, but had no success.  I ended up having to make up my own happy ending for the hat to give me the needed resolve.   I took it off when I got into my car in the store parking lot  and it fell out as I was shuffling bags of groceries.  Someone who did not have a hat on that cold winter day found it and has been wearing it ever since.  That story makes me happy,  but I still miss my hat.  I’m sure I could find another just as great, just as warm, just as wonderful Patagonia replacement hat, but honestly, I’ve not even looked.  It wouldn’t have come from the gift shop at the airport in El Calafate, and that’s the part that makes me sad.

My ring.  My silver ring with the Peruvian symbol of Mother Earth on its long rectangular front.  Gone.  And probably never to be found, but I can’t say that  I have lost all hope on that one.   It disappeared after I was at an out of town wedding and for years I insisted it was in the back seat of my son’s car (who drove to the wedding).  He insisted it wasn’t.  The car was sold last year and he insured me that he did a thorough check before letting go of it.  I’m sure he did.  I had been in his car several times since the ring went missing and every time I was in the back seat, he’d remind me that it wasn’t there after seeing me subtly digging my hand down between the seats.  So with the car possibility out, my only other sliver of hope was attached to either my washing machine or the dryer, thinking that maybe I had left it in a jeans pocket when doing the laundry.  I got my answer on the washing machine when I had to have it serviced and the serviceman told me he had found some things in my washing machines mechanism, which was the cause of the malfunction.  I held my breath with anticipation.  Four rusted pennies, a bobby pin,  and a hunk of something gross that I actually dug through with a screw driver before it was disposed of, but sadly,  no ring.  Ironically, my now son-in-law was living in Cusco, Perú at the time and I gave serious thought to directing him to the very store where it was purchased to inquire about another one for me, but I didn’t know my ring size and it was starting to feel a bit like a wild goose chase.  Besides, would a replacement really fill the bill?  I’m not sure.

I’ve emptied drawers, moved furniture, gone deep underneath my car seats with a flash light (a word of caution on that one – there’s some scary stuff under there) and have resorted to my Catholic friend’s advice of calling on Saint Anthony for help, but I still have a handful of treasures that remain on the missing list.

I just finished reading a book about a man who collects lost things (most bordering on trash) and makes up stories about their history and how they became lost. It was creatively clever and creepy at the same time, especially that he had a room in his house where he stored all of the lost “treasures.”   Reading that book had me wondering where exactly my things have ended up.  Did someone pick up my ring and wonder what in the world that was on the from of it and where it came from?   I guess my hat was kind of self explanatory.

The best way for me to deal with what seems to be a growing list of lost treasures is to simply let them go and move on and hope they have all found a nice home, but then I see a lost cat sign and rings and hats and even a lost coat come to mind as I fill my cart with groceries.

Included in the  lost item searches and the incredible amount of time I have wasted looking for them,  ( my phone being the current champ), I have to include in that time sucking list the many things I’ve looked for that don’t exist.  Case in point, one of my favorite Christmas wreaths.  After wasting a lot of time digging through Christmas boxes while muttering…”who loses their Christmas wreath????”, I remembered.  My wreath  became a nest and the home for a growing family of robins early last spring.  Those kind of finds feel good.  Case solved.  Move on and go buy a replacement.  Or there’s the time I spent far too much time looking for a bracelet that I had forgotten I had given to my sister.  Again.  Case solved.  Move on.  My sister, Susan, can attest to the amount of time and energy I dedicated to items  I “lost” while on the Camino, only to be found moments later in the bottom of my pack.  It seems impossible to lose something when you only had a dozen or so items you were traveling with, but it happened and far too often.  On one of our last days of walking the Camino, when that lost item was my passport,  I realized from her frustrations with me that this was indeed something that happened far too often especially given that none of those “lost” items were even lost at all.  By the way, after finding my passport, which wasn’t at the bottom of my pack, but rather on the counter at the pilgrim office in Santiago, I came to love it even more and take far more care with it than I used to.

On the flip side of the lost of course are the found and is it possible that if the finds outnumber the losts, the lost will remain lost?  You know, karma-wise?  Many years ago, when I was living in Phoenix,  my sister, Robin, and I found a lock box (unlocked) in a small storage shed behind our apartment unit.  It clearly had belonged to previous tenants and was accidentally left behind and from the age of it, it looks like it could have been several tenants ago.  We checked in with the manager of the apartment complex and she said it was ours now.  The box was filled with sterling silver souvenir spoons; a collection that included most of the states, along with some random ones from other countries.   At a time when we were both living paycheck to paycheck, often coming up short, that, and the high price of silver at the time, were the perfect combination and honestly, a dream come true for the both of us.  As much as I wanted to keep the beautiful set, neither one of us really could afford that option and so I started shopping around Phoenix for the highest bidder.   As I recall, the spoons brought around  $300, but it felt like thousands at the time when funds were so very tight for the both of us.  My only regret is that I didn’t save one of spoons, perhaps the Arizona one, simply for the memory.  I’ve often wondered, while looking for my own cherished items, if the owner of those spoons ever wondered what happened to them?  Did he/she give up on the search or did they simply forget about them?  If I could, I’d reassure that previous owner that the spoons were sold to the owner of a very nice antique shop in downtown Phoenix.  I chose his shop over several others because  he had a number tattooed on his forearm  arm and when he saw me looking over at his rolled up sleeve, he offered me a chair and shared his story with me.  Even the memory of that day seems so random to me —  sitting in an antique store in downtown Phoenix, selling found souvenir spoons to a Holocaust survivor with a story to tell me.   The spoons ended up in a much better place than a metal storage locker behind a garden apartment.  Those spoons became the proceeds that  bought my airline ticket to the next place I called home in Alaska.

So if karma hasn’t quite evened out on the lost and found in my life, that’s OK.  Maybe the ring and the hat are like my souvenir spoons and are helping someone else out.

Oh, and the cat?  Well, the sign is no longer hanging on the door of my grocery store, so I’m going to assume that there was a happy ending.  I’m also concluding that its owners love their cat  even more now that it’s been found, because that’s how it always works.