The Time Traveler's Wife, 2 copies, Goodwill, 12/29

I suppose, more than anything, Jane, that this blog, The Librarian's Fifth Wife, has been a place for me to share a small taste of our times with the world. When you returned my letters and poems to me back in October of '06 you told me to do whatever I wanted with them. You were sure that I wouldn't give them to another woman, but I think that you secretly wished that I would publish them someday. I won't mention that you said to burn them if I wanted to. I didn't. I couldn't and as far as I can tell, even with a firm date in mind I will more than likely put that task off indefinitely.

Sharing our times is something different than what I first had in mind to do. I don't want to say that I was unloading baggage, because that isn't quite what I felt about what we experienced. It wasn't heaviness I wanted to dispell; heavy is the way that large stones or other heavy things can be when they are carted around and I never felt weighed down by it all. It wasn't even a burden, least ways, not to me. Others may have thought so and have wished for me to drop all of this ages ago, but, well, I couldn't. I wasn't to ready to at the time.

No, it wasn't so much a burden as it was a sweet, sweet sorrow that I've been carting around, and unfortunately it dogged all the other good and important things that have come through my life over the last two and a half years. Not that we both didn't feel it. The Mexican in me revelled in it, made that hurt oh so good, but truly meaningless to those around me. And you, well, I see you carry it around a bit differently. You've made piece with our times and held back on the sorrow and have buried those days, that love, deep down inside, instead. But it's hard to hide, as I see it in your face everytime we meet. But I could tell that by carting around that old love of ours, by seeking you out, by constantly reminding you of it, that I wasn't allowing you to go forward, either. Not a good thing, then, for either of us.

Last night after work I went to Goodwill to find some extra ramikins for a New Year's Eve supper I was planning on attending. I was going to make creme brulee. It was going to be a small get together, a reprise of that lovely dinner party that I threw a couple months ago. That it was cancelled due to illness is besides the point. I have a life again, and I am happy.

While I was shopping around I kept finding things that reminded me of you. Prints, or bowls or books, stuff, castoffs from somebody else's life that I picked up for you at one time. Made me think. All those things that I still have hanging around the house, stuff supposedly imbued with magical powers, were things just sitting around in a second hand store waiting for other people to buy them. They were just that..things..and they didn't bite or hurt or emit any kind of emotion, none of that, when I picked them up to see if they were the ones that I had given you.

Afterwards I felt sort of silly to have done that, especially with that one particular title. How many copies of the Time Traveler's Wife are there out there, anyway? I have recommended it over and over again these last few years. Between me and Oprah and Costco and bookgroups we have helped make a tidy profit for the author, and littered the Kitsap with hundreds of copies of that book.

Yeah, that book. The Time Traveler's Wife. It was the centerpiece of the December '05 Calcopo Bookclub. A wonderful book to finish up the year with. Yeah, one more wonderful thing to add to the stack, as that month was all about wonderful things. That day trip to Seattle, complete with a Cheesecake Factory lunch and a behind the scenes tour of SPL's new downtown branch. We celebrated your birthday, exchanged presents, listened to ABBA, talked on the phone and exchanged emails over the miles. It was a grand month. Calcopo was to be the topper. I had only expected that we would eat and talk as usual. You would watch me open presents, then send you home. Happy New Year to us both.

Finding copies of that book the way I did yesterday would have sent me into a talespin a couple years ago. I think I would have openly sobbed. But yesterday I knew that that day, December 30th, 2005, was now just another day in my life. A good day, a wonderful day, a red letter day, but now just another one that I can pause and reflect upon as I march forward in life.

We met after work. It was a Friday that year. We always had four or five hours culled out of our busy life once a month for bookgroup. We took a short walk down to the Golden Chef on Bay Street. It was a rainy night, and the restaurant was quiet. We ordered, sitting side by side, Mu Shu pork and Happy Family and Broccoli Beef. We had our stack of books in front of us, props to a play. We came to talk about everything but books. We had a lifetime to talk about books.

I ate there the other day. Christmas Day. Did I feel funny finally going back to that place, eating supper there with some other woman? No. In fact I loved my meal that night. I wanted to eat Chinese on Christmas, and my friend helped make it happen. Nothing more.

But we thought, that night, that there was. Something more. We were celebrating my birthday, too. No cake, just talk. We walked home once again, in the rain, side by side, doing our best to stay dry. Came back to a quiet house. Curled up on the loveseat, and popped in The Snowman. You couldn't watch that film at home because no one ever wanted to watch it with you. It was, and still is, one of my favorite animated pieces of all time. I watched it, finally, the other night with my fellow snowbound guests. I couldn't before. It was too loaded up with charms from that evening. But I did, and in a small, distracted sort of way, thought of you. Of us, sitting side by side on that rainy night. It was dark, and we were all too close, but in a good way. It had to go somewhere.

I suppose I can't go too much forward with this memory dump. Only a cad would. We were never going to be a notch in anyone's pistol, and certainly wouldn't be that night. But let it be said that you were a light load to carry, and that the words you shared with me that night were both personal and ones that have left a scar on my heart for life. You said those three magical words to me that night, M, not just once, but twice, as is your fashion when you say things that are meaningful to you. I was awed, and honored, and humbled. And at the same time, made yours for life.

So, know that I, too, can finally unload and share those books now that I had set aside from our Calcopo days. Know that I can now watch The Snowman, eat Chinese down on Bay Street, make cheesecakes, wear that lovely Pendleton scarf you gave me, all of it, and not falter. I can do those things because the charm we wove has finally been broken. I can move forward knowing that what we shared was good, better than good. The best. It has helped me to be a better man, one more in tune with myself and life, one more inclined to grow and say no and yes to things that truly matter.

Matter. We did, and still do. Some things, unlike books and bowls and that sweet, silly kingfisher bookmark, we will carry the rest of our days. I will always carry you and that love we shared right here, here in my heart, and honor those times all my days.

Thank you, Jane, for everything. A good life and a Happy New Year to you.

Love, your WHMB

Art imitating life: Shirley Hughes picture book, 12/27

I went out yesterday for the first time since the snow storms subsided. I never was able to do the last of my Christmas shopping for the kids because I was pretty much snowbound for almost a week and a half. I was finally able to drive my car off the hill and down the alley, and for me, that was truly liberating. Overall I didn't suffer much during that storm period. I had a friend and her daughter stay with me while their power was out. I had a guest for Christmas. Everything I needed was close by, within walking distance, or already stored away in my home. I never felt trapped, just inconvenienced for a little awhile.

I suppose I could look at life my life like that, too. I have been in a state where I was temporarily inconvenienced. Snowed in by my own mind. Unfortunately that chilling effect spilled out and over into my life and into the lives of others around me. But it was defining, helped me understand my strengths and what I had to work on in order to dig myself out. It helped me to see who and what was important, and now, years later, who and what I had to let go of in order to move on, get back into the sunshine of life.

I found a book yesterday, one that I will be passing along to the kids in Boise. It's a picture book by Shirley Hughes, a British illustrator and children's writer. Stories by Firelight. One of the tales revolves around the burning of a Christmas tree, as well as burning off old letters and such that the elderly grandfather felt was time to let go of. His words in the story, about how those precious memories were in his heart and his mind and that the papers and train tickets and letters and such were incidental, struck a chord in me. I felt the same. That it was time to unload, let go, burn away the dross and things that no longer were worthy of holding onto.

So, to that end, I brought down the satchel, the one that I've been going through and sharing here this last month. I put away our photos and such about the same time I started writing here, most certainly and completely after I saw you on the street back in November. It was time, then, to stow it all away, but now, even more so, it's time to unpack it, and let the anchor slip away.

An inventory of such things is important. I picked up that bag and had to wonder what was in it that was so heavy. What was so important to me that I wanted to carry around such weight? I know that you stopped holding onto old stuff ages ago. I know for certain because I found things in the second hand store last summer. That should have been enough for me to do the same. And now I will. But for the sake of lists, let me put down what I have in that bag, should you ever stumble across this.

Let's see..

..one pewter key chain fob. Oh, cheesecake madness, and boundless familiarity of handing over to you my housekeys.
..one Rubix cube. You turned that one over in your head many times. Apparently you figured it out.
..an expensively framed print of a Kingfisher, done up for your last day at the Port Orchard Branch. Fly away to Goodwill, will you, please?
..an interesting late 40's, early 50's print of a woman looking towards the mess of her kitchen, and the man, apres dinner, sitting off in the living room in the comfort of his easy chair. Remind you of anybody you know? Has The Detective gone back to his old ways now that he's comfortable and has you locked down again? I can't imagine why not.
..a kingfisher bookmark you made for me from a coffee table book I pointed out to you. No more marked books for you, buster.
..a small frame that held that curry tasting photo. No mas, gracias.
..one tropical shirt, one that has seen better days. Last starred in that photo took on that return trip from WALE in the mountains before the snow storm hit. I feel cold just looking at it.
..4 Calcopo titles: Love in the Time of Cholera, Five Quarters of the Orange (oh, the finish to that one..opera on the couch!), Corelli's Mandolin ("they were lovers in the old fashioned sense..") and The Time Traveler's Wife (more on that one in the upcoming, final missive).
..one Golden Chef menu, long outdated.
..one package of caps for a capgun. Gosh, Holly, that little pal of mine.
..one black satin ribbon the was wrapped around a box of green tea. August 27th, 2005. Black ribbon, how fitting.
..one framed print of two pileated woodpeckers. That whole birding thing changed my life for the better, thank you, but the print has to go.
..one glow in the dark gizmo of two hands held in a prayer mode ("I pray for you every day"). Thanks, but no thanks, keep your prayers to yourself.
..one tape copied from a tape I made for that Captain Nemo's trunk back in June (referenced in Accumulate Man). I'll play it only because I liked the music before anything else.
..another small picture frame, this one housing a photo shard of us kissing in the kitchen on your birthday (I can tell from the flowers. Red carnations.)
..a tape of La Boheme highlights. Pity you couldn't go. I know, I know, how would you have explained that?
..one Gustav Klimt calendar from 2006. The year started out great, and ended with me in the arms of my children back in that cold old little house of mine on New Year's Eve. But that calendar is marked with days that I would rather forget, so it has to go.
..your binder from the WALE conference filled with all my old letters and notes to you.
..one Pendelton scarf box filled with all your remaining letters and notes to me.
..one pewter "coffee lover" pin that I found at Goodwill but never gave you ("how would I explain that?") You kick started that whole coffee thing with me again. I was happy drinking green tea before. Maybe it'll be my New Year's thing. Green tea. Lord knows I could use it again.)
..one Rite Aid drop off photo envelope filled with photo negatives. Lots of pictures of my kids on those negatives, all those trips to Boise back in '05 and '06. Won't unload those anytime soon.
..one manila envelope used for the United Way campaign with your handwriting, which is filled with pieces of this and that and the other.
..one manila envelope filled with photo shards, an ASD Port Orchard photo and black and white copies of photos from the first staff day you attended. You got my attention that day. Somehow it was already going someplace even back then, wasn't it?

Where most of this stuff will go remains to be seen. The books, well, I'll pass them along to the Friends. The prints can go to Goodwill. The picture frames I can use again. The shirt is about too small anymore and can go away, too. The photos I can burn if only because, well, I still have the negatives. Our words are the only thing I will store away for awhile longer. They don't quite have the same impact as they used to, but later on, like that character in the Shirley Hughes story, I'll find the right place and the right time to burn them, too.

Let's put in on the calendar, shall we? August 27. Sumner. Loyalty Park. It's a date.

Meanwhile, let's get out and about and go play in that sunshine. The snows have melted from the streets and my heart as well. Love, if not some semblance of a future springtime, is in the air once again.

Yours WHMB

PS..and to think this never happened and that everything is finding it's way not only into our book but into a very safe and secure box, instead (10/09)

"Adios, Mi Vida" Texas Tornados, Day after Christmas, '08

All the old totems are falling. All the things that I held sacred, that I wished for you are going by the wayside. You are slowly but surely being replaced, which is something that you wished for. It's not going the way that you wanted, that's for sure. Hell, it didn't go the way that anyone wanted, but that's life.

Christmas has gone by us once again. I thought of you, my old dear, many times yesterday as I danced with the ghosts of Christmas past. I have to wonder how you braved the snow, if The Detective got your Christmas lights up, if you made it back to Colorado or not. I have to wonder if you had your artificial tree up, or whether you bought a fresh one, but then again, if I knew you were going out of state I would know the answer to that.

I have to wonder what presents you got for Christmas, if your household was filled up with guests on your 45th birthday, if you have big New Year's Eve plans or whether things have gone back to "normal", a form of normal that'll find you in bed before midnight, listening attentively for horses that will never come.

I have to wonder if all the dreams you had for yourself, dreams that took out out and about in the world, with a degree, in a more secular workplace, in the arms of a man who would have placed you first for once, are as cold and dead as the leaves under the snow behind your house. I wonder, too, if your house and hearth are as warm as you wished for, as was promised you, two summers and a half a year ago. I wonder, I wonder.

But what I don't wonder about is my life right now. I know for certain that that satchel is stashed well away, that places that we once visited and gave our business to are being trodded on by new feet. I know that those things I wanted to do with you are now being sidetracked and replaced with new adventures with someone new in my life that in my wildest dreams I never expected to be there.

But, then again, I felt that "never in my wildest dreams" thing about you, too.

Yet, they are all so different, those feelings.

Our old feelings. Small, put away, almost trifles, now, but they never seem to go completely away, do they?

But, like the singer sang out in that Texas Tornado song I just heard a moment ago, I must say goodbye to you, my life. I must say goodbye so I can live life again to it's fullest.

Funny how the years pass and it's only been time, not you, not the Estranged one, not my children or my work or anything else, that has lessened the pain. But time, my friend, my ally, has stood by me, watched over me, helped me grow, helped me get over you and past all the hurt and anguish. Has helped me stop wondering so much about you and had me start dreaming about possibilities all over again.

And that sense of time, time that I once so willing gave over to you? Well, it now belongs to me, and to my children, and...well, to my new friend, too.

Damn it, M. It's all about living. Not being shackled to a God, or a dogma, or guilt. It was, and is, all about life.

And baby, I am all about life. Like that character Anselmo said in For the Bell Tolls, "I am a old man and I will live until the day I die". But I am not an old man yet. And I have traded in that ten year plan I was going to give you for a thirty year one. What do you think about that? Is that life affirming enough for you?

So, to a new year. We are almost upon it. The last story to this long story comes in the next installment and this tale, this long, long tale of love and sorrow and a life together missed, will finally rest. See you on my birthday, M.

Love, it's all in the telling.

Yours WHMB

Phone call in the Blues, December '05

I'm looking out my window right now and watching the snow fall and realizing that all the things that I did and shared and felt with you are still impacting my life as much as that snow that has had me locked down in this comfy house Port Orchard. It is not for want of trying on your part, that's for sure. You gave me notice years ago, but nevertheless for years I felt that I had to wear the mantle, be your knight errant, be the mascot of this strange and forbidden thing that we shared.

I think it was clear to me, this whole misbegotten mission of mine, when I saw you, after one of my long distance trips to California. I ran into you on that school route of yours, in the parking lot below Big Lots. I had just received an email letter from you the day before, one where you asked yourself, in the last line, if you would do it all over again. I had to find out.

But it took a trip to California and back for you to ask that question, for you to write me, to breathe deeply and be thankful for my safe return. It was a somewhat hairy trip, but I arrived safe and sound and was able to celebrate the New Year and my birthday in the comfort of my little house with all my kids about.

It was, oh so much different than the year before, but that's what happens when a year goes by and life takes over. Life has taken a path that you and I could have never forseen. It has gone places that even in my wildest dreams I would have never hoped or dreamed for, but sometimes that is best. To leave the dreams alone and let life, and all it strangeness, wonderfulness, take over. Sort of like when you walked in the door of the Port Orchard meeting room that day, way back in '03. Things happen, or they don't, but when they do, when people connect, when hearts that are shared are real...well, then.

Love happened. No apologies there. It just did.

So I look out the window and think of a novel I was flipping through the other day. The lead character seemed to be somewhat hapless in love, or at least, in keeping his homelife together. Somehow the gods delivered that book and that passage to me. The man in the book was the victim of a wife who came and went out of his life fairly regularly. Somewhere along the line he met and fell in love with a completely inappropriate woman, but then again, there it goes. In the end he loses both of them, finds a way to make his relationship with his kid the best he can, then moves on with life. But it was a line he shared with his father that really kicked me in the head. The man goes to see his pop, who at this point in the story is in the hospital, and Pop asks his son how his wife is. "Oh, she's gone". "Gone again? For good this time?" says Pop. "Yup", says the the son. "But why?" "Well, I fell in love with another woman", says the son. "That'll do it every time" says Pop.

Yep, that'll do it every time.

Silly, I know, but I had to honor that of ours love, too. Can't love two women at once.

I know it was all about loving you that Christmas day when I was beating feet over and across Oregon and The Blue Mountains, trying to beat the snow home. I know I was honoring that love of ours when I found that turnout above the town and made my way back into La Grande just to hear your words coming in all the way from Arizona. I know that I was honoring some sort of code when I took on my birthday that year with a new stance, a new outlook in life. Never mind that we wouldn't last out the year, but those feelings, those words, that mission to honor what we shared and what we were went on until the following new year, and beyond.

I know that my mission was sound when I saw you in that parking lot below Big Lots that morning, because I found out that you felt the same way. Even before you got up to me, I knew. But it was reinforced and turned into mythology that day when you told me, unbiden, that yes, you "would do it all over again". You said it twice, without me having to say a thing. And baby, I believed you then, and I believe you now.

And I would do it all over again, too, even if it meant having to relive all this heartache, this joy, this wonderment, one more time.

Merry Christmas, M. Life and all it's goodness has moved upward and onward, and so have we. Miss you all the same, but only because. Well, you know.

Your WHMB

Rubber rug rake, Kitsap County Fairground Home Expo

I have a small house on the property, which everyone calls a cottage, but that's not what I call it. The Little House is what I named it when I lived in it a couple years back. I took on that small space as my home with the family returned from it's initial Boise exile a couple years back. I proceeded to make that wee joint my home, and loaded it up with kitchen appliances, stereo gear, a wireless computer and every other conceivable comfort of home. The only thing I didn't have was a vacuum cleaner. My mom sent me cash for one the winter before but for the sake of maintenance in The Big House I left it behind. I had a rug rake and that was sufficient enough tool for one man.

We picked up those rakes back in February, or possibly March, of '06. I have the receipt around somewhere. I suppose that's what kicked off this post. That receipt. I came across a bag of them, well, a full out bag of stuff from that winter and spring, stuffed away in a dresser drawer. It jogged my memory of the day we picked up those tools. The memories of that day are a bit mixed. I suppose it started out well at Pat's that morning. Breakfast is always a good thing, but as always, we ate like criminals on the run. In the back room, with our backs to the wall, our eyes on the front door. All we were lacking were a brace of six-guns, a string of horses out by the kitchen and three day stubble on our chins. Well, on my chin anyway. I remember the bread being fresh, the coffee hot and weak, and you being just wonderful. Time has a way of doing that. Throwing a sparkle on things.

We had an assignment to do that morning. Home Expo, Kitsap Fairgrounds, KRL booth, a set up and then relief at two. The library had extra staff there and so we had time to wander around, see the goods that other vendors brought in to sell. I saw these cool rubber rakes being demonstrated and we went back after our shift and picked up two of them, one for me, one for you. Funny how things, strange things like those rakes, come into your life, and then, without really thinking too hard about them, stick around for a long while afterwards. We finished out our shift and on the way out of the fairgrounds saw Kaydee, a colleague of ours preparing for her afternoon gig. "Oh, you must be Roger's Jane!" she said to us. A somewhat strange thing to hear, I suppose, since we thought our relationship was still pretty much undercover and not quite that transparent, but then again, maybe we were out there. Maybe the world knew about us and we just didn't clue in. Or maybe secretly we did, and we rejoiced in it. All the same it was odd and wonderful all at the same time to hear our names spoken together so publicly. We loved out loud that day and didn't even know it.

That would have negated that mission of yours to turn me onto Rascal Flatts and and have me listen to that song of theirs that you wanted me to hear, "I want to love you out loud". Apparently we already had. But on that day you were going off to visit friends and I was going back home to clean and take a walk. That afternoon our very public love became somewhat silent. If I remember correctly I took on my rugs with that rake that afternoon, but it wasn't until I moved into the little house that it really came into play. But by then that rake was just another reminder of our folly, another piece of flotsam from our adventures washed up on the shore of my life, another reminder of you, a tangible tool that worked all too well at dregging up feelings and sweeping up messes at the same time.

I was talking to a friend the other night and we were surprised to learn that we've both shared similar patterns in our lives in regards to friends we've chosen to share our hearts with. She was telling me about how, at the end of a torturous affair, she burned everything that that man had given her, well everything that could be put to the torch. I think she was surprised that I've managed to hang onto things, still had our satchel, still had the notes you wrote me and all the photos of our life around. Maybe it is odd, I don't know.

All those things could be somewhat meaningless, in the end, if what you have in your heart is bitter or wrecked in some way. I never felt that way. But I can see her point. All those other things, like that rake and it's ilk, will someday find their way out of places like my little house and out of my life. I know that that satchel will eventually find a home in my old footlocker in the basement. It's time is coming. I told myself New Year's Day, and I mean it. It needs to move on, settle out, go away. If it could talk I am sure that it would agree with me.

Doesn't mean that I won't think of you and our times fondly. It just means that things like that rubber floor rake have outlived their totemic power. I'll just use the vacuum from here on out.

Fondly, your WHMB

Blue geode, Denver souvenir, spring '06

I must admit that it was a mighty pretty rock, that sparkling blue stone you picked up for me in Denver. I've had it now, what, almost three years now? But I have to tell you, M, that it's gotten to be just a bit too heavy for me to carry around anymore. I think I need to set it down for awhile.

I built a fireplace mantle during the fall and winter of your internal upheaval and placed it there for all to see. "Wait! Back up!" you say, "Internal upheaval?" I don't know what else to call it, other than it was something raging beneath the surface of your skin back in April of '06, like a strange tropical virus or infestation of mites. Something that caused all sorts of issues with your spleen and stomach and pulse rate. You tried to solve it with deep thought, and attempted to look at from afar. I think you may have given it the Rubix Cube treatment for awhile, and you even talked with a girlfriend or two about it all, but I think, in the end, that all that musing and wondering and depth plumbing held no mud. It yielded nothing, I suppose, but more of the same for you, and in the end, a rock for me.

I have to wonder, when you boarded that plane in Denver, the one that was going to take you back home to your uncertain and fractuous life, what it was that you were thinking about the most..that rock and small items that you successfully snagged along the way to give to me and how you were going to explain them if they were found in your luggage, or what you were going to tell The Detective when he saw you wearing that new diamond ring you picked up for yourself during your week long visit to Colorado Springs.

When you told me that story, how you went into that antique store and put your foot down, saw that baubble and figured that you could buy it because, well, after all, you earned that money, I had to laugh. You told me that tale after you had passed along to me that handful of items you picked up for me in Denver...a pack of Colorado playing cards, a few brouchures from a traveling science exhibit you attended, and that half a geode. I wasn't laughing because of your gesture..really, considering all, that's about all it was... but more, it was due that Peanuts line I had going round in my head from that old Charlie Brown cartoon. It was from that Great Pumpkin special, where Charlie Brown goes around trick or treating and he looks in his bag and finds out, that instead of candy, all he got was a rock.

You got the diamonds, buddy, and I got the rock. How fitting.

But it was a pretty day that day, that day you passed along that geode to me. The clematis was still in bloom. It was sunny out, a pleasant afternoon to be sitting on that rickity old park bench in my backyard. I had refreshments out for us, too, still doing my best to please you. You had finished up a Sunday shift at the branch and were heading home. We had a long week apart, a week full of real time emails, with you in Colorado, me at the WLA convention in Tacoma. That part was exciting, but when you attempted to tell your mother about what was going on in your heart, you were immediately shut down and once again had to become the dutiful daughter. What a week for you. But I'm glad, too, for what it wrought. A final, wild one week blast of run ins for us and the finest of all Calcopo bookclub meets. But that was all coming up. For the moment we had sunshine, and about fifteen minutes to share.

And what you shared with me was that geode. And something more I suppose. A bit of heaviness, a touch of sadness. All the weight that a rock could afford.

That rock was still up on my mantle as of the first of this month. I took it down and put it away when the Christmas decorations came out. But I think, when the season is all wrapped up and Christmas decor is all stored away once again for the year that that rock you gave me will find it's way into the canvas satchel, just like all those other things you gave me, things that have reminded me, day in and day out, of you. Yeah, it's time to put it and those memories away.

It was nice for awhile, certainly, to have those things out. Reminders of better times. Items with substance, touchstones of mirth. All of them solid, just like that rock. But like that rock they have anchored me in the past. I have noticed things disappearing into that bag lately, sort of like a reverse magic trick, and for that I am happy. It was about time. Long overdue. More than necessary.

I just finished up a novel this morning, something that you and I might have gotten around to reading if we still had Calcopo up and running. Shadow of the Wind. Mighty good read. But what central to that story were two significant threads: the need to let go, and the need to honor and respect the past. The big trick for the characters in the novel was how to do that, how to let go of the past before the past poisoned their souls. Redemption, love, terror, tragedy, heartache, all of it were there in that book. But it was that letting go thread that really sunk it's teeth into me. Something I've needed to read and see and live and learn for a long time now.

So I am. Letting go. Starting with that rock.

Into the bag with you.

Oh, yes..you can keep that rock of yours, too. But somehow I get this feeling that it's not really so much a ring upon your finger as much as it is a millstone hanging around your neck.

Your WHMB

Post script: and for what it's worth, that rock, that polished half a geode, is now back up on my mantle. Silly man. Brave heart. Fondly, your WHMB

The better part of valor: items undelivered, 12/12/08

Packages not wrapped. Phone calls not made. Letters not left at the front desk. We have finally reached some sort of place in the whole scheme of things, the place where letters and packages and phone calls would be more of an intrusion than appreciated, where long distance looks and signs left by the side of the road and paths crossed might bring on more headaches than heartache. There is no doubt in my heart that our time has passed, and then, when I think of books not passed along, words not shared, laughter surpressed, I think that it's okay that I still do stupid things, like buy books and write letters and shelve those moments away for you. Why? Because banked fires die slowly, and even candles, left to their own devices, gutter out when their time is up.

Let the flames go out on their own. You, my dear, did your best to blow them out years ago and it barely worked for you. But birthdays and anniversaries come on their own, calendars have no sense of decorum, of rules, of false boundaries. Time knows nothing of jealousies, of heartache, or of wrinkles on our faces. It just passes, and passes along options on how it can best be dealt with.

This time your birthday was handled with grace and dignity. I left all those things behind, not on your step or in your mailbox or someplace public for all to see, but just here, in this little note. A copy of a Donna Hay cookbook. A letter in my document box. A cheesecake turned into a contest taste treat for the household and friends alike. Face it, it would have been all too dramatic and sad, anyway. The holidays are about ready to spring. My words here are winding down. The satchel is about empty of things to share, but then, maybe, before the end of the year, which is almost upon us, I'll dump it out and do a final inventory. Wrap this up, go on with new things.

See, I still have that moment to relate, that night of The Snowman, of The Time Traveler's Wife. A rainy night of stolen time, of loveseats and bird feeders and bookclubs and such. It fills up such a large part of that bag, you see. It is really the biggest part of the tale, the largest stakeholder in this time thing that I have been working on so hard illuminating.

And so, for the moment, I will save it. It is a New Year's Eve story, as you know, and we are still weeks away from that. As for Christmas, well, you and I have things to do. I suppose you may be going soon, and as for me, I'll ship The Boy out in a few days to his mother in Boise. So much for the better.

What we started oh so long ago I remained true to. I gave you my heart but now the action/reaction of those days are finally upon me. Thank God. I couldn't have gone forward with my life if not for you and that gift you gave me on the eve of my birthday oh so long ago. It was truly the best of presents, and because of that gift, those words, that act, that I held back last week. That I kept those presents and notes and words for you to myself.

I didn't need to share them. You already know how I feel, who I was thinking of all through the day. But you, keeper of one hellaciously packed Captain Nemo trunk, and mistress of words spoken, ones silently and knowingly stored away in your heart, are still the psychic receiver of those thoughts and feelings and words. No matter how old you get or whatever anyone else needs to hear. You are the receiver and I am the transmitter and even without seeing your face you know. Yes, you know.

Another year older, M. But wiser? Happier? You tell me.

Love.

Your WHMB

Birthday cheesecake, 12/12/05 (photo shard)

I carry shards.

We are lucky in that I am the keeper of the images. Our words, well, they have been mostly the victim of the fire sales we went through in the summer and fall of '06, but the photos, least ways, in the form of negatives, still remain whole and complete and untouched. I have to wonder what would have happened to them if they had been stored in a memory chip, or tucked away in computer data files, or anything else other than that old fashioned form of image banking. Yes, thank goodness for those pocket snapshots.

But our photos. I was not kind to those photos. That night, the 27th of September, the evening after my Dungeness slog, I can reasonably say that I was not a happy man. I was a roiling ball of tempestous passion. Fury unabated. I tossed my beloved bathroom frog into the maw of the Yew, rampaged through our Calcopo files and deleted them all out of Yahoo, tore our bookclub books asunder and ripped each and every photo into very interestingly shaped shards. The passion spent, all pieces and garbage and such were tipped into the trash. All told it had to be the worst night of my life.

Come the next day, those torn pieces of paper were suddenly artifacts, pieces of a lost civilization, chunks and bits and slivers of a life fully loved but half lived. I found that most of the pieces would be meaningless to even the most resolute of detectives, but then, an uncanny thing happened: somehow I seemed to magically tear those photos on angles that salvaged your face. Over and over again I found myself out of the picture, but you remained. Even the Apple Cup photo that you passed along to me somehow escaped my wrath, and your face remained. How nice for me, how great for puzzle assemblers like yourself.

So, because I am the keeper of the images I get to pour over those fragments now and again. I promised myself that I wouldn't do it again anytime soon, as this process of writing about our life is working it's magic and I don't want to mess with the subtlty of it all. But in the midst of those shards one fragment remains: of a shot of my kitchen table, candles aglow, cheesecake and presents and all that holiday wonderfulness spread about it, in anticipation of your arrival. It was taken right after you came in my back door, eyes shielded by a handkerchief or kitchen towel, or possibly my hands. As icons go, it was something way up there, akin to those poems never written, to have a man not only surprise you with flowers and gifts, but to set a table for you with a cheesecake freshly made for you to honor your day.

See, I was a complete and total devotee of yours, and that cake was truly a supreme monument to the act of complete and total surrender. Love is a funny thing. We go out of our way to express ourselves in ways that we normally never would. Up to that moment baking was not my forte. I was not a recipe follower, a pastry man, a baker of any sort outside of Toll house cookies, an occasional loaf of bread and boxed cake mixes. But there I was, only months into our friendship, deep into the realm of cheesecake recipe experimentation. And the funny thing? I truly fell in love with it.

That love of ours completely spilled over into real life. One passion became the poster child for another. What was a gift to you suddenly turned on itself and boomerranged back into my heart: it was the gift that kept on giving. That one gesture, the sweet, simple gift of a baked good made by my own hands for you on your birthday suddenly became the finest thing I've taken on in my life: cooking for the greater good. Cooking as a way to express my feelings for something other than hunger pangs. Cooking for for sake of sharing something wonderful with the ones I love.

It became an art and you, my dear, were my muse. I took that cheesecake thing deep into the year, far past your birthday, right up to holiday parties and family events and staff get-togethers. Whereever I go with a cheesecake, there you are.

And I have that shard of a birthday celebration, of your birthday, in that packet, stuck in my satchel, to prove it.

Happy 45th Birthday to you, M, muse and love of my life.

Your WHMB

Dinner and a movie

It was always a dream of ours. Time. Time to do what we felt we wanted to do. The time we dreamed of sharing, versus what we really had to work with, were two different animals. The time we had to spend together was really window dressing more than anything else. Stolen time. Weekday nights, if we were lucky, were all about moments that you had to come over and have a bit of supper, play some parlor games and then race back home. Other moments we shared were built into errands, post work stuff, time when you could fit in abstracts and tall tales and fibs. Errands that ran too long. Trips that were made out to be work related. All that.

All that I know is that it made going out for a dinner and a movie out in town darn near impossible.

But once, and only once, we made it happen.

Call it the romantic in me but for the sake of the story it had to happen. Even if a time "on the town" was a bit closer to home that we expected.

Ok, it wasn't out in town, catching the latest release, eating at the niftiest new joint in town. It wasn't studied, looking over the listings in the newspaper, looking to see what the latest releases were and making a date. It wasn't a matinee in town or a nice ferry trip over the water to catch some significant big screen release or some epic foreign film in Seattle. No, it all came down to a crock pot, an old favorite, and a very tight and select moment of time.

Not to belabor the story, but M, do you remember The Ghost and Mrs Muir? Not the tv show, of course, but that film we watched? Of course you do, I am sure, because when I tossed that film at you last spring in the Starbucks parking lot you said to me that you always wanted to see that film again. But that night we finally had a chance to do what we dreamed of. I had stew cooking all day long. Came home and whipped up a pot of mashed. Hit the heater, toasted up the house a bit. You came in from your shift, we dished up supper and popped in the print.

Wow.

What was wow, you might ask? It wasn't Michelan five star. It wasn't a night on the town. Hell, the broccoli was even a bit overcooked. No, it was what we had accomplished. Dinner, side by side on the loveseat, A movie, from start to finish. A shared blanket. An old fashioned romance, a quality old Hollywood movie that had our story written all over it. Tragic, sweet, something to savor. A rascal of a sailor man who died too soon, who fell in love with a real live woman after the fact, after life was all done and gone, but who had sense enough to let her go in death.

We all come back together later on, don't we, if the love is true? Least ways, that's what happens when love is true, or when it's displayed on the screen in old Hollywood backlot romances.

But we made it. Got through the film with just the right amount of time to send you home under the radar. Once and only once and never again.

Never mind. One time is sometimes is all you need.

That is truly our story.

Just once.

And that "once", M. Oh. My. Dear.

Your WHMB

Colorado Blue Spruce, soon to be planted

Only recently did I find that I loved the simplicity of an artificial tree. For years the only way I would go was "real", but not necessarily in the way and fashion and timeliness that everyone expected out of me and the holidays. There were years where that tree finally came into our lives at the very last minute. A sort of Christmas present for the house, a remembrance of the season, all on the morning or late afternoon of Christmas Eve.

I was unemployed by choice a number of years ago. It was an uncomfortable time, but up until the holidays we didn't pay it much mind. I had spent the summer and the fall working on the house, had attended a library conference in California, taken on a few job interviews down south, put up (and put up with) the inlaws on one of their annual summer visits, and all the while kept my out-of-workness a secret to damn near everyone.

Well, secret to a point.

I wasn't out of work because I did something bad or because of hard times or a layoff. I got tired of my four hour plus a day commute, my Two Faces of Eve boss (what?) and the house being an eternal state of disrepair. I was fed up with the house being a reason for not having people over, for it being such an issue with the Estranged One, and for it being such a complete and total hazard for the kids. I had a nice chunk of cash from my retirement fund that I immediately put to use and it went a long ways to taking care of bills and repair costs and the like. But there was one big problem attached to that cash. It ran out. Well, that part was expected. The long job search wasn't. Call it hubris, but I was expecting a job to show up for me the moment I was ready for it and applied to it. Not that time, though. That job finally came through on my birthday, New Year's Eve. Happy birthday to me, indeed.

So, back to Christmas. A couple of teachers, close friends of ours, from my boys' school heard about our "plight" and found gifts for the kids and a food basket for us. Santa's booty was largely funded by my mother-in-law. Personal gifts were outlawed. And the tree? Well, let's just say that I was truly lucky that year. The tree lot at the local mall closed up shop early that year. On Christmas Eve, of all days. I went down that morning thinking I could buy a cut rate one and lo and behold there were twenty or more trees sitting there in the parking lot, all free for the taking! A true Christmas miracle! I took one for the house, the biggest we'd ever had, and picked up another one up for the sister in law, too.

No Chubby-n-Tubby tree, no lobsided tree from the Olympics, no strange dried out lot trees from Seattle, but a real one, and a mighty pretty one, too, I might add. For free. Wow.

I found a nice one a couple years ago at Lowes, a live Colorado Blue Spruce in a bucket. I had never bought a live tree before, but because it was beat and somewhat ugly it was marked down significantly. I went around and around the store that night, wondering if it was the "right" one for me. I checked out "fresh cut" trees, artificial ones and then went back to the far side of the gardening section, popped that hulking thing onto a cart and took it home with me. It was sticky, spindly, and without much charm, but it had a lot of heart, and I must say, an awful lot of soul. It was my first Christmas alone in that house, and I was going to make the best of it. Took it with me the next year into the Little House, and it was equally pleasant there as well. It's now sitting in the yard, wondering about it's fate. I think it needs to be planted, but I want it to go with me, to that final place, to the home that I will name, just like MFK Fisher, The Last House. It has too much heart just to let it go away to places unknown or be hauled off to the dump.

So, soon. I tell that tree, and myself, just be patient.

But for now I have an artificial tree that I bought last year at St Vinnies for five bucks. You told me many times over how you would go back and forth with your trees..one year a real tree, the next year the artificial one. Last year you had company, a Christmas wedding to host. I imagine that year was real. Cycles being what they are I know what this year will bring. The artificial tree and a road trip. As for mine, I've come to like it, and The Boy thinks it's grand. We put lights on last night and the ornaments will go on this weekend.

I don't know what happened to that little bird ornament you gave me, as it and all the decorations I had for my little Colorado Blue Spruce somehow disappeared once I came back home. Someday I will find it, along with all my other nifty tin and glass ornaments I had acquired during that long and cold Christmas of '05. It is the only thing that I have from you that fits the holiday. It was so last minute, that bird. You were leaving on a major road trip to the Grand Canyon and I was preparing for a trip to Boise. Sigh. That bird is a solitary reminder of what we shared, a love on the wing.

This year I will be home again and my assorted trees will be there to brighten my holidays. I wish for you and yours a wonderful holiday season, whereever you may be.

Your WHMB

Purple binder, WALE conference, Lake Chelan

It didn't come with Hello Kitty stickers, that's for sure. I know that it came with a wooden puzzle that had been stamped into a piece of balsa that we had to gingerly break out and assemble. Puzzles were the theme that day, if I remember correctly. It almost puzzling as to why I went, considering my librarian status. But who was I to worry? It was part of the great cosmic chuckle that once again pushed us together to celebrate something at work, in this case a conference that turned into a personal victory for you and a wonderful roadtrip for us.

What a time, that trip. The road leading to Chelan was filled with stops. The Bellevue Regional Library to evaluate their automated coffee bar. Everett and Pave and Catherine and Lil and boxed sandwiches, oh my! Park lunches, coffee and photos by the roadside, Hastings and pub food in Wenatchee. That hand written poem by lamp light. Rumpled arrivals. A good jazz boat trip on the night of the conference. Beers with your "roomie". That beautiful ride home through Twisp, Winslow and Washington Pass. Mexican food in Sedro Wooley. Ice cream treats in Everett, and a long, slow and bittersweet ferry ride home. What a time, M. If only that binder could talk. But then again, would it matter? I have the narrative down. That binder is the only witness.

I am the owner of that binder now, one that was once hidden away deep in your closet. Strictly my fault, I am sure, that it is in my possession now, not yours. I could not honor that truce, that coda, that ending, you so delicately thrust upon me. I kept pushing the limits of the peace and kept you in the spotlight. It was that Golden Bird Book I found and sent you from Hemet that did it. Mea Culpa, baby. But I figured... well, I figured wrong.

"Boo". I knew it was you on the phone and I knew that there was no way I could see you. Not on Halloween, not with that binder. So you came by two days later. A wet Saturday. Banged on my window. It was truly a Mexican Standoff. To place it in the dumpster, to put it in the bookdrop. what to do. In the end it went home with me, to be tucked away in that satchel that I had by the side of my bed. It filled it up, that purple binder of yours. Filled with my notes, some photos, poetry, stuff like wrapping paper and bits of nostalgic crap. All lovely to see, all important to save.

Lucky for us that it came after the fact, after that big blowout in September, that it didn't get torched. The note that you sent along with that binder I ground down and stuffed back into an envelope for you. The padding was necessary to protect that United Way pin you gained from your generous donation that year. Sigh.

So, the binder, and all it's ilk, sits. Waiting for what, I don't know. But it will be put away properly, like all those memories from that conference. From that drive. From our days. It's about time.

Like the snow that fell on us up in Washington pass, those times are gone. But the memories of that drive, that conference, those sweet, sweet days remain, all tucked away in that Hello Kitty stickered purple binder, to be witnessed and shared on some other day, when the time, and our hearts, are right once again.

Your WHMB

The joy of open email boxes

Coda. In the end it was all about words, just words, mostly words undiscovered but enough of them to completely and totally shut down the show.

Hot July afternoon. A Sunday. I was out with The Boy, you were at work. I remember dropping off some Dr Seuss stickers (ah, Seussical Style!) and a note in your locker. I know that the phone rang once in my pocket once I got home. I was outside grilling. It was still hot.

I didn't know until the next day...when was that? my work shift? yours?...that your email box was found open at home. Or was set up, thanks to remembered passwords, to be automatically opened when someone accessed Google email. Something happened. Didn't matter, though, because all that did matter was that you came home and the conversations, the ones that began ernest back in May, were now completed. What was there left to talk about? There was nothing to do but surrender the cause. The jig was up and you, all the particulars were known and you, holder of all the keys to the kingdom, decided not to abdicate your throne. You held on and that was that.

I still have that letter you put in my box describing that afternoon. Somewhat like the inquisition, you said. I still remember sitting in my car the next night. I went out for mangos, but instead of going to your door and stealing you away, I sat and looked down the street towards your house and let the motor idle. I went home. Feeling not too much different than I do today, or a million other days, it seems.

And, as I said, that was that.

Funny how I can remember that coda. Not word for word, not even close. But it was that "change in my home, my mind, my heart" thing that has impacted the rest of our lives. Not that you wanted it, but you, good hearted thing, needed to do it.

For the sake of God and the non-negotiables.

Man, what a struggle. Epic. Went on for months and almost years. I suppose that it ended all two weeks ago, in that drive by. That look in your eyes. Have you ever had that happen to you before? That visual brand? That psychic tattoo, the one that says, "stop"? You said it before and it never took hold. Considering all, I must be either very hard headed or very stupid. Carried on well past the expiration date of any and all affections. Fondness no longer applied. Love was bankrupt and the judge, had he gotten ahold of me, would have thrown the Book of Love at me.

But, you know, the lessons of life are universal. It couldn't just happen to you. Like car wrecks and food poisoning and house burglaries, they come around whether you've been good or bad or full out stupid. In my case, probably all three.

I left an email box open the other day. Not one filled with salacious or steamy emails, but letters to a friend. I think you would like that, knowing that once again I could possibly be finding time, energy and heart for a friend. But I digress. I was excited to once again find letters filled with life in my email box. It was heady to once again be sharing words about matters of importance, like crazy relationships and the relentless march of time and troubles of the heart. It felt good and right and serious, to share those things, those thoughts and feelings, with a friend.

So. What happened? People happen. One hand washes the next, and in this case a whole bunch of hands washed me clean out of a good weekend. I came home after the holiday to find out that my box of electronic letters, including old Calcopo files, had been shared with the Estranged One and all the immediate members of her family. Not good. Too bad. For everyone.

In this case I am not pleading guilty or going before God for forgiveness or crawling on my hands and knees or any of that. I have been the victim of a marital war crime for years now, one that goes beyond hurt and forgiveness, and my sins, I feel, are minor in comparison. Nevertheless I own that I am the master of hurt for my lack of descretion. For that I am guilty and sorry.

I am sure that you must have felt the same way when you blew it and left that box open. Lost sleep, recriminations, guilt trips, the whole shebang. Unlike you, though, I can do it at five hundred miles. Lots of space to stew, lots of room for wandering souls to bump around in the dark of night. No one around to grill me, no one to watch me squirm.

As for my friend, the one I was writing to? We worked on her yard yesterday. I met her mom and her step dad, and I have to say, that I liked them alot. She made me supper and we talked awhile afterwards. I like the gal and as far as I can tell, she likes me, too. No judgment calls. Strictly above board. And filled with something that I haven't seen or felt in a long time: acceptance.

That is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. As for that open mail box? The worst. But know that it will always be pale in comparison to that hot day in July we shared oh so long ago, and the pain and suffering that you, my dear, had to endure for the sake of loving someone other than The Detective.

Your WHMB

Pendleton box, notes and scarfs

It was cold enough on this trip to wear a scarf. I know that The Boy could not find enough to wear to help keep him warm, even with his new to him leather coat on. I fired up the heater all the way to Boise, and still, it was not enough. It wasn't till I unloaded the car that I found my winter road bag with mittens and scarfs and such. Next time he can be as warm as he wants to be.

I love a good scarf but find that it's never really cold enough here in Port Orchard for me to wear them. When it snows, sure, but most of the time I tend to run too hot to appreciate them. Nevertheless love them. A number of them have managed to come into life over the years. While in the service I had this sort of girlfriend, a roommate of old girlfriend, who gave me a warm and fuzzy brown scarf (check that winter bag, I think that's where it resides!) to take with me to Colorado on my birthday. New Year's Eve in Ordway was cold and snowy that year. What a perfect gift. Then I had this other gal come through my life back in Oregon. She was a weaver. She made a beautiful scarf and passed it along to me. It has to be one of my most cherished possessions. I even have a selection of them that I pulled aside for myself as I cobbled together scarves for our Chimes and Lights display last year. Hard to resist colorful wool scarves at a buck a throw.

Last June I had to show off the tattered scarf box to M. She was surprised to see it, but even more, the contents of the box. The box came to me on the eve of a roadtrip back in December of '05. We weren't planning on exchanging gifts. We thought we had seen each other all we could before our respective holiday trips. She was heading off to the Grand Canyon and family adventures in Arizona. Me, I was heading to a nice hotel and the Snake River and even wilder family misadventures in Boise. As always she had to leave my gifts to her on my kitchen table, but I took that scarf along with me on the road. It warmed me two ways, certainly.

But it was how it was presented to me that made it special, that made that box such a magic thing. I was told that she had it in her closet for years, and that she gave it to me because she had been waiting to give it to someone special.

I can see that scarf right now, in my minds eye, hanging there along with all my ties in my bedroom, pretty to look at, dark blue Tartan weave, but rarely used. It's the box that's been pressed into hard service these last few years. I couldn't toss it, so I used it for letters. Most of our notes to each other were primarily in the form of email correspondance and, at one time, we had bigger plans for those, too. But in the heat of the fires of passion there were deleted, and only a handful of her little notes to me remained. Just enough for a plate's worth of love to quench the hunger pangs of the heart.

So she saw them, my disbeliever, thinking they had been shredded and fed to the little clay fireplace in my backyard years ago. And while that was a possibility at one time, it never happened. Maybe because of that magic box.

My daughter helped me repair that box a couple years ago, and it might need a bit of tape once again. It's coming up hard on winter and I think I could use that scarf again, especially on one of those upcoming road trips to Boise. But for now that box and that scarf are all about memories and sweet thoughts and holiday wishes. And the blessings that went along with a gift that had been waiting for just the right person to come along.

How nice to know that that special someone was me.

Your WHMB

Turkey lasagna

My youngest's birthday was yesterday. Let's go back in time four years. You called me up and told me that my pan of lasagna was ready to pick up. Be sure not to park down by the garage, you said, but next to your lawn, up by the front door. He gets mad if you park anywhere else. The Boy and Punkin and I found our way to your house okay, down at the end of a culdesac, deep in the dark edge of the woods. You greeted me at the door with a hard and warm hug, which was strange considering our working relationship, but wonderful at the same time. Good hostess that you were, you made the kids comfortable, strived to find a movie or something for Punkinto do. Very nice touch, very nice house. Small talk kicked in in the kitchen and it rambled for a while, both of us wondering when the rest of your family would get home.

That small talk pretty much ended when The Detective came home. You insisted that I stick around, as you wanted me to meet your man. We met. What a hard guy. Very abrupt, very harsh, pointedly blunt to the point of being darn near unfriendly. We all sat talked about playing in the snow in the Olympics, which he and the girls had just come back from. It didn't take long for me to want to go. The fun had left the house when he walked in. Just a bit too jealous and a bit too hostile for my taste.

But the the pan of turkey lasagna was just right. It's quite the "gal" thing for you to do, to make a dish for me to take back home to help out my gal, mother of my newborn. As if men can't cook. I know that some can't. Your's certainly couldn't! Maybe that's why he was so hard on me. We were swapping recipes when he came in. Being a librarian, combined with liking to cook. Wow. Must have been wondering about the kind of man he had sitting in his kitchen!

Happy Birthday, my wee one. Every time you have a birthday come around I'll always think of that dark night in The Woods, The Detective and that very tasty turkey lasagna that was gifted to us. And I'll be thinking of you. Poor thing.

Your WHMB

Bread crumbs on the road

The road beckons. I see a good trip ahead of me. Dry, overcast. Lot's of new music. The Boy as a sidekick. Old friends riding shotgun in the hip pocket of my memory bank. A bit of jingle to blow. That part I love to see. A road trip without sadness, without longing, just filled with promise and a dry road to return on.

This time I won't be leaving poetry for you, or be stuffing my cell in my shirt pocket, waiting for the phone to ring. I won't be stopping at overlooks and dashing off notes to you, or spend any time at all wondering how your holiday event is going. I believe we're both way past that now and that there is too much to do, too many people to see, all of that.

Then again, sometimes I find that I'm really not much of a liar.

Today, on the eve of the road trip I got a request at the desk. Amos Fortune, Free Man. My patron could tell right away that she hit on something other than a book request. I made a quick reference to it, how a friend of mine had read that book to me as we drove back from a conference, how good it was, how it made the time pass by so quickly. Forget the poker playing career, I had you written all over my face. Tell me, M, how will I ever be able to forget that book? Washington Pass? Copper green rivers? Not in this lifetime, that's for sure.

Oh, what is it with these memories, the ones that say to me, "stop and listen awhile, take a moment and breathe me in. Exhale, let the notes of that song go and move along. All will be well, I assure you". Move along, indeed. It's taken me years to figure out that "move along" part. I finally grasped and held onto that thought last week when I passed you by on the road. I saw everything that needed to be seen in that fraction of a second in your eyes. It was brilliant. Whatr was I thinking? Where had I been?

But I have to say that I am not sad, or angry, or remorseful, or any of that. I am not stuck or wistful or hopeful by penning these endless stories. Better than that, by writing here I am preparing myself for the next step, the next adventure, the next moment. For the first time in a long time I am seeing the value of living in the now, in finding the right spot on my mantle for your memory. I'm finally understanding the words you wrote to me in your codas. But more than that I am happy, and thankful, that when I turned my car around to look for you that you were gone. That you didn't wave at me to stop. That you looked up, recognized me and then, by looking away, dismissed me. You went back to your call and I disappeared.

Yes, it sounds strange but I am thankful for that. For that curt and impersonal dismissal.

Because of that I can get on the road tomorrow and leave breadcrumbs back to my home and to the life I'm living today. I can come back to my work, my friends, my house and know that all is well. And that I can accept, for whatever it's worth, the life you've chosen to live. Yes, for what it is worth I am thankful for that as well.

Tomorrow I will greet the sunrise somewhere in the Cascades. Stop in Yakima for provisions, spend a few moments in Richland for breakfast, find some pan dulce in Pasco. I will find time to breathe, take in the vistas I've learned to love on that route and share them with my boy. I will look for notes and phone calls from new friends, and all the while, wish for luck and good timing and fair weather on the road.

I don't know where you are or what you are doing on Thanksgiving day, M. I have no idea if you are cooking or entertaining or what, and that is only because you can't, won't and have no desire to tell me. I can live with that now.

For the moment.

Until I come back here with more stories.

I am thankful for the times that we shared that have given me these stories to tell, M. And I will forever be thankful for having had you in my life, for all the hard lessons our relationship has thrown our way. But more than anything I hope that your day is warm, filled with light and all the love you need to make your Thanksgiving a special one for you and yours.

Peace.

Your WHMB

The clock repairman's daughter

I have two plastic figures resting on my fireplace mantle. They aren't there by chance. I have a boxes and boxes of toy soldiers in the basement, all left over from the business and that burst of second boyhood that took over the house and my life ten years ago.

No, those figures were pretty special. Duplicates, twins of two others that took off into the night not too long after the last toy soldier show left town three years ago. I don't know why they were out, how I managed to find those two pieces out of the countless thousands that I own. Frankly, I was giving always giving you things at that time. Little things. Silly stuff. Sort of like Boo Radley did with the kids in To Kill a Mockingbird, but I had the grace of not leaving them in the knot hole of a tree by your home. I was lucky enough to be able to put them in your hand. I placed those soldiers in your hand that night and you were pretty happy to get them.

What's funny is where they eventually landed. And now that I have the clocks that were in the tale that I told you that night, I think I might have my two figurines land in a clock as well. See, I know where they live in your house. Inside a mantle clock. One that your father repaired. Of all the places to put them, in a spot that is regularly seen by everyone, in a place where no one else would ever think to find them, above your firebox, in the midst of all the action.

Not too much unlike where my clocks live. In the hustle and bustle and slipstream of my life. We both had plenty of clocks in our lives. Yours was due to your father's profession, mine due to my mother's jones. I can only imagine the thrills if those two had met, the conversations they could have had. I know what sort of competition ran in my family over clocks and all things collectible. Family member's eyes would light up at the mention of new acquistions. I'm sure in your family it was a different thing altogether. Items would come into your life due to, what? Lack of payment? Someone selling something off? Just due to the fact that it looked pretty and sounded nice?

I know that my clocks came into my life due to the fact that they were part of the larger family mythology. Yours came into your life due to love and caring and a remembrance of what your father did for a living. What was it again? Jeweler? Watch repair? Clock restoration? Small business owner? I believe all of it, for as you once put it in a letter, that you thought it was the best thing in the world to have a jewelery store owner for a father.

So, my clocks now sit on top of two hutches and on a wall up in the front rooms of the house. Those two figures, one a red Marxman Zouave, standing firm, rifle slung in a fashion that says "stand fast and hold back", and the other a silver Dulcop Maid Marian figure, tall, regal, sniffing a rose, are destined to reside as yours do, in one of my mother's clocks. Those clocks came along with a tale of family sorrow and stupidity. I wanted them around not so much because they are collectible or remind me of my mother, but to impart lessons, to show me every day that family matters more than things.

I essentially lost my grandparents for the last part of my childhood due to greed and selfishness, not clocks. Not so much on the part of my mom, either. She and her mom had a not too pleasant relationship to begin with, but they got along for the sake of family and appearances. But the clocks were a trigger point. They had just come into the house that day, a swapmeet find that was, truly, the deal of the week, maybe the year. It was a hot, sunny Saturday. My mom had just gotten home and my grandparents arrived right on her heels. Lots of joy on my mom's part, sharing her finds, but that mechanism in my grandmother, the one that demanded obedience, the one that said "give me or else" suddenly kicked in. She asked for the clocks and was rebuffed. She demanded the clocks and was turned down. She and my grandfather left before the hour was up. They never stepped foot in that house again.

After my mom passed away I knew I wanted very little of hers. My house is full and doesn't lean too much towards Victorian kitsch anyways. But those clocks. I wanted to see what it was like to have them around. To feel the impact of owning them. How I would react if anyone ever asked to buy one, to have me give them one. A friend of mine did the other night in a playful kind of way. We goofed over that for a couple hours. Funny, I was taught that in all jest there is some truth. What if she really did want one of them? What if I had just said "yes, please, take one". Would that have somehow bought that wandering soul that is my grandmother a bit of rest?

So, clock repairman's daughter, do your soldiers still peek out at you? Do you see them in the back of your mind's eye every now and then or is the thought of them hidden away as well? I know that for me to forget all about toy soldiers would be to empty out half my basement, a good portion of my boy's room and to forego our upcoming trip to Chicago next September to the annual Old Toy Soldier Show. Can't even begin to see that as being a possibility. Besides, I already unloaded over a thousand vinyl records for you, but that's a line in the sand that we'll never have to cross again. No matter, I suppose, I was paid handsomely for them. Good for me all the way around.

As for those soldiers, I'll tuck them away in a clock tonight. I want to see them, as I wish to see those memories of ours, as something I stumble across someday. I want to be pleasantly surprised, have a story to tell about a gal I once knew who's father loved clocks, loved them enough to gift her girl with a box full of them. How she had one on her mantle and how the man in her life, filled with love and tenderness and devotion for her, found two figures to give to her, to watch over her.

My heart, like that Zouave, still stands firm and at the ready, always watching over that silver maiden. Foolish? No. Selfish? Not like the selfishness I learned to loath as a boy. No, those figures, like my adoration for you, are timeless, still and in hiding. Someday, maybe, they'll find their way out into the light again. If not, time will move forward and so will we, only to be rediscovered later on, just like those soldiers are meant to be.

Your WHMB

The lingering scent of dryer sheets, Pinto Pony image, fall '05

The Pinto Pony. It was one of the quirkiest shops in what I now consider "Old Seattle". The Seattle of the King Dome, The Doghouse, Lincoln's Toe Truck and the ferry terminal when the clock was indoors. That old downtown still had the cyclops down below 1st, still had a Belltown that catered to artists and loft dwellers, Ballard was still a old Scandavavian neighborhood and Fremont sweet and funky and not a dotcom darling. Old Seattle. Not to say that I am a native or that I'm pining away for some mythical olden days, but you have to admit that a lot has changed since 1990.

Ruby Montana now own's and operates a very kitchy and cool motel down in Palm Springs. The Pinto Pony was a kitchy and cool home accessory store back in the day, even though she might not approve of those terms. Urban Outfitting? Retro Wackiness? Cowboy Cool? It was filled with Western bric a brac, funky furniture, wild accessories that every apartment in the city needed in order to be part of the northern bastion of hip. I remember seeing a line of t-shirts when I peeked in and prowled years ago, dragging my newborn along in a sling. Very fun, way out of my OC league. But a new league I longed to be in.

Instead of having the mavens of cool tell me what to buy, I did the time honored thing and went at it slow and easy and according to my own terms. I found arty folks to befriend and bought their wares, I hunted down strangeness in second hands, and so, in the end, bought and hung and mounted at my leisure. But thanks, anyway, Ruby. Your store and taste were an inspiration.
So, fast forward to 2005. I was combing the t-shirt racks at the local Goodwill. .99 cents a tee, not a bad price for a man who had not yet discovered the fine art of using an apron in the kitchen and who felt each and every tee in the collection was okay to paint in. I was moving at a frenetic pace, as I was on my lunch hour, when what should I fall upon by a vintage Ruby Montana Pinto Pony t-shirt! Wowzers! Good find. Interesting art, nice airbruch effect. Great shape, no rips or tears or stains.

But when I saw it, I knew right away it wasn't for me. See, I was hung up on this Colorado gal and it looked fitting. Western themed. Ruby riding a Jackalope, a Mrs Potato Head vacuuming. And, above all, in a size that just might fit.

So, I put it away for a few weeks, thinking, okay, birthdays or whatever come along. The Gala came along, and after that, well, as they say, it was history.

That shirt, washed and cleaned, made for a nice transition from the black cocktail dress she wore that night. Well, that tee and a pair of Levi's. We weren't anywhere near a place that would have allowed just one article of clothing. Besides, we had acey ducey to play, bananas to flambee, and a couch to test out. She had to get home, Cinderella style, before midnight but when she left that night that shirt left with her.

I woke up this morning thinking about that gal, that shirt and the why's and who's of it all. Why did we start trading that shirt back and forth? Who came up with that idea? I suppose, in the end she did, because she sent that shirt back to me washed and dipped in an eau de dryer sheet cologne. I strapped on that shirt one night and went into work the next day looking as if I had spent the night wrestling with bears and wild cats both. I was haggard and worn, with deep, dark circles under my eyes. It was that shirt. I know it sounds crazy, but once I put in on it issued forth an outrageous scent all night long that was mighty powerful, and if I dare say, slightly erotic. I wasn't her that I was smelling, it was the dryer sheets. Wow. And I'll leave it at that, for the sake of all the family viewers out there.

That shirt went back and forth for months. Washed here, body scent there. She finally stopped using dryer sheets, not only for the sake of that shirt but for her family, too. Changed everything and I'm sure put that shirt and her reasoning under the microscope of deep scrutiny.

That shirt left my house a couple years ago. Was it a victim of The Big Purge? I never found out. I know that it could have ended up, along with other unknown items, in the Big Box Bound for the Great Second Hand in the sky. Or the one here in town. I haven't found it yet. And if I do, dollars to donuts, I bet it'll smell like dryer sheets all over again.

Your WHMB

Tin of mints, Leather Jacket

January. I had just come back from a second run to California three days before. My mother was dying and these trips were mandatory and inevitable. A third trip was in the future, looming, but the date was still unknown to me. I was in my car, waiting under the pine by the bus station. Kitsap Transit has a transfer station off of the corner of Wheaton and Sylvan Way. Convenient for shopping, close to the library.

That was the kicker. Close to the library.

Our relationship was long gone by then. We weathered the most incredible storms that fall and early winter. We battled the estrangement, the counselors, the passive aggressive spouses. We dealt with your god, your choices, my wearying displays of emotion and incredibly stupid responses to standard human melodramas. That morning I felt like I had washed up on the shore of a strange island, with the flotsum and jetsam of our dealings still washing around in my heart like wreckage from a storm. I had no idea if I would see you. And frankly, I didn't care. Being there was enough.

I knew that you would, at some point, cross my path. The girls were up the street at a Christian school, easy to get to when you subbed. You finally bailed out of homeschooling and at that same time were embarking in a life without me, which made that new schooling arrangement a life saver. We were both a mess, making mistakes, making promises and you, for what it is worth, was the better of the two of us. In all outward appearances you had it together. The Detective watched your every move and in order to get off his radar all forms of communication were left wide open and were monitored 24/7. You gave up every form and semblance of privacy in order to keep the peace. All your thoughts, feelings and actions were open to scrutiny. I was amazed outrageous breach of privacy but then again I knew you all too well. You were the tougher of the two of us, and had much higher stakes to lose. Or so you imagined. When it came to all that we were dealing with I just held my mud, but you, my dear, you built adobe houses out of it.

So, I waited. The minutes rolled on. I had no reason to be there. My kids were shuttled off to school long ago. Work would not start until noon. My estranged one had no power over me or leash on my movements but I was monitored all the same. I had been home for only a couple weeks when I found a long letter from you in my email box. I left you a note earlier letting you know that I had arrived home safely, and for that you were glad. But the letter was more of your life, what had gone down that holiday season, how you weathered the wind and snow storms we suffered that fall, all of that. But it was that final line that had me out there. You summed up your letter with words to this affect "If I had known it would be this hard, I wonder, would I done it?"

What could I to do but ask and find out.

There have been many days that I've come and gone away from that corner empty handed. It was close to nine and I needed to go. With two minutes to spare your silver Focus raced up the hill, you saw me and pulled into the parking lot. Cold, wet morning, and unlike other times you parked and stepped out of your car. You came up to me and gave me a hug, hung there for a moment and took a good whiff of the leather jacket I was wearing. I had only found it a week or two before, but it was well traveled in and was now mine all over.

For what it is worth, there was only one thing that I remember for certain from that stop. Sure, I gave you rocks and some memorabilia that I had found for you. We chatted about the road and your girls and my kids. We sized up our situation and knew it was baked, regardless of how we felt about each other. There was just no going back, and that was that.

But it was your words to me as you piled out of the car that I will always remember. I never had time to ask you anything. I never had a chance to ask you about your letter, your final statement, nothing. You just looked at me and said:

"I would do it all over again". Not just once, but twice.

What more needed to be said than that?

Fast forward to today. I was in the reception area of a dentist's office, waiting for The Boy to finish up with his checkup. I sat there, watched life go by and listened to maudlin music and knew that I had get up and step outside. I thought about sitting in my car and fiddled around with my pockets feeling for my keys when I came across a tin of mints. It may seem strange but I know that they were there in my coat pocket that morning. I know because we shared one before you left. Maybe it is a new tin. Maybe it's just a false memory. Maybe I was thinking of other times, but I know that it was the same jacket.

Finding that tin made me think of you, that morning we shared in the rain. It made me flash really hard back to a time that was harder than about any other time I have ever lived through. I tasted the soft brightness of that mint in my mouth and thought of you, of sharing those mints on a Gig Harbor pier on a cold February night, but more than that I thought about how you clutched me in that jacket, took a deep whiff, took a hard ride down some olafactory memories of your own. M, what I would give to have it happen all over again.

But, you know, it was enough, my dear, to stand there and suck on that mint and know that you would do it all over again. Yes, M, I would, too.

Your WHMB

El Huarache Taqueria, Silverdale

What kind of person turns down a chance to go out and eat Mexican food? Nobody I know. I know for certain we never did.

The Boy and I just came back from having lunch at Pedro's. The newest taqueria here in Port Orchard. The owner before him had a nice hand when it came to cutting carne asada. He's a butcher, as is his brother, who runs a nice little tienda and carniceria in Bremerton. No matter, the other place folded and Pedro, a true sweetheart of a guy, now runs the place. Great food, nice lunch specials. 3.95 a plate. Great chips, fresh salsa. The Boy was satisfied and with a plate of tacos under my belt I know I am, too.

We were pretty friendly with Mexican food, weren't we, M? Seemed that was our favorite food to eat whenever we had a chance to grab supper. El Gitano in Sedro-Wooley. Azteca in Bremerton. Puerto Vallarta in Port Orchard. Vuelve ala Vida, Tacoma. El Huarache's in Silverdale. How did it work out that way? Wasn't like we had plenty of opportunities to eat supper out. That joint in Silverdale was a lark. A cold, wet night lark. What was it? An exchange at the mall? A payment? I can't remember which, but we played that "old married couple" game while we were there. I didn't so much carry your bag but was there to be The Goof while you did your transactions. It was play acting at it's finest. I now associate the scents and fragrances of large department stores with you. Thanks a lot.

But we came out that joint, what was is? Come on, help me, here. Yes, Macy's. We came out laughing, practically arm in arm, but we knew better than to do that. Vultures, vultures, everywhere. And we were two of them, hungry ones. What to do but to go out and eat. Up the block to a reliable noodle joint but the place was packed. No time to jump in the car again so a quick run across the street yielded two places to choose from. Teriyake didn't cut it, and the taqueria won out. Mexican food again. Good for us.

I don't know why it but it seems that that kind of food was a leveler. No pretensions, no cloth napkins, no wine lists. I didn't have to feel like I was somehow The Detective's subordinate in a place like that, but rather, it felt, in those small ethnic joints, that he was mine. I couldn't take you to symphonies, I couldn't take you to five star restaurants, but damn it, I could go with you to taquerias and all was well.

It was hot in there and the windows were streaming. The place was packed, and as these things go, on a busy Friday night, we got put back by the kitchen door. I didn't mind and neither did you. We made comparison studies on the fish tacos, which we had just made in my kitchen only recently. Of course, the house tacos won out hands down. But the rest of the plate was satisfactory as was the rest of our meal. Face it, they could have served us carrion on paper plates and we wouldn't have cared. It was stolen time on a rainly Friday night and the only thing we had left to look forward to was dodging traffic on the way back to our cars. That and a long drive back to our respective homes.

I love to eat out but tend to cook at home most of the time these days. M, I suppose I can blame the economy but I would rather sing praises to you. It seems that as much as I like to eat out that cooking at home now has a new charm, thanks to those numerous cookbooks and that recipe bug you infected me with. But more, whenever I do find time and extra cash to eat out with I tend to look for things to eat that I can't make at home as nicely or with the same amount of charm. There is something about tacos served up in a small concern like that that make them taste oh so much better than they do at home. And while I won't go so far as to say that my Mexican food at home is not as good as a nice sit down restaurant or a decent taqueria, let's just say that there's a place for that kind of eating and when I eat that way I appreciate it one hundred percent.

I know we made wonderous chow in my kitchen together. But now I can walk into any Mexican restaurant in the world these days and know that whenever I do I walk in there with you. Lord knows I've had a lot of Mexican out. But the memories of those Mexican meals I shared with you are packed solidly in my pocket right along side those hard pineapple candies we tended to grab as we headed out the door.

Your WHMB

"You two are too sparky" PT Branch, July '06

On this very wet and rainy Thursday afternoon I can safely say that I am pretty much happy, well balanced, and feel that I am looking forward to a somewhat safe and sane afterlife someday. Some may differ. Estimations of my character may very.

Just reading this series of posts must have you squirming at times. "Oooh, Ma, he's such a bad, bad man!" Yup, something like that. Malo hombre, that's me. Fathers, you better lock up your daughters, hide away the wine casks and stow away your livestock, the Minute Man is coming to town!

Gosh.

That's the way I was meant to feel that day, I suppose. Big, bad influence. Leading that lil' gal down the highway of regret and ill repute. That's me, big old Ill Reputer. Man, what were they thinking that day? Peeking around corners to watch us talk. Setting us both up to fall hard by assigning assignments in the same area of the stacks. What sorts of nefarious types of behaviour were we indulging in, you might ask? Shelving, talking, being somewhat excited about sharing a sunny day together. Laughing. On the boss' watch apparently that was forbidden.

No wonder most of us felt fearful about being called into the office.

So there we were. Like two school kids. Hard, rigid seats. Glaring boss. Sniggering staffers outside the door. I can still hear them singing.."Jane and Roger sitting in the stacks...s-h-e-l v-i-n-g!" Something like that. What kind of moral boundries did we cross that day? Well, folks, just know that we were "sparking". We were being sparky and well, that just pissed alot of people off. Made spectacles of ourselves. We were happy that day and didn't we know that happiness on the job is forbidden? Get that straight! What would people think about two married folks who weren't married to each other talking to each other, with their clothes on, in the middle of the day, as friends? Man, talk about two people ready for the iron maiden or the rack.

Instead we were chastised. Told not to do it again. The Morals Police issued us a citation and that was that. "You are being watched".

So, after work we headed to the drive in, instead. We missed each other that evening, which is too bad. Our kids would have seen us sparking, I am sure. The rest of the drive in crowd as well. I'm sure they would have sent ushers down. "Can you tell those two to stop sparking? We can't see the picture show!"

Somehow maybe I should be thankful for those folks shutting us down that day. Could have cost me a job. Those books are mighty flammable, you know!

Your WHMB

The non-negotibles

M..do you remember the night we rode home on the ferry after that full day in the city? I know that you remember that day... it was such a great day out..Nutcrackers all around town, that eye opening behind the scenes library tour, a multitude of bookstores (remember that spiral staircase?), that grand lunch for two at the Cheesecake Factory, those two completely different cooking supply stores..the whole ball of wax. Going home was a different story..it was never our strong suit. We were sitting outside on the weather deck, all alone on the bench seat except for passing seagulls and starlight. It was too cold for most folks. We were hot with ideas, filled to the brim with that good time, and felt, with only minutes left to the day, that taking in the salty air would be best for our situation.

What was wonderful was that particular moment, my head in your lap, looking up at your face, when we made that sort-of pact. We were talking about our children, talking about meshing those two bundles of joy, and then came down to the nugget of our issues and future woes: those kids were non-negotiables. We knew right then and there that the kids were the true deal breakers. We could go forward or not, depending on whether or not those kids would be affected by any and all decision we would make.

I had no problem sharing my children with you. I knew right away that you would be a great mom to them as well. I knew your girls, could see no problem meshing them into my bunch. A bunch. A real Brady Bunch. Money would be tight, and housing much different than what we were living, but those big, fat moments of having our own personal baseball team around made it all seem worthwhile. Wouldn't be all the time. Easy to negotiate. Summers..okay. Holidays..who's house this year? All of that was tossed around and notations made and wishes stored away.

But, all the same, the kids...there was to be no negotiation there. They really were the focus. What was best for them mattered most. Your happiness took second place.

In the end, that's exactly what came down, didn't it, M? The kids? It wasn't God, it wasn't money, it wasn't your role and obligation to The Detective. It was your girls. All I can say is that I love you all the more for that. That one act made you more real than anything else you could have possibly done. Many a woman would have walked away for a whole lot less. You took the high ground, M. I may miss you but with one selfless move earned my eternal respect. As for you, well, you grabbed the highest rung of integrity you could ever possibly hope to grab.

What an incredible woman you are, M. Indeed, one of the finest women I'll ever I know.

Your WHMB

Photo shard: Apple Cup Sunday

What was it about me when it came to you back then? That whole pleasing you thing? We didn't have a hope in hell of finding a place in our lives for sharing a dog, let alone a cat, but there I was out looking for one for us. Came mighty close, too, to finding the dog of our dreams. A phone call, and the lack of a fenced yard, intervened. Thank goodness. I think we would have done better with a cat, anyway.

So there I was, trolling the cages at the Humane Society in Silverdale. Getting serious with my mission. It was the phone call from the ferry that changed everything. It was a call that told me that our pretend life was not real life, that told me that you had a reason to be happy that I didn't cross over to Edmonds with you that bright and beautiful Saturday afternoon like we had planned. It was just going to be a lark for me. A quick ride over, a few laughs, a peck on the cheek and then a slow ride back home to Kingston. You were in your car, waiting in line for the ferry to dock when a sheriff walked by. Of all the people in the whole wide world to pass by, he was someone that you knew. He was a member of your church. It would have been a major bust. We had had that kind of scare before, and we had a few more of those incidents coming up. You were not as invisible as you thought you were. I can only imagine, in all our travels, in all our adventures, how many folks saw us in action and never breathed a word. But it was the "siting" that put everything in perspective. Things like dogs, for instance.

I was at the animal shelter when that call came in. I had been looking for a dog to take home. Looked hard at a beagle that day, and by the time I left pulled it's slip to have it held for twenty four hours. I read the Humane Society literature about what was expected of me as a dog owner, looked hard at my yard and wondered if I could pull it off. A beagle is a runner, and the shelter tended to get alot of them because of that problem. My yard was a sieve, and even if I went home and slammed together a temporary shelter and fencing arrangement I would still have to worry about winter. Where to put a dog that has that kind of energy? I was walking regularly then and it wouldn't have been a problem, exercise-wise, but I was gone all day and that dog would have been alone. I could imagine the destruction and the eventual disappointment of coming home and finding that dog long gone.

So, I went back and walked the dog the next day, thought hard about it some more and gave up the idea of owning the beagle. Should've picked up a cat, instead.

You were with a pal that day at the Apple Cup in Seattle. You had no team in particular to root for. Spent the night in Edmonds, ate miserably, took in some outlet stores up past Marysville, and then, without much improvement in the food department, took on the game. I heard that your pal came down every year, that this, like the annual hotel room/shopping extraganza in Seattle at Christmastime, was just part of your life. I thought hard about that and filed it away thinking "if only".

If only I had really looked hard at that bit of your life for what it was worth, applied it to the life we thought we wanted to live. At that moment I couldn't see the writing on the wall, and frankly, even if I did, I'm sure I wouldn't have cared. Sometime I look at those times and think, as I look at the photo you snapped of you and your buddy, Minute Man style, arm extended, camera in hand, lens pointed in, that you developed and later passed on to me, that for a moment in time you were truly mine. All those gimmicks and trips and toys that you had at your fingertips were just there for you to play with. You were bored to tears and none of it mattered: you had the ear of a man who payed attention to you for a change. Your words were golden, you were loved, we were invincible and for awhile that was enough for both of us.

It was if we had our own monumental game going on at that time. The coin was tossed long before, and maybe the game was thrown well before we hit the field, but we took on the opposing team with heart and soul, my dear, with brass and sweat and all those things that said "screw you, this is our field, go home". Only to later on get trounced into the dirt by your God and a man who knew how to talk you into submission once again.

The Apple Cup comes and goes every year. I know in my heart of hearts that you and your pal must be going. I can't see that perk going away any more than I can see your annual trips and hotel rooms, musicals and shopping sprees disappearing. Face it, I fell in love with a princess, a wandering princess just like that character Jasmine in Alladin. And you? My love, you fell in love with a street rat, one disguised as hard working librarian, and for a moment, one brief and shining moment, you lived, loved and were loved in return.

So, to that end, I have to wonder: if I had taken that ferry, would life be different today? And if so, who would have named the cat?

Your WHMB