Oct
3
Forty more years
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JB turned forty back in August, and I wrote him a letter:
From early emails between the reception desk and purchasing to a backpack full of Coors Light on New Year’s Eve. Lasers aimed at an adjoining Portland apartment, a punching bag drilled into the balcony. A moving van filled with our combined belongings, burning wrapping paper in our Las Vegas fireplace. A lemon tree, dual Lasik, the Sunset Station, one hundred adventures to Red Rock and Zion. The Kaibab squirrels in the Grand Canyon, an overturned snowmobile in Utah. On Y2K, an engagement ring. Another moving truck and an epic drive, oysters to celebrate a job offer from Microsoft. The strip of fake grass on our apartment deck for the cat, watching ferries slide back and forth in the Sound. Our snaggletoothed officiant ringing the church bell after we said I do. Your hand-picked dinner in Phuket as fellow Americans with burger plates looked on jealously. Diener driving us to our not-then-yellow house, thinking he had the wrong address. The first morning after Dog: the Great Brown Sea. In the high Cascades, a hummingbird in our camp. Two tiny outfits bought in Hawaii, pink and blue, because we didn’t yet know. A tiny Riley and a nurse who laughed and told us to never wake a sleeping baby. Our house torn wide open on one end, plastic to keep the raccoons out. A remote beach in Tofino among jutting black rocks and wave-smoothed pebbles. A tiny Dylan, arriving via nervous head-pats that felt like Lenny and the puppies. The loss of Dog. A patchwork Cat. A thousand dreaming conversations before finally saying goodbye to the yellow house. The deep melting glow of a ranch sunset, our family held in a great gentle hand made of sage and sky.
I could write night and day for every year I’ve known you and never come close to capturing what you mean to me. Happy fortieth birthday to you, and here’s to forty more amazing years of us.
Oct
2
Brief parking lot transmission
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As I type this, I’m stationed in the passenger side of my car with the seat cranked back far enough so my laptop screen doesn’t clunk against the glovebox. I’m parked at Riley’s school, leeching someone’s weak wifi signal and positioned near the sports field where he’s at flag football practice. As has been the case for at least three weeks in a row now, the weather is miserable: dark, cold, and dumping buckets of rain.
I’d sit outside in my usual fold-out chair, but I’m not insane. It is officially far too shitty to be camped on the sidelines of these sorts of wholesome outdoor activities, which is too bad since between my two kids they have a total of at least six different practices and/or games per week.
Evenings have turned so chaotic lately — if we’re not rushing off to a practice, I’m bolting for gym class or parked in front of the computer trying to force some breathing room in my writing deadlines. JB has a huge presentation coming up at work so he’s extra slammed. I can’t even remember the last time we sat down for a family meal. We’ve been putting a lot of effort into making the most of our weekends, but heading out for a mini getaway involves a lot of scrambling, too: the packing, the grocery shopping, the beshitted piles of post-trip laundry. Plus, check out what we came home to this Sunday after we’d been out of town:
You guys, that would be a DEAD BIRD the cat brought in the house and helpfully wedged under our couch. Thanks, cat. Feather-and-corpse reconnaissance was a nice addition to the usual chores.
Anyway, I’m wondering if fall feels extra crazy to you too? Or does it feel like a good transition from the aimless days of summer?
Signing off from wettest sports field in the Pacific Northwest,
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