Another anniversary

Monday night, Tom told me that he was changing channels and saw that a character from the show How I Met Your Mother hates the word “moist.” Either TV writers are stealing from our LiveJournals, or my friend and writing partner Jim is secretly freelancing. He’s the one who discovered my distaste for this word and therefore uses it often. Because that’s what friends do–right, Marika?

Remember how I rambled on about July having been the tenth anniversary of my meeting Tim and Ron, as well as Tay and Rhonda in our now-defunct online chat room? August is the month that I began talking to Jim in that same place.

When I met Jim, he and his dog Striker were living on a mountain in California in a rather isolated area. Although some people live there year-round, it’s usually only inhabited during tourist seasons. There are lakes for summer fun, and slopes for winter skiing. But because he didn’t have too many year-round neighbors, talking to people online helped Jim pass the evenings after he came home from work (although Striker thought napping was an equally viable option).

Jim and Striker at the cabin.

Jim and I were introduced in the chat room by a mutual online acquaintance who lived in Florida. At night, when our Florida friend signed off because of the East Coast time difference, he always told me to stay online and keep Jim company. At first, I found it difficult to get to know Jim. We didn’t seem to have much in common, and I harbored a secret suspicion that he might be…well, a Republican. But we often left the chat room for our own private room to talk about personal details of our lives that weren’t meant for a public forum: our careers, AIDS and the friends I’d lost, our current friends, and our families. In time, our conversations–online, and eventually, on the phone–ranged from politics (he wasn’t a Republican), spirituality, our experiences and philosophies as educators, and pop culture, including our favorite movies and music… And of course, our dogs.

I met our friend Steve through Jim.
This was the first time all of us were together in person,
on Striker’s mountain in 1998.

I fell in love during those conversations–with the Striker dog. Striker, a golden retriever, was allowed to roam free on his mountain, ranging far and wide to check on people and their dogs. Though he was wonderful, Striker had his own ways of cutting up. For example, Jim was once late leaving for work because Striker hadn’t come home when called. He finally spied Striker on a neighbor’s balcony looking like he owned the place. Then there was the time he showed up after his rounds with a sealed Tupperware dish that contained a whole pie. Or the time someone left out an entire fish to thaw, and Striker brought it home–still wrapped in aluminum foil. He always planned to share with Jim, of course.

Sometimes we can know a little about the character of people by the character of their dogs. As a friend, Jim proved to have the same qualities as Striker: steadfastness, loyalty, mischief, an inner calm, and enthusiasm about what each day might bring. These are, in fact, the qualities I grew up admiring in my late father. Because of who they are, Jim and my father, both Virgos, have provided me a sense of stability as well as faith in myself.

Tim and Jim laughing. I revel in the dynamic when they are together.
They share certain sensibilities, but as very different personalities,
they draw something out of each other that no one else does.

I love Jim’s laugh and his sense of fun. I love the way when I need a serious conversation about things that trouble me, I can talk to him. I can also do that thing that I will rarely do in front of anyone, and then only with someone who I trust completely: cry. With Jim, I can be myself. I’m not a roller coaster person, prone to great highs and lows, but I can be a person who feels things intensely. Jim has weathered a lot of that intensity without coddling me–and that’s a good thing.

Jim helped Tom and me endure the loss of our dachshunds Pete and Stevie, and celebrated with us when we rescued Margot and Guinness. All of Jim’s friends’ hearts broke when he lost the Striker dog. By then, they were no longer living on the mountain but had moved to a home that Jim bought with his partner, Bill. In time, Jim and Bill rescued two golden retrievers, and wonderful dog energy returned to Jim’s life.

Jim with Hailey and Brandi.

When people ask how the four of us manage to write together–particularly when this question comes from other writers, who understand what a solitary effort creating a piece of fiction is–I don’t believe any of us has ever come up with an adequate answer. I don’t think we want to. We like the mystery.

The men with the beautiful blue eyes:
Jim with Timmy at a signing for our second novel, HE’S THE ONE.

Even though Jim is a few years younger than I, I sometimes feel like we were the old folks watching Tim and Timmy survive their terrible twenties. On the other hand, it’s occasionally Jim and Timmy who provide a certain balance to the way Tim and I need to float in the literary ether to refuel our creativity. Or that can all change, and Tim and I will become the voices of reality anchoring Jim’s and Timmy’s dreams.

Jim pulling me through a fountain.
He makes me do things I ordinarily wouldn’t, and that’s a good thing, too.

Jim and I share a private language, and a lot of our conversations seem to end up at the same point: “You get me.” I do get him, and Jim does get me. I know that the next ten years are going to be just as amazing as the last ten have been. Happy anniversary, Jim. Thank you for being exactly who you are, and the friend you are. I love you.

When you read this, I’m sure you’ll sigh and say, “I’ll write you a check.”