Tag: memories

A birthday and some memories

On July 21, 1899, Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois. Several decades later, I would first “discover” him through The Sun Also Rises and develop a passion for every word he wrote, even those published posthumously, and for learning every thing I could about his life. Maybe I wouldn’t have been friends with him–I’m definitely not about big-game hunting in Africa, and his attitude toward women was often abysmal. But I fell in love with his language, his passion for the great outdoors, and the moral codes of his characters, and I’ll make no apologies for that.

In 1987, the year before Tom and I married, we took a vacation with friends to Florida that included a drive down to Key West. Since I was there, I opted out of some other group activity one morning so that I could spend time at Hemingway’s Key West home. It’s been too many years ago for me to remember details about where on the property I took some of these photos, but I offer them to anyone who’d like to enjoy them as a celebration of the birthday of one of our greatest American writers, Ernest Hemingway.

pictures are here

Photo Friday, No. 105

Current Photo Friday theme: Flight


Flight to New York, 1998

I don’t usually use my camera when I’m flying. I’m too busy gripping the armrests or the hands of the nearest friend or stranger. Nerves might explain the blurry photo, but I will admit that this was one of the happier flights of my life. James and I flew to Manhattan, where I met Tim and Timmy in person for the first time. While the jet was backing away from the terminal, James, knowing how I fear flying, said, “If we die, at least we’ll be together!” That wasn’t exactly comforting–but his presence and his bear were.

Puterbaugh Popcorn


Did somebody say “popcorn?”

Back in February when MGH and Lisa visited The Compound, we had movie nights with great snacks provided by David. I was supposed to post specific photos from one of those evenings, but other things happened and it slipped my mind. (Much like those before and after photos of my kitchen remodel–maybe I should do that on the one-year anniversary?)

Tonight I received a strongly worded e-mail about the popcorn pictures from a certain demanding someone whose initials are Mark G. Harris.

so here they are

Cookie Killer Strikes Again

Way back in the day when I first met, in an AOL chat room, the men who would become my writing partners, Jim baked some cookies and sent them to me. Since we’d never met in person, I asked him why I should believe those cookies were safe. He could be the AOL Cookie Killer, for all I knew. He agreed that he could be, but he was fully aware that cookie lust would override any reservations I had about his trustworthiness. Also, I got Tom to eat one first.

Jim’s sent many batches of cookies in the years since then. Once he sent Tim some, and as I recall, Tim made a tepid offer of them to Tom and me, and after we each took a cookie, he vanished with the box o’cookies and we didn’t see him or them again until the last crumb was gone. I can’t hold it against him–they were his cookies, after all, and they’re just that good.

This morning I was awakened by the thud of a Priority Mail box on my front steps and the subsequent hysterical alarums of two dogs who know they’ve missed their opportunity to warn me of the Dangerous Mail Carrier before the fact. The package was from Jim and contained:

And I can’t stop giggling because there are three bags and I know that not long after Tim sees this post, I’ll hear the key in the back door’s lock, and then there’ll be only two bags on the counter. And that’s just as it should be.

In my virtual mailbox, I got an e-mail from Timmy with what may be a story attached. I’d say this is a banner day for knowing my writing partners.

Button Sunday

Saturday morning, a friend I hadn’t seen since 1988 was in town with her husband and four sons for a family member’s wedding. I was a little nervous about seeing her again. Our lives went in such different directions, and even though I always loved her, what if I wasn’t the person she expected me to be? What if we didn’t have anything to talk about?

A few minutes after we met up, we were riding down the escalator to the Starbucks in her hotel. She said being at an event like this (the wedding) without having control of everything was unusual for her because she’s a control freak. I kind of glanced back at her and said, “YOU?” in a tone that made it clear I remembered this about her. Then I said, “My friends say that about me now.” And she grinned and answered, “You always were.”

Five minutes later, we were drinking the same Starbucks drinks (mocha frappuccinos), catching up on family news, discussing politics (her older brothers helped shape my political views way back when), and just being with each other. Later, when the valet brought my car while she was waiting for her husband to bring their rental from the garage, she walked toward it as if she knew it was mine. I said, “Oh, there’s my car.” She said, “I was about to get in it automatically because I have the same car at home!” The only difference is that mine is one year older than hers.

Maybe our lives did go in different directions, but in all the ways that matter–much more than our choices of coffee and cars–we’re still connected. I was as comfortable as I’ve always been with her, as if it hadn’t been twenty years since our last meeting. When I mentioned that to Lindsey on Saturday night, she said, “That’s a real friend.”

Yep. Some things can’t be controlled. They just are.


In 1975.


And now.

Silly Love Songs

Today, as Marika pointed out to me, is Paul McCartney’s birthday. I’ve made no secret on LJ of how much the Beatles and their music mean to me, so I won’t revisit that today, though I do wish Paul a happy sixty-sixth. I celebrate the life of this man who has so impacted our world with what he calls his “silly love songs”–not just because of the music itself, which would be enough, but the way that music has given him money and prestige he often uses to help heal our planet and its inhabitants.

It’s actually not one of Sir Paul’s silly love songs that has been on my mind. Yesterday, when reading that old entry about Tim’s art and writing bad poetry in response to MGH’s challenge, I could not get Chicago’s “Colour My World” out of my brain. I finally just had to go buy and download the damn thing so I could wallow in memories. (You, however, can listen to it for free courtesy of youtube.)

I suppose I was a bit of a Chicago fan, probably in part because of a surprise party Lynne gave me on what I think was my fifteenth birthday. I still have decorations from that party as well as vivid memories of some of the people there–Lynne, of course, and Susie and Gale and Tim G. and Riley, among others. Bonus photo from among my very favorites:


Tim G. and Riley looking like poster teens for illegal drugs and underage drinking.

At that birthday party, Alan I., who I barely knew, gave me a DOUBLE Chicago album, which was almost like going steady if I hadn’t already been Tim’s girlfriend and one of Riley’s obsessions. I remember the party as among the last of the happy times, because it wasn’t long after that when my parents moved us to a smaller town and yanked me into another school (to get me away from the poster teens for illegal drugs and underage drinking).

Since my parents had promised, SWORN, that they would never make me change schools again–thereby luring me to form real, lasting friendships for the first time in my life–I was one very angry teenager. That’s why they came up with The Bribe:

A piano and piano lessons. The first thing I did on the piano was painstakingly teach myself how to play “Colour My World.” I’m sure hearing that a thousand times a day made Bill and Dorothy sincerely regret The Bribe, but as they say, payback is hell.

I never progressed beyond the simplest music with my piano lessons. “Colour My World” would be played at my first wedding, and four years later, after my divorce, selling that piano (with my parents’ okay) brought me some much needed cash. Eventually, I would give my complete collection of Chicago albums, even the one from Alan, to Ed D., who sang at my second wedding twenty years ago today.

This has been a year of great loss for me–Riley and my mother–and I am having some rough moments. Still, I know that I will be okay because of silly love songs and all the people who color my world with hope and love. Thank you–and happy anniversary, Tom.

for my reference, previous posts about Riley