My Favorite Color

After a long walk in the snow and slush (oh, the slush!), Duncan and I climb the thirty-seven steps to my door where I make him shake the snow off his coat. He doesn't always do it on command so sometimes I just grab his tail and wag it it side to side, which makes him dance and smile and turn in circles. I'm sure we look ridiculous but we find it fun and anything worth the fun is also worth the ridiculous.

After that we come inside where a nice warm towel is waiting for him. He plops down in the entryway while I slip it over his head and down his back. Duncan loves a good toweling-off which makes it quite difficult. He huffs and puffs and rolls over on his side, pushing his snout into the floor while he turns this way and that, stretches out long then curls up in a ball before standing up and letting me dry him off some more. I towel each of his feet, coaxing out the tight, round balls of snow that collect under his pads, leaving them scattered across the floor like the remnants of snowmen. Then I move down to his belly, which he really loves, leaning into me as I dry his chest, licking my cheeks when I come back up for his chin and the tip of his nose. And sometimes when I'm done I just leave the towel draped over his head so that he looks like Obi-Dunc-Kenobi.

Red is my favorite color. Especially when it's on my good, red dog.

Place

Three days a week I go into the office where I tend to the things I'm paid to tend to and interact with people I actually enjoy interacting with. Until I got my present job three years ago, I'd drawn pretty clear lines about socializing with the people I worked with. Work is work and my life is my life and rarely did the two intersect. There were exceptions, of course, but for the most part I was a pretty private person at work. But the people I work with now are incredible and I enjoy spending time with them. I love my work and don't dread going there. I was ill-suited for my last job––I loathed it, in fact––and the sound of the alarm going off each morning was almost more than I could bear. But now when the alarm goes off I don't think, "I don't want to go to work," I think, "I don't want to get out of bed." But once I am up and on my way I actually find myself looking forward to the time I spend there. I am fortunate to finally be one of those people who loves what they do.

It would be easy to pick a place to post about that I share with Duncan but anyone who reads this blog would probably be able to draw a map of the places we frequent, from the park to the lake, the dog park to Hero's Pets, and all the places in between. But I've never really talked about work and where it is I go when I'm not spending time with Roo.

My office is the first on the left when you come through the door. I share it with Ben and almost as soon as we moved in together someone posted a picture of The Odd Couple on the window outside our office. Ben is much too young to get the joke and even after we explained it he seemed unimpressed. I'm Felix to his Oscar apparently; he's a jock and spends much of the day listening to sports talk radio on his headphones while I have somehow earned the reputation of being the fastidious one, which couldn't be further from the truth. One has only to look at my desk at home, or my closet, or my bookshelves, to find the proof. But we get along well and spend much of the day taking pot shots at each other. I enjoy Ben and although he wouldn't admit it, he probably doesn't mind spending time with me either.

 

My desk is probably not the most professional in the office. Last Thanksgiving when we held a turkey bowling event I protested by making a sign which reads, "Bake don't bowl." It hangs in the corner above the bulletin / dry-erase board I have yet to discover a practical use for, aside from holding the copy of How to Speak Wookiee my mother gave me for Christmas two years ago. For a time I kept my Star Wars action figures there but they kept falling so I moved them down below, propped against the wall.

Two years ago Duncan and I narrowly avoided being hit in the parking lot when a woman backed up without looking at us. I yanked Dunc out of the way but was struck and knocked into a parked car (all of this the morning before my grandfather passed away, which was also the day I got the most severe food poisoning I've ever had). I was lucky in that I wasn't injured so much as bruised and shaken up but when I returned to work my friend Lisa had left me a recreation of the event, complete with a small, red dog, a Lego Han Solo laying flat on his back, police tape, and a Hot Wheels car. It is one of my most prized possessions and I've taken great care to preserve it as it was presented to me.

In the corner behind it there's a small Zen water fountain, a frame with photos of my family, friends, and the cats, a wonderful piece of art my friend Denise made for me, a digital scale for the shipping I occasionally tend to, and a lamp which gets far too hot. The fountain, the newest addition, has a light that glows as water drips down on three separate tiers, and rocks that I get to arrange as I like. It's cheap and maybe a little tacky but the sound of the water bubbling is soothing and keeps me focused throughout the day.

Above my desk there are a couple of locking shelves where I keep my personal items as well as snacks and the best damn tape gun in the world. I haven't quite figured out what to do with them so I put up a quote I liked from a Ted Talk I listened to along with a couple of pieces of art my boss's daughter drew for me for my birthday.

There's another lamp on the other side of the desk, near my computer where I sit, along with a sinking Titanic, a postcard from Metropolis, Illinois with a picture of Superman, the origami Star Wars pod racer my friend Sean and I constructed on New Year's Eve, a framed photo of Duncan and me that my sister took, and a large Superman action figure given to me by my godson, Elijah. Everyone thinks I'm a Superman fan, and I am, but Batman is the real hero in my book, I just haven't been able to find a cool enough action figure to put up. I look every time I go to Target, though.

The truth is that while I spend a large portion of those three days at the office away from Roo, he's never out of sight. He goes with me everywhere.

And while I sit at my desk answering emails, talking with instructors and students on the phone, and joking with Ben, Duncan is always looking back at me from the wallpaper on my computer monitor.

Duncan is present in all my important places. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Overheard

Tonight, sitting on the patio with Dunc, who was watching a bunny scamper across the parking lot, several of the neighborhood children were playing on the grass down below. They each carried a small toy sword that someone had wrapped in colored electrician tape: one neon blue, one dark red and one bright green.

"I'm Luke Skywalker," one little boy exclaimed.

"You can't be Luke Skywalker. You're black," his white sister told him.

"There's no color in space," another boy, the youngest of the group, corrected her.

"Fine, then Zane can be Luke Skywalker, but I'm Princess Leia."

"No," Zane told her. "You have to be Darth Vader because your lightsaber is red."

"But my name is Leia," she huffed. "That means I'm Princess Leia."

"Nope," the young one said. "You're Darth Vader."

"Fine," she sighed, swinging her lightsaber with resignation.

"I'm Yoda," the little one said after a moment of thoughtful contemplation. "My saber is green. And I'm wearing green."

"And you're short," Zane interjected.

"I'm not that short."

"Fine. Leia is Darth Vader, I'm Luke Skywalker and you're Yoda."

Leia, still not happy with being assigned the role of the villain sighed. "Whatever. But Duncan gets to be Chewbacca. Because he's hairy."

"And cute," the little Yoda said.

"Now go ask his dad if he can come out and play," Leia said, unaware that we were on the patio listening the entire time.

A Thief in the Night

There are two trees in this home: the big one for the two-legged folk (although you'd think Pip and Olive had broken into our stash of catnip and were stoned out of their minds with the amount of time they spend laying under it staring into the branches and lights, not touching anything, just staring with wide eyes) and the small tree for the four-legged members of the household. The big tree is real and smells wonderful and is covered in countless fancy ornaments. The small one is fake and bendy and smells like the Rubbermaid container where we store it and is decorated with those ornaments that we've somehow acquired over the years––a few Precious Moments collectibles that hurt my teeth to even look at, a Boba Fett ornament, a gangly cowboy and a pastel pony for him to ride, just to name a few. They have been given to us by co-workers and misguided friends, or people who don't exactly share our taste in holiday decor. It's not an ugly tree by any means but it's not the one we display prominently. It can be knocked over with minimal fuss and should one of the ornaments break we wouldn't really be upset.

For the most part Duncan and the cats are very good about the trees. Olive does occasionally give in to her weakness for wrapping paper and bows, but generally speaking everyone has a very clear understanding that the trees are for looking at, not touching.

One member of our household, though, has taken an interest in a particular ornament and can't seem to contain his desire to simply look at it. The small, fuzzy Golden Retriever wearing the Santa cap and scarf has captured Duncan's interest and there's almost nothing I can do to stop it. It's not enough for it to sit under the tree, right up front, prominently displayed. No, it needs to be carried around in his mouth, tucked under his paws, hidden from view when he sits on the couch, carried to the food bowl and back, and buried among his other toys where it can't be easily discovered.

Duncan has learned our routine. At night he knows when the TV is turned off and the teeth are brushed and when we amble around in the dark turning off the lights that it's time for bed. Typically he'll either climb onto the bed or curl up among the blankets and pillows in his kennel. Since Christmas erupted in our apartment and the ornament has made its appearance, he has taken to staying in his spot under the coffee table and waiting until we're in bed before he joins us. It's when the lights are out that he sneaks the ornament out from under the tree, being careful not to disturb anything else, and retires to his "room," the Retriever cupped gently in his mouth. That's where I find it every morning, wet and scrunched down under the blanket Mom knitted for him or resting under one of his Pooh Bear's paws. Unlike his other toys he does not chew on it, merely slobbers it to death. And because it's so cute and he's so innocent about it, I let it happen. Whenever I take it from him he looks at me with his big, doleful brown eyes, somewhat embarrassed at being caught again, but he watches and waits for the next opportunity to snatch it away from the tree where he alone can appreciate its Christmas magic.

 

The Act of Opening

It was a long time ago, when I was perhaps eight or nine, during a weekend visit with my father that I discovered one of the simpler joys of life, one that I still practice and have adapted and enjoy to this very day. It was a seemingly inconsequential thing, one I'm sure he does not remember, but each time I'm afforded the opportunity to do it I think of that morning in his kitchen in Blackfoot, Idaho.

I'm not sure what I was doing––maybe watching television or playing with my Star Wars action figures, or reading Beatrix Potter sprawled out on the couch––when he called me into the kitchen where he was sifting through one of the drawers in search of a can opener. On the counter before him sat a short, squat can of coffee, dark green with a bright yellow plastic lid. This was long before the days when the best coffee came in vacuum-sealed bags and cost an arm and a leg. In fact, I didn't know coffee came in anything but a can until I was in college when my best friend John scowled at me the first morning we hung out and I opened a can of MJB my mother had given me for my new coffeepot. Being raised in quiet, safe southeast Idaho occasionally had its advantages but we always seemed to be ten years behind the rest of the country. Idaho, where men are men and coffee comes in cans.

"I want to show you something," my father said in his dad voice, which is very different from the radio voice he uses to make a living. I stood next to him, thinking he was going to try to teach me to use the can opener, something I already knew how to do. But I waited while he removed the lid, set it aside and knelt before me. "Lean in close," he said. I did as I was told while he slipped the opener onto the lip of the metal can and squeezed the grips. There was a pop and a crunch as he turned the knob once and then thrust the can into my face. "Close your eyes and smell," he told me. I followed his instructions and breathed deeply through my nose, the rich scent of coffee wafting up at me, enveloping me and imprinting itself on my young brain. "That," he said with a certainty that left no room for doubt, "is the best smell in the world."

And from that moment I was in love with the smell of coffee and have made a point of relishing each moment when I unseal the bag and release its trapped fragrance. Even though I gave up coffee six years ago when I was diagnosed with my anxiety disorder and was told I needed to stay away from caffeine, I stood at Ken's side while he opened his coffee and inhaled its dark, earthy scent. It wasn't until last Spring that I finally dipped my toe back in the coffee pool and started drinking the occasional cup of decaf brewed in my under-used French press. But during those dark coffee-less years I still enjoyed its aroma and pined for the flavor dancing across my tongue, its warmth seeping down deep into my body, spreading out through my limbs and making life so much richer.

I took my father's lesson and applied it to many other things, like cans of hot cocoa or loose-leaf tea, jars of pickles, packages of cheese, candles, lotions, after-shave, the first slice of a big ball of pink grapefruit, and countless other magical and heady every day items. I am a scent junkie and live much of my life by its dictates and its close association with memory. As this blog readily attests there is not a day I am not entranced by some fragrance or other.

I have shared my passion for it with Duncan, who has learned the lesson my father taught me all those years ago, that things smell best when they are fresh or newly opened, before anyone else has had the chance to breathe them in. Each time I open a new bag of food for him, Roo runs into the kitchen and sits himself in front of me, his tail sliding manically back and forth behind him while I set the bag on the floor between us and slowly cut into its paper and pull the packaging apart, releasing the aroma of chicken or salmon or venison for his pleasure. He greedily thrusts his nose into the small opening and sniffs it up, closing his eyes and never making an attempt to sneak a bite. It has become a tradition with us, one he knows well and loves as much as I love the scent of coffee and the memory of my father teaching me about it three decades ago.

The Run

We have a new favorite place to play in the morning when the grass is still wet and cool from the previous evening's rain and the sun is bright and not yet hot in the lightly dappled dream-blue sky.


Directly behind our apartment is a narrow strip of sloped land which runs between our complex and the golf course, starting where our back door would be if we had one and ending at The Glen. Were I thirty years younger and unconcerned with mud and gnats which float like moats in the air, it would be my home away from home, where I could hide with my Star Wars action figures while simultaneously envisioning the trolls and fairies who played under the bridge and lurked in the long grass which grows so high it leans forward under the weight of the morning dew. There are flowers there, daisies and greatbighuge violet-colored things which erupt from vines in tight clusters, and Creeping Thistles whose stems are as thick as Duncan's forelegs and whose purple heads grow taller than my own.

There is birdsong, too, from the robins who root for worms on the soft muddy slope, and the tiny brown birds who hop among the low shrubs and bushes, and black scoundrels with a nearly perfect red square on each shoulder. There are others, too, some whose voices sound like doors creaking open or corks being pulled from bottles. Some sound like questions and others like poems recited slowly and deliciously, the words and notes savored in the mouth like dripping, luscious fruit. If I spoke their language there would be much to learn and even more to celebrate on a June morning such as this. I don't speak it but that doesn't impair my ability to relish it, to let it lift me, to ride it while standing still in sunshine mottled shade.

I do speak Roo, though, a nearly wordless language conveyed mostly through smiles and the raising and lowering of eyebrows, the wagging of a tail, the height of a bound and the spring of a step. When he is off leash in The Run, darting to and fro, turning his head this way and that at the songs of the birds and the chitters of the squirrels, we understand that words are not necessary, that joy is universally understood and best when silent with a wide-eyed smile.

If my life consisted of nothing else but Summer mornings spent outside with my dog I could die a happy man and look God in the face and tell Him or Her my salvation was earned through the fullness and jubilance of these brief moments.

Flashback: Mom and Skeeter

While Duncan took a few tentative steps in the small creek that runs through Lilley Gulch this morning––his first since his spectacular swim on Easter afternoon––I remembered my childhood dog, Skeeter, a large, hairy and tenacious Cocker Spaniel who may have been part Wookiee. Skeet was the first dog in Idaho to survive Parvo, had been shot in the back, ate an entire triple layer chocolate birthday cake, jumped out of the back of a moving truck and was under one when my former step-dad ran over him, crushing his hip. But he hung on for twelve years and was a good dog––albeit not the best-smelling one––up until the end.

While Duncan waded and licked the cool stream, I remembered the time my family, including the step-siblings, went camping at the Blackfoot Reservoir in southeast Idaho. We'd set up camp not far from one of the docks but far enough way that we were protected from the the smell of the thick, green water. That summer, a particularly warm one, the top of the entire lake was covered in an algae so thick and foul-smelling it prevented us from swimming and left a heavy coat of green fur on anything that came into contact with it.

The seven of us were standing on the edge of the dock waiting to climb into the boat for an afternoon of fishing when Skeeter took a running jump and did an enormous belly-flop into the water. He'd never swam before and we were all a bit anxious to see what he'd do. Dogs are natural swimmers, right? Surely he'd know what to do. He didn't swim, that's for sure. There was a moment he seemed to sit on the surface, perhaps by the sheer thickness of the algae, and then slowly, very slowly began to sink, slipping under the surface until all that remained was a floating mass of formerly blond, now quite green hair. It hung for a moment, drifting lazily under the sun before it was finally pulled down into the muck. We stood frozen and silent, waiting for him to surface, but after several long seconds of silence the dock erupted into a frenzy with the kids darting back and forth, screaming and crying in a panic. Dan just sort of sat in the boat watching and waiting. It was my mother who finally took control. She pulled off her enormous sunglasses, handed them to me, along with her soda and Marlboro 100's then kicked off her shoes.

"Hold these," she said.

"Why? What are you doing?" I stammered, glancing from her to the wretched and foul boat-landing water.

"I'm going in," she told me.

"In there?" I gasped. Apparently the water was foul enough that I'd rather have risked my dog's life than put myself into it.

"What if he came up under the dock?" Mom said. "I've got to get to him!" She bent at the hips, kept her back straight, leaned forward but just as she prepared to dive Skeeter surfaced, fifteen or so feet away. We jumped up and shouted encouragement at him and he turned, his long blond hair now green and matted around his face. He paddled furiously toward us and when he reached the dock Mom and Dan leaned over and heaved him up, where he immediately shook himself silly.

No one would have much to do with poor Pete-Pete––as we sometimes called him––for the rest of the trip. But I do remember being locked in the camper with him on the unending drive home, the windows open and five little faces pressed against the screens trying to catch some clean, fresh air.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thanks for being a hero to dogs! Skeeter certainly appreciated it, and I know you'd do the same for Duncan today. Or maybe instead of handing me your things you'd simply offer to take mine. I love you.

Stationary Path

Before I leave, almost without noticing,
before I cross the road and head toward
what I have intentionally postponed—

Let me stop to say a blessing for these woods:
for crows barking and squirrels scampering,
for trees and fungus and multi-colored leaves,

for the way sunlight laces with shadows
through each branch and leaf of tree,
for these paths that take me in,
for these paths that lead me out
(A Blessing for the Woods, Michael S. Glaser)

There are three large trees that grow on the edge of the property between the fence and the street. They are enormous things, perhaps six feet in diameter at the bottom of their gnarled trunks. Quite often Duncan stops at the foot of each and cranes his neck up to catch a glimpse of the countless squirrels which play and lounge and live there. Although they are still naked on top, last week's cold and snow spurred some growth and I don't think it'll be long before the sidewalk and street are bathed in their heavy shade.

It's long been a fantasy of mine to not only live in a tree but to somehow build a village at the top of some mighty wood, like something out of Tolkein or Star Wars. As a child I spent hours reclining under the tall trees on the campus of Idaho State University envisioning tiny people with their tiny roads built across wide boughs and branches winding their way up to the suburban quiet on the edge of the furthest and highest of leaves.

Last Summer Duncan and I lounged in the long grass at their trunks and I lost myself gazing up at them, all those fantasies and memories rushing through my imagination again. Today we stopped for the first time since then. Duncan tends to grow restless if we stop in one place too long, ever eager to sniff and lay claim to new territory, but at the base of a tree he is content, his eyes sweeping every nook and cranny for real and imagined squirrels. I knelt down next to the thick elephant skin bark and studied the ants crawling across the gouged surface, following the lines and ridges like cars traversing the mountain and valley roadways. They are magnificent things, these trees. Following their paths is almost as good as walking, like moving without moving, flying over vast and intricate landscapes from the safety of the ground.

Morning at Lilley Gulch

So much depends on light and time of day. When I was young and spent the night at a friend's house I often didn't sleep well, woke early and laid in my sleeping bag, which was typically unrolled on the living room floor or couch. I'd watch the light creep around the drawn curtains, glowing at the edges, trickling up along the textured ceiling. I lay on my back staring at the walls and carpeted floors, listening to the unfamiliar sounds from the kitchen, the ticking of the fridge, the drip of water from a faucet, the cat playing with the kibble in its dish, or even the early morning birds chirping outside the window. It was all foreign to me; I was used to these places in the afternoons when we played with Star Wars action figures, sipped Fanta Red Cream Soda and snacked on graham crackers and chocolate frosting. The silence and dimness made me uncomfortable and I was quick to leave once the house came to life, thanking the parents, declining breakfast and gathering my things. I'd race home on Trigger, my black dirt bike and hurry inside where my mother sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and listening to the Oldies Hour on 95 Alive, 94.9 FM. Dan, my former step-father, would be in the driveway washing and waxing the cars, the sound of the water running through the pipes all around us. The sound of TV drifted up from downstairs where Casey would be curled up on the big pillow chair watching it. These were the things I was used to, that I was lost without.

Duncan and I walked Lilley Gulch early this morning, a little after nine before the sun was all the way up, when the sky was blade blue and clear and the breeze was clean and a little sharp. It was much brighter than our afternoon walk last week and the entire stretch of green-way seemed different, bleached, maybe. The sounds were different, too, different bird calls from the trees that run along both sides, squirrels scrambling up and down their trunks chasing each other rather than lounging on branches and boughs. Children were out on the their bikes and playing in the brook that passes right down the middle. That rich, Spring smell was gone, too, replaced by frying bacon and eggs wafting through open windows. I could hear the television sound of pundits babbling on those Sunday morning talking head news shows. It was not the walk I expected, with very little of the quiet and calm I'd hoped for. Lilley Gulch is an afternoon walk, a place that's best with the sun low before us, the calm of the afternoon settling across the park.

Sundays are not Fridays, but Duncan is always Duncan; morning or afternoon he is beautiful. My most precious constant.

A Bigger Boat

February lingers. I can feel her in each breath, each gust of wind that slaps my face, each bitter nugget of snow that finds its way between the cuff of my jeans and down alongside my ankle. I can see it in the icy blue of the sky just before the sun sets. Winter's tenacity is unmatched, except, perhaps by that of cockroaches. And maybe Cher.

And all we can do is hunker down, pull our collars tightly around our necks and plod through for a few more excruciatingly long weeks. Were winter a shark (and I'm not convinced she isn't––a great roaming white monster with unmoving black eyes, fixed and determined, focused on a single objective) we would all play the role of Roy Scheider's character in Jaws, who proclaims, upon first seeing the beast, "[We're] gonna need a bigger boat."

The park has seemed like the belly of that shark all week, smooth and cold and also treacherous. But Duncan has been with me, joyful and impervious to it, warming me even as my ankles and wrists have struggled against the ever-searching wind.

It's difficult to trudge through the blowing snow and cold and see it as anything other than what it is. My boots work wonders, but I need goggles and today I would've felt much more comfortable astride one of the Taun Tauns from The Empire Strikes Back. The wind was cruel, the snow was like sand, fine and sharp and relentless in its pursuit of soft, warm places. It's difficult to enjoy walks like this when all you can think about is getting home. But it was while watching Duncan throw himself about that I simply stopped struggling and let the walk take me where it wanted, let the world transform from a cold, empty park into something more. I stood ankle deep and watched the snow slide toward me, making a soft hiss as it came at me and I had the strange sensation that I was moving forward, gliding just over the surface of the park watching the ground move toward and then beneath me. It was like moving without moving. And then I remembered fishing off the Osborne Bridge over the Snake River with my grandmother and my sister. We loved the bridge because the swallows built their nests on the underside and we'd watch the birds come and go by the hundreds, perching on the edge of their nests, greedy and sharp toothpick beaks emerging and chirping wildly for food. But the real magic of the bridge––aside from Grandma's peanut butter sandwiches or the L'il Smokies we'd snack on––was when we faced south and watched the river move away from us, there was a moment of discombobulation when we felt like we were moving. Like the bridge was the back of a giant boat working its way upstream. The water wasn't moving, we were. We'd clutch the rail and hang on because there was always a brief moment of vertigo while our brain tried to catch up to our eyes. Standing in the park as the snow rushed toward me felt like being on the bridge, and for a moment I could taste the peanut butter and hear the stories Grandma used to tell or the songs we'd sing about Joe Cogan's goat, or the one about the little dog named Jack who lost his tail on a train track ("Wagon wagon" ).

This is when my walks mean the most, when simply being present and attentive leads me to new places. Or old places. It's walking meditation, time travel, the biggest boat in the world.
Photo of complete and utter strangers on top of Osborne Bridge courtesy of Google Images

The Kid

So there was this kid. This little Hispanic kid, maybe sixteen, with a sickly, see-through mustache and Princess Leia buns on his head. Or rather that's what they looked like. It was hard to tell with the black hoodie he wore pulled up around his face. Maybe his hair was pushed forward by the hood, or maybe Cruller Chic is the new look. I don't know and who am I to judge, really? All I know is that he looked like a masculine Princess Leia and he wore a hoodie. And he wouldn't stop talking to me or following us on our walk. Duncan and I had spent some time playing in the snow on the field and as we rounded the baseball fields this Star Wars cantina-looking kid comes out of no where and starts making conversation like we've known each other for years. "Is this Columbine?" he asked, gesturing wildly around the park. I nodded and pointed toward the high school. "Yeah, right over there," I told him. "All this?" he asked, his eyes wider than a Womp Rat at Toshi's Power Station. "No, just that," I pointed again without breaking my stride. Duncan had places to go, geese to chase. "Yeah, I start here in a couple of days," he said, plunking his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. I smiled, the kind of smile that says, "That's nice. Now go away." I'm not an unfriendly chap, not at all. Just the other day we made friends (again) with Simon and Penny, the two Basset Hounds, and their people, Tom and Sharon, who suffered a stroke while walking her dogs right before Christmas. We'd chatted for nearly an hour, about all sorts of things, like Yellowstone Park, strokes, places to walk dogs, strokes. I like talking to other dog walkers, but this kid had no dog. And it was cold. So I kept walking and he kept following and it was only when he said, "So you go here, right?" Here meaning Columbine. "What grade you in?"

That was when my heart opened up and I no longer cared that he looked like Carrie Fisher with a five o'clock shadow. That's when he became my new best friend.

What grade am I in? It was like 1988 all over again.