The Burrow

Brenda Starr and I had breakfast with others this morning. Not our husbands; we left them home so that we could catch up on that which fascinates us but bores them. Not with friends, although friendliness was the order of the day. Just she and I and the Tohono O'odham families we didn't know before we sat down but with whom we bonded over popovers and chile and children. I'm rarely the other, at least when considering identity.  This morning, in a restaurant owned and operated by a Tohono O'odham family, I was separate, yet still a part.  Old age is a great leveler, and no matter the color of your skin or your gender or your language, creaking joints are creaking joints. We form a community of our own without asking for a membership card. That was certainly true this morning, as we joined the already seated couples of a certain age, they and I all wearing our wrinkles with pride.  Brenda Starr smiled at me smiling. There was nothing shy or retiring abo...

Brenda Starr and I went to breakfast after our weekly constitutional Sunday morning.  We're walking fluidly, without pausing, chatting up a storm without mentioning our various aches and pains.  It's a sea change in our saga, one which we recognize and applaud.  There is no marathon in our immediate futures, but there are miles to go before we weep.  (ouch.... sorry) In truth, we stopped because it was getting too hot to be outside in the sunshine.  We took refuge in The Crying Onion, a place so homey that it has no website to which I can link. It's like eating at your aunt's kitchen table; there are flannel backed wipeable table cloths, unmatched mugs, and the expectation that you will sit quietly and wait your turn.  The waitresses have a routine, and it is dangerous to try to interrupt it.  It's a place where going with the flow brings seamless care and everything in its own due time.   We were people watching as we dissected the major i...

It's getting to be a regular thing for us. Brenda Starr and I decided on Monday to do the Color Dash on Saturday. Somehow, a 5K doesn't seem that daunting any more. We're each walking with poles, which elongate our stride while providing just enough reassurance. They are equipped with curved rubber tips; Nordic walking poles rather than hiking poles, to be precise.  We arrived early, secured perfect parking, and had a picnic. The System, a gift from Basil St. John, had plaid cloth napkins and real plates and cutlery and with lox for protein and Simply Orange juice in the tiny china coffee mugs for Vitamin D, we feasted.  There were food trucks, had we been less prepared.  I was introduced to the concept of the poutine , and was left wondering about the person who would eat fries and gravy before exercising.  We arrived ridiculously early, and had plenty of time to watch the pre-race festivities. There was Simon Says and Macarena like line-dan...

Brenda Starr brought it up months ago.  She decided, with some prompting by Jon-Her-PT, that we needed to set a goal.  Watching the pedometer would take us only so far; an achievable but ambitious point on the horizon would sharpen our focus and demand that we perform.  The Pecan Festival in her small town outside Tucson was sponsoring a Nut Run, 5 kilometers through the mature pecan orchard.  Didn't I think that we could train our way up to that?  We had months to prepare... it would be fun.... Basil St. John would make t-shirts.... we'd have a team name. Brenda Starr is quite persuasive. This should not continue to surprise me; her job requires that she have real opinions and be able to express them clearly.  Her perseverance, her refusal to take a step backwards, her smiley Of course we can do it , are qualities I admire and respect even though they end with me waking up at 6am to walk further than I'd walked since bullets perforated my hip ...

Brenda Starr and I walked for fifty minutes on Easter Sunday. It would be more accurate to say that we were erect and not sitting for fifty minutes because we stopped quite often so that I could take pictures.    There were pictures of doors. Yes, they have saw blades on their door.  Recycling materials is common in The Old Barrio. This garage door looked like repurposed wood to us, and the tin fencing certainly seemed to have led another life before coming to rest alongside it. This was on a boarded up building. Again, reusing old materials makes for an interesting texture.     And there were pictures of windows. There was open space often in surprising places.  and there were fabulous places to sit.      Are you intrigued and amused and enticed by the colors? Come back on Wednesday and see the Houses, Old and New edition of our walking tour.

Brenda Starr and I went to Reid Park today. I'm sorry if you are stuck in your homes, fed up to your eyeballs with Snow Days. We stripped off our sweatshirts half-way through our stroll.  A prophylactic pee, as Brother instructed my nieces, is a necessary and wise step to take before embarking on any kind of physical activity. This sign on the bathroom door led to much snarkiness, although the event itself was unremarkable. Then, it was off to meander around the duck pond,  marveling at all we did not know about our amphibious friends. This fellow has a lovely brown head and longer than average feet.  Ruler of the roost, this fellow   was followed by three beautiful ladies in white We never did figure out why this one wing was stuck up in the air,  or why this one has such odd feet. Brenda Starr carried stale hot dog buns which we provided, gratis, to the beasts. It was only after we had tossed the empty ba...

Brenda Starr and I went for a walk on Saturday.   We didn't know that we'd end up amidst farm animals and a squash arbor. Sometimes the best days are serendipitous, don't you think? Neither of us is ready to cover long distances, but we were game to try. The Rillito River Path has convenient parking and a fairly flat terrain.  Plus, it's paved, which makes tripping and slipping less likely. We are both grateful for those kinds of surfaces.  True Tucsonans, we knew that there would be nothing but scrub brush in the river bed; it's wet only when the snow melt sends water racing down the mountains.  In November, after a fairly dry monsoon, there were doggies and horses and runners cruising through the sand. Brenda Starr and I walked safely above them, admiring their splendor as we chatted.  And splendid they were, the young blond girl riding her pure white stallion bareback, the brindle boxer snuffling through the underbrush, the parents cradling the...