January Gardening in the Desert Southwest

Don't hate me.

I spent Sunday afternoon with my hands in the dirt, the warm sun on my back, the plants juicy and ready to be embedded in their new homes. I know that it's freezing cold where you are.... so I offer this as a salve for your senses. There are places in the country where the sun shines and the ground is ready for new offerings. It just doesn't happen in Chicago or Foxboro or Bloomington right now. 

I'm sorry.

These plant feet were the first items of business.  

The huge container which once held the now dead fan palm managed to keep the hibiscus alive and almost well throughout our short but noticeable winter. Unfortunately, the weight of the soil and water had pushed the original feet deep into a crevasse.  I lifted the pot, all by myself thank you very much, and found a small grey spider with a black dot on her back. I recoiled.  She stayed still. I decided to ignore her as I settled the bigger feet under the pot's edges.

I added another snapdragon

and replenished the old soil with a mixture of Black Gold and perlite.

The perlite, little white balls of absorbent material, retains water in the pot. It is the single most important factor in successful container gardening in my yard here in Tucson.  It gets really really really hot here, in case you've forgotten, and when the summer winds blow the combination dries out the soil faster than anyplace else I've ever gardened.  The perlite keeps the June and July waterings down to two a day.

Combining the warm soil, fresh from Rillito Nursery, and the cool, smooth, round pellets of perlite was nearly orgasmic.  I eschewed my gardening gloves and went in bare-handed.  My nails were filthy, my heart was full.

You can see the perlite in this photo, which I took to demonstrate the berm I created in the pot.  I made a pie crust edge to keep the water from running over the sides; it was silly but effective and, most important of all, it was fun to do.

Standing up, after untangling the never-kink (ha!) hose, I noticed this:

Look at those two feet planted firmly on the ground, casting perfectly straight shadows. 

It's the little victories which brighten my day, even if I have to use a wheeled cart to move my equipment from pillar to post.

By the time I was finished deadheading and refurbishing the soil and adding another snap dragon or two, the remaining containers were as happy as I was.

Tomorrow I'll share what I'm doing in the courtyard.

Right now, I'm going outside again.

HarpFusion in Church

It's easy to see why angels play harps in heaven. 

On Saturday afternoon, some of them were in the apse of St. Mark Catholic Church. With strong fingers and graceful wrists they plucked and strummed and caressed the strings.

With a sharp pull and a graceful release, 

hands up, curved fingers freeing the vibrations, 

the audience silent,

the leader, raising her hand in triumph, as the music died.

It was something to behold, something to treasure.

I was there because a friend from The Happy Ladies Club extended an invitation.

Her church was throwing a party for its new building 

and The University of Arizona's HarpFusion was playing. 

Auntie Em played the harp in her youth.  I wished she were by my side on Saturday. 

I wanted Christina-Taylor, too, so I lit a candle, just in case her spirit was wandering in the neighborhood, looking for a pleasant afternoon respite.

I was in church, after all.

Harps are beautiful instruments.

and so were the women who played them.

Look at those smiles.

They buy their own dresses, in complimentary hues. 

The first set, ranging from Disney's Electric Light Parade through Greensleeves to Klezmer Dances, was played in turquoise and teal.

They sat on stools, with perfect posture

leaning in and out, 

holding the harp and pressing the foot pedals, beating time on the sound board or the sound box, 

small smiles, head tilts, bigger smiles,

shrinking into the sounds as they grew weaker and lesser and higher and then growing larger and larger as the music did and her smile, oh, denizens, her smile was something to see.  

They are all students of Harp.

They are merit scholars and double majors in math and bassoon and dance.

They are on their way to PhD's and Masters Programs and carry a 4.0 along with the biggest musical instrument a parent could be asked to transport.

"What kind of car does your family drive?"  I asked the Knight sisters.

"A very big van." 

The intermission was just long enough to admire the new building and make some new friends.

This church was a very friendly, welcoming space, even for a snarky heathen like me.

Though my friend worried that I'd limp into the baptismal font by mistake,

thus forcing her to adopt me as a new convert,

I think I'll be back more often for the music than for the Gospel. 

But I will be back. 

After all, it's not every weekend that I can hear two sisters riffing on the theme music to a Spanish language cartoon "we watched when we were trying to learn the language"

playing an arrangement they created themselves

on their harps

on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Life is good.

Watch Football With Me

This is a pretty good weekend, if you like football.  If you don't, perhaps you want to come back tomorrow. Harp Fusion might appeal to you.
*****
"Since we're going to be home all afternoon, would it be okay to ask if you want to make cookies?"

The fact that Brenda Starr and I had pancakes at IHOP an hour ago did not deter me.

*****
The boys think this first game, Peyton Manning vs Tom Brady, is boring.  Watching between stirring and weighing and scooping cookie dough, it looks no different than usual to me.  I watch different colors run up and down the field, and sometimes I am even able to figure out which team is on offense before CBS superimposes an arrow on the field.

Think about that arrow.  It's not really there, yet it is. It's the same thing with the blue line of scrimmage  and the yellow first down marker. How do they appear on the field, under the feet of the players?  It's a mystery... the kind of place my mind wanders as different colors march up and down the field.
*****
Peyton Manning is tearing the Patriots apart, and I ache, just a little, for FAMBB and Messers 8 and 10. Big Cuter is beside himself as he waits for his beloved 49'ers to play in the second game. At this moment, I'm glad that my interest is so much less passionate than theirs.

I don't understand the attraction of watching others play, and yet I, too, have had my heart broken by total strangers, larger and stronger than I, who were unable to fulfill the promise I knew they had, hidden inside.

Yes, the DePaul Blue Demons left me bereft, just as the Patriots are piercing the hearts of New Englanders this afternoon, trying and missing the two point conversion, their deflated faces and shoulders telling a tale of defeat.
*****
Peyton Manning is another poster child for rehab. It's not enough that I have Gabby Giffords jumping out of airplanes. A guy with a repaired arm and a damaged neck is quarterbacking a Super Bowl bound team.

As Gabby said, every new achievement just shows me how far I have to go.
*****
"We need to score more points."

Bill Belichick actually said it at the press conference after the game, when asked what he would change next time. That's my standard line when I hear reporters ask it.

It's frightening to think that he and I share a sense of humor.
*****
And now we switch to Seattle, the loudest stadium in the NFL. It's neither domed nor miked; it was engineered to make it impossible to hear the count or an audible on the field.

Few people think that San Francisco can win in a stadium that has seen only one home team loss this season, but I refuse to believe that my boys will be sad at the end of the evening. TBG and Big Cuter have been paying close attention to every nuance of every play of every game, all season long, and, as long as the coaches pay attention to what they will be shouting at the screen, we should be fine.
*****
The 49'ers sacked the quarterback and recovered a fumble on the opening play but the Seahawk's defense held them to a field goal, denying them a touchdown but putting the first points on the scoreboard.

Now, I will wait for the phone to ring to see how we're feeling about it.
*****
TBG is pleased that the coaches have listened to his exhortations to blitz with NaVorro Bowman. Big Cuter agrees with the more aggressive play calling. Fumbling and then recovering a kickoff to start the second quarter was a little bit heart-stopping but now I'm looking for snacks since cookies have substituted for dinner for one of us.

Plus, the noise and tumult of cooking a real meal would be an unneeded distraction to the viewing experience.
*****
Colin Kaepernick, the running quarterback, brought them to fourth-and-inches and the offensive line held and Dixon went over for a touchdown and the boys are doing celebratory push-ups. The defense gives up a long pass and the Seahawks threaten but they are held to a field goal and I'm enjoying the afternoon.

NYTimes Crossword puzzles with a good pen in Elaine's Japanese paper box, crackers, the wedding album, a large print library book holding water, Stoli and Cran, cheese and crackers, 

and a knife for MOTG's amazing home made savory jelly.  Life is good.

*****

Our team lost.  The boys are waxing philosophical.  I finished my novel.  In two weeks we'll watch the Super Bowl, rooting for the Broncos but not investing much emotional energy in the outcome. It's my favorite way to watch.

Women in Banking

Chicago Booth Magazine, the alumni rag of the University of Chicago's Booth School of Business, has a cover story on women in banking and finance.  Their balancing acts brought tears to my eyes.

"..her younger son... in first grade suggesting that she change her career so she wouldn't have to travel." 

"..she...worried that she was an absent mother, since her job took her away from home three or four days a week, to a different city each day."

Time passes and nothing changes.  Social work and school teaching were good professions for young women when I was growing up.  You could take a few years off, raise your family, go back and continue to do the work you loved, and still be available for kith and kin.  Unless you are special enough to be one who "requested a yearlong sabbatical" and are able to live her next sentence: "When she returned to work....," most young mothers have neither the flexibility nor the financial resources to live like the five featured women.

But that was the point of the article.  These women have huge incomes, and, no doubt, much of it goes to exceptional child care. They are preaching to a choir of MBA's, people who know the meaning of a dollar. Still, I wonder if the most recent profile Linnea Roberts's husband, George, "one of the three cofounders of private-equity giant KKR," outlined his familial responsibilities?

The happier side of this article was found in items like these:

"She has an innate ability to quickly strike up relationships with people, which is powerful.." 

"I've been told that I'm too nice - it's pretty much been on every review..."
"....rewarded her ability to establish rapport with clients."

Women paying attention to the relationship side of the business seems to strike a chord, doesn't it? the notion that it's about more than numbers, that human connections are given weight in the world of banking and finance, that's news.  It was certainly not the case when TBG began his career in 1978.

The world could use more managers like this one:

"...it's gratifying to see that somebody with (her) good personal characteristics is succeeding because she's the kind of person that you root for...... It's good to see that winning out over greed or sharp elbows."

Now, if there were day care centers on the ground floor of every office building, if sabbaticals were not reserved for those at the very top, if flexibility were prized as a means of achieving success, then, perhaps, articles like these would be unnecessary.

Benghazi & Newtown: The Politics of Now

I just don't get it.  Republicans are still furious over the deaths of four grown-ups in Benghazi while evincing no concern for 26 children and teachers mowed down by an automatic weapon wielding young man.

Those grown-ups assumed the risks associated with their jobs. The kids did the same. The grown-ups wore bullet-proof vests and carried weaponry. The youngsters wore logo emblazoned t-shirts and carried back packs.

The only similarity between the two situations is the universal agreement that there was bad intelligence.  No one knew what was going on, no one shared what little was known, concerns were ignored. Decisions were made by generals and assistant secretaries and parents who were operating within their own little silos of information, hurtling down the road to disaster, thinking they were smarter than the facts would reveal... like a mother who taught her son-who-was-battling-mental-illness to shoot... and provided the armaments, too.

Fingers are pointing in all directions.  It really doesn't matter.  Men and women and children are dead and everyone wants someone to blame.  I understand that part of it, personally and profoundly.  TBG and I are eternally grateful that our shooter was captured and adjudicated and incarcerated; it's as close to closure as we'll get on that piece of it.  But Christina-Taylor is still dead.  Knowing how it happened and that punishment has been meted out doesn't change that... and that's the most important part.

There are steps which could be taken to lessen a recurrence of tragedies such as these.  The geo-political problems are much more difficult to tackle than those closer to home.

We are a nation of laws.  Though this Congress demonstrates otherwise, it is usually the job of our legislators to craft the rules which allow us to live in harmony, to create a more perfect union.  As times change, so must those laws.

We have had marginal success in nation building building outside our own boundaries, but, as the United States of America we have done pretty well.  It's time to make some improvements in the places which are most amenable to change, which are within our grasp, which will make an immediate difference here, at home.

Whether the Ambassador listened to the warnings, whether the warnings were sufficiently information-driven, despite who knew what when, Benghazi is a bonfire impersonating Yarnell.  Not to minimize the loss of life, but those people signed up to do a dangerous job. Risk was inherent in the situation.

Twenty-six others woke up one morning, ate a healthy breakfast, hugged their parents and siblings and husbands and children and went to school.  They weren't assuming that they were at risk at all.  They were going to school.

To my mind, the moral outrage displayed by Republicans is grossly misplaced.

The Toast

I admit it. I'm slacking today.  I slept until 8:45, not budging when TBG kissed me goodbye while sticking a note to my clock. My pilates instructor is on vacation, I canceled my group session because the teacher is no longer holding my attention, and there was nothing on the calendar except a morning visit to Ms. Levine's kindergarten class.  Sleeping in was acceptable, although somewhat disconcerting.

I'm used to watching the sun turn the hills pink. Today, they were brown against a blue sky when I sat here at the desk to check my email. I made a pan of brownies and headed off to school with Mousetronaut Goes to Mars tucked under my arm.  Reading aloud to the most well-behaved class of kindergarten students on the planet is a treat.  Sharing special words from my friend, the astronaut, sent especially to the three little boys who insisted that they, too, would be space travelers.... well, that was quite wonderful... quite wonderful, indeed.

We shared our amazement at Meteor's ability to save the day, and then, with Ms. Levine's encouragement and ten more minutes to occupy, we read the first in the series, Mousetronaut.  We counted down as the rocket prepared for blast-off, we cheered as Meteor saved the day, and then, with five more minutes before it was time to line up for lunch, we began to craft our own Moustronaut story.

Her name is Rosie.  She started out with one then two then three and settled on four eyes before we whittled them down to two purple ones.  She's small, she's smart, and she's brave. Those are her characteristics, and we're sticking to them.  She'll have an adventure or two, I'm sure, and we'll be certain to share them with you. For now, you and I will have to wait until the authors dream up an event or two.  It was exhausting creating just one character, after all.

And so, exhausted, heart full, body weary, I acquiesce to Elle's request on yesterday's post.  Here is the toast I offered to Amster and The Firefighter at their wedding, Monday afternoon. The details (lists.... bacon) are personal to them, but I bet you could use the outlines just about anywhere.

I'm happy to help.

I offer a toast.

A toast to love

to friendship

to admiration.

A toast to adulthood

and to parenthood

in all its delightful incarnations.

I offer a toast to knowing what's right,

and living your life accordingly.

A toast to competence

and achievement

and lists

and bacon.

To Amster and her Firefighter,

a long and joyous life together.

And now, I'm going to take a nap.

Wedding, The Relaxed Version

Amster and The Firefighter surprised their children by getting married this afternoon. 

It was perfect.  Totally and completely appropriate for the least pretentious couple I know.  They were surrounded by those who loved them, by those who share their lives, by those they see every day. Several dozen of us gathered in the courtyard as the judge conducted a simple, short, thoughtful ceremony and Ms. Attorney-At-Law took photographs.  

There was prosecco and sparkling cider and chocolate cake with whipped chocolate frosting and ice cream on the side.  The wedding party wore blue; the kids wore nicer-than-usual school clothes, the guests dropped in for thirty minutes or so in the middle of the work day. 

The planning occupied pieces of one week.  I spent some of it writing my toast. 

I went to three stores, one of them twice.  There was one phone call to a vendor. The bride's dress was purchased on-line; as Matron of Honor I wore the fancy knit outfit I bought for TBG's 10th Anniversary at Goldman Sachs.  (Note: Investing in elegant attire is not always a bad idea.  This outfit has saved many a "what shall I wear" moment in the past three decades.)

No one spent more time on it than was necessary. The 99 Cents Only store provided the decor and paper goods, my closets the lacy tablecloths, big blue vases, and fancy plastic champagne flutes. (Note: Investing in elegant plastic ware is not always a bad idea.  These glasses have toasted weddings and birthdays and graduations and nothing at all over those same three decades.)

I got up early this morning, loaded The Schnozz with a cooler and bubble wrapped vases, picked up the cake and ice cream  and all the blue and white flowers in the grocery store, and drove to another store to get more.  I hope no one else on Tucson's northwest side needs blue or white flowers today.  I laid the tablecloths and put out the flutes and arranged the flowers and twisted the strands of hearts and wedding bells through the cacti (only stabbing myself once) and the railing of the stairway and I was done.

It took two hours.

I showered and changed at Amster's, after purchasing two glass flutes with embossed hearts and a cake knife and server for the bride and groom.  I know she said no presents, but it feels tacky to take back the vases for the flowers......

I toasted love and friendship and parenthood and admiration and competence and lists and bacon.  The kids really liked that I included bacon.  Everyone clapped and blew bubbles as hands were shaken and shoulders were clasped and cake was devoured and then it was over.  

My car was packed up and I was on my way home an hour after they said I DO.

No stress, no bother, no muss.... except for the boys shoving their faces into the wedding cake...because they'd seen brides and grooms do it and.... well, they are 8 and 10 and their mom just married a fire chief.  It doesn't get better than that.

Small is Good

It turned out to be a party for my friends.  Some came to help, some came to stroll, some came to bring their kids and their grandkids, sometimes they brought both at once.  Lots of people brought their dogs, all of whom seemed delighted to meet one another.

There were little ones who got their pictures in the paper while existing totally in a world of their own, snuggling VIP Pets or showing sisters how to draw on the sidewalk just so. Parents stood by, smiling, unconcerned, feeling the sun's warmth and the glow, standing around, watching their kids and the dogs and feeling the love.

The Nicest Couple on the Planet organized the Cornell Cares volunteers, who stamped and greeted and gave out sidewalk chalk and hustled donations disguised as raffle prizes. They raised several hundred dollars, a little bit more than last year, and everyone seemed satisfied with the goodies received.

A few t-shirts were sold, many were given away, and everyone agreed that the silk-screening was very well done. The boxes went back into The Schnozz for storage in the corner of my garage, boldly labeled for easy access.

Clearly, asking TucsonSherri to coordinate was a wise choice.

Christina's paved pathway is covered with love and affirmations and butterflies and boats and flowers and instructions.  Sunday morning, walking Nordic-style with one pole, pausing on the way out to take pictures, making it all the way to the first bridge, I smiled at the bicyclists and striders and amblers as they smiled at the words and the pictures and at me.

Christina-Taylor would have been proud of us, being out and about, moving, and I admit to being a little teary as I walked all the way back without stopping once, talking to my lost little friend, feeling pretty damn proud of myself as I took long, wide, measured steps, not cocking my hip or thrusting my shoulder, allowing my torso to do some of the work and my arms to swing naturally.

Three years ago, I was in surgery.  I don't remember much of it, being unconscious and all. Two years ago, I leaned on my husband's strong arm to get fifty steps down the path.  Our hug was on the front page of the paper. Last year, I walked back from the turn-around point at Thornydale, with two poles, pausing every few steps to take a picture, to catch my breath, to stretch my aches and pains. It was more, but not enough.

On Sunday, I walked.  I was aerobically exhausted at the end, the kind of tired that makes my muscles sing and my breath come from deep down in my lungs. All of me was working and none of it was hurting. I was tired, but I was able.

I haven't said that in a very long time.

For those of you who came out to join the festivities, Congressman Ron Barber  and the Cornell Club of Southern Arizona, and GRIN volunteers and Prince Students and Parents and Teachers and my friends, my very special friends, new and old and related to one another and glad to visit and stroll and draw and share the love.... to all of you who were there in spirit if not in the flesh.... and to Christina-Taylor, whose spirit enhances my life..... thank you for being you.

*****

Photos from the Stroll & Roll 2014

more pictures on Facebook and Google+ if I can figure out how to upload them

Random Thoughts - The Afterwards Edition

How are you? I wanted you to know that you were in my thoughts. Sending love your way.

I've spent the last two days living that life.  It was intense in a way that surprises every year.  I relive it the way I relive the births of my children. Each moment has its own texture. Some are rougher than others.
*****
I went to a community event in a movie theater on Tuesday night. There was a huge security presence, and many unarmed but well-uniformed officials standing along the walls, but my friend and I sat on the edge of the aisle, just in case.  Just in case of what didn't matter; just in case was enough for me.
*****
The videographer remembered me from years past; he told the reporter to put the microphone on my sweater and let me talk. She nodded and complied as he and I exchanged pleasantries. I uttered my three-sentences-to-tell-the-media, disconnected the equipment, and forgot all about it.

The movie portion of the evening began with somber music and wintry, fortress like buildings and a voice over recounting the events at Virginia Tech.  I made it through the how many bullets went through you piece and the endless pictures and descriptions of the shooter but when the pictures of the gun..guns..more and more and more guns covered the screen ten feet from my face I got up and we fled the scene.

I have no idea how the discussion portion of the evening turned out. I took care of myself and went home, where, on the ten o'clock news, I saw myself describing a wonderful event I wished I'd attended.
*****
Gabby has always set the bar high.  I've compared myself to no one else.  If I whine, I cringe, because Gabby wouldn't whine.  If I want to skip therapy, I don't, because Gabby wouldn't.  Her bumper sticker is still on my car, reminding the world that she continues to inspire.

Be that as it may, skydiving is one challenge that I will not be attempting.

*****

But that's the thing about these anniversary events - they look backwards.  That's important, and necessary, but not a great foundation for living a new day every day.  I may not be skydiving, but I'll be Strolling and Rolling with GRIN at Christina's path on Saturday.

If you're in town, come by and say hello.

It's All About the Heroes

In the telling and retelling of the story of my perforation on January 8th, there is one question that is always asked.

"Did it hurt?"

The answer is always the same.

"Not until the paramedic said, 'Hang on, Ma'am, this is really gonna hurt,' 
just before he plunged a needle into my knee."

This is the story of how I we met again, exactly three years later.

photo by The Firefighter

 There have been anniversary celebrations and commemorations and speeches and films and discussions and bell ringings and flag raisings and I can't imagine that any of them were as moving as the simple event at the Nanini Library on Wednesday morning.

TBG and I arrived a few minutes before 10am.  There was a shiny (is there really any other kind?) firetruck in the parking lot, blocking the rows of white folding chairs, as crisp and straight as the firefighters and battalion chiefs and fire chiefs and sheriff's deputies and local police who milled about in the most orderly fashion, before taking up their positions in a semi-circle to the left of the flagpole.

Footsteps... in cadence.... drums... and then the bagpipes came into view.

They stood, silently, beside the hands-clasped-in-front-of-them first responders.

Silently, as we all sat, from 10am til 10:10... watching the shiny bell and the firefighter behind it... reliving the morning in my head....

Now Gabby's getting out of the car.

"Look at that - she accessorizes and you could too, y'know!"

Now we are getting into an orderly line, according to the sign in sheet.

"Of course you can  fill out the form.  You are a constituent. You'll get mail.  

Yes, real mail, addressed to you."

A man of a certain age, who should have known better, announced to the person on the other end of the phone that he was in the parking lot of the library at a memorial event for January 8th and despite the quieting stares from the audience he repeated his message a few times more.

Silence returned.  The aura grew again.

Doris and Jim were standing next to Gabby, Christina and I were noticing the photographer, 

and the bell began to toll.

Out of nowhere, at 10:10 am, there was an unexpected noise.

It went through me the way the bullets did.

19 times it rang.

I saw pictures in my head of each and every one of those humans.

I held Faith's hand on one side and TBG's on the other as the flag was raised and the pipes played Amazing Grace and I noticed nothing but us, bound together, 

until TBG suggested that we stand up and I realized that we were the only ones still seated.  

As one, we rose, and were embraced by the others behind us and before us and all over the city, doing the same thing.  It was teary and it was wonderful and it was brief.

Perfect.

Only, it gets better.

We went into the library to see the small-but-touching display case filled with memorabilia from the spontaneous memorials which sprung up around Tucson three years ago.  Filled with love and hope and positive energy, they were a good prompt for my three-sentences-to-the-media interview.  

"You made interviewing you so easy."

"I've been doing it for three years."

After hugging all who needed such attentions, we made ready to leave.
One of the pipers approached me as we approached the door.

He didn't want to intrude.

He didn't want to keep me.

He just wanted to tell me that he was the medic who worked on me that day.

"YOU are 'Hang on, Ma'am, this is really gonna hurt?'"

"Yes, Ma'am, and I'm so sorry."

  

It took me a minute or two to stop crying and hugging him and thanking him for saving my life and sharing him with the world's most grateful husband who had grateful tears in his eyes before I paused and asked him why in the world he was sorry?

"Because I hurt you.  I don't like to hurt my patients."

Is it any wonder I love this town?

My always-and-forever grateful husband and I spent the next few minutes reassuring him that honesty was the best policy, that I was very very glad he had told the truth about what to expect, that I had never for one moment expressed any anger towards him, that he was the focal point of my what-it-was-like-that-morning story, and that stewing over it. or anything else,  for three years was something never to be repeated.  I couldn't help it.  It was guilt in a kilt speaking to the Jewish Mother within.

We loved him.  We loved him before we knew him.  We would always love him.

I told him that seeing my son graduate from law school,

seeing my daughter marry,

being here to hug him right now,

was possible only because he had rescued me.

Sorry doesn't enter into it at all.

A whole lot of THANK YOU does, though.
For sure.

Dear Christina-Taylor,

Three years ago today, we left your driveway for the start of a small but wonderful adventure.  We'd shake the hand of a famous and powerful woman, then have lunch and a manicure, do some shopping, and return to my house to play with bubble wrap as we put away my holiday decorations.

It was a cool, bright, clear Tucson morning. You didn't need that sweatshirt your mom had you retrieve from the front hall before she'd let you leave with me. I know that because you left it on the front seat of my car, parked in the middle of the lot, within my sight if you needed to run back and get it.

I knew enough to keep you safe from errant drivers.  It never crossed my mind that I would need to keep you safe from flying bullets.

Since you left us that morning, so much good has been done in your name.  Gymnasiums have been built and refurbished, classrooms and playgrounds have shiny enhancements, children are learning civics and playing sports and your aura surrounds them.  Your gifts are accompanied by your story.

You are not forgotten.

I carry you with me every day.  I don't remember all of that morning, but what I do remember lives in my head and my heart with startling clarity.  I hear the sounds. Everything has a sharp, distinct edge. Colors are brighter.  The images never fade.

Those images revolve around your face, your eyes, your hair-held-back-with-a-barrette, your hand in mine. I leave you as I remember feeling wetness under my left arm, assuming I was lying in a puddle of water, and trying.... unsuccessfully... to scoot myself onto a drier spot.  I wasn't to move.  It wasn't water. But I was to concentrate on one problem at a time, and that was the blood spurting out through my favorite skinny jeans, held back inside me by the hands of an angel.

A total stranger, ungloved and ungowned, placed her palm over my open wound and pressed down. She took my phone and called TBG and your mom, telling them to meet us at the hospital, because there had been an accident.  I remember thinking that it wasn't an accident at all.

That someone could take a weapon and aim it at you... nine years old... that, in spite of mental illness and imagined slights, an adult could shoot you.... the brightest star in the firmament that morning... so full of enthusiasm that you were jumping up and down... unable to contain your delight over the fact that Gabby accessorized, that there would be photographs to hang on your wall, that you would touch a real, live Congresswoman......that someone would take that away from us is beyond imagining.

But, we don't have to imagine it, do we, sweetheart.

We lived it.  It was real.  It shouldn't be, but it is.

To remember you is to remember today, but not to the exclusion of the little girl who cheated at pick-up sticks, who ate ice cream dots at the zoo, who promised to upgrade my wardrobe, who loved me and who I loved in return.

You are gone but not forgotten, CTG.  On Saturday, we'll Stroll and Roll for the third year in a row, and there will be sidewalk chalk love letters to you all along your path. The event celebrates life and the great outdoors and the friendship between a gray haired lady and a brown eyed little girl.... the two of us, inextricably linked, not by tragedy, but by love.

It's the love that lives on, Christina, just as you always knew it would.  That sense of a promising tomorrow, of the joy and wonder that is life lived fully, that is what you've left behind.  By honoring your spirit, we honor you.  Thanks for making it such an easy task.

With love,
Miss Suzi

The Anniversary of the Last Day of My Former Life

Everyone has these days.  Not everyone celebrates them, though.  I'm debating my own proper course of action.

When I graduated from college, I felt the import of being on the other side of a dividing line, as if a clear distinction had been drawn between my uneducated and my educated selves.  "I'm a college graduate. Ask me anything."  That refrain rolled around my head and out my mouth for a week or more as I attempted to become comfortable with the new, certified, me.

The day before our wedding, I looked across the motel pool at TBG and stared.  I stared and I stared and I couldn't seem to relax my gaze.  Husband was a big word, a word I was having difficulty incorporating into my sense of self.  As I floated and considered and stared, I tried to come to terms with the fact that I was experiencing the last day of being single.  

I was present, fully aware of the momentous import of the new day.

Sometimes, though, last days happen without being recognized for what they are.  I spent January 7, 2011 reading a book and going to IHOP for a 10pm dinner of pancakes and eggs. I had no idea that the next day would introduce me to bullets and a medevac helicopter; it was a regular day, just like today. The sun was out, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, I had no place to go and no duties to perform.  It was retirement at its apogee, all the good things of my life rolled into one delightfully self-indulgent package.

I spent the next fourteen weeks growing a new hip. They were self-indulgent weeks, of necessity, but there was nothing delightful about them.  They were tinged with memories of before, they were burdened with sadness and loss, they were useful for designing the future, but they were quite disconnected from my former life.

Today is the anniversary of that former life, of that woman who existed before becoming perforated. That woman hiked two or three times a week; now she goes to therapy five times a week.  Before, I lifted heavy boxes up onto high shelves without considering the danger inherent in climbing a ladder; after, I examine every aspect of every event in search of problem areas.  I look both ways now.  I plan my steps.  I drive-through instead of getting-out-and-going-in.  

Three years ago today, I thought of none of that. I could count on my body to do what was needed, to be strong and resilient and willing to be burdened. I scampered.  I scurried. I ran. 

Bullets took most of that away from me, although some is returning as time passes. I've learned the difference between exercise and rehabilitation, and though I long for the ecstatic release I felt after a hard work out, I've become comfortable with the aches and pains my rehab sessions engender. New sensations are signs of progress; if the pain is moving around, some parts must be healing and others must be waking up.  

It makes sense to me, and that's all that matters.  

That is, perhaps, the most important lesson I've learned.  If I can make sense of a situation, that's all I need.  I don't have to understand the why's and the what if's, because they won't change the outcome.  I know what I want, and I can't have it.  Christina-Taylor is gone, my hip is shattered, my sense of invulunerability has vanished.  I have conjured up a way to live with the losses and the rearrangement of attitude and have come out, on the other side, with new skills, new friends, and a new appreciation for the mundane.

Still, it's nice to take a moment and remember that there was another me on the other side of tragedy. Sometimes, I miss her a lot.

Walking Around the Lake

Yes, denizens, Tucson has lakes.  They are not Lake Michigan size lakes, but they have water and boundaries and signs that designate them as such.   I walked around one today.

I walked all the way around, on pavement for a while and then on hard packed desert soil.... dirt... solid enough to repel a trowel, with a dusting of soft small granules and larger, trip-inducing pebbles and stones and rocks.

The wild flowers are beginning to sprout, and there are low clusters of leaves, gathered like old friends meeting up at their favorite spots again, now that the weather is right.  It hasn't rained very much this winter, but that doesn't seem to have impeded their progress... the way they impeded mine this morning.  I didn't want to step on them, they were too wide to step over, and moving laterally is a skill I've yet to full master.

I smiled as I problem-solved.  A year ago, I could not have done this walk.

We parked our cars with one space between them, ever hopeful, as always, for a little one upon our return. We noticed the fishermen and fisherkids and the dog park across the parking lot.  We were annoyed by loud motorized vehicles of some sort, but the egret... or was it a heron... in the tree didn't seem bothered at all.

Trying to avoid the nagging sense of guilt (from whence, no one knows) I felt due to my inability to properly identify a bird in my realm, we stood in awe of the soft, white, wispy feathers floating weightlessly above the sturdier, even whiter, ones below.  The bird ignored us.  We were much less interesting than the fish in the lake.

Imagining him surveying the buffet, deciding where to begin, we walked on, resting once or twice for a minute or two, each of us understanding the other's pace and thoughtfulness of foot placement and hip rotation.  We were using what needed to be used, in the most efficient and purposeful manner possible. We were aware of our limitations and our aches and our twinges, but our focus was on the sun and the perhaps-they-are-water-treatment-tanks in the distance, and then there was a darker bird, a six or seven foot wing span bird, lifting and lowering his massive appendages as we sat and watched, mouths open in awe.

After a brief digression into the sorbet of literature, James Patterson, and his Maximum Ride series (wherein the main characters are hybrid human-bird teens) and the notion of just picking up and moving like that, so effortlessly, we continued around the last of the thirteen acres back to our still-not-reproducing cars.

It was a good way to start off a tough week.