Welcome Home

Yesterday afternoon found me waiting at a gate in Logan Airport in Boston. I know for most people this may be a normal, everyday thing and a pain in the hiney to boot. To me, it's still a pleasure. I love to fly...always have. I love to watch people in an airport. I love the community and solitude of waiting.

Yesterday I got to witness something wonderful.

The plane I was about to board sidled up to the exit and the incoming passengers began to disembark. The desk agent announced that a couple of soldiers returning from Iraq were on that plane and would we join their families who were there at the gate in welcoming them home (families being at the gate - a thing of the pre-9/11 days we all miss).

The first soldier comes up the ramp and is greeted by his mom, his young wife and a baby boy barely old enough to walk. The soldier goes from one to another. He's on the ground holding his baby. There are cheers and cries and laughter.

The next soldier comes up the ramp and is greeted by a young woman. He hugs her tight, lifting her off the ground. He puts her down then takes a knee, pulls out a red velvet box and asks her to be his wife. She, of course, says yes and there is more cheering and applause.

We all stood, cheering and clapping as these two young men went home with their families. We all were there, strangers, all going somewhere else, maybe home, maybe to work, maybe to see old friends...but we were all there and able to get on that plane and go about our lives because these two young men and so many like them do what they do.

I am grateful.

Attitude Adjustment

Don't get me wrong.

I love my friends and I love going on retreat.

But Saturday afternoon...I needed an attitude adjustment.

When you put 20-some women in one room together, sewing, laughing, singing, talking, it gets really loud. Add to that, I was trying to "figure" in my head how to fix the mis-cut I had just done and I was DONE.

I had to go.

Get out.

Skeedaddle.

Before I snapped...not because of one thing but because I was frustrated with my project...it was loud and I needed quiet...I could not answer one more question...not to mention I was still reeling from my sentimental journey on Thursday that continued to roll over me.

I could not fit one more thought into my head.

So I left.

My intention was to get on the Blue Ridge Parkway and head to Craggy Gardens. There's a short little hike there that ends in a phenomenal view. When I got on the parkway, though, it wasn't long before I saw a red warning sign.

Road closed ahead.

So I stopped in at the Folk Art Center and sure enough, the park ranger said no Craggy Gardens for me. Snow and ice had shut that part of the parkway down.

...BUT... I could drive to the road closed sign, park and walk on the Parkway...not something you get to so every day, you know.

So after I watch a guy demoing glass blowing for a bit, I took off for the end of the road. There were a few people there but we were scattered enough that there was solitude to be found.

Once again, on a Blue Ridge Road, I found the peace I needed.

Blue Ridge Roads

Most Thursdays find me heading up to Boone to work with the tech in the shop there.

This past Thursday was like most.

Except the morning started out with an early phone call from my mother...which gave me a lot to think about as I drove up this road.

More than thirty years ago, my mom allowed me to go on my first "car date" with a boy up the street. His parents and my parents were good friends so she figured it was okay even if it were a few months before my 16th birthday. I loved his parents dearly. I spent hours talking with his mom. I felt she treated me like a grown up. And, his dad made me feel smart and proud. He was an artist and I loved going back into his studio and seeing what was emerging on those easels. Mike was an artist too but he was also a 17-year old boy which...well, we all know what most 17-year old boys are like and it's a good thing 16-year old girls don't know what we know...or maybe they should. Then, their silly little hearts wouldn't take all that mess so seriously.

Anyway, we "went together" for a time but like all things do, it ended. I haven't seen or spoken to him in 30 years. I did periodically run into his parents at art & craftsman shows but even at that, it's been a good 25 years. They have since moved to their homestead in the Blue Ridge.

So...back to the phone call from my mom. Mike's dad passed away the previous Saturday which in itself made my heart hurt. The service was to be this last Saturday. We were trying to figure out how we could get there. There was no way she could make it. My mom's list of family obligations is epic.

So, I'm thinking as I'm driving to Boone and come up with a solution she finds wonderful. I'll just call Mike's mom up in the Blue Ridge and see if I can come by the house for a visit. I'm heading that way anyway. It's only another 45 minutes from Boone. So after I finish at the shop, I stop by and pick up some apples and a carrot cake and head up the mountain.

I am terrified.

This is a place I've wanted to see all my life. (There's a painting of it that Mike's dad did...hanging in the foyer of my parent's house. THAT is how significant this place and these people are to me. Ingrained is the word that comes to mind.)

I call and she's home and will be so "come on up".

I keep looking at myself in the rear view mirror. I'm in jeans and an old sweater. I have on NO make-up. I DO have on 31 years of life.

I do not look anything like that girl.

When I pull off the Blue Ridge Parkway and up that winding driveway, there it is. Vaguely familiar. I somehow get out of the car and carry my carrot cake to the door and ring the bell. I hear her coming to the door.

I'm about to faint...which would be bad...because I'd drop the cake and it's damn good carrot cake.

Mary opens the door, just like she did a hundred times before for me in a different house. She looks just the same except for the gray hair.

I'm 16 again for just a split second.

And she says "child, you look just like your mother!" (which is just about the best thing you can say to me)

I spent the next hour and a half getting the tour of this incredible house she and her husband (the carpenter/artist) built from the homestead, old barns, houses, fences and whatever else they found attractive...and it is a work of art. We talked about the old days, the folks, the children, the neighborhood, the weird world of today and everything else.

The phone rang off and on several times, folks checking on this wonderful woman who now lives alone in a big house on the Parkway. The last phone call she takes and talks for a few minutes then says "well, here, talk to her yourself..." and hands me the phone...

I'm glad I wasn't holding the carrot cake still.

We talked for 45 minutes...which was longer than we ever talked on the phone when we dated 31 years ago.

Yeah, I was 16 again for a split second...but I know, oh so much more now.

Mary walked out to the car with me, hugged me and told me how much it meant for me to be there.

By the time I got back down the driveway to the Blue Ridge Parkway, I was crying...because I've missed her, because I didn't get to say goodbye to her wonderful husband, because I spoke to the first boy to break my heart, because they both just lost their best friend and my heart breaks for them...because the refrain that's been running through my head for months is so bitter sweetly true...

We do not regret the things we do as much as we regret the things we DON'T do.

I would have so regretted not being brave enough to take that carrot cake up that mountain.

A Different Eye

The husband of one of our dear quilting buddies and fellow troll sister (we'll call him Mr. H) is a photographer. He and a few other artists have an exhibit that opened tonight in one of the local gallery spaces. Now, I understand photography...I'm not particularly good at it but I know I like it. Mr. H has a wonderful eye for things I do not even see. There was one particular photograph...I believe it was entitled "Delayed". We've all been there in the airport or rail or bus terminal...waiting. What I found so fascinating was: here is a picture of a lot of open space somewhere not very extraordinary...but if you look through Mr. H's eye into this photograph there is so much to see and think about..the reflections from the window in front of him, the reflection of the light through the terminal windows, the two men sitting on the bench (reflecting on the world, maybe?) and the thing that got me...the sign perfectly centered that says "Need Help?"... "Why, yes, I do as a matter of fact! Are you relecting back to me?"

I love it when someone else's work talks to me.