It was a Friday instead of a Tuesday on that August 4th nine years ago. It seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at the same time. It was the day my darling husband, John Hopkins, left the VA Medical Center in Portland, OR for the final time, coming home for the last time, maybe even riding in a car for the last time, although that point is not one of certainty to me right now. I’m not sure why it even matters at this point, but for some reason I wish that detail was clear. Did he ever leave the house after that day? I don’t think so. He was discharged in a timely manner that final time, because we had an appointment at our home in Vancouver, WA at 1:00 PM with the group who would be providing Hospice care.

I had rushed to the hospital in the middle of that night after getting a call from John asking me to come. He’d had an all-hands-on-deck cardiac incident, I guess bradycardia, and they were going to transfer him back from his regular room to the ICU, a department he’d been in several times since the Memorial Day weekend when he was first admitted and diagnosed with sepsis. It had been a long summer for him, and he was tired of hospital food, but always in good spirits and a joy for everyone to be around, including the VA personnel who took such good care of him.

When I got there, he was sitting on the side of the bed, joking and chatting with the numerous medical staff who were still in the room. His upbeat mood and attitude, as usual, didn’t fit what he had apparently just weathered, but he was ready and eager to be transferred back to ICU to make sure he was monitored more closely.

The room he was transferred to in the ICU felt more like a holding area instead of a care room, and now that I look back on it, that’s exactly what it was. A small, cramped space to house him in until he was discharged to Hospice and out of their care for the last time. Our sweet cardiologist, Tami Atkinson, who had become as much a friend as a doctor, came to check in on him, surprised he was back in critical care. But after looking at the notes from the night before, her smile changed to a serious expression as she told him, “When you’re home, accept all the comfort measures they offer, and…” I’m sure she kept talking but I must not have heard it, and even if I did, I can’t remember it now. None of it made sense to me. I was completely convinced – and I thought John was, too – that we were going to go home, he was going to rally like he always had, and in six months, they were going to kick him off of Hospice, and he’d be telling that story for years, along with all the other tales he loved to tell. But I was wrong.

We drove home from the VA that day, a trip taken hundreds of times before, sometimes together when he had only been there for appointments. But that summer I was usually by myself after he’d been in the hospital multiple times and for weeks on end. We got home at exactly 1:00, moments before the Hospice group showed up. The irony of that timing is poignant, because it was exactly one week later, at 1:00 PM on Friday, August 11, that my sweetheart, my darling John, took his last breath.

The week in between those o’clocks was filled with alternating company and quiet, laughter and tears, fear and joy, and frantic preparations for his sisters, Mary and Sharon to come visit from Chicago. They wanted to see him, but he wanted them to come when he could enjoy their energy, not when he was in the hospital. It was one of the saddest details of that week that they were waiting at the airport for their flight to depart when we had to call them and tell them he was gone. They came anyway and brought their spirit after-the-fact, when I had none of my own.

His short time at home was filled with enough emotion to fill a lifetime, not just a week. He went from walking unassisted to using a walker to being told he should be in a wheelchair. It all happened in the blink of an eye. And as I was wheeling him down the hall to the bedroom he wanted to nap in on Wednesday, I said, “Well, this is one of the reasons we bought this house. Wide halls and doors in case one of us needed a wheelchair some day.” He turned around and grinned at me as he said, “Yeah, but I always thought it would be you.”

So did I, Darling. So did I. And at times I wish it had been, because the time that has come after his signature good mood and teasing ways faded from my life has been brutal in many ways. Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing ok, and I have an easy, wonderful life, but it was even better while he was still in it. One week was all we had after that August 4^th nine years ago. I wish I had that week back. I think I’d be able to do a better job of telling him goodbye.

When we come to Hawaii, she leaves the snow of Minnesota behind and I leave the rain of the Pacific Northwest. We let the warmth, humidity, sunshine, and atmosphere wash over us and slow us down to a snail’s pace on the days we are not visiting our favorite island spots. At the Kilauea Lighthouse & Wildlife Refuge, we see red-footed boobies nesting on a hillside, albatrosses flying overhead, and sometimes catch whales spouting off this northern most tip of the island. We walk down to Poipu Beach, where huge green turtles struggle on to the shore and sleep in the sand. We watch water shooting out of blowholes at Spouting Horn where it’s fun to hear the waves crashing through ancient lava tubes. And this year we finally got our act together enough to make reservations and show up at the right time so we could tour the McBryde Botanical Gardens.

While we are here we have our meals down to a kind of science after so many years, thanks to a kitchenette and Costco. We usually have a wonderful lunch out, enjoying places that are now familiar. Bubba’s, Porky’s, the Kountry Kitchen, Rob’s Good Time Grill, Keoki’s Paradise, and Brennecke’s (see the picture of the sister and the Hula Pie we look forward to sharing every year), but we eat virtually every breakfast and dinner in the room. Our dinners consist of a few staple menus we have discovered that play well into our desire not to cook. A two-pack salad kit and a shrimp tray provide two days of dinner. When we get tired of the shrimp, Safeway has great pre-made sandwiches. But twice during our Costco trips this year, we have picked up lunch and dinner for two by buying two pieces of pizza and taking advantage of their hotdogs & pop for $1.50. We ate the pizza there before we left and took the hotdogs back to the room for dinner. Lunch and dinner – plus drinks – for two people for a grand total of $7.31. You can’t beat Costco’s food court for appeal or price. Mom would be proud.

And while I’m on the subject of parents, I wish Mom and Dad could see us now. A five-year age difference and a bigger gap in personality types meant Kendy and I weren’t very close while we were growing up. But that has changed. When we were together in at her home in St. Paul one year, we spent one night watching each other’s favorite Christmas movie. She hadn’t seen my favorite, and I hadn’t seen hers, so we decided to fix that. I made her watch “A Christmas Story,” and then we pulled up her favorite, “Bad Santa.” Even though there is not as much of a disparity as there used to be, our choices say as much about our personality difference as anything, but together we laughed through both of them.

When we were growing up, I adored my big sister and looked up to her, but after five years of being an only child before I came along, she considered me an intrusion and annoyance who could barely be tolerated. The fact that I was a whiny brat may have had something to do with it (or so I hear.) She loves to tell the story about when I yelled up the stairs, “MOM – Kendy called me a tattle tale!” It took many years, but she finally forgave me for ruining her life, and now we have a great time together. We are compatible travel partners. She makes the coffee, I make the bed. When one of us pours the salad mix into the bowls, opens up the shrimp, and sets everything on the table, the other does the dishes. I don’t wake her up when I go to bed several hours after she does; and she doesn’t wake me up in the morning when she is up long before me. We can sit in complete silence, or laugh together easily. Our time together is good for both of us.

Kendy is the oldest, and I came second, but we also have two younger brothers, Jeff and Todd. I am lucky to have my siblings. Every summer for many years, I have traveled from the Pacific Northwest in order to be able to congregate with them all for a week at Lake Okoboji, a place where we went almost every summer while we were growing up. We drag our children and grandchildren along, fill up all the chairs at Crescent Beach Resort, take turns cooking for a group of up to thirty-five hungry people, create new memories that include three generations, and celebrate the fact that we are all still speaking to each other. It is a family time I always treasure.

And while the four of us are together, our conversations often turn into playing a game of who-remembers-what about things that happened in our now long-distant past. It’s fun to reminisce and laugh, and interesting to see how different our perspectives and memories can be about shared experiences. But having people who have known each other as long as we have, who grew up in the same house, ate at the same table, were loved by the same people – is magic. We are living historians for each other who can relate to most of what we say and feel. I am fortunate to have these people in my life who I know will always have my back. To know I’m not alone – and never have been – is a blessing.

But back to the present. I am so very fortunate to have a sister who owns a timeshare in Hawaii; and who has decided I’m worth spending time with every year – even if I did ruin the good thing she had going as an only-child all those years ago. She says she would have made a good one. I’m glad she didn’t have the chance to find out.

Hang in there. You only have one more week of school before vacation. With Christmas Eve on Wednesday and New Year’s Day on Thursday, most of you will get a longer end-of-year break than usual. Not only is it well-deserved, but I know how much you are looking forward to the time off, and how badly you need it. These days before the holidays take a toll on kids’ focus – and on adults’ patience.

But you still have one more week to get through. It will give you a chance to throw a little extra fun into the prescribed academics you’ve been concentrating on since school started. Most people aren’t aware that – at least for elementary educators – you started planning in October or November for a project that will culminate in a gift the kids can give their parents. It’s not an easy decision. Finding a gift that can be made without taking up too much instruction time, and will still appeal to the kids and their parents, is always a challenge. Should you have the kids make clay candy dishes (which were called ashtrays when I first started teaching), or demonstrate how to wrap Hershey bars in paper and fleece so they hopefully end up looking like a snowperson? (You might want to google this. It’s a fun project with many variations.) Do you get out paints and have them make ornaments? How much down-time will each possibility need? Is there drying time that has to be factored into the process? Is it something that can be wrapped by inexperienced hands and get home in a backpack without breaking? This is a fun, crazy, busy, expensive time for you, and I know you enjoy it – most of the time.

But it is exhausting. After the last child is out the door on Friday, you will get home and notice your hair smells like frosting from the sugar cookies the kids decorated. And about that same time, many of you will suddenly realize you have a sore throat and swollen glands. You’ll ignore it for a day or two until you have to finally admit you are spending the first week of winter break sick – again.

There’s something about the push that comes before a break that must weaken the immune system. Or maybe your body is wise and finally decides enough is enough. If you won’t take a break on your own, your system will take over and make you stay down for a while. I spent my career as an educator. Forty-two years was enough time to recognize patterns. Many of my Christmas breaks while I was still on the job were cold or flu-ridden. The only good thing about being sick on a break is that you don’t have to make lesson plans while you feel like death warmed over.

One week, people. You can do this. One more week and you’ll have time to focus on your own families. One more week and you can sleep in, or stay up, or go out. And I am sure that between Christmas and New Years many of you will be back in that classroom preparing for what comes after break. But at least you’ll be in a quiet building for a change – and you’ll have the copy machine all to yourself. I understand. I get it. There are times when I miss the classroom with an intensity that surprises me, and there are other times when I’m very glad that my time at bat is over.

So. To my daughter in Montana, my niece in Iowa, all my friends here in Vancouver, WA, and teachers everywhere, thanks for still being on the job. Go out and conquer this week. Finish those presents for the parents, teach the kids how to wrap them. Show them (again) how to fold the paper hamburger style so they can make a card that goes with it. Tote all those packages you put together for your students and volunteers. Enjoy the minutes you can, and do some deep breathing during the ones that overwhelm. I see you, I know you, and I thank you for all the hard work, dedication, humor, and love you put into your jobs. And never forget that you deserve the coming time off. Because the world needs you to hang in there – and come back when break is over.

Love, Marna

Thanksgiving was supposed to be in Montana last year.

My son, two grandkids, and I were planning to drive from Southwest Washington to Montana to eat my daughter’s fabulous cooking on the big day of the year. We were excited at first and then disappointed when all of it had to change.

Northern Montana was just recovering from a weekend storm that caused power outages, closed roads, and delayed all kinds of things for days on end. Even the hearty native Montanans were having difficulty weathering the road conditions. So on Tuesday morning, we made a collective Washington and Montana decision to cancel the trip. I was under a hairdryer at the salon waiting for my color to set when we made the final call through group texts. We were all disappointed, but it was the right thing to do.

There would be no long drive through - and to - beautiful country. No singing “Over The River and Through the Woods”, and “Albuquerque Had a Turkey” every time it got too quiet in the car. No getting to see Amber and Josh and the pleasure of cooking with my daughter while the guys watched football. None of that. Instead, there I was, two days before Thanksgiving, sitting with a large plastic hood on my head, trying to keep from crying when all at once, my practical nature kicked in. I realized that besides our obvious disappointment, the change in plans meant our group suddenly had no plans at all. But we still had to have a turkey dinner, for crying out loud.

I decided to bring the dinner back to my house after many years. Since family members who hadn’t planned to make the trek to the wilds of Montana had made other plans for Thursday, I fired up the local

family group chat and invited everyone for dinner on Friday instead. It would all be fine. If I worked smarter not harder, I just might still have time to pull a big dinner together. After all, I used to do this all the time, right?

Right. I sat there with warm air swirling around my scalp, thinking about the fact that I didn’t have any of the fixings for a big dinner, hadn’t planned to grocery shop, and knew how crazy busy the stores would be that close to the holiday. There was no time to waste, so I did what I learned to do during the Covid lockdowns. I opened an app on my phone and started a PickUp order from Walmart. The earliest window they could give me was 8:00-9:00 that night, but I took it and began adding things to my cart, starting with the all-important turkey.

I added all the other things I could remember from the many years I made the same legacy recipes. Feeling smug and competent, all I needed was to review my order. The Checkout button was missing, and the only button available was labeled Continue. Not having any other choice, I clicked that, and then opened my cart to review and checkout. My cart – the very one I had filled to the brim just moments before – was empty. Damn. So I started again, and redid the entire thing, got to the end, and had the same result. No Checkout button, just Continue and then an empty cart. Double damn.

OK. All I was really worried about was that I wouldn’t be able to get a turkey, our main staple, this late in the game, so I started another new cart and added just that one item – went to check out – nothing. Triple damn. The third time had not been the proverbial charm. I was fighting a losing battle with an overworked electronic platform, a website that was most likely getting ready to crash. After all, every other person in the country who either had to change plans or had procrastinated far too long was doing the same thing I was – trying to grab the last things off the virtual shelf without actually walking into a store.

I gave up. I abandoned Walmart and clicked on my Fred Meyer Kroger app. I was going to have to pay more, but I could pick up my order at 4:00, and at least their site was working. I once again loaded up a virtual cart. This time I was able to check out successfully, and I called it a win. I relaxed through the rest of my appointment, knowing I’d be able to pick up my groceries later that day. Crisis averted.

When the time came, I drove to Fred’s and picked up my order. At home, I unloaded my stash and checked my recipes to make sure I had everything I would need. My memory hadn’t been perfect and there were a few things I’d left off my list. I fought the urge to sigh out loud. But if I had to actually walk into a store, at least I would only be looking for a few items.

By this time it was almost 7:00. I opened a Diet Pepsi (my drug of choice) to help me gird my loins for the final shopping trip, got back in the car, and headed to my favorite store, WinCo. I hoped the crowds would have thinned out by that time. The parking lot was crowded, but I had no choice, so into the store I trudged. I grabbed the things I had forgotten earlier, bagged my groceries, walked out of the store, transferred everything to my car, and slid behind the wheel. The sting of not getting to go to Montana had been replaced with a feeling of accomplishment. I truly had conquered this last-minute, hurry-up Thanksgiving shopping thing.

Patting myself on the back, I was ready to back out of my parking space when my phone dinged. I looked down to find a text.

From WalMart.

My order had substitutions I needed to approve.

WT… I clicked the link and then clicked the button that said Cancel This Order. But alas and alack the message came back – This Order Cannot Be Cancelled. I considered going home and trying to sort it out over the phone, but that seemed like a losing battle. And I wasn’t about to have them charge me for an order I never picked up, so I headed to Walmart. On the way, I decided I would not go in and argue with customer service employees who are already overworked and underpaid. After all, I thought, I had a brand-new freezer that had just been delivered the week before. It wasn’t going to hurt to have an extra turkey sitting in it, ready for some other occasion down the road.

When I was in place at the pickup area, I greeted the (I’m sure exhausted) delivery person, and gave her permission to place my faulty-app-ordered groceries in my trunk. I watched her through the rearview mirror as she slid bag after bag (after bag) into my car. She filled up the trunk and asked if she could also use the backseat, which she did – extensively.

As it turned out, my earlier attempts at ordering that morning had been far more successful than the app had indicated. There was no way to officially check out, but every time I opened a new cart, it just doubled (and then tripled) my order. Add that electronic flub to the groceries I picked up from Fred Meyer, and the WinCo run I made to pick up the things I had forgotten to get from Freddie’s – Well, you get the picture.

Safe at home in my garage, I stood behind my car with trepidation. I pushed the button to open my trunk and waited as the hatch slowly raised, like some kind of scary movie coffin, to reveal the warehouse of grocery items that now belonged to me. I started removing full bags of groceries, and eventually uncovered three frozen turkeys nestled side by side, companions to their fourth associate already waiting for them in my new freezer.

I took inventory as I cleared out the trunk and backseat. I was the proud custodian of four turkeys, three bunches of celery, eight onions, three chocolate pies, three five-pound (!) bags of potatoes, four boxes of store-brand instant rice (that I don’t even like but needed for one recipe), three cans of questionable cranberry gel (you know, the kind that still retains the shape of the can even after it’s been plopped on a plate), nine cans of French cut green beans and the crispy onion pieces that go with them, and the list went on and on. The only thing missing was the partridge in a pear tree.

When I called my son, Gabe, to tell him about the grocery extravaganza, I had to keep repeating myself for him, because I couldn’t stop laughing.

There were fourteen of us for dinner that Friday. I could have fed at least three times that many. Instead, though, I ended up being able to distribute my extra turkeys and all the fixings to others who could use the help. That was a huge win for all concerned, including me.

And the joke’s on Walmart after all. Their app was, indeed, not working. The final charges for the total of all those groceries was less than it should have been for even one order by itself. I guess that’s the positive karma I garnered for making a conscious decision not to argue with overworked and not-at-fault retail employees on the arguably busiest grocery shopping day of the year. Once again, I decided not to argue with them over their grocery charges.

I am sitting at LAX, perfectly happy to be returning home from a glorious vacation in Mazatlan with both my kids, their spouses, and all three grandkids. I have been through customs, traveled back through security again, and still have more than two hours before my next flight, which will take me home. I flew out of Mazatlan with a humidity index of (I swear) somewhere close to 150%, am flying through Los Angeles where there is a current heat advisory, and am returning to a wave of temperatures of 100+ degrees at home. So, basically, I’m traveling from hot, through hot, to hot. Which brings me to the reason for my post – kind of.

I am always cold on airplanes, so I play this crazy transition game of wearing long pants, socks, tennis shoes, and a jacket. Combined, they keep me comfortable while we are in the air. But when I step off the cold plane into a hot, humid climate, (say Kauai, Iowa, or Mexico – all places I have had the great good fortune to travel to this year), I immediately wilt. And trust me, you don’t want to be around a wilting me. I am not a nice person when I get too hot. (To be honest, there are also other times when I’m not a nice person, but I’m just going to focus on this one for now.) To counteract the effects of getting too warm, I conveniently locate a pair of sandals in my luggage so all I have to do is reach in and grab them as soon as I retrieve my suitcase from baggage claim.

But today I started out in a hot environment, continued on through it, and will land in extreme heat, so I had to rethink my usual strategies. I decided against the jeans that would make my legs melt in all the locales, especially as we travelled to and waited at the airport in Mazatlan. Did I mention the humidity? Instead, I wore capris and sandals, then put on my open-toed compression socks when I got to the gate at MZT. (Everyone says it’s a good idea so you don’t develop blood clots, and I’d rather not die en route from vacation to home.) I counted on the medical apparel to also keep my legs warm on the plane.

That all worked, except for the “open-toed” factor in that equation. So now that I’m facing another flight, I have added short white socks to my ensemble to go with my compression socks and sandals. It’s lovely, I can assure you. But – and this is the heart of my story, (sorry it took so long to get here.) But – when you’re in your 70s, you can get away with a lot more than you can when you’re younger. Or maybe, just maybe, when you have the privilege of reaching my age, you care more about your comfort than what other people think about you. That’s not always true for me, but right now, I’m feeling pretty good about my facing-triple-digits-weather-plan so I won’t be a b witch, at the same time protecting my toes since the temperature on the plane is not under my control.

By eliminating all of these first-world problems, (believe me, I know I am complaining about trivial things while the world feels like it’s falling down around us) I have also taken care of everything that might give me something to complain about. Instead, I can concentrate on how much fun it was to have my entire immediate family all together in a tropical paradise for more than a week, and the fact that tonight I get to sleep in my own bed.

I may just get up and go for a walk from gate to gate to show off my new outfit.

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Social media right now is full of pictures of kids preparing to start college. Many are leaving the comfort of home for the first time and moving into dormitories all over the country. Viewing all of these life-changing moments brings back memories of those days more than fifty years ago, when I was the one doing the same thing – full of insecurity, dreams, and expectations.

During my senior year in high school, I visited a number of colleges, trying to picture myself at each one. Ultimately, I chose the University of Iowa. Ninety miles away from the small town I grew up in, it seemed far away and large enough that it was worlds apart from my small-town, everyone-knows-what-you’re-doing upbringing. I wanted to break away from that atmosphere and see who I really was. I was ready to get out of the small-town morass and walk, unrecognized and anonymous, amidst the rest of the Hawkeyes who would be on campus. The U of I’s enrollment of almost 19,000 students was exponentially more than the roughly two hundred kids in my high school. It was my equivalent of moving to the big city – a chance to break out and feel like an adult, having to fend for myself and make my way. After receiving my Acceptance Letter from my future alma mater and confirming my intent to enroll, I settled down to anticipate and fear what came next.

I was excited. I thought more about what day-to-day living would be like than what classes I would be taking. I wondered which side of campus I would be on and which dormitory I would be living in. I pictured myself in a cubicle of a room with a new acquaintance in the form of whatever roommate they assigned me. Would we get along? Would we be fast friends? Would we giggle together into the wee hours of the morning, study late into the night side by side at desks we would complain about all year? I had visions of meeting a new best friend, a kindred soul, someone I’d know for the rest of my life and who’d stand up with me at my someday-wedding – and I at hers. I couldn’t wait to meet the woman who would know me before I knew my future husband, who would scope him out and decide whether he was worthy of me or not, making a list of red flags for the ones who didn’t make it and extolling the virtues of the one who ultimately would. I was steeped in the idea that we would develop a lifelong friendship forged in finding out who we were, what we wanted, and what we could attain. My future roommate, my new best friend, was what I had read about and dreamed of in my going-to-college fantasies.

When a letter arrived early that summer from the University of Iowa Housing Authority giving me my room assignment, I discovered it also contained the name and address of my future maid-of-honor. The letter advised we might want to write to each other before arriving on campus, perhaps dividing up things we might bring so we didn’t have duplicates. I was ecstatic, and even more so when I realized my assigned roommate for the year lived in Des Moines. That was where my grandparents lived. Might it be possible to meet her ahead of time, saving ourselves the letter-writing campaign time and getting our first hugs out of the way before we even got to Iowa City?

I was beside myself with the possibility of already knowing her before the fall and being able to greet each other like we were old friends when everyone else was making awkward introductions on that first move-in day. So, I talked my grandmother into helping me find my way to her house. And on a sunny July day, Grandma was driving up and down an unfamiliar part of Des Moines while I watched out for street names and house numbers.

“There it is! It’s right there!” I said as I finally found the right one. My grandmother pulled to a stop along the curb across the street from the house where my soon-to-be new best friend lived. All of a sudden, I had no idea what I was going to say to this new friend of my daydreams, this roommate of my fantasies.

Grandma patted my hand as I sat in the car staring at a brown house with a faded blue screen door. “Go on, honey. Just be yourself,” she said as I stalled.

“Now or never,” I said to myself, as I folded the napkin more tightly over the paper plate of muffins Grandma had helped me bake as a “welcome to my world” offering. If I had been by myself, I probably would have just pulled away from the curb and never made the trek to the door, but my grandmother had made a special effort and rearranged her day to help me find this person, so I opened the car door and stepped out.

Standing in front of the house, I took a deep breath and knocked. The screen door rattled in its ill-fitting frame while I tried to see into the interior of the house without looking like I was trying to see in. I heard the sound of a television turn off and then rustling as footsteps came to the door.

“Can I help you?” the girl inside said as she peered out through the still-closed screen. She appeared to be about my age and like me had long, straight hair although hers was distinctly dyed black. Her eye makeup was dark and heavy, something I hadn’t yet seen during the time when frosty blue eyeshadow was just coming into vogue and white lipstick was just sliding out. Her dark color scheme was carried out in the rest of her outfit. She looked goth even though it was a few years before the subculture emerged.

I peered at the name on the university housing letter, as if I hadn’t memorized it weeks before, and asked her if she was that person.

“Yes.” A quick answer, one that was not followed up by any other question or statement.

Not much of a talker, I thought and catalogued that information in my mind for nights we would be studying together for whatever classes we had in common.

“I’m Marna Jones,” I said and paused, hoping the name would register with her. Apparently, it had not. “I’m assigned to be your roommate in Rienow Hall at the University of Iowa this fall.”

She waited for more information, or perhaps she was just as shy as I felt at that moment. After all, I had known for days that I was going to meet her, had stayed at my grandparents the night before and baked muffins to take her during this auspicious introduction. No wonder she was at a loss for words; I was, too – and I’d had fair warning.

“The letter suggested we introduce ourselves and write to each other before school started, but I just live in Colfax, which isn’t very far away, so I decided to come meet you in person.” I stopped the rambling sentence, because I was running out of breath. She stared at me

“OK,” was her response. So far, she had only said, “Yes,” and “OK.” Later we were going to laugh about how awkward this first meeting was and how it took a while to warm up to each other.

She was obviously not going to invite me in so we could start our lifelong friendship immediately, so I decided it was time to end our first meeting. “Well, anyway, if you want to talk before school starts, or even get together again,” I said, as if this was a planned soda fountain date we had shared, “here is my phone number at home. Call if you want to talk over what we’re bringing, or anything else like that.” I handed over the slip of paper that had my name and phone number on it, adorned with small flowers I had drawn and colored in to decorate the page.

She opened the door and took the colorful page without a word.

“Oh, and my grandma and I made these for you just to say hi. They’re zucchini bread muffins.” She took the plate. “Zucchini’s really popular. I hope you like it.”

“Thanks,” she said as she reached for the plate, and then stepped back into the interior of her house, letting the screen door close in front of her.

*****

The rest of the summer came and went and I never heard from her. I shopped for sheets and a hot pot for our dorm room, so we could heat up water for hot chocolate or Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup whenever we wanted. If she brought one, too, that would be ok. I left for college a week before all students were scheduled to show up, so I could take part in Sorority Rush Week. I set my things up in the room, knowing that if she wanted the other bed or the other desk, it would be easy to move things around the way we wanted.

But in the end, it didn’t matter, because she never showed up. I got to have the room just the way I wanted for the entire year. I must have scared her away with my frosty blue eye shadow, flowered notepaper, and delicious muffins.

The good news is, I did find dorm-mates who became lifelong friends before my tenure at the University of Iowa was up. Two stood up with me at my first wedding, and many more made every year at school more fun. But as for that first roommate, I have no idea what happened to her.

I wish I could remember her name, but now, more than fifty years later, I can’t. If I could, in this day of social media, I might have been searching for her name. I imagine, however, that somewhere in this world there is a woman in her 70s who never went to the University of Iowa. Once in a while she may tell a story about why. “This pony tail with blue eyeshadow showed up at my door one day with a plate of zucchini bread and announced she was supposed to be my roommate in the dormitory. I decided right then that living at home would be more fun, so I went down that same day and applied at Des Moines Area Community College. I mean, sometimes you just know, you know?”

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Leyland Cypress are lovely trees with soft needles, but the best part is they typically grow three to four feet per year, spread from twelve to twenty feet, and can grow to sixty to one hundred feet high. My friend the horticulturist recommended them to me for those very reasons, telling me they are a popular choice for privacy screens. The ones I had planted started out ten to twelve feet tall. They have a way to go, but they already block the first story and are reaching into the second. Grow, Leylands, grow – I know you can do it.

In the meantime, though, there is a three-story building directly behind me that has twelve residences. Their balconies face me and their windows look directly down into my backyard, my deck, and all the rooms in my house where I spend a great deal of my time – living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room. I try to ignore that there are so many people who can watch me go about my daily business, but the fact is that I keep those blinds closed most of the time; because it’s no one’s beeswax what I’m having for lunch or that I’m busy at night bingeing all the Dexter seasons I never watched when they first came out. As an aside – I justify my viewing choices with the fact that I’m in the process of writing a murder mystery. I tell myself it is research. Right? But honestly, I’m slightly obsessed with crime shows – and all the possible Judgey McJudgersons living behind me don’t need to know that.

I can close my blinds to block the view of my inside goings on, but when I’m out on my deck, there are no blinds to close. So I keep my back to the multitude of windows, read a book, watch my hummingbirds, and try to pretend that I’m still in the object permanence stage of child development, where I believe that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

Today, though, as I walked out to sit in the sunlight that only comes to the Pacific Northwest this time of year, I noticed there is a painting easel set up on one of the balconies. Good for whoever is trying their hand at creativity – or maybe they are skilled but starving artists with great talent not yet discovered. Whatever, it feels a little weird to have an artists’ easel pointed directly at my property. I envision someone holding a paintbrush vertically to maintain their perspective and align their elements – and I sincerely hope I’m not one of the elements being sighted.

But in the middle of all this paranoia, my mercenary side kicks in. I wonder how many hours I would have to sit still for the unknown artist to be able to paint my back as I sit on my deck with my Diet Pepsi. Anyone know how much artists’ models get paid these days? I might be able to plant more trees if I get a decent stipend.

“Which one?” I asked and we both smiled.

“Your closet was on the west wall,” I nodded in agreement, “and your window was on the east.”

Her words brought back vivid memories, and I smiled again, picturing the bedroom she was describing; in a one-story brick house on top of a steep hill, in the small Iowa town I called home for most of my childhood.

Joanie let her memory play out. “We had the lights out, and all of a sudden someone knocked on the window.”

I laughed, because there was more than one night that window got knocked on, sometimes when someone was staying over, and sometimes not. I wasn’t sure if the night she was describing, (when this particular person, Joanie’s then-boyfriend, was trying to rouse our attention from outside) was the time our next-door neighbors called my parents to tell them there was someone sneaking around our house. I got lucky that night, because they inadvertently called the kids’ phone line at our house, the one that had been installed because we kids were always on the phone. This was back in the olden days when we all really wanted to talk on the phone, had to talk on the phone – for hours, or we were sure we would die – but my dad had to have a free line, in case patients called. When Mrs. Slatkosky called that night and offered her warning, I did not disavow her of the idea she was talking to my mom. I just tried to sound concerned and then thanked her for letting “us” know. Parental crisis averted.

I never went out that window, and I never let anyone in, but it was not the only time someone snuck up to it, and we ended up whispering through it in the middle of the night. Because in a small town everyone not only knows where you live, but also which window is yours. It’s something I got away with more times than I can count. I know I got away with it, because if my parents had known, I would still be sitting in that bedroom in the house on the top of the hill, in Colfax, Iowa – having been grounded for the rest of my life.

*****

Joanie (who now goes by Joan, but some things stick hard and my brain can’t help itself) and Paul had taken off from their home in central Iowa and were driving cross country, up the West Coast, over into Idaho and Montana. They had plans to visit multiple states before heading home at the end of the month. In the process, they came to visit me for a few hours in my home in Vancouver, Washington.

We spent the morning laughing about childhood antics. Less than a month earlier, Joanie and I had done the same thing with another friend, Beth, while I was on my annual pilgrimage to Iowa to visit my family and my past. Beth lives in Missouri now and Joanie in the Des Moines area, so we split the difference and met in the middle. This was something Beth and I had been carving out time for during the past few years, and Joanie agreeing to join us was the icing on the cake to our reunion this year. The time the three of us spent together in a small local café at a halfway point between our old lives and their new, was a sweet trip down memory lane. The birthday parties the three of us had shared, the years in junior high (this was long before the concept of middle school was developed), the teachers we loved and the ones who scared us to death, and the where-are-they-nows that came up were delightful, fun, and revelatory. All of it made me realize how much I miss these people and the reminders of where we lived, what we did, and who I was.

It made me wish we could get together more often, that I could see more dear friends from my past, and that those kinds of relationships and friendships are more than worthy of our attention.

But here Joan and I were again, sitting at my home far from Iowa, enjoying more stories from the past and filling each other in on what’s been going on in our lives all these years. Joanie didn’t marry the boyfriend who tapped on my bedroom window that night, so I got to meet Paul, the nice man with whom she has shared the last fifty years. He watched my backyard hummingbirds chase each other, and indulged us as we reminisced, laughed, and drank coffee. When he added a few memories to Joanie’s stories and made me laugh, I couldn’t help but think how much John would have enjoyed getting to know him.

Here's to good friends past and present, and to memories that bring us joy. Here’s to reestablishing relationships that sometimes get confined to the annual exchange of holiday greetings – but deserve so much more. Here’s to the past we can treasure and laugh about, the present that shelters us, and the future we create for ourselves on an ongoing basis. We were lucky we grew up when and where we did; I am fortunate to now have my own home to welcome friends into; and I am happy to have a renewed desire to stay connected to others.

The marriage didn’t work out, but the fact remains. Fifty years ago today, on May 24^th, 1975, I married my first husband in Colfax, Iowa. The wedding was beautiful with a rainbow color scheme. My sister, Kendy, wore a yellow polka dot peasant dress with a pastel flower halo in her hair, with ribbons cascading from the crown. My friends, Debbie and LaDonna were dressed in the same outfit, but one in pink and the other in blue. The men wore baby blue tuxedos with a ruffled shirt. I felt beautiful in a gorgeous dress - a long gown with a high collar, ruffled bodice, a natural waist falling to a fanned train, and a panel of embroidered lace flowers and pearls down the center of the front. I wore a veil that began as a Juliet cap of seed pearls and lace that held a multilayered fingertip veil trimmed in lace. It was very, VERY much the 70s.

Just a few days before the wedding, I started to wonder if I should follow through with marrying a man I barely knew. But the train had already rolled so far down the track, I couldn’t imagine turning back. The wedding went off without a hitch. Two days later, I moved fifteen hundred miles away from the place I would/will always consider home, to a place on the west coast where I knew virtually no one and had only the man I had just married to rely on. There were so many, many lonely days and nights that would follow in the years to come. I realize now I made Tom my universe for a long time, kowtowing to all his wishes, working to regain the fairy tale I thought I was beginning on that day in May. I worked to kindle romance in my marriage and a sense of belonging I wanted and needed so desperately in an unfamiliar community.

Now, fifty years, two kids, a divorce, a new marriage, a full career, and three grandchildren later, I’m so glad it all transpired the way it did. I love my family, my life, and my career history. I can’t imagine things any other way. The fact that it all began fifty years ago to this day boggles my mind. It is my 50^th Wedding Anniversary. No matter that they marriage didn’t last fifty years, it was still a half century ago on this day that I got married, and the adult part of my life began in earnest.

It wasn’t a perfect marriage, by any means, but It wasn’t until I discovered he had been unfaithful that I found the courage to ask him to leave. It was another year and a half before I had the will to actually divorce him, partly because an awful lawyer shamed me into not filing when I first tried. However, the extra time it took solidified the knowledge that I was doing the right thing. And we were all better off afterwards. Tom loved his kids. Once we were divorced and he was not living a secret life, he had time to focus on them. And I grew up and learned to do some things on my own.

These are painful memories of the difficult parts, but my first marriage wasn’t all bad. There were just as many times I had laughter with friends, agreement with Tom, vacations for fun, constant joy in my children, and all the other amazing emotions that signify happiness in the middle of confusion and discontent. And I hope that in my life I will always spend the vast majority of my thoughts and emotions on the positive things that my life has gifted me. More than anything, experience has taught me that wonderful things can come from trying circumstances.

I have two kids I adore and who are productive, loving, professional, caring adults with partners who help make their lives whole. I have three amazing grandchildren who fascinate and delight me. They provide a new lease on life that only grandkids can. I am happy in Vancouver and would never have had a life with John if I hadn’t been when and where I was at the time to discover what a wonderful man he was. I’m glad he chose to build a life with me and share in raising my kids.

So. Happy Anniversary to me. Happy Anniversary to my life in the Pacific Northwest. Happy Anniversary to the person I became after I walked down that aisle in Colfax, Iowa fifty years ago. It was all worth it, and is a day to celebrate.

Marna Jones Hopkins

Today is May first. That reality, in and of itself, is hard to believe. I mean, wasn’t it just Christmas yesterday? The months seem to crash into each other with wanton abandon these days. But aside from that, it’s suddenly May Day, which is different for me this year. I have given up the tradition of dropping off May Baskets to dozens of family members and friends.

Delivering May baskets when I was growing up was a big thing for us. I don’t mean the random construction paper cones primary teachers used to have kids make for a select few and hung on door handles or for a grandparent who lived nearby. Heavens no. The scale of our tradition was much larger. The baskets were still made from paper cones, doilies, and ribbon, but the things that distinguished west coast May basket-giving from a good-old Iowa May Day operation were the sheer numbers and the process. Both were more involved.

Back in the old days… we spent the night before May Day filling baskets, making lists, and scanning the phone book for addresses. The next day, we’d rush home from school and load up the car with our creations. Then Mom would drive us around town so we could drop off baskets for all our friends. We would set a basket down, ring the doorbell, and then run like the wind to keep from being caught by the recipient. He or she was supposed to give chase, and if they caught you, they got to kiss you. Of course, actually getting a kiss was never a problem, partly because we all thought that was yucky, but also because all those kids we were delivering to were, themselves, stuffed into their own moms’ station wagons, running around town doing the same thing.

When I moved to the West Coast from Iowa in the latter quarter of the twentieth century (maybe I should edit that out, because it makes me sound really old…) I was surprised that kids didn’t deliver baskets on May Day like we did when we were growing up. The whole idea of full-scale May basket delivery was not something anyone in my newly adopted state of Washington understood. But I loved doing it so much, I decided to import the custom. Thus, when Gabe and Amber were growing up, we’d spend hours gathering flowers, filling cups with candy, and delivering them to neighbors and friends. No one actually understood what we were doing, but people were always happy to find a surprise on their doorstep, no matter the reason.

The only time the kids were ever chased was when we delivered to our friends Bob and Margo Conrad, who had both grown up in Iowa. One year they were home when we got there, and Bob was waiting for the kids to show up. Having heard the bell, he was in hot pursuit that day and Gabe and Amber barely made it back to the car before he gave up and waved us a thank you. Their breathless laughter was exactly what I envisioned when I pulled together the project every year.

As the kids got older, the excitement for the ring-and-run activity waned as they transitioned from being little kids to teens, and eventually felt they were too old for such shenanigans. It had been fun while it lasted, but there came a time when even Amber (who held out longer than I expected her to) was ready to call it quits. The fun for my sweethearts had passed, so I hung up my May basket tradition.

And then the grandkids came along.

We started delivering May baskets again as soon as Patience was old enough to run; and with this new crew, I have been lucky for years. Patience used to grab a cup, run to the door and then skip back to the car. She coached the other two when each got old enough to join her. I remember one particularly fun moment when Serenity was a four-year-old. It was rainy and windy, but May Day only comes around once a year, so off we went, braving the deluge. It was a learning year for Serenity, so the girls went to the door of the first house on our list. Patience let her carry the basket, and filled her in on the process as they ran through the rain. The basket placed, they rang the bell, then ran back to the car holding hands. John was waiting by the car to strap Serenity into her legally sanctioned car seat. He lifted her in, tucked her jacket down by her sides, and pulled and stretched the straps up, under, and through until all the buckles clicked together. Then he wiped the rain off her face, gave her a kiss on the cheek, closed her door, and got back in the car. After that long process, we looked up to see my friend, Glenda, waving at us from her front door. As we drove away, Serenity said, “Whew! That was a close one.” When Patience got a little older, she started delegating more of the doorstep delivery to her sister and brother, who were happy to do it in her place. And for a long time, we got great mileage out of Courage, the youngest, because he is fast.

But we stopped delivering last year, because the fun had run its course. The year before, we had almost eighty houses on our list, and it was apparent during our delivery time that the kids were “over it.” The lack of enthusiasm for the project was reflected in the conversations I heard from the back seat from the 18-, 14-, and 11-year-olds.

“No one even knows what we’re doing.”

“It’s your turn to go.”

“No, it’s not – I just did the last three, so you have to do some now.”

And to a kid, they’d look at the laundry tubs full of candy-filled cups that never seemed to dwindle, and ask how long it might take before we were finished.

So, May basket delivery with the grandkids has joined the list of other activities that have been discontinued. It has gone the way of giggly Easter egg hunts, sitting on Santa’s lap, and singing nursery rhymes at full volume in the car. All of these things are no longer fun for the people they were intended to amuse. Like their daddy and auntie before them, this, too, has passed.

Loving people who are growing up comes with transitions from one stage to the next. It’s the way of the world, the blessing and the curse, the ship that has sailed, and any other cliché that makes sense here; each one is appropriate. And, though some passages bring an end to an era that I end up feeling nostalgic for, that’s ok.

I like who these kids are now. It’s fun to take them out and listen as they choose confidently from the sushi menu. I get to hear their opinions and learn how they are exploring the ins and outs of life’s events. Sometimes they share what’s going on in their worlds – which teacher hands out too much homework, how deeply they will be affected by the budget cuts being planned in the school district, and for the oldest – how difficult it can be to go to school and hold down a job at the same time.

This is also a precious stage. It’s not a run-to-me kind of delight like it was when they were little, but a feeling of wonderment that they are already this far in life. This phase brings with it a foreshadowing of who they are going to be as adults, and the knowledge that there is still so much to look forward to.

So, the time to hang up the May Basket tradition has, once again, arrived. We had a good run. And actually – this is the way it’s meant to be. They’re supposed to grow up and give up the trinkets and trappings of childhood. Even though I might miss it, life has taught me that someday I’ll miss this, too.

I guess now it’s time to sit back and wait for the memories to kick in.

“Remember when Nana used to make us…”

“And that time we got soaked because it was raining so hard.”

“That time we delivered the basket to the wrong house because so-and-so had moved and we didn’t even know it.”

“That time we got lost getting to someone’s house.”

And this next stage may be life-long. At least those kinds of stories are for my siblings and me. It’s one of the joys of not being an only child – having the same stories to laugh about, grumble about, and retell. The time for delivering May baskets may be gone, but the season of complaining reminiscing about it has just begun. At least I hope so, because if that’s true, then memories have been entrenched.

This year I wasn’t running around town at the end of April, shopping for small, individually-wrapped, pastel-colored goodies that would fit in a twelve-ounce Dixie cup. I’m saving quite a bit of money on candy, gas - and a lot of time, since we won’t be driving around for hours. We didn’t have to figure out how to work around piano lessons, after-school practice, art class, or work schedules. In other words, May Day is pretty easy this year. Because this, too, has passed.

My grandson, Courage, and his teammates, Moses, Alyson, and Evelyn are all seventh graders at Vancouver Public Schools’ middle-high school STEM magnet, iTech Preparatory School. Two nights a week before the regional competition, the kids stayed after school for an extra ninety minutes, and then extended it two three nights every week for two hours, to shape and improve their interactive five-foot tall display and the required process papers that are on display and judged as part of the entirety. As a group, they have worked through decisions, discussions, arguments, creative differences, fun, laughter, and shared responsibility under the direction of their history teacher, Mr. Z who missed the first three months of school because he was actively campaigning for Washington State’s House of Representatives from the 18^th District. He fell only a few votes short, which is a loss for the state of Washington, but a win for Vancouver Public Schools as Mr. Zingale is a bonified role model for standing up for what you believe in and making sure you are involved in what’s going on in the world around you.

And, in the middle of what is going on around us, children from all over are competing in a competition whose funding has been eliminated. Along with thousands of other programs that fall under the auspices of the National Endowment for the Humanities, the funding was suddenly terminated just a few weeks ago, effective immediately. Organizaitons were not even given a chance to prepare. Which means that the national NHD competition, scheduled to be held in June (!) is scrambling to find private donors to be able to continue the program for all students who have already been selected, and for those who will be judged and chosen at this weekend’s competition for the state of Washington.

I sincerely hope the national competition will continue to move forward. Most likely without the dedicated group of seventh graders I am going to support, since it is the high school competitors who have the greatest chance of progressing, but several projects will be winners tomorrow, and they deserve to have the chance to see their hard work through until the end. And if anyone wants to donate to NHD, so the national competition can keep their promise to young historians all over the country and hold their nationals in June, you can do so at NHD.org/donate.

The NHD competition and work at iTech has been a great part of the history program in the past. Who knows what will happen next year? The Magic 8-Ball, which is the only way I can have a chance at predicting what might come next with this administration, would probably read, “Outlook hazy, try again later,” if not a direct, “Don’t count on it.” My fingers are crossed that things will look better, but they’ve been crossed for more than four months now, and are getting pretty cramped.

But, for today, for this weekend, I will celebrate my grandson and his teammates. My daughter-in-law and I will drive for several hours and try to find our way through the maze of exhibits and teenagers at a high school we’ve never stepped foot in before, to see all the hard work that has been accomplished by Courage and everyone else whose NHD projects made it to State. Way to go, Kids! Way to work your butts off and strive for excellence. Way to see the positive role models around you, and thanks for showing us that the future is still bright because there are kids like you in it.

I have been watching the progression of nature the past few weeks, with intense interest and vision I don’t remember having before. A young friend, a former student, and forever one of my favorite people, recently posted a meme questioning why, as you get older, you get more interested in birds. I think she’s probably all of 28, so she’s starting early with the idea of getting older. But I agree wholeheartedly. She noticed much earlier in her life than I did in mine that there is a day, a season, a year, a juncture, when things start to filter into your consciousness that hadn’t cropped up before.

For me, it was not long after my mother died. Driving along, she would always point out license plates that were from distant states. We offspring would mutter, “Uh huh,” or something just as noncommittal, which could be translated into, “Big deal,” or perhaps, “Get a life, Mom.” But just about the time I could no longer utter noncommittal comments on her observations, I seemed to take over for her, channeling her interest in license plates, birds, the weather, the moon – so many things. I took her interest for granted, and didn’t see the joy in all of it. Now it’s too late to tell her how all those things make me long for her company and a conversation where I could give her credit for being interested in everything around her – a curiosity about why someone might be driving through the Midwest when they live in Rhode Island – a delight in the beauty of wings that come to visit a feeder on a porch – the gift of bright moonlight on a still, clear night.

Maybe you have to retire to have this second vision of what is marvelous in the world. Maybe you have to get older and realize that time is no longer standing still – that the little joys all around us are gifts that should be noticed. No matter what the reason, I am happy I have the time and the interest now to notice so many things life offers us, just because we exist in this world. The daffodils come first, (always the first sign of spring), then the tulips, then the cherry blossoms. Baby leaves are appearing on my hydrangea, and on the maple tree that John planted when we first moved into the house that still shelters me now. The same tiny leaves are sprouting on trees over head as I’m stopped at a stoplight. This year I realized that oak trees must bud later than maples, so I’ll be watching for the first signs that they are awake to the new season, too.

We had this one beautiful day. Tomorrow afternoon, the cold front moves back in and thunderstorms are predicted. I’m sorry we only had twenty-four hours of sunshine and short sleeves, but I’m grateful that we at least had that. And if that thunderstorm appears tomorrow – maybe one that will boom and blow – it will remind me of my Midwest upbringing. The eclectic mix of all these elements is a part of the transition from then to next. This cross between winter and spring – this Sprinter – will give way to more sun, more sounds and smells of lawns being mowed, blooming hydrangeas and rhododendrons, and trees in full leaf that will once again shade my backyard. It will all come around. The rain that has been constant for the last couple of weeks and is coming back for the next week or more will nurture it all.

Spring arrived on the calendar last week, and it arrived in the air today. It’s ok if you go back into hiding for a while, sweet spring weather. I’ll see you again soon. I’ll be watching, because you’re worth it.

** Photo Credit to Brett Styles