The First Twenty Years

Neil and I fell in love in late September, 1989. I hardly even know how to type such an ancient date. Here's a picture from sometime in that first year:

Here's what happened: In July of 1989, the summer after I graduated from my suburban Boston high school, I went to Lyndon State College, in the northeast kingdom of Vermont, for Freshman orientation. I went by myself. I remember sitting in the theater, listening to all the important things they had to tell us, and looking around, wondering, "who here might end up being my friend? Who looks like someone I would want to hang out with?" I felt discouraged. Until my eyes lit on a tall, skinny guy walking through the doors, wearing a plain blue t-shirt, Levi jeans and a pair of chuck taylors. He had long hair. And a beautiful face. I thought, "maybe THAT guy..."

A couple months later, we started college. That very same cute boy, now in a black turtle neck, and with slightly longer hair, passed by me on a walkway as I headed to class. He smiled. There were dimples. I was smitten. A few minutes later he sat next to me in my first college class: Philosophy 101 with professor Ken Voss. The cute boy was drinking black coffee. His hair fell a bit over his eye on one side. He was SO cool.

Of course, I pursued him, finally gaining the courage to give him my phone number. He called later that day, or maybe the next. On our first date, we watched the movie "Imagine" and I turned him on to Van Morrison. Our second date was a chance meeting at the library. I asked him if he'd like to go outside and play in the rain and he said yes. Then we got dry clothes and tried to go to Canada, but they wouldn't let us in, so we went back to my place and ate the delicious stuffed mushroom caps Auntie Sally had made earlier that day. The rest, as they say, is history.

(In the weeks that followed, he would come to the door of my insulated-porch-room at night, after his job as dishwasher at the Willoughvale Inn, smelling of Sprite and cold, autumn air, wearing that dark gray wool sweater his mom knitted. I waited up with calm anticipation, reading my school books.)

And here we are on the cape this last week, celebrating 20 years of love:
We've had an awful lot of luck during these 20 years. We fell and stayed in love, got a couple of college degrees, traveled some, lived in far away places, came home, got married, gave birth to a kid, adopted a second kid, made careers for ourselves, nurtured old friendships and built new ones, loved our larger families, loved our dogs, cleaned and cooked and worked in the yard, and have felt grateful most days.

We're looking forward to another 20 years and another 20 after that. What will we do next? Raise teenagers, wait up late, worry, send the children off, worry, stay in love, travel some, nurture friendships, talk to each other, love our larger families, be grateful most days. And maybe volunteer more, serve our communities, try new recipes, entertain family and friends, learn more, visit the kids, take care of the grandchildren, to give the kids a break, like our folks do for us.

And never take any of it for granted.

Music and Manny

Neil and I don't always dig the same music, but every so often we'll discover or re-discover an artist we both just love. Chris Pureka is our latest in that category, so we've been making dinner, cleaning up and generally hanging out to her cds on the hifi quite a bit lately. Patrick is amazing with anything music and last night he told us that this song, which has outrageously contagious and complicated timing, made him feel kind of sad. He said he thought it was about someone being left alone. Which it is, but in a very sophisticated way, both lyrically and musically. The refrain is, "I'll tell you what, I'll save you the trouble of running away..." Certainly not a direct line about being left behind if you're ten years old. That boy can listen. At least when you're not trying to give him directions.

After he identified the song's motif, he wandered into his room singing the song, beautifully and with perfect pitch. He's quite the kid. Here he is on the first day of fifth grade, a couple weeks ago. He was annoyed with me for making him pose for the picture.

I Wanna Show You Something Beautiful

I wish I could dance like this. Don't miss the final bust out at the end.

Take it Easy

Harper owns Kitchel! Across the road from our house and her favorite ride.

Poem (there is no touch)

This poem gets stuck in my diaphragm.

This Song

by Hayden Carruth

In an afternoon bright with

September, or in an old dissension

bright with fear, I went wandering where

there was purity in white lady's tresses,

hiddenness in peeping bluebottle gentians,

and where many species of goldenrod

and asters made funeral for the lost

summer world, and ferns, taken by frost,

made russet the fields and turned

the waysides yellow and brown.

It struck me that I had wandered all my years

like this, half a century, searching

for the touch that heals, but there is

no touch; searching everywhere for the

look that say I know, but there is

no look. This is Vermont, the land

hidden from violent times, far from the center

of life, they say. I walk by the gray brook,

around the knoll, through the pines. Winter

is coming. Searching, searching with my hand,

I feel September's little knives, and with my eyes

I see bright spattered leaves in the matted

grass. I hear this song, if it be a song: these

insistent little bright fearful hesitant

murmurs from high in the old pine trees.