In the Lackluster Beginning

Continued from Christmas Bells

With three other girls, I lived in Norma's. It was the name of a small apartment complex on 7th North just a block and a half downhill from BYU's campus. Norma's was situated under the shadow of a very large building called Spyglass where wealthy kids spent their parents' money skiing at Sundance and driving far nicer cars than my woody mini-van, which we all parked together in our shared garage. Norma's and Spyglass shared the block with houses, little two or three bedroom houses, all inhabited by students and post-student types who had yet failed to move on from student life. Across 7th, further from campus, the road was similarly lined with houses and an occasional complex all rented to kids like me and my roommates. 

The motion of pedestrians was a constant ebb and flow, up and down the hill, back and forth on 8th North, 7th North, 6th North and the roads that connected them, to class, to work, and home again. And it was exciting. The scurrying, laughing, meeting of friends, the quick paced climbing, the palpable relief at the end of a day or a test or a distasteful class, the romances around the duck pond; these things made my heart light and my eyes dance, all of it felt fresh and alive.

 Sections of Provo were organized into Stakes and a few blocks from each stake made up a ward. The ward met together for church every Sunday and for social activities on other days. Norma's was in a ward with a handful of nearby apartment buildings, much larger than her own, as well as three blocks of student leased houses. The ward was the lifeblood of our sociality.  Patrick had been in my ward since August, but I had not yet noticed.

The first time I met him, he already knew who I was, at least he knew my name and recognized my face. I had previously overlooked him as deliberately as I ignored most every young man in existence. So the familiarity between us was one sided, as was the amity.

It was a dark Monday evening early in the new year. We were gathered in a small living room two doors down from my apartment on 7th North. Most of us were strangers, arranged in this group of perhaps 20 students for weekly activities by our ecclesiastical leader. This was the first meeting.  I, the timid introvert in a noisy room full of unfamiliar peers, was full of anxiety. I wouldn't have been there if it weren't for the encouragement of my New Mexican roommate. She was the usual impetus behind any of my participations in social activities. If she ever didn't attend, you can bet your bottom dollar that I would not have either.

There were more people than seats in the loud and crowded room. After the couch was occupied beyond capacity, chairs were perched around the periphery, and floor space filled up quickly. I had a corner of an oversized bean bag chair.

He walked through the door after I was already comfortable in the corner. He had to pass by me to access the rest of the square living room and recognized me immediately. I wouldn't have noticed his recognition, if not for the fact that he spoke to me. It was a short conversation.

"Hey, do you sing in Russian Choir?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you sing in the church choir then?"

I shrugged my shoulders. What was it to him anyway? And how did he know I sang in Russian choir?

"Ok, so do you speak Russian?"
"A little."
"How come you speak Russian?"
"Because my best friend is a missionary in Ukraine."

That was it. I don't think we even exchanged names or any other personal information. My terse replies gave him the idea that I was cold and uninterested in him, which really wasn't far from the truth. He determined not to go out of his way to talk to me again. Therefore, the following weeks of Monday activities passed with nothing of note between the boy of the story and myself, who by no small miracle would eventually become his lady.

Pooka is Six

I can't even begin to account for the many ways Gerret makes me laugh. He can be both goofy and witty. His face can contort into hilarious forms.

Some examples from the past year:

"How does a bird fly without legs?"
"With a turtle!"

"I have two decisions for you. We can get ice cream or pizza."

"Stop entertaining me!"

Conversation from a Sunday afternoon:
"What did you learn about with Sister hammond?"
"About the headless gods."
"Who?"
"Like Heavenly Father and Jesus and that other one."
"You mean the Godhead?"
"Oh yeah. That's it."

Gerret astounds me with his sharp mind and creative spirit.

He can build something incredibly complex and beautiful, even functional, out of any medium available at the moment. He is a true believer in tape and glue. He regularly creates amazing structures, creatures, and vehicles, all of which he lovingly gifts to his dad.

Also for his dad, he collects rocks, sea glass, colorful bits of plastic, feathers, you name it. He has eyes for treasure. Another man's trash is Gerret's pleasure.

Additionally, he mass produces line drawings for his dad and myself and has taken quite aptly to writing short notes as well.

He loves school, especially his kindergarten teacher who has really helped him to bloom this year. He is a good friend and a calming influence in the classroom.

I am proud of my potty dancing, kind, and tender hearted, cuddly connoisseur of crafty gifts.
He is the best surprise of my life.

Flowing Sap on the Coldest Day of the Year

First thing each winter morning, before my feet hit the cold hardwood, before I peel back the covers, or even grope through my eyesight's fog for glasses, I reach blindly for my phone. I turn it on, poised near the bridge of my nose, and make two finger-taps. Thus opens the TWC weather app and I observe: first the current circumstance outside my window, second the forecast for the next ten hours, and lastly the prediction for the upcoming week. I need to prepare my mind and body for whatever the universe holds beyond my down comforter and plush sheets. I live in New York, where the sun shines 10% of the entire year, summers are mostly lukewarm, winters change from Springlike to below zero in a matter of hours, and I'm fairly certain the majority of locals are vitamin D deficient and scraping by in a gloomy stupor of depression 90% of the year. That's why I need some first-thing-in-the-morning mental preparation for each gray beginning.

This morning, however, (despite the fact that the windchill gave us a reading of -27) it didn't matter, because today is PTB's birthday.

It's fortunate for me that the boy of my dreams was born in January. This January day is my favorite day of the year and therefore the warmest for my heart, which beats rapidly all day in celebration of his existence and my fortune in finding him in this wide world. That boy, he is my best and closest friend. His transcendental presence is like a snug blanket, the kind I never want to shed. It does not matter that the mercury negatively hovers, or that beautiful frost patterns grace the window of my storm door well into and past the afternoon, or that news anchors are crying "vortex!" "vortex!" and we're making frigid history. I hardly give space in my mind for worries about bursting pipes, frost-bitten chicken feet, failed engines, or worse. I might as well dwell in the hemisphere down under. It really makes no differences to how warm I am on a day such as my boy's birthday. Today, his transcendental presence is ever present.


Sent from my iPhone

Christmas Bells and the End of the Ring

Continued from Cold Storage

I traveled home bursting with pride that Christmas, ten years ago. After flying from the Rockies, over the plains and down out of the clouds to the snowy Northeastern countryside, I made sure one of my first accounts of the previous semester was a boastful story about my pretend engagement ring and its precipitous success . My mom didn't think it nearly as awesome as I did. In fact, she seemed rather disappointed.

"Dishonest," she called my clever trick, petitioning me to discontinue the ploy on my return to college.  What followed was a bombardment of encouragement to be sociable, resume dating, stop being surly on those dates, have more fun, don't spend so many Friday nights alone, and quit avoiding guys like the plague.

I got the hint and never gloated again.

On Christmas day, I drove the 20 miles to my missionary friend's parents' house to hear said missionary's voice for the first time in the better half of a year. We talked as old friends, laughing over his crazy stories, his lived experiences in a place so far removed I had a hard time imagining it or him there. I told him about classes, roommates, Russian choir and what it was like to be back home. No mention was made of dates or the perceived need for a fourth-finger-ring. The feeling at the end of our conversation was one of warmth, but also distance. I could not even begin to understand what life was like for my best friend on the other side of the world and I didn't feel free to be honest with him about every aspect of my life at school.  That friendly warmth was nevertheless assuring. We could make it another nine months and then there would never be a reason for distance again.

Reluctantly and with a reminder from my mom, I returned the dishonest ring to my roommate when we reunited in January.