Hi there, how are you?

I recognize a few of you. I can see Frosty’s mischievious smile, hear Mike’s comforting voice. A few years ago, I met Ejna and was impressed – she’s smart; I liked her. And there are few more of you I’ve met in your Kentucky home office, shaken hands with, as we chatted about strange weather or my hotel. Since I cannot bring in bagels and fresh raspberry jam, I thought I’d say hello online.

(For those of you who are not new coworkers, please allow me to explain.)

Over the years, I have worked as a consultant for the Prevention Research Institute (PRI) through my former employer, Allen Interactions. PRI contributes something worthwhile to the world:  they have developed an amazing curriculum to prevent alcoholism and drug abuse.

When I first started consulting with them, I attended their three-day workshop and was delighted to discover their methodology was thoroughly soaked in actual research and also completely devoid of shame. That startled me, I guess, because so much professional training translates as DO IT THIS WAY BECAUSE THE COMPANY SAID SO.

PRI’s approach is gentle persuasion, analogies, metaphors that make heart-sense, and they still manage to explore (and oddly, celebrate) the wonderful irrational aspect in all of us that wants things that are sometimes not healthy for us. Cool, huh? But it’s not all hugs and cookies (though, yes, there were cookies on breaks). It’s bonafide research-based; they’re not pulling punches regarding consequences or sugar-coating anything (again, except for the break cookies).

When PRI recently offered me the chance to work for them developing e-learning and mLearning, I was delighted. (Well, that’s not entirely true. I now have to explain to my folks what mLearning is, and they’re still not quite steady on e-learning. I do not entirely look forward to that conversation.)

So, new coworkers, I thought I’d tell you some of the important facts about me:

I like the color blue.

I am left-handed.

I don’t talk to my house plants because I’m never quite sure what to say. Sometimes it’s awkward. But I do play music I think they’ll enjoy.

I like 30Rock, Raisin Bran Crunch, and lying on the couch under a blanket crocheted by my friend Stephen. I just discovered Cherry Garcia ice cream in June. I had no idea this goodness existed.

If you ever want to know which of the X-men have been killed and then were miraculously brought back to life (or perhaps it was their evil clone who was killed), I’m your man.

Once when I couldn’t sleep, I lay in bed and plotted my escape route in case zombies attacked my home. How could I get to my car keys and then the garage safely? (This assumed the traditional slow-moving zombies, not the modern ones who can run really fast. I call them ‘Nike Zombies.’ There’s really not much hope for escaping them.)

For the past month I have been photographing the morning glories scaffolding the front of my house because I find them damn impressive:  they started out as 3 inch toddler plants, then mastered climbing the front stairs, then skipped up the trellis like a jungle gym and are now choking the life out of the front porch light. They have designs for the roof – they’re going for the summit! For the past two weeks they have exploded cornflower blue blossoms every single day.

It’s like a magic trick and I never tire of it.

I imagine the neighbors across the street are mystified as to why I need so many photographs of the front of my house. Oh, but I do. I do.

I’m terrible with names of people in the real world, but I remember subplots to Dickens’ books easily. I think I was meant to be a fictional character, but somehow ended up in the real world. That would explain a few things.

And as perhaps you have guessed, I am not great with first impressions; I tend to babble. The second or third time you meet me, I’m about 40% less dorky. (Or not.)

I think I would make a better first impression if we were allowed to talk about something real the first time. I wish it were socially acceptable to ask, “Is your life turning out the way you expected?” Or maybe, “What’s something sad in your life that you managed to work through?” I think I would remember names better if we could begin speaking from our hearts right away, first sentences.

What was the best night of your life?

Many years ago, Allen Interactions hired a new VP of Consulting. I met him during his first week and after shaking hands, we joked about how hard it is to meet 50 people in one week and remember all their names.

“I’ll help you out!” I promised cheerfully.

I proceeded to flail my hands in front of his face like wet rags, fat fingers flying dangerously close to his horned-rimmed glasses. He was stunned and uh…not loving it, exactly. He had this expression on his face that was hard to interpret.

“I guess you won’t forget me now.” I said, suddenly aware that this was my boss’s boss.

“Probably not.” He agreed, with a slight note of distaste.

He didn’t last terribly long at Allen Interactions. And now I can’t even remember his name.

We probably never talked about the things that he photographs, the odd and quirky ways he lives his life.

Well, fellow PRI-tians (no, that can’t be right), I look forward to meeting you in person, and perhaps some day we will trade stories about the very best night in your life and mine.

I look forward to it.

101!

Yesterday I reread my post about raspberries, lasagna dinner, and worms.

I read it with curiosity because while every single thing in that post was 100% true, it sure painted this Norman-Fucking-Rockwell picture and I thought, ‘Huh. I’m portrayed a lot like Martha Stewart, but like with 37% less evil.” (Martha would totally prefer to do her worm fecal exchange *before* dinner; it’s how it’s done, people.)

And yes, that post reflects part of my life, a very rich part. But there’s the me who does laundry and replies to emails and it’s not all singsong bumblebee lullabies at sunset. I’m more than that, you know,

I’m also a comic book nerd.

So while yes, I talk to the bees in my backyard, it must also be disclosed that I read X-men Legacy, Uncanny X-men, X-Force, X-Factor, Astonishing X-men (Whedon rules!), The Young X-men, etc. I think I’ve painted a picture, here, folks. There’s no need for me to elaborate on the list (well, except for The Walking Dead and Fables).

Exhibit B:  In December, Marvel’s going to run Inferno 2, centered around recently-raised-from-death Illanya Rasputin, who I love! I can hardly wait. I’ve been reading articles and online interviews.

See? Nerd.

This week has been Nerd Fest at my house:  during the day, I have been researching cutting-edge e-learning technologies and reading textbooks. At night, I watch Season 2 of Heroes. As part of my nerd allegiance, I scowl at least once in every episode and mutter, “There’s no way that someone with those powers could also master those abilities. They are two different abilities. Plus, why isn’t the flying man trying to use his powers?”

Nerd.

Tonight I intended to watch the conclusion of Heroes and scoff with mild outrage while thrilling on every minute. I stopped at Pizza Hut to get some cheesy sticks for snackage, but they talked me into a personal pan cheese pizza instead.

You see, this is also my life. Fireplace chatter with friends, and then brainstorming with the Pizza Hut guy what to order since they’re out of cheesy sticks and I am NOT leaving here empty-handed. The delivery drivers fold boxes waiting for their orders and watch us with empty curiosity.

The guy apologetically tells me it will be a ten minute wait.

“It’s cool.” I tell him.

I actually don’t mind waiting ten minutes because I brought with me a copy of First Class, a comic that came out last week and features the “unofficial” early years of the X-men. I don’t like this title; it messes up the Marvel continuity. And while I am definitely a continuity snob, there wasn’t much else good that week and I needed a junkie fix, so I bought it.

I like bringing reading materials to this Pizza Hut; it’s like a greasy library room. I get in the mood for cheesy sticks every once in a while and I rarely call ahead. I sit on their (sometimes-dirty) chrome bench next to their overwhelmingly cheerful, neon soda cooler. I read. I listen. I like it in this pizza triage space…it’s loud and there’s always hijinx going on, a driver who never showed up or everyone’s mad at Tina again, because she’s such a bitch.

I remember being 19.

I used to work at the Huntley Dairy Mart. I had my greatest boss at the Dairy Mart. He was also my first and there have been many disappointing followers in his footsteps. While cutting up onions he would listen to problems and didn’t offer much in the way of advice. He took out the trash for me a few times when I was having a bad night. Since those years, I can’t remember ever having a boss who took out the trash for me.

Tonight, I sat on the chrome bench, turned over my X-men comic and looked at the cover. A very young Spiderman, Ice Man, and The Human Torch are gaily flying forward, embracing danger and high drama as the young often do. I smiled because they look like young mutant Abercrombie & Fitches.

“No waaaaaaaaaaay!” said a voice at my side, immediately poking Spiderman’s head. “I know that dude!”

My new bud was probably three or four years old. Three and a half, I guess. He was Hispanic and his head was a black fuzzy skullcap of hair. Adorable little guy with wide brown eyes. “That’s Spiderman!”

I nodded to him. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“I like that dude.” he confided in me.

He pulled open the first page, just snatched it open.

My eyes instinctively went to look for his parent because he was gonna get a swat if Mom saw him do that. His guardians were two women with seven kids between them, most of them pretty damn young. She wasn’t paying attention because this tiny space was like a playpen for her kids – this tiny Pizza Hut foyer for people without the good sense to order ahead. As long as they didn’t run out the front door, there really wasn’t much damage they could do; she was taking a break.

“No way!” said my friend, pointing at a blue and white figure. “That’s Iceman!”

“Yes.” I concur.

“He fighting Fire Man.”

“Actually,” I say gently. “He’s not Fireman, he’s The Human Torch from the Fantastic Four. This is kind of a team-up.”

My friend has seen enough of the pictures on this page so he flips it to the next page and starts pointing out all the people he knows on that page as well:  “Iceman! Fire Man! Iceman fighting oh no…”

I wanted to argue with him that without reading the words and the dialog sequence he couldn’t really understand who was winning or losing, but he had figured it out pretty good on his own, the story he was creating was probably better than this one.

He flipped the page.

“Oh no!” he’d cry and point at another one. “That’s Iceman!”

Inside, that persnickety part of me was whimpering, “Don’t skip ahead! I haven’t read all this! You’ll ruin it for me!”

But before anything else could happen in my brain, he said, “Oh no! Where is Fire Man now?”

My heart surrendered and I decided to let him be the narrator and tell me the story. His reactions were better story than what was written.

“Oh no!”

“Now what’s happening?” I asked, catching his excitement.

He shook his head. Looked bad for Iceman.

After another page or two, he turned to me and said, “Where’s Spiderman? No way!”

Kid had a point. We had turned about eight pages and so far, no Spidey. Kinda a rip off from the cover if he showed up on the last page to moralize how we should all be good people, and you know, not kill other people on a goblin sled.

But luckily, the very next page produced Spiderman and when he showed up at last, we both cried out, “Oh no!”

“I know that dude.” he said to me very earnestly and I felt a little part of my soul touched.

You’re never too young to be a comic book nerd.

We studied another two pages together before his family’s order was finished and they had to leave. Right before they left, we were looking at a page that had comic book story left page and advertisements on the right side. There were a bunch of Marvel heroes being herded into an alliance to sell maximum copies of some online Marvel game.

“Oh no!” he cried excitedly. “Hulk! Iron man! Captain…captain…”

“Right. Captain America.”

“Yes.” he informed me. “Yeah, I know that dude.”

There was a young version Captain America with a similar shield but it was a hologram. I was worried he might get confused and so to be helpful, I said something like, “Those two look almost the same, don’t they?”

“No.” he pointed to one and then the other. “Same guy. They the same.”

My eyes opened wider in surprise. Maybe he knew something I didn’t know? I mean, sure, in the Marvel world you’re probably going to meet your future self a dozen times, it’s like a junior-writer move:  when your characters are least interesting, throw them to meet their future bad-ass-selves and see if that gives the book sales a boost.

So…maybe?

But he had already moved on and turned the page.

Naw, he…he didn’t know. But I love the story I created in my head trying to figure out my fellow nerd. I zinged through time travel possibilities, Captain Americas past and present while he had already moved on. And who knows? Maybe he could outgeek me if he actually tried.

Next page, top left:  big picture of Spiderman.

“Spiderman!” he gasped.

His family called his name and he darted away with them driving between his older sisters’ legs. I kept smiling and waving goodbye but he never turned around. I thought about giving him the comic book to keep but he was gone instantly and I didn’t want to chase him down in the street; it didn’t feel right somehow.

But I really thought we had a connection over our love for Spiderman and his pals, so I was a little bummed he didn’t turn around and say goodbye. But you know what? He’s a kid. Like, very young kid. He doesn’t have to be tuned in to the universe and the miraculous way life can be.

And just as I was flipping my comic book back towards the beginning, his head darted back into Pizza Hut.

“GOODBYE!” He shouted at me with glee.

He was gone before I could answer, and I was stunned once again by how life is sometimes, especially when you both know that a good moment was shared together.

Not all miracle moments happen in Raspberry Heights.

Sometimes I have to leave the house and go to the Pizza Hut Library to meet other comic book nerds, to discuss which characters we love in our hearts.

Early evening tonight in my backyard, I lost count of the raspberries.

I gingerly shared space with my grumbly tenants in Raspberry Heights, two dozen black and yellow bees. They usually ignore me, or rather, they’re irritated with me but can’t be bothered to sting me because so many raspberries need attending and ripening. I work around them doing my raspberry accounting:  I enjoy knowing the grand total of berries picked and wondering how many tomorrow will bring.

But today the bees were a little more grouchy as this was the last half-hour of sinking sunlight and they had THINGS TO DO before bed. While I tried to respect their timetable, I was also racing sunlight to harvest today’s raspberry crop and refused to give ground. Nevertheless, I kept a slow and steady pace.

I often use my over-sized grilling fork like a robotic arm to move and gently shake the berry-heavy branches. I encourage my stinging tenants to vacate the premises for a few minutes while the landlord collects the day’s rent.

I talk to the bees sometimes, thank them for the plump red gifts. Sometimes I apologize for stealing (literally) the fruit of their labor. When I’m feeling chatty, I confide that I’m terribly afraid of their killer-bee-cousins and if they could put in a word for me, great.

Somewhere in the mid-40s, I got distracted remembering Sunday evening’s events. My robot arm would bounce a branch and instead of watching the bees, I would remember some detail, like Cian ate four cookies, and then I’d return to counting raspberries. Then I’d instantly flash back to Sunday dinner:  I could picture Heather looking away in this demure fashion.

I had intended to write about Sunday’s dinner, and this distraction tonight was a continuation of that same idea but a little more urgent. NO SERIOUSLY. YOU SHOULD WRITE ABOUT SUNDAY. Apparently there were metaphorical bees lumbering around as well.

I couldn’t figure out why this urgency was buzzing me because except for the awkward cake incident, Sunday was a pretty peaceful night.

I had invited friends over for Sunday dinner:  lasagna (Mom’s recipe), ginger-glazed carrots (Ron’s recipe), cheap frozen garlic bread (Cole’s recipe), some grapes, hors d’oeuvres, and there you go. I had baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch just an hour before friends arrived, so when the house held competing cookie and lasagna smells.

Everyone arrived at the same time:  Mary and Heather with the Most Adorable Girls Ever, and new friends, Meg and Austin.

Logan and Cian squealed, glad to see me for three or four seconds, then took off running into other rooms. After all, who knew what treasures awaited in foreign, dark rooms? I thanked Mary for coming, because she did have the opportunity to have the house alone for several hours and enjoy football in silence.

“Oh, please,” Mary said with a broad smile. “Like I would miss dinner at Uncle Ted’s.”

That’s all the time we had for conversation because Mary suddenly bolted from the room, words running ahead of her, “DO NOT OPEN ANY DRAWERS. WE TALKED ABOUT THIS IN THE CAR.”

So, there was this flurry of squealing and house smells and chilly evening air as I welcomed Meg and Austin. Heather probably wasn’t ready for my formal, “Oh, come in. Yes, nice to see you. Thank you for coming.” She looked at me askew.

We’re pretty casual, Mary and Heather and I.

When I visit their house, we barely have time for “Hey,” before launching into extended tirades about something that happened ten minutes ago. Then three hours have passed and we realize we’re somehow caught up on the big news and small. Mary and Heather sometimes interrupt each other to remind me that my Diet Coke is in the fridge. They don’t drink Diet Coke, but there is always one set aside for me when I come over.

I have gotten to know Meg and Austin over a few summer cookouts at Mary and Heather’s. I like them. It’s hard not to enjoy Meg. She’s got a joy about her that is bubbly but not overwhelming. When she laughs I feel like I’m at a sleepover and we’re going to stay up until midnight! I love that feeling. The first time I heard her name, I was gasping at a gorgeous new oil painting in Mary and Heather’s home.

“Oh yeah,” Heather left me and headed towards noise in her kitchen. “Meg did that. Amazing, huh? Have you guys met yet?”

Wait, who?” I followed the ominous kitchen sounds, which seemed to have escalated into a full-scale sister fight.

Austin is great with my goddaughters and they like his quiet, jovial presence. He reminds me of an old sea captain from a manly man book, but 40 years younger and not yet all sour and bitter about life. It’s still early enough that you might convince him NOT to become a sea captain. Austin’s website is fascinatedwithdinosaurs.net. How can you not want to hang out with a man whose website name expresses boyhood wonder?

I invited them because I like them and I don’t often make new friends these days. Call it stuck in my patterns or so busy returning voicemails, whatever. When I’m not busy with the outside world, I’m busy being introverted or watching Dexter Season 2 on DVD.When I shyly asked Heather if perhaps we might invite Meg and Austin, she was delighted.

On Sunday while Mary chased the girls with warnings, Heather presented both Meg and I with gifts in brown lunch bags. We had barely finished our polite hellos when these gift bags were produced with a flourish.

Meg and I reached in and pulled out the treasure eagerly, a Tupperware container with a quart of thick, black liquid. Quickly I tried to recognize it as potentially a black bean dip or something we could eat as an appetizer. I had plenty of cheese and crackers sitting on the coffee table, so we could make this work. But honest-to-god, I could not quite tell if this goop was food.

“It’s feces.” Heather said proudly, eyes demurely cast aside.

Must. Not. Vomit.

Meg gasped in surprise. “From the worms?”

Meg giggled.

Then I started giggling.

Months ago, Heather purchased a hobby farm where the 5,000 day laborers are worms. They live in a filing cabinet type thing and sit in the stairwell to the basement. Heather promised that with nothing to do but eat, excrete, and socialize, this farm population would soon boom to 10,000 worms, then 20,000, etc. I failed to see the upside of this situation, but Heather was counting on very sexual farmhands. Did I mention that this lived INSIDE the house?

She had originally purchased this colony of wriggling shitters online.

I’m sure this is exactly what the forward-thinking American Military had envisioned when they created the internet version 1.0 back in the 1950s. “Some day Americans will be able to purchase worms through this thing,” barks the clairvoyant General, “so that you can use the fecal matter to create this amazing compost for your garden.”

The Online-Purchased Worm Farm has been a subject of teasing delight when I drink my Diet Coke in Mary and Heather’s kitchen. Heather has been adamant about the worms’ imminent success. She promised me that they constantly produce this “black gold” and people pay big money for it.

I argued and pleaded my only defense: “It’s disgusting. This is in your house! How can you sleep knowing they’re all down here writhing?”

I kept trying to get  my goddaughters on my side.

“Is this not disgusting?” I’d plead.

“It’s gross.” Logan shrugged. “But it’s okay.”

I did not care for this open-minded response.

“Well if you love them so much,” I replied with an certain coolness, “why don’t you eat one.”

“Uncle Ted.” warned Heather. “Please.”

I am the godfather. I stand by my right to taunt.

Meg and I locked eyes in my living room with a little bit of shock; we both had pretty good-sized containers of black goop. I mean, we were each holding almost a quart of worm shit.

Can you blame Heather for being proud of her first big harvest? Considering she had faith in the power of her little excreters from the very beginning? Sunday night, she did an excellent job of not saying, “I told you so.”

“They really came through.” I said when I could speak. “I was wrong.”

I remember wondering how she got the liquid into the Tupperware.
Heather explained how to mix the feces with water for indoor plants, allowing for plenty of aeration first, and then gave us instructions for outdoor use. She reminded us both that this is BLACK GOLD and people pay big money for this. I was suddenly aware that she had actually worked and waited for this. I mean, sure the worms did the work, but she was the Coach. Honestly, I may need to call her again for those instructions because I was smelling warm lasagna and trying hard not to barf.

But as I beheld my small pond of worm shit, I realized it was actually a kinda great present. In fact, instantly this became pretty fantastic.

I have wanted to do something special for my indoor plants, a nutritional pep-talk of sorts, anticipating the hard Winter months ahead. So this gift was really quite perfect:  practical, needed, and something I could not obtain for myself. I grew warm with gratitude, thinking of Heather’s patience and faith:  with the girls, the worm colony, and often with me. It was easy to feel thankful, once I let go of being a fecal snob.

“Wow, thanks for all the shit.” I said.

I really meant it.

I checked the room (a little belatedly) to see if I swore in front of the girls, but heard screaming and running upstairs in my bedroom.

“They probably shouldn’t open random cabinet doors up there.” I mentioned casually to Heather.

She patted my arm.

I forgot to ask her if she wants the Tupperware back.

We had a lovely dinner, talking and chattering happily. Conversation-wise, we spent half the meal explaining to Cian that there was no cake. Heather made the (turns out, rather sizeable) mistake of saying that they were having dinner at Uncle Ted’s house and it was kind of like a party. The offending word, gentle readers, is “party.” Party = cake.

“I baked homemade chocolate chip cookies!” I announced for the third time in an upbeat tone.

Cian would have none of that.

She would turn her head demurely (a trick learned from whom?) and then in a soft, smiling voice politely inquire again, “Where’s the cake?”

While Cian mourned the loss of that which was promised her, I told them I was excited and nervous about my new job, starting on Monday. Meg and Heather work together, so we talked about their work, and then life dreams, and who we all want to be when we grow up. Meg, Austin, and I have all new stories for each other, and that was fun too.

Foodwise, the highlight of the evening was not the lasagna or the chocolate chip cookies, but the fresh, juicy bruchetta Meg and Austin assembled, tomatoes and basil grown right in their backyard garden. Oh damn, it was good. Mary and I chuckled at each other, every time we took another piece. (They gifted me the leftovers and swear to god, I licked the inside of the container to taste the last drops of this perfect juice with little flecks of basil.)

After dinner, Logan disappeared the way young kids do when they think nobody notices their slowly vanishing figure. She took a step back, then another, as if we were a den of cobras and if she just retraced her footsteps slowly, she could retreat without invoking our serpent wrath.  I love how kids believe they are invisible when they want to be.

Later we sat in the living room and I finally remembered to torch the wood I had prepared in the fireplace. The fire roared. I lay on the hardwood floor and helped Cian assemble a puzzle, but only the exterior. There was a lot of rule repetition on that particular point. But Cian’s fear that I might hog the puzzle was for naught. If I participated too heavily in the adult conversation, Cian would bark at me, “YOU’RE NOT DOING THE OUTSIDE PIECES!”

“Yes I am!” I protested, fitting another two pieces into place before drifting back to Meg’s story.

We devoured the chocolate chip cookies with milk, happily speculating on what Logan was doing on her frequent, mysterious trips from my bedroom to other rooms in the house. She always disappeared up the stairs with a parting, guilty look. Mary finally checked:  turns out she was reading a book on my bed. It was more fun to speculate on her mischeviousness.

That was how Sunday night ended:  big fire, puzzle completion, lazy contented chatter. Every now and then, a kid would pop in front of Mary and request, “One more cookie?” but I hardly think that was so significant – so desperately worthy of blog – that I had to lose track of my raspberry accounting.

But amidst the bees and raspberries, I found myself trying to sear details of that night into my soul, weaving it with the amazing nights of my life. Remember, I kept telling myself, how many cookies each girl had. I want to tell them about this night many years into our future.

Then I realized today’s date:  September 17th.

One year ago today, I arrived at 166 Henry St. in San Francisco. I had moved to San Fran for four months for work and to create a little life adventure. In February of 2007, I invoked a Year of Wonders, a catalyst year determined to uproot and change everything. By September 17th, I had put my house on the market, created an out-of-state work opportunity, and a month earlier in August, acquired a shoulder-covering Celtic tattoo, invoking the magician archetype.

I figured I needed some extra powerful magician energy to bring about something powerful, like a Year of Wonders.

September 17th, I sipped a glass of wine off my tree fort balcony and told myself, “This is it. It’s beginning.”

Oh man. I had wonders.

Living in San Francisco was crazy and beautiful. I was a San Franciscian! A Californian! I raced through redwood forests lost at dusk, soaked naked in Harbin hot springs, and in the Castro one Saturday, I met Armistead Maupin. This allowed me to complete a lifelong dream to shake his hand and say, “Thank you. You changed my life.”

Heather was convinced I would never return and every time we chatted on the phone during my California Adventure, she answered my greeting with a glum ‘Hello.’ She remained confident that the first sentence out of my mouth would be, “I’M STAYING! I LOVE IT HERE!” She would end many of our conversations with a quiet little, “Come home, Edmond.”

I did not visit other cities after San Francisco; my house did not sell in this depressed market. I was disappointed, of course, but nevertheless, the Year of Wonders completely manifested, just rarely in the ways I expected. In February, I left my comfortable employment and in the next few months learned the freedom of “unemployment with a mortgage.”

I do not mean that in a snide way – not at all. I really had to learn how to feel free and joyous even with a mortgage and no steady income. And I did! THAT was true freedom – to feel alive while wandering through my bungalow-sized ball and chain. My house tilts to one side, needs new storm windows, and has a corpse stain on the kitchen hardwood floor. Ah, home.

The Year of Wonders had amazing surprises and some darker ones; it wasn’t always fun. I remember being alone for Christmas eve in a cheap, shitty hotel room along the Pacific coast while my family in Huntley was opening presents. Mom had mailed two cheerfully-wrapped packages and I couldn’t even open them because it made me so sad and homesick to look at their red and green wrapping. There were some dark days. A few months where I wandered lost, afraid, angry. Sometimes during the past year, I would absently trace my magician tattoo and ask, ‘Why did I ask for this again?’

I have never written what the past year meant to me, how I have changed and how I have been changed. I have not actually acknowledged that I got exactly what I asked for, six times over, but never quite in the way I expected.

I now have a fabulous new job, trying to touch the damaged hearts of American veterans.

I wrote two novels during the past year. The first one, I published online and received roughly 500 email responses. I have made actual online friends from that experience. One guy mailed me a figurine duck. Another new friend mailed me magic soap. And in June, I had dinner with a lovely New Yorker I met from this novel, a cake-baking queen named Fredi. She was in town for work.

A marvelous, retired editor read my online novel and emailed me to say, “I think you have something special. I’d like to work with you if you’re game, but be forewarned:  I’m not squee fan girl. I’m the real deal; I edit hard.” I had to ask her what a ‘squee fan girl’ meant, but once we cleared that up, I found myself with a smart, kind editor who encourages me. She believes in me. I find this humbling.

Together, we’re getting the second novel ready for me to send to agents.

Best of all, the wonders I grew to cherish in my life are the smaller, amazing ones, like Sunday night. I have remembered to try to make new friends with people who appreciate dinosaurs and fresh basil. I was scolded for too much adult talk and not enough puzzle action. I received a bucket of fecal matter from a worm farm in St. Paul. How crazy cool is that? I think I love those damn worms now. This gift is from a lifelong friend and her partner who both love me so much they made me their childrens’ legal guardian.

They love me like that.

I think the Year of Wonders is going to be an ongoing project for a long, long time.

And the icing on this amazing little cake of a life, is that I realized how happy I am while basking in last ten minutes of tonight’s September light. Precious red fruit surrounds me, bringing me joy. Tomorrow I make jam. Perry had emailed me earlier today to let me know that today he finished reading my second novel (he got a preview copy) on a Chicago bus, and he cried in public. We’ll talk later tonight.

The thumbnail disk of the sun finally departs and even though there’s still light in the sky, the bees finally drop, drunkenly, curling themselves under the dark leaves to straddle a green berry and fall fast asleep.

Sleep well, tenants of Raspberry Heights. I know what it’s like to have a big day exhaust you by its beauty and simple joys. And if there’s anything left from the houseplants, I’ve got this gorgeous black gold to spread around the earth that might drive next year’s raspberry bushes into a growth frenzy. Seriously, it’s good shit.

People pay big money for it.

I called my buddy Ron at work yesterday and without really asking if he were busy, blurted out, “70! 70! Guess what that means to me today!”

Ron reflected for only a second and said, “Number of emails you answered?”

“No. Guess again.”

“Temperature outside?”

“Wrong! Guess again.”

“A Weight Watchers goal?”

“Please. I’d be emaciated; I’d be all skeletal. Try again.”

Ron’s tone changed slightly. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here at work…”

Oh, right!

Employment.

Apparently, I forgot what it’s like to have a job.

And it’s not just a job for Ron, he’s a young VP of a big-ass international firm, so he’s got some senior responsibilities as a financial analyst and a highly-sought, creative problem solver. Sure he could gently close the thick door to his carpeted office and gab with me for the next hour, but Ron is one of those guys who actually tries to inspire people at work by setting a powerful example.

He’s smart, of course. (Duh.) But he’s also insightful about people, seeing their strengths for about six months before they recognize it themselves. At work, he prefers to mentor first-generation minorities because he thinks it sucks when nobody tells you how things REALLY work around here.

Twice he has helped mentees find better paying, higher responsibility jobs outside his company because it better fit their personal career goals. He would prefer it if everyone actually enjoys what they do for a living.

He’s inclined to gossip a bit, but only about peoples’ sterling qualities. I’ve heard him argue passionately on behalf of transsexuals and their workplace rights. When shyly nudged the topic towards potential upcoming trips to Amsterdam and significant life changes in his future, he laughed and said, “No, no…I just think they’re courageous.”

He could also gossip about the darker stuff if he wanted, but I think this bores him. He’d rather talk about something juicier:  kindness.

For years he coordinated massive charity efforts within his organization. He does New Warrior community service regularly. Earlier this Spring we spent a Saturday afternoon at a costume shop because Ron thought he might like to rent a chicken suit and then walk around downtown Minneapolis. No reason.

Just thought it might be funny.

Unfortunately, it was raining hard all afternoon so we went and saw Iron Man instead. I always liked Robert Downy Jr. He was really good in an early movie called Heart & Souls. Overall, Ron and I decided Iron Man was quite awesome. The chicken suit can wait for another day.

Two weeks ago I called Ron (yes, probably in the middle of his work day again) to bitch my frustration with a hard-headed friend. Ron chuckled that my complaints sounded pretty legitimate and he empathized with my plight. Then he paused and said, “I bet it’s tough for your friend to go through life being that prickly and stubborn. I bet it’s a hard way to live.”

Of course, Ron was right. I instantly melted to that place where I could see my prickly friend’s true face and I felt the compassion I had wanted to feel. A few of Ron’s well-chosen words can remind me of who I would like to be in this life.

When I call Ron at work and I make him guess questions about the number 70, and Ron says, “I’m kinda busy right now,” I imagine he’s literally in the middle of a Board of Directions presentation. I like to picture them all frowning at their agendas while Ron steps away from the table and pleads, “Just a second.”

Ooops.

As a courtesy yesterday, I gave him the option to continue guessing about the magic of “70″ or I could just tell him the answer if he really was in a bit of a hurry. (Notice I did NOT suggest, “I could call you back.” No, no. My news was important enough to keep him a few minutes longer. He would want to know this.)

“Tell me.” he said. As an afterthought, he added, “Is this about your raspberries?”

“YES!” I cried. “I just picked 70 raspberries in the back yard! I am not shitting you – there were 70 ripe ones today and I picked almost that many yesterday. These are just the ones ripened overnight! Isn’t that amazing? There were 70 of them!”

Huh. Maybe I really have forgotten how to have a real job.

I always get a little excited about the raspberry bushes in my back yard. I love plucking that tender fruit and squishing them in my mouth. When there’s enough berries, I make bright red jam to give as gifts. Raspberries are like magic to me. I do nothing to encourage their growth and they still expand like weeds. Hell, they kick the weeds’ asses and weeds are pretty tough customers. My raspberries bloom twice, Spring and late Summer, making their magic trick even more impressive.

A year or two ago, I remember calling Ron one Spring day and in the middle of our conversation, he said, “Excuse me?”

“What?” I asked.

“You just said the number 47.”

“Oh.” I said. “Busted.”

I happened to be in the back yard picking raspberries at the time we were on the phone. I was holding a plastic tub and moving the bee-heavy branches with my giant grill fork, bluetooth gardener that I am. I explained how I often count the raspberries as I’m plucking them; I think it’s exciting to have a daily grand total. For the rest of that Spring and Autumn, I would call Ron and tell him, “You are NOT going to believe how many today! Guess!”

“You didn’t break 118, did you?” he’d gasp, genuinely, sincerely interested.

Over the intervening months, he apparently had forgotten about the raspberry count. Yesterday we chatted about the 70 raspberries and how I predicted double that number in the peak weeks ahead. I described the picking conditions and the number of fat bumblebees busily working on tomorrow’s harvest. Ron asked a question or two and then reminded me he really did need to get off the phone.

Oh right. Work.

I know he’s wearing an expensive tie while we’re chatting, a sharp linen shirt, and this pleases me to interrupt his powerful executive world with the status of things in my yard. Really, it’s a very exciting lawn.

Before we got off the phone, Ron reminded me that I’m coming to dinner Saturday. Did I mention he’s an amazing organic chef who once studied the culinary arts? Every now and odd Sunday, Ron teaches me how to cook mouth-watering veggies. I have befriended several green things with Ron brokering the introduction.

Like those damn raspberries, he keeps blooming in the most surprising ways.

Some days he’s actually very busy, maybe mentoring someone or trying to help one of his employees rediscover how to creatively love their work. Even on those days, I often get a few minutes of his time. I imagine him deflecting several impromptu hallway briefings as he heads towards his office.

“Can’t talk right now.” Ron tells them, putting up his hand. “I have to take this raspberry call. Third quarter numbers are coming in and I’ve got to keep on top of this situation.”

Saturday has arrived. Tonight at dinner I’m going to tease him with today’s grand total. Here’s a clue:  More than 70. Guess!

He’s going to be so excited.

If things had been different than they are right now, I’d be at Burning Man, possibly wearing a fringed afghan and dancing in the desert with, you know, 40,000 people.

Possibly doing experimental drugs.

Oh, c’mon…I just want to make my Mom’s heart race a little faster in case she happens to check in with the blog every now and then. Mom, c’mon. You know I don’t ever do that kind of thing. You know. Although that one time, I mixed M&Ms and Skittles together to see how they would all taste. Texture-wise, it was rather irritating. I foresee no imminent mergers between those two name brands.

In last week’s post, I promised to edit fiction naked with glow sticks in my twinkling-lights gazebo outside on the back deck.

Mission accomplished.

For the last two hours, I have been doing a version of nudity I call “Minnesota Naked.” I’m not an official nudist, but who doesn’t like to hang out in the buff watching Scrubs reruns? The weather this week is perfect: chilly during the day and even colder at nights. Constant refreshing breezes, no humidity, dazzling sunlight during the golden days. At night, a forest of crickets surround me, and even the harsh alley light becomes mood lighting through the mosquito netting of this nylon gazebo.

I can’t quite see my breath, but it’s a little chilly, here, Lars.

So I’m naked head to toe, wearing my favorite green-quilted, flannel shirt/jacket. Unbuttoned. Minnesota Naked.

(Gosh, aren’t blogs fun for sharing all kinds of great information you might never want to know? Mom, quit reading now.)

I broke open the glow sticks that I mysteriously acquired somewhere in my life. I have no memory of how these things ended up in my basement. I don’t strike me as a glow stick type o guy, but I keep running into them on a shelf, always surprising me. Where did they come from? These glow sticks may have moved into the house with me, ten years ago. Honestly, I may have been planning to go to Burning Man for the sole purpose of finally using the damn things and getting them out of my house.

This is how I know my age: I wanted to rock out the gazebo with their goofy light (imagine I’m nakedly making that ‘raise the roof’ motion right now). But before I could do that tonight, I had to get my reading glasses so I could make out the tiny instructions on the back of the packaging. I held the 6 point font up to the nearest lit candle and squinted real hard.

When that wasn’t entirely successful, I moved the package further and closer, wondering if the problem is that I need bifocals.

Yeah, that’s just how the 19-year-olds do it. You know, when they’re raving.

The package explained that you just bend the things and then shake them. (Two enclosed.)

Okay.

Seemed simple enough.

And yet, it was not.

I bent the first one in half and nothing happened. I shook it. (Again, I beg you to remember that I am naked at this point and flapping a dead glow stick over my head while my extra flab wobbles in a chilly Minnesota August night. Green flannel. Please make a mental note of that image. Thank you.)

I shook it, shook it, bent it in two other places. I was sure I was following the instructions just right, and kept bending it directly over my nearby pile of clothes, my arms quivering with effort. I started to wonder what would happen to my pants if the plastic rod burst and spit that green gunk all over. What about my hands – is this stuff toxic? It didn’t dawn on me for a full three minutes that after a full decade on a basement shelf, the stupid thing might just be defective.

I reread the instructions.

There were two glow sticks in the package, so I tried the other one.

On the first crack, it instantly lit up a bright green and I experienced a modicum of long-distance, Burning Man energy. I was happy today, all night and all afternoon editing, writing, rewording. I crafted some new lines, edited some stuff I already like. I emailed people I like. I spent time on the phone with people I loved. Earlier, I made a cucumber sauce for the first time, talked through the simple four-step procedure by my good friend, Ron. An hour ago, I ate a bowl of naked raisin bran and the crickets are chirping their nightly joy.

It’s a good night to be a Minnesotian.

The glow stick looks like a nuclear rod from Homer Simpson’s power plant and I keep watching it to see if it does anything else, but true to its very simple mission, I guess it just glows.

I missed Burning Man, but it’s okay.

Gives me more time to practice with glow sticks before next year.

A morning dream, this was

I heard a car door slam at one point, saw sunlight, so it wasn’t

a scary 3:00 a.m. dream.

In the dream, my right hand was a lobster claw

and both hands had been wrangled off: hacked or yanked,

jagged stumps remained.

I moaned the zombie moan and waved my arms towards

the bastard who stole my claw.

Through narrow hallways we lumbered after a couple. She screamed, her name

was Emily.

At some point, I turned traitor

and spoke

coherently.

We were were chasing people, eating them, but I wasn’t into it.

I told this one couple, mother and son,

“Run. Seriously.”

I whispered this because I don’t know what zombies do to creatures like me,

disloyal to our species,

helping humans get away and only

faux-biting their luscious, tender skin,

so smooth and tender, and wet when it breaks like

biting into an ear of corn.

Maybe

being a zombie isn’t so bad.

Anyone seen Emily?

I hate zombies.

Their slow-stumbling movements, their brainy fixation, their dragging entrails. Euuuuch. But worst of all is their lack of ill-will. Zombies may kill you and chew out your skull, but don’t take it personally because everything looks like gooey cheese fries from their perspective. I hate that. At least with a vampire or werewolf there’s…I dunno…evil banter or malicious intention or something. They CHOOSE and stalk their victims, whereas zombies pretty sluggishly drag themselves towards the closest brains.

I don’t want to die by fiends who use their low-level cognitive functioning to think to themselves, ‘he doesn’t look like he can run very fast.’

I have given this some consideration.

Once a year, I’ll rent a zombie movie to re-horrify myself. And here’s the thing, a commonality between the zombies and the people who die in those movies: they love irony. As soon as a living person says, “my worst fear is to be eaten by zombies naked in a creepy masoleum,” BAM. The movie starts configuring itself to make it come true, like a birthday cake wish. You always mistreated a coworker? BAM. He’s one of the angry rovers who’ll end up gnawing your leg, just like you used to GNAW on him when he was alive. Get it? Get it?

Even a little tiny irony, like, ‘I’ll watch the front gate for zombies; I have good eyes.” That’s a COME EAT MY EYEBALLS kind of invitation. “What a great night to be alive!” is tempting Zombie Irony. Oh you’ll come back “alive,” but what kind of life?

I share this because last night I expressed Zombie Irony and I didn’t regret it. I honestly thought to myself, ‘Wow. This would be a good night to die.’I was definitely tempting fate.

And what makes it worse is that I think after all the Dairy Queen Thin Mint Blizzards I’ve eaten this summer, my brains might taste minty and fresh.

But I couldn’t help myself.

For the past 10 weeks or so, I’ve been co-facilitating a group of new warriors, something we call a Primary Integration Training. When a guy completes the NWTA, he has the opportunity to go through the Primary Integration Training (PIT) which is a way to keep that big bonfire of emotional release from the weekend and transform it into the kind of ongoing fire that transforms the rest of his life. We talk about emotions, boundaries, how to find your inner king. We do exercises that push mens’ comfort zones and dare – DARE men to say the uncomfortable truths about themselves, and their lives.

One of these weeks, each man touched the shoulder of another man in our circle to reveal who he trusted the least. Another week, I watched one man tell another with compassion, “It bugs me that you’re always smiling.” Scary to say, scary to hear. It’s scary, hard work.

And yet those difficult things to say out loud: “I’m afraid” “I’m angry” “This makes me sad” often get transformed into something else: warm, melty love and sometimes a newer level of inner acceptance and outward trust. I watched one man show us how FURIOUS he was with a world that had such FUCKING HYPOCRISY, his fists clenched and his eyes darting around the room as if to blame someone present. A few minutes later, he was weeping and being held, beaming unconditional love from those same eyes that had just expressed his rage.

We played, too. One night we gleefully ate ice cream sundaes with our bare hands, laughing like kids, feeling joy.

Last night, we three facilitators said ‘goodbye.’

The two amazing co-leaders and I have been discussing the group’s evolution for weeks during our private meetings: they get it. They’re stronger now. They’re coming together. At some point during our 10 weeks together, one of us leaders has commented something like, “You know who’s amazing? Did you notice so-and-so tonight?” about each man in our group.

We witnessed their risk-taking, their triumphs, the things that they THOUGHT weren’t triumphs but really, truly were. (Most men learn that being vulnerable in front of other men is a weakness…what a surprise to discover it’s the gateway to power.)

Recently, our facilitator conversations have taken a slight turn towards melancholy: they don’t need us anymore. We’re done. They might THINK they need us, but they don’t. It’s an odd satisfaction and longing to love men who do not need you. We might always be welcome to visit this circle…but they have ALL the talent and gifts they need without us. And they’re beginning to believe that subtle and immensely important fact.

Last night, Chad, Hunter, and I hosted a BBQ at my home. Hunter brought the wild excess of vegetables from his backyard including skunk turnip, which has a real vegetable name, but even after hearing it four times I refused to hear anything but ‘skunk turnip’ because I am so tickled by that name. Chad was our Happy Chef, grilling our burgers and he set up the dinner so efficiently that I was able to sit in the yard and discuss Eckhart Tolle. I had blown up balloons and wrote ‘WELCOME KINGS’ with sidewalk chalk in front of my house. (Plus, not to brag or anything, but I scrubbed out the toilet, which really, that was quite an achievement for me.)
We ate in the backyard as the sun set and laughed, shared stories. Any remaining boundary between ‘facilitators’ and students had fallen away. We are equals.

The evening’s only formal activity included putting each man in the center of my living room in a chair – the Hot Seat – and each of us telling him what we most love and cherish about this individual in the center.

“I love your courage.”

“The way you make me feel welcome.”

“Your gift for me is that your peacefulness, it touches me.”

With each man, I blessed the thing that my heart said to bless, which was often a quality that might go unappreciated. I blessed one man’s gorgeous anger. Another man’s bitter grief. I blessed one man for being “glue,” even though it was hard for me to articulate what that meant, but the word kept popping to mind. I blessed one man’s love for his wife and his daughter because week after week, he kept showing up and asking himself, ‘how do I take this stuff and make THEIR lives better?’

It’s humbling to see such powerful men. Since May I have sat with them in a circle and watched them be strong, eager, soft and so full of ridiculous, overwhelming love. For life. For themselves. For each other.

And then it was my turn; I sat in the Hot Seat.

Despite the fact that only blessings were permitted, it was actually harder than it might sound. I have witnessed this phenomenon before in myself and others. If the agreement were that each man offered pointed criticism, I might handle that better and say, “Yeah, I agree. I should work on that.” But to sit still and watch a man’s eyes as he pours out his love…to not make a joke, to say only ‘thank you…’ it’s harder than one might imagine.

Luckily, I had assistance.

One of the men had brought his dog, a dog I have only seen twice but now love. I have threatened to steal this dog even though dog-napping is really NOT warrior-like behavior. The dog has a sweet temperament and when I saw her quietly licking green bean stubs off the paper plates in my backyard (hoping nobody would notice), I thought, “I think she and I could be best friends.” If I wasn’t absolutely convinced her owner would notice the empty leash when he left last night, I may have been tempted to hide her in the bath tub and say, “Gee, I dunno. Are you sure you BROUGHT a dog tonight?”

As I sat in the Hot Seat, this adorable woofer sauntered over and plopped down next to me, so I scratched her head, her ears.

The men around me spoke in turn, soft, warm voices, speaking their love for me in different textures, and colors, almost physically tangible expressions. In the moments when it was hard for me to drink in this much love, I scratched my dog friend as if she were grounding me to the earth, preventing my electrocution from all this power.

And that’s when the Zombie Irony raced through my minty brain: Tonight is a good night to die.

I don’t want to die. I’m not looking for it, particularly. I’d really like to see watch Season 3 of My Name is Earl on DVD and that doesn’t come out until mid-September. Ooo – and then there’s October, my favorite month. So honestly, I have stuff to live for.

But being so loved by such strong men in my own living room. Seeing the joy and love through the eyes of my friends’ Hunter and Chad. To scratch an adoring dog and think ‘this is my incredible life.’ Well…it’s hard to not think. ‘Wow. I hope my life ends on a night like tonight, while I am wealthy with joy.’ (And this joy was BEFORE the chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.)

I’m not sure if it’s the Zombie Irony or that I have just always thought it might be dangerous to feel happiness.

Maybe that’s why I’m afraid of zombies. They do the things we all have to do: stagger through the day, respond to physical body demands, chase life. But that’s only going through the motions, imitating life.

I don’t want to be a zombie; I want to live.

Last night was a night of joy with a tinge of sadness.

It was a night for being fully alive.

We forgot to eat.

Mary-Scott showed up Saturday night with Chipotle Grill burritos and we were so excited to spend the evening together (“Holy crap – can you believe that mid-season finale of BSG?”) that we just forgot. We basked in Saturday’s glorious end, stunning gold in the sky, happy greens in trees and shiny grass. The iron gazebo with its bound mosquito netting was flapping sexily in the chilly, last-sun breeze. A fat bumble bee humped its way through the gazebo space on its way to wherever bees go when it’s too dark to fly.

Mary-Scott is an old friend and I do not mean to imply she’s old as a person. I just meant we’ve known each other for ten years. But honestly, she’s pretty old. Old enough she has gray streaks down her dark hair and young enough that her gray streaks of hair look sultry on her, like Life put highlights in her hair intentionally, this beloved daughter.

We laughed and drank wine; giggling over Cylon conspiracy theories and every once in a while blushing while we talked about the outside world’s events, mildly embarrassed to be caught so deeply intrigued with our imagined friends in Battlestar Galactica. We eagerly gobbled our chips and guac, but forgot about the main course. The two lumpy, aluminum-wrapped burritos squatted on the kitchen counter for a few hours like robot slugs.

One thing I love about Mary-Scott is that she reminds me of the revised image of Betty Crocker, the Human Resources-looking version. Mary-Scott is Betty Crocker’s more world-savvy, raven-haired sister who said, “Fuck this baking empire. I wanna rule the world.” Mary-Scott understands people and her eyes gleam with intelligence. She is smarter than me by far but she never makes me feel stupid about that, which is how I know she is gifted with people.

During the food-forgetting-hours we weren’t exclusively laughing. We shared some heartfelt stuff. I told her about some recent struggles that left me just a little bit broken. Just a little. Mary-Scott loves me in a way that is easy for me to take in, given that I am sometimes prickly. We get each other that way.

On another topic, a few months ago when I shyly told her about a story I was writing, she got very excited. Instantly supportive. On Saturday night I gave her a few pages to read with the same shy reticence and she said, “Do you mind if I read them here? Read it now?”

It’s funny how the universe works.

I was feeling rather shitty around sharing this writing with a friend who ultimately did not want to read it, though he said he did. And while no harm was intended by this friend, nevertheless I got emotionally kicked in the stomach, so I was handing this to Mary-Scott with sore, bruised ribs.

She asked, “Can I read it here?”

I handed over the pages and stumbled away to my den to hide because I didn’t want to watch her read. But secretly I did want to watch her read because some days end up being harder than others and a friend who wants to read my writing – REALLY wants to read it and isn’t just being polite – makes me think to myself, ‘Even if I’m a shitty writer, at least I’m good at picking friends.’

So she read it on my back porch and then we both came back to the gazebo like an awkward peace conference was beginning and someone’s hand grenade had just dropped and rolled across the floor. The sky was perfectly balanced between day and dark, those forty seconds before night wins.

We talked about writing, about stories, life stories, about the names of things, about archetypes and mythology. She really is an old friend, someone I trust to say, ‘you are so full of shit, you motherfucker,’ and also the one who can honestly say, ‘Hey. Knock it off. I’ve seen you be amazing. I actually know you are amazing.’ And you believe this, well, I believe it, because old friends of mine aren’t very good at lying anymore. She liked what she read.

She really liked it.

The conversation turned to the apocalypse or the possible apocalypses from environmental disaster, political disasters, religion, and possibly some undiscovered Asiatic bug that wipes out most of the population like a TBS special movie. (Just possibly, that wasn’t the best segue – my fiction and The Apocalypse. I will keep working on the writing skills.) We talked about food shortages, and what you’d when the electrical power went out forever.

And just as the white, twinkling lights adorning the gazebo began to dominate the nightscape, Mary-Scott said in a charming smile, “Quite frankly, I think I would thrive in an apocalyptic situation.”

The spooky thing is that she’s right.

If there’s a disaster, everyone go to Mary-Scott’s house. She’ll be protecting her territory with ferocity and she’ll actually be fair, making sure we all pull through this. She is protective and compassionate. I’ll be in her basement scarfing down the last known bag of Cheetos.

The storm came almost without warning, two stiff breezes and then suddenly, we were standing, trying to catch the remaining Chipotle chips as they scattered across the deck, the yard. The wind was suddenly muscular.

I love strong weather, a big storm. But as the host, I had to defer to my guest’s comfort and would go inside immediately if she were nervous at all.

“Oh god.” She said, “This is going to be incredible. We’re NOT going inside, right?”

During most of the storm, we stayed under the gazebo, Mary-Scott’s silver highlights reflecting in the lightning, as if she herself was a force of nature. Actually, we held down the metal gazebo a few times, when it could have easily taken flight across the back yard or at least toppled a few feet. The wind was fierce, lightning dazzling, but eventually the rain was sideways so we gave up and came inside to watch the storm from the glowing comfort of my sun room. The gazebo would have to fend for itself.

We lit candles – a necessity since the power had gone out ten minutes into the storm.

We talked, had a little more wine, a little quieter talk, deeper, softer, going even further. Rain poured from the sky. And with an old friend, it’s easier to flip from hilarious to ‘oh yeah…this is really sad, by the way,’ and the transition is comforting instead of awkward.

When the rain abated (Dad, if you’re reading my blog, check out the word ‘abated,’ I totally used it in a sentence. Sorry everyone else – Dad was also my high school English teacher and I thought this might make him proud. I’m still trying to work in a blog reference to The Bridge of San Luis Rey.)

When the rain abated, we ventured back and reclaimed the gazebo. The entire neighborhood was still soaked in darkness, not a single light visible.

Blackout.

We lit candles in the gazebo and when the occasionally strong wind blew them out, we relit them. My next door neighbor’s granddaughter, Grace, calls my gazebo with its twinkling white lights, potted trees, and candles ‘The Fairie House,’ and hell, it’s pretty damn accurate.

Unfortunately, Mary-Scott and I have decided we are now officially hungry, despite the fact that it’s 10:20 p.m. Maybe it’s the red wine or the adrenaline of the evening storm, the thrill of hanging out in pitch black, but we don’t want to end the night.

I grabbed a cookie sheet and turned on the propane grill. Dragged it to sit under the gazebo, next to us. This could work as a giant toaster oven, right?

While our fat burritos warmed, we wandered around my dark house with my flashlight leading the way. I always feel like I’m part of the Scooby Doo gang whenever there’s a blackout.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m impressed you knew where your flashlight was. I have no idea where to find mine.”

This casts a bit of doubt on her ability to be the Mel Gibson apocalypse/savior character in our nightmarish future. What if she doesn’t barter well for the last bag of Cheetos?

Our burritos were thoroughly warmed and even a little extra warmed on one side, sticking to the cookie pan as I pried them off, but hey, it’s Chipotle. My neighbor’s dog, Bella, could lick it and I’d still eat it. Sure, I’d wipe it off with a napkin or something, but it’s still Chipotle.

We munched our burritos and I left the propane grill burning, our warmth and camp fire.

And as we ate, we told stories. Ghost stories. True stories, not so much embellishments of this girl who was a hitchhiker and this guy took her to his prom and then it turns out she was dead and there was his tuxedo coat – folded right on top of her grave! No, these ghost stories were odder because they were true, unexplained events. I told her stories that I said were ‘too weird’ to write on this blog (and hell, I’ve written about crying in public, my own funeral, sadness, my shadows, so you know it’s gotta be freaky shit).

“I do NOT want to hear a ghost story,” Mary-Scott would complain while pulling out a cigarette.

Earlier in the evening, she dipped her head to me with a cigarette dangling off her lip, the lighter spark imminent. “You do know I HATE smokers, right?”

I did not know that.

“Oh, yeah. I hate smokers.” She said. “I know…I am one. But still, I hate it myself, so lemme know.”

Mary-Scott leaned in closer and lit her cigarette. “Go ahead. Tell the damn ghost story.”

We talked like this for another hour or two, relighting candles as needed, talking in shushed voices, pondering the afterlife, this life, and the glue of the universe. The lights still had not come on.

“Seriously.” I said. “Was that not the Best Chiptole you have EVER eaten? I mean…was that not amazing?”

“Oh yeah.” she agreed vehemently. “That was way better than normal. It was crunchy.”

I shut down my gas-generated campfire, and we hopped in my car and drove to Super America on 60^th and Portland because after the spooky stories of life and its unexplained anecdotes, I think we needed to see lights and maybe some parents yelling at their kids in public. Which at this Super America, is entirely feasible at 1:00 a.m. on a now-Sunday morning.

She got an apple turnover and I got a doughnut with shiny chocolate icing – a classic Homer.

We drove around looking at unlit neighborhoods, pointing in silence at homes that had lights, and then wondering aloud. I felt like we were 12 and had stayed up past midnight, like this was a big deal. As a kid, I had no idea that I would get familiar with all the hours of the night, each one with its own gift and its own grief-filled memory. I’m not so young either.

When I am with Mary-Scott, I can be 12 and 67. I am energetic like I’m 23, and slightly more reserved, like I was at 35. (I have reached that stage of accepting 40 that I now discuss the previous decade as ‘my 30s.’) It’s like this with all my old friends. We are the age we choose in the moment, and it always seems to fit. Ann understands this. So does Perry. Alesia is almost there with me.

We got back to my dark house and she looked into its empty windows.

“Yeah, I’d come in,” she said, “but actually I want to leave. I don’t want to be in your creepy, dark house anymore. I want to be back in my own, well-lighted home. You know, with the people who survive the apocalypse. But I’ll stay if you want.”

I laughed. “No, I honestly don’t mind. Go.”

“Good.” She said with obvious relief.

She turned her back and headed towards her car. “You know where to go during the apocalypse.”

Leave your back door open, Mary-Scott.

I had my mouth full of biscuits and gravvy when a man in his 60s approached my breakfast table.

“I don’t get it.” he said.

I kept chewing and the cynical part of me wondered if he was, I dunno, about to ask me for money or something. Instantly I knew he didn’t work at the Curran’s Family Restaurant. He was a tall man, beach ball stomach, wearing a bright red collared shirt with a few breakfast stains on it. Wild white hair, big, square, nerd-glasses, and a crooked, skeptical smile. Clearly, he hadn’t shaved in four or five days.

Holy crap – it was Future Me!

(Well, if I have a growth spurt by about 6 more inches that is.)

“I don’t get it.” he said again and pointed to my chest.

I swallowed the biscuits and gravvy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your shirt.” he said. “What does it mean?”

Oh. Right.

I was wearing a slogan T-shirt from my friend Brett. I rarely wear slogan T’s but I love this slogan and I love the story of the shirt. Brett ordered this shirt as a gift almost a year and a half ago…and months and months later…it still had not arrived. He eventually gave up on it ever turning up, which disappointed Brett because he thought the shirt was perfect for me. He had ordered it online from an non-for-profit organization that apparently forgot to pay their web domain service; it didn’t seem that the shirt could be re-ordered.

For a year, Brett kept silent, waiting, wondering, waiting, wondering…all this wonderful ‘gift energy’ building up in anticipation. Should he confess about the shirt that I *almost* received or was there reason to keep hope? After about 15 months, Brett broke down and we discussed the almost-cool-gift. A month later, the shirt arrived.

The T-shirt is white and has two orange and one purple square of sponge paint. The words read: Warrior Walkabout: I cannot lose what was never mine

“It means,” I said, taking a breath wondering how to explain this shirt, “You can’t own this life. You don’t own things, you don’t own love, you don’t own history. You walk with them, walk through them, but you never actually own them.”

He shrugged and said something like, “Okay, buddy.”

Walked away shaking his head. Clearly he didn’t buy a word of it.

Who can blame him?

I sounded like a woo-woo crazy. Maybe he was waiting for me to break out crystals and magic gourds.

I left the experience feeling a little unsettled. I believed what I said…but sometimes my beliefs are rattled by strangers or my own inability to express myself. I think I know things that are true…but I can’t translate that into words. I don’t expect everyone to automatically buy into my kaleidoscope vision, but Future Me had agitated me and I spent the rest of my eggs pondering my concept of ‘ownership’ and what I thought I owned in this life.

After breakfast I headed over to a nursery to pick up some morning glories. I had tried growing from seeds, but those stubborn seeds resisted my attempts, refusing sunlight’s and water’s wake-up-call, nestled comfortably in their dirt quilts. I had even tried coaxing them out by sanding down their exterior, as recommended on the packet, but I guess I didn’t own them either:  seeds will be seeds.

While walking up and down the nursery (which I sometimes like to pretend is my own giant garden), I passed a man singing to the flowers.

He was probably the same age as Future Me in the restaurant. He had shocking white hair, almost neon, and as I think about this now, he also had on a red shirt. Huh. He was singing loudly – cheerfully – as he walked down a row of plants in hanging baskets, touching leaves lightly and strolling around. I imagined his wife was doing the plant-shopping and he was just hanging out with plant buddies.

His singing cheered me.

I glanced at the hanging baskets and they were varied -mutts of the plant world – a combination of odd things living together in pots. I saw a bunch of purple flowers, each bloom containing what appeared to be a midnight-blue ink stain at its center, adding drama.

Now THAT was a man who knew what he did not own. Yet he sang to the flowers as if they were his, as if he were comfortably in his backyard instead of surrounded by hurried Thursday gardeners eager to take advantage of the 20% off trellis’ sale. I started humming.

I found the morning glories, seeds with the balls to get out of bed. I said, “Come home with me.”

Next aisle over from them were cheerful daisies, bobbing a little too high in their starter pots and I got the feeling that if they grew any taller, they wouldn’t be welcome at the nursery – they were like puppies at the pound that ‘grew too old’ to get adopted.

So I left with the morning glories and the daisies, wandering towards the trellis section. 20% off until Saturday, you know.

On the way back, awkwardly carrying my wooden trellis, I passed him again, the plant singer. He was humming at a bunch of green things in pots and I laughed to myself because he seemed to be fertilizing them with his own unique voice. Maybe he wasn’t even shopping. Maybe he wasn’t even there to OWN these plants, but just to visit them. It hadn’t dawned on me that someone might actually visit a store to just *be* there as opposed to go in with the goal of owning something new.

I grinned as I walked passed him and almost stopped to tell him that I loved hearing him sing to the plants. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I kept going.

Then I thought…wait a minute…embarrass him or me?
What if THIS was Future Me? What if this was a version of me that also could be true?

Shouldn’t I stop and say hello and ask myself how that whole awkward unemployed thing worked out back in 2008? Maybe i could ask myself when the next time I am going to have sex. You know, so I could make sure to shower ahead of time.

I back-tracked and told him, “I heard you singing a while ago to those plants.”

He laughed sheepishly.

“You have a beautiful voice. It made me happy to hear you sing.”

That sheepish quality morphed to a proud smile.

“I love to sing. Always have.” he said with jocularity. “Ever since I was this high.”

(For full effect, please put your hand flat out, palm down, at roughly your mid-thigh.)

“I don’t know why. I just sing because I’m happy!” he grinned.

Sitting here typing, I really hope that this was indeed Future Me because he had a radiant, gorgeous smile.

We chatted for a moment or two about singing and what makes a person happy. Never exchanged names. I didn’t want to hear that his name was Frank or Charlie. Sure, it would be fine if he was named Steve or something, it was more fun to meet a time-traveling version of myself at Bachmans’ 20% trellis sale.

We parted.

“Don’t forget to sing.” he called to me after I was a few feet away from him. “You’ve got to sing!”

“Yes, I may have to.” I yelled back and gave Future Me my best Present Me smile.

I stopped to see the name of the mutt-plants to whom he was singing and the only name visible in the aisle was ‘Shade Tolerant Perennials.’ It made me a little sad, that name, because it sounded generic or ‘lesser than.’ They didn’t even get their own pretty flower name. Maybe it’s because their cousins in Aisle 3 (one aisle over) were named, ‘Sun Loving Perennials.’ I immediately pictured those plants on Spring Break in Florida, shirtless and popular, standing up in red convertibles screaming down the highway, drunk and carefree.

Their shade tolerant cousins had to work three jobs to bloom just as well. They probably worked at JC Penny over Spring Break. It was comforting to me that someone took the time to sing to them.

I walked into the parking lot carrying the daisies and morning glories I did not own but have been entrusted to my care, balancing a large wooden frame over my right shoulder.

I started to sing. Loud enough to for the Thursday Gardener five cars away to notice and smile awkwardly.

Maybe next time, I will be ready to sing a duet with Future Me.