Güd wrtr

I meet my maternal grandmother in antiques shops. Nearly every one that sucks me in—though I try to avoid them—holds pieces of her china (Desert Rose) or her silverware (Washingtonia) or cut glass bowls with sugar cubes and delicate silvery tongs, or crystal teardrops that once hung from glittering chandeliers. Or tall secretaries with their open writing desks wearing faded green felt, perfect for penning a quick missive. Or a large divan, a Louis XIV replica, with plump, ivory damask cushions that Grandma covered with a pale green sheet so Grandpa’s pipe ashes wouldn’t soil the material.

And I look around, half expecting to see a small-boned woman with piercing brown eyes and the whitest hair, perfectly coiffed, a large topaz ring on a hand gnarled by arthritis, her white pocketbook that matches her low pumps, permanently attached to the crook of an elbow. The one who gave me EGBOK: Everything’s gonna be OK. The one who lived by the credo, “Old age is not for sissies.”

But no.

I walk around a corner and I meet my paternal grandmother in milk glass chickens with painted red beaks and black beady eyes. Their top halves come off to reveal empty bowls that my sister and I used to fill with marbles. That was the grandma whose mother was born in Sweden, the grandma of tiny meatballs painstakingly rolled by hand and counted, browned in an iron skillet, then baked in a casserole dish, for some reason. The grandma of brownies and apple pie and almond windmill cookies (the latter bought at the store). The grandma, who with Grandpa, loved to watch Lawrence Welk every Saturday night, sitting behind TV trays in the den, getting up during commercial breaks to make brown cows for my sister and me—a funny name, we thought for root beer floats.

I meet them both in needlepoint wall hangings and pillows. In glass slippers and ceramic ladies head vases. In doilies and tea towels. In plates with tiny flowers seemingly watercolored on tender china.

I am not the only one who meets her ancestors here. I hear other browsers say, “My grandmother had one of those,” or “Those were my mother’s dishes.” Women trace their histories through the belongings of the women before them. Perhaps men do, too, but they are more unusual specimens in antiques shops. We are mostly female, moving slowly, casting our gazes over tables loaded with treasures, pricking at our memories, shelves filled with someone else’s stemware, someone else’s dolls, someone else’s somethings that have ended up here, now called antiques.

One of my grandmas, the one who had her own antiques shop for a time and who worked in others, said items had to be a hundred years old, at least, to be considered antique. Other stuff was just old stuff.

I meet my grandmothers—born 115 and 120 years ago, respectively—as antiques and, now past my own half-century mark, I recognize them as treasures I failed to see with much younger eyes.

Yosemite Falls

If I’m in Yosemite, it means it’s the end of May, and school’s out for summer (sing it with me!).

This year it also means I’ve completed my 21st year as a full-time writing professor… and before Sacramento City College hired me to teach journalism and English, I’d never spent more than four years in the same gig. That’s what journalists do—move from job to job, city to city, war-torn country to war-torn country. Only I didn’t cover wars or big time stories. I was pretty much a small-potatoes reporter on a few newspapers, one now-defunct wire service and a magazine. I love journalism; my heart rate picks up when I’m around presses churning out copies of fresh newsprint. But it is, as an old newspaperman told me when I was in my 20s, a young person’s job. At some point you don’t want to cover another city council meeting or legislative hearing or try to find a new kind of feature story at the State Fair. You’re done.

I was fortunate to find my way into teaching when I was in high school—at Roseville High School pool, to be specific, up to my chest in chlorine’d water, coaxing scared little kids off the side and encouraging them to float on their backs (a very scary prospect) or (even scarier) blow bubbles, face down, and kick and stroke like mad in something that resembled swimming. I also got to coach synchronized swimmers, having been one myself. A decade later, a former college professor of mine handed me a journalism class to teach—filling in for a professor who had to leave five weeks into the semester because of a death in his family—and I found a second profession I loved.

That was 1985, and I’ve been hooked on teaching writing to college students ever since. I knew that my primary job was—as with the little kids learning to swim—convince people that all they had to do was let go and trust that they could do this. (And maybe know where to place a thesis statement or a lead and oh, I don’t know, some commas maybe.) Lucky me, I got the full-time job in 1993; I have colleagues who have been part-timers forever, flying from classroom to classroom trying to cobble together a living. They work harder than I do for far less money.

Still, as people are wont to do, I moan and groan my way through the school years, generally loving my job but finding some weeks downright demoralizing (don’t we all?). Sixty-hour weeks’ll do that to ya. But unlike a lot of people I know, I get these amazing breaks in the form of a couple of months off here, a month off there, and that makes all the difference.

For some years now my dear fella has taken me—practically moments after I walk with my fellow faculty members into the stadium for another graduation—to Yosemite, which this year celebrates its 150th anniversary. On June 30, 1864, while occupied with the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln signed the Yosemite Grant Act, “establishing Yosemite Valley and Mariposa Grove as the first protected wild land for all time,” according to the National Park Service website. In 1890 land surrounding these two tracts was declared a national park, and in 1906, thanks to the efforts of John Muir and President Theodore Roosevelt, it all became Yosemite National Park.

You cannot be here on a late spring evening, in the middle of a great meadow, as we were tonight, looking up at the cathedral of rock walls surrounding you, and not be grateful to those people—or the ones who carry on the work of protecting this place today. We feel so lucky to spend time in Yosemite Valley, looking up at Yosemite Falls in one direction, to Half Dome in another, feeling the peace of it all. Even in a national park where thousands congregate, at the end of each day it gets very quiet here. You can roll out your yoga mat in Leidig Meadow, as I did this evening, not far from a young buck munching tufts of grass, and put your body into mountain pose and tree pose, do a little sun salutation as it sets behind the towering wall of granite. And be grateful, so grateful, for this lucky, lucky life of mine.

(for RDS)

In my family December 7 was celebrated as my grandparents’
wedding anniversary, 1921, long before most Americans
had heard of Pearl Harbor, before bombs whistled
from the sky, unleashing unholy destruction upon
far too many across the planet, ending with unspeakable
acts that decimated cities full of people going about
their business, loving, living their lives.

As a child I saw photos of the aftermath—sunken ships
in Hawaii, London rubble, Germany destroyed,
skeletal survivors, the ghostly image on concrete
of one person incinerated in Hiroshima.
Who was foe? Who was friend? In the words
of my father, who killed and was nearly killed
in Korea in a conflict that was not his:
“You can’t imagine.”

But I did and I do, on this day heavy with memory.
I conjure an image of that young and slender
couple, Ed and Ann, marrying that winter in a tiny
church outside Chicago. I put snow on the ground,
her in a wool coat with fur collar, wishing her
dead mother was there, hoping her father would
arrive sober to give her away. And I see her groom,
tall and strong, neither of them having a glimmer
of what would bless them—two children,
four granddaughters, a half-century marriage—
and what would pursue them, scar them—
the Depression, the second world war,
the son sent to Korea and returned
forever wounded.

Now I, the third granddaughter, see you,
someone else’s hoped-for son, born under the shadow
of that world war, decades later, on this same day
near the end of the same century. We sit in a car
parked by a levee on a frosty winter night.
You tell me you love me, a different kind of bomb.
I feel the heat of that explosion, one that will upend
my world, change the course of our lives, bring
us together, tear us apart and put us back together.
You can’t imagine, I think now, what comes
of a love like that, of old wounds, of misdirections.
You can’t say thank you enough.

Once upon a time, many years ago, a dashing mountain man named Matt Rivers came riding into town, swung his lean, bearded form off his horse, and, walking past a young woman named Delta Breeze, tipped his hat and said, “Ma’am.”

Matt Rivers, then and now

It was love at first sight for both of them.

Matt Rivers on the trail.

They’ve since had many adventures together, Matt showing Delta the high country he admires just a tad less than he admires her (or so he says). He has walked her through high mountain meadows and watched deer eating sweet grass across rivers thick with grass just under the surface. He has shown her long ribbons of waterfalls and bubbling geysers and volcanoes oozing lava in national parks. He has settled her into Jeeps and driven her to long stretches of island beaches with shipwrecks just offshore.

She has returned the favor by taking him to exotic lands like Ocean Falls, British Columbia, and Winters, Calif.

Though he has other lady friends he admires a great deal and has squired them on various travel adventures, all these years later Matt Rivers still invites Delta Breeze to share his bedroll now and again. He has just turned 70, and his mountain-man, horse-riding years are behind him now. Still happy to get out on the trail, Matt and Delta recently took themselves to the North coast of California to celebrate his completion of seven decades on the planet.

There they had a fine old time, walking a bluff top trail in Sonoma County overlooking the great Pacific Ocean, looking for bits of shells in fine gray sand, talking story and generally enjoying each other’s company.  They made their way to one of their favorite spots where old redwoods lean their heads in to each other and a trickle of a creek turns into a small waterfall in the deep forest. They found sunsets to watch and got out the old Kodak to take snapshots for their photo albums. And at night they sat outside and watched the distant light of stars set against an inky palette as a bitty fingernail of a moon marched its way down to the horizon and disappeared.

If you’re very lucky, like Delta Breeze, when you’ve loved someone for a very long time who is also your best friend, you find yourself on the edge of the earth now and then saying thank you out loud to the ocean and the sky and the stars. You realize that every moment you have together is precious, and you remind yourself that you must appreciate those moments in the here and now.

Matt Rivers takes in a Sonoma Coast sunset.

You know how fortunate you are to have had Matt Rivers ride into your life and tip his hat to you. And you do not hesitate to say, “I love you,” and “Thank you, good sir.” No, you don’t.

The man and his Jeep, ready for adventure

She is amazing, my BFF. I’ve always said so. To be truthful, I’ve often also said that she is crazy, particularly around the time she decided to take in three special needs foster kids, whom she later adopted. All as a single parent. And then a very nice man fell in love with her and married her. They have raised those three kids together for almost two decades. He qualifies as amazing in my book, too. But that’s another story.

My BFF with the scarf and dolls she made for me.

She’s amazing at the moment because she has been living with cancer for four years, and it makes her very sick. But she rises like a phoenix out of the flames, battling great pain, and she does incredible things. Before my visit this week, she cooked for two days–pot roast and soups and stroganoff. And then we spent the first two days together with her daughters, busily doing stuff. Then she had to rest. But so did the Lord after six days of creation. It’s understandable.

Then she rose, flapping those phoenix wings, yesterday at 5 a.m. to catch a 6:40 a.m. ferry to the Big City across the water for a day at the Seattle Cancer Center Alliance. I went with her (see my previous post, “I could learn to sleep on ferries”), and we had a lovely, though tiring, day that ended with the BFF getting an A+ on her CT scan. Which means that there are no new tumors and the ones that are there aren’t getting any bigger. Which in the world of living with cancer as a chronic disease is a super-duper, ace of a report card.

And (bonus!) from all floors of the SCCA, you can look out on Lake Union and see the houseboats, one dark one that is—according to the BFF, and I believe her—the same houseboat where Tom Hanks lived in “Sleepless in Seattle.” Which is one of my favorite movies. (Thank you, Nora. We miss you. We really do.)

Dolls and scarf by Emma Swan (aka my BFF)

While in Seattle, we also did two things we really enjoy: ate good food and cruised a good bookstore. The food was breakfast at the Skillet Diner where (I am not making this up) I had scrambled eggs with bell pepper and onion and (hang on) fried chicken. And it was GOOD, as was the BFF’s pancake sandwich with an egg over medium in it. Also spicy potatoes with onion. We decided we could live at the Skillet Diner. Or maybe we’ll tag along after the truck that moves around the city like a couple of panting dogs.

We also hung out in the new (to me, anyway) Elliott Bay Books, which, when I was last there, was (hello!) by Elliott Bay. It is now up on 10th Avenue, which makes it harder for tourists like me to find, on a not very snazzy block in what looks to be an old warehouse, but oh, it’s nice inside–very roomy and a poetry section that is three stacks wide. I love me a deep poetry section. It is also the only bookstore I’ve ever seen where someone has taped a typed poem to the back of a chair in the bathroom. You can sit or stand and read the poem, as I did.

Poem on a bathroom chair
at Elliott Bay Books

We shopped and bought and then sat in the E.B. cafe and drank tea. Just like old times when we used to cruise a bookstore after having dinner together in Sacramento. We went back to the cancer center for a doctor’s appointment and a shot that helps keep those tumors at bay, and then we caught the ferry home.

Also over the past several days she has knitted me a new scarf the color of the forest on the island where she lives. She is sending me home with two new dolls she made. One has frizzy black hair that sticks out from her head like Roseanne Roseannadanna. (Thank you, Gilda!) On my last night in her house, she made apple upside down cake, and though I try to avoid sugar, I had some because, well, the BFF made it. It was, not surprisingly, wonderful. I will eat anything that woman puts on a plate.

Sam

Though she has been very sick since July, the BFF has had more of her poetry and nonfiction published in the last year than most writers I know. She has held writing groups and encouraged people who never thought they had anything to say to write it down and read it aloud. More than one person has told her that she has saved a life by helping writers find their voices.

Maggie and Emma
(photo by Maggie!)

While I have been on her island, she has lent me her big dog Sam for a lovely walk on the beach and two gorgeous daughters who call me Auntie Jan. She is sending me home today with good books and, always, her undying love. Which is really the best anyone could ask for.

Thank you, BFF, for a wonderful visit. You are my hero for so many reasons. Right now it’s the apple upside down cake. Or maybe the scarf. Or the talk story time. Or maybe all of it. Take your pick.

Boarding the 6:20 a.m. to Seattle,
the BFF nudges the Prius onto the main deck
behind a red Fiat with an Obama/Biden sticker.
“Fiat stands for ‘fix it again, Tony,’ ” she says,
as I, the good audience, chuckle.

We grab pillows and lamby soft binkits
from the back seat, settle in for the ride
that will deliver us to the cancer center,
where a machine will scan her tumors.
I close my eyes, the steady thrum beneath us
the only indicator of movement,
a low growl that softens to a purr,
and we rest, surrounded by all these Jonahs
in the belly of the great rumbling beast.

I drift to a place of early memory,
of being held close to my father’s chest,
cradled in his strong arms, lulled to sleep
by his young heart, his voice resonating
a lullaby I can feel through my tiny body,
his big hand rubbing circles of love
into my back.

Jan Haag

I am walking on a gravel road on Bainbridge Island in Washington state under a dove gray sky. There is no rain—and none is predicted—which is odd in this rainforest of a state. Sam, the golden retriever, walks ahead of me, turning now and then to look for me. I like that in a dog. We are walking just to be outside, because we can.

Sam and his mom

Someone I love lies upstairs in her house sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, of the chronically ill. For two days I’ve been here the BFF has been on her feet (“like a normal person,” she joked), and for a couple days before my arrival, cooking beef stroganoff, making potato leek soup and something in clear glass in the fridge that looks tomato-y and vegetable-y. Last night she whipped up cheese-y biscuits from scratch to go with the potato leek, topped with sour cream and bacon.

The BFF picked me up from the airport with two daughters in tow—Maggie, who is finishing her senior year of high school, and Emma, a year older, home for the weekend from her new house in Tacoma where she lives with two roommates and two staff people who care for them. The BFF looked better than when I left her in October—her face was cheery and her eyes bright. Her hug was as warm as her smile. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. And so was I.

Emma and her mom

Before we took the ferry home to B.I., as the locals call it, the BFF drove us all to Ikea in Renton, a place where they’ve spent lots of time in recent weeks, getting Emma’s new living space set up.

“How long have you been in your new house, Emma?” I ask in the car.

“Four weeks,” says Emma from the back seat. Then silence. I know that Emma is not big on spontaneous follow-up. I start to ask a question to prompt her, and she pipes up, “I like my house,” she says.

“Great!” I say. “I can’t wait to see it.”

I grin at the BFF, who nods at me with a half smile. She, too, is feeling better. Weekly acupuncture has helped. But living with cancer is not fun, no matter how you slice it. I know that for every day she is up and feeling relatively well, there will be corresponding down times, too. She’s had a lot of down times in the last six months.

Today is an up day. Today, it turns out, is also a knitting day, for later that evening, sitting up in bed, as we watch an older BBC series, the BFF starts knitting me a scarf. I have found in her ample stash of yarn some soft gray green wool the color of winter pine needles on this island. The BFF has taken up fat wooden needles and expertly casts on. By bedtime, she has five inches of new scarf trailing from them.

Scarf in progress.

We all go to sleep—two girls, two older BFFs and Sam—happy and warm, though it is literally freezing outside. If it were to rain tonight, we might awaken to snow on the ground in the morning.

The next day, too, is an up day, though the BFF rises to take her medications and goes back to bed around 9ish. By early afternoon, she is up and showered, and Emma is ready for her ride back to Tacoma. Maggie will spend the afternoon with a new friend—a boy, who is “not yet” a boyfriend, she tells us—watching a playoff football game that has everyone in this state ga-ga with excitement. The BFF, Emma and I load ourselves into the Prius for our drive south.

We make stops at Target and Trader Joe’s in Silverdale, and I notice the BFF looking weary as she pushes carts in the stores. She has said since before I arrived that tomorrow she hopes to make a trip to Port Townsend. Every time I visit, she talks about going to Port Townsend, just for a brief getaway, to visit a bookstore dedicated to writers. We have yet to make it to Port Townsend. My BFF has the biggest heart in the world, but her energy levels are not what she’d like them to be. I doubt that we’ll get out of the house tomorrow, much less to Port Townsend. But that’s OK. That’s why I’m here. To help with household things, to feed and walk Sam, to pick up Maggie from school, to be the other grownup in the house when the BFF’s husband is in California, working.

Emma at peace

At Emma’s house, we walk in with soup for the fridge and fresh flowers and a new Ikea vase for the table. There are two roommates and two staff people there, the young women in Emma’s life. To my surprise, the BFF takes to Emma’s room like a tornado, making her bed with new violet sheets, shaking out two duvets and an electric blanket. I hand Emma her half-consumed Orange Crush and a half sandwich from lunch for the mini fridge in her room. We retrieve bed pillows from the floor and replace them on the freshly made bed. Emma poses for a photo under the rainbow-striped flag she got on a family trip to Italy that says, “Pace.” Pah-chay. Peace. Oh, yes.

On the way home, the BFF and I retrieve Maggie, then open the door to a happy-to-see-us Sam. I feed him while the BFF whips up a wonderful supper of potato leek soup and cheese-y biscuits. After dinner, we tuck into episode 2 of this season’s “Downton Abbey.”

There is the sound of my BFF’s wooden needles clicking in the chair next to the sofa where I sit. There is big Sammy dog on his soft bed in front of the TV. There is the knowledge that one daughter is safe in her Tacoma home and the other is in the living room watching a different TV. There is a son in Utah in college. There are grown children in California with their families.

Though I know I will not see Port Townsend tomorrow, though I know tomorrow will be a day of rest for my BFF, I am not disappointed. I am happily here, safe and warm, too. I will take Sam for a walk on the beach. These are the ups and downs of love. We talk, we knit, we cook, we rest. We do it again. And we are oh, so, grateful, my BFF and I, for this time together. We would not trade it. Ever.

Amene, as the Hawaiians say. Ahhhh-men-ay.

I can hardly think about a new year. I’m sitting on the sofa, typing on the laptop, the detritus of Christmas just past in front of me on the coffee table–the cardboard rolls of ribbon, the tape dispenser, the marking pens and little sticky gift tags staring at me defiantly, as if to say, “When are you going to put us away?” (I realize that I may be projecting just a teeny little bit. I suspect the ribbon is not nearly so bitchy.) Combine that with two female cats (both spayed) in the house battling one another because I had the nerve to bring in the newest one a couple of months ago, which still has the queen cat royally pissed. I’m recovering from a cold, my feet are never truly warm in winter, and I could use a nap. So really, a new year just around the corner? A fresh beginning?

Well, yes, actually. It’s what we do in the last gray days of the year, which, truthfully, have held some nice bits of sunshine in between the storms… not a bad metaphor for what we’ve lived through and what’s to come. We get to start anew every day, of course. But like many people, I am not a fan of new year’s resolutions. I heard a psychologist on the radio today say it helps if you have people on your team to periodically remind you of your resolution (“so how’s that daily yoga plan working out?”). But I hate being reminded of what I’m not doing. It makes me feel guilty and nervous, and no one needs that on cold, dark days.

Nevada City poet Molly Fisk agrees with me. “Trying to improve ourselves in January is just silly,” she posted on her Facebook page. “In January, we should be sitting in front of the fire reading books or dozing, like the big mammals we are. Attempting to change ingrained habits when our brains are sluggish and it’s snowing is a set-up for abject failure.”

This led to Molly’s friend Jane’s idea for the new year: one word. Just one simple word that sets your intention for the year.

“This is something you can ruminate on before the fire or curled under your blankets just before you fall asleep,” Molly writes. “You can even turn it over in your mind while stacking firewood or replacing those pipes under the house that burst in the last freeze. Choosing a word doesn’t go against the seasonal requirements of your inner Grizzly.”

I like the sound of that. So the search begins: What’s my word? One year, Molly writes, hers was “surrender.” Another year it was “austere”–not meaning poverty so much as self-containment. Molly recommends looking up a good dictionary definition of your word, one that really rings for you. Immediately I realize that even if I can choose one word–one single, meaningful word–it’s likely to disappear in a cloud of life stuff.

“Sometimes you’ll forget your word,” Molly writes, “and need to be reminded… But it’s working on you nonetheless, whether you pay careful attention or not. You’re in a relationship with it that will unfold, as opposed to a resolution, which is more of a chore to be done: It’s a finite idea with no room for movement; it chides you.”

So in considering 2012, I’m now searching for my word. I’ve had seven months away from teaching this year, a sabbatical from heaven, which is a possible word–“sabbatical” (“any extended period of leave from one’s customary work, especially for rest, to acquire new skills, or training, etc.,” says dictionary.com). It’s from the Greek sabbatikós, which I like the sound of, too, and, of course, it also refers to the Sabbath as a day of rest and religious observance. Which, truly, this has been. Each day has been holy–and not just because I didn’t have to grade papers. But because I’ve gotten to sleep a whole lot and travel and be in service to others, a perfect blend of “for you” and “all about me,” which I love. A new edition of my book of poetry, “Companion Spirit,” was published in the fall. An agent loves my young adult novel and will send it out to possible publishers early in  2013. I have spent wonderful hours with dear friends, old and new, and written with wonderful people in my writing groups when I’ve been in town, and read and read and read pretty much anything I wanted. OK, I worked a little, editing some friends’ manuscripts of their forthcoming books, but that was wonderful, enriching reading, too.

Honestly, I can’t think of anything I would have done differently on this sabbatical. I’ve pretty much checked off most things on my “to do” list, except clean out my home office and bring the books in boxes up from the basement. But there’s still time for that, and friends are lined up to help with that, too.

I say this all the time: I have lived a charmed life, and I am beyond grateful for it. To the ancestors who came before me and left me so much, to the companion spirits who make their voices heard and presences felt, to my colleagues at the college, to my writing group folks who show up for each other and for me, to my loved ones who take care of me so well on the planet. I am one lucky, lucky woman.

There’s my word for 2013: Lucky. “Having or marked by good luck; fortunate.” Yep, that’s me. Don’t hesitate to remind me should I get whiny or crabby in, say, March or October.

What’s your word?

I have been negligent about posting in this blog for some time, as I have been reminded by one of my long-time supporters (thanks, Mom!), so I am posting my annual Christmas poem. Some of you may have gotten a copy from me, but here it is electronically… with a promise that I will post things more often!

———

We return thanks to the moon and stars, which have given
to us their light when the sun was gone.
—Iroquois prayer, circa 1800s

Light of the world

You’d think the earth slept in darkness until then,
that the sun lay banished just below the horizon,
stealthily traveling the circumference of the blue planet

like a great whale, never quite lifting its head
for a breath. That people shuffled instead
of picking up their feet, moved through a world

swathed in dusk and dust. Forgot “let there be light.”
Dismissed the candles that burned for eight days.
Darkness rained crow feathers across the sky.

Until she heard the news from an angel, who,
it is said, dazzled her with pyrotechnics
and beating wings. Until all her labors brought forth

the light of the world, swaddled: a love so new,
so dangerous, it could not survive. That it did,
with great tenderness, so bright and clear,

that this genius of spirit stays with us still,
has given light unto light, allowing us to vanish
into longing, like bare trees remembering leaves.

Jan Haag
Christmas 2012

Well, now. I got a birthday present when I came home from the recent travels that did my old heart good. Make that “gud.” It came from a friend in Colorado who reads the blog and who is herself a darn “gud wrtr,” too.

It arrived in a Land’s End bag that I was pretty sure I hadn’t ordered. But my heart leapt a bit when I saw it because I am a big Land’s End fan. Wear their swimsuits all the time. When I opened the bag and pulled out a big towel, I was surprised but even more so when I unfolded it.

Check it out:

I am grateful to Connie Raub, who had the great idea to get me a ginormous beach towel with the blog name on it. She is a woman I admire for many reasons, not the least of which is that she spent 30 years teaching music and history at junior high and high schools in Southern California. Rounding up and whipping into shape kids in high school. Junior high. Coaching them through school musicals and performances. Teaching social studies and world history, European history, U.S. history. In high school.

In 1997, she and her late husband Richard (a crackerjack community college choir director) retired to Colorado Springs.

Pike's Peak from Connie's living room.

Among other hobbies, he carved out hiking trails near their lovely home in the foothills below Pike’s Peak, painstakingly, with hand tools, for fun. Connie still lives there with two dogs and sings in local choirs and works as a freelance florist out of her home. (Go, Connie’s Creations!)

Connie going flower shopping

Though she has some of the prettiest hands and most perfect nails I have ever seen, she dons heavy gloves and wields a mattock, a pickax-like thing used for digging and chopping, helping to maintain Richard’s trails. And she’s taking hula lessons, too.

She is my hero. Not just for the towel but for all she does and the enthusiasm and good cheer with which she goes through life. I aspire to that kind of retirement one day—full of pursuits that enrich not only me but others, too.

And now, my BF, who came up with the GUD WRTR concept, can say that she has been published on a license plate and a towel.

Thank you, Connie!