Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Take Me To The River . . . Drop Me In The Water
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Monday, June 28, 2004
Angie, Angie . . . they can't say we never tried
I was driving in the pouring rain Sunday, when "Angie" came on the radio. Everything that Laura was not, Angie was . . . and is.
I met Angie the same year I met Laura, in 1991.
1991 was a crazy, crazy year for me. I had been living in a really small rural town with my husband of 5 years, and the marriage crumbled to dust in April of that year. It was his hometown, and I was the outsider, so he kept the house, I got the furniture, and headed a bit south to give us both some distance.
The town was small and southern and full of carpet mills, trailers on expanses of beautiful farmland, inhabited by hardened people that made their living from the sweat of their brow. Trying to connect with the locals was important to me, and a challenge that I never really mastered. Me, my college education, and corporate job gave everyone the unmistakeable impression that I was wearing a prom dress to the Waffle House. The people were very nice, but completely standoffish.
After I moved and had a couple of months to get over the crying jags, I was ready to venture out for the first time, really. I had been with my husband for years, I had grown up trying my best to live up to his standards of morality and propriety, so I had never really been out to any nighttime places before.
I was 25 and about to experience my first time in a bar, and this one was a doozie. It was a HUGE country bar, with a live band behind chicken wire, several bars, lots of people, and I was determined to make it through one night there just to see if I could.
In that dark, smoky bar, I ran into a girl from the ex's hometown. She had always been nice, and when she saw me, she acted as though she had seen a ghost. After the requisite "What are YOU doing here?"s and "Did I hear that you got divorced? What happened?'s, she invited me to sit with her and her friends, which I was really very grateful for.
The group of girls were there to celebrate a birthday. Angie, at that time, was celebrating her 22nd, and over drinks, and more drinks, we became fast friends. Angie was the opposite of me: she was a short, dark-eyed, teased blonde. In her drunken stupor, she said to me, "You look like a teacher, but I like you. Your ex is an asshole, but I think I like you." From the beginning, she was the kind of friend that fit into your life seamlessly, as though she had been there always.
Angie was still living in the ex's hometown north of me. It was her hometown, too. She was cute as a button, and so smart . . . she had married at 15 and come home a year later in disgrace, and was too ashamed to try to go back to school. Her life in the mills started that same year, as did her affinity for speed and Virginia Slims Menthol Lite 100s.
Over the course of a few months of "partying" with her, she and I talked quite a bit about what my plans were, and what she was doing. She was dating a loser, one that treated her pretty badly, and she was working at a convenience store at night to pass the time and come down from the speed.
One day, I mentioned to her that I wanted to find a little house or condo, something with 2 bedrooms, and that I wanted her to think about moving in with me. Something told me that if she had a chance to get out of that little town, she might have a chance to escape the shackles of that place and the attitudes and the despair that hung over the whole town like those constant clouds of curious smoke that bellowed out of the Union Carbide plant.
I guess she was so used to hearing about pipe dreams, she agreed that she would take me up on the offer, IF I ever got a house. She had never known a woman that was able to get a house on her own, it was beyond the means of most of the couples that she knew to get more than a double-wide, and that was with both of them working overtime at the carpet mill.
She was pretty shocked when I called to tell her I had placed a bid on a nice little place, a foreclosure, and that I would be moving in 30 days, and so would she. She was scared, and immediately backed out. She had gotten in hock with some little loan shark company where she had bought some bedroom furniture. The payments and interest were outrageous. She and I went to my bank and got a little $1,000 signature loan for her to pay off the sharks, move, and have a little buffer. I told her that she could try it for a couple of months, and if things didnt work out, she could go back home, no hard feelings. She did, and she stayed.
Over the course of those 2 years we roomed together, Angie got herself a job in a salon. She also took her GED, and passed it. Without stopping, she enrolled in college, and she earned her paralegal degree. I could not have been prouder of her than I was when I saw her accept her diploma. Her mother and father were beaming, and told everyone that she was the first ever in their family to attend college. It was a miracle to them. It was a miracle to me, too.
By that time, she had kicked the speed and had gained a little weight, as you do. Angie was lonely, and sure that she would never meet anyone nice. But things happen when you least expect them to. Angie met Greg the same month I met my husband. October 1994. It was love at first sight for them. She had a minor fender-bender, and he was the cop that responded to the accident. He was going to law school at night, and they were blissfully in love, and moved in together right away.
Just because we didn't live together anymore didn't mean we drifted apart. Angie stuck by me in the early days after my daughter was born. She came to my house every day to rock the baby while I cold called companies, looking for contract work. She loved my girl, and my girl loved her. I could not have asked for a better friend than her.
Time has marched on . . . her boyfriend and she married after years of living together. He practiced law and became a circuit judge. She ran his law office and now works at the courthouse in the middle of that hometown she had escaped from. The town has changed, and her place in it has changed, too.
No matter how much time goes by, Angie and I can sit together and talk, and pick up right where we left off.
I am so proud of her, and she is proud of me, too. But she hates when I mention that Rolling Stones song. You can take the girl out of the country . . .
I met Angie the same year I met Laura, in 1991.
1991 was a crazy, crazy year for me. I had been living in a really small rural town with my husband of 5 years, and the marriage crumbled to dust in April of that year. It was his hometown, and I was the outsider, so he kept the house, I got the furniture, and headed a bit south to give us both some distance.
The town was small and southern and full of carpet mills, trailers on expanses of beautiful farmland, inhabited by hardened people that made their living from the sweat of their brow. Trying to connect with the locals was important to me, and a challenge that I never really mastered. Me, my college education, and corporate job gave everyone the unmistakeable impression that I was wearing a prom dress to the Waffle House. The people were very nice, but completely standoffish.
After I moved and had a couple of months to get over the crying jags, I was ready to venture out for the first time, really. I had been with my husband for years, I had grown up trying my best to live up to his standards of morality and propriety, so I had never really been out to any nighttime places before.
I was 25 and about to experience my first time in a bar, and this one was a doozie. It was a HUGE country bar, with a live band behind chicken wire, several bars, lots of people, and I was determined to make it through one night there just to see if I could.
In that dark, smoky bar, I ran into a girl from the ex's hometown. She had always been nice, and when she saw me, she acted as though she had seen a ghost. After the requisite "What are YOU doing here?"s and "Did I hear that you got divorced? What happened?'s, she invited me to sit with her and her friends, which I was really very grateful for.
The group of girls were there to celebrate a birthday. Angie, at that time, was celebrating her 22nd, and over drinks, and more drinks, we became fast friends. Angie was the opposite of me: she was a short, dark-eyed, teased blonde. In her drunken stupor, she said to me, "You look like a teacher, but I like you. Your ex is an asshole, but I think I like you." From the beginning, she was the kind of friend that fit into your life seamlessly, as though she had been there always.
Angie was still living in the ex's hometown north of me. It was her hometown, too. She was cute as a button, and so smart . . . she had married at 15 and come home a year later in disgrace, and was too ashamed to try to go back to school. Her life in the mills started that same year, as did her affinity for speed and Virginia Slims Menthol Lite 100s.
Over the course of a few months of "partying" with her, she and I talked quite a bit about what my plans were, and what she was doing. She was dating a loser, one that treated her pretty badly, and she was working at a convenience store at night to pass the time and come down from the speed.
One day, I mentioned to her that I wanted to find a little house or condo, something with 2 bedrooms, and that I wanted her to think about moving in with me. Something told me that if she had a chance to get out of that little town, she might have a chance to escape the shackles of that place and the attitudes and the despair that hung over the whole town like those constant clouds of curious smoke that bellowed out of the Union Carbide plant.
I guess she was so used to hearing about pipe dreams, she agreed that she would take me up on the offer, IF I ever got a house. She had never known a woman that was able to get a house on her own, it was beyond the means of most of the couples that she knew to get more than a double-wide, and that was with both of them working overtime at the carpet mill.
She was pretty shocked when I called to tell her I had placed a bid on a nice little place, a foreclosure, and that I would be moving in 30 days, and so would she. She was scared, and immediately backed out. She had gotten in hock with some little loan shark company where she had bought some bedroom furniture. The payments and interest were outrageous. She and I went to my bank and got a little $1,000 signature loan for her to pay off the sharks, move, and have a little buffer. I told her that she could try it for a couple of months, and if things didnt work out, she could go back home, no hard feelings. She did, and she stayed.
Over the course of those 2 years we roomed together, Angie got herself a job in a salon. She also took her GED, and passed it. Without stopping, she enrolled in college, and she earned her paralegal degree. I could not have been prouder of her than I was when I saw her accept her diploma. Her mother and father were beaming, and told everyone that she was the first ever in their family to attend college. It was a miracle to them. It was a miracle to me, too.
By that time, she had kicked the speed and had gained a little weight, as you do. Angie was lonely, and sure that she would never meet anyone nice. But things happen when you least expect them to. Angie met Greg the same month I met my husband. October 1994. It was love at first sight for them. She had a minor fender-bender, and he was the cop that responded to the accident. He was going to law school at night, and they were blissfully in love, and moved in together right away.
Just because we didn't live together anymore didn't mean we drifted apart. Angie stuck by me in the early days after my daughter was born. She came to my house every day to rock the baby while I cold called companies, looking for contract work. She loved my girl, and my girl loved her. I could not have asked for a better friend than her.
Time has marched on . . . her boyfriend and she married after years of living together. He practiced law and became a circuit judge. She ran his law office and now works at the courthouse in the middle of that hometown she had escaped from. The town has changed, and her place in it has changed, too.
No matter how much time goes by, Angie and I can sit together and talk, and pick up right where we left off.
I am so proud of her, and she is proud of me, too. But she hates when I mention that Rolling Stones song. You can take the girl out of the country . . .
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Haikus for a Tranquil Sunday Morning
I was so surprised
To awaken on my own
The kids are away
No sound this morning
Just the scraping of my spoon
I love Cocoa Puffs
What to do today?
The whole world is my oyster
Until 5:30
I could watch TV
Or go to the pool alone
Swim laps in silence
Then I remember
All the laundry is waiting
The floors need mopping
I should exercise
My treadmill is so dusty
So are my Reeboks
I can still escape
And visit my friends online
While the washer churns
As nice as it is
To have a morning alone
I miss my kiddies
Their sticky kisses
They wake up so excited
To start a new day
My boy's a whirlwind
"Wake Up Sleepyhead!"
Yelled right in my ear
My girl is like me
Mornings are a little slow
She wakes with a smile
Thank God for my mom
That is where they are today
She gives me respite
Sometimes the best days
Are the ones you don't plan
Just go with the flow
To awaken on my own
The kids are away
No sound this morning
Just the scraping of my spoon
I love Cocoa Puffs
What to do today?
The whole world is my oyster
Until 5:30
I could watch TV
Or go to the pool alone
Swim laps in silence
Then I remember
All the laundry is waiting
The floors need mopping
I should exercise
My treadmill is so dusty
So are my Reeboks
I can still escape
And visit my friends online
While the washer churns
As nice as it is
To have a morning alone
I miss my kiddies
Their sticky kisses
They wake up so excited
To start a new day
My boy's a whirlwind
"Wake Up Sleepyhead!"
Yelled right in my ear
My girl is like me
Mornings are a little slow
She wakes with a smile
Thank God for my mom
That is where they are today
She gives me respite
Sometimes the best days
Are the ones you don't plan
Just go with the flow
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
I got another email from her today. For the past 3 years or so, I have gotten an email from her maybe twice. It's funny . . . there was a time that we chatted on the phone every day. For the past couple of months, I have been receiving email every week.
When I get them, I do what I always do . . . give them a glance, and delete them, unanswered.
Laura and I were close friends for a short while. I met her in 1991. I had just divorced, and I started a job where she was already employed. We became fast friends - I was weathering the storm, and she was gearing up to face one. We worked side by side, and shared stories, laughs, and impossible deadlines. When work ran really late (which it did quite often) we would grab a bite to eat at Waffle House and decompress while she took slow drags on her cigarettes and nibbled at her cheese eggs and raisin toast.
Laura and I were the same, in alot of ways. Both from small southern towns, both had crazy fathers, and bad relationships with men. We had both gone to college, despite the odds. We were both smart, but not smart enough to avoid major pitfalls in life, and so we found ourselves working for a slavedriver, and dreading to go home to lonliness and unhappiness. My house was empty, and her house might as well have been.
During the course of that first year of friendship, I was her sounding board as she went through the paces of a painful divorce. I helped her move, and spent many a night watching her closely when she had drank way too much. I remember one night in particular, after a few hours at a Mexican restaurant, I chased her outside, trying to get her keys away from her. She was drunk, and being silly, and pressed the trunk release button. She was faster than I was; she crawled in the trunk, threw the keys over the railing of the parking lot into an oblivion of overgrown weeds and construction debris, and laughed as she proceeded to shut the trunk. I still remember hearing her singing and laughing as I waded through the weeds to retrieve the keys and let her drunk ass out.
Even after we both moved within the company, we still remained good friends. A year or so after her divorce, I casually introduced her to a really nice contractor that worked in the office next to mine. Their relationship began that minute, and I commiserated with her as she made her way through 2in years of dating and 1 year of engagement to him. I was so pleased when she asked me to be her matron of honor, and I spent as assload of money on a gorgeous shower, and enjoyed every minute of it.
In late 1994, I met my husband, and for those that have read here from the beginning, you already know that we had a whirlwind courtship. We flew to Vegas to get married, alone. Our families threw a surprise reception for us upon our return, and I was surprised when I didn't see Laura there. The explanation was plausible.
As 1995 rocked on, I was anxiously awaiting the birth of a baby girl in September. The pregnancy was a little complicated, and I was put on bedrest the last couple months before my daughter was delivered. At that time, I lived a couple miles from the office, and I got calls from Laura occasionally, asking me how I was, filling me in on the gossip, and always promising to come have lunch with me. It never happened.
After my maternity leave was up, I got news that I was being laid off. I was devastated - I had worked so hard for that company, and we so desperately needed the money. I called Laura, and she said "I know what you are going to tell me - I knew a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to say anything." She had kept her job, and had been given a raise to take on some of my duties. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. But that wasn't her fault, I reasoned.
The next couple of years were a blur of contract jobs, therapy appointments for my daughter, and struggle. We rarely talked then. I knew we were both busy.
One day, I got an email from her with joyous news - she was expecting! I called her, and the excitement in her voice was infectious. Her pregnancy was a little tricky, too, and she delivered her baby 8 weeks early. She didn't have any family here in the city, and I did. My mom watched the baby while I sat with her at the hospital, calming her nerves and teaching her how to diaper one so tiny. The baby shower I had planned for her went on without her, and her husband and I gathered all of the gifts and carried them into her. She was beaming, and she seemed to come out of her postpartum funk for a short while.
Over the next year, I got the occasional call, full of questions about the baby: what should he be doing now? what was a good mother's morning out program, where was the best children's clothing stores? Oh yeah, and as an afterthought: how was my daughter doing? Those were dark days for me, my daughter was struggling mightily, and I was receiving bad news on a weekly basis. She tried to listen, and she would give me a faint "Everything will be fine . . ." before she hung up. I knew it was hard for anyone on the outside to cope with what I was dealing with. It was too sad, and I understood her reluctance to delve into it.
By some miracle that I will never forget or understand, the dark clouds gave way to bright skies. My daughter improved dramatically, and I was so pleased and proud of her progress. I threw a big birthday party for her 4th, and invited Laura and the baby to come. She RSVPd on my answering machine - she couldn't come - her son had a Gymboree class that day, but she wished us all a good time.
The correspondence pretty much ceased - from both sides. She was a busy mom, I was a busy mom. These things happen, and I thought of her often, and hoped things were going well.
In 2000, I was pleased to discover that I was expecting a new baby! After the family was notified, I called Laura, and got the answering machine. I left her a breathlessly excited message, and waited for her call. And waited. One week, two weeks . . . I never did hear back from her. I called again, and reached her this time, just as she was heading out the door. I gave her the good news, and she responded with an enthusiastic "Fastastic! I wish I had more time to chat - let's catch up soon!"
The next time I heard from her was when I received a birthday party invitation for her boy, the week I was due to deliver the baby. I called and told her that my husband would bring my daughter, since the party was close to the hospital, and my daughter loved parties, and it would take her mind off waiting for me and the baby to come home. She never did visit me in the hospital, and she never came to see me when I went home.
We moved into our new house in 2002. She has never seen my house.
It was dawning on me that my friendship with Laura was over, and it hurt. Alot. I felt sad, and I mourned it. I tried to maintain a generous attitude, but I was mad. Hurt and mad.
The email that I received from her this past April contained the teaser, "I have some good news!" in the subject line, and "Call me!" in the body. I deleted it.
The next email was a resend of the first. I deleted that one, too.
Since then, I have received more email, informing me that she was expecting a baby girl later this year. One asked me to start saving up my magazines, that she would be on bedrest and would need them. One asking when I was available for a girl's dinner out, and one was an email addressed to me and several others announcing the pregnancy, her apology for not keeping in touch, and a request for all to contact her and catch her up.
I can't be too mad at her. It takes two people to have a bad friendship. I have just decided to stop participating.
When I get them, I do what I always do . . . give them a glance, and delete them, unanswered.
Laura and I were close friends for a short while. I met her in 1991. I had just divorced, and I started a job where she was already employed. We became fast friends - I was weathering the storm, and she was gearing up to face one. We worked side by side, and shared stories, laughs, and impossible deadlines. When work ran really late (which it did quite often) we would grab a bite to eat at Waffle House and decompress while she took slow drags on her cigarettes and nibbled at her cheese eggs and raisin toast.
Laura and I were the same, in alot of ways. Both from small southern towns, both had crazy fathers, and bad relationships with men. We had both gone to college, despite the odds. We were both smart, but not smart enough to avoid major pitfalls in life, and so we found ourselves working for a slavedriver, and dreading to go home to lonliness and unhappiness. My house was empty, and her house might as well have been.
During the course of that first year of friendship, I was her sounding board as she went through the paces of a painful divorce. I helped her move, and spent many a night watching her closely when she had drank way too much. I remember one night in particular, after a few hours at a Mexican restaurant, I chased her outside, trying to get her keys away from her. She was drunk, and being silly, and pressed the trunk release button. She was faster than I was; she crawled in the trunk, threw the keys over the railing of the parking lot into an oblivion of overgrown weeds and construction debris, and laughed as she proceeded to shut the trunk. I still remember hearing her singing and laughing as I waded through the weeds to retrieve the keys and let her drunk ass out.
Even after we both moved within the company, we still remained good friends. A year or so after her divorce, I casually introduced her to a really nice contractor that worked in the office next to mine. Their relationship began that minute, and I commiserated with her as she made her way through 2in years of dating and 1 year of engagement to him. I was so pleased when she asked me to be her matron of honor, and I spent as assload of money on a gorgeous shower, and enjoyed every minute of it.
In late 1994, I met my husband, and for those that have read here from the beginning, you already know that we had a whirlwind courtship. We flew to Vegas to get married, alone. Our families threw a surprise reception for us upon our return, and I was surprised when I didn't see Laura there. The explanation was plausible.
As 1995 rocked on, I was anxiously awaiting the birth of a baby girl in September. The pregnancy was a little complicated, and I was put on bedrest the last couple months before my daughter was delivered. At that time, I lived a couple miles from the office, and I got calls from Laura occasionally, asking me how I was, filling me in on the gossip, and always promising to come have lunch with me. It never happened.
After my maternity leave was up, I got news that I was being laid off. I was devastated - I had worked so hard for that company, and we so desperately needed the money. I called Laura, and she said "I know what you are going to tell me - I knew a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to say anything." She had kept her job, and had been given a raise to take on some of my duties. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. But that wasn't her fault, I reasoned.
The next couple of years were a blur of contract jobs, therapy appointments for my daughter, and struggle. We rarely talked then. I knew we were both busy.
One day, I got an email from her with joyous news - she was expecting! I called her, and the excitement in her voice was infectious. Her pregnancy was a little tricky, too, and she delivered her baby 8 weeks early. She didn't have any family here in the city, and I did. My mom watched the baby while I sat with her at the hospital, calming her nerves and teaching her how to diaper one so tiny. The baby shower I had planned for her went on without her, and her husband and I gathered all of the gifts and carried them into her. She was beaming, and she seemed to come out of her postpartum funk for a short while.
Over the next year, I got the occasional call, full of questions about the baby: what should he be doing now? what was a good mother's morning out program, where was the best children's clothing stores? Oh yeah, and as an afterthought: how was my daughter doing? Those were dark days for me, my daughter was struggling mightily, and I was receiving bad news on a weekly basis. She tried to listen, and she would give me a faint "Everything will be fine . . ." before she hung up. I knew it was hard for anyone on the outside to cope with what I was dealing with. It was too sad, and I understood her reluctance to delve into it.
By some miracle that I will never forget or understand, the dark clouds gave way to bright skies. My daughter improved dramatically, and I was so pleased and proud of her progress. I threw a big birthday party for her 4th, and invited Laura and the baby to come. She RSVPd on my answering machine - she couldn't come - her son had a Gymboree class that day, but she wished us all a good time.
The correspondence pretty much ceased - from both sides. She was a busy mom, I was a busy mom. These things happen, and I thought of her often, and hoped things were going well.
In 2000, I was pleased to discover that I was expecting a new baby! After the family was notified, I called Laura, and got the answering machine. I left her a breathlessly excited message, and waited for her call. And waited. One week, two weeks . . . I never did hear back from her. I called again, and reached her this time, just as she was heading out the door. I gave her the good news, and she responded with an enthusiastic "Fastastic! I wish I had more time to chat - let's catch up soon!"
The next time I heard from her was when I received a birthday party invitation for her boy, the week I was due to deliver the baby. I called and told her that my husband would bring my daughter, since the party was close to the hospital, and my daughter loved parties, and it would take her mind off waiting for me and the baby to come home. She never did visit me in the hospital, and she never came to see me when I went home.
We moved into our new house in 2002. She has never seen my house.
It was dawning on me that my friendship with Laura was over, and it hurt. Alot. I felt sad, and I mourned it. I tried to maintain a generous attitude, but I was mad. Hurt and mad.
The email that I received from her this past April contained the teaser, "I have some good news!" in the subject line, and "Call me!" in the body. I deleted it.
The next email was a resend of the first. I deleted that one, too.
Since then, I have received more email, informing me that she was expecting a baby girl later this year. One asked me to start saving up my magazines, that she would be on bedrest and would need them. One asking when I was available for a girl's dinner out, and one was an email addressed to me and several others announcing the pregnancy, her apology for not keeping in touch, and a request for all to contact her and catch her up.
I can't be too mad at her. It takes two people to have a bad friendship. I have just decided to stop participating.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Separation Anxiety
If you lived in a friendly neighborhood for awhile, and made good friends with the neighbors, you would say goodbye if you moved away, right?
Not so in the world of Blog.
Reading the thoughts of another creates a very strange intimacy, and whether it is "real" or not, a friendship. I have a list of blogs that I am quite fond of. Over time, I have begun to build and actually feel a sense of community with my fellow bloggers, those that I visit every week.
Making my rounds of my favorite blogs is a little like taking an evening stroll around my neighborhood. Checking in with frequently updated blogs is kind of like passing a busy house with kids in the yard, flowers on the porch, and someone giving you a friendly wave. You can stop, listen to what they have to say - happy or sad, offer up your own little impressions, and move on, secure in the knowledge that the friendship is solid.
Occasionally, you notice that someone has done some exterior redecorating, and you can cast an appreciating glance at the improvements, maybe leaving a comment like "Hey! Nice template change! Easier to read, and the colors are great!"
Sometimes, you pass a blog and realize that you haven't seen much change there for the past few weeks. As a matter of fact, there are virtual soggy newspapers littering the driveway, and you figure they are on vacation, and then one day, you pass by, and all the newspapers are cleaned up, the lights are on, and you see that they have returned. You might get an explanation of their absence, and maybe hear a little about their travels, see a few snapshots. Again, everything is back in order.
Then there are those times that you walk toward a well-loved blog home and see broken blinds dangling in the windows; the door is wide open, revealing an empty shell where your friend once dwelled. And you think to yourself: what? no goodbye? after all of the time we spent sharing thoughts and experiences, they could just leave in the night and not say a word? So, with a mixture of disappointment and slight annoyance, you make a mental note not to bother to stop there anymore.
But then, you keep walking, and you see a moving truck parked at a house down the block, moving a new occupant in, and you think to yourself: I wonder who that is?
And so it goes . . .
Not so in the world of Blog.
Reading the thoughts of another creates a very strange intimacy, and whether it is "real" or not, a friendship. I have a list of blogs that I am quite fond of. Over time, I have begun to build and actually feel a sense of community with my fellow bloggers, those that I visit every week.
Making my rounds of my favorite blogs is a little like taking an evening stroll around my neighborhood. Checking in with frequently updated blogs is kind of like passing a busy house with kids in the yard, flowers on the porch, and someone giving you a friendly wave. You can stop, listen to what they have to say - happy or sad, offer up your own little impressions, and move on, secure in the knowledge that the friendship is solid.
Occasionally, you notice that someone has done some exterior redecorating, and you can cast an appreciating glance at the improvements, maybe leaving a comment like "Hey! Nice template change! Easier to read, and the colors are great!"
Sometimes, you pass a blog and realize that you haven't seen much change there for the past few weeks. As a matter of fact, there are virtual soggy newspapers littering the driveway, and you figure they are on vacation, and then one day, you pass by, and all the newspapers are cleaned up, the lights are on, and you see that they have returned. You might get an explanation of their absence, and maybe hear a little about their travels, see a few snapshots. Again, everything is back in order.
Then there are those times that you walk toward a well-loved blog home and see broken blinds dangling in the windows; the door is wide open, revealing an empty shell where your friend once dwelled. And you think to yourself: what? no goodbye? after all of the time we spent sharing thoughts and experiences, they could just leave in the night and not say a word? So, with a mixture of disappointment and slight annoyance, you make a mental note not to bother to stop there anymore.
But then, you keep walking, and you see a moving truck parked at a house down the block, moving a new occupant in, and you think to yourself: I wonder who that is?
And so it goes . . .
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