Twelve years ago, I flew to Philadelphia to meet some dear friends. I didn’t know what most of them looked like, nor they me. But we had laughed (so much!) and cried together, talked about life, swapped recipes, studied Gaelic, and I knew I would recognize them on the inside.
Back then I was a single mom. Since I didn’t want to leave my children with a babysitter much, but dearly needed adults to talk to from time to time – outside the politics of work, that is - I joined a chatroom peopled by others of Irish descent or affinity, in search of conversation. What I found was a close-knit group of friends. There was the nurse in Maine, the florist in Pennsylvania, the retired professor in Québec City, Herself (and stories of Himself), a Swede with an Irish echo. There were siblings and cousins and strangers and the one thing that bound us all together was our little chat room online.
That weekend in Philadelphia in the summer of ’99 we came together, those who could, for some in-person time.
I told Betsy about a guy I’d recently met; I knew in my gut that he was something special. Linda and Jeff struck up a friendship. We made the rounds of a few pubs guided by a local member of our room. And two days later we all hugged and said goodbye.
Last night, the airline put me up at a hotel in Philadelphia after a missed connection. It’s the first time I’ve been back to Philly since that weekend in 1999. The chat room system closed down a few months later. I married my special guy and had five wonderful years with him before he died. Linda and Jeff got married and have a granddaughter. Betsy’s teenagers are now wonderful adults. We still hear stories of Himself, and Rebekah found her echo in the professor from Québec City.
So here’s to you, Stargazer, Webby, Angharod, LadyB, Petey, Liam Seamroige, and the rest. Forgive me if I misspell your old names. I’ve known you a long time now by your “proper” ones, but the fact that you’re still a special part of my life makes me want to pull out those old screen names and dust them off again.
Slainte! And please pass the chardonnay.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
New Girl About Town
I stood in the doorway of my garage this week and watched a tow-truck haul the Brown Goddess away. She went without a whimper, but only because her engine was off and the keys tucked inside the driver’s bag.
Actually, she never whimpered. It wasn’t her style. She grumbled, creaked, squeaked and occasionally squealed, but self-pity was not in the old girl. The paint on her roof was faded. Her transmission was failing, fuel injection hiccupping, the ignition was wonky and the mechanic suspected a broken strut. I might have gotten a couple hundred dollars for her as a trade-in but that seemed like an insult to the old girl. Instead, I donated her to the Dallas CAN! Academy.
Before she started the Great Inanimate Conspiracy against me, the Brown Goddess provided safe passage for my granddaughters and bore the stain on her ceiling of a slurpee-gone-wild incident. She was with me as my children left the nest and one got married, there when my parents moved. The Brown Goddess had room for loved ones, worked harder than she should have. She didn’t always get the maintenance needed to be at her best.
Kind of like me. Middle-aged, fading despite the wonders of Garnier, working more, taking less time than needed for the things that keep me going.
Buying her replacement took tenacity and a thick skin. Twice, salesmen looked at me in surprise when I explained that yes, I actually could drive a stick, thank you. Mostly, they treated me as a middle-aged, fading woman who probably had bunions inside those sensible shoes.
I searched the web and prowled car lots. And then, one night, there she was: a little, blue Honda Civic Hybrid. A pretty car, just barely inside my price range; small, park-able and thrifty at the gas station. I said a prayer and called the dealership.
The salesman talked to me like an intelligent woman who probably didn’t worry about sensible shoes, then made sure the car was still available. First thing the next morning, we drove over to the sister dealership and picked up my car. Paperwork was signed – a mere formality because it was my car from the moment I turned on that engine. With the shape of the interior and the angle of the seat and the console lights blazing, it was obviously only a car on the outside. Inside, it was a Cosmic Space Pod. Move over, Spaceman Spiff*, there’s a new girl in town.
She’s parked out in the garage now, where the Brown Goddess used to patiently wait. My environmentally-friendly low-budget midlife-crisis with the grownup exterior and a world of imagination inside.
Kind of like me.
--------------------
*Calvin and Hobbes©
Actually, she never whimpered. It wasn’t her style. She grumbled, creaked, squeaked and occasionally squealed, but self-pity was not in the old girl. The paint on her roof was faded. Her transmission was failing, fuel injection hiccupping, the ignition was wonky and the mechanic suspected a broken strut. I might have gotten a couple hundred dollars for her as a trade-in but that seemed like an insult to the old girl. Instead, I donated her to the Dallas CAN! Academy.
Before she started the Great Inanimate Conspiracy against me, the Brown Goddess provided safe passage for my granddaughters and bore the stain on her ceiling of a slurpee-gone-wild incident. She was with me as my children left the nest and one got married, there when my parents moved. The Brown Goddess had room for loved ones, worked harder than she should have. She didn’t always get the maintenance needed to be at her best.
Kind of like me. Middle-aged, fading despite the wonders of Garnier, working more, taking less time than needed for the things that keep me going.
Buying her replacement took tenacity and a thick skin. Twice, salesmen looked at me in surprise when I explained that yes, I actually could drive a stick, thank you. Mostly, they treated me as a middle-aged, fading woman who probably had bunions inside those sensible shoes.
I searched the web and prowled car lots. And then, one night, there she was: a little, blue Honda Civic Hybrid. A pretty car, just barely inside my price range; small, park-able and thrifty at the gas station. I said a prayer and called the dealership.
The salesman talked to me like an intelligent woman who probably didn’t worry about sensible shoes, then made sure the car was still available. First thing the next morning, we drove over to the sister dealership and picked up my car. Paperwork was signed – a mere formality because it was my car from the moment I turned on that engine. With the shape of the interior and the angle of the seat and the console lights blazing, it was obviously only a car on the outside. Inside, it was a Cosmic Space Pod. Move over, Spaceman Spiff*, there’s a new girl in town.
She’s parked out in the garage now, where the Brown Goddess used to patiently wait. My environmentally-friendly low-budget midlife-crisis with the grownup exterior and a world of imagination inside.
Kind of like me.
--------------------
*Calvin and Hobbes©
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