I Happen to Like New York

I had a friend with an apartment on Prince Street in Soho.

My last visit to NYC in the spring of 2001 was to visit him and another friend who'd moved there with her husband. She and I'd worked together at LSU.

I was also supposed to meet up with my (sorority) little sister, Tove Sundqvist. She lived in Amsterdam, but she had to be in Boston. We were going to try and get together, but ultimately it didn't work out.

Anyway, my friend John was very excited about the prospect of me moving to NYC and getting an editorial job, and he was helping me meet folks at Newsweek and Hachette.

It was very cold, and I have a picture of me freezing on top of the WTC six months before it hit the ground. It was my third trip in less than two years, but I wasn't going to move. I didn't want it badly enough, and I was married with a husband on his way to med school at the time.

I remember John took me to some way off-Broadway play where all the actors ended up completely naked at various points. I have no idea what the name of it was, but we met up with some of the cast at a little diner after. They kept going on about how much I looked like Drew Barrymore, and John was indignant. "She is not fat," he snapped.

John was from Port Allen. Same city as that little Tracy Porter kid who made the winning play for the Saints at the Superbowl. John's apartment was huge by NYC standards and his rent was only $1,400 a month because of rent control. He'd been there since the '80s. I still can't believe he gave that place up to move to Atlanta.

That night at the diner, I just remember thinking how one of my sorority sisters used to say I looked like Drew Barrymore, and I'd never taken it as an insult.

Six months later everything changed. It was Sept. 11, and I was working at the paper in Shreveport, La. I remember standing out in the newsroom with the rest of the staff watching Matt Lauer covering the nightmare. Then I went back to my office where my phone was ringing off the hook with friends demanding to know what was going on.

I just work here, I thought.

One month after that Tove was killed in Amsterdam after being hit by a tram while she was riding her bike. I remember getting the email from her (bio) sister Jenny telling me what had happened, and I went straight to the phone and called her.

I had no idea what time it was in Sweden, but I couldn't believe it. Somebody had hacked into her email account and was playing the most un-funny joke of all time.

But it wasn't the most un-funny joke. It was the most un-funny truth. We sat there kind of stunned, and I eventually hung up the phone. I don't really remember our conversation.

An hour later, as the email was being discovered by our other sisters, my phone started ringing off the hook again. What had happened? Had I talked to Jenny? But Tove just got married! She was going to have a baby! And she was always so healthy! It was surreal.

I had just gotten the thank-you card she'd sent me for her wedding present. I'd given her some of those giant bath-sheet towels we all loved so much. I remembered how one time she'd fallen in the shower at her dorm and hit her head and we all had to rush her to the ER for stitches. Jenny had been so scared, and we'd all joked about what a klutz she was. Another time she got a speeding ticket, and Jenny just knew she was going to get deported. Tove was larger than life.

I sat down and scribbled out some letter to Jenny that I couldn't even read through my blurry eyes. I wrote how I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't. I wrote about how badly I'd wanted to be at her wedding that summer, but with the move to Shreveport and all it had been impossible. And I hadn't saved enough money to fly to Amsterdam.

I mailed it without even proofreading. It probably made no sense.

Another month later, my first marriage ended...

Tough year.

It got better, of course, and by the end of 2002, I was surrounded by an amazing group of friends in Indy who took me in on sight and made me feel as welcome as if I'd always been here.

They still do. Those guys are amazing. Love them~

* * *

This is a repost from when I first started blogging in 2010. It seemed appropriate today, in remembrance of Sept. 11 and in light of our relocation back to Indy. Still love those guys! It feels like a quiet day, but I'll be sending my revision back as scheduled. And I plan to be around.

Til Thursday, reader- and writer-friends~ <3

What we think we know

I read The Joy Luck Club in one sitting on a flight from New York to London.

Doesn't that sound romantic?

Truth is, I was in college, and I was helping a friend's mom "chaperone" her high school English students on one of those 10-day guided tours of London and Paris. It was a fun experience.

But back to the book.

I was hooked from the start by the story of the goose and the feather and the mom wanting to use it to tell her daughter all her stories.

Then Amy Tan goes immediately to the days after the mom's death, and her daughter casually remarks that she doesn't know anything about her mother.

That sets off her mother's friends who instantly begin regaling her with "Remember this?" and "Remember that?" They insisted that she did know her mother, and the implication is they fear their own daughters don't really know them.

I remember when I read this book in college, I related completely with the daughter. I felt like I didn't know anything about my mother--at least not as an actual person who'd had real life experiences.

In a way, I still feel like that sometimes. Just a little.

Now we're here, and I see my little daughters struggling with the stress of the biggest move in their lives (so far). My youngest daughter, the one who broke down crying at the news we were moving 850 miles due north of the only home she'd ever known announced today that she's having a wonderful time!

She loves it here!!!

My oldest, the one who was so excited to return to the city where she was born, who couldn't wait to see snow, and who told her little sister not to be afraid, "it's going to be an adventure," announced yesterday at breakfast she wants to go home.

I feel all torn up inside.

On the one hand, I understand exactly how my eldest feels. She wants familiarity. She wants to know that today when she goes to school, she's going to see the same faces, sites, and sounds she's been seeing since she was old enough to remember.

I get that.

But I keep telling her to hang on. The longer we're here, the longer we'll have been here. The more familiar it'll be, the more faces she'll recognize. Just hang in there.

I want to tell her my story of coming here for the first time ten years ago. Back then she was my little feather, a secret in my womb, and I held onto her as I willingly gave up everything I'd ever known and my life quietly began to change.

I planned to wait until she was old enough to understand, but now I fear that day will never come. That as time passes, feelings change. And memories sound different out loud, in the present than they do in one's heart, in the past.

This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions...

Do we ever know people the way they want us to know them? Do people ever know us the way we want them to?

It's a thought that's buzzing in my head now that I'm out of the cave. Maybe it's time for a new opening paragraph.

Til Thursday~ <3

Very Superstitious

First, Happy Valentine's Day, lovebirds. I'm looking forward to reading all those lovey blogfest posts~

In the meantime, anybody out there superstitious about your writing? Like those baseball players who don't change their socks because they think it helps them make home runs or something?

I don't keep up with baseball, so that's probably mixed up. I'm also not superstitious... but I am nervous as our little family faces some enormous changes in the coming months.

Most of you know I'm no spring chicken. I'm not fresh out of college, MFA clad, sitting down to write the Great American Novel.

Nope. For some reason unknown to me, I sat down at the computer in September 2009 and started writing. And it was very much like Forrest Gump starting that run. You know, the second run--where he ran coast to coast after Jenny left again?

In 18 months I wrote four complete books, 45,000 words of a third, 15,000 words of two more, and sketched out the storylines for two more.

My hair grew long, I stopped shaving and cleaning the house regularly. When I needed to go, I went.

I also dropped out of many of my pre-writing social and school-related activities. I basically became a hermit.

And for a while, I kept waiting to start having seizures or passing out or something like that. You know, signs that it really was a Brain Tumor a'la that Awakenings film or something.

I mean, seriously. There was no explanation for me suddenly behaving this way. OK, sure, my MOM always said I'd write a book. But pfft. What does she know?

I did always want to be a writer, but I never thought I could write a whole book. I was thinking more like news articles or magazine columns, which I did for many years.

Suddenly, here I was writing like some kind of maniac, with ideas appearing everywhere I turned. And people seemed to like it. (That part was really cool.)

Well, now everything's about to change--we're moving 800 miles due north, we've got to sell a house, buy another, find schools, meet parents, reconnect with folks we haven't seen regularly in seven years, rediscover a city JRM and I knew as single adults and then very new parents... NOW as parents of two little ladies who are trusting us when we say this isn't going to screw up what until now has been a pretty sweet existence for them.

The only life they've ever known has been 30 minutes from the beach in a tiny town where they know everybody and everybody knows and looks out for them. Laura's told me on two separate occasions her teacher has said the following to her:

1. "You make me smile." And
2. "You're my sunshine."

Wow. The fear that grips me at not being able to find that for them again is almost as big as the fear that this writing thing I love will simply stop.

I don't know what started it. And as I've told my friends here who complain about my new absentee lifestyle, I have to keep going with it. I don't know when it's going to disappear.

So what to do? Hope and pray for the best?

Have any of you gone through significant life changes since starting your writing journey and made it through, creativity intact?

In other news, any encouraging words for this mommy who's shaking in her boots that she's wrecking her daughters' Mayberry childhood?

Have a lovely Valentine's and great week, reader-friends! Til Thursday~ <3

Decisions, decisions...

When I was growing up, a popular line of thinking was that even a small, seemingly insignificant wrong decision could impact your entire life, essentially altering the course of your Destiny. (!) Occasionally this idea would be couched in phrases like "being in" (or out) of "God's will."

Sigh.

I've been thinking about this lately because a few Big Decisions are facing my little family unit.

JRM says that concept's a load of garbage. His position is that no decision is ever permanent, and that life ultimately keeps going, circles around. And it all works together for good. So long as we're all together and look out for each other.

That makes sense to logical, rational me. But I think I must've watched too many movies along the lines of Sliding Doors as a young person. Remember that one? The whole, how would my life have been different if I'd missed the train instead of caught it? Or turned left (and bumped into you) instead of right (and kept walking)?

And sitting here I can recall distinctly the words that came out of my mouth last fall at a restaurant out of town that started the chain of events that has us now grappling with this Big Decision.

I can't help thinking, "What would've happened if I'd kept my silly mouth shut?" (I was tired, and I almost did actually.)

Then what?

Would we be facing a difficult situation with zero options, or would other options have appeared?

Then I look at JRM and my little girls and where we are now, and I think of all the decisions that led us to this place. And how just one different decision on my part would've changed everything.

I do not regret any of my previous decisions. I'm simply fighting with the one that's sitting in front of us. It's probably for the best, but I'm not happy with it. It means giving up something that is incredibly dear to me.

Yesterday I went under the desk and tried to cry about it. But I must confess, I joke about doing that, but it really doesn't work for me. I start feeling silly and wonder what the heck I'm doing under the desk and my mind starts working out ways to Solve This. To Change it.

Then I came across the audio version of Paul Coelho's The Alchemist. I got it for free several years ago on iTunes. It's read by Jeremy Irons, and I remembered liking it very much. I started listening to it again, and it came to the part where the boy meets Melchizedek, who tells him about the Great Lie.

The Great Lie, according to M., is that there's a point in everyone's life where the future is all in the hands of Fate. He goes on to say more, but I realized my approach to life falls somewhere near that belief.

I can't help being a problem solver. It's just who I am. When faced with a problem, I get to work finding a solution. At the same time, I do believe our own power can only carry us so far, and after that it's in the hands of God.

Because even the best-laid plans can never take into account all the possible outcomes. And only God knows the future.

So I close my eyes softly til I become that part of the wind that we all long for sometimes...

How do you guys handle Big Decisions? By charging forward and letting the chips fall where they may, or by evaluating all the possible outcomes first? Are there ever really any "wrong" decisions, or do you think it all eventually comes out in the wash?

Until Monday, I'm musing. Have a great weekend~ <3

(something like) Near-death experiences

Over the summer we talked about using The Method to get into the spirit of WIPs.

At that time I was working on WIP2, a SciFi in which the MC is trying to escape a hostage situation. There are times when she either fears for her life, or at the very least experiences some serious anxiety.

To get in that mindset after spending hours with my two hilarious little cherubs who were home full-time enjoying the heck outta summer vacation (!), I'd channel my inner Marlon Brando and try to feel the way I felt the one of two times I ...

OK, to say I "feared for my LIFE" would be a bit dramatic. Let's just say, I felt that cold fear in the pit of my stomach that said, "This could get a whole lot worse before it gets better..."

Time #1:
Catherine was three months old and we still lived in Indy. We were at a Christmas party in Carmel (suburb to the north) where JRM was part of the musical entertainment. I left to go home, nurse the baby, get some rest, and inadvertently left my cell phone in JRM's suit pocket.

Oh, well! No worries, Indy's a grid and I knew where I was going, right?

Problem: the low fuel light was on in the car, I was at least 10 miles from home, and it was the middle of a snowstorm.

Now I grew up in south Louisiana--Baton Rouge--and we don't get much snow there (if any). And when we do, it just sort of flies around like chicken feathers for an hour and we're all high on life for another ten years.

I had no clue that when it really snows, the snow sticks to the street signs, completely obscuring them and making it very easy to get lost. Carmel is not a grid, and before long, I had no idea where I was in a snowstorm and a sputtering car.

At one point, I actually got out of the car and banged on the door of a house (no one answered) before trudging back and getting in the car to stare out the windshield at the whiteness. In despair, I put my head down on the steering wheel and prayed. I was freaking out, and I felt...

The Feeling.

[I wound up with a nice little Christmas miracle. Right when I lifted my head, I noticed a green street sign (miraculously) not covered in snow that had an arrow pointing to a school that was the landmark for Meridian Street/U.S. 31, which ran a few blocks parallel to North College, which was the street where we lived.]

Time #2:
JRM and I had traveled to one of his lawyer conferences in San Francisco, and for fun, we rented a car and drove through wine country, up the coast to Mendocino where we spent the night.

JRM has always talked fondly of that little village on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific, and we got a room at the MacCallum House. It was really beautiful and romantic...

Well, when it came time to drive back, rather than taking the same road back down, JRM got out the map and plotted us a "quicker route."  (That's always the way it starts, right?)

We had plenty of gas this time, the only problem was the makers of the travel atlas we used clearly had never driven in the mountains of northern California. We headed out in the direction the map said would lead us to the highway we sought optimistic, happy, refreshed...

Then we passed a green sign that said "highway ends 20 feet." And it did! Dumped us right out on a narrow, gravel road in the middle of the redwoods. We looked at our phones--zero cell service.

No worries! JRM assured me. We'll keep going and hook up with "our" road in about 12 miles--see it here on the map? LTM: (smiling) OK!

We drove on and the gravel road got narrower and narrower until we were literally on a one-lane trail, winding through the mountains looking out across treetops and hoping a logging truck wasn't headed our way in the opposite direction.

Relief! After a few miles we started passing hand-written notes on the side of the road listing the highway number we sought.

We were undeterred that they were written in marker and posted on what looked like paint stirrers... It was going to work out! We weren't going to freeze to death or end up eating each other to survive!

After 12 more miles, three more signs, and still no road, JRM made the executive decision to turn the car around and go back the way we came. LTM: (not smiling) OK!

So we turned around and headed back... until we came to a fork in the road.

You see, along the way other, identical little roads had been joining the main one from up the mountain, down the mtn, around the mtn...

JRM: Did we come from up there or over there?
LTM: (swallows knot in throat) I don't remember... I wasn't looking.

Then we looked at the little hand-written signs and realized they were written with the exact penmanship of a Serial Killer. I looked at my cell phone again--still no service.

LTM: Try going to the right.
JRM: I'm not sure that's the direction we came...
LTM: Just try it.

So we did. Then we came to another fork. And the same situation.

At that point, JRM got out of the car and walked a little ways ahead of us on the path and stood looking into the woods. I sat in the car watching him, thinking of my two baby girls at home, wishing he were a little fatter, and feeling...

The Feeling.

...

Obviously, we got out of that one. Another miracle, this time not at Christmas. JRM managed to spot a trash heap he remembered on the way in and got us back on the correct road and ultimately back to Mendocino where we got on the established route back to San Francisco.

Several months later we heard a news story about a couple who froze to death after getting lost in the woods of northern California in the wintertime. We looked at each other and for a second I again remembered...

The Feeling.

***

So that's one way The Method helps us writers. And I'd love to hear any stories you guys have to share! Continued good luck to all the Nanners and Revisers. I'm hard at work with the latter group.

Until Monday--have a great weekend! <3

Eat, Pray, Live, Laugh

I haven't read the book Eat, Pray, Love, and I'm not knowledgeable about the author who wrote it. So it's not fair for me to say it looks like the story of a spoiled little rich... *a'hem* grown woman whose boyfriend broke up with her so she took this amazing trip to the Far East.

Plus that would reveal an unpleasant, green-eyed attitude I try to resist... ;o)

The movie trailers do make me think about food, though.

I was in Baton Rouge last weekend, and I have to confess. Growing up in south Louisiana, *I* was very spoiled. I had no idea that the fact that any schmo off the street can whip up a delicious dinner for you at the drop of a hat was unique.

It's not that hard. Just take three ingredients--OK, four: butter (or olive oil), onion, bell pepper, and garlic. Add anything to that with some tomatoes and a touch of cayenne pepper, and it always comes out right.

Looking back, all the good times in the 30 years I lived there centered around big, delicious meals. A high school friend recently asked me if I was homesick. LTM: always.

But there are problems back home. The schools have changed, the population has changed since Katrina, and I think when you live somewhere and have a golden time there, moving back to recapture it... well, it never really works out, does it?

JRM and I had this conversation about Indy a while back. As many happy memories as we have of being there, it's not the same now either.

So life moves on.

You live places, you share a lot of laughs with people you love. You stay connected (hopefully--I know I'll get some feedback on that right now...)

Also while we were in Baton Rouge, my youngest daughter turned seven.

My dad and I were charged with getting her cake, which we did. She wanted a big cookie with purple icing that said "Happy Birthday, Laura!"

I tried to prepare her--we hadn't actually planned this (I have a big party planned for both daughters next week), so we might not be able to find that exact thing...

And then we did. We found exactly what she wanted.

Then I got sidetracked looking at something, Dad tried to help me, and he dropped the cake. Naturally, it landed upside down.

For a moment we stood there staring at it, stunned until we carefully picked it up and...

The nice thing about cookie cakes is if you drop them just right, they don't break. This one only had a little smudged icing that was easily fixed.

And then I started to giggle... Before long we were absolutely cracking up. We laughed the whole way home, and all day whenever I thought about my poor dad's face right after the cake hit the floor I chuckled again.

Anyone who doesn't know my dad won't understand that he's always been a tad on the klutzy side... (it's where I get it from!) And my daughter's named for him, so she tends to be his little sidekick.

I don't know about you guys, but it's been a tough year. And I don't get a trip to India to make it all better... or some semi-hunky French dude.

But I'm happy that looking back, there's no way I can feel sorry for myself (or be sour-grapesey with the author of EPL).

Lately I've been praying all the time. And I'm trying not to be selfish with it. I pray you see the ways you're so blessed and lucky, too.

Have a great weekend, reader friends! Book review Monday~

A Kidseye View

It's one of those mornings where the sky's a bit overcast and the bugs--I think they're cicadas--make that sound that starts soft and then grows very loud, then tapers off and goes soft again. The air's all hot and heavy. It's like living in one of those jungle movies--Papillon or Bridge on the River Kwai.

Catherine and I went to see Airbender last night. It wasn't so bad, but it was a let-down for me. My primary response was that I don't know how anyone who hasn't seen the show as many times as we have (the girls watch it constantly) has any idea what's going on or why.

My almost eight year-old daughter loved it. She was bouncing in her seat, calling out the names when her favorite characters appeared, and then she talked about it the whole way home. She would give it an A+++. THAT made it a great movie for me.

It also made me remember how I responded to movies at her age. I wasn't so judgmental about how skillfully the acting was done or how true it was to the original story or how real the special effects looked. If I saw characters I liked doing cool stuff, I was happy.

We walked out of the theater and the moon was that little crescent with Venus at two o'clock. It was gorgeous. Even Catherine exclaimed when she saw it.

As we drove back to our house, the sky flashed white with heat lightening the whole way. Catherine sat in the back gazing out the window at the sky. Every now and then she'd say, "Look, Mommy!" or "Did you see that?"

I wished I could pull the car over and just sit out somewhere and watch it with her. I also mentally noted that as small as our little town is, there's not a lot of places to pull off the road and just stare up at the heat lightening.

We were driving on U.S. 31. JRM told me once that you can take that road all the way to Indianapolis where it becomes Meridian Street.

I remembered driving on Meridian many times in Indy with her in a car seat less than a year old. She liked the Dixie Chicks, and she'd cry when I had to stop at red lights.

Time's passing fast, but so much never changes. Last night I glanced in the rearview mirror occasionally at her little strawberry head and remembered when I used to sit in the window staring at the heat lightening.

I always thought it was pretty cool, too.

***

Earlier this week, Katie (a.k.a., Creepy Query Girl) gave several bloggers and me awards at her BLOscars. I had two responses. The first from the Monkees: "I'm proud, and a little bit humbled..." the second from Sally Field: "You like me! You really like me!"

Since I'm the guerilla comment lady, I took the supportive commenter award:

And a big THANK YOU! to Katie. It was both unexpected and encouraging and I appreciate you very much~

America on Spring Break

The other day I was watching TV with Catherine and The Man from Snowy River was on. I was telling her how Uncle Gregg and I used to watch that movie a lot when we were little. (After it made it to cable, that is.)

Then the part came where the horses all go over the cliff and we talked about that. How amazing that was and the riding skillz involved.

She's been on a horse once, I think. I grew up with country relatives, so I occasionally rode horses as a child. When I was her age, I was scared of them. But after a few summers at Kueta (camp), they had me scraping hooves and combing tails and brushing horses down enough that... well, I was still a little scared of them, but at least I knew what I was doing.

Watching TMFSR made me think back, though. It seems like that was when Australia was really breaking onto the world stage. It was 1982. I don't remember when Mad Max came out, so I could be wrong, but up until then, it seems like Australia was just sort of wild and unknown.

I remember David Letterman once said to an Australian guest that Australia was like America on Spring Break. I thought that was So. Funny. Because that's pretty much how I'd always thought of it.

Now we think of Australia and we think Nicole Kidman, L O S T, Sydney Opera House, Finding Nemo...  They actually do get dressed and go to work Down Under. What a let-down.

Speaking of Letterman, I had an Indy friend shoot me a msg that he's sick of reading about how great south Alabama is and to write something about how cool Indianapolis is.

Have I mentioned how much I love you guys? That email made me LOL!!!

OK, A.E., I really liked living in Indianapolis.

Before I moved there, Richard lived in Indy but I was still in Louisiana. We had several discussions about how to get ourselves a little closer together and tossed out possible ideas for where we'd like to live, set up shop, raise kids, etc.

Richard went to law school at Vanderbilt, so he had many friends and contacts in Nashville. That was one possibility. I'd worked in my field in Baton Rouge for almost 10 years at the time, so that was another. Louisiana law threw a bit of a wrench in that plan, but Richard wasn't entirely averse to the idea.

Ultimately, I moved to Indy, and we were there for three more years. But my most lasting memory of those discussions was an email I sent that said "I just never imagined I'd end up in Indianapolis. Not in all my imagining..."

Richard of course, replied, "Well, I'd like to think we haven't ended..."

After moving there, I joined Richard in having a great, hilarious, fun-loving, supportive group of friends. We had three golden years in the Midwest that left me with memories as strong and dear as anywhere I've lived.

Almost half of the gang we ran with there have moved on as well to places like San Diego, Atlanta, Chicago... all great places to live.

So I might not've imagined living in Indianapolis, but I do miss it. It wasn't on the list, but it wouldn't have been such a bad place to end up.

The House is Not for Sale

The Koors house is empty now.

It was quiet and their American flag was waving on the front porch when I walked out to get the paper early this morning, but no one was home.

It made me think back to when we first moved here six years ago. We didn't know anyone in Spanish Fort. Richard had lived in Mobile his first time through, and I didn't know what to expect from this tiny, country town on the bluffs of Mobile Bay.

The night we arrived it was storming. I'd driven with Dad from Baton Rouge to Indianapolis, where Richard and his dad were waiting for us. Our friends helped us pack and then the four of us drove two loaded pickups and a Penske 13 hours to south Alabama.

I didn't know anyone when I moved to Indy either, but by the time I left, I knew so many awesome people. A big group of us still keep in touch, mostly through Facebook and L O S T discussions. I miss them. Sometimes very much.

In Indy, Richard and I lived in a duplex on North College Street that was a few blocks down from Atlas grocery. Atlas was where David Letterman had been a bag boy as a teenager.

It was a small, old-school grocery, but I liked it because they carried andoullie sausage and authentic Louisiana ingredients for making gumbo and jambalaya. Tough stuff to find in the Midwest.

Atlas closed while we were still on North College, and I was so disappointed. But soon after a nice fellow opened a restaurant called Yat's a few blocks down and eased the pain.

I met him once. Louisiana people always seem to find each other. He was from New Orleans and sold large plates of etoufee and creole jambalaya with maque choux and a slice of French bread for $5. I stopped missing Atlas.

The other side of our duplex was vacant several months until a mixed-race couple from Cincinnati moved in with their roly-poly baby boy.

Their names were Corey and Megan and the little boy was Alex. Megan had long light-brown hair and she was a painter. She practiced "attachment parenting" and had an alternative immunization schedule for Alex. I think she was planning to breastfeed him until he was five or something.

I had no idea what "attachment parenting" was and Catherine got her immunizations by the book. But I was also nursing, so we had something to talk about.

Corey was light-skinned and a sculptor. He converted the shed where we were supposed to park into a studio where he hammered and welded wood and metal items together to make strange-looking figures.

I crept out there one night to peek at what he was doing, and I was amazed at how nice the former parking shack now looked. He showed me some of his pieces, and I commented that he made a door for the entrance. It was good work.

Corey was the first person I met who did that style of art. I'd only known painters and one mixed-media artist up to that point. He was tall and skinny with a goatee, and he wore dreadlocks.

They were both super-nice kids, and I remember thinking how young they seemed. I wasn't very old myself, but they seemed much younger.

I remember thinking they should've kept moving from Cincinnati to California, but they ended up buying a house on Winthrop Avenue in Broad Ripple.

We bought a house on Winthrop also, but less than a year later we sold it to move here. We made just enough money on that real estate deal to put a downpayment on this house.

It only took a few days to meet my neighbors in Spanish Fort.

First, I received a hibiscus plant from Sue Ronk with a welcome card and her telephone number. Next came a peace plant from Marilyn Allen with a card and a note that her high school daughter babysat. Last came an Easter lily from Miss Betty Koors.

Miss Betty was 85, and she brought it over herself. Then we walked around my elaborately planted yard and she told me what everything was. Miss Betty's yard was also elaborately planted, and she made some grumble that Miss Retha (the previous owner) bought everything and didn't know when to stop.

I imagined they had an unspoken yard competition going on, and grinned. Miss Retha was also in her 80s, and I met her at the closing when she teared up as we all signed on the dotted lines.

I felt bad that she was crying about us buying her house and made some comment about how the girls would love the upstairs bedroom that was decorated with wallpaper featuring bunnies in a flower garden. She left us her telephone number and a note to keep in touch. She also left us her cat, Snowball.

Catherine was 17 months when we moved here and Laura was 6 months. They loved Snowball and the yard and playing in the bunny room. I loved carrying them across the street and talking to grumpy Miss Betty. We had the same birthday.

Miss Betty died three years ago, and Nina came to live with Mr. Jerry. He can barely walk and has Altzheimer's. Last week Nina died.

It's strange to look across the street and not see somebody poking around in that gorgeous, over-planted yard. I don't know that they'll sell the house, but I'll be curious to see who moves in.

I'll have to bring them an Easter lilly and tell them I have no idea what all's planted there. I never cared much for gardening.