I Don't Cry Any More

I am a lifelong cryer. I cry over things painful and joyous. I have never seen an event of childbirth on TLC or Discovery Health that failed to force me to tears and I weep when listening to anyone's story of pain and abandonment. I keen from frustration of all manner and I sob over my feelings of inadequacy. I call the act of blubbering a steam relief valve. For me, I am certain, it is a release of chaotic energy that helps me regain balance. I'm sorry if it makes others uncomfortable and I warn people - usually - when I suspect it is about to happen. I generally apologize afterward. But I know that if I don't let off some of the pressure, I would have long ago exploded and chunks of me would require being scraped off the the walls and ceiling. Once a(n important) man asked me - do not read this "accused", he "asked" - if I used weeping as a tool. Because of his tone, I kept my own very level: "Use it? As in call upon it as needed? No, I don't think so. Rather, it has its own puissance. It must escape, like perspiration from the pores, urine from the body. It is impossible to hold it in when it is determined to come out. Consider it a protective mechanism. This prevents me from flying into the universe in pieces." He always seemed to accept this aspect of my self after we'd had the discussion. He even learned to anticipate when it would happen, or what was likely to trigger it.

The other day, I took my 6-month "chip" at AA, marking half a year of sobriety. Yes, it is an accomplishment. One I was unsure I could achieve when I set out to find a new way in life. I'd mentioned my special date just quietly during sharing at a meeting, resulting in a few head snaps and startled looks. "What? Are you sure?" Um, I was sure. One would know such things. There began a quiet chattering, discouraged except in cross-talk meetings, and this was not one. We spoke of a man in our home meeting who tells us when he achieves 4 months and 3 days, 1 week and 57 hours. He was there. We weren't talking about him without his knowledge. He tells us about each of his milestones and we cheer for him - he lets us know that is what he needs, and we give it happily. Our highest goal in AA is to help other alcoholics. But it is different for me. I am task- and goal-oriented. I want to take stuff on and finish it and move on to whatever next intrigues me. I could easily land on 6 months or 6 years and have my alcoholic brain decide, "Well, I completed that and don't have to do it any more." Wrong. Alcoholism doesn't go away. Our program has to get us through our lifetime. In the literal sense, ours is a journey without a defined destination. The more frequently I fill balloons with helium and obtain party noise-makers, the more opportunities I have to say, "There - done!" Not good. But I will continue to announce every year, perhaps every half year, because accolades are an excellent fillip to complacency.

I came out of my second meeting of the day (I'd had a challenging day) and gathered with the other AAs in the patio. "The patio" is a great watering hole - oops, bad choice of words! For here, "the meeting" continues, without restriction or rules. Here is where alliances are formed, peace and serenity expanded. For elemental to AA is that one drunk's story may hold the answers for another drunk. When one is new to the culture, hanging in the patio is excruciating. One doesn't even want people driving by in the streets to see them in that patio, much less hang out there yacking. It's different for me now. I belong there, even though it's a funny kind of place for me. On a huge club campus where sometimes hundreds of people mill about, there seems to be only one non-smoker. Literally. Me. So I remain on foot and gauge which way the wind is blowing. I can bunny-hop 360-degrees around a patio table and never lose the thread of the conversation. "Sit down, Les!" "No can do. Keep talking. I'm right there with you." I still reek of smoke when I get home, but that's the price for admission to the theatre where I need to watch the play.

"Want to pop over to the library?" I asked. She said she did, so we bought Starbucks again and headed out on the 3-block journey. My friend likes her Venti Java Chip Frap. I grin to watch her consume it. I'd do as well to just plaster the containers of that good stuff to my butt, so I sip at my freshly ground, freshly brewed Pike Place. Our reading tastes are somewhat similar, so we often point out good choices to one another, but there is also the lovely freedom of making our own way among the rows of books, knowing there is not someone toe-tapping as if one is wasting his time. (Read this: "a husband", folks. Sorry, guys!) When we encountered our first fellow AA member, we smiled. Stumbling upon the second, we grinned like loons. Number three elicited a guffaw. By the time six of us had gathered, the noise level rose and the library staff shot us evil glances. It was good to see where so many of us ran after our meeting!

An impromptu meeting began in the library grounds, numerous lightings of cigarettes and me looking for a flag to show the direction of the wind. Everyone chattered, asking questions about what everyone else took from the library. I got high marks and raised eyebrows for borrowing 11 books at one time. "Oh, she'll go right through them," said my friend. "We'll be back here in a matter of days." "So what is Bukowski?" a man asked. Oh, I was ready for that! For you see, I have a little Bukowski experience, having once located and bought for a friend a 40-year-old out-of-print-edition with colored illustrations and I'm able to recite at least a decent rendition of some of the man's works with appropriate inflection. I did just that. The drunks surrounding me get Love is a Dog From Hell. "Can I see the book after you, Les?" "Sure, homes, but I'd suggest you start with some of the volumes that are still in the library." I'd never before seen the volume now resting in my arms. Copyrighted 2009, it is called The Continual Condition and is touted as "a never-before-collected poems from America's most imitated and influential poet". I've now flipped through it several times and read a few of the poems closely. I have an opinion about these poems individually and collectively, but I will keep those to myself in case the reader is moved to examine the book.

The next day had become difficult by lunch time. I was painfully reminded of two apparently disparate things. The first is that I cannot safely and sanely juggle as many balls as I could once. I suffered a (professional) disappointment that was going off in my face like a string of firecrackers, one explosion after another. The second is that too much isolation is too much for me. I couldn't get the attention of anyone else affected by this series of explosions and I felt my back and shoulders starting to buckle in my solitary misery. I have at least the intellectual wherewithal to know instant relief is not always at hand and I needed to help myself for at least awhile. Said quite humbly: I tried everything ever recommended. I didn't pull myself too far out of the panic bucket. When I picked up my sponsor for AA, I said, "Well, I'm as close as I've come so far to thinking that a few drinks might be the answer." She was startled. "No, I'm not going to stop at the liquor store on the way home. It's more that when I looked at an array of possibilities for self-soothing, drinking was in the mix. I decided against it. I surely need this meeting." My sponsor was scheduled to lead the meeting and it got a little quiet at times, no one volunteering to share. When that happens, which is rare, the leader sometimes calls on AAs to speak. I'm usually pretty reliable for jump-starting discussion, but I shot her a look that said, "Uh-uh. Not today."

My grinning surprises came after the meeting. First, a woman who only attends our group occasionally accosted me. I suspect the perfect human metabolism in life would be the midpoint between hers and my own, as I am barely alive and she is maximum voltage. "Hey! Did you get lots of chips?" Unsure if she was speaking to me, and making no connection with her words, I looked over my shoulder. No one else was in the room. "You mentioned you were coming up on 6 months and I came back the next night, but you weren't here. I wanted to give you my 6 month chip." (The giving and sharing of chips, tokens, books and more is a generous part of the AA culture. I carry a sobriety key ring David gave me after carrying it for more than a decade.) She dug in a purse as big as a steamer truck, pulling out (I'm not making this up for comedic value) condoms, a diaper, full make-up kit, a vintage cell phone, Walkman, half a sandwich and a can of Monster. Finally, she landed on that blue 6-month chip, pressed it into my hand, yanked me into a bone-crushing embrace, and bellowed, "God love you, honey, I knew you were a keeper the first time I saw you." Well! OK. I stepped outside, bemused, and showed the chip to my sponsor who grinned.

There weren't many of us in the patio and there was no wind to speak of. I sat on a bench and half listened to a man talking to another man. The first man is a Las Vegas taxi driver and he has some tales to tell - no wonder he is an alcoholic. We are not his home group, but he comes to ours about once a week, which may have something to do with work schedule. He is well-spoken and deeply reflective. I like to hear what he has to say. When my sponsor finished her cigarette, I groaned my way up from the low bench and stood to walk away. I was immediately attacked from the rear! Oh, not in a threatening way. More like a Labrador puppy landing on a Pomeranian. The taxi driver was the Lab. "You didn't talk today. I love to hear you talk. When you share, I think 'Yes, that's how it was for me' and 'We should all be paying attention to this woman'." Oh? I know I blushed. "Well, um, thank you. The line of those who come to hear me speak is short, so you won't have long to wait for the next occurrence." We grinned at each other.

I really gave no thought of stopping on the way home, even though I passed right by Lee's Discount Liquor. When I arrived an e-mail awaited me that assured me I was not the solitary target in the professional shit-fight I've mentioned. This morning will be the difficult meeting where I can choose to be a bitch and say, "I told you so," or I can be as humble as I need to be and say, "These are the things I was concerned about and mentioned to you early on. Let's make an alternative plan now." I got over a rough patch by using new things I've learned. I didn't cry and I didn't drink. What do you know!

Something that charmed me: In the winter, they're called "Christmas Cactus", a politically incorrect appellation in my opinion, but OK. I buy them because they are a splash of color in a dark time of year. Now, Mother's Day approaches and they are called "Spring Cactus". OK, I don't care, even though I know they are exactly the same species of plant. They also cost just about twice as much in the spring as they do in the winter. Huh? I got one anyway. No crying over spilled garden soil here.

When My Silence is Your Comfort

My friend and I were adding to a long and lively stream of e-mails between us, landing on any and every topic that crosses the mind of one or the other and solving the world's problems in general. She mentioned an event from her young childhood that hasn't left her though decades have passed. A man exposed himself to her and her girlfriend, not overtly with noise and fanfare, but in a rather sneaky way that may have allowed him a narrow opportunity to say that his nakedness was unintentional. My friend remembers that she knew this was "wrong" and "bad", but she also remembers that she felt compelled to be "polite". One feels it would have been far beyond her ability to have said, "Hey, beat it, you freak!" or to have screamed out, "Pervert here, bothering little girls!" No, the lily wagger got by with it, perhaps to live on and show his business again the next day in the park. The innocent young girl grew into a woman who isn't precisely traumatized by the event, but hasn't forgotten it and muses upon her reaction to it.

My personal violations are not exactly the same. No stranger exposed himself to me in the park in my tenderest years. The similarity between my friend's experience and many of my own is this: some of us are so willing to be "polite", not blow the whistle, not make any waves, we will do that even to our own detriment, safety and peace of mind. Did we once possess that little bit of attitude, that disregard for the niceties, that willingness to call a spade exactly that? Was it beaten out of us in one way or another? Or were we convinced very young that we just shouldn't say things outright, perhaps that no one was interested enough to listen or pay attention and our best hope in life was just to be polite?

It happens I appreciate people who just say what they're thinking. Oh, sometimes they make one a bit uncomfortable, but little is left to the imagination. No fantasies, good or bad, need be constructed. No bullshit among the straightforward, right? I am still not completely forthcoming with exactly what I think in every single situation. Age and menopause have brought me a little closer to outspokenness. The courage of my convictions and an appreciation of the things I know well has bucked me up, somewhat. But I am still rather accommodating to those I encounter who may prefer not to hear my actual reaction to their words or behavior.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some things to consider:

• Though some of you think we are dumb, we're not necessarily. Our failure to bark in your face does not mean we believe what you've just said. Nor do we forget it. One doesn't want to think s/he has put one over on us.
• When you say, every time we see one another, "Girl, I'm going to call you next week for lunch - it's been too long!", we don't hold our breath any more.
• When you say "Just because _____, doesn't mean _____," we know that's exactly what it means.
• When you say the same thing to us over and over and over again, but your words aren't followed by any action to support them, you can stop telling us whatever it is. We don't believe you any more.
• When you tell us in vivid detail about your latest exploit that most people would find shocking, do not mistake our silence for approval. Maybe we're simply not up to screaming "Slut!" or "Bastard!" at you.
• When you take an unpopular stand on something in a group, do not misconstrue our quietude for solidarity. Perhaps we're simply embarrassed we brought you along and don't wish to call attention to ourselves or you.
• Sitting at lunch together, when you say, "Don't think _____. That's not how it is.", be warned: we know that's just precisely how it is.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some other things to consider: perhaps you seek out those you know will be silent because you are unwilling to face your own nonsense. They won't force you to do that, either. Maybe you pontificate to the quiet ones because it makes you feel pretty good about yourself. You might blow smoke up the butts of such people, because you can and no one challenges you. There is a chance you do these things to avoid relating with other human beings in any real way. My friend coined a most beautiful phrase: "Such people are addicted to deception. They thrive on misrepresentation undisputed."

Although I have come a way down the road, I doubt I'll hang my head out of the car window tomorrow and say "Damn, that's an ugly hat, old lady!" I probably won't immediately start in on everyone I know with "Stop spinning it, I'm not buying it." At least not in every situation. At AA, when someone yammers on until I want to scream, I'm unlikely to say, "Hey, I think you're drunk now!" But I feel I could manage, in honor of my friend, "Hey, Mister, your dick is out and I'm not appreciating it. Put it away before I call a cop," if such a situation presented itself. Sometimes we take on the bigger tasks first and fill in the blanks later with the little stuff.

Keeping Up Appearances

In the first year (at least) of sobriety, one wants to avoid HALT - getting too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Those, apparently, are triggers to most of "us" and can render us needy, isolated, depleted, and looking for something to fill up our emptiness. This is not good for an addict. This is where we go looking for our substance of choice. It is better to avoid slipping into a hole than trying to climb out of it. In the past week, I've pushed the limits. An abundance of work and, therefore, deadlines led me to tired, hungry and lonely (or, at least, alone). I never quite landed on angry, but I'm sure it would have shown itself had I continued to push. And, actually, my displeasure with the barista at the airport Starbucks last night could almost have qualified as angry. Certainly bitchy, at least.

I made an agreement with myself and wrote it in the DayPlanner, because that is the way I have to do these things if they are to happen. No going anywhere or doing anything for friends. My world-renowned expertise on all things technological or computer (Ha! All things are relative.) will simply have to be put on hold for a couple of days. I will not be available to attend the AA Spring Fling for 7 hours, but I will pop in briefly on my way into or out of a meeting. Though poking around in the yard sounds kind of fun, I do not want my new neighborly best friend to conclude that I am eager for intense gardening, so maybe I should just lay low. I will not do laundry. I won't tap at e-mails until they begin to feel like work. I will not write one word on the pop art icon I am paid to write about. I will give no consideration to any small luxuries I'd like to take on now that my finances have improved, for that would first require a serious breakdown of necessary spending and I'd turn that into a days-long project. I will consider a soak in the hot tub or a soak in my jacuzzi bathtub if I can spook up some interesting new form of bath salts. I will surely read both sobriety/recovery materials and the reading I do for pure pleasure. I will sleep or nap whenever my body or mind says "Now." And finally, I thought, "Maybe I'll learn about something new. Do something a little different."

I don't like to wah-wah about anything. No, really. I do wah-wah, but that is only to let off pressure so I don't explode. After I wah-wah, I suffer great angst and guilt. One of the most deeply ingrained messages I got young is "Don't ask anyone for anything. Do it yourself. Be self-sufficient." It's been a burden, that requirement against which one judges oneself, to know how to do all things. And well. Mostly, across time, I learn how to do most things I want to know about. But one must measure that "time" against the movement of - oh, say - the mighty glaciers, not against the speed of a roadrunner. First, I have to noodge a lot about why I don't automatically know how to do whatever it is. "Ha!" thought I. "I know what I want to do. I can likely do it right at the computer, never changing out of my raggedy but comforting dorm shirt, never doing anything to my hair."

I got a cold drink, flung open the French doors, set the music and started to noodle around online. Oh, please! Don't let the "Wine" part of that advertisement disturb you. I'm told this is a vintage ad for the original formulation of what ultimately became Coca-Cola, and that's what was in my tall, iced glass. I found what I needed very quickly. Oh! Both free and easy to use. The download took no time at all. Within minutes, I had the basics down. In an hour, I was doing fancy stuff. My thoughts started to drift into old wah-wah territory. Now I'd have to apologize for having taken so long to learn what seemingly everyone else knew how to do . . . never mind. I don't apologize. No, really. When it became urgent to me, I went and learned. Everything in its own time.

I learned to enhance photos to maximum unambiguity, even though I am no photographer. I now have the means to post my pictures so they will present in the way that I saw them, not in the way that my ham-fisted camera work delivers up. I pondered on how big a cheat I thought this was. Other people learn to take fine pictures from behind the camera. That does not intrigue me, though I would like to illustrate my posts with things I saw that pleased me or made me laugh or made me sad. I landed on something I can live with. I was born with a face. It is neither hideous nor beautiful. It presents better if I use certain techniques to punch up its positive attributes and play down the unfortunate ones. Once, a friend commented that she liked the way I kept my hair. I replied, "Yes, well, I try to keep it nice because I have to wear it right up here by my face." I believe it's OK to use assistance to play up appearance.

And so, it's been nearly a year since my trip to Arizona. I only got to post one of many pictures I actually took that pleased me very much. Almost immediately afterward, I went on my urgently needed blog sabbatical. All those images are lying quietly in the bag, along with the memory of getting down on my knees in the garden rocks, putting my sweating face right up into those photo ops, and snapping, experimenting with angles, having a good time, getting a breather after a very long walk in the early morning heat. Yes, I know about the plethora of purty flower pitchers in the blogosphere. Yes, I hear the cries of "Please, show us something else besides flowers!" That's OK. I don't offer my pics as exceptional in any way except for the extreme pleasure they gave me - both the camera work and the enjoyment afterward. I feel the sweat rolling down my body, the was sun burning through the top of my hat, my large array of walk-alongs (water bottle, iPod, cell phone) spread out on the ground beside me. "You OK, Lady?" Nice people in that community. "I'm grand, Sir. Thank you."

Yes, I know Osama bin Laden is dead and (maybe, according to some news reports) we're supposed to cheer about that. Ten years, and all. But I'm not paying attention to that right now. Maybe never. I'm not required to. I'd rather reminisce and learn something new.

Flower photos: Leslie Morgan, 2010

Just Passin' Through

While it is true that I always have much to say, I don't always have exactly the right thing to say on the spur of the moment. Sometimes I want to say something a little more correctly, so I take a day or two to polish my language, making sure it matches what I feel.

Her name is Kim and her husband is Dave. I've touted her blog several times here, but I want to go on record again. If you want to see the most beautiful and creative art in all manner of media - collage, jewelry, hand made beads, paper-decorated ephemera - then you need to spend some time on her wonderful blog. Those of you who have a short attention span will lose out. It is worth reviewing many, many of Kim's past posts and checking out all the links on her sidebar. Hers is a blog treasure chest of delights.

We'd planned this blogger get-together for some weeks and on Sunday morning, we began making high security coordinates worthy of a military mission on our cell phones. Kim and Dave are on their snowbirding trip from Arizona to Alaska and it is luck that landed them in my neighborhood on Easter Sunday at dinner time. We appeared in the parking lot at approximately the same time, and each said what must be Blogging 101 script: "You look just like your pictures!" Introductions were made and we repaired into the Lindo Michoacan - one of my favorite spots to dine, and they liked it, too. They were hot and tired and parched after 7 hours of travel, so they tidied up a bit and we tucked into a booth where we shared a most lovely early evening. Dave did not feel stiff in any way - come on, I know when someone is enjoying himself! - which was wonderful. One of my friends had said earlier, "Oh, that poor man." No. He had fun, too. It was grand to meet with new friends who were not precisely strangers. We had much to say to one another, photos to be snapped on 3 different cameras, stories to tell and Kim's jewelry offerings brought out for my own private showing.

I've mentioned that Kim is generous, and she did not come empty handed. She had recently posted photos of some postcards she had collaged but said they were not very practical, since she'd become overly excited and decorated both sides of the cards. My comment at the time was that they were so beautiful, I wouldn't want to mail them away anyway, but would just keep them to enjoy in all their beauty. She handed me a stack and said, "You choose!" Oh, I don't like to make decisions on a too full belly. One later always thinks, "Hmmmm, I wonder . . ." But I love, love, love my Asian flavored offering that now sits perched against my computer monitor. Check the little wind-up pelican on the one side! (upper left-hand corner, photo on the right.) All photos have been kept at high resolution to retain the detail. Just click on them. So now I was ready for my private showing of the most recent jewelry creations, but Kim wasn't finished pulling surprises out of her hat. "Here," she said. "I made this just for you." And it's this part I wanted to be sure to relate in a properly descriptive way.

Note about photos: The lighting is not good. I needed to use my little lamp that has a base that behaves like an easel to display my goods. The lamp is dear to me. But it does not shed as much light as the sparks from my brain shoot out of my ears. Click in for a larger, closer view. Ha! I must be feeling very secure today because I'm not even inclined to apologize for being unskilled at taking pictures. That's not what I do. I tell stories. And I'm OK with that.

First of all, Kim doesn't bring a gift and just toss it at the recipient. I already knew this because when I have purchased jewelry from her, the
first thing that has always impressed me is her beautiful packaging and presentation. Across the table, she handed me a rectangular package wrapped in sewing directions from a paper pattern and adorned with a collaged tag she had made. I grinned. I'm a woman who recognizes sewing directions. My gift is a journal, but that does not begin to tell the story. In this journal, one does not want to record that she went to Fresh & Easy for the cucumber sale or to Ross on Geezer Day. There is no place in this journal for mundane notations such as "get oil changed in car" or "make annual gynecology appointment". No, this journal begs the recording of important events or a recital of one's loftiest thoughts and emotions, maybe a poem or a snippet of meaningful lyrics. Important births and deaths might be memorialized in a journal such as this, and it must always be displayed so visitors can appreciate its beauty. Here is my best effort to appropriately describe the journal:

She made it pink - a nod to my blog's pink presence. Kim pays attention to details. Its cover is muslin, stiffened by paint applied to cover and batik-decorate it. Pink, deep fuchsia, purple and gold coexist alongside funky golden buttons and a lovely, distressed length of burgundy ribbon which serve to secure the journal when not in use. The pages inside the bound book are made from differently colored heavy art paper, decorated with every imaginable kind of ephemera from vintage postage stamps to old photos, cuts of musical scores and antique books.
Some of these images make me grin - the pansy my Granny and I so loved (even though Kim didn't know that), the 1950s high-heeled shoe and dance steps, some old advertising art. Some made me sentimental or moony - the lovely teacup and very, very old botanical images and reproduction woodcuts of crying babies. Kim gets her paper ephemera from many countries, estate sales, stamp shows - she is not a typical "go to Michael's and buy what's there" woman. As I flipped the pages slowly, enjoying and exclaiming, I came upon something that I had to hold up into better light, for the restaurant is not brightly lit. "Corralejo!", I exclaimed a little loudly. Kim's eyes asked, "What?" On the bottom right hand page was a picture of 3 blue bottles of some of the best tequila I've ever enjoyed! And Kim didn't know that, either. We laughed and laughed. Six months ago, I'd have said, "Let's go get some. I have something to show you."


I did get my private showing of the Collection and bought a glorious pair of earrings which will be revealed when I partner them with the right dress and get someone to snap my picture. And then it was time for them to leave. Hugs and more hugs were exchanged. I walked them in the wind to the curb to pint out where they'd make their turn to get back on the highway and continue driving for as long as they could tolerate. Later that evening Kim commented on my blog to say they'd enjoyed dinner and had driven as far as Alamo, Nevada. And so it goes . . .

In my ears right now: Another big hit from the Sea Hags' repertoire. I imagine everyone knows the part I sang. I hate it when I'm pushy and selfish! Sort of.

Something that charmed me: I shared the story of the journal and the Corralejo at an AA meeting. I had to do a little back story to set the table, and I was going to lose the men, so I cut to the chase. Suddenly, I had everyone's attention again. "You never told her that was your booze of choice?" "Never did." "How'd she do that?" "Well, I'm not sure, but it is remarkable." "Yeah, like an omen from god or something. You should stop at a casino on the way home and play a few hands. The stars are aligned in your favor." Uh-huh. I need a new addiction.

Got Your Bliss, Erin!

Alright, yesterday I was inspired by Erin O'Brien, stuck in an Ohio never-quite-dawning spring. I dashed out on my way to the office and snapped a few colorful shots, including one of cactus flowers just about to bloom. Erin commented, "Bliss".

Today I popped out onto the front porch and the sight grabbed my attention immediately, even though the place is five houses away down the street. They bloomed! Fewer than 24 hours after I first spotted them. I slid into some shoes and headed eastward, intent on those cactus blossoms. Just like yesterday, I knocked on the door to ask permission. Just like yesterday, no one answered and I erred on the side of getting what I came for.

My camera activity attracted the attention of the neighbor across the street, the man who owns the house with the lovely xeriscaped yard with all the poppies. "Whatcha doing there?" I felt it was self-evident what I was doing, but I told him about blogging with those in cold, gray country and confessed to shooting pictures in his own yard yesterday. This man is now my official new best friend! "Hey, after you take pictures of the cactus, come on over and come into my backyard." I had to think about that a little. This is Las Vegas. But he waited for me beside the curb. "Come on, I'll show you."

His backyard is as lovely as the front, but different - quieter, softer colors in the blooms. This man knows a lot about growing things in the desert. I met a sweet gray poodle (and remember, I don't even really like dogs too much) who weighs about 4 pounds and made not a noise the entire time I was there. The patio was covered with assorted pots and containers filled with plants. A dining table on the patio was set for a meal, including beautiful crystal wine balloons. The man told me his roommate is a botany professor at the university here, so they may have a leg up on such a beautifully designed yard, but that - generally - they just tossed out handsful of seeds and the result was what we can see. He offered me seeds and volunteered to help me or advise me when I said I really wanted a tomato crop this year. I was invited to stay for a glass of wine, but told him I needed to get to a meeting. He didn't need to know it was an AA meeting.

As I drove off, I remembered that neighbors used to know one another and enjoyed talking about their gardens and sharing things they had in abundance, like seeds or advice. I knew I would never have managed more than a "Hi!" to my neighbor. For - yes, really - I'm a little shy, a little unsure of myself in certain situations. Now I've got an invitation to "Stop by any time" and assurances that he will pop over when he sees me working in my yard (that could happen!). All because of Erin O'Brien whom I see as never shy. I'm glad you motivated me to get my arse outside and enjoy the spring, Woman!

And the wind continues to howl.