2003
On Fall Holiday
This weekend Dylan and I are whisking ourselves away to Yosemite National Park for a short anniversary vacation. We will go in search of leaves changing colors, we will climb up hills, using found walking sticks for balance, we will see impossible rock formations and picturesque mountain valleys carpeted with grass high enough to lay down in and not be seen. We will feel the tiny twinge of guilt and the mighty throb of rebelliousness when we give raisins and peanuts to a variety of furry little woodland creatures. We will go to a ranger talk around a campfire and learn about the trees and the stars while snuggling into the coats and hats and knit mittens we haven’t worn since January. We may even blow twenty bucks to attend an outdoor presentation of “The Tramp and The Roughrider,” a dramatic rendering of the first meeting between John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt, performed with all the earnestness of the best community theater company. We will eat somewhere that has a salad course, a main course, and a dessert course. I will think of Yellowstone, before, after, and during the fires of 1988, and he will remember his last trip to Yosemite, when he pulled off the side of a canyon road to watch Independence Day fireworks explode over a flat black lake and then woke up early the next day to go skiing. We will envy the well-shaped calves of sixty-year-old men we meet on the hiking trails. We will put fifty cents into a machine that will stamp a penny with a tiny embossed Half Dome. We will spend the night somewhere that looked much better on the internet than it does in real life. I will tell the story of how Yosemite got its name through a misunderstanding about grizzly bears and cannibal Indians. Our camera will be in our hands more than in our packs. We will not regret the practical work we didn’t get done. We will hold hands everywhere we go and we will make sure someone takes our picture in front of a waterfall.
2003
The Routine: Two-Plus Years out of Six
I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your waking me up every morning.
Sometimes, when you tap into the room on your hard-soled slippers, I’m already awake, lying there in the early half-light of another work day, enjoying the transitory quiet punctuated perhaps by the clicking of computer keys or the swish of a page turning as you study in the next room. Sometimes I hear you whisper songs to the cat or tell her to tiptoe when she’s chasing her toys, so as not to wake me.
When I hear you push back from the desk and head toward our room, I close my eyes, straighten my grinning lips into the peaceful line of sleep, and hope that this is one of those days you’ll not just announce the time and move on, a town crier in your own home, but sit on the edge of the bed, maybe lay down and rest your cheek on mine for a moment.
This morning I did not wake to the susurrus of cars on the street outside, the water pipes groaning in the walls, the gurgle and grind of the coffeemaker. Today it was your cheek on my cheek, your hand on my waist, your words in my ear. Happy anniversary, you said. Happy anniversary, I said, not responding but repeating, my voice becoming your murmured echo in the cavern of our room.
Would you be mad if I told you my alarm clock wasn’t broken after all? Would you help me throw it out the window should it sound tomorrow morning?
Thank you for making my life less ordinary.
2003
Holler for the Scholar
Guess who’s just been published in a reputable journal of sufficient intellectual merit and great regional significance? My super-smart rockstar boyfriend, that’s who.
