The Chicken or the Egg

I feel rich. Jared's chickens are in my care for a few days while he vacations on the Cape. And, I get to keep the eggs.

The shallow nest, if you can call it a nest, is tucked in the corner of the coop. There, the mother hen sits and squawks and worries until she deposits her treasure. I would like to see a little more maternal instinct, but she is fickle in her ability to sit still for long. Maybe it is a character flaw, or maybe she knows I will be coming to gather the eggs, and she doesn't want to get too attached. In any event, she doesn't seem too interested in nesting.

Having chickens is quite an experience. We have baby chicks, mother hens, and a rooster. A ROOSTER.

I think the rooster must have been the very first snooze button. If you manage to sleep through the first crowing at 4 a.m., rest assured that the cock will crow again. And, again.

Recommended Reading

Professor and the Madman

God Bless the Humans

I can't remember when I started doing it or when I stopped, but at some point in my life, I would pray when I saw an ambulance on the road. The siren cutting through the peace of the day or night was a sound that could only mean sorrow for a family somewhere. With each turn of the flashing lights, I would send a prayer out that whoever was hurt would heal. That the drivers would make it to the hospital in time. That the doctors would know how to treat them properly. That if there was loss there would be strength. That their families would feel peace and comfort.

It has been many years since that happened. My prayers now are usually disorderly thoughts that tumble against each other as they fight their way towards God. Last night Jared was in the car with me, and we saw an ambulance. It was all lights, no siren. You could see a woman inside with an oxygen mask. And, I remembered that I used to really pray.

I remembered one day, when Jared was four almost five, he spotted an ambulance through his window in the back seat.

Before I could say anything, his earnest voice reached my ear.

"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "please bless the humans."

Chicken Cigars

1 1/2 pounds ground chicken breast
2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons paprika
2 teaspoons poultry seasoning
2 teaspoons chili powder
2 teaspoons grill seasoning, half a palm full (recommended: Montreal Seasoning by McCormick)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley leaves, a handful
4 sheets phyllo dough
4 tablespoons butter, melted

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.

Place chicken in a bowl and mix with spices and parsley. Place a piece of phyllo on a nonstick cookie sheet and brush with some of the melted butter. Repeat 3 more times, placing each piece of phyllo over the last buttered sheet to make 4 layers. Cut phyllo into 2-inch squares. On 1 corner of each of the squares, place about 1 1/2 teaspoons of chicken filling. Roll up tightly to make mini "cigars." Place "cigars" on a sheet pan and butter the tops of each. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until golden brown.

Serve cigars with dipping sauce.

The Secret of the Old Clog...errrr Blog

In third grade I couldn't get my hands on enough of these mystery books. I would check out three or four at a time from the public library in Lancaster. I would hurry home to my little room tucked over the porch on the west side of the farmhouse and read at a fevered pace. I would pile the books next to me on the bed. It wasn't that I could read them all at once, but I liked the feeling of wealth that only comes from having quantities of fresh reading material close at hand.

During a reading binge on a weekend, I would consume as many as two or three books a day. I lost hours and days following a mystery to its conclusion between those pages. Nibbling on apples and saltine crackers. Stopping only when I had to stop. Reading until I was startled that the sun had set outside my window and realizing I needed to switch on my lamp.

The improbability of this super sleuth never occurred to me. When I was just eight, it made sense that Nancy, in all her acquired wisdom of eighteen years, would be able to assist her local police department, outsmart crooks, and solve the puzzles that stumped her lawyer father and the general public. I don't think that she ever got any older than eighteen even when the series grew to include more than 50 books.

The cast of characters were not complicated, but on the canvas of my imagination, the detective, Nancy Drew, and her friends, Bess and George became as big as life.

Nancy was ever so competent in every situation. Her sure steps and quick wit inspired me to confidence of my own. Bess, who was a little chubby and timid, only served to make Nancy look more competent. George, in all her boyishness, provided good balance for the trio. Girls sometimes need heroes who don't stay home and knit and bake and blog.

Hannah, the housekeeper, was the perfect mother figure. There when you needed her to cluck and fix you soup, but with no real authority to tell you what to do.

The father I could never quite figure out. He seemed available for friendly advice and to hug Nancy when she barely escaped from some sinister situation, but where was he the rest of the time when all the action was going down? I suppose he was busy doing lawyer things in his community, but one would think that he might have been parenting a little more. Maybe talking to Nancy about being safe. About college and silly parent stuff like that.

Nancy's boyfriend Ned was always patient and ready to assist. He never appeared to struggle for manly control of the situation, and I don't recall ever reading a story where he squawked about Nancy loading up her convertible and zooming off to Amish country, Mirror Lake, or a distant seaport. To be Nancy Drew was to command respect and freedom.

Oddly, I never wanted to BE Nancy Drew. I just liked to read about her. My true hero was Carolyn Keene. I wanted to be a writer just like her.

There are a few defining moments in life when you realize you are leaving childhood behind. Most occur in the formative years...there is no Santa Clause, no Easter Bunny, no tooth fairy. Some come later...your faith is tested, your parents aren't invincible, you really do have to go to work every day, men have clay feet.

And then there is the unexpected tearing of the veil to reveal that there was no Carolyn Keene. Her name was Mildred. MILDRED. Say it ain't so. There are just some things in life I don't want to know.

The BIG IMPORTANT Work of the World

My life is pretty busy. I am working on multiple projects and programs every day. I do the mundane, and I even get to do some fun stuff. I have an administrative assistant. BUT, I make my own appointments. My gatekeeper screens telemarketers, takes messages, dispenses information...but my calendar is my own.

Does this make me defective? A control freak? Or quite possibly does it just make me considerate?

Step with me, dear reader, through the inefficiencies of making an appointment through an assistant.

E-mail #1

Dear Julie: My boss is just back from vacation and wants to schedule a conference call next week to discuss the VERY IMPORTANT PROJECT. Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday would be fine.

Dear Assistant: Next week is pretty busy, let's get it scheduled early. How about Monday at 10?

E-mail #2

Dear Julie: My boss won't be in until noon on Monday. Can we do it at 2 p.m.?

Dear Assistant: I can move my 1:30 meeting. 2 p.m. will be fine.

E-mail #3

Dear Julie: My boss wants to do this on Tuesday or Wednesday. What time is good for you?

Dear Assistant: I have an idea...why don't you ask your boss WHEN she would like to meet and get back to me?

E-mail #4

Dear Julie: My boss says Tuesday at 2 p.m. would be best for her.

Dear Assistant: That sounds just fine. I will be on the road between sites, so call me on the cell phone number I provided.

Now, call me kooky, but I think it might have been far easier for the boss in question to e-mail me herself. I imagine it going something like this.

E-mail #1

Dear Julie: Hope you are well. I am back from vacation. I would like to touch base with you regarding the VERY IMPORTANT PROJECT. I am busy Monday, how does Tuesday at 2 p.m. look for you?

Dear Leader of the Free World and Keeper of Peace, Beauty and All that is GOOD: Tuesday is fine. Talk to you then.

Is it just me? I would fight back by directing all assistants to my own assistant, but I like us both too much to start that nonsense. Maybe I am not doing the IMPORTANT WORK of the world like everyone else, but I hope I am never so important that I can't schedule my own appointments.

Patron Saint of Liars

I can remember getting to my wit's end with the cares of life. I would utter in frustration, "I just want to run away."

My dear mother would reply, "Only unstable people say they want to run away."

I guess I have been unstable from time to time. I just finished reading this book. And, I wondered after I read it how many mothers run away without ever leaving?

Music in the clearing

Pastor plans outdoor performance space in friend's memory
By Lauren Mears, GDT Correspondent

ESSEX - Now that the 50- to 60-foot pine trees are cleared from land behind Emmanuel Community Church, Pastor Jim Lafontaine is ready to move forward with plans for an outdoor performance space in memory of a friend who shared his vision.

"I want to make it usable for music and other community events," Lafontaine said. "I started to hold a type of open-house, open-mic event the last Saturday of each month, but I wanted the area to be larger and more usable."

Lafontaine was working as a drug counselor when he began thinking about the possibilities of such a space.

"After people go through such an ordeal of quitting a substance, it's hard to find things to do and places to go and meet people," Lafontaine said. "I wanted to create a place for people to come together, have some fun and listen to some good music."

The vision was shared by Joel Chase, a friend of Lafontaine and member of his church, who died in May 2006, in his early 40s.

"He was going to clear the area out himself, but he died unexpectedly of heart failure," Lafontaine said. "His mother told me that with his last paycheck he bought some saws to do the work."

After Chase's death, the work was postponed, but the vision lived on and a donation from the Chase family helped move it forward.

Lafontaine hired Mayer Tree Service of Essex to clear the overgrown land. "Dan Mayer (the owner) gave us a big discount that helped a lot," he said.

Lafontaine also received some cleanup help from Chris Thibodeau of the Ipswich Family YMCA's Camp CIT and her counselors in training, who made the work their summer community service project.

"I felt it would be an interesting project and a neat idea," Thibodeau said. "It is really something that will help the community and bring people together."

Lafontaine's ultimate dream is an amphitheater in the clearing behind the church, but will start more modestly, possibly with a gazebo, picnic tables and a horseshoe pit.

"We are taking it slow, one piece at a time and different people in the church are helping in different ways,"

Lafontaine said. "Being in recovery myself, I'm excited to offer a place for clean, sober events, getting together and really providing a good atmosphere for people in recovery."

Lafontaine will name the outdoor performance space for Chase.

"I want it to be a memorial to him because he was so excited about it," he said.

My Apologies

Dear Reader:

If you click the Read more! link a the bottom of my posts, you will not be able to read more. I tinkered with the code in my template trying to figure out how to hide parts of long posts behind a "cut," and the malfunctioning link appeared.

If anyone knows how to accomplish a correctly functioning Read more! button, please let me know.

Thank you in advance.

Affirmations for an Eight

Personality Type Eight: The Leader
The Powerful, Dominating Type

I now release...

• all anger, rage, and violence from my life.
• dehumanizing myself by violating others in any way.
• being verbally or physically abusive.
• believing that taking vengeance will free me from my own pain.
• hardening my heart against suffering.
• my fear of ever being vulnerable or weak.
• believing that I do not need others.
• believing that I must bully people to get my way.
• my fear that others will control me.
• feeling that I must only look after myself.
• my fear of losing to anyone.
• feeling that I must never be afraid.
• attempting to control everything in my life.
• allowing my pride and ego to ruin my health and relationships.
• thinking that anyone who does not agree with me is against me.
• being hard-boiled and denying my need for affection.

I now affirm...

• that I believe in people and care about their welfare.
• that I am big-hearted and let others share the glory.
• that I am honorable and therefore worthy of respect.
• that I am most fulfilled by championing others.
• that I have tender feelings and good impulses.
• that I can be gentle without being afraid.
• that I master myself and my own passions.
• that there is an authority greater than me.
• that I love others and ask for their love in return.

Come to the water...

The Ministers

Growing up, the "board of ministers" had a lot to say about what we did or didn't do in our family. Decisions that today would be made easily by one's parent were punted off to the "board of ministers."

Could women wear slacks? Wear make-up? Cut their hair? Wear jewelry? The decisions of the "board of ministers" both dressed and undressed me through childhood, adolescence and into my early adulthood. There was a real belief that such personal appearance decisions held eternal consequence. (A belief that I was also conditioned to hold.)

To appease the "board of ministers, " I ran track in fourth grade with a flap of material sewed over the front and back of my already handsome polyester track suit with stripes up the sides and snaps on the shoulders. The flaps covered the divide between my legs. Later in middle school, I dropped from cheer leading tryouts before I made the squad telling the coach that "it was hard to explain." In high school, I opted out of women's softball because although my parents made a special request to the "board of ministers" for me to wear the team uniform, I had been denied.

The "board of ministers" held such power over the mundane.

Last spring, during a visit from Ronda, we spent an afternoon sorting through old Kingdom documents stored here at the parsonage in boxes since before we arrived. Jim has considered burning them on several occasions, but I have always rescued them thinking that they might hold some value.

On my living room floor, we sifted through the minutes, letters, minister's policy notes, draft memos and memos on the issues faced by the church. For those readers who might be appalled to know that I read these archival documents, I will remind you that these are all a matter of public record. Those organizations including churches that enjoy tax-exempt status are required to make the minutes and business of their meetings available to all members and the public upon request. The code of secrecy that lived once over these proceedings was not unique to the Kingdom, and it was not right either.

We read minutes that reflected how "the board of ministers" decided to reveal the "moral lapse" of our esteemed leader. We read the results of a polygraph test given to a man who was accused of molesting two small girls one Easter many years ago. We saw official documents signed by both my father and Ronda's father as witnesses before God and man. I counted the penciled tally marks on a vote taken to establish who believed Mr. Sandford was Elijah--and who did not.

I found a letter from my grandmother clarifying her relationship with Mr. Sandford with a line in it that said: "I was probably closer to him than any other person on earth outside of his immediate family."

Tucked between the yellowed pages of board minutes was Ronda's grandfather's original handwritten letter of resignation from the Kingdom board of ministers. He left when he stopped believing in Mr. Sandford's role as Elijah.

Once after Mr. Abram died, Ronda's father had wondered if he was being called to lead the movement. He presented this to the board of ministers for consideration. We read through the notes and transcripts of that meeting. One esteemed leader had written a letter saying that he had gotten a message from God saying that Ralph (Ronda's father) might be an "angel of light." (this is not a good thing--it is an evil being disguised as good.)

There were pages and pages filled with stories--- the tears of a woman molested by a man who still appears at Fairwood. The anger of a man who realized that the leaders of the church would not bend on the Elijah thing. Lamentations from those who could not believe that Mr. Abram dallied with the spinster women of the movement. Letters that implored the ministers to bring justice to the wronged and letters that begged the ministers to keep the secrets quiet.

There was even a very humorous letter that some dear woman wrote about the ministers who kneel on the platform with their great big bottoms facing the congregation. She suggested that they made good targets for spitballs. She stated in no uncertain terms that the women of the church did not enjoy looking at their wide loads. She concluded her letter with a limerick from President Wilson.

There were policies on women's hair, clothes, jewelry. There was a policy on sex--interestingly enough they encouraged frequent "unions" to strengthen the marriage bond, and even suggested that manual stimulation, although morally questionable, would be acceptable as long as it was NOT masturbation.

There was a position paper on the Equal Rights Movement with a clear message that women who had the same rights as men might start acting like men. It also suggested that if women earned as much as men, it would be harder for men to be in control of their households.

Maybe it was the dust and mold that flew in to my face as I disturbed the pages. Or maybe it was something else, but I choked. And choked. And choked. I feel like I am still choking.

Enneagram System

Have you ever taken this test? I made my entire family take the test, including the dog. Do you think I might have control issues?

FWD: "Deviant" Septum

We all get them. Those dreaded e-mail forwards with miles and miles of address headers. With instructions to "Scroll down. No, scroll down further, idiot." All underscored by dire warnings for you and your household and all generations to come if you are foolish enough to ignore them.

As a general rule, I hate these internet intruders. Delete them unread. Scold the friends who send them. But, once in a while I am tempted to click one open. I am a word whore after all.

Remember this one? English is a crazy language...

In what other language do...

• ... people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?
• ... people play at a recital and recite at a play?

And why...

• ... does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?
• ... is it that when we transport something by car, it's called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it's called cargo?

I have always marveled that someone took the time to think about such things and put them in a list to be circulated throughout the reaches of the world wide web. I guess I figured it must be someone who had far more time and far less responsibility than I did. It never occurred to me that the material might have been "lifted" from a reliable source.

Last week during a forage through a favorite used bookstore, I found a thin, yellow paperback written by Richard Lederer. Anguished English, An Anthology of Accidental Assaults Upon our Language. It is a collection of modern day malapropisms, mangled modifiers, misspellings and mixed up metaphors. I think material from this book and the 30 others he has written may have spawned the electronic multitude of English language missives that march madly through my mailbox.

I read a couple pages every night, and smile myself to sleep.

A few excerpts :

"I have a deviant septum." and "You're in for a shrewd awakening."

"Yoko Ono will talk about her husband, John Lennon, who was killed in an interview with Barbara Walters."

"Running is a unique experience. I thank God for exposing me to the track team."

If you like words at all, I would advise you to find this book. Read it. Paste it to your forehead. If you quote it, don't forget to attribute the fine collection to Richard Lederer. And above all, DO NOT forward it to me.

"Grape" Expectations

"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Pass the Lexicon

I used to go to a storytelling group on Tuesday nights in Cambridge. The following is a story written and told for the forum.

A few years ago I had a chance to go to NYC with my girlfriends. We were all in our late thirties and early forties. And married. Very married, I might add. Sex and the City would not be an appropriate description for the weekend we spent in the Big Apple. We were definitely more like: Abstinence and the City.

But, even though we were practicing abstinence, AND WE WERE, the subject of sex entered our conversation many times. Who knew that this was what thirty/forty somethings talked about? On their weekend away? OUT LOUD?

I kept waiting for my mother to arrive and tell us to quiet down.

I squirmed in discomfort while my friends talked about all the really wild places and ways that they had done IT. In alley ways. On steps. Probably without flossing.

Not wanting to be left completely out of the action, I finally admitted that I had done IT --with the lights on--ONCE.

We also talked about SEDUCTION. Could we be seduced?

Which led us each to confess the ONE THING that made us vulnerable. The ONE THING that would make us lose all sense of reason and decorum. The ONE THING that could make us send traffic cones flying to the left and right like Diane Lane in Unfaithful.

We were in agreement on this ONE THING: IF we ever actually met a man who could make a plan. That included DETAILS. A man with a plan with details and FOLLOW THROUGH. Wellllll…we pretty much would be crumbs in the bottom of the marital toaster.

It is either a man with a plan---or chocolate-- for me. I KNOW that I can be seduced by all manner of chocolate. M & M’s with peanuts or without peanuts, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups…creamy, smooth, delicious…see even talking about chocolate makes me weak in the knees.

In fact, I know so deeply in my heart that I can be seduced by chocolate that I make it a point to go through the candy-free check-out at Shaws. I cover my eyes when I walk past the candy aisle and I know better than to leave myself alone in a room with anything even resembling a Cadbury egg.

Seriously though, one friend thought she could be seduced by a man who could dance. A man who could spin her around and trip the light fandango. A man who could match her steps to his. And, if this man could look like Denzel Washington, then she would toss all caution to the wind.

The other friend thought maybe she could be seduced by a certain tone in a man’s voice. I don’t know a lot about exact nature of this “tone,” but I think that it is safe to bet that Lenny and Squiggy will never seduce her. And neither will Michael Jackson.

That night I joked about the chocolate. And I might have joked a little about Sean Connery, (WHO wouldn’t be seduced by Sean Connery?)--but I know, whether I admitted it to my friends or not, that I am seduced daily by words.

Words. The grand and glorious mongrels of the English language. For years, I have collected articles, quotes and bits of poetry. I am voracious when it comes to words. I cram little snips of this and pieces of that into the corners of my mind. A clever phrase. A touching sonnet. Fragments of life.

Words like obstreperous, diaspora, divagation, gerrymander, naif and viff all twitterpate me faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle." I am guilty of word adulation, adulteration and alliteration. Words. All shapes and sizes. All denominations and ethnic backgrounds. I am pretty much a word whore.

There. I have admitted it. I will be faithful... until you pass the lexicon.

Passing the Mantel-Restated

It originally came from the Shiloh Proper. Or maybe it came from Olivet or Bethesda. In any event, I found the mantel with its raised scroll and carved legs in the attic of the women's dorm at Fairwood. I like to think I rescued it from its place among the rafters and the heat that had dried the finish to a fine powder. Parched and forgotten it waited until the day I discovered it.


I hauled it down that summer day in three pieces and set it up against the wall in the living room. I squared its corners, and I nailed it into place. To my great joy, the linseed oils I rubbed into the woodwork raised new life and luster from the sleeping grain.

In my home it held candles. Always candles. Sea glass. Lavender. Bells from Jerusalem. The bottles the kids and I found digging in the bottle dump. Each fall I would clip a new bunch of hydrangeas and stand them in a pitcher on the mantel to dry. The full white flowers blushed pink on the ends, and they always pleased my eye.

At Christmastime, I would twist live evergreens into a long rope to loop from one side to the other. I arranged the nativity scene across its length. The shepherds peeked out from the branches, and baby Jesus sat at its center. Jayna and Jared hung their stockings on hooks in hopes that St. Nick would ignore the fact that there was no real chimney and visit us through the side door instead.

When I polished the wood with love each week during Friday cleaning, I would imagine the women before me who had done the same thing. As the sun set, I lit the candles on the mantel and called my children to rejoice that the Sabbath had arrived. We would sing and clap our hands. We made up songs. We practiced saying what we were thankful for. And, the kids always waited for Jim to say: "Good things happen on the Sabbath." Then he would pull a treat out of his pocket for them.

I still have the mantel.

A few years ago, when one of the former Kingdom churches on the west coast closed, there was a certain amount of money from its sale designated for distribution to those who had given their lives without pay to the work of the movement. There were those who were supportive of this, and those who were against it. In the end, a committee was formed to oversee its fair distribution.

A per year formula was applied for years of service rendered. Jim and I had worked six years. The catch, however, was that workers could not count their first five years. I suppose that was to sort out the folks who drifted in and out of Kingdom centers a year or two at a time while they decided what to do with their lives. For our family who had sold a home, made a substantial financial contribution to the Kingdom treasury, and given our lives to a cause we believed was headed in a positive direction, this meant $372 for our efforts and disillusionment.

A Biblical principle that could have been applied instead came from the story of the day laborer who was hired to work in the fields for a set amount. As you recall, throughout the day additional laborers were enlisted to complete the work. In the end, each was paid the same amount regardless of the length of their duty.

Am I bitter? Naw. Well, maybe just a little. Although, it doesn't bother me as much as it once did. Because it was never about being compensated in the first place, I guess I would have liked to have had the contribution of my life, family and talent be weighted a little more equally than they were.

I am third generation Kingdom. If you look closely, my blood, sweat and tears can be found on the door posts and in the stairwells of more than one Kingdom center. It was my life, and it is my legacy.

Am I owed something? Probably not.

Have I made my own compensation package? Absolutely.

I reserve the right to sit on the front porch at Fairwood and look at the mountain. And, I still have the mantel.

The Hundred Acre Memory

Sometimes I miss the Hundred Acre Woods. The simplicity. The wonder. The innocence of it all.

“Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would I'd never leave.”

Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh

Hello Operator

In addition to helping me solve the mystery of my maladies, Google has freed the phone lines that run from our house to the outside world.

You may ask, "How can this be?"

Once upon a time, if I had a question about anything such as "How long do you boil green beans?" or "Where is Malaysia?" or "What was the name of the actress who played opposite Robert Redford in Legal Eagles?" or "Who was the seventh president of the United States?, " I would call the operator. If the operator did not know, there were rows and rows of other operators seated around her (or him) who could be tapped for the answer. It never failed that someone held the knowledge.

It occurs to me that there might be a new form of operator/Google available to me in the resources of my collective readership. Can anyone tell me the correct attribution for the quote, "When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." (or some variation thereof) Both Nietzsche, the philosopher, and Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness have been given credit.

Even if you don't know the answer, please feel free to say "hello" when you pass through.

She is not a quitter

Sometimes you find someone who says something for you better than you can say it yourself. I feel this way about my friend, Karen, when I read her blog. She sure can write that slice of life stuff and serve it ala mode.

Dispelling any false notions

Karen and I met in an online writing group nearly five years ago. She was smart, funny, and ever so sassy. She kept forum discussions coiffed and "skorted." From the first time I read a short story of hers that included Jesus buying Band-aids at a convenience mart, I realized that she was brilliant in that unoffensive way that so few people can carry off.

We only knew "of" each other until we formed a smaller writing circle with two other women. We called it The REALLY Cool Club. The four of us began to share the bits and pieces of our lives that had been knit together with the tears of time to make us into the women we were. Kids and love and God and moms and dads and husbands and dogs and, and, and...

I learned to love the gentle way she could dissect a story--somehow rearranging the parts to make them bigger than the whole. She could nudge a missing word into a sentence adding the strength it needed to stand at attention.

She became a friend during a period of my life when I had grown certain that I didn't need friends. And, it just happened--like Aristotle's slow and ripening fruit. I was able to talk to her about things that needed an ear that could listen without judgment. In our space, I found a place to rest. I grew to value the wisdom she offered when I asked, and the silence she kept when I didn't.

About six months after we formed, our little group decided to meet in person. This was a sign of the times--friends brought together by pixels on a screen. And, it was the moment of truth. The masks drawn by our words would be lifted to reveal who we really were.

We met in Mystic, CT. And, it was so very, very strange and so very, very wonderful at the same time.

We mixed martinis in our mouths, laughed loud, talked much. It was Karen, though, that I found myself watching the most. The way she carried herself. The words she chose. I waited to hear what she would say next. I was delighted when she talked about "the triangulation of desire" and used the word "trajectory." As we drove around Mystic, she wondered aloud if the winters were "punishing." We teased her about that for the rest of the weekend. As well she should have been teased for such a comment.

The next year she came to stay for a few days with me and the family. We saw the sights, went to lunch with friends, and she visited the Pee-body Es-sux Museum. I even took her to work with me one day. I think her favorite part was poking around the thrift shop finding little treasures and what-nots. It was an easy kind of visit. The kind where you don't worry about your guest. I was sorry on the day I drove her to the 128 station to catch the train that would speed her back towards home.

In the months and years that followed, our friendship went through those kinds of contortions that friendships go through. Friends, like flowers, get a little wilted if you don't water and tend them. We got limp around the edges, but I have never forgotten the friend I found when I least knew I needed one.

The stuff she writes on her blog is not her real writing. It is, however, a sampling of the mind that weaves stories with one of the truest voices I have ever had the fortune to read. I believe with all my heart she will be published one day soon. And, I am glad she is not a quitter.

I also believe we are overdue for a good catching up.