A Person Unexpected

This post unabashedly brags about one of my nearest and dearest friends.

We met shortly after college graduation, nearly 9 years ago. Erin was the new Young Life intern in my hometown and was moving in with Natalie and Mike. Nat had me come over to clean this new girl's apartment in the attic of the Old Stone House and then one Sunday informed me that I was to be friends with the new girl until she learned her way around and, "made some real friends." Nat did not have high hopes for our friendship. To be honest, I didn't either.

Erin had gone to a private Christian high school in Virginia Beach, then to JMU. She knew several people I'd grown up with that had gone there. She was on YL staff (immediate distrust); she was conservative. The odds were against us.

But that summer I didn't have any girl friends around. She was it. And through the Venn diagram of boredom and approximation, we became friends. I remember driving around in my old 1987 Tempo (Shout out, Roy) with her that first Sunday thinking, "This girl isn't half bad!" We became speed dials; me because I was bored and Erin because she was disorganized.

Her 23rd birthday we threw her a surprise party at the Pizza Hut in Leesburg, then went bowling. There was a reason it was there, I just don't remember now.

Bowling after Pizza Hut. Grafton provides background.

When the doctors thought I had cancer, it was Erin who drove me to my appointment almost two hours away to get my bone scan. I didn't ask her to, but she insisted. When I think of an image of friendship, that is what I see.

When I was so frustrated at where I was, with how my life was looking, I'd constantly be surprised to look up and find Erin there with me. We lived our Stag 20s together. We did a lot of listening (she probably more than me). There were nights hiking through snow or watching DVDs of "Gilmore Girls". There was the random party after Chris & Rachel's wedding. There was the time Erin yelled, "GOD DAMMIT, SPOONER, I WROTE YOU A GOOD RECOMMENDATION SO YOU BETTER LIVE UP TO IT!" which may have been the first and only time I've ever heard those words come out of her Good Christian mouth. There were breakups and more than a few moments of self-shattering doubt. She was a wise voice of truth; I was the wild voice of cutting loose. She'd initiate the heart-to-heart; I'd bring over the wine.

A true sign of friendship is believing you've incredible luck. I feel like I'm cheating something to call her my friend.

Fall 2008 I met Erin for a 48-hour ridiculous adventure in Paris. It was the most geographically lost I've ever been, and yet I was never stressed or annoyed; I was with my friend. We still laugh about that trip. We provided each other with a face of familiarity.

And so it was only fitting that she's the one who told me Nat was dying; she's the one who called me when Nat had passed. She's the hand I held at Nat's memorial. She is my sister.

Natalie's death cemented something in us. I don't quite know how to explain it; she was the only friend in my life who knew Nat like I did, who understood why that woman was so vital and we spent more than a few hours on the phone in various states of grief. I don't think we're done with those calls just yet. I actually spent Christmas 2010 with Erin and her then boyfriend (now husband) Awesome Awesome Jon, and Erin and I stayed up incredibly late, talking through our grief under the glow of Christmas lights. Selfishly, being near her makes me a better person.

Awesome Awesome Jon and Erin graciously allowed me to fulfill my not-so-secret ambition and serve as a DJ for their wedding. It was nuptials for the ages. It is still discussed in those revered, hushed tones and I'm sad to say it's not because of my mad DJ skillz. It's because it was a ceremony full of wisdom and wonder, whimsy and life. They didn't shy away from the seriousness of the commitment but captured the joy of the moment. I cried. Often. I wish every wedding was like theirs.

And not just because of the most amazing balloon man EVER.

For New Years I went down to Jacksonville to visit Erin and Awesome Awesome Jon in their new home. It was such a relief to be around my friend who knows me well; who delves into the deep conversations as if they were held in the cups of coffee in our hands, who laughs easily and encourages humor without stressing it. I pray that Erin is a lifelong friend. I pray I'm the sort of friend who is worth it.

Erin and I will probably never live in the same city again; the seven hours apart we are now is the closest we will be in the foreseeable future. That feels so final. It physically hurts to realize I can't swing by her place when I've the best or worst news, even as we've not lived near each other in almost six years.

It's easy to not believe in God.

Easy to believe that chance, hormones and gravity are all that's at work in our lives.

But I find it hard to ignore when specific needs have been so meticulously met; when a friend I'd never choose becomes a friend I can't do without, when the voice most needed comes through a person unexpected.

And for that--and so many other things--I'm grateful.

(Posts about Erin: here and here and here and here. There are probably more but I'm feeling lazy)

Every Footprint Left a Mark

It was middle school the first time I went into the house.

The drive to and from home took us down a winding, unmarked paved road. That house sat a few hundred yards off the road, down a lengthy driveway long overgrown and a rusty chain discouraging visitors. The roof and part of the attic were the only visible parts, the window in the attic tiny and shattered, a black scab on the chipped white clapboard exterior. I made up stories about that home for years. Its only neighbor was another ancient farmhouse, home to my friend Althea.

Althea’s house was creepy anyway. It was from the 1920s and had an elevator that ran up its 3 floors. It always had a sense of chilly dampness. One night Althea and I were there alone and we made the mistake of playing the video game “Doom” during a storm with all the lights off. We scared ourselves so badly we slept with the covers over our heads, frightened of every noise.

When we were 13 we decided it was time to see the abandoned house. We crossed the fences that lined the abandoned driveway and walked through the overgrown field, down to the front of the house. It sat on the side of a creek with deep banks, and the ground around it was a marsh. Every footprint left a mark in the mud. It was two stories tall, wooden, with a brick chimney at one end. The front door was broken open and all the windows were smashed.

We went in anyway.

The house was full. There were records in their sleeves in the cabinets, dishes in the sink, a moldy couch in the living room, knickknacks on the shelves. The living room had bright pink paint peeling off the wall. There were photos strewn on the floor; I was scared to look at them. Some of the stairs leading to the second floor were missing so I didn’t try to go upstairs. Althea did. She said it was the same as downstairs: as if a whole life had been left. I felt like I was both spying on a life and being watched.

We got scared and walked around back of the house, where it looked like the trees were slowly marching through the mud toward the house to take it back. I stepped on something soft and it popped up. It was a teddy bear with one eye.

I’ll never forget that teddy bear.

(not the actual house; it was bigger, more wooded and scarier. But very similar feel.)

My Tended Earth

Wow, whadda whirlwind. I drove back to VA last Wednesday, stopping to have dinner with Matt and Megan, two friends I have known literally my entire life (I met Matt when I was five and Megan has been a dear friend since I was 15. I actually introduced the two of them; amazing people) and got to have dinner with Megan out at Brubaker's in Old Town Winchester. I was getting ready to leave when they said, “Just stay! You've been in the car for 7 hours already!” so I did. Great time with lovely friends and their sweet daughters. Finally got to my dad's house on Thursday morning in time to have some quality coffee and Washington Post time with my dad before driving up to Natalie's and then driving her Volvo Cross-Country out to Wegman's for the best lunch one could ever fathom getting at a grocery store. Wegmans=Heavenly experience. If you ever have the chance to go to a Wegmans, just go. Do not ask questions. And of course Natalie somehow has a chunk of my very soul and is one of the people I love most on this planet, so any time at all spent with her is a gift straight from the heavens. Needless to say it was a lovely afternoon. I got home in time for a very quick nap and then shower before delicious BBQ dinner with my dad and uncle. Love meals with bitter old men...makes me feel youthful and optimistic. Then I headed out to Arlington to hop the Metro to the home of the incomparable Emile, a friend I met literally the first night of college; someone I want to figure out a way to have in my life even more. You would do well to have her in your life in any capacity. Sitting out on her front porch in NW, drinking Sierra Nevadas and mocking her pea-sized bladder: it was priceless.

(Emilie and I at the college version of a cocktail party, Fall 2002)

I stayed there Thursday night and got back to my car early enough to not have to pay for my overnight Metro parking (gates are open til 10:30am, holla!) on the way home I dropped my car off to get inspected and piddled around the house while I waited for my car. Once I got it back I drove out to Michelle and Dave's house for an all too brief visit before cutting down Snickersville Turnpike for my trip up the mountain and back to Adventure Links. What a treat that was. I can't tell you how much I love those people. Like my insides literally flipped in joy just hearing their voices. I got a physical ache; these are people who know and love me well. Anna, Austin, Audrey, Autumn, Shelby, Dave and Scott made for the perfect sort of dinner companions and we played some entertaining board games til very late. Leaving there is never easy. I can't believe I've known them for seven years. Anna Birch is a friend to my core. I am so lucky to have her in my world.

(Anna in her natural habitat)

Saturday morning I tried to talk my dad into going out to my sister's house with me but to no avail; I made the hour trek solo to see my older sister and her four (count 'em, four) children and the new house. The house was a DISASTER. I can't blame her, the woman does have four kids and her husband works a lot but still...it reminded me so much of how cluttered my mom was with us and I got immediately angry at it. I hate that I do that; we just have different tastes and different standards (I know I am an EXTREME packrat, but compared to my family I'm SPARSE.). But I did get to see my niece and three nephews, whom I simply love and adore so it was worth it. I don't know how those boys are so genuinely nice...I hope they keep that. I got back from Bubby's and drove straight to my mother's house for a late dinner. Got to see my mom and my little sister and pick up a trunk full of my old stuff which was wonderful. My little sister is growing up and away and it breaks my heart. I got back to my Dad's in time to watch a little TV with him and then go to bed. I slept in on Sunday and took a traditional Spooner Sunday morning, which consists of reading the entire Washington Post Sunday Edition and drinking at least three cups of coffee the consistency of tar. My uncle came over again later in the afternoon and then I went and grabbed my little sister, took her to dinner, came back to dad's, dropped off the beer he asked to pick up then drove the 30 minutes out to South Riding to have drinks with the one-of-a-kind cynicism that is Amber and Mark. Two people I wish lived in Asheville with me: those two. Seriously. I could be so lucky.

So now, 833.7 miles later, I'm finishing up my trip to the VA and heading back south. North Carolina is home now and for the immediate future, but there is something so bittersweet about coming back to an area and a people so intimate to me; it's a watering of the roots in a way. This is my soil, my tended earth, these are the places and the people that made so much of me and I love them unabashedly for that. I am so blessed in every faction of living.

(Speaking of blessed and past: someone who left my life five years ago has very suddenly returned in a very full way. I am ecstatic about this. I've prayed for this person daily for five years; to have them back in the picture in any capacity is tear-inducing. We'll see where that goes in the redux.)

Dodge These Bullets

• With the addition of the queen sized bed (thank you Leslie) I bought two new pillows. In other news, I'm still domesticated and mildly boring.

• Our Quizzo team finally won a pitcher for the best team name. This only took 7 months. And before you ask, yes, yes I do have friends. That I don't pay. Much.

• What ever happened to that cute girl from “Northern Exposure” with the mole and who could do that eye brow lift thing? The one opposite Aidan (I'm sorry even 5 years before “Sex and the City” John Corbett was Aidan. He still is. Always will be. That Aidan gets around) up in Alaska? Where the heck has she gone?

• Riding high on the lazy river-like tsunami of confidence from the McSweeney's print, Easter afternoon I got to seriously delve into some writings and I actually finished a short story. “Story” is a loose description, it's really a very stylized monologue from an old woman living on the coast in Maine. I like it, but I'm the only person who has ever read it. Time will tell whether it is any good or just adjective-heavy word vomit. Sometimes I feel like a Chimp playing with his own poop. Some may call it art, others call it “Hey, that monkey is playing with his poop,” while the monkey is thinking, “Wheeee!”. How's that for an artist's statement of purpose.

• Lately I've been stuck on the song “Sons and Daughters” by the Decemberists. I've had this song for over a year, but it's got new life. I heart Colin Meloy. He go wit his nerd self. Only person I know that can use words like “dirigible”, “Legionnaire”, “indolent” and “colonnade” in songs and still sound earnest.

• Friday night I had a very vivid dream that I was thrown into running a trail race that I hadn't trained for. In the dream it was a 7 mile race and I was three miles in and breathing hard. That's when I woke up having an asthma attack. I don't know if the attack spawned the dream or vice versa, but while I wasn't breathing I marveled at my subconscious' imagination. If I'm ever not breathing ask me where my inhaler is and I'll try to tell you. Or just yell “Does anyone have an albuterol inhaler!?” and maybe someone will throw one at you.

• Murphy and Romano: two days. Bad Idea Girls take on the Dirty South. Look for highlights. There will be many I'm sure.

• I got an email from Nat the other detailing how her drive back to her house was interrupted by a cow giving birth on her road. It got out of the fence and was giving birth, right there in the road. That is the part of my hometown that I truly miss. That sort of thing isn't exactly abnormal and part of some of my most fond memories. Being stuck behind cows was a normal excuse for being late to school.

• I don't think I've loved my family more than I do right now. After the McSweeney's thing, I got a voicemail from my mom that said, “It's mom, I just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you and I'm proud of you. I love you, bye bye.” I cried a little bit, saved the message and now look forward to having it come up every few weeks. This message is a miracle. A true, heaven sent, blind man can see, deaf man can hear sort of miracle. I am so thankful for it.

• So the question about the obligation of citizenship that you all did a fine job of not answering is becoming an essay on its own. And if its any good and it goes anywhere, I'll make a point to not reference you. No no don't feel like you need to thank me. I know I'm gracious.

• Still don't get the obsession over fancy handbags. Don't get it. It must be how gay men feel about women. Sure they are nice and all but nope, not feeling anything either way.

Other Side of Wherever

On my way home from the dripalator the other day I got stopped by the train. We have several different sets of tracks here on the east side of town so inevitably ones path will be blocked by at traversing train which is a pain in the butt in a way. But hearing the night's distant whistle is soothing to me so I don't mind really. I love trains. Love 'em. Before my parents divorced my dad had a model train track set up on a piece of particle board in the basement; little buildings, a mountain, etc. I just liked to stare at it. My neighbor had a huge one, filling up at least one large room in his basement; it had different towns and different trains (you totally can't believe you are friends with me right now, can you). In college I used Amtrak for almost any visit elsewhere; countless trips home, to Boston, to NYC. I loved taking the train because it was so low stress: show up (virtually no security), get on board, find a seat, fall asleep, wake up, do some homework, get a beer, fall back asleep. Trains are so quiet and couple that with the rocking motion its like taking an Ambien with a chaser of vodka. I loved seeing the other side of towns and places, not the good face they put on for airports and interstates. And the train from Syracuse to NYC to DC goes through some of the less than prettier parts of the eastern seaboard (here's to you Baltimore and Philly). I mean, wow.

I've met some strange characters on trains, one of whom I kept up with for almost two years, one who was a roadie for the hairband "Warrant". One day I'd like to travel across the country by train, stopping off in cities for a few days to sight see and then hopping back on to what lies ahead. The thing I hate about planes is there is no time for adjustment; all too quickly you find yourself on the other side of wherever without a whole lot of understanding behind how you got there. Trains at least let me see my progress. Sometimes knowing just how I got to where I am is worth infinitely more than the time I save taking a short cut.

Current Listen: Guggenheim Grotto's “I Think I Love You”.

Rural Kids and the Military-Industrial Complex

I went to a high school that, during my freshman year, had 800 students.
Total.
9th-12th grade.
Our school district was over an hour drive from one end to the other north to south; over 15 miles east to west. Some of my friends had school bus rides that were almost two hours long. Needless to say, it was rural. We had three stoplights in that entire area.
Since then it's gone through some horrific development and looks nothing like the place where I grew up, but that depresses me so we won't talk about that any more.
So 800 kids in Valley back then.
Somehow, six of those Valley kids have ended up in the Asheville area.
Six.
Unplanned.
I have seen six people from my one-stoplight hometown, seven hours away, since I moved here. One I met the first day of kindergarten, and here he is, in West Asheville, owning Harvest Records. What? We all must have exceptionally good taste in places to move.

* * * * * * * * * *
Tonight I met up with my friends Katherine and Andy over at Nate's house (yup, all Valley grads) for an evening of great conversation, sushi, homebrewed beer and a documentary on the US military-industrial complex to cap it all off. Like ya do.
"Why We Fight" was depressing in all its cold facts with no solution, but a good watch nonetheless. Eisenhower: I never gave you enough credit. You knew your shit. Sorry for the dis.
And then I come home to find a new "The Pinky Show" episode waiting for me on Nuclear Bombs, which was also very good and highly recommended. If you've never seen any episodes of "The Pinky Show" I'd say it's worth your time. She does a great job of educating without pretense or preachiness. It's clear she learns the material along with the viewer, and her passion for the subject is infectious.

So now I'm fairly convinced the world is going to hell in a military-industrial handbasket of nuclear death. Or something fluffy and happy like that.

This morning I made something like 10 dozen pancakes. How's that for happy and fluffy?
Actually it was a fairly sweaty endeavor and quite an arm workout. My forearms hurt.