What do I remember about my friend who died ten years ago? My memories are jumbled, funny, and sad. Random things remind me of her like the color teal,  blues music, a great book, or stories about adopting children.  

         KQ had this crazy loud laugh that sounded like a wild braying donkey. When something struck her as funny, she laughed “long and loud and clear,” like the song “I Love to Laugh,” from Mary Poppins. I can’t recall what made her laugh, but when I needed a funny story, I’d walk around the corner to visit her.

         I hired KQ for a media relations position based on her strong writing credentials. Plus, I liked her attitude. We had an easy conversation during her job interview. She was a reporter, like I was before pivoting to public relations. Therefore, I thought she’d be good at the role. The first two weeks were hard for both of us.

        We argued about press releases. She didn’t want to “make up a quote” from one of our subject matter experts (as we called them) for a humdrum press release. When the news wasn’t ground-breaking research that needed to be explained, the media person drafted the quote, then got it approved. Clunky system, but it was how we did business. Somehow, we adjusted and became a strong team.

        She was smart—in ways that I wasn’t. Her math skills were excellent. This meant research papers with equations did not intimate her. She also spotted data errors in reports (before they were published).

        I remember her immense vocabulary and that she was a voracious reader, like a prospector reader mining for knowledge. It wasn’t that she tried to impress everyone; she simply knew the specific word that worked. I remember a co-worker asked me after a meeting to explain “what the heck” KQ had said. “Well, why didn’t she just say that!” the co-worker asked me. Some people found her word knowledge off-putting.

        Her beliefs also offended some colleagues. For example, this woman wasn’t ashamed to admit she was an atheist. She didn’t boast about being an atheist, but she didn’t shy away from talking about religion. Or politics.

We talked about politics, a subject few dove into at work. It probably broke office protocol. I have a vivid image of her crying in front of the TV when we learned John Kerry had lost to George W. Bush. It was a close race. But back to religion.

I knew my friend would have disliked the Christian funeral. As I sat through the service, my stomach flipped, and tears fell because I’d lost a friend. But this traditional service, despite the kind words, hymns and eulogies, just made me upset because KQ would have hated it. But memorials are for those left behind.

KQ had an informal wedding ceremony “down the shore.” A small, feet in the sand beach service. I loaned her a blue rhinestone necklace to wear. When she got married, she became a wife and a mother to a teenage daughter from her husband’s previous marriage. Her husband was older, but I don’t recall his age when they wed. She wasn’t concerned because she loved him.

After their wedding, the newlyweds decided to adopt a child. How much time had passed? I’m not sure. First, they worked with private adoption agencies, which were expensive. The emotional cost was high too. Then, the couple entered a foster to adopt — a state program. Many joys and heartbreaking times filled the months. Once they cared for a newborn boy, whom they hoped to adopt, only to have him taken from them.

They kept trying. Finally, they adopted a girl, erasing the doubt, sadness, anger, and fear that plagued the couple as they waited. Later, they adopted two boys. One brother was white and the other African American. She had one big, beautiful family.

Soon after, doctors diagnosed her with ovarian cancer. Often misdiagnosed, it’s a disease with a cruel history. In my friend’s case, her cancer was discovered very late.

After her diagnosis, she shared that she had cancer because she wanted support. She was going to fight, not hide. She was going to share what she knew rather than keep secrets. Her body got weaker, but her mind stayed strong.

Cancer? Her diagnosis hit me hard. She continued to work (despite family and friends urging to stay home) until she became too sick to work. She was a petite and fit woman, and she shrunk every week.

Her birthday was in February. She was still working, and I believe undergoing chemo. It was early in her uphill battle. Our office liked birthday parties. Celebrating with cake was a monthly pastime.

I had an early dentist appointment the day for the February birthdays party, and couldn’t commute on my usual train. Instead, I drove to a different train station. I misread the train’s timetable and would have to wait almost an hour for the next train. While I was debating my fate, another commuter arrived. She said another nearby station could take us downtown sooner. The friendly woman drove us to the station. Why didn’t I follow her in my vehicle? My memory is foggy, but perhaps my car was at another station, and I was transferring trains.

Riding with strangers isn’t something I do, but I didn’t want to miss this party. The passenger’s seat had dog hair, so I assumed she was a “good, kind person.” But she wasn’t the best driver. Too fast for me. I held onto the armrest the entire trip. And I was ready to make a quick exit if needed.

Thankfully, I arrived at the station safe and sound and at the office on time. Until today, I told no one about the joy ride with the stranger. At the party, a friend said, “You know it’s the last birthday party we’ll celebrate with her.” 

She was right. KQ took her last breath while in hospice care that July.

We organized a technology summit in memory of our media maven. Oh, how KQ enjoyed experimenting with technology whether she was producing an internal podcast or upping our social media presence. 

I miss her innovative spirit. Her ambition and determination will stay with me. I long for our friendship. She made me a better person, manager, and friend.

 I miss her wild laugh. But most of all, I miss her.

 

What memories do snowy days bring you? As a kid, I had a monster hill to sled down, a small narrow creek to ice skate, and enough snow to build a proper snow person. This week on the East Coast we finally got snow after a two-year drought.

Detour on a Snowy Day

“Are you sure you want to ride?” my friend asked, eyeing the gloves, balaclava face mask, and biking booties on the kitchen table.

            All the winter gear that had lived a quiet, dark closeted life, forever waiting in the wings like an understudy needed to perform. An outside amphitheater waited.

Meanwhile, blustering wind and swirling snow also waited while we debated: Was it too cold to ride?    

Frankly, I was a fair-weather rider. Yet here I was on this January day, eager to pedal through Valley Forge Park, renowned for its harsh winters. In 1777-78, George Washington and his Continental Army set up a winter encampment in this expansive open field that’s now part of the National Park system. Washington’s troops endured snowy, rainy, and freezing weather: it was a normal winter in Pennsylvania.

I had limited winter biking adventures. I had fond memories of a New Year’s Day riding ritual even though it ended with frozen faces, frosty eyebrows, and numbed fingers and toes. A pot of homemade spicy chili waited on our friend’s stove making the effort worth it. Each bowl served with a heap of bragging rights for finishing the ride.  

Like an icicle on a sunny day, that memory was melting away. I looked forward to creating new cycling memories.

We planned to bike from my house to Valley Forge National Historical Park, where we’d meet friends to ride. In the fall, the park showed off its stunning red, orange, and yellow foliage. The autumn air was fresh and crisp. In winter, crisp air became a biting, stinging air. I knew this fact.

But I was excited to be with the attractive 6’ 2” brown-eyed man standing in my kitchen. We’d met after a ride at a quirky English pub called the Wookie Hole.

That morning he arrived with his custom-made Dresens bicycle, ready to go out. Or not. I was fit and ready to ride. It was only 25 miles. Looking back, perhaps I should have questioned my mental fitness.   

My hardy Midwest image was at stake: we were riding. The roads were clear and dry, and the white stuff wasn’t sticking.  

“Come play outside,” Mr. Winter had been tempting us with a whisper. Then he began taunting us. We put on our extra layers outside, which we hoped would acclimatize our bodies. I stood on one foot, stretching the uncooperative neoprene shoe-shaped booties over my cycling shoes. Left foot first, then right foot. I hopped and stomped, nestling the shoe inside the galosh-like boot for a snug fit.

The snow globe world was quiet. The silence was spoiled only by the noisy voices in my head.  We’ll have fun. We’ll freeze. I have to ride. You’ll regret it. We’ll have fun.

Fun won, and we rode off. My legs felt like wood, stiff and heavy with less flexibility. Breathing was hard and staying motivated was harder. The coldness created slowness. Funny, but I noticed we were still in the neighborhood.

            A few miles later, we reached the starting point where we met the group of hardcore bikers encased in ski gear, looking ready for the downhill slopes. With little fanfare, the riders pedaled uphill.

These cyclists sprinted ahead, averaging 16-18 miles per hour (mph). I won’t disparage fast riders of which I am not and never will. My pace hoovered around 12-13 mph.

We didn’t see them after they crested the hill past the Memorial Arch, a memorial honoring the sacrifices Washington’s troops made nearly 200 years earlier. 

We were alone now.

I had expected all levels of riders. But I had also expected a warmer, brighter day. Instead, visibility was poor, and the wind gusted cold. Was it time to surrender to winter? Or perhaps pay respects to the historic camp and then head back home? 

No, not me.

Because Mr. Handsome turned his head and smiled at me. Somehow, I knew he was content to cycle alongside me and me with him. How far would we go today? As warm and wonderful as I felt inside to have company, the low gray skies created a chilling effect.    

Then, I remembered a coffee shop ahead if we detoured. Hot coffee was an incentive to keep pedaling forward. We found a warm refuge serving hot beverages. One tasty blondie brownie, expresso and one cappuccino restored us.    

While thawing out, we talked about everything and nothing. We stayed so long that our legs stiffened and rebelled as we rose. Outside, our journey started anew. The sun shone and the snowflakes stopped. I was warmer, lighter, and faster.    

Our snowy ride and coffee detour led us to a lifetime of riding together — because my riding companion that day became the man I married.  

My hardy Midwest image never really was at stake.

 

What cures your winter blues?  

Less sun. More clouds. I’m weary of winter weather. Wait, let me check the calendar, yep, it’s only January.

Nothing lifts me up during dreary winter more than the arrival of the first Burpee catalogue – an ultimate wish book for gardeners of all varieties. The big book covered with flowers is the first sign that spring is coming. Inside, Burpee’s pages contain enticing new plants along with familiar favorites. Now I can dream about planting and playing in my herb and flower gardens.) My imagination lets me feel the gentle sunshine on my face and smell the fresh earthy garden dirt on my hands.   

Holding the colorful catalogue delights me as much as spotting the first purple crocus in the barren patch of dirt by the porch. Early spring flowers – the crocus, daffodils, and tulips – will create clumps of color in the neighborhood. While some unlucky blooms become buried in the snow days later, I appreciate them for not only their beauty, but for their hardiness.

For now, I am content knowing more seed, vegetable, and flower catalogues will be planted in my mailbox. Bluestone Perennials, my beloved nursery in Madison, OH, arrives second, giving me more glossy pages to peruse.

Next up is the Philadelphia Flower Show packet promising that I’ll be “immersed in a flower-filled garden wonderland,” should I attend. The Philadelphia Horticultural Society (PHS), which organizes this marquee event, is trying to grow its membership with these mailings. The PHS also offers its members tours of private gardens. I’m fortunate to live in an area dedicated to educating people about plants.  

Morris Arboretum & Gardens is all about conserving plants and ecosystems. Morris Arboretum is open all seasons. I marvel at its vast collection of trees. (I promise a later musing about the historic fernery on its grounds.)

 This Morris course catalogue will keep me busy. What should I register for?  “Forest Bathing for your Health,” “Yoga in the Treetops,” or “Tai Chi in the Garden?” Then there’s birding, photography, and moonlight discovery walks.  Each course, lecture, and outing sounds like an escape from the winter blahs.

            Keep the catalogues coming to chase my blues away! 

This year, instead of many grand generic New Year’s resolutions, I’ve created a specific, reasonable, and achievable goal. Here’s my New Year’s resolution in honor of Philadelphia, my adopted home. 

How come nobody told me I was pronouncing Philadelphia all wrong?

    Having lived in the City of Brotherly and Sisterly Love for more than 20 years, this egregious error was embarrassing. Because I often said Philly, shorthand for Philadelphia, few people picked up on my faux pas. Or at least, I hoped.

    For years, I said fil-luh-del-THEE-uh instead of fil·luh·del·FEE·uh. (Of course, you know how it’s pronounced.)

    From this week forward, I have promised to practice the proper pronunciation of Philadelphia. In fact, Philadelphia Freedom, the city’s unofficial anthem by Elton John, helped ease my linguistic anxiety.

When my dad wasn’t sure how to pronounce a tricky word, he’d pause, say the word, and then spell it aloud. I supposed this was a holdover from his schooling. In my case, correctly spelling this particular word hasn’t helped me.

     I can’t explain how or why I failed to get “fee” into Philadelphia. Perhaps, the celestial sounds of the string bands composed of banjos, violins, accordions, saxophones, and percussion performing in the Mummers Parade, led me astray. The foreign sounds of banjos blending with wailing saxophones were pleasant to my jazz-loving ears. 

    The crowd cheered for each band. Each ensemble was playing, dancing, and strutting with more bravado in brighter, more outlandish costumes than the last.

    Stunning showmanship was on display and the parade had more acts after the 20 or so bands had performed. Mummering was fascinating. Golden slippers, lively music, and fancy feather festooned costumes delighted me.

    But the mummers parade had and has an ugly side: sexist, racist and anti-Semitic themed skits. Have the mummers changed? New rules around skits won’t erase hate. Awareness training can’t reverse ingrained beliefs. I’m reminded of the lyrics, You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear, from South Pacific.

    I was grateful I didn’t witness those skits.

    This long extravagant parade/party held January 1, touted as a century-old tradition, has become a spectator sport marathon. (An endurance test that consisted of 12 to 15 or ? hours of parade watching in cold weather.) Thankfully, the city designated the convention hall as an indoor venue for a portion of the parade festivities. Perhaps, a shorter parade has been better, and it hasn’t dampened the audience’s enthusiasm.

    In my first parade experience, the crowd grew as the day wore on. Sidewalks and stands filled with families, friends, and tourists. Soon, I felt trapped in the frozen mass of onlookers. Breaking through the mass was a feat akin to steering Shackleton’s ship through ice flows. Unlike Shackleton’s stranded crew, we hobbled away—safe but stiff—cursing our numb toes and frozen faces. (A bowl of pho helped us thaw out.)

    But back to thee: Can we propose, thee descended from the heavenly aura from walking the same streets where Ben Franklin once strolled? When I worked in Old City, I saw the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Christ Church every day—sacred places where our nation’s founders met and worshipers. When I saw Independence Hall for the first time, its gleaming bright bricks looked new. I reminded myself it was built in the 1700s.

    Every block offered a glimpse into the city’s past. In summer, many tourists have met many famous figures from Colonial times. I was thrilled to spot Betsy Ross on my train, commuting to her job in the city. When in costume, these actors, like Betsy and Ben, played their role well, feigning surprise when visitors took pictures with their cellphones. (Gasp.)     

    I could blame thee on the picturesque Schuylkill River, which means “hidden river.” Dutch settlers discovered the nearly 135-mile long waterway in the 1600s.  

    Maybe, thee rose from the visit to Reading Terminal Market where I first discovered a cannoli. The Italian sweet has a divine deep-fried crispy pastry shell filled with creamy sweet ricotta cheese. That cannoli from Termini Brothers Bakery changed my life.   

    Beyond the historical, cultural, and natural beauty of Philadelphia, it’s the people who changed my life and won my heart. So, if you hear me humming Philadelphia Freedom, you’ll know I’m working on my New Year’s resolution.