A Fine Rowemance

I have a virtual litmus test for friends that I like to use when qualifying the very best in that category. It goes like this, “Who would you call if you A. Had a flat tire in the rain at 1:00 AM and/or B. Needed to borrow $5,000, no questions asked.

Now let me add this disclaimer: I have a AAA membership so in theory, I’ll never have to weed out friends in this way and my father taught me a long time ago that you should never borrow money from a friend. But let’s just say what if…

My dear friend, Rowe, would pass this test hands down. Rowe is that guy and he turned 60 last week.

We’re an odd couple, the lesbian and the cowboy. If you ran into Rowe on the weekend, you’d think the Marlboro Man was on location in Greensboro – albeit without the cigarettes. His uniform is crisp jeans, a western shirt, vest, and boots – real cowboy boots not fashionista ones. During the week he’s in a suit as the Chief Deputy Commissioner of Banks for North Carolina.

Rowe's doppleganger is the Malboro man sans cigs.

Rowe’s doppelganger is the Marlboro Man sans cigarette.

Yeah, I really don’t know what he does but if you manage a bank and he drops in to see you on a Friday afternoon, chances are he’s not making a deposit.

Rowe and I have cancelled each other out in almost every election and his idea of a fun vacation is working on a real ranch in Montana for a week. He’s Duck Dynasty and I’m Downton Abbey but our friendship works because we share a lot of core values – family, kindness, and respect for BBQ. And he’s funny as hell.

Rowe knows real men wear pink bow ties to their only daughter’s wedding.

He’s an old school gentleman, the kind that would never think of not opening a door for a lady. He’s the kind of man who walks you to your car at night and tells you to “be careful” on the drive home. And he rarely lets you pay for dinner.

Rowe and his wife, Rhonda, were “home” to me during a very difficult time in my life. I had been in a toxic relationship that almost destroyed everything I ever cared about and I was as lost as a soul can be. I met them at my church and liked them a lot and when I fell from grace, they were there to catch me and offer me what I needed most – comfort and connection.

Sometimes that was just watching a football game on a Sunday afternoon. Rhonda was generous enough to cede her recliner to me and Rowe and I looked like any married couple cheering on the Packers (his team).

Rhonda and Rowe at Lambeau.

Rowe is not a big talker (understatement) but he would always manage to say a lot with a little on those afternoons that turned into evenings and I felt cared for.

When my wife and I had a blessing at our church last May, a few weeks after our civil ceremony in D.C., there was no question who would present us during our service and walk down the aisle before us – my “other” mother, Sue, and Rhonda and Rowe.

I knew Rowe would get me to the church on time.

A few weeks before the blessing Rowe asked me what I wanted him to wear. He has more clothes than most women and his closet is as neat and organized as the Men’s Department at Bloomingdale’s. I wanted Rowe to be comfortable so I told him to wear whatever he wanted to and he came as a cowboy and it was just perfect.

Several weeks ago, Rowe decided that he wanted to celebrate his milestone birthday with a Brews Cruise in Asheville – a tour and tasting at three breweries. There would be a total of 14 people on our short bus – all related except for me and my wife.

At the first stop on our cruise, Rowe and I ended up standing together away from the group a bit and he said in his low mumble, “I’m really glad ya’ll could come.” I told him it meant a lot to me to be included in his family celebration. And then he said, “Well, you’re family. You’re my family. And it wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

My voice cracked as I tried to garble a response and we shared a side-hug that said everything we needed to say.

Later in the day I made a toast to my “knight in shining denim” and I could swear that I heard that old Willie Nelson song in the background, My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.

The birthday boy with his posse.

Rear view mirror

True in my experience.

Last week I wrote about my commute to work. Okay, it might have been more like whining than writing, but it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

It was all in good fun and some of you seemed to enjoy it. However, I unintentionally wounded my dear wife’s feelings a bit and need to make amends.

She felt like my blog title, Hell on Wheels, was misleading and might make unsuspecting folks think that she had forced me into making a 90 minute round trip commute each work day.

In actuality, the title refers to me and the crazy adventures I have inside my car and my head every day on I-40. You see, some days I can be hell on wheels.

And I gently reminded said dear wife that anyone who has met me for just five minutes would know that no one ever makes me do anything I don’t want to do. In fact, the mere idea of it makes me giggle.

Do I look like you could tell me what to do?

Do I really look like you could tell me what to do?

Anyway, I just want to make an addendum to last week’s post and note that each morning, my wife goes out and heats up my car so when I’m ready to leave my Soul is warm and toasty.

She walks me to my car (she leaves for work a few minutes later) and carries my coffee and gym bag while I schlep my work bag, lunch and other sundry other items I seem to need every day. (Note: Sundry is a fine word that should be used more often.)

No frost for me!

That’s another snag about a long commute – you have to pack like you’re leaving for Europe because there’s no running home if you forgot something.

Then she stands in the doorway and waves sweetly as I drive out of sight.

And at the end of the day, that is why all roads lead to home.

Hell on Wheels (Surviving I-40)

My commute to work used to be five minutes door to door – maybe seven if I hit all the lights red. Today my commute on a good day is 45 minutes and on a bad day, well, I don’t even want to talk about that.

I moved to Winston Salem almost two years ago to live with the woman who would become my wife. My job is in Greensboro and hers is in Winston Salem so someone was going to have to “suck it up” as she said. And that would be me.

Who wouldn’t drive 72.2 miles round trip to see this smile every day?

Alas, the things we do for love.

Now I’m basically spending 7.5 hours a work week in my car and to survive I have had to be very intentional and creative about how I spend this time. So I thought I would share my mad commuter skills with you. No, they’re not for everyone but they have helped to keep me relatively sane with moderate road rage for almost two years.

NPR – This is a natural. Everyone on WFDD, my NPR station of choice, has very calm voices, which is really nice, especially at 7:20 AM when I leave my house. I love the mix of local news and the national big picture. And I could listen to Sylvia Poggioli read the phone book. The only problem with NPR was that I was often hearing the same stories twice – once in the morning and then again in the evening. And I was becoming one of those public radio nerds that begins cocktail party conversations with, “I heard on NPR…” That is only charming or interesting the first five times.
SiriusXM radio – This is essential because it gives you tons of options. Although I do not personally own any flannel items of clothing and I do carry a purse, as in a real handbag, I confess to being the stereotypical lesbian when it comes to sports, especially football. So during football season Mike and Mike in the Morning on the ESPN station is my escort for the drive into work.

These are my Mikes.

For the uninitiated, Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic are two dudes that sit around talking about sports for four hours every weekday morning. My wife cares more about the mating patterns of boll weevils than she does sports, so it’s fun to have my own in-car water cooler to hang around, especially on Monday mornings after big games.

After football season is over, my tolerance for that much testosterone wears thin and I’m on to something else.

My pals Mario and Julia and some green guy.

Like Entertainment Weekly’s (yes, the magazine) station. It’s a bit like eating a Pop Tart – it has no intellectual nutritional value but it surely is tasty. My favorite show is on late in the afternoon, News and Notes with Julia Cunningham and Mario Correa. It’s basically a straight woman and her GBF talking about pop culture and you’re eavesdropping. It can be really delicious at times, especially when they’re busting on Mariah Carey or the latest episode of The Bachelor.

In my fantasy – spending so much time in my car is also conducive to day dreaming – my bestie Carla and I have our own show, Bookends, just like this blog and we dish endlessly on really important things like who would be our celebrity besties – Amy Adams and Ina Garten, and who would not – Gwyneth and Reese Witherspoon. Oh, and “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips would be our show’s theme song. #staytuned

Audio books – This can be hit or miss and for me it’s more about the reader than the book. Sissy Spacek reading To Kill a Mockingbird has been my absolute favorite. Funny, since I had read the book and seen the film several times, but she brought the story alive again and created an entirely new experience for me. I’ve had a few stinkers, too, notably Frances Mayes’ latest, Under Magnolia . I loved her voice on Under the Tuscan Sun but this one was a monotone snooze fest not recommended for interstate driving.
Foreign language CDs – Last summer I listened to Pimsleur’s Introductory Italian and that certainly keep me entertained for weeks. I wouldn’t say that I learned Italian but I could ask directions when in Rome.

My wife and I are going to Paris in September, so I’ll start listening to those CDs tout suite.

Silence – That’s my default on drive homes when I’m suffering from sensory bombardment and I just don’t want to hear anything but the humming of my Soul. Oh, yeah, that’s my car, a Kia Soul. And lately, on these quiet drives, I’ve started taking photos. Calm down, I’m not endangering myself or others – I’m only snapping when the car is stopped and posting later. I’m liking this practice and thinking about incorporating it into an App that would make me a fortune. Roadstergram, anyone?
The Soulmobile

The list could go on – pod casts, music, singing, writing out loud, etc. but this is enough for now. I don’t know how long I can keep this up and I feel like a weenie for complaining – my good friend, Rowe, has been commuting from Greensboro to Raleigh for years – without a peep.

He’s clearly a better person than I am. I know he’s a better driver.

Anyway, today the sun is shining, traffic is a breeze, and Mario and Julia are trashing Jennifer Lopez’s latest bad movie.

It is well with my Soul.

Commute with a view. Photo credit: The driver

Encore

I’ve often thought that the term “celebration of life” was a bit of a spin job, designed to make us all feel better about someone’s death. After all, grieving and celebrating seem like natural antonyms of each other.

I stand corrected after attending my late friend, Suzanne’s, Celebration of Life this past Saturday. Suzanne died unexpectedly on December 18^th from a massive stroke and I, like most of the large crowd in attendance at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church on Saturday, still couldn’t believe that such a bright spirit had simply vanished.

The mournful tones of a lone bagpiper washed over me as soon as I opened my car door and my face was wet with tears before I even made my way inside the church. There would be many more tears but mostly ones of abundant joy for having been in the circle of such an extraordinary human being.

Suzanne’s celebration of life had it all – gorgeous music performed by her beloved Bel Canto chorus, a tender and funny eulogy delivered by a dear friend, and an inspiring homily given by a minister who seemed to know her heart and her struggles.

Light was in abundance in all manner of ways at Holy Trinity on Saturday.

I smiled throughout her eulogy as I learned so much about my friend that I never knew – including a hilarious story about her being surprised by an earnest pack of Webelos while skinny-dipping in a Texas pond one hot summer’s day. I could almost hear what the minister described as Suzanne’s “unfettered peels of laughter” chiming in with the rest of us as the story unfolded.

I learned that she was a “devoted encourager” often writing notes to young people, particularly those pursuing a career in the arts, and often enclosing a check with her kind words. I smiled as I remembered receiving such a note in support of Triad Health Project, the non-profit that I work for.

I really hope I saved that note.

I smiled again when I heard her described as “swift to love” and that she was known for her “constant practice of generosity.”

To know Suzanne was to also know her passionate love of music, particularly choral music and this music was the soul of her service on Saturday. So it was perfect when the Bel Canto company, her singers, many singing through tears, performed In Paradisum from Maurice Durufle’s Requiem, Op. 9 before Suzanne’s ashes were committed to the columbarium at Holy Trinity. This achingly beautiful piece translates from the Latin as “Into Paradise” and includes these lyrics:

“May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem. May choirs of angels welcome you and lead you to the bosom of Abraham.”

Choirs of angels – yes, nothing else would do for Suzanne Goddard’s arrival.

And may her celestial concert series commence. Brava, dear woman!

My swift to love friend, Suzanne.

Connecting to place

It’s a cloudless, sunny day – the kind that doesn’t feel much like January. Coats will be worn, but unzipped. Gloves will be off, but tucked in the coat pockets just in case. When I take my dog to the big open field by the middle school in our neighborhood, I un-clip her leash from her collar and she runs into the wind, smiling. She too feels the shift in the air.

By Carla Kucinski

It is my day off, and I’m spending it writing, reading, reflecting. Though I will confess, I spent the morning working on a presentation for work, but I did it in my pajamas and slippers, and therefore, it felt less “work-like.” But I surrendered at noon, not allowing it to take over my entire day.

I am in my living room, sitting on the couch, notebook in my lap, sunshine streaming through the French doors, warming the room like an oven. My dog lies on the living room floor in a patch of sun the shape of a rectangle. She is breathing softly through her nose, the way dogs do when they first drift off to sleep.

I live essentially in three rooms in my condo: the bedroom, the kitchen and this room. These spaces occupy the majority of my time. It’s been a few months now since we moved into our condo. I like it here. It’s cozy and compact, but not in a claustrophobic way. I like that I can talk to my husband in the living room while I prepare dinner in the kitchen and we share moments from our day. I like that when I step out onto the balcony, which seems to always be bathed in sunlight I can look out over the tree tops and roof tops, and watch the seasons change. Sunsets from here are spectacular in their various shades of pink.

By Carla Kucinski

What’s not fun is hauling three bags of groceries up three flights of stairs, and the dogs next door that bark every time we set foot on our doorstep. But it beats raking a yard full of leaves. In any case, you get used to it. Sometimes, you grow to love it, even the force of the train a half-mile down the street, whose blaring horn slices the dark and stillness of the night. There’s comfort in knowing someone else is awake early in the morning.

We drove by our old house the other day. It felt strangely foreign to me, as if we never lived there. Everything about it was the same, except for a pair of white lace curtain hanging from the front window. I never hung curtains in that window; they would have blocked the view.

I’ve realized that I’ve learned to adapt easily to new surroundings. I can quickly turn a house into a home. Start from scratch. I dream of one day owning our own house, a quaint bungalow with a forest for a backyard and a front porch for swinging. I can picture the house, but never the place.

Angel Oak Tree by Carla Kucinski

All this moving sometimes makes me feel rootless. Without roots, there’s no commitment. I’ll always be searching for the next thing. Owning a home both terrifies me and excites me. Owning keeps one from moving, which is the part that scares me. Renting gives one flexibility, prevents you from getting stuck. But wouldn’t it be nice to paint the walls the color I want?

“It is difficult to commit to living where we are, how we are. It is difficult and necessary. In order to make art, we must first make an artful life, a life rich enough and diverse enough to give us fuel. We must strive to see the beauty where we are planted, even if we are planted somewhere that feels very foreign to our nature.”

These words struck me today while reading Julia Cameron’s “The Sound of Paper.” She goes on to talk about how while living in New York she had to “work to connect to the parts of the city that feed my imagination and bring me a sense of richness and diversity instead of mere overcrowding and sameness.”

Perhaps that’s what’s at the heart of my “rootless” issue. I am not connecting to the parts of my city that feed my soul. Instead, I’ve felt very reclusive lately, drawing inward but not finding inspiration and thus blaming my lack of imagination on my environment. Cameron says we become victims if we aren’t willing to connect to the place we live to feed our imagination.

Foggy Morning Walk by Carla Kucinski

Photography has always connected me to places, moments. It helps me see the beauty in everyday life. Maybe I need to see more of my city through my lens or put it down and actually experience it instead of observing it.

“We must, as the elders advise us, bloom where we are planted,” Cameron writes. For if we don’t “our art dries up at the root.”

What an evocative image.

What feeds your imagination? What parts of your city do you connect to that feed your imagination? How do you connect?

By Carla Kucinski

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Uncategorized

A Fine Rowemance

Rear view mirror

Hell on Wheels (Surviving I-40)

Encore

Connecting to place