When I left for college, in the fall of 1992, it felt like more than the end of my childhood. My mom, my closest companion and dearest friend for the past four years, was remarried in August just before I left. The man she married, Luther Smith, was a much older man from our beloved church. I was … well, I was skeptical. I hated that she was *leaving* our shared life (being sure not to notice that I, too, was leaving). I hated that she had found someone else, that I was not part of the inner circle anymore, that ‘we’ had become ‘them.’

In the midst of these hysterics, I began to actually notice who Lou was, and who he was to my mom. I have so many deep, loving and fond memories of Lou, who died in 2007. When I try to capture a bit of his humor, or his wry sayings, they come off sounding sarcastic instead of tender. While he could be sarcastic, it was always — always — built on a base of pure, sweet tenderness.

Mom and Lou goofing around in the kitchen of their Rutherglenn home. Their tenderness and Lou’s Longhorn signal (as I set off for Texas A&M) make me feel so overwhelmingly tender.

So, I return again to the day I found him the most surprising, and most tender. When I was in college, I wrote a weekly column for the newspaper. I was one of the most liberal people in a very conservative town, and one of the school rituals I had the biggest issue with was around Good Friday. Students from Christian organizations around campus would reenact the crucification of Christ on the steps of our student center, in the middle of campus.  I wrote a column about accepting different religions, and what that might mean, and the result was — incendiary. People were — mad.

My mom, who had recently become a more avid Christian herself, asked me some tough questions, about what I was trying to say and why I chose that time and place to say it.

My stepfather, who my mom met IN CHURCH, and whose children remain some of the most dedicated and strong Christians I know, pulled me aside when I went home that weekend. He was on the opposite side of the political spectrum from me on practically every issue, and we had long learned what topics to talk about and what to avoid.

That day, however, he leaned into me and said, “I liked your column. I’ve attended Sunday every week for my whole life, and I enjoy it. And if I’m right, all my work around church will be for good. I also like hearing your opinions though, and I’m glad you are saying them.” His quiet support, at a crucial moment in my life, was deeply appreciated.

I think of him so often — his pithy sayings, his steady, deep love for my mom, my sister and me, and his four wonderful daughters. We learned so much from loving Lou — most of all that there are times to stand up for your faith, and times to stand up for your family. I still miss his quiet wisdom and wonderful humor. I hope he was right, and is somewhere watching over us right now.

Andy would never use the word synergy — who would? What a ridiculous word! And yet, if it means the linking together of disparate minds and ideas to create a better whole, our time working together actually was that word. I always appreciated Andy — I think he’ll agree with that — but now that I’m an ED myself I just revere his patience, kindness, and putting the League above his wants and wishes.

The best way to illustrate how Andy represented TEAM and AWESOMENESS for me is a (long, sorry) personal story. After I’d been working at the League about a year, a guy we all loved named Matt (for obvious reasons, we called him Mate) was going to head back to England. His one goal before he left was to complete a U.S. (not a metric) century.

I can’t find the (incredible) photos from this trip, so this is Todd, Andy and myself on my first 60 mile ride with the League. On this ride, Andy and Todd waited for me politely at one point. I rode up and spat out, “I don’t need you to BABYSIT ME” quite rudely, thus ensuring they didn’t wait again and also creating a line that we all say to this day when feeling grouchy …

While I had started at the League proud of my one ride of longer than 30 miles (YEAH solo trip to Mount Vernon and back), by then I had one (incredible, life-altering) Cycle Oregon under my belt and lots of 50 and 70 mile rides. We had a dedicated (to each other and to the cause) staff, a nearby Apple Butter Century calling our names and the ability to do it all for ‘work.’

So, we signed up (in an unrelated story, the four staff who couldn’t go decided to see a movie instead of ride a bike, and they saw a TOTALLY R rated movie with a COMPLETELY creepy sex scene and said they could barely look at each other for days with the awkwardness. So, let it be a lesson to you, choose the bike ride!) for the century, and set off.

First of all, we went in two cars — one carrying passengers and one pickup truck with our beloved bikes piled in back. I was driving my (too too fast and sleek) yellow Lexus, and Mate and Yoder left from the office with me. We drove to Falls Church to pick up Andy, and this is what we hear from his wife as he is coming out to meet us: “Happy Anniversary, Honey!”

Of course, we start to question him — anniversary? What? Well, it is their 15 year anniversary, THIS NIGHT, and Andy has chosen to go with us to ride in backwards rural Virginia over celebrating at home. We find this awe-inspiring and awesome.

Then, after a long and uneventful drive, we arrive and set up camp. From here, the evening gets a bit hazy. Drinks are had. Sausages are grilled over the fire. Inter-office love between some people bloom, and is curdled in others. After a hike and a quick tour by Yoder, our colleague who actually attended college in this teensy, tiny town, Andy smartly drives off in my yellow Lexus to stay in his hotel for the night rather than continuing to consume alcohol. He makes the choice alone — the rest of us are ALL IN.

Did I mention drinks were consumed? Sleep is, barely, had. We get up in the morning, and before we even arrive at the start we are stopped by police — because Andy had the Lexus, two of the more youthful-looking of us are crammed in the back of the pickup truck, and the police man thinks we have two children in the back of a truck. After being assured that Yoder and I are ANCIENT, the policeman lets us go (Mate: “I also wanted to be stopped by an American police officer before I left! This is awesome!”) we arrive at the start.

At this point, we’re already down a rider to the evil genius known as hangover, so the five of us set out. Keep in mind the goal: Complete a century. Keep in mind that one of us is on a single speed, one of us has only just started riding long distances, one of us is in the pickup truck vomiting and only Andy is fresh as a daisy.

We stay together. We ride together. We laugh, we wait at rest stops for the laggards (I say we, but let’s be honest, they were always waiting for me and single speed guy who kindly rode with me). We eat a lot of pie.

At some point during the day, we sit down for lunch. We’re more than halfway in, but only just, and while I was FINE* (*I was not fine), the rest of the non-Andy team was really sagging. Andy, as he has always and had always done, takes a look at his team, sets aside his personal goal of doing an awesome 100 miles as a group instead of spending his anniversary with his beloved wife, and says, “you know, there is an 75-mile option.”

I’d like to tell you there was a hearty debate, followed by a team cheer of CENTURY OR DEATH, but we just basically fell on his offer, and took the short cut at the first opportunity. Andy, alone, completed the century (in about the same time that it took the rest of us to stagger to the end of our 75 miles).

So, how does this translate to Andy as a leader ?
1. Plan for fun.
2. Build a team with interesting pursuits, but keep your head about you.
3. For god’s sake, get a motel room if that’s a possibility.
4. Put your team’s wellbeing first.
5. Finish your own goals while managing to what others can do in the moment.

Andy, you were a great boss; I miss your advice, insight and humor every day. Thank you.

We had lived in our house about a year (already having moved in, gotten married in the house, and had Oliver) when we attended our first Fourth of July parade in Barcroft. All neighborhoods *think* their Fourth celebrations are awesome, but Barcroft’s really is. Why? Because the talent is so very, very homespun.

Who is invited to march in the parade? Everyone is!

Who is invited to cheer people on? Everyone is!

Who is marching with you? Neighbors, firemen, the Barcroft marching band, many floats, and all the neighbors that can possibly make it. We flew back from Texas twice in the 6 years we lived there just to be sure we would be in Barcroft for the parade.

So, in that first year, we were kind of standing around, not sure if we are allowed to march (Oliver was just three months old). The parade route was just one block from our house, and suddenly I noticed: A baby smaller than our own!

Even though Oliver was just three-months old, this baby was WEENSY. Teensy. Brand new. It turns out Eulalia was just over two weeks old. I couldn’t resist saying hi, and comparing notes, to see if their taste of infancy had been as unexpectedly full of challenges as our short taste had been.

Megan reading to wee baby Oliver and wee baby Eulalia

And thus we met Megan, Leo, and darling baby Eulalia. These three would become our closest friends in Barcroft — for our last four years there, we ate dinner together twice a week, once at our house and once at theirs. The shared vegetarian meals, the shared laughter, the shared woes of child-rearing and career development: these were the bedrock of our friendship. Jason got along with Leo, Megan and I rode the exact same bus (and I even talked her into biking with me on some glorious days) and our kids thought the world of each other. They are the only other parents who admonish our children just as we do — and no one blinks an eye.

Yaya, as our kids called Eulalia back when they could barely talk, is still one of the most talked about and beloved friend from back home (along with Sam and Evan and Lillian and Thea), and Allyson writes her cards almost every day.

We feel so grateful for the years that we shared their lives as dear, close neighbors.

Julie and I met each other freshman year at Texas A&M. Freshman year, second semester, I was severely outclassed in swimming class with a friend of hers from high school, Leslie. Leslie and I looked at each other at the end of the first (impossible) day and I said, “I’ll stay in if you stay in.” and a pact was born. Leslie became a college friend (we haven’t stayed in touch) and introduced me — somewhere — to Julie. Julie and I liked each other instantly — or at least I liked her. It was awkward because we didn’t have a class in common, or live in the same hall, or even work together. So, we saw each other, but not often.

blurry but beloved picture of me and Julie on what must have been her 19th or 20th birthday.

Then, on the day I was coming back to school to start sophomore year, I was moving back in to my first floor dorm room in Keathley Hall. Shanna Moffett, my roommate, was moving in too, and we both had friends in and out. Then, all of a sudden, Julie was there. I was SO glad to see her! I put down whatever I was doing, and we stopped to talk. I remember walking outside, any that it was lovely and not unbearably hot. I remember I wanted to nurture the friendship, and the visit, and encourage her, so we could turn a promising acquaintanceship into friendship.

I have no idea what we talked about, or how I told her how happy I was to see her without being odd. But we did, and I must have, because we were fast friends from then on. Birthday dinners, poetry nights, card decorating, baking, cooking (oh the ten-feet-long homemade pasta), road trips, camping, M&M cookies with one of each color on each cookie (anal much, Elizabeth?). Laughing, talking, sharing books.

I will write much more about beloved Julie Ann (we ended up having our first children just weeks apart, we now have three children each, one boy and two girls, and we lived in DC near each other for about a decade), but I wanted to start with this day because Julie is one of my shyest friends. She always prefers to be out of the spotlight, and rarely seeks someone’s opinion out because she is both private and doesn’t like to be a bother. Her seeking me out that day, going way far outside her comfort zone to drop by unannounced and hope she would be welcomed (oh, she was!) was a great lesson in being bold when the occasion calls for it. And a great start to a lifelong friendship.

My dad and I have had long years of separations in our lives, and some really great times together. As a child, he was the person I looked up to most in the world, idolized, really, so the break was  rough. I have happy memories of time we’ve spent together as adults, but the time of my young childhood has been a bit lost.

My dad and I dancing together in our Houston driveway. He and my mom’s had just returned from a long trip to Hawaii, hence my grass skirt.

Recently, our first visit in Seattle happened — Sarah Stiles, a beloved Bike League colleague and friend, drove up from Santa Cruz. She is a recent convert to yoga (is three years recent?) and dragged me to a class with an instructor she’d heard amazing things about.

I really tried to do the poses, dripping with sweat and attempting to keep my skin from being exposed, and enjoyed the class. The highlight, though, was the end, when we were lying on our mats (my rented one smelling uncomfortably of feet) and the instructor told us to remember something peaceful.

I closed my eyes, exhausted and energized, and was suffused with a color — yellow/brown. I couldn’t figure out why I was thinking about that color with such a peaceful feeling, so I stayed in the moment. Suddenly, I realized it was the tan/brown/yellow of the water at Galveston beach, my home beach growing up, and a place my dad still goes to frequently and loves.

So many of my early memories of my dad are in the water. He was always most comfortable in and around the water. Walking along the beach, looking for sharks’ teeth, was one of the happiest occupations of my childhood. Hands folded behind me just like my dad’s were, stepping carefully behind him and not putting him in a shadow, reaching down every now and then to find a shell, or rarely and wonderfully, a shark’s tooth.

Best, though, was in the water. My dad dabbled in surfing (the waves in Galveston were really small), so he had a surfboard. He taught us to float dead man style. He held us on the surfboard way out on a sandbar where the water was quiet. And sometimes, if we begged just so, he would hold his two arms out like bars, and let us rest lightly on him. He was doing all the work, and my sister, and then myself, and then her again, and so on until dad said no, just floated in the warm, sandy, salty water.

It was lovely to have that memory back, just a few weeks ago. Lovely to recapture some of that innocence and love from my childhood. Thanks for the lift, dad, and for teaching me to love the ocean so wholeheartedly.

My memories of Tiffany Anderson are so very vague, and yet very important to me. This thank you note will be more an impression she left on me than an actual memory, like many of  the others.

She lived far away from me, as all children in my Montessori school did, and yet she was very important in my life. Actually, as these things happen, my mom ended up marrying someone who lived on the same street as the Andersons used to (Rutherglenn, in Houston). Every time I drove by what used to be her house, I felt a moment of joy.

I don’t remember what we talked about — we were friends, as you can see, when I was very young. I remember laughing with her, but I’m not sure if that is because every photo I have with her we both look to be spilling over with laughter. I remember that she had beautiful, curly hair. I don’t remember that she was a different color than I was — like they say, you have to be taught that people are different. I just knew she was a wonderful, happy, funny friend, and that I felt at home in her house.

I specifically remember her house, which had a long, narrow living room, and a long hallway with her room on the left near the back. I remember her mother laughing at our antics, and her mother’s beauty. I guess my parents took her (or her parents took me, but surely I would remember that?) to the beach with us, because this photo shouts BEACH HOUSE to me, but the details are lost. My thank you note is: thank you for teaching me to laugh. Thank you for teaching me how to be a friend. Thank you for letting me be safe. I hope you have a happy and light-filled life. 

These memories are all wonderful — and each one leads to so many more. This picture in particular is poignant. My move to Baltimore in 1996 was … well, it was bold, and I knew no one. As I wrote about, Carey was my first friend, and then I set out, determined to find more. Carey and I worked for a TEENSY TINY company, and I had settled way out in the suburbs of Baltimore. It wasn’t conducive to friendships.

So, I read an article that recommended volunteering to settle into a new place, and volunteer I did. I was young, I was single, I was available to volunteer. There was a wonderful group called Hands on Baltimore that did all kinds of volunteer work — from soup kitchens to home building (shout out Jeff Wilkinson and our work in high school on Habitat for Humanity homes!). They mailed out a monthly newsletter (what can I say, I’m old) and I signed up for every.single.night.

Pam, Barb, Tara, Elizabeth and Anne (seated) and many babies.

Tara and I met at a Ronald McDonald House volunteer night. Barb and I had actually worked together briefly, and reconnected through volunteering. Anne was Tara’s best childhood friend, and came with her. Pam joined us last (rare — she’s usually first!) — she volunteered at The Loading Dock one cold winter day. By then, I was the lead volunteer at the Loading Dock, and Tara, Anne and Barb were there most months.

The Loading Dock is a building materials re-use center, so we were usually muscling around tubs from one corner of the warehouse to another, or moving a new shipment of windows. On Pam’s first month, we were … well, we were clearing a lot out. Too much actually, and the dumpsters got full. So full we needed volunteers to climb in and jump on the trash to crush it down.

Pam and I jumped up, climbed in, and gleefully jumped around, crushing cardboard boxes and other, yuckier, stuff. I knew looking across that dark, cold dumpster in a crappy parking lot that I had found a true friend, and a deeply true friend she has turned out to be.

These four women meant almost more than words can say to me for almost two decades. We started, way way back in July 1999, to meet monthly for dinner. Marriages, divorces, children, my relocation to Washington, D.C. — nothing got in the way of our monthly dinners.

Husbands and children were forbidden (once we acquired them) (well, Pam was married when we met). We met at our houses, rarely. We mainly chose a restaurant, drove (or biked, especially when I was training for my cross-country bike ride) to it, and then laughed so loud and so hard that we were asked to be quiet in restaurants around the region.

In particular, I want to write a thank you note for the five-year retreat we went  to in 2004. We were in Berkeley Springs, W.Va., Pam was pregnant, the first of the bunch (see? always the first, beloved Pam). We had lots of M&Ms. We had creepy neighbors at the house we rented. We had Skip Bo, and waffles, and restaurants, and hot springs, and …

It was a weekend of belonging, of deep joy. A place filled with people who thought each other were irresistibly funny. A place where laughter and crying was perfectly acceptable (we all did both, Pam in particular anguished about her endless, terrible morning sickness). A place where we could tell ghost stories, and then make ourselves feel better. A home.

I miss them so terribly here, across the country, but I love knowing that the dinners live on. And when I talk to Pam (daily) she says: You know, maybe you should try volunteering. Perhaps I will — it made me some great friends in the past.

I’m not bragging, but I was a distracted driver before it was cool. I totaled one car in a SINGLE CAR ACCIDENT on my way to visit Jana Sneller Bermudez in Austin — because I was balancing my checkbook on the steering wheel. My high school boyfriend, Jeff Wilkinson, and his father, Tom Wilkinson, could not BELIEVE that I drove with my knees instead of my hands (in my defense, I learned that from my father). Jeff wrote me the other day to ask if I drove Ed’s car with my knees (I assure you I did not, Ed, although I would have if I could have figured out that darn shifting). [I think these stories are the root of my love of bicycling.]

Anyway, I have lots more Elizabeth-driving horror stories, but the one that stands out as the worst, and the one where I was showered with the most love, was the one where I was visiting my grandmothers in small-town Texas. My mom’s mom, the beloved and wonderful Bette Mills, lived in Pleasanton, Texas, where she was a business owned and widely respected and beloved part of the community. My dad’s mom, Willa Mae Preston, lived in Poteet, Texas, where she was an elementary school teacher for more than 40 years and an equally loved pillar of the community.

My dad’s mom was a bit flighty, and it is safe to say the terrible driving came straight from her to me (with a small stop at my dad …). My sister Jennei and I were always terrified of driving with her. I remember being a young child in the backseat of her car as she careened around the freeway, switching three lanes to exit, and closing my eyes. I decided I would live or die, and watching wasn’t going to make it better.

Granny, me and Mamaw in a picture from my college graduation.

So, soon after I got my drivers license, I started insisting that I drive when I visited my Mamaw. One day, Mamaw took me to San Antonio, a special treat that I loved. I was driving her car, of course, because I was the GOOD driver, 16 and full of much more confidence than I had a right to be. We had a lovely day, and we were heading back to Poteet.

I was following Mamaw’s directions, and saw the freeway entrance she mentioned ahead of me. I carefully and confidently sped up, steering us leftward to get on I-35. At which point we were hit by a Honda Civic (blue) on our left and an Oldsmobile of some sort (red) on the right. We were stunned — my Mamaw and I were both fine, we immediately figured that out — but I couldn’t figure out how TWO cars could hit us at the exact same time. What kind of terrible drivers must they be?!

I got out — everyone else was fine — and the nun (yes, that said NUN) who was driving the Civic showed me what had happened: Between our car and the freeway entrance was a TRAFFIC LIGHT. In our direction, that light was RED. I had completely and without pausing run a traffic light without even seeing it, and in the process hit a nun (yes, I’m surely going straight to hell) and totaled my Mamaw’s car. Remember how I assumed everyone else was such a terrible driver? Guess what my dad ADORES to remind me of, even to this day? Yes, Mamaw, she the butt of endless driving ridicule, had never totaled a car in her life.

Here’s the thank you note, and the love part. Yes, I was a complete overconfident driving disaster, but my Mamaw told me again and again that day, as I was shaking with fear and horror, without hesitation, that she loved me wholeheartedly and that everything was fine. And when we got back to my Granny’s house, in Pleasanton, she listened to the story, fed me a meal, and then insisted (INSISTED) that I drive her (very, very fancy late model Mercury Grand Marquis) to the grocery store, that very day. I protested, and she and my Mamaw both insisted.

Filled with trepidation, I drove us both out of her rural address and to Pleasanton, where I rented a movie I didn’t want to see just to fulfill the need to show I’d been out. I was terrified driving there and back, but I did it, with her support and love right there next to me in the car.

From that day, I learned that I needed to pay a bit more attention when driving (and, to be clear, I haven’t totaled a car in at least, oh … let’s not tempt fate and count years, but it’s been a while). I also learned that my Granny and my Mamaw loved me more than any thing, even a thing as highly valued as a fancy car in South Texas. It was a powerful lesson.

I’ve had an independent streak for my entire life, so fourth grade wasn’t exactly out of the blue. At the same time, a combination of being in the same classroom with my dearest friend, Eve Koopmann, being fairly fast at my work and thus able to complete Montessori ‘contracts’ quickly, and a love of giggling conspired to send me to the office more than you might assume. In this, as in everything we did at that age, Eve Koopmann (pictured) was my co-conspirator, my leader, my follower, my pal.

Eve Koopmann in fourth grade

Today’s post is more a few snapshots of us at the age of 8 and 9 than it is one particular day. I remember we learned how young men showed excitement while watching the older brother of a teammate on swim team do the backstroke after kissing his girlfriend. Oh our sisters and mothers had a lot to explain at that point.

Another day that year, sitting in Eve’s bed, we accidentally broke a thermometer, and spent at least an hour playing with the fascinating balls of mercury before her mother discovered us and admonished us as to the danger we were in. I still remember with such clarity how it broke apart and pooled back together on her sheets, both liquid and solid at the same time.

Mrs. Stokan

How we strung string and cups from my dad and stepmom’s house to her house (across the street) to be able to talk all night long. How we tried to sell our artwork on the street the way other, more enterprising kids sold lemonade. There were very few takers. I remember the first Playgirl we found and explored (with astonishment and some horror) together. I remember the time we made mac & cheese together in the kitchen and I made her laugh so hard she got caught on the stool and actually peed on the floor.

We were good, good friends. And that meant, in the school day, we were very, very often in trouble. And so, Mrs. Stokan. She was a beloved assistant principal, regarded as tough but fair, and no one wanted to displease her. And yet, again and again, in our fourth grade year, Eve and I found ourselves in her office. And while it was shameful to be sent, we were a relatively solid team. Until we reached the most, most, most dreaded part of the meeting: The part where Mrs. Stokan said, “well, you know I’m going to have to call your parents.”

Our parents were each the original hippies, loathe to spank and ready to use the phrase “I’m disappointed” more than anger. But still, the idea of disappointing my mom, of having Mrs. Stokan call her, was always terrifying. Eve and I would grab each other’s hands and moan, “noooooo!” just before it all took place. The idea actually was worse than the punishment, which I don’t even remember.

I hope my children learn to behave within school rules, but if they do occasionally stray out of bounds, I hope they have a friend as dear as Eve to walk that dreaded march to the principal’s office with together. It’s easier to do anything when holding hands with your best friends.