Marthea (and Andy) hired me at the League. I was so excited to start work there — so out of control giddy that I would not be working in pest control anymore, but would be able to work in cycling, which I had some to love. My first year there, many colleagues reminisce that I was trying so hard to impress, to make a difference, to show that I belonged there, that I almost drove them all crazy.

That year, and in the years that followed, Marthea was a touchstone for me. She was my direct supervisor, before Andy was, and she was also the office cheerleader. There was no problem so dire that she couldn’t talk you through it, no issue, personal or work related, that she didn’t have good advice on.

Marthea visiting me and wee Oliver with her two children soon after he was born. She was no longer at the League, but my adoration remained unchanged …

I remember a couple of stories. One day, I was talking in her office about how stressed out I was, and Bill Nesper wandered in to add his voice to the ‘we can’t do it all’ chorus. Marthea, right then, in the middle of a work day, demanded that we do some yoga. Bill and I, novices still to yoga, were doubtful that this would be either possible or helpful. But Marthea’s gentle, strong will won out, and we soon found ourselves breathing deeply, cat and cow-ing, and then even attempting to stand on our heads. The laughter, the peace, the space that Marthea gave me in those 10 minutes were endlessly appreciated.

I also admired her ability to strengthen the League and love it with all her heart while not being much of a cyclist herself. On one of my maternity leaves, the League went and did a ride in rural Maryland. Marthea loved to tell the story of the very, very fancy bike a member loaned her, and how she found the index shifters impossible to use. Finally, facing into the wind and realizing the land was relatively flat, she flagged down someone riding the same course. “Put it into a gear I can use, please,” she asked, and the person shifted her bike into a middle gear and she finished the ride.

Her pleasure in her two beautiful children, her love of all of us bedraggled employees, her ability to create a team out of thin air: These are some of the many things I have to thank Marthea for. She will always be a model of an excellent boss for me. Thanks, Marthea.

I’m not a live music person, and my taste in music remains frozen in what I loved in childhood. My two very favorites are the Indigo Girls and Paul Simon, both of whom I’ve loved as long as I can remember.

When I was a junior in high school, during the brief second that I dated Ron Rogers, Paul Simon came to Austin, touring with the Born at the Right Time album. A friend of mine from church, Brandon Wert, and I were both completely obsessed with Paul Simon, and our dates (his date and my date ended up dating for years after that night — perhaps this was the start of their big romance?!) agreed to come along. Karen Andrews, one of my very best friends at church, was how it all happened.

Glum Ron, me, Karen, Mike, Amy, Brandon and Karen’s brother Kevin before the best concert ever.

Some of the history is hazy. I don’t know how — even knowing as little as I know about tickets, concerts, and how it all works as I do these 20 years later — we got 5th row seats for $90 each. I have never had that proximity (except, awesomely, at a much later Indigo Girls concert, but how I achieved that is no mystery — I showed up at 8 a.m. to the venue without seats and sat there all.day.long) to a super star before or since.

Also, one person along — Ron, was it your mom? — well, anyway, one person’s mom would NOT let them go if we were to miss any school at all. So, with that constraint, the Andrews family took over. They agreed to pick us up immediately after school, spirit us to Austin, get us dinner and to the concert, and then DRIVE US BACK ALL NIGHT LONG. These are Texas distances, not short distances. This was a labor of love — but not for Paul Simon; they didn’t even go to the concert. This was their labor of love for Karen and her beloved church friends. They even brought Karen’s little brother, because both parents needed to be there in order to drive us safely back from midnight until 3 a.m.

So, with the permission of everyone, and the miracle of astounding tickets, and the willingness of all parties to pretend to love Paul Simon as much as Brandon and I did … we set off. The drive was, as many things are with that many teenagers in that small a space, hilarious and loud. The dinner was hurried. The concert: The concert was transcendent. I swear Ladysmith Black Mambazo was still touring with him, and when Paul Simon sang “Born at the Right Time” I … well, I’ve never had a musical experience that compares, then or since.

Even now, when things are hard, I sing Paul Simon (“Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day, and I’m trying to get some rest … that’s all I’m trying, to get some rest”). And when I sing Paul Simon, I picture his face at that concert.

My mom: unable to drive all night alone. Many parents: Unwilling to sacrifice that much for a crazy whim of their daughter and her friends. The Andrews family: Willing and able, and much beloved for it. Thanks, dear Mrs and Mr Andrews, for giving me one of the best nights of my life.

Alison Dewey and her husband moved to DC to work, and I was lucky enough that we hired Alison at the League. With a ton of experience in cycling (both riding and working in), and a huge, kind heart, Alison was a dream colleague.

When she arrived, she and her husband had one daughter, and I was pregnant with Oliver. Over the next few years, she and Brian ended up with three girls, each one about a year before our  three kids. When I would find parenting exhausting, or pregnancy impossible, or, frequently, both, Alison would model for me success and survival.

Alison had all three of her babies naturally, which completely awed and amazed me, as she is about as large as a pin head — tiny. She’s also STRONG (ask her about her Ironman Triathalon … ).

Us at their neighborhood park when the babies were tiny (this was when we first took Oliver on a swing, this very day in this very park!).

Anyway, when Clara, her second daughter, was born, Alison noticed right away that something was wrong with her arm. She asked the doctor to look at it, but the doctor said everything was fine. Alison is small, but her will is iron — absolute strength to her core. She and Brian went home, and, in my memory, she looked again at Clara’s arm, and then turned to Brian.

“This is our child. We are responsible for her, we are the only ones who can speak up for her. Her arm is not right, we must go back.” Brian agreed, and they headed back to the hospital that night. Clara’s wee arm had actually been broken during labor, and they put her in a teensy tiny sling and she healed nicely in a couple of weeks (wee bones heal quickly).

Oliver was just a babe at that point, and now he’s a huge six year old. And yet several times a year, whether for physical health or mental health or just to remind us what our jobs are as parents, I quote Alison’s fierce love and dedication to her daughter: We are the only ones who can speak up for them, until they can speak up for themselves. This is our responsibility.

Thanks for the excellent model in how to be a parent, Alison. I admire you hugely.

Lou Elin, who replaced Sarah at the League, is an open, loving and hilarious woman. Always ready to laugh, she always responded “sure” to whatever task I asked of her, no matter how relevant (or not) to her title. Marthea Wilson, who helped hire us all, always says Lou Elin was one of her best hires.

Lou Elin is a junior — her mom is Lou Elin, as well. We always loved her stories of high school, when people would call and ask for Lou Elin and her mom would say: Big Lou or Lil Lou? Yes, this inspired us to always call her Lil Lou.

Allyson and the blanket.

Anyway, when I was pregnant with my first, Lou Elin said her mom would make him a blanket.  I was dubious, thinking that the making of a blanket and the details needed would surely require more than the connection of a work friend for your daughter.

But Lou Elin Sr, and her love for Lou Elin, and Lou Elin’s kindness toward me, all came through. When Oliver was born, we had a beautifully crocheted, knitted yellow and blue blanket to wrap him up in. Six years later, our daughter Allyson has embraced the blanket and uses it every night as her own — for the photo for this entry, she was offended when I said, “Oliver’s blanket” —- she considers it all hers.

Lil Lou visiting when Allyson and Oliver were small.

Of the eight blankets we have that are handmade for our children, this one is very precious to us — the idea that Lou Elin Sr., in Long Island, NY, was busy making a handmade blanket for a woman she’d never met — it is a testimony to her enduring and generous heart, and a model that we try to live by.

Thank you, Big Lou and Lil Lou, for the love you showered upon our family. Your kindness keeps us warm.

Kathleen turns 64 today, and the Beatles song is utterly false: I do still need her, although she fed me more than I ever fed her …

We met through work, when I was in the car repair world. She was 0n the communications committee of the association I worked for, and I was on the communications staff. When I walked in and saw her speaking her mind, holding her own in a room full of men, clad in a basically incredibly awesome argyle sweater, she was instantly imprinted forever on my mind.

She had recently lost her best friend, Jan Clark, called “Clark” by all who loved her, including Kathleen. One time, a year or so after we met, Kathleen and I went for a drive. She told me about Clark, about loving her, about how she found her cancer, about how often they ate dinner together and how they raised Kathleen’s daughter Alyse together (with Alyse’s doting dad). It remains the best drive I ever took in my life.

Kathleen is a woman who loves deeply, and forever. She is a woman who turns 64 today. She is a woman who showed me how loyal, fun, talented and professional a woman can be. She is a leader whom I adore, and who I will forever adore.

I’m trying to call out a specific day. I know that I have hundreds, if not thousands, of days where she taught me how to live, how to be a woman. She negotiated from a place of power. She brooked no disrespect, while giving respect to everyone. She created harmony where there had only been discord. She cracked every single person up — she is genuinely, heartfelt-ly funny.

I guess I remember one Thanksgiving. We always hosted Thanksgiving, and I remember one where I was determined to make this amazing bread. This was in the early 2000s, and you sophisticated people knew all about fleur de sel, but it hadn’t made it to mine and Kathleen’s world yet. I read the recipe, and we searched high and low for fleur de sel. Finally, at Dean and Deluca, the fanciest grocery store Washington, D.C. had to offer, we found it! It was in a hard form, in the fridge, but it said FLEUR DE SEL on it.

We bought it, and prepared the bread. It said on the recipe to ‘sprinkle it’ on each roll, so I pinched a hard part off and pretended to ‘sprinkle.’ We cooked it, and I have to tell you that each roll was utterly terrible. It turns out, with no pretension, we had bought … yes, you are sophisticated enough to know, butter with salt. It was butter, with ‘fluer de sel’ (salt!!! for god’s sake, PLAIN OLD SALT) in it.

When I got hysterical, sure that dinner was ruined for the 20 gathered guests, Kathleen laughed, and laughs to this day. Salt! We paid $15 (this was BACK IN THE DAY, when $15 MEANT SOMETHING), for salted butter.

Anyway. Kathleen taught me more than I could possibly thank her for today, in this blog. She taught me to laugh at myself, and on my best days, I remember. Thank you, Kathleen, for everything. Happy 64th.

I was 32 when I met Sarah Stiles. She was working at the League of American Bicyclists when I got my first job there, and I dismissed her immediately, for these three excellent reasons:

1. She was super young and hip, way too young and hip for me to be friends with.
2. She was already part of the League’s inner circle, a group I wanted to belong to desperately, and I thought ignoring her would be the coolest thing to do (I’m pretty smart …)
3. I didn’t really have another reason. Basically, I thought she was too cool.

When I started, I had us all go on a small retreat and come up with our own logos. The entire team put a lot of thought and heart into their ideas, and Sarah drew up a big S: Sarah Stiles, Superstar. I agreed with her assessment, and was thus even more intimidated.

Over the year we worked together, we saw glimpses of the same sense of humor, and allegiances to similar people, but I kept my guard up. Then, one day, the League was given a holiday that no other office in DC got off. Most of the staff was taken aback, but quickly decided to stay home and sleep. Sarah and I, at loose ends, decided to hang out together.

I had recently returned from my across-the-country bicycle trip, and had started thinking about getting a tattoo of the League’s bicycle friendly community logo, to symbolize my love of the League and my completed trip. Sarah is a foodie, and I love food, so we also wanted to eat somewhere fun and fancy.

We met early in the day, at Georgetown, and walked around for a while. Sarah finally goaded me into a tattoo parlor, but even though I thought I had conviction and the actual drawing of the tattoo I wanted in my hand, I couldn’t do it. The thought of all those needles — and the PERMANENCE of the ink — scared me away. Sarah didn’t tease me, but just walked away with me, agreeing that tattoos can be intimidating (although she had one, of course … she’s cool!). We went to a lovely lunch at Pizzario Paradiso, and our friendship became a little more solid.

Sarah and baby Oliver

Sarah left soon after to earn a doctorate at Cornell in nutrition. I thought that would be the end of it, but — we stayed in touch. She came out to DC and visited when Oliver was a brand new baby, and listened to me as I whined inordinately about how confusing/hard it all was. She came to Oliver’s second birthday party, a HUGE bash at our neighborhood community center. And then Jason and I drove up to Ithaca and spent a couple of nights being entertained, hugely, by Sarah and our two wee kids at the time.

By the time I left the League, I realized that Sarah was one of those rare people — someone who I adore and who also adores me, someone who makes me laugh as often as she makes me see a side of an argument I wasn’t seeing clearly.

Now Sarah, 32 herself, teases me about how ‘old’ I always said I was when I started at the League (and I see her point — she’s still so YOUNG!). She recently cemented her role as one of my biggest heroes when she drove (12 hours? some hideously long time) from Santa Cruz, Calif. to Seattle in our first months here. That weekend with her was so healing, kind and wonderful that Allyson still talks about how Ms. Sarah is the only person on her birthday invite list, and Oliver wants to see her every weekend. She is a part of our family, and I just wish I were more open to her when we first met.

Thanks, Sarah, for the friendship, for teaching me the joy of monkey bread, and for showing me I can still connect with a youngster like you.

Sarah, me, wee baby Allyson and shy Oliver in lovely Ithaca.

Being in Houston, as I was for the past 48 hours, always brings back so many memories. My high school friends, it turns out, have a monthly dinner that they all go to and keep their friendships alive. I was unable to join them, but it was nice to hear about it. My dear beloved friend Julie is bringing her baby Neil to meet her parents, and they arrive at almost the very moment I left; it was a bittersweet piece of news, like so much of this week has been.

My beloved dad, secure and safe at home once again, fills me with joy.

I was also going around town a bit (by car and by train — it’s awesome!) and that always brings back memories. I ended up in River Oaks, and passed Birra Poretti’s (sp?) a restaurant that brought back a particularly wonderful memory.

My mom, with a doctorate in psychology and a special interest in life skills, was a real resource for my friends when we were going through puberty. She was unafraid of questions about drugs, sex and, I guess, rock & roll, although frankly she knew the least about that last one. I remember, with some horror, when some of my friends were over (mixed gender!) and expressed curiosity about contraception. She ended up bringing out her whole teaching kit, showing us all the different methods of contraception. It was TERRIBLE, and yet — wonderful. I think everything about being a teenager is terrible and wonderful.

On the drugs, she was more emphatic and less flexible, telling me again and again the dangers of trying cocaine even one time, “It is neurological! You will be ADDICTED FOR LIFE!” she’d declare. I’m not sure that is always exactly right, but, then again, I’m 40 and still haven’t tried cocaine, so … maybe it worked.

Anyway, when I turned 13, that was it — it was time for The Talk. It didn’t matter what I had picked up at school, or gossiped with my friends about, she was going to take me out to dinner, anywhere I wanted to go, and talk to me about the facts of life. Left with no choice, I chose Birra Poretti’s, and off we went.

Of that whole evening, I don’t remember anything about what she said. I’m sure she covered the basics (and I’m not going to teach them here — you’ll have to ask your own parents), and answered any questions I may have had.

What I do remember is where we sat — a dark booth, with stained glass above the seats.

I remember that I got to order anything I wanted — an unusual occurrence in those penny-pinching days.

I remember that she looked at me so deeply, so honestly and with so much love that I knew that I could ask her anything. I remember that she told me, with that look, that this was one of the most important conversations that I would ever have, and that she was wholly present for it. Here, in the moment, talking with me about stuff that was probably as awkward for her to say as it was for me to hear.

I remember how light I felt, in the dark bar, with her serious eyes on me, thinking: I can ask her anything, and she’ll tell me. It is, in some ways, the very essence of our relationship. I cherish it still: Thanks, mom, for teaching me the scary, valuable skill of being honest and present in conversations. On my very best days, I approach some of the candor and kindness that you gave to me that night.

Thank you all for the outpouring of support for my dad. He’s lying next to me, in his hospital bed, with an old-fashioned plaster cast on. The thumb was too fractured to do it the modern way, so they set it and put it in a cast. His shoulder is KILLING HIM (he actually asked.for.painkillers, something he doesn’t ever do) but they say that is the ribs, both front and back. His vertebrae should be fine after 8 weeks in a neck brace. A high school friend is a teacher in Houston, and she found out today that a kid in her class lost his father in a car accident yesterday — too many deaths, too many deaths, too many deaths, and my father is not dead, and I am so grateful for that.

So, I’m changing the subject.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mitch and April stories, so I’m going to tell two. One about Oscar, and one about Percy. Mitch and Carey were my first-ever, honest-to-goodness, beloved co-workers, at Clemons and Associates in Baltimore, Md. in 1996-1999. Mitch hiring me is how I got to Baltimore in the first place (THANK YOU, MITCH!). Mitch is married to April, and they are parents to Alex and Jake.

Carey and I, about 100 years ago, with Jake and Alex.

Carey and I loved to babysit for Mitch and April’s kids. We thought they were magical, wonderful, snuggly — we were actually the first non-parent to meet Jake, as we brought Alex to the hospital to meet him, a fact we were infinitely proud of.

Well, Jake loved Thomas the Tank Engine, and all of Thomas’ friends. Really loved them. And yet, he struggled to pronounce one, his favorite, Percy. He left the R off, pronouncing it something like .. well, it was actually exactly like, p.u.s.s.y (this isn’t that kind of blog, so I used periods). One night, a less than successful night in Carey’s and my history of babysitting, Alex and Jake both threw temper tantrums. This was very unusual, and we each grabbed one kid and tried to find a solution. Jake (or was it Alex, Carey?) was screaming: But I love PERCY! I LOVE PERCY! But, with the other pronunciation. It was … well, we were really struggling not to laugh, and also struggling to make Jake feel better.

The other story is slightly more tragic — Mitch had a HUGE fish tank. It was so big that he and April had to have additional basement support put in — it was that heavy. And in that tank was a lovely, huge fish named Oscar, who Alex adored. Every night, Alex would wish Oscar goodnight.

One day, after we had babysat, Carey asked Mitch: “Mitch, how long does a fish like Oscar live?” Mitch answered: He’s been alive 9 years, so … so far so good. Swear to god, something like the very next day, Oscar died. Since then, we’ve asked Carey to refrain from asking about the longevity of our pets.

Well, Alex was heartbroken over the loss of Oscar. She was about 3, or maybe 4, and Mitch and April were worried about how sad she was. They talked it over, they tried to wait it out, but a week or two went by and she was still really sad. So, they did the thing good parents do: They improvised.

Mitch went to his basement office, which had its own phone line, and used it to call Alex. Disguising his voice, he told her it was Oscar, calling from heaven. “I miss you,” he said, “but I’m happy here. It was my time. I will always love you!”

We thought he probably set Alex up for years (decades?) of therapy with that call, but I also thought it was a great sign of fatherly devotion, love and creativity. Thank you, Mitch and April, for letting two rank amateurs watch your children, and for letting me into your lives.

I’m in Memorial Hermann Hospital’s trauma center, in Houston, Texas, where my dad was sent today after a 37-year-old driver in a Honda Accord hit him while he was riding his bike. He was just bike-jacked on Sept. 11, 2013 (http://www.khou.com/news/local/Cyclist-talks-about-attack-along-popular-Houston-trail-223781991.html), which resulted in three broken ribs and a broken collarbone. This time, the tally is worse — six broken ribs, a broken thumb, and a screwed up shoulder and cracked vertebrae — not to mention a crushed cheekbone. As my dad said, “I think I’d choose the kids over the car.”

They’ll put pins in the broken bone, and figure out next steps on the vertebrae, tomorrow.

But, angry as I am at drivers, at the world, at Houston, I am overwhelmingly happy tonight to be sitting next to my dad, holding his hand, giving him water, waiting for surgery. The other, the might-have-beens, are haunting me and yet I’m keeping them at bay.

He’s alive.

He’s going to be fine.

We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.

Jason and I had attended UU Arlington for a few years, although we never felt connected there, and neither did the kids. We found ourselves becoming holiday-only churchgoers, which disappointed me because I really wanted my kids to learn the beauty of church, its rhythms and sounds, and to feel at home there. We were driving home one day when Jason saw a big sign on a church just across the street from the Arlington UU (and thus within walking distance of our house). It said: Strawberry Festival!

Now, Poteet, Texas, where my dad is from, is (you may not know) the Strawberry Capital of Texas, and has an awesome strawberry festival. Jason said: “Just like Poteet! Let’s go!” So, one Saturday, we set off. Once there, we were completely enraptured, entranced, embraced by a strawberry festival entirely unlike any we had expected. It was tiny: Maybe 50 people, and the children, who had so disliked the UU church that we had to teach nursery just so they wouldn’t scream, immediately ran off and started playing with the (very simple) toys they had out.

A woman, Donna, was blowing bubbles with string that the children could actually walk through (which popped them, of course), and they had a race track set up off a couple of folding chairs that Oliver took to immediately. Hot dogs were $1, and they had strawberry shortcake for sale.

I started talking with a man, Art, and a very young woman holding a teensy, tiny baby (I was three months pregnant with Eleanor at the time) named Kristen. When Kristen moved on to chat with others, Art said, “she’s our new head pastor — she started two months ago, just before her daughter was born.” He kept talking, and I could tell he wasn’t trying to recruit me — he was just making a genuine connection.

Judy and the kids from Allyson’s class still send her cards in the mail. Aren’t they fabulous?

After I expressed interest, he did invite us to church, telling us that it was a small congregation, about 20 people. We felt so inspired by the fun and warmth at the Saturday festival that we went back the very next day. Not only was the church filled with warmth, when Jason walked Oliver and Allyson downstairs and said, “I think I might head back up,” Allyson said, without even looking at him, “I think you should, Dad.”

Furthermore, at the (wonderful, welcoming) coffee hour after the service, I met Judy, Art’s wife. Quiet and … real … my highest compliment, she was warm and tender without being overly either. She asked about our children, and I asked about hers. She talked about the two with her that day (one, Janna, has become a close friend), and the one in North Carolina. Then I said, “so you have three children? We will, too!” and she said, quietly and with great love and heartache, “no, I have four children, my daughter Erica died three years ago.”

All three of our children were baptized at Bethel, when Eleanor was just days old.

Trying to write about Art and Judy, about their love for us and our family, for Bethel and the entire church there, is like trying to capture the very best of what Christianity is. Trying to express their dignity and grace at living fully after losing part of their heart and soul — well, words fail.

Art and Judy welcomed our entire family so warmly to Bethel that first weekend, and continued as spiritual and heartfelt guides to us in the years to come. Judy was Oliver and Allyson’s first real teacher. Art’s inspired photographs lit up the children (Art isn’t in any photos I have, because he was always behind the camera).

I am so overwhelmed with tenderness just thinking of all that I have to thank Art and Judy for. They helped us transform our family and our lives, and we are forever in their debt. I am infinitely richer for knowing you.