In my junior year I asked Jeff Wilkinson to the Rebelette Ball, a dance where the girls traditionally asked the boys.

That was the year I was an officer, and the officers always walked up on a bridge with their dates, one from one side and one from the other. For long-time girlfriend/boyfriend pairs, it was an opportunity to be in a passionate clinch while being cheered by hundreds of guests. For a first date, it was an exercise in awkwardness.

Jeff came up one side of the bridge, I came up the other. I thought it was going to be a perfect moment to exchange a chaste kiss, he thought it was the perfect moment to show them all we were super cute. He came in for passion, I came in for a peck, it was: Awkward. We made it  through the rest of the night, but only just.

I still really liked him, but was too embarrassed to figure out next steps. We didn’t speak for a bit, after that. Then, out of the blue, things started appearing in my mailbox at home.

First, a golden Buddha, stuck out of the mailbox with a note attached, “To Liza, from Anonymous.” Honestly, I probably still have the notes somewhere, but have not found them tonight. Then, a gift card to a CD store, $25!, a not insignificant sum of money. I was starting to get flattered, and my friends and I were really enjoying playing a game of “guess who” the anonymous gifts were from.

I went to the record store and purchased an Elton John CD — my taste in music as impeccable then (ha) as now (my husband shudders in agreement). Anyway, the gifts kept coming, and finally I realized (through careful handwriting analysis, and then asking Jeff outright) that they were from Jeff. I was so flattered and happy that my awkward response to his bridge-kiss hadn’t ruined our chances, and so honored that he had gone to such trouble to court me.

We started dating again. We continued off and on for a few years, and had some really happy memories mixed in there. From beach trips to prom dinner, from painting the walls of his room in red, white and blue stripes to making chocolate chip cookies together in 10 minutes flat — we laughed a lot together. We went off to college, and although our dorms were right next to each other, the magic didn’t continue for much longer.

Another Blue Ball, one year later. Look at our matching hair!

Young love is so exquisite, so alive and painful, so raw — I’m glad I got to experience it with a gentleman like Jeff Wilkinson. Thanks, Jeff.

My mom is a rule follower, my dad plays with the edges of the rules but tends to stay inside the lines, and I’ve always been pretty rigid about ‘right,’ ‘wrong’ and the non-negotiable space in between. A bit of a buzz kill, actually, always ready to lecture you if I disagree. Going back another generation, my grandmother Willa Mae was definitely a rule follower, always saving money for retirement, teaching kids the right way to read and write as an elementary school teacher, and speaking clearly for right and wrong.

And then, wildly, out of the blue, in a way that completely disarmed and charmed almost every single person he ever met in his far-too-short life, was Uncle Erwin, my father’s older brother. Uncle Erwin was smart — with a masters in divinity from Trinity University. He was handsome — class president, Poteet High School. He was popular, he was kind, and my goodness he would do anything for a good time, for a few bucks, for an adventure.

Jennei, Granny, Mamaw and me in back, with Mom, Dad and Erwin at our house in Houston. See the smiles? Everyone always laughed helplessly when Erwin was around.

My dad loves to tell how he worked his tail off one summer, double shifts at every job you could get, to offer Erwin $200 for his half of the 1936 Hudson he and Erwin had inherited from their Uncle Clyde. Erwin took one look at the pile of money and agreed. He was endlessly patient, endlessly kind, and endlessly willing to raise a ruckus in the name of fun.

I only knew him as a child — he died when I was 16, in 1990, of AIDS — but the stories my dad tells fill me with admiration, envy and terror. What do you mean he spent his last money flying to Mexico, and then made a friend who took him home to his mom, who fed him and sheltered him and became his life-long friend? What do you mean he tried drugs? How could he teach English as a second language at Columbia University, and also be a preacher at a tiny, tiny church in Harlem in the late 1980s? How could he so bravely embrace life without fear? He came over to my mom’s house once, after her divorce from dad, and gave her one of the latest things from NYC — a PAPER JACKET. I know now it was probably made out of an early form of Tyvek, but to us, in 1980s Houston, it was like a gift from another planet.

How could he be at home in Poteet, Texas, growing up gay in the 1950s? How could he find family wherever he went — how could he trust the world would care for him, even if he didn’t worry about it (like I do)? I’ll never know the answers, he was gone far too soon for me to ask, but I like to teach Oliver (Erwin), Allyson and Eleanor that they don’t HAVE to follow all the rules, and they should try to fly more often than I do — the world tends to catch you.

My personal favorite Uncle Erwin story comes from when we were pretty young. Dad and Nancy were married, and we were in Poteet visiting Mamaw. Erwin flew in from NYC, like Santa and the world’s best adoring uncle wrapped into one, and Dad took us all out to dinner. That meant Dad, Nancy, Jennei (12?), Carol (11?), me (10?) and Anna (8?) as well as Erwin and Mamaw. We went to a very fancy Mexican restaurant in downtown San Antonio, that my dad hates to this day (‘tourist trap,’ he’ll mutter good-naturedly, as we stroll by).

We sat on the patio, at a round table, and there were lights strung across the patio. It was beautiful, and we were all high on Erwin’s presence. He loved to play to an adoring crowd (who doesn’t?) so one thing led to another. I don’t remember the food, I don’t remember what was said, but I know that the four of us girls were laughing so hard at Erwin’s antics that our stomach hurt, and my dad, who was DETERMINED to give us a fancy dinner, was getting more and more irritated.

By the end of dinner, my adored and beloved dad was RIGID with anger, and even though I was sad I was making him mad I couldn’t NOT be a part of Erwin’s adoring fan club. In my memory, the four girls and Erwin left the restaurant ahead of the group (honestly, Erwin might even have called them squares, but I may be making this up) and strolled along the river walk, laughing all the while.

The joy of being bad, of disobeying even just a bit, and doing it with an adored and adoring adult, was intoxicating. To realize that you could misbehave and the world would keep turning: A revelation. I have so many things to say to and ask of my Uncle Erwin, but first among them is: Thank you. You lived your life bravely and boldly, and I have always admired your courage.

My best friend Pam and I are flying to a mid-point in the country to spend a much-needed girls weekend together. Where are we meeting? Kansas City, a place I’ve never been but that holds two people I love very much.

Pam is the daughter of Merrily and Lebert Shultz, two wonderful people in Kansas City. Ever since meeting them, years ago, they have opened up their hearts and their generosity to me. I was looking for pictures to post with this blog, and found the gifts they have given me (awesome sweaters), Oliver (his first sippy cup, metal of course), and the organic, silk blanket they sent Allyson when she was born. This post is specifically to thank Merrily for the handmade blanket she knitted Eleanor when she was born.

Allyson’s blanket sent by the Shultz’s.

For at least the past six years, whenever Pam’s parents came to Baltimore to visit her and her family, we’d make a point of meeting between DC and Baltimore (at a place oddly named Savage Mill) for dinner and a walk. Talking politics with her father, catching up on Merrily’s projects and beloved Westies, was always wonderful. And, continuing their theme of generosity, they always insisted on buying, even as our family grew and grew.

One time, they babysat when Pam and Chris went out of town, and we still met up in the middle — it was a wonderful time.

Merrily, an advanced and skilled seamstress, knitter and outfit creator extraordinaire, always makes sure to thank me for being there for Samantha’s birth (see earlier post). As we were preparing for our beloved third baby, turning our den into a third bedroom; getting the crib set up; cleaning the baby girl clothes — Merrily was working hard on a gift of wonderful beauty.

Jason holding both our girls wrapped in the beloved blanket.

Almost the day Eleanor arrived, a package was in the mail: A handmade blanket, in a wonderful rainbow of colors, just for our baby girl. We wrapped her in it immediately, and she still carries it with her everywhere almost 2 1/2 years later — ‘my blanket! where my blanket, daddy?’

It’s beautiful, it’s handmade, and wrapping Eleanor in its warmth every day reminds me of Merrily’s skills and love. I can’t wait to see her, Lee and wonderful Kansas City tomorrow. Thanks, Merrily.

Ron Rogers and I dated in high school for, roughly estimated, 1 minute. Our friendship has lasted many decades longer than that, and he is one of the high school friends I talk to with some regularity.

And in the crazy way that life works, we now live in the same state — he has been in Spokane for more than a decade. After I got the job in Seattle, I called him and said, “we should see each other more than every decade or so when you are on the east coast. We’re so certain about it, in fact, that we are moving to Washington.”  We haven’t connected in person yet, but it’s nice to know someone just over the mountains …

Ron has helped me across many of life’s crossroads. In 2006, I biked across the country from Seattle to Washington, D.C. (leaving for this trip was the last time I was in Seattle until I interviewed for the job here). Three days into the trip, as we approached Spokane, on a wide, clear sunny day on a wide, clear road, a driver turned around to talk to her infant, and killed one of the cyclists on our ride.

When we learned of the tragedy, as a group, a few miles later, we didn’t know what to do and many of us just kept pedaling, stunned and shocked, until we arrived in Spokane. We met as a group, and then I gratefully retreated to Ron’s house. Having the distance to talk through it with Ron and his then-girlfriend, now-wife Tammy was a saving grace for me — floating in their pool, playing with their dogs, eating out with them. After a rest day in Spokane, I reluctantly left to start the journey again.

I’m pretty certain Ron and I broke up after 4 minutes, but we did manage to get a picture … ah, high school. Believe it or not, we were at the terribly named Blue Ball.

Ron has also shaped my life in other ways over the years. When, near the end of college,  I debated being an editor or a flight attendant, Ron very frankly said, “Good question, Liza. Do you want to be an editor or a WAITRESS. IN. THE. SKY.?” Asked that way, the choice seemed much clearer, and I went the editor route.

But it’s not all sage advice and words of wisdom. Ron is also the person who made me go to see Dumb and Dumber in college, and then ruined the perfectly good Air Force One (while he was serving in the Air Force) by LOUDLY proclaiming: “A PLANE doesn’t DRIVE like that” at several points during the movie. AND, in his biggest failing, he didn’t recognize the incomparable beauty of my Daffy Duck impression in high school.

After I started dating Jeff and Ron started dating Amy, we would sometimes double date, or go out together in a larger group. One of these outings involved gathering at my house and playing charades. I am very competitive, and find those group games high pressure. My team wanted to win, and I drew the card: Daffy Duck.

In a panic, with the timer running, I realized that I could BE Daffy Duck. I squatted down, started waving my back end from side to side while holding my two hands in front of my mouth like a (very clear to my mind) beak. I waddled around the room, making a quacking gesture (but not sound) growing more and more impatient with their ignorance in the face of my OBVIOUS cues. We didn’t win. Both teams were laughing too hard to even guess — and that image has stayed so strong with Ron over the years that when a new AFLAC ad came out recently he texted me: “They are doing your impression!”

Not only was he right — but it was CLEAR to me that they were imitating Daffy, and I’m STILL irritated that he didn’t guess.

A friend like Ron, one who laughs with me and talks frankly to me and shares stories with me, is a large part of my hope and belief in the world. Thanks, Ron.

I seriously had to look up how to spell Vicki’s name correctly, because one of our longest running jokes was on a TERRIBLE misspelling of her name on our Rebelette uniforms. Instead of Vicki Ogburn, they monogrammed Vick-Y OSBOURNE. They got about 6 letters right, and we turned it into a song: Vick-Y, Osbour-Nee, Vick-Y, Osbour-Nee. Maybe you had to be there?

Me in full officer Rebelette regalia …

I think that’s the point of so much of my friendship with Vicki: You had to be there. We met our freshman year of high school, in Rebelettes. This was … a very Texas institution, wherein young women marched on the field of football games in various formations, like a marching band, except we did also have a band at Westbury. Rebelettes played either a trumpet, a drum, or … yes, a xylophone, reserved for the least musically talented members. I was a proud xylophone player, as was Vicki. Our junior and senior years, we were officers in the … squad? … and bonded  deeply.

But before that, before we were officers, before we schemed how to sell more candy so we could buy more candy so we could eat more candy to support the Rebelettes (it was kind of a vicious cycle), we were friends. And our friendship was easiest to explain in helpless, ridiculous, uncontrollable laughter.

I specifically remember one day when Jeff (high school boyfriend), Long, Vicki and I were at my house. I was trying to show off my culinary skills, and decided to make homemade macaroni and cheese. It was … not successful. It was homemade macaroni and soup. It was a liquid disaster. There are many people that would be bummed about this, and I include myself in that number: If Vicki weren’t around. But she was, and it quickly went from a debacle to one of the funniest things that had happened in my life.

I always looked goofy around Vicki because I was laughing so hard .. here we are doing important Rebelette work …

I don’t remember the specific thing she said, but I do recall —that I actually laughed so hard that macaroni came out of … my nose. It was … uncomfortable. It burned. But the laughter around it — the idea that a failed ‘fancy’ dish was not a disaster but an opportunity to bring us together in laughter and failure — was a warm and wonderful feeling.

Another example: At an ‘officers retreat’ to town of San Antonio, we stayed in a Motel 6. As young girls out in the world with little supervision are wont to do, we turned our 4-person room into a pretty wild slumber party, with jumping on the bed and general hysterics. Our teacher stormed into the room — not the short one, Ms. Burnette?, but the tall skinny one, Ms. ? I’m blanking — and dressed us down sharply. She ended her rebuke with, “This is NOT how you behave in a hotel,” and then turned on her heel and left the room.

Vicki, without missing a single beat, turned to us and said, “I may not know everything, but this is a MOTEL, not a HOTEL, and I think the standards of behavior are different.” Again, you may have had to be there, but instead of feeling small and chagrined, I remember laughing harder than I’ve ever laughed. I also still clarify the difference for hotels vs. motels with my children … it’s just too funny not to keep the joke going.

Vicki was also being raised in high school by a single mom, a strong, independent nurse. She had a beloved kid sister, and I had an older sister. We had a lot in common — and what I am most grateful to her for across all these years are the lessons she taught me in perspective. The hard parts of life are a lot easier if you can find something to laugh about in them. I lift a spoonful of macaroni to toast you, Vicki. Thanks.

Holly Acree was a dear friend of mine in high school. We met at church, bonded in choir, and spent many, many days together. I mainly remember being at her house, but that might be because I enjoyed it there so much. I loved mowing her lawn (not my own, of course), I loved being included in her family with her mom and her sister, Lisa, and I mostly loved listening to and talking with Holly. We also traveled a lot together, with our church, and were both SUPERSTARS of a traveling musical (superstar might overstate it) that involved us wearing really awful baggy red shorts all over Texas and Arkansas. 

She was a really big superstar soccer player in high school (she may be still today), and yet she just looked like anyone else — until she made a muscle with her leg. Her leg showed muscles that I hadn’t seen — certainly not in a girl — before, and that I loved to see. Her dedication to soccer, to the time, the pain and the learning, was wonderful to see. I admired her for it enormously. 

She also had a great sense of fun — with bright red hair and a fantastic smile (see photo), I loved being around her. We were both children of single mothers, at that point, and had a lot of freedom. I loved painting other people’s rooms (mine remained an anodyne peach for my entire middle and high school career) in a dramatic way. Holly and I decided that her room would have one forest green wall with pink and (white?) splatter paint, and the rest white walls with pink and green splatter paint. Sponge paint, splatter paint, ‘textures’ were all the rage, and we didn’t let our complete lack of information or skill dissuade us.

One day, and I’m almost certain her mom wasn’t home, we set to it. I *think* (hope?) that we taped off the room and used plastic covers, but I know we moved all the furniture to the middle of the room. We did the ‘boring’ part first, painting a wall a dark green. Then: We went to work. We started splattering just the walls, but soon the splatter turned to each other. I remember standing on her bed, covered in pink and green paint, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. 

I don’t remember the clean up — surely we did — or her mom’s reaction. I remember the glee we felt in the moment, the comfort with each other, and the pure love of being with someone doing something a bit unusual that we both enjoyed. Out of all the happy memories I have with Holly, that day remains one of my favorites. 

When we have gotten in touch over the years, Holly makes a point of telling me how much I affected her life. I appreciate it, and yet I always feel she affected mine in more ways. She showed me it was okay for a woman to be physically strong, to stand up to men, and to speak loudly when I felt strongly. She taught me how to love without hesitation, and I am grateful to her for those and many others. Live it to the max, right, Holly? Thank you.