So, my first partner, Mary was my friend for a long time before we were romantically involved … the friendship lasted much longer than the relationship. We met our first semester freshman year, at Texas A&M, in canoeing class. She signed up for it first, and couldn’t wait. It was my very last choice ‘gym’ option and I was dreading it. Whatever else we may have learned that semester (don’t rely on me to tie your knots expertly), we learned how to be each other’s friend.

We’re the same height, and we loved wandering around the Botanical Gardens in DC …

She was just one dorm away from me, and neither of us were very close to our new roommates. We would meet at the dining hall and exult in our many food choices, spending way too much time at the cereal bar for every meal of the day. We met mutual friends, and introduced them to each other and gradually grew our circle.

Mary was so outdoorsy, and so smart, and so unassuming, that we all just kind of hung together perfectly. She is easy to talk to, and funny, and humble is just the only way she rolls. So, at one point, late in our sophomore year, we were all (five of us?) gathered in Mary’s dorm room. I was proud that I always kept a 3.25 GPA, so I could stay in honors classes (I honestly didn’t even learn what all the laudes meant until my friend Erin earned one a year ahead of my graduation). I said, “how are the rest of you doing?”

Julie shared that she was brilliant (ha! Julie would NEVER say she was brilliant, but she is and was), Kim said she did well in some classes and not in others, Lynn shared her grades, and then Mary finally, quietly, said, “well, I think I managed to get all As again.” And we were like, “All As? Again?” and she bashfully and blushingly admitted that she had a 4.0, a grade point average SHE MAINTAINED UNTIL HER GRADUATION.

I’m still in awe. Smart! Funny! Always able to take time out for a camping trip, a talk, a jog around campus, and still able to maintain a PERFECT GPA. I’m still yelling about it. And so quiet! If I had ever achieved a 4.0, even for one semester, I’m pretty sure I would still be talking about it with someone at least once a day.

She was a great friend to me for many years, and a wonderful partner, too. I’m so glad I met her; it was the best outcome I could imagine from that dreaded canoeing class. Thanks, Mary, for being such a guiding light and hero to me.

So, today, my family went on a short hike. We drove to Whidbey Island, and went all the way to Ebey’s Landing. We set off, me carrying Bear (~30 pounds) and Jason making sure the two bigs kept going. They RAN up the first hill. So I said, “Let’s keep going!” At one point, Jason said, “are we going to turn around?” And I said, “They said the loop is only 3.5 miles. I bet the kids can do it!” At this point, prompted by generous helpings of M&Ms, Bear had walked 30 steps, give or take.

Long story short, I carried Bear the entire 5.5 miles (oops, forgot the mile from the car to the start of the trail and back). The two big kids (4 and just-turned 6!) walked the ENTIRE WAY, Jason with his still tender back carrying all of our stuff, and the two bigs laughing, playing, and running *almost* the entire time.

I was so proud, in the car, of how TOUGH they are — of what tough children we are raising (Eleanor is too little to be included on almost 6 mile hikes, but she’s VERY tough in her own way, believe me). I was thinking about who taught ME to be that tough — to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, long past the bald eagles and the sea lion, to the part where I had to turn back and climb the hill (again) carrying Bear’s sleeping body, to find my shirt which I had lost and which I thought had my wallet in it. I carried her, gladly, the entire way (we didn’t find the shirt — we did have the wallet).

Anyway, I came to my Grandma, my Granny, Bette Mills. She was the original tough person I knew. She was divorced during a time that people just.didn’t.divorce, and started her own business as her ex-husband caroused around their tiny town. She grew her small-town insurance company into a $1,000,000 business (in Pleasanton, Texas!), and was a guiding light to many.

Granny (in boldly colored dress) and Mamaw at Mary’s and my ceremony.

My visits to see her were a highlight of my year — her generosity and humor were legendary. And yet, at her core, was steel. She fell in love, but never married again — she would not give up her independence. She lost one of her sons, and helped her many beloved grandchildren through many small and large crisis. She was at my first marriage, to my first partner, Mary, in 2000. When I think about how she flew from Texas to DC and stood with us as we celebrated our love in the back of our home … I know she couldn’t believe my journey, as surely as I know she supported me on it 100%.

I really go back to one day, when I was visiting her at her house. I was playing on the dock at the creek out back, and got a really bad splinter terribly embedded in my foot. I was crying and crying, and wouldn’t let her help me. She knew that it was a dirty splinter and would get infected soon, so she spoke to me kindly but with toughness in her voice. No dice. I was not going to let her touch that foot.

After a half hour of trying, she said, “Libby, I’m going to take you to the hospital right now, or you are going to let me get that splinter out.” Something in her voice, in the way she looked at me, convinced me that she was serious, and that she was right.

I held my foot out. She gently and painfully pulled the splinter out. I was fine. She was strong. I remember how it felt to be cared for by her.

I am so thankful for my Granny. I hope I can teach my children some of the same lessons she taught me.

Lorna Green recently quit the League, where we worked together, and faced with some spare time on her hands she flew to Seattle to visit. I was *so glad* to see her. So glad. It had been too long — almost a year, since my whirlwind trip to DC to interview at a terrible job — and the kids fell in love with her. Eleanor wandered around, forlorn, for a few days after she left … “Ms. Lorna?”

When we met, I disliked Lorna — intensely. I thought she thought she knew all the answers (ugh, sound familiar, self?) and was too messy and smug to be successful. The first year we worked together — well, we each spent a lot of time in Andy’s office, complaining about each other. I would bring up how rude she was to me, and Andy would gently point out how she was the most beloved person on staff, revered for advice and kindness.

Lorna and me with the three babies in Seattle, May 2014

I would complain about her messiness, and Andy would remind me that every. single. time. I asked her for anything she would pull it up, almost instantaneously, out of the terrible mess of her desk. He’d remind me that it takes many kinds of people  …

Then, one day, Andy brought us both into his office. I started talking, then Lorna talked, then I finally listened, then she did. And finally she said, “We fight just like sisters. I’m willing to try if you are.” And from that day on, really, from that day, we were, just like sisters. Sure, her messes sometimes annoyed me, and if you listen to her you might think I’m a bit obsessive and pushy. But — through my three pregnancies she supported me, through the League’s ups and downs we supported each other, and through the sale of her childhood home (and purchase of her new home) I listened to her.

I was so glad to see her, and so glad to talk to her and hear about her sons, and their successes, and her hopes for their future.

Like sisters, we fight, we laugh, we love. I’m so glad we gave each other another chance — two smart, strong women are smarter and stronger together. Thanks, Lorna, for taking a chance on me.

So, when I was in middle school, my English teacher, Ms. Wells, was awesome. She had long, curly strawberry blond hair, and she loved poetry. She actually taught me all about poetry, and then created a semester-long project where we had to write and decorate our own poetry (oh! I wish I still had that!). The day before this was due, I spent the night at my dear friend Valerie’s house. We had a great time, and set off for school (far, far, far away from where either of us lived — we were in a magnet program) on the school bus.

When we arrived at school, I realized, to my utter horror, that I had forgotten my beloved poetry project at Valerie’s house. We discussed our (limited) options, and with a faith in Houston’s transit system based on nothing more than faith alone, we decided we would take a bus back to Valerie’s house (she agreed to come with me!), then get the paper, come back on the next bus (would the bus wait for us? I secretly thought it would) … and then turn it in by 5th period English NO PROBLEM.

It wasn’t no problem.

We got on the wrong bus. We got off it, but forgot a transfer. We got on another bus (no, we didn’t have smart phones, or cell phone, or even very many street phones) and that was the wrong one, too. We tried to get a cab, but we were going really far and only had $10 between us. For that, he took us all the way to about a mile from Valerie’s house — we could see it. And that’s when the police car pulled in front of us.

Are you truant? he asked!

No! I said, sure that truancy was drugs or alcohol related.

ARE YOU TRUANT? he said again, as Texas police people are serious.

NO! I PROMISE WE ARE NOT, I said, though, we both were.

Finally, he said, Are you supposed to be in school?

Yes! I said, but we’re on our way back! We just have to get this one poetry project! It’s in those apartments over there — you can see them!

He called our parents. My mom came, and we were in the back of the police car. Through the open window, we could hear her.

“Officer, I’m busy. What happens if I don’t have time to pick them up?” she asked.

“Well, we’ll have to take them downtown, to the police station,” he said.

We began to wail.

Of course my mom picked us up, and she even took us to Valerie’s to pick up the poetry paper, although by now school was over. I don’t remember any more to the story — I assume I turned it in the next day, and Ms. Wells was wildly inspired? I assume Valerie spoke to me again, even though I showed her the back of the police car? I mainly remember how sad and frustrated and tired we were, and how glad I was that I wasn’t alone.

Thanks for being truant with me, Valerie. You were a great friend.

As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, Julie Polzer and I cemented our friendship in College Station, Texas. She and her husband moved to Minnesota after school, for him to complete his doctorate, while I settled in the DC region. We visited back and forth, and one very fortuitous time, Julie and Brian visited Kathleen and I when Brian happened to have an interview in DC (our visit had been planned for months, the interview for a week).

After a STUNNINGLY short interview (Julie and I barely made it through the fruit section of Whole Foods when he called), Brian got the job, and my dream came true: Julie settled in DC, right near me.

We have had dinners together, with Brian and my partners, every month for more than a decade. We love the same food, celebrate the same things, and enjoy each other’s company immensely. Years ago, in 2008, Julie and Brian had beloved, adorable Lillian just barely two weeks before our Oliver debuted.

Me and Lillian, Oliver and dear Julie, when both beloved babies were very young.

We made them bolognese, and brought it over the night they returned from the hospital. They were so tired! We found them a little whiny, actually. I mean, one baby! How hard could it be?! Less than two weeks later, it was Julie and Brian telling us we could do it, as Jason and I brought Oliver home from the hospital whining: How can we do this?!

They had Thea just a year after we had Allyson, and, now, as we find ourselves suddenly separated by a continent, they have wee Neal, their-long awaited and much adored third baby.

I haven’t written about all that I have to thank Julie for much before now, because that thought of Neil born and rolling over and growing without me ever meeting him, or seeing Julie’s dear, beautiful face as she talks about her three babies, is one of the very hardest things about living so very, very far away.

Dear Julie. From Thanksgiving stuffing to veggie burgers, from Lucky jeans to NPMA, I have so much of the joy of the last several decades of my life to thank you for. Thank you for joy. Thank you for love. Thank you for kindness. I can’t (literally can. not.) wait to meet Neal, and to see you again. The world is a small place as long as we are both in it. I will see you soon.

Thank you. For everything. My dear sister.

Hans was the board chair at the League for a while during my tenure there, and we respected each other and yet clashed a few times over board/staff issues. I respected his efforts to build a strategic plan, and disagreed with him on some other things. So, when I resigned from the League and Hans invited me out to lunch, I was prepared for him to talk to me about how I might have handled things better.

Not. Even. Close. Hans came to DC from his home in Pennsylvania, took me to a super fancy restaurant for lunch, and said, “you are a leader. you are a born leader. find a mentor, find many mentors, choose your next job carefully.” I was … blown away. I was surprised and flattered and really pleased.

Hans’ daughter, Michelle, myself and Hans at the lovely Third Place Books in Seattle.

Fast forward to my very short tenure at Bike New York. When it ended so ignominiously, Hans once again took a train from Pennsylvania, this time to NY, and took me out to lunch. He listened to my (whining and) woes, and then said: Go home today, and reach out to your network. You are better than this. I did, and Jim Sayer, the executive director of Adventure Cycling, forwarded me the job description for Cascade.

That night, reading the job description in our house in New York City, I titled a Word document with notes I was making about why I was qualified for the job at Cascade, “Cascade is MINE!” It was part keep-my-chin-up, part hubris, and part real recognition and hope that my skill set was a good match for what the board was looking for.

When I (quite joyously — gleefully even) received the Cascade offer and we moved to Seattle, Hans was once again there for me. His daughter lives in the Seattle area, and I took them out for a drink while he was visiting. We reminisced, and laughed, and talked about the future here.

Today, at an absolutely astounding, inspiring, humbling and hopeful strategic plan meeting for Cascade’s next five years, I mentally raised my glass to Hans. His lessons about the importance of strategic plans, his deep and true belief in me, and his support of me over this past year are all things that leave me deeply in his debt. Thank you, Hans.

So, when I try to write a thank you note to Bill Nesper, memories rush in and I am overwhelmed with happiness, humor and thanks. From his logo and motto at our first retreat (“Depend-A-Bill”) to his support when I was a new and VERY eager-to-impress communications director at the League (Bill pulled me aside and gave me a gentle SLOW DOWN talk), he’s been a stalwart friend and dependable ally.

For his 10th anniversary with the League, some old colleagues made him a tribute video (check it out: http://vimeo.com/m/46197300) and bought him a bike — it was an awesome celebration of all he has done for bicycling. But when I think about Bill, I think most about his kindness, and his loyalty to the Florida Gators.

My husband bleeds orange and blue — not literally, but really, really close. He grew up in Gainesville, his father attended the school and taught there for decades, his mother worked at the library for decades, all THREE of his older brothers went there, and Jason graduated from there, and worked there, too. So, in DC Jason was very happy to be near Congress and politics, but missed the Gators. Enter: Bill and his wife, Mary.

Jason and Baby Oliver, Bill and Timothy, long, long, long ago. (One of my favorite photos)

Both native Floridians and Gators themselves, they came over when Jason and I were first dating to watch a Gator game at Jason’s house. Jason, ever the amazing host and chef, made homemade wings and blue cheese sauce, as well as other treats. We all served ourselves and sat down to watch the game, when Jason started gasping for air and turned purple. We sussed out, from his gasps in between crying and trying to catch his breath, that the wings were ‘a little spicy.’ Bill and Mary both gamely ate them, all of us appreciating Jason while using extra cheese sauce to cut the spice.

Bill and Mary’s first child, Timothy, is about 8 months younger than Oliver, and they came over when Oliver was a wee baby to talk to us about how it was going. Bill said something like, “oh, we know we’re going to be tired, what else should we expect?” In our collective memory, my mild-mannered and wonderful husband actually grabbed Bill’s shirt front (gently) and said: “You have NO IDEA how tired you will be.”

Bill’s Gator enthusiasm, personal cheerleading for me, professional support of my career and thoughtful work ethic and spiritual curiosity made him an excellent colleague, a respected partner-in-crime, and a great friend all these years. Thank you, Bill, for being awesome, and for surviving hot wings and strong exclamations.