Friends... Just a Click (and 10,000 miles) Away

If you follow Grumbles and Grins, then you know about Jack Ramsay, my Scotsman pal who lives Down Under. You know what a great friend he is, and what a colossal pain in the neck he can be. You know Jack proof-reads my writing and gives me (really sad, pathetic) advice. You know he makes me laugh. Makes me mad. And then...makes me laugh, again.

You might remember that I performed a comedy show last year to raise money to donate to charity in his and his wife Alison’s names. Many of you even autographed the poster I had printed of him, which is now on display at Frog Hollow, Karana Downs, Queensland. At least, it had better be on display… That was artwork at its finest!

You also know about my buddy Larry, who traveled 10,000 miles north to Maine last summer for a month-long visit. It just so happens that he lives on Russell Island-- off the coast of Brisbane, and only one hour away from Jack and Ali’s mainland home.


My two friends had never met. They’d never heard of each other until I talked to one about the other, and to the other about the one. It only seemed natural that the two should meet. I mean… if I love them both, then surely, they would love each other!

So, when Larry left Maine, he had Jack’s phone number and address in his possession, and he promised to look Jack up when he got home. I didn’t really hold out a lot of hope that my two friends would make a connection, though. Larry Gilles is as laid-back a man as I’ve ever known. Totally self-confident and completely calm and peaceful. He does things at his own pace.

Much like that of a turtle.

And speaking of turtles, I’ve rarely laughed as hard as I did the night that Larry told me how a turtle broke his foot. It’s true. If ever you think, “Gee… I’d better stay away from _______ or I might break my foot!”…. well, I’ll bet the image of a turtle was not what popped into your head!

I’m not talking big turtles, here, either. Not like a Galapagos Turtle--which can weigh up to 400 pounds! Or even the North American Alligator Snapper, which can grow to 100 pounds at maturity. Nope… I’m talking normal-sized turtles. They kind you keep for pets when you’re a kid. Benign, plodding--and known more for retreating into their shells than for their aggressive, bone-crushing behavior.

Yep. A normal sized turtle broke the foot of strapping, six-foot-three-inch tall Larry.


But see, this was an extraordinary turtle—even though it was tiny in comparison to my Aussie mate. The turtle which snapped his bone in two was a FLYING turtle. I know, I know… I was a tad incredulous, myself. I mean, really! How naïve did this man think I was?

However, as accomplished a story-teller as Larry is, he doesn’t exaggerate. He doesn’t fib. The man is so bloody honest it’s scary. If you don’t think you can handle a truthful answer, you do NOT want to ask that man a question. Nope.

Larry was riding his motorcycle cross-county one night when he saw the headlights of a car traveling at speed towards him. Seconds before the bike and auto met, the car’s tire barely grazed the edge of the shell of a turtle who’d been hurrying across the road since sunrise of the previous day. Pinched between bitumen and rubber, the turtle was launched into the air… catapulted to connect solidly with the top of Larry’s boot-clad foot.

There are many more details to this legend than what I’m able to repeat. That’s because I was doubled over, laughing so hard I couldn’t hear his narrative. It’s always been a failing of mine…this propensity I have to get hysterical over silly accidents. It’s not that I didn’t feel bad for my friend. I’m sure getting a tarsal bone busted by the armor of a terrapin was terribly painful.


Ah, but the images! A big bruiser of a biker… a mean, sexy machine… both brought low by a wee little turtle. Did the poor tortoise have time to pull himself inside his shell before he struck leather-coated flesh? Or were his scaly little arms and legs flapping wildly as he tried to ascertain his natural aerodynamics so that he could come in for a smooth landing? What expression was on Larry’s face in that split second prior to impact, when he realized he was about to be undone by one of the most benign reptiles on the planet?

Did he have time to articulate his impression of the event about to take place? Truth be told, there probably wasn’t time enough for words which contained more than… oh, maybe four letters, or so.

Months later, I’m still giggling. My son Guy once had his big toe broken by a lake trout from West Carry Pond… but I’d never heard of a man getting his foot busted by a flying turtle. Those Aussie men! Always gotta get one up on us Yanks!

Anyway, I digress. To my delight, Larry really did call Jack and Ali when he returned to Australia in August. Tickled pink to make the connection, the Ramsays invited him to their home for the weekend, and the three of them bonded instantly and had a grand time. And, I dare say, they consumed enough alcohol to pickle a pig.

Larry and Jack share the same core values, and they both have an excellent sense of humor. They are both brutally honest—and I have the scars and the laugh lines to prove it. But more than anything, Jack and Larry are both very dear friends of mine—and knowing that Jack, Ali and Larry truly liked each other gives me a warm glow, way up here on the 45th N latitude..


This weekend, Jack and Ali are traveling to Russell Island, where—I have no doubt--Larry will be the ‘host with the most’. In some small way, I’ve helped enrich the lives of these three folks Down Under, simply by being the first of many things they have in common. I’m grinning ear to ear as I think of the fun they’re going to have with each other.

And I’ll admit-- since I share that propensity for being honest—I’m a little bit envious, too.

First Quarter Moon... You Know How it Is

My husband was sitting on the edge of the bed, eating scrambled eggs and toast and watching TV. He’d arrived home before I did, and since the kids had already eaten, he fixed himself an easy supper and took it upstairs. I kicked off my heels, peeled off my jeans, pulled on some pajama bottoms and flopped down on the bed behind him, my face tucked into his hip pocket and hidden from view.

My butt got an absent-minded pat and that was the extent of our interaction as a forkful of egg went into his mouth and his eyes returned to “House Hunters”. I’ve never been able to compete with a well-built Victorian. A ranch or a saltbox--yes. But bring on some sharp peaks and exquisite trim, and I lose, every time.

I spoke into his jeans.

“I need something funny to write about.”

“Yeah?” He turned up the volume on the television.

“Yes. I’ve got a deadline for my column. I’ve got to write it tonight, but nothing funny ever happens anymore.” My self-pitying voice was muffled by patchwork quilt and denim.

“Huh!” He was totally engaged in the topic at hand.

“We’re not as funny as we used to be!” The whine sounded pathetic, even to my own ears, and I rolled over and started giggling. Steven took a bite of toast and looked down at me.

“What?”

The giggles turned to cackles and I lay there laughing all by myself while he looked on, mildly interested, but not overly so. The volume increased again. And I laughed some more.

I was tired. And… tonight is the first-quarter moon. Need I say more?

Sometimes—most times—humor finds ME. Sometimes it’s easy to see the ridiculous in the mundane or the comical in the monotonous. But at other times… it takes a lot of work to look at the bright side. Still, I’m game. I’m always willing to try to rearrange my view of the world until I can come up with a positive spin to put on the everyday occurrences of life.

So… what happened today? It was one of those days when I was right-out-straight. Up with the kids, showered, dressed, checked emails, fed pigs, ran to the office, stopped at the store, went to a quick meeting on my way back to The F.A.R.M., unloaded apple drops and rotten veggies and slop that I’d picked up on my way home for those same pigs I’d fed at seven a.m., put away a few groceries, ran upstairs to check emails, answered twelve of them, answered the phone twice, called each kids’ school to change their drop-off point, did some online banking, drove to a work appointment, took the kids to the exhibition hall so that Josie could enter five photos in the New Portland fair, drove home, fed the kids, built a fire, drove to North Anson with Eli for a required meeting, stopped for gas, drove home…

And took off my heels, peeled off my jeans, pulled on some pajama bottoms, and collapsed onto the bed.

Ho-hum! Blah.

However, as I wrote out the tasks of my humdrum, “blah” day, images flitted across my mind. The gentleman with whom I had my afternoon appointment was a virtual stranger to me. But I wasn’t a stranger to him. He’d heard me speak in public on a couple of occasions, and so he felt like we were old buddies. Before the hour-long meeting was over, we WERE, and he asked for—and got—a hug when we parted. That memory brings a smile, for it’s always nice to make a new friend. A girl can never have too many of those.

At the fairgrounds, I stood in the wings while Josie entered her photos, and I got one of those unique parental thrills as I listened to the compliments my daughter received from the attendant in the hall. And I felt pride when my daughter chose to have her pictures entered in the “adult” class rather than the “junior” category, even though she is young enough to be placed with the other entrants who are under the age of sixteen. She wanted to honestly compete with other photographers, and be judged on how professional and artistic her photos are, rather than simply get a blue ribbon for her efforts. She recognized that she might not win anything, this way… but still, she chose the tougher route.

Another smile.

And then, there was that hour and a half I spent with Eli. Did he do something to make me smile? Hmmm… Well, he aggravated the heck out of me by arguing with absolutely everything I said, tonight. Even if he agreed with me, he argued. Or ignored. Or rolled his eyes, which is worse than ignoring. No, I don’t recall doing much smiling while I went to and from school with my almost-fourteen-year-old son.

But as I think about it now, I’m grinning. He’s a teenage boy. He’s doing what he’s supposed to, and doing it well. My kids have always been good at what they do. No half-measures here. If one of them decides to be surly, they are the surliest of children. And that’s as it should be.

Maybe we aren’t very funny anymore. Maybe I have to work harder at first-quarter moon to find a laugh. Maybe I’m simply tired.

Or maybe, I just require a boost of self-confidence to make everything right in my world. Yep, I think this 1960’s hip-roofed split-level just might need to dive in and give that aging Victorian a run for her money.

The Awesome Power of Friendship

I was hanging out my upstairs bedroom window this morning listening to the beat of the cool rain on the tin roof of the porch when I heard a vehicle coming up the road. Rounding the corner down below was an UPS truck. Since I rarely get packages, I expected that its destination was one of the three houses beyond me, so I felt the thrill of Christmas morning when the driver pulled up to my home.

The package was the ‘proof’ copy of the paperback version of Grumble Bluff. As I am anxious for this less-expensive book to become available to the public, I immediately sat down to proofread it. There are editors who’ve already checked the copy several times, both before and after GB hit the printing press, but the final word falls to me. That is, perhaps, not the wisest course, since I have the 208 page story memorized. It’s harder for me to spot mistakes than it would be for a reader who's never laid eyes on my tale. But there you have it…the buck stops here.

Three hours later, I had once again read in its entirety this tale of friendship–this story of real life in the western mountains of Maine. I had completed this same task just weeks before when changes had been made to the back cover, and new reviews were added to the inside. Even so--even though this is my own novel, my own made up story--even so...I was touched by the tale. I giggled as I read it, and I cried.

I know, I know…I’m a bit peculiar.

The themes in Grumble Bluff caused me to reflect on my own authentic, flesh and blood friends. I have been very lucky to have many friends in my lifetime. And I have been blessed to have several whom I consider to be exceptional, trustworthy and faithful people…best friends. The two-word phrase doesn’t do these wonderful men and women justice. They have been life-savers. They have brought me immense pleasure, and shared sanity-sustaining laughter with me. They’ve wiped my tears, and allowed me the honor of drying theirs. They’ve lent me their strength, both physical and emotional, and when the time came and the tables were turned, they’ve placed their burdens upon my shoulders.

Best friends. Two short words to describe one of the most powerful forces in the world.

In this author’s humble opinion, of course.

Grumble Bluff is dedicated to my friend Patty. Many people who’ve read GB have asked if it is a true story. It is not. Katherine Anne Kirby and Greta Rommel are make-believe girls…figments of my imagination. However, their fictional relationship was inspired by my childhood friendship with this wonderful woman, which began in 1972 when we were in fourth grade. Even at nine years old, Patty knew how to be a true friend. That giving, dependable and loyal quality is something that she's never outgrown, a constant that’s never changed. How fortunate I’ve been!

Terri is another friend who has been beside me for years and years. And years, but I won’t say how many, because she’s still telling people she’s thirty-seven. (Her son will be twenty-nine next month, but, of course, you didn’t hear it from me!) Terri helped me through one of the most difficult periods of my life. And then, a few short years later, I returned the compliment. Things like that bond a person for life…and I’m privileged to be tied to such a woman.

Kay and Linda are two women who have encouraged and supported me through the years; women who have always acted like I was a much greater and more capable woman than I really am. Their overwhelming faith in and admiration of me has almost, at times, made me believe that I really am something special. Truth be known, they are the ones who are extraordinary. Wow. To know such great women is a rare honor.

Other women have also made positive, lasting impressions on my life. Pam. Jeanette. Dottie. Real women with diverse backgrounds, faiths, and political ideologies. Each with something valuable to contribute. Each woman kind and loving and opinionated and strong. Perfect.

And then, there are the guys. Every woman should have at least one best friend who is a man. The perspective they bring to a relationship is priceless. Their outlook on life is, at times, completely contrary to that of a female. But–believe it or not–I’ve actually discovered that their counsel can be wise, their viewpoint can be discerning, and their ‘my way or the highway’ outlook can be liberating.

Plus, they are a barrel of laughs!

Bentley, Richard, Clair and Dave. All men who have taught me, helped me...made me feel feminine, but tough. Wow, fellas! Mmm, mmm, mmm!

Jack is someone special. A man of my age. A foreigner, but with many similar life experiences. He’s also a writer, like I am. Jack is man of gentleness, but with a fiery temper. (A gal only needs to experience it once…maybe twice…before she’s figured out what buttons can be pushed, and what ones deliver a two-hundred-and-twenty volt shock. Heh. When I get the feeling back in my left arm, I just might toggle him again…a girl only lives once, right?) My friend Jack is one of those rare guys with true integrity. He is a man who could be my brother, and I love him as if he was.

And Grahame. What did I ever do before Grahame found me and wiggled his way into my heart? He’s older (but not by much!! It’s hardly worth mentioning, in fact!), and he’s wiser. He’s silly, but sane. Grahame flatters me when I need bolstering, but he’s no push-over. If he doesn’t agree with me, I know it. Without a doubt, I know it! But even when we differ, we recognize in each other a desire for peace. A tolerance for diverse people. And we agree that it is okay to disagree. In truth, he has brought this peace-maker a deep and abiding peace of her own.

Grumble Bluff is a celebration of friendship. The story epitomizes the awesome power that is at hand when two open hearts come together without malice or ulterior motive. Katherine Anne and Greta are girls who each needed a friend, but who each gave more of themselves than what they required. And that’s what real friendship is. Giving, and not taking.

A true friend knows they’ll get it back in spades. And then some.

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The photo above is of my friend Patty, me, and my husband, Mr. Grumble. We have no idea who took the picture, but we're pretty sure the photographer was drunk, thereby causing rosy cheeks and idiotic expressions to appear when the film was developed.