pieces of me

Prayer

2005-04-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

I met with the women of my bible study this morning. This time, I was the only white woman, praying along side four black women. At the end of the session, we joined in prayer like I've done so many times in prayers past. This time, though, the participants prayed like they believed in what they were praying! They prayed with CONVICTION. I sat there with my eyes closed, clasping the hands of the women on each side of me, listening to whispers, amens, uh-huh's, and the voice of the one praying, fervently, like the prayer was a done deal. When I pray, I pray like I'm wishing for something but not really believing that my words could possibly account for more than just a hopeful desire. I pray out of fear. Fear that I could be let down, fear that my desire isn't worthy of the words I speak. Fear that the Lord will not think my prayer is justified. In essence, I pray protected. I pray sheltered. I'm not vulnerable. I'm not moldable. I pray so that if what I am praying for doesn't get answered, I just say, "well, it wasn't God's will". Maybe, just maybe, God thinks, "well, if you don't believe it can happen, maybe I don't think it should either. I know that not true, though. I know I don't possess that kind of power. I know that God says that prayer with faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. In the presence of these women, I now understand that mountains could indeed move if they prayed for them to. They purely believe that God DOES possess that kind of power and that they are praying His will, not their own. I guess the difference is, is that they believe they really are praying God's will and I'm never sure that I am.

Hmm. I ponder this dilemma and want so much to feel what they feel, want so much to be able to pray with that kind of faith. I want so much to believe in something with such fervor that, upon receiving God's will, I, too, could move mountains, or at least live and make decisions that honor the one who gave me life.

Hmm, indeed.

coming home

2005-04-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

When i was 18, a long, long time ago, i was dating a boy named Robert and one Easter morning, i went with his family to a sunrise service in a park, that was advertised on a billboard close to home. We all went that early dusky morning and when we drove up, there were hoards of people and cars everywhere and the line to go park was a one-way road. We saw before us more black people than i had ever seen before in one place and i found the whole thing mezmerizing. At first, we felt a little intimidated, being the only white people we could see in a crowd that numbered hundreds. We stayed that morning, called from God to be there and hear the good news from people who really felt the presence of the Lord. That crowd sang like it mattered. They prayed like God was really listening. They loved the Lord like i had never witnessed before or since. i'll never forget that Easter. I felt like i was home. i felt like it was real.

Twenty-three years have passed since that Easter home coming and i've been through all kinds of life's drama. Some hellacious times, some peaceful times, prideful times, many, many fearful times. Afraid to go before the Lord, shamed before Him. Unworthy to be called a child of God. Not wanting to appear to be a hypocrite before Christians, i instead stood at arms length from my maker, wanting to be near, but feeling so imperfect. i watched from the outside, looking in. i went to church but worshiped from a distance. my love was at a distance. i didn't want to hurt anymore. i'm tired of hurting.

God called me home today. i've heard Him whisper my name before but with confusion swirling around and emotions well hidden, i just kept walking, to where, i did not know. As rebellious as that sounds, my heart knew it wanted to go home, it just didn't know how to get there. It lost the directions somewhere along the way and just figured that when God was ready, He'd get me there. Well, today He carried me through the door.

my life has taken so many changes over the past few years, it's really hard to know where i've been or where i'm going. All i know, is that i'm here right now. It's all I can count on. i met a woman God clearly put in my path, a couple of weeks ago. She in turn, introduced me to several more women, women of faith, black women of faith and i am white. i'm back home. God is working in my life. He's been working in my life and i've taken notice. i'm awed that he wants to use me; afraid, too. Deeply afraid. i told Him a long time ago, that i still loved him, i just had a hard time showing it. i told him to use me when He felt He was ready, felt i was ready. i told Him i wasn't strong enough to do the "meet me halfway thing" and that if He couldn't grab me and take me, then i understood. He's patient, He is. He didn't grab me. He just held my hand, caressed it, never left it and said, "fear not, for I am with you", "I am with the brokenhearted".

i cried a lot today. more tears for Jesus than i've cried in a long time. It's hard coming home after all this time, but i'm coming. I'm coming.

Idaho Potato Boy Chapter 2

2004-12-17T11:39:00.000-08:00

My caller I.D. said “Vanberg Art Gallery”. It was the middle of the day, my kids were at school and I had the day off from work. I was taken totally by surprise. How the hell did he find me? His first words to me were something like; “I’ve been trying to find you since I left San Antonio. You’ll find out though, that I am a man of action. I don’t give up.” Indeed. I was thrilled to hear from him but also felt anxious that I was talking to a man, other than my husband, about fears, feelings and swirling emotions. I was still married, (I use that term loosely), I still had a home to take care of on 4 acres of landscaped artistry. I still had three of the most beautiful children on the planet. He, on the other hand was beside himself. He spoke of knowing the hearts of people far more than most people had a right to, of knowing that there was a rare and sacred sharing of souls between us and to not search it out, was down right wrong. As convincing as he was, I was that much more vulnerable. His words sang to my heart and in the next couple of weeks, we spoke at every opportunity. My husband rarely checked the caller id, but on occasion I would unplug the cord from the back of the box to erase any memory it had built up. Kevin called me most frequently on my brand new boxy cell phone, the one my father had given me as a gift the previous Christmas. I would plug it in and talk for hours at night, not giving much thought as to the minutes I was racking up, this, before the advent of true "minutes packages", until I got a wake-up call of my own, from my father. He went ballistic, ranting on about the cost and “who the hell could you be talking to you for so long?” I assured him that I would pay for it and in fact Kevin was already sending money to cover the cost. The first month was over $500.00. He immediately looked into getting us a different cell phone package and bought his and hers Motorola startac phones complete with 2000 minutes. We used every one, and then some. He had never owned a cell phone prior to our long distance relationship. I explained my new phone to my family as being new and improved, purchased by my dad. I hated that I had become an accomplished liar but was sinking further and further into the hold that Kevin held over me. Once the phone arrived, I no longer fretted about caller id. I carried this phone everywhere I went and allowed no one to answer it but me. On the couple of occasions that one of the kids did answer and asked about the identity of the caller, I was fairly honest in saying that it was a friend I had met through Master Gardeners, whose name was Kevin.
Joe and I occupied different parts of the same house in an attempt to slowly let the children realize that all was not well with the marriage of their parents. The decision had been made because it made me physically ill to go to bed at night knowing my husband, a dead man walking in daylight, was sleeping next to me. I no longer held any emotional attachment to him. All my attempts at saving the remaining ashes of our relationship had blown away with the words he left me with when I told him, fearfully, and a full three months earlier, that there was an Hispanic man at work making moves on me and I felt both alive and scared at the prospect of his affections. “Just go keep living in your little dream world”, he said to me. Little did he know the power behind those words. My new single occupancy bedroom became my sanctuary. I slept on a futon foldout sofa and bought some sheets that were totally feminine, ones that Joe would have hated. They were pale yellow with dainty blue daisies and green satin trim on the pillowcases. No longer did the entire house only reflect his male, black and white literal personality. My room was soft, pretty and I felt totally at home for the first time since we had moved in five years ago. I decorated the room with antiques, including the travel trunk Joe’s mother gave us but had sat out in the garage because he hated it so much. I had old stuffed animals, and quilts, also from his mother, and other assorted pieces that I had bought at an antiques auction. I loved that room. I bonded more, emotionally, with that room in the six months I lived there than I did in the entire five and a half years in the whole house. I could be totally me in that room. Joe didn’t like the messiness of plants, or anything that would not be considered modern and “clean”, otherwise known as white, in any part of the house. I made the decisions in my room. Joe was absent there and my room reflected his emptiness but it was far from lonely. Warmth crept back in. I came back to life in the confines of those walls and determined never to give in to the passive aggressive control of any man, ever again. I felt no guilt, there was no need to compromise. In Joe’s world, compromising was nonexistent. He asked what would you like to do, ignore your response and do what he felt like. I learned in time, to just give in to his ego and shun my own. He liked to pretend that we were communicating, coming to a middle ground, but what it amounted to was a house that was not my own. My life was not my own. My life was His life. I grew up needing to express myself in artistic ways, taking painting lessons, photographing my version of life, and surrounding myself with lots and lots of color. I’m a gardener. It is a passion of mine. It’s something that lets me take in nature, grab hold of it in my own hands and let my fingers dance in the dirt. Our house had three thousand square feet of white walls, three plants, no wallpaper, no color and was void of any pictures, (that would only put holes in the walls). The furniture was black and neutral and none of it, in 14 years, had been picked out by me. It was sterile. The bed we shared was wood and wrought iron, very handsome. It had solid tan sheets or in the winter, plaid flannel. Nothing remotely feminine was evident in that house. Any attempt to add color or some semblance of personality was rejected with “resale value” talk. My room on the other hand was warm, homey and had muted pastel colors of green and blue and cream and honey yellow alongside the rich dark color of the antique wooden items and photos lined my window sills. (no holes were made). It welcomed me at the end of the day and lulled me to sleep at night. I was totally at peace. Often times, I would drift off to sleep, cell phone in hand and be awakened by its' vibration and Kevin and I would talk into the wee hours of the morning. I held my cell phone close to my heart so I would be sure to feel it calling me. Kevin sang to me with his words of romance. “I love you more than the clouds love the Idaho azure blue skies...I love you more than the sun loves the dew on the sunflowers in the morning...I love you more than rain loves the meadow on a summer afternoon...” There was something incredibly intoxicating about his voice. I could listen to him ramble forever, just to hear his voice. It was strong, very masculine, and very heady. I was his “angel”, his “sweetheart”, and his “love of my life”. He was a painter by profession, a gardener too, and the mutual understanding between the hearts of two artistic souls could not have been more profound. I haven’t heard that voice in over four years but I’d know it in a split second were it to so much as whisper in the next room. It was seared into my heart and it will remain there for as long as I live.

Idaho Potato Boy

2004-11-22T13:22:00.000-08:00

Idaho Potato Boy

Chapter One

He was a good ole’ boy raised in the unforgiving cold of North Dakota but making a damn good living as a “copy painter of light“, in Stanley, Idaho. I got to know him along the river walk in the romantic city of San Antonio, in the hot August month of a Texas dry summer. He was not what one would consider a hunky catch by conventional definition and I myself did not view him that way. What struck me were his eyes. They were as azure as the Idaho blue skies, as he used to say, and they penetrated my eager soul from the day I first looked into them.
I came to San Antonio on August 20th, 1999 with my good friend Rita Polk to go to the International Conference of Master Gardeners and was looking forward to a weekend without the duties of motherhood and especially the end times of a marriage steeped in disaster and sorrow. Just three weeks before the trip, I had asked my husband for a divorce and unsurprisingly, I think he was glad for not having to ask himself. Thirteen years of marriage and two years of living together had finally come to a screeching halt. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of trying. Years of counseling, countless “how to” marriage books, marriage seminars, begging and enough prayer to cause my knees to ache had all been met with a stone wall by a man who believed he had it “all under control”. Well, his control was ripped right out from under him. All the years of trying had taken its toll on this dutiful, church going gal. By the time I wound up in San Antonio, I was drinking hard, smoking on occasion, cussing like a sailor and hell bent on a death wish. I just wanted out. I lived a life of extreme loneliness, in a house filled with people and noise. Depression filled the air of the house we lived in and I inhaled deeply its’ toxicity. Getting to escape for a couple of days was ecstasy.
The Master Gardener Association has members all over the United States and Canada and some 500 or so of us converged in San Antonio to hear from speakers well versed in the topics of our mutual passions. Right away, we befriended folks from Dallas, Houston and other Texas cities but the ones that we really had fun with were the boys from Idaho. We called them the potato heads. During the “get to know you” part of the Conference, while in line for margaritas, we were introduced to barely passable barbeque, the key note speakers for the weekend and our fifty something partners in fun. We found ourselves in the midst of two gentlemen handing out little lapel pins in the shape of the renowned Idaho potato and a third, more shy rather rounded man followed in their wake. Gerry was a car insurance salesman from Boise, with eyebrows that danced when he spoke. Their salt and pepper color gave him a distinguished appearance that was rescinded when the story telling began. His eyes told you he’d been in trouble before, not for anything illegal, but probably illicit and maybe immoral. He had a laugh that was infectious and a knowingness about him that told you it was safe to be in his presence. Dale had his own trucking outfit and was at first, the quiet one in the group. He had just a little blonde hair left on his pale but pink head and big, dark rimmed glasses that sat perched on his head more than his nose and he always greeted you with a warm smile. He was quick to offer an arm to walk with and possessed a reserve only the last generation of gentlemen seems to remember having.
Right away, Rita and I knew these boys meant to have fun and we quickly made plans to meet them in the hotel lobby after the locally famous horticulturist Bill C. Welch spoke about Southern heirloom plants. Kevin was the third of the potato boys, the one who at first seemed to just take it all in. Reserved I guess but maybe just a little bit embarrassed. Rita and I decided to look “elegantly casual” for our new friends. She wore a terra cotta linen, sleeveless dress that accentuated both her tan and her 5 foot, 8 inch figure, not to mention her ample bust line. She wore flat sandals and looked like she entertained this way every day of the week. I, on the other hand was as nervous as I had been on my first date at 16. I wanted to impress and be impressed. I hadn’t been single, in the company of a group of men in quite a while and I wasn’t about to let this chance escape me.
When we got off the elevator one floor too soon, we took the escalator down to the lobby floor and it was this course of travel that allowed us to take a sneak preview of what awaited us below. All three of our escorts greeted us that evening, I kid you not, in various colored, plaid Bermuda shorts with Hawaiian print shirts, two of the men wearing white socks with leather open toed sandals and one wearing black socks with sandals. Rita and I could barely contain the laughter that was boiling within us but gave it no mind for we were there to have a good time and they were to be willing participants in our nightly pursuit of alcoholic overindulgence. They partnered us in our early morning hangovers, downing coffee and Tylenol, while admirably trying to absorb something educational from the speakers we so handsomely paid for and that brought us to San Antonio in the first place. Gerry and Dale took our arms in theirs and lavished praise on our appearance and their good fortune. Upon closer inspection, I realized Kevin was the one with black socks. His hair was thin and disheveled, a nutty professor type, I guess. Kevin also was the one with energy. Not just normal energy. We’re talking the kind of energy only he and the Energizer Bunny are privy to. He didn’t stay in our fold very long. He walked a full ten to fifteen feet in front of us, a man on a mission, as the other four of us strode leisurely behind, out the door and to downtown entertainment spots of local renown. Round and red faced, Kevin never stopped racing, or sweating in the process. He had an extra fifty pounds of heft to haul which seemed odd to me given the evidently high metabolism that drove him.
The first bar we went into was a little outdoor space with concrete tables and high- back bar stools and live music drifting from up and down the river. This was as good a place as any to get to know a little about our fellow master gardeners while testing the regional Mexican margaritas the city was known for. We learned that all five of us were married, three of us with families. All three men had each been married over twenty years and two of them had served in Vietnam. When he spoke of his family, Dale’s eyes lit up with genuine affection, clearly still in love with his wife. He lived on a piece of rural Idaho farmland where he planted fruit trees and flowering shrubs of all rhymes and reasons. Their soil is measured in feet, not half inches like those of us in central Texas. Where we use pick axes and shovels to remove the chunky blocks of limestone and often slabs of bedrock, they use their bare hands to move away mounds of chocolate loam devoid of anything larger than a pebble. He had been a Master Gardener since the programs’ inception in that state nearly fifteen years before. His farm overlooked acre upon acre of soy bean, potato and beet fields. (?) Gerry, too, spoke of his love of nature but in a guy sort of way. His eyes did not get misty when telling of nature calling him nor did they show enduring fidelity when he spoke of his wife of twenty eight years. I could relate. He lived in a valley, away from the city and every square inch of his place had been landscaped by his wife. They enjoyed the reaping of the vegetable garden they grew, but by no means did they live by it. They grew huge heads of spinach and bibb lettuce, red potatoes by the bushel, and green beans that climbed out of control. Gerry had been one of the men behind the effort to establish a County Master Gardener Association and was therefore a founding member. His kids were grown, retirement was imminent and his interests in gardening were no longer his own. Shared at first with his wife, they soon were taken over by her. Other desires were now of his own making.
Kevin lived in the mountainous town of Stanley, Idaho, where temperatures dropped to some of the lowest in the country, at winter’s worst. Given the relatively short climate in which to grow and harvest, gardeners set out at a fast pace when spring finally came shining through the last frost. Kevin was rabid about his plants. He started much of his vegetable garden in the greenhouse and experimented constantly with flower seeds as well. His small plot of land afforded him not a lot of room but a hell of a lot of ingenuity. He doted on his peonies, his six foot tall bush roses busting with blooms but most of all, he was proud of his award winning varieties, some rare, of dahlias. He would later that fall send me by Federal Express next day air, three large boxes of Dahlia blooms, some the size of dinner plates, each delicate petal held perfect by their individual plastic bags. I received them at work and at work they stayed. I had to scrounge to find enough vases to contain them all. Every single bloom was without fault and the colors spanned the rainbow. At the end of each season, he would hire guys to dig up the tubers before the first frost and put them in labeled boxes for the following spring. He told of the cherry trees that the birds tried in vain to consume before he could get an equal share and of the golden raspberries that his father had planted there as a gift. He had been married for twenty-five childless years and his passion for gardening was only outweighed by his passion for painting.
That first night on the town is one night that will live on in my memory as well as that of a certain woman from Dallas that I hope never to run into again! We found ourselves at a jazz club on the famed river walk and went in as a group to have a few drinks and listen to some good music. Similarly minded music lovers crowded the city’s river walkways and the clubs were choked with revelers and cigarette smoke. We were joined by a few other Master Gardeners who spotted us sitting in a balcony above the stage. A million miles away from motherly responsibility, I sat there, in the mixed company of the potato boys, Rita, and a couple of girls from Big D, ready to take on the night. I was consuming alcohol, flirtatious eyes, cigarettes, and intoxicating habits of a single woman with not so much as an appetizer to keep it from swelling in my head. I was quite used to the alcohol content as I had been regularly downing a full liter bottle of wine every night to escape the hell of home, only to waken to the brunt force of reality hitting me square between the eyes. Cigarettes were another matter. I occasionally smoked with my coworkers during a break from the sweaty job of standing on asphalt in 90 degree plus weather pawning off perennials and bags of dirt at the nursery and I bummed one every now and then from my friend Sue who introduced the nasty habit as a form of rebellion toward my husband who detested cigarette smokers. Rita, though, was my supplier that weekend and the supply never seemed to end. I was feeling no pain. We continued to listen to the live music and attempt to hold a conversation but that was becoming increasingly difficult. The saxophone player was playing only to me, seducing me with depressed illusions of lonliness but I pushed those thoughts away with just “one more margarita.” It’s weird how you can sit at a table for an extended amount of time, quite inebriated, but somehow you have the irrational sense of sobriety even in the midst of great consumption. All I know is that one minute I felt fine and the very next, a swirling motion took hostage of my brain until I simply leaned over to my right, in my drunken stupor, and proceeded to completely empty the contents of my stomach directly into the open purse that was lying on the floor, belonging to the woman next to me. I only vaguely remember what happened next but I was told in great detail the next day of my completely uninhibited, seemingly lackadaisical, actions. What was truly amazing to me, and Rita as well, was that Dale and Gerry took absolutely no offense at the situation and escorted me back to my hotel with as much dignity as anyone could possibly muster and not once did they laugh or bring up the subject again. The girls were another story. I, of course, profusely apologized to the woman whose purse had been singularly ruined in one fell swoop, so to speak, and tried to pay for it but she also was one classy lady and wouldn’t hear of it, even after I found out the bag was no Kmart special. By this time, it was just one huge joke at my expense but one clearly well earned, I must say. The hangover of all hangovers obviously followed, but not twenty-four hours later, I was ready to party again. A wine chaser around 8:00 in the morning does wonders to hangover. Oddly enough, Kevin missed the entire episode. Somehow as we made our way to the jazz club the night before, he got separated from us amid the crowds and couldn’t figure out where we ended up. This is not surprising given he was probably leading us by a block or so.
As the ringing in the my ears began to diminish, I was once again able to go to a seminar or two and even got to hear the author, Mark Plotsky, of The Shaman’s Apprentice, weave his tale of being in the South American jungle. He told of the plight of the natives and dwindling acreage of the jungle, a loss we as a people could ill afford. With the plants disappearing at an alarming rate, the cures for many illnesses were being eradicated. After all, aspirin came from the willow tree. How many other unknown remedies lay dormant waiting for us to discover. Ancient peoples already knew of their healing powers but the tribes were also dwindling with the disappearance of the jungle and being illiterate, their secrets were disappearing with their numbers.
After completing our field trips to area garden centers and plant growing facilities, our gang of mischief makers was ready to come together once again. Rumors of our escapades had caught up with us and we now commanded a small crowd in the hotel lobby’s bar. Over afternoon cocktails, we regaled those unfortunate to have missed our previous cantina exploits, and laughed ourselves silly over the most mundane of topics. One gal had brought colorful masks of malformed facial parts, that we were none too shy to try on for everyone’s enjoyment. The more drinks went around, the funnier this became. This second time around though, I was determined to eat before I got carried away with the nights impending margarita marathon. We headed out to the Chaya Maya restaurant. San Antonio is truly a romantic city for those searching for such luxuries and the river walk was their “nom de resistance“. Only about twenty feet wide, it winds itself among shops, restaurants, hotels and clubs and is lush with bald cypress trees, palms, ferns and millions of twinkle lights. It is easy to stroll from one café to another and sample all the music, food and fancy there to offer. After consuming a wonderful meal of “enchiladas de hongos” or mushroom enchiladas, top shelf margaritas, and basket after basket of chips and green salsa, we were ready to embark on more tantalizing entertainment.
After a couple of clubs we deemed too tame, we wound up at Durty Nelly’s Irish Pub located on the riverwalk. The club itself was on the small side and it had an old world charm with oak floors and chunky wooden chairs that outnumbered the tables at least 10 to 1. You got the feeling that you were in Ireland a hundred years ago and this piano player was banging his heart out on a piano whose own soul had known the free living days of the roaring twenties. The piano and its’ player were joined in heart and soul for the duration. The wait staff passed out sheet music of old drinking tunes that were familiar to most of us so that we could all sing out loud and merry! Rounds of beer sloshed on the tray as the waitresses continued to meet the demand. I, fortunately, am not a beer drinker. We eventually closed this pub down around two in the morning and scampered back to our fully made beds where we slept away any lingering sadness that beckoned its way forth. Fun, I kept telling myself, have fun. Give no mind to what your life is missing. Time is of the essence they say. Live it. Live it hard.
The next day was exhausting. It became increasingly difficult to get up in the morning to meet our 8:00a.m. seminars and the lack of sleep was taking its toll on the bags under my eyes. I could not pretend to be a teenager much longer. This was hard work. Thank God then, that it was also our last day.
(?) More research is needed for what the seminars were, when, field trips taken, names of clubs, more detail of San Antonio in general.
The last of our three nights together, we went to eat at a Barbeque joint that was hosted by the Master Gardener Association. The food was forgettable and the company was starting to get on our nerves so when we felt like we had made our requisite appearance, we all deftly departed and headed back to the Irish sing-along pub. We had had so much fun there the night before; we decided to repeat the effort.
There was an enormous line out front however and Kevin and I being last in line, were waiting patiently when I spoke without thinking, “If I promise not to hit on you, do you think we could take a walk instead of waiting here?” He had been dodging my eye contact when I’d try to look at him and I sensed that I might be a temptation that should be ignored. We sat on the sidelines with a drink in our hands and began to talk about what he said he could “read” in my eyes.
Not being able to decide if he was full of bullshit, I decided to entertain his thoughts and “insights” and then feed it right back to him. I could tell that Kevin was used to being the chief, the ring leader, the one whose decisions were followed, whose supposed wisdom was listened to, whose ideas were unquestioned. He truly felt he’d been given a gift from God to see behind the mask that people wore and he alone could tell what was underneath. He took great pride in being able to tell how people were feeling, if there was true love in their eyes, sadness behind the smile, or passion shared among an elite few. As I sat there and listened to him speak of my eyes and the immensity of the sorrow behind them, I couldn’t help but garner a smile at his seriousness. I also knew he was so far correct in his interpretation. He said, “You put on a good act but I’m not fooled. Your eyes show brokenness. An empty soul lives behind the veil.” I decided to turn the tables and tell him what I saw in his own eyes. “Well,” I started, “your eyes are constantly darting, avoiding eye contact, like your’e afraid of someone like me finding out who you really are. That makes you awfully uncomfortable. What are you hiding from? You’ve been hurt, you hold secrets.” I told him his eyes were evasive and cast downward so as not to show his own vulnerabilities. He pretended to be strong, so no one could see the weak, the sensitive, and the child within. My response apparently blew him away. He sat there, speechless, for a good long while and then got up and prompted me to come along. The river drew us away from the familiar group that waited for us inside and instead lured us down its winding curves until we were far away from our companions. Fifteen hundred miles from his wife and eons of difference separating me from my husband, we found ourselves enveloped by the romance that the city of San Antonio works so hard to create. It fills the night with soft colored lights coming from within the dining establishments and is heightened by the lullaby of the musical offerings in between. Tropical palms and large leafed ferns fill the empty spaces and even riverboat chariots float past. As the night grew late, we walked past club after club, stopping only at outside patios where we could hear each other speak words that had spent years in silence waiting for the one who would understand its meaning. We finally ended up in a courtyard with a dimly lit concrete bench where we sat beneath a crescent moon and in a quiet moment, he ventured to kiss me and to my surprise, I didn’t object. We never made it into that Irish pub and I didn’t get back to my room until 3:00 the next morning. We talked for six straight hours. We talked about what fueled artist types, the passion that burns in its attempt to go public, an expression of bold design in its attempt to connect with others whose passions were just a brilliant, those who ‘got it’. We talked about marriage, of what happens over time to the one you sold your soul to, the why’s of communication when lots of words were spoken but nothing was really said. We talked of shared interests in photography, the arts, gardening and why neither of our spouses had an inkling as to what those “hobbies” meant to us. By the time he walked me to my room, I felt I had been introduced to the man who held the key to my soul. He came inside for a final kiss but never asked for more and then he closed the door behind him. I was tingling inside, but also enormously sad that the only man to have a clue what I was about was married and lived an eternity away. I was also married, technically, and chalked up our meeting to chance; intended to be enjoyed only within the context of the conference. I knew I had to let it go.
The next day was our final day in San Antonio, Texas and I felt quite certain I’d never see or hear from Kevin again. His wife was his best friend, the other half of the business they owned, the one who fueled his ego. Most of the crew we’d gotten to know so well in such a short time was leaving bright and early on flights taking them back to the real world. I would just remember our lone evening together and drive back home to the nightmare that awaited me. Except for my children, I would have just as soon stayed. I drove the ninety miles back home reliving the memories of those strange four days with Rita, the people that would forever have a place in our future storytelling, the education that was gleaned and the nights that went on forever. Twenty-four hours later, on the day that was to be my 13th wedding anniversary, I received a phone call from Stanley, Idaho. The Energizer Bunny had tracked me down.