I have some sage advice.
(Not to be confused with advice about
sage. Though if you’re asking, I
think it’s fine in a meatloaf but I don’t recommend hiking on mountains of
it. I could always tell when my brothers
had gone exploring on the hill near my home because it was covered in
sagebrush; they would come home smelling of stale salad and raw boy.) It is this: try to make friends with people
who own cabins in the mountains and remain on their good side. A few years ago I made a new friend who went
out on a limb and invited me for a weekend retreat at her sprawling home along
a river in the Rocky Mountains.
Apparently I was good enough company to invite back and I have basked in
her hospitality a few more times since. I
have relished it. We kayak, hike, eat
fruit and cheese along the wrap around deck and talk nonstop. But there’s a different cadence to the kind
of talking with this group. It’s not
frivolous, indulgent or skittish banter among women who behave differently when
they are away from responsibility. The
conversation is almost always significant.
There’s a lesson to be learned , information to be gathered or thoughts
to be shared. It’s a unique setting and
each time I go I come back feeling healed by nature, calmed by a king-sized bed
with fresh, crisp sheets and invigorated with ideas that cause me to think on
weightier matters. Since we haven’t been
friends forever, there’s a lot to explore.
As we loaded up the Suburban to begin our return trip we
snaked through the switchbacks along the mountain and talked some more. Families, faith, experiences, wise cracks by
yours truly, and then a question; “Kristy, what are your parents like?” (Read: I wonder what kind of humans could produce a species such
as yourself?) At that moment I felt
my insides burst with pride, gratitude and love and I couldn’t (didn’t want to)
shut up. I talked about a mom who is
strong, smart, savvy, and did my taxes right up until the moment I married an
accountant. “She’s not fluffy – she would
rather sit in a corner with a copy of the Drudge Report and talk politics than
make a quilt any day. She makes cookies
with raisins and wheat that keep you regular but taste good and she taught me how to Venmo
at age 82.” I even mentioned the
propensity my parents have to take in “strays” – people who need respite from a
difficult situation or who simply need a soft place to fall for a while – and the
very next day I got an email from my mom explaining that the grandson of a
family friend would be living with them for a couple of months while he
completed an internship. Then there’s my
Dad. My Dad! If you strike up a conversation with my Dad
at a wedding reception he will probably write you a letter the next day to address
any concerns you shared about your life because did I mention you will share concerns about your life? You won’t even know you’re doing it until it’s
too late but good for you because he will tell you how to fix it, and he will
probably pray for you at the foot of his bed that night while holding hands
with my mother. You may not realize it
at the time, but when you engage in a conversation with my father you’re not just
passing the time with idle chit chat you’re gaining an ally.
When I look back on my childhood I miss the gentle hum of
its rhythm. It wasn’t perfect - it never
is - but my memories are garnished with a soft focus lens and a reverent regard. It’s not just a gift but a responsibility,
and I share it not to brag but to be grateful.
I don’t want to forget the feeling I had as our car hugged the curves of
that two lane highway coming home. I was
still pondering my kayak trip on the tranquil, glassy lake littered with osprey
that morning when the question registered, “Kristy, what are your parents like?” Luckily it was a long drive home.
