Hey Diddle Diddle, That Cat can Still Fiddle: Friendship Then and Now

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the stars aligned in the heavens and the dish ran away with the spoon, and on that night, a group of young people were brought together by the cat and the fiddle to sing and dance and generally make merry for the entertainment of others.  I call us young people because we were just that.  No longer children, and still not quite adults either.  That magical period when we still believed that everything is possible.

I can not explain what happened.  Magic is funny like that. 

But did you know that a group of people can fall madly, deeply in love with each other?  I didn't.  Yet we did.  All of us, all at once.  Maybe it was the music--that language of spirit--that drew us close.  That was part of it.  But I lean more toward magic.

Magic, by definition, is inexplicable, and I do not understand how our hearts instantly knew one another.  Some people call it soul mates.  Some, kindred spirits.  At the time I didn't know better than to call it anything but normal.  See, that is the problem with youth.  Sometimes we get so accustomed to magic that we don't recognize it when we experience it.  But magic it was.

And in that place of pixie dust and delight, we played.  Oh, how we played.  It was enough to make the little dog laughed to see such sport.  We played on stage and off.  On the bus and across 12 states.  For two years they were my best playmates.  We shared the same inner light--the same joy in living--and when we were together that light was magnified.  We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too.

But moving on is simply a part of life, and so I did.  On to the next adventure, I fully expected the magic to come again, foolishly thinking that those kinds of relationships would happen repeatedly. 

Then I grew up and found that they do not.  Impermance is the creator of magic.  Things that are rare and evervescent are, because of their fleeting quality, special.  Unique.  And, oh yes, magical.

I wish I had known that then, on that trip over the moon.

Then...

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, the stars aligned again.  They must have because five of those same women, now fully adult and becoming aware that not all things are possible--at least not all at once--were able to arrange childcare, vacation days, carpools, and travel plans to spend a weekend in Breckenridge, CO together.  And happily, the magic returned.  Some people call it soul mates.  Some, kindred spirits.  Now I just call it blessed.

We are, as one girl commented, like the butt of a bad joke:  a Catholic, a Protestant, a Methodist, and a Mormon.  All from various backgrounds and histories, but all still sharing a common light.  And over that weekend that light was magnified again.  We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too, at least our little world inside a rented condo.

We felt no need to go out, for everything we needed was right there--the need to be really known.  The need to be understood.  The need to be loved.

When I was a girl my father used to say, "Laurel, in the end, you'll find that your real, true friends will fit onto one hand," stretching his fingers wide.  I used to think that was sort of depressing, but I understand now so well what he meant.  To be really known and understood, to be really known and still loved--maybe even loved all the more--is an exceptional experience.  Magic.

We friends spoke without limits for three days straight.  We only slept out of necessity.  Women who have known each other for  19 years, who know almost everything there is to know about each other, who, in all practicality, helped shape one another...well, those women have a lot to say.  We compared notes on child rearing and aging bodies.  We talked about men and sex and faith and cooking and music.  We told stories.  We confessed secrets and dreams, hopes and fears.  We solved at least three of the world's problems.  We laughed.  We cried.  But mostly we laughed.

We laughed about who we were, about who we are, and about who we are becoming.  The most magical thing about these friendships is that they are not trapped in the past but are living relationships, still growing and maturing.  Enduring, I hope, forever because our hearts still know each other.

We've all grown up now, and we may not hear that fiddling cat so often as we once did.  Sometimes it may be easy to believe that magic is gone.  It's hard to hear its tune under the roar of responsibility, but when he plays, my oh my how he plays, and it's good to be reminded that the dish can still run away with the spoon.

Then: 1991-1993                                                                                                                                                                                  Now: 2010*

*Thanks Jen for letting me lift the photos. 

Blessed Women

We women get used to doing things with one arm and our brain divided in pieces. It's just the way things are. I have yet to see a man conduct a meeting with a baby on his hip or teach a lesson while bouncing a squalling newborn or feed a baby while trying to give important feedback, but every mom knows how many of our important jobs are done this way: noise in one ear, peanut butter smeared somewhere on our clothes, monitoring homework while finalizing preparations for a presentation. This is not a complaint. It is simply a statement of fact: One armed and a divided brain. That's our reality more often than not.

I have an amazingly supportive husband, but I think the other men might look at him sideways if he brought the little ones to a meeting. However, in my service as a leader in our church's women's group, our meetings are always punctuated with crying babies, toddler messes, and various interruptions; to tell the truth, I am amazed at how much we women can accomplish amidst these circumstances. Gratefully, God gave us the blessed ability to multi-task. He knew we'd need it.

He also knew we would need each other. These blessed, good women who offer without hesitation to watch my baby when I need to visit someone in the hospital. Who quietly pick up my fussy child to soothe him when I am teaching. Who notice I haven't yet eaten and say, "I'm already done. Let me take him for you." Oh, how I need these blessed, good women who link arms with mine, and in our turn sometimes pull, and sometimes are pulled, who sometimes push and sometimes are pushed. Arm and arm, hand over hand, together, we will make it up this hill.

Oh, blessed women. My friends. The village that will help me raise these children. My brain may divided, but it is you who put my soul back together when it is in pieces. How I need you.

I Found my Heart at UW

Mr. Wicke and I met at the University of Wyoming LDS Institute, which is remarkable in that it sets us apart from all of the other couples at church who customarily met at BYU, which was the tradition in our California ward, or, here in Arizona, who knew each other since attending high school at Westwood or Mesa High. But it's also remarkable since he had no business being there.

Why would a Mormon boy from northern California ever consider attending the University of Wyoming? My mother takes the credit saying that she "prayed him there," and as I have become a firm believer in mothers being given an extra ear in Heaven, I don't dismiss it. But I also don't disregard Brother Lawton who once attended UW himself and who at church one Sunday suggested to my Mr. Wicke that he look into it. Ultimately, however, Mr. Wicke insists he gets the credit because it was, after all, he who turned down the full-tuition scholarship from BYU to come and find me--oh, that and to get an education, I suppose.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad he was there that night. Glad because I get to spend forever with him, but also because it just goes to show that two Mormon kids, whose life ambition doesn't include attending BYU can still stay active in our church, find each other, marry in the temple, and have a really good life. All of that AND because I really love the University of Wyoming.

Oh, I know. They're a rowdy bunch. Just ask anyone from BYU who comes over for a football game. But they are also down to earth, solidly good people. Some of the best friendships of my life were developed there--people I still maintain deep connections with.

My college experience was made the day I auditioned for and got into a musical theater troupe called Centennial Singers. I knew it would be a great performing opportunity, but I had no idea what profound joy these people would bring to me. I found a new family there.

Some of them got together over the weekend, and while my heart wanted to be with them, my body needed to be here with my kids preparing them for the new school year. I dream that Heaven will be a place where such choices don't have to be made; I dream that it will be a place where I can be with everyone I love all at the same time. Until then, and until I can see them in person again, I want my UW soul mates to know that big pieces of my heart walk with you every day. You have changed me for better for good.

Mr. Wicke and I send our love.

Post Edit: If you want to see these people in action and read exactly what I feel in my heart about these fantastic friends, go here. Jen says it perfectly.

Bowl Me Over!

Most people, I think, are familiar with "the puke bowl." You know, a large bowl that you can thrust in front of a young child who doesn't know enough to get to the bathroom in time. This weekend we became very familiar with it during Griffin's bout with the flu. It was my particular friend until about 3 am, but then as Griffin's little stomach recovered, the bowl was forgotten. Well, not really forgotten--rinsed out and put next to the sink to be washed once the mother had recovered. I can't really be blamed for sleeping as long as possible the next morning, especially knowing what kind of day lay ahead.

Saturday's schedule was packed: There was 9 am dress rehearsal for a Stake Talent Show which I was involved in, an 11 am t-ball game, a 2pm bridal shower, and a 6:30 call time for the show, and somewhere in there we had to devote our attention to our yard which was in need of serious repair. The bowl that had served us so well was no longer the priority it once was. 'Tis the ying and yang of motherhood. What requires our attention at one moment is certainly diverting it from something else as equally important.

By the time I left for the show, our yard, front and back, looked pretty magnificent: Freshly mowed grass, edges trimmed, weeds pulled, roses deadheaded, garden tended, and a newly planted flower bed. The inside of my house, however, was a completely different story: Toys strewn everywhere, muddy footprints on the floor, and dishes piled high waiting to be done. "Ah, well," I sighed to myself. "It'll have to wait. Another day, another dollar."

When our family returned home at 9pm, the house hadn't cleaned itself but we decided to watch The Jazz Singer with our friends anyway. Since they have the luxury of older children, thus built-in babysitting, and we do not, our home tends to be the gathering place on night's like these. Gratefully, they are the kind of friends who don't judge me on the condition of my home, and I am the kind of friend who doesn't judge them for showing up in their pajamas.

"Hey," Shilo started as she walked in the kitchen carrying pasta and sauce in her arms. "I'm going to make some spaghetti, is that okay? I'm starving. Have you guys eaten?"

"No. Fantastic!"

"I also brought this cookie mix if anyone is interested."

"I'm in!"

"Me, too!" Thomas chimed.

"Let me get out this costume," I said. "I'll be right back."

When I came downstairs Angie and Chris had arrived, the pasta was on the stove, and Shilo was mixing the cookies furiously. My head cocked to one side.

"Um...where did you get that bowl?" I asked fearfully.

"I think Thomas got it out for me."

Thomas walked in at that moment. "Uh, Thomas did you get that bowl out?"

"No."

Shilo, still mixing, added, "Well, it was just sitting out on the counter, and I thought--NO!" The thought stopped her cold.

"Yeah. You're mixing the cookies in the puke bowl."

...But the spaghetti was delicious. Like I said, it's good they are the kind of friends who don't judge.

A Brief-ish History of Spoons

Understanding this...



...is going to take a little explanation. Hang on. I'll try to be quick.

One of my memories of childhood, was playing the game "Spoons" with my friend, Ella, and her father. For those of you who do not know, it is a card game, the object of which is to get four of a kind in your hand. Once you get four of kind, you take a spoon from the center of the playing area. After that the rest of the players fight for the remaining spoons, and the player left without one gets a letter. I think Ella's family spelled s-p-o-o-n-s. Anyway, once you have all the letters you are out. Yes, I know. What can I say? I'm from Wyoming. We have a lot of good games there as my friends will attest.

Back to Spoons. My memory suggests that I was not good at this game initially. I was so busy looking at my cards that I never noticed that the others had quietly taken the spoons. I'm not sure how long I continued to play alone, but I remember they thought it was very funny.

My next memory of Spoons is that my mother, a lover of games herself, made things interesting. She said that in her family they spelled the word donkey, and then the loser had to go outside in the front yard and hee-haw like a donkey. Again: Yes, I know. Remember, Cowley had a population of 455 people. We had to be creative. But the addition of public humiliation made the game ever so much more intense.

So fast forward a few years. Some 20-something friends, living in California, are sitting around with nothing to do. "Hey! I've got a game I could teach you." And we laughed like twelve year olds when someone had to go out in the parking lot of our condos and bray like a donkey.

It became something of a tradition at our get togethers, but being somewhat creative, it didn't take us long to take things up a notch. Braying turned into doing a dance on the busy corner of Barranca and Alton, but then we realized the options of humiliation were wide open. After that, the best part of the game became determining the punishment before the game even starts. It just makes us giggle. Oh, and we've had some good ones!

My personal favorite occurred on a camp trip when Shilo had to report that she had seen Bigfoot at the local grocery. The sixteen-year old clerk did not know what to make of her. Some of my other favorites: wearing two different shoes to church, lying on someone else's towel at the beach until they ask you to move, asking a stranger to rub suntan lotion on your back, playing Dance Dance Revolution in the lobby of the movie theater wearing wrist and headbands, wearing the popup fire engine tent and a fireman's hat while running the four corners of the intersection making siren noises...the list goes on and on.

But now that we're nearing forty, things have slowed down somewhat it seems.

"So are we never going to play Spoons again?" Shilo asked last Sunday night. "I mean is that just a bygone era?"

It has been a while. I take some responsibility for that. Ever since I refinished my dining room table I have put a stop to Spoons-playing there. Long gashes have been known to occur after all, but we were at Shilo's house where her table is protected by a glass top. Let the games begin!

Here's the result:

Kimball lost.


He had to wear a pirate patch to the movie...


And order the concessions using pirate phrases (as in "Would you like to see my booty?)...


And everyone enjoyed the show!

Visiting my Homegirl

Last weekend I dashed to LA to meet a long-time friend of mine who was there on business. I've known Shelly since...well, I don't remember not knowing Shelly...so I guess since birth. And although we are terrifically different--she's kind of a dukes-up sort of girl while I'm more of an arms-wide-open type--there is a sort of short hand language when you have that much history, and that is a really good thing.

Like when we met at the airport she said, "Oh, my mom called. Uncle Dick died." There was no need to catch me up or fill in the blanks. We know the same people, in fact we're both related to them.

She is also probably the only friend I have who, after I had discovered that I had forgotten my toothbrush would say, "Have you kissed anyone in the last 5 years that I don't know?...Okay, you can use mine." That is a good friend. Lucky for the germaphobes out there, we were able to find a toothbrush on our shopping spree.

But that wasn't the only thing we were willing to share over the weekend. Nope. We also shared a passion for Sephora, a tendancy to oversleep, a crab and steak dinner, linguini with scallops, and even an order of french fries, which should really tell you about the level of our relationship since I can't even share french fries with my husband.

When you've known a person for so long and have shared as many peaks and valleys as we have there's just a level of trust there. She is probably the only friend I have that would call me into the bathroom mid-bath just to say, "Remember in high school how we thought Jason Thompson was so hot?"

To which I replied, "Yeah, I dated him."

To which she replied, "So did I."

And for the record: He was hot.

She's also a friend who will look out for my best interests and tell me the truth, even when I don't necessarily want to hear it. But she also knows when to zip it. Like when we were headed down to the beach and she begged me to put on my bathing suit. "C'mon! Put on your suit! I'm wearing mine."

"I'm wearing shorts. I don't want to be cold. See, the difference is that you're from Montana and I'm from Arizona. My blood is much thinner." Early March at the beach is generally cool, and since moving to AZ I have a grand aversion to being cold. There was no way I was going to be laying out.

But what do I know? 10 minutes at the beach and I was burning up. "Okay. Give me the room key. I'm going to get my suit."

You know what? She's the kind of friend who didn't even say I told you so, and that is a really good thing.

What Do You Know? I Was Right Again!

Some of my friends have taken to calling me "The Queen," and I'm officially going on record to say that I hate it! I have told them as much to their faces, but they think I'm kidding. I'm not.

Okay, so maybe I do think that I am right a lot of the time. Turns out that I AM right a lot of the time. Is that my fault?

Anyway, to prove them wrong, I took a personality test on line, and as it turns out I'm a green: Officially (Can an online personality test be called official?...for these purposes, yes!) Officially, I am "the most down to earth color of the spectrum."

Hah, my friends!!! Take that and shove it in your royal you know what's!

What's Your True Color?

My Result: Green

You're green, the color of growth and vigor. Good-hearted and giving, you have a knack for finding and bringing out the best in people. Green is the most down-to-earth color in the spectrum — reliable and trustworthy. People know they can count on you to be around in times of need, since your concern for people is genuine and sincere. You take pride in being a good friend. For you, success is measured in terms of personal achievement and growth, not by status or position. Rare as emeralds, greens are wonderful, natural people. It truly is your color!

What are you?
http://web.tickle.com/rd/50651/color/index.jsp?testname=colorogt&resultid=C

What color are you?

You Might Be Getting Older When...

...a blazin' hot Friday night includes:

1. Getting take out from here.

2. Getting a movie from here:



3. And watching your friends do this:







It was 10:20pm. Yup, we've officially crossed over.