to my peeps

In this crazy coronavirus time, in-between changing my sixteen-year-old's diapers, bathing him, dressing him, feeding him and taking him for long car rides and short walks, I find I have a lot of time to muse on gratitude—for this house in this small town, for a garden emerging from winter, for my adorable impossible child, for a cozy bed, a wood stove, for music, tenderness, humor, deep and silly conversation, engrossing films, delicious food, good drink.

Mostly, though, I am grateful for my peeps.

I'm grateful for Michael, my best champion who takes great care of us, is a loving husband and father, has a very good brain, is a talented photographer, a magnificent chef, and loves my attempts at humor. I'm grateful for so many childhood friends, for the gal I've known the longest who understands me better than most siblings, for the unwavering all-weather swimmer who thinks of me often and from afar, and for the sister-mermaid to whom my heart is tethered forever. I'm thankful for the gentle brother who shares my birthday and life philosophy, and for the chickee who, because of her family's own situation, genuinely empathizes with ours. I'm grateful for my thoughtful pal who visited us in Maine, and sends us care packages every October. I can seriously talk and joke with these people for hours. I'm full of adoration for the scores of rock-solid folks who grew up in nearby homes and neighborhoods and schools, for first crushes and former boyfriends whom I still love righteously, for my amazing teammates from summer league, year-round, high school and college swimming, for the swimmers I coached while in my late teens, and the gal who assisted me. Thanks for keeping in touch, y'all.

Big love goes out to the folks I got to know during my decade in San Francisco—for the blond mama who makes me laugh until I pee my pants, weep and dream like crazy, for my former Ashbury Street flatmates who help me view the world through different lenses, for the friends of Michael's who have become like brothers, most who have made trips to see us here in Maine, some who have graced us with their lovely families. I adore the San Francisco native who was my steward in exploring the place and capturing it in photos, and the soul mate who helped me through a rough breakup and who kills me with his wit and affection. I'm grateful for my beloved and funky former upstairs neighbors who are so much more than that and who still host and celebrate me when I visit, and for the oodles of terrific people I met through them. I thank my lucky stars for the gifted women and men I worked alongside at Levi Strauss, in pattern making class and other apparel industry companies with whom I've forged deep and lasting friendships, and for untold other lovelies I hung out with while thriving in one of the most special and spectacular places on earth. I left a piece of my heart out there, so thanks for giving me part of yours.

I dote on so many friendships made in this small college town in Maine, on heaps of Michael's colleagues, former colleagues, students and others. There's the witty Irishman who does the funny accents, brings us bouquets and beers and shoots the shit with us for hours, the chick who makes outrageous cakes and, with her fabulous man, leads the shortlist of stupendous couples who wage the best kind of home invasions. There's the steadfast man who so often gifts us with his humor and love, facts and fabulousness, who takes my shit yet still looks after me when Michael's gone. There's the sometimes fragile, always authentic and hilarious couple who lift our spirits and understand us like no other. There's the sisters who are always there to listen to my dreams and despair, triumphs and troubles—the one who dreams about Calvin and mixes killer cocktails and salads in her kitchen, the one who always shares an Asian slaw, beet yuzu martini and potstickers at the bar, the ones who meet up with me over coffee or wine to discuss everything deep and frivolous. These women love and accept me as I am, flaws and all. I praise the sage who keeps me fed with farm stand pies and fruit bars while we discuss soup to nuts tangentially. I honor those who walk Smellie, visit me when I'm home alone with Calvin, take my husband fishing, deliver vegetables and flowers and egg nog and hugs and homemade bread and salve, and those who include us in their gatherings and parties. I cherish our ridiculously generous go-to guests who love us recklessly, make us cocktails, dine at our table and go home semi-early (heh heh.) I praise the lovelies who bring me to tears, and those who have sat or stayed with me at night when Michael's out of town. And, I'm ever grateful for the mates who moved here, stayed awhile, then sadly moved away. We shared stories and food and jokes and bourbon and croutons and failures and troubles and dreams and triumphs. I miss you sorely.

I bow my head in solidarity and love to the mothers of kids with epilepsy, especially those in the medical cannabis world, some whom I've learned from, all whom I've grown to love and respect so much. And to all the lovely people who I met in the in-between.

But I'm not done yet. I'm grateful, too, for Calvin's former pediatrician, his primary care provider, his nurses and his caregiver who we are keeping a distance from for now, and for so many great neighbors—ones who shovel our driveway and who, before coronavirus, used to drop by impromptu. There's my favorite huggable republican and his wife of so many juicy tomatoes, the fellow gardeners across the street, next door and down the block a spell. There are lovely families and retirees and professors and loners who share this long block, including my eighty-seven-year-old pal, Woody, with whom I visit daily, now via telephone from the opposite side of his window. Thank you all.

And, dear readers, I count you on my list of those I'm deeply grateful for.

Seriously, there are too many amazing peeps for me to count! You know who you are. You are thought of fondly and often, and you rock my world. Stay safe in this crazy coronavirus time. More so, keep in touch.

My buddy Woody.