Lasting Friendships – my Friend Alice



(Antelope Island scene looking past the Great Sale Lake to the Wasatch mountains)

Alice was a neighbor. The kind that welcomes you into her home like family, or waves at you the minute you step outside. We became fast friends, talking about our children, the weather, the neighborhood school and the rising cost of food.

It wasn't surprising then to see her on my doorstep after I'd suffered a long illness and a traumatic experience. Others had asked, " what can we do for you? " smiled and then returned to their own little worlds. Here was Alice, standing on my porch with a shovel in one hand and a plant in the other.

" You're coming outside, " she said emphatically. " You need some sunshine and we need to plant this start I brought from my garden. " The plant was one I'd admired some weeks before.

You didn't argue with Alice. You didn't want to. She had a way about her that said, " I'm here for you. Let's work on this thing together. "

We dug, we planted, and we chatted about everything but what was troubling me. She never nosed, she never snooped. She gave me the ball, and let me carry it where I wanted to go.

 She helped me more than she will ever know. She gave me the love and support I needed to deal with some difficult circumstances. She helped heal my heart and soul just by being Alice.


 (Photo -- view of Bear Lake in Garden City, UT)

When we moved away from Phoenix, I wept like a baby as I gave her my final hug. She was one neighbor I would miss forever. We stayed in contact for over 20 years, but the distance and our lives soon became a living memory. My gratitude still remains.

Many people come in and out of our lives. The good ones stay. Other friendships are not meant to last: the brief encounters on an airplane flight, the people we chat with on vacation, the people who share in the trauma of a tragic event. Some friendships are meant to last forever, and some of them aren't. Who can measure what any of these people bring into our lives?


When my own life was in a downward spiral, I never regretted the people I met along the way who made me laugh, who taught me something I didn't know, who opened my eyes to see the possibilities that were waiting there. These people became the threads that formed the warp and the woof of my character and my life. During that time, I learned that some people are just plain evil; but that most people are basically good, warts and all.

 

 

(Photo overlooking Bear Lake)

Through acquaintances and friendships, I discovered things about myself I never knew. Antique cars, for instance; I like everything about them, the hobby, the shows, the people. And jazz; I love the earthy vibes and rhythms, but I'm also enthralled at a symphony. I like to see a good play, and I'm enchanted by Shakespeare. All of the things I discovered about myself, I learned through the people around me; my likes, my tastes, my values.

People enrich our lives and help us realize we're all human. All in need of grace and forgiveness. My favorite saying is: " there but for the grace of God go I. " Historians don't know for certain who said this, but the wisdom remains.

Friends can make us or break us. Bad friends are those people who urge us to say and do things we wouldn't say or do in better company or when we're alone. They're the people who dare: " Oh, come on, it can't hurt. Just this once? " or " Who will ever know? "

Good friends are the ones who make you want to try harder and to live better. But they accept you as you are with all of your baggage, weaknesses and flaws.

(Photos -- at St. Armonds Florida beach & resort)

In the beginning --my Father the Fisherman

"Raccoons at Sunrise", 16x20 acrylic canvas

Every now and then, I reprint this article so my new readers and followers may get to know me and better understand why nature is such an integral part of who I am.

I grew up in an emerald green valley ringed on all sides by a craggy strip of mountains known as the Wasatch front. These rugged giants, and the springs, lakes, and rivers that divide them, were the guardians of my youth. From my bedroom window, the mountains rose like giant hands in prayer; casting benevolent shadows on the surrounding neighborhoods and farms.

On clear summer days, the sky filled our valley with morning light long before the sun had reached its crest on the jagged peaks and thrown off its coverlet of shadow cast by aspen, Juniper, and sage. 

A neighbor’s rooster proclaimed the break of day, and sounds of engines starting and cattle lowing struck the chords and the notes that play out in my head even now.

"Americana" 16x20 acrylic on canvas

On the Western side of the valley, the distant mountains completed the circle framing a patchwork of fields and farms that spread out on the valley floor like a farm wife’s quilt. At day’s end, the sun, saving the best for last, celebrated its descent in triumphant tones of amber and rose before snuggling deep into mountain shadow.

On evenings such as this, time stood still as I watched my father practice the art of fly tying. Like a true artist, he adjusted clamp and vice to secure the hook while he twisted and wrapped the tiny feathers into place. Although each fly was unique, he duplicated one lusty specimen many times over for its ability to snag rainbow trout and German browns.

"Wasatch Mountains" 11x14 watercolor

 With the same skill he used to cast his fishing line in a timeless dance over canyon waters, he cast his children out to experience life. If we encountered rough waters or found ourselves in over our heads, he would reel us back in for further instruction.

Sometimes his reprimands were harsh. At those times, his words cut through our disobedience with the sharp edge of truth. Then he would cast us out again, giving us more line from time to time, until we got it right.

"Berry Picking Time" 16x20 acrylic 

 Because of my father’s skill as an angler, I grew up with a man-sized appetite for pan-fried trout. Father cleaned them. Mother cooked them -- dusted in flour and fried in butter, without the cholesterol guilt or fat gram shame. We dined on fish two or three times a week. The extra fish were frozen for winter meals and to keep my father’s dreams alive for the next fishing season.

Sometimes the family went with him on his fishing expeditions, wandering the byways and dirt roads of Southern Idaho, Wyoming, and Northern Utah in search of the best fishing holes. He waded up to his armpits in the rivers and dams along the Wasatch front; the winding Snake River, the wide Green River, and the brilliant blue Bear Lake.

When my father could no longer fish, he shared the woven intricacies of fly tying with his grandchildren, leaving them an inheritance that would continue on like an echo in the same canyons and mountain streams.

"Blending In" 16x20 acrylic canvas