Did you know that the first hospital in the territorial Northwest was built by a woman, from scratch, according to her own design?

Eleven years ago today I was lying on my side in that very hospital (though obviously, not the same building) rapidly bleeding my way toward a transfusion, arguing about what to name the baby.

The nurse hesitantly suggested that we could discuss the matter after surgery, but I didn’t expect to survive the day, let alone the hour. Choosing a name before I lost consciousness was of paramount importance. A few minutes before they slashed me open to rescue him (without the benefit of modern niceties like, oh, anesthesia) we decided to just give him all five names under consideration.

Of course he couldn’t pronounce the mangle and went by the nickname Abbauntil age four.

That sensitive premature infant is now a broad-shouldered lanky youth almost tall enough to look me straight in the eye, though still young enough to curl up on my lap – even if we both topple over in the process.

The intervening years have involved all manner of adventure and mayhem, and he has responded exactly as you might have predicted knowing his infant self.

He gave up suits and bow ties recently but retains his essential style, and his quiet watchful good humour. Brilliant, precise, creative, with a sophisticated sly wit: this boy is a joy to know. I am honored that he is my friend. Happy birthday to the most charming young gentleman! Oh, and of course – his Hogwarts letter arrived right on time:

Gordon called last night and we chatted about all manner of topics including the upcoming party but I completely failed to wish him happy birthday in advance. Now I’m reduced to being merely timely!

Many happy birthday wishes to the cheese guru! He was the first person to crack my telephone phobia, and remains one of the few I’m willing to talk to on the cursed device. He has provided invaluable support through assorted adventures, bereavements, and scandals.

Throughout the accumulation of years he has provided substantial services as a social interpreter, explaining the puzzling behavior of his fellow humans. Most people think that I am mysterious but he knows that I am just clueless and backwards, and for that I am grateful.

Gordon has thrown me parties, let me crash at his place, and sent me on the road with snacks. Going way beyond the call of duty he even visited me in this cracked little city – and confirmed that, yes, this is the least likely place I could ever live.

Only a few people knew when I moved out of the country and the ensuing chaos would have been unbearable without someone solid to mock me along the way; for that and all the rest I am endlessly thankful he is my friend.

Satnam sent email with detailed instructions about the wine he preferred to have with each course, and I presented myself to the fellows at Bacchanalia as petitioner and supplicant.

Normally it would be rude to turn up at a dinner party in England with three bottles of wine, but not in this town – and definitely not when visiting Satnam! In fact, he sent Susan on a wine run before we’d even made it to the appetizer course.

As predicted there was much merry debate. Satnam and I are the sort to shout and pound the table while laughing so much we can hardly breathe.

Don warned me that Cambridge would not prove to be my sort of place, and I in turn told Satnam, yet here we are, having a wickedly fun time while also pining to get back to Seattle. It is nice to spend time with people who understand.

Plus, who needs good restaurants when you have access to an epicure like Satnam? Food at his table rivals the Michelin starred establishments I’ve visited, and I’m not exaggerating. He even made me eat an oyster; nobody else could pull that off for sure:

The other night I was out with Satnam and a different Glaswegian asked where I’m from. I offered the briefest possible geographic description of the forested peninsula where I was born and he was visibly shocked, then exclaimed You are descended from anarcho-Finn revolutionaries!?! I’ve never met one of you before!

Interesting point, but I doubt it. My people were Sami, and if they had political beliefs they never mentioned it. In fact, they pretended to be Norwegian.

Of course, I’ve never met anyone so well-versed in the obscure histories of the pioneer settlements where I grew up. It was quite baffling! But that is Cambridge for you…. the place is crawling with experts.

I was hanging out in the cafe at the Arts Picturehouse with my kid and the barista pointed at my necklace. Is that a real bug?!

-Yes!

He shuddered, then raised his eyes to my face. Oh, are you the one who was in having photographs done?

Sigh. I’ve avoided the place for six months to erase the traces of that horrid day! Yeah…. 

-Are you famous? 

-I hope not.

-What was it for? 

-A newspaper. 

-Which one? 

-The Guardian.

He reared back in surprise. Really? What was the article about?!?

Here I break with tradition and a lifetime of reticence, not to mention localized anxiety, and told the truth: I wrote a book and the article was about….erm… me!

He stood there, glass in hand, blinking in astonishment. Really? What is it called? 

Lessons in Taxidermy. 

The youth in question was, at this point, over-stimulated – to say the least.

Ooh, he said creepy!

I replied Indeed! Cheers! then scurried back to my seat.

See how much progress I’ve made? Though if I can’t go anywhere without being recognized I might need to move to a new country.

Last night at a show I stood in line to check my coat and noted in an idle fashion that everyone was required to give initials for the receipt.

When it was my turn, before I could offer the information, the man at the counter did not say a single word… he just wrote BL on the tag.

Um. Strange! My brain seized, then I looked up – it was Alistair, the very nice man connected to the labyrinthine process of getting a mooring license!

Of course I lack social graces, and didn’t know what to say, but it was very nice to see him!

I love everyone and everything connected to boat culture in this town.

The students are back full force. Lines down every aisle at the grocery store! People in academic gowns teeming the city centre! Bicycle traffic jams!

One of the more interesting aspects of life in this college town is the cyclical infusion of youth. Particularly at the start of the academic year, the anxiety and excitement are palpable – and it is in fact endearing.

The only thing I have to compare is Olympia in the late eighties and early nineties, with flakey hippies and jaded hipsters wandering around in a haphazard fashion. The vague impressions I have left of that campus are all about looming modern concrete buildings, open spaces, enroaching forest. I’m sure there were occasional crowds for protests or performances, but there was never the overwhelming swarm of Cambridge in term time – nor the manifest sense of optimism.

Fifteen years ago I was sitting on a bench at Evergreen having a gloomy conversation with James when this very tall boy in a rugby shirt wandered over and joined us. It was his housemate though they barely knew each other – a boy named Byron, who didn’t have much to say.

We were all twenty-one, but my companions were still trailing through their undergraduate studies in a casual and what I would have then characterized as irritating manner. They could afford to – they didn’t have a small child to look after. It was my first day of graduate school, and I was grimly determined to acquire the credentials necessary to find a decent job.

On that day Byron was just back from a year in Spain studying literature. How did he manage to switch to science at all, let alone do a PhD in mathematics without any formal background? I don’t know, but I’ve found the whole thing quite entertaining.

The fact that we’re all three still close friends is astonishing; who would have guessed that of such a fractious, melancholy, scandalous crew?

I certainly never would have predicted it, let alone how quickly I abandoned my first career, or that we would all wander so far from the Pacific Northwest – having genius adventures and glorious fun along the way.

One afternoon in London I was chatting with friends when Anika picked up a call from KC, on tour with Himsa in Germany. I took the opportunity to check my phone, and there were texts from Rachel in Montreal, Jody in Israel, family members in the states, and a voice message from Gordon in San Francisco.

The remarkable thing that strikes me every day is how technology makes it so much easier to sustain friendships with people scattered all over the world. It would be much harder to live so far from home without these tools – and vastly more difficult in times of woe.

Last night UK time a dear friend sent a message from Seattle informing me that he was having an asthma attack. This is fairly normal but I was worried because last time around he nearly died (not exaggerating). Since I didn’t hear anything more by the time I woke I presumed he was fine.

This morning I had wandered way past Coe Fen and the Clare College nature preserve, walking off anxiety about a different faraway friend who is having surgery this week, when I got a message from Jody. It was past two in the morning for him when he reported Jeff said X had an asthma attack and he couldn’t reach him and I haven’t been able to hail either of you…

Then Jeffrey, in an entirely different time zone, got in touch with the same concerns.

Despite the fact that I was half an hour walk from civilization I was able to search my email, find the numbers, and track down the friend in question – alive but not feeling well at all.

Standing in the middle of a cow pasture on the other side of the world I sent messages letting people know the details of the situation, asking for advice on emergency rooms, arranging rides.

It is unnerving to be so far from a loved one who needs help, and endlessly wonderful that modern technology gives me at least a semblance of connection in a hard moment. I was able to continue with my normal day, phone near to hand, waiting for Seattle to wake up so I could hear that a dearly beloved individual made it through the night.

Once again, my friends are simply the best. I am honored beyond words to know them.

This morning I asked my son if he had good dreams and he replied I never remember my dreams which is quite annoying, because our homework right now is to keep a dream journal.

I said Oh no! Maybe you can borrow some?

He answered in a resigned voice I doubt that is allowed.

This is one of the rare days I remember a dream, and it was about my aunt.

I was standing in her living room, blonde baby boy on my hip, and she was sober – this bit was historically accurate; she was clean a decade before her death. The room started filling up with people I never see because they live far away, like Jon Rietfors, and people I’ll never see again because of the choices they’ve made.

I handed the baby to my mother, who was laughing, and went from person to person, urgently trying to get their addresses and phone numbers. My aunt walked in the room and she was crying – something I personally never witnessed in real life, not after her accident, not any of the times I picked her up from jail or rehab, not when her mother died, never, not even smashed out of her mind.

Someone asked what was the matter and she said she had learned something about her boss that would force her to quit. I knew the job and sobriety were connected and tried to convince her that we could figure out a solution, but she kept crying.

Looking around the room for assistance, I noticed that more than half the crowd went to Evergreen. I held out my hand and said We can seminar the problem away!

They all laughed, at least.

Then I woke up and pulled the blanket up over my head, contemplating the alarming fact that even my subconscious is pragmatic. Though it was nice to see my aunt again.

I’ve been sorting through digital archives, and one of the things I found was covertly filmed footage of an ordinary ferry ride. I was bemused to watch myself, bedraggled in a tattered vintage dress, with pink and white striped hair, walking around with a four year old child in a suit and bow-tie.

Memories are curious; I actually do recall that day, and approximately what I was thinking about that summer. What I’d forgotten is how it felt to be so entwined with a small vulnerable human, that we could not handle being more than a few feet from each other.

The tape documents how we used to wander, touching every few minutes, aware of the other person and very little else about our surroundings.

Parenting small children is a tactile experience. Their immediate physical and mental needs are of paramount importance, to the exclusion of much else – even if you have other responsibilities or desires. This isn’t a choice, it is just part of the deal.

All babies love me (the same is true of abused dogs and lost tourists), but the only toddlers and small children I’ve ever enjoyed have been my own. Taking care of them, while sometimes difficult, has never been a chore. I have been delighted by their individual, alarming, dramatic selves at every stage of life.

I don’t just love them; I enjoy and adore them. This was of course no guarantee that the feeling would be reciprocated as they grew up. I know that lots of attentive, loving families break down, that grown-ups make their own choices. I’m not the sort to expect fealty, or filial devotion of any kind.

They owe me nothing.

It is a surprise then to have a ten year old who still wants to hang out with me. And a grown-up, fully launched daughter who invites me to go to concerts, not because she needs a ride or cash, but because she actually likes me.

It is an honor to have the opportunity to know them.

I am currently being persecuted by a vile illness: the sniffles! After I dropped my kid off I stopped to buy water and the Bacchanalia dude said Care to try some wine?

Furrowing my brow, I brilliantly replied Huh?

He said There is a wine rep – a new line – you should try it!

Oh, shivers. I don’t know how to do that!

He laughed at my stricken expression and said Go on!

-Do I have to?

-Yes. It is mandatory!

Obedient for once, I reluctantly walked to the back of the shop, where a very nice Australian man explained the differences between, um, grapes. I think. It was confusing, I’m sick, and I didn’t know where to look. Now I have officially gone to a wine tasting. With a head cold. How horrifying!

Last night I arranged to meet Josh at the Maypole – haven’t seen him since the spring, and that is a long time given that he is one of my favorite people!

When he arrived I gleefully inquired How are you?

He spread out his arms and replied I never know how to answer that.

Easy, I answered. I always say I’m awesome!

He retorted I’ve been here too long for awesome!

We were served by the bartender who winks at me, then retired to the back room to catch up. He mentioned that he flies to Seattle this week and I excitedly offered lots of tips, then realized he probably won’t enjoy hanging out at either the Bus Stop or the Crescent. I rattled off a series of stories about Seattle that are only available in person, late at night, and we laughed and laughed for hours.