The third family I lived with to finish the school year was the Mijares. Barbara and I had become friends at school; we swam together on the high school team and had many classes together. We also spent many, many weekends in her tiny car cruising, eating cups of elote and gossiping about boys — as high school girls did at the time. Barb was instrumental in my education of Spanish and my survival of a year away from home. Like a big sister, she wasn’t shy to tell me when to shape up, or when my much more liberal American behavior was inappropriate for the conservative Catholic environment in which I was trying to conform.

One day, likely tired of my babbling, she sat on my chest with another girlfriend and plucked my previously youthful and unwieldly eyebrows into arched submission. I cried. She told me I’d thank her later. I did. Barb taught me things about beauty, manners and grace that were simply different versions from what I’d learned at home. Truly, not a week goes by I don’t think of some bit of insight she gave me — even if at the time I couldn’t appreciate it.

Barb and I kept in touch over the years through the occasional letter and phone call, but God bless the Interwebs reigniting our friendship. Thanks to Facebook, I’ve been able to reconnect with many of the friends I made that year. They are now scattered across Mexico and the world — those who have been able to find employment elsewhere have. Unfortunately, the sweet town of Torreon with its cathedrals, parks, squares and Rio de Janiero-inspired Christ on the mountain, has become yet another Mexican city embroiled in cartel violence and corruption.

And so, Barbara — with her husband and children — now lives in San Antonio, Texas, just minutes from my parents. Imagine my delight last weekend when my friend walked into the restaurant and we embraced. Within moments we were back into our gossipy sing-song Spanish groove, catching up for many lost years. Her children are adorable and her husband is someone I would have ordered for her out of a catalog. The joy in seeing her doing so well and having created such a beautiful family is unparalleled.

There is nothing sweeter in life than picking up a friendship 15-plus years after you’ve set it down, without missing a step.

~K

(That colorful, shabby chic one on top is for me! Squeeee!! Love it.)

Yeah. Can you believe that quilting? See the bird she added? She does this all on her machine, free-form.

I can’t even draw lines this perfect, much less sew them.

The applique quilt is simply gorgeous.

These squares are coming together for a quilt. I cannot get over the precision required.

Yeah. If only these skills were genetic.

~K

The trip to Texas was wonderful. I spent time with my parents and our ailing family dog, Dharma. And I had the chance to catch up with a childhood friend I hadn’t seen in ages. More on that later. For now, a glimpse of la vida Tejana:

Now, back to packing and returning to that snow…

~K

I flew to Phoenix this week for work. It was a turn-around trip in one day – some 19 hours door-to-door.

This is the new bar for exhaustion. The standard used to be post-marathon. Or at least post-time zone/hemisphere/continent jump. Alas, with a plantar still fasciating and a passport gathering dust – the occasional back and forth commuting adventure drains me dry.

I plopped into my airplane seat home, already 15 hours after I’d left Nelson, ready to catch up with podcasts and review notes for the next day. Instead, I quickly found myself in a lengthy conversation with the man in the middle seat, who’d arrived in a cloud equal parts nicotine and sorrow. His eyes prematurely creased, teeth stained, hands and face spotted by his age-old habit.

And then, just as I was about to roll my tired eyes back in my head, turn up the iPod and try to ignore the smell of stale cigarettes permeating our area, I noticed he was crying. Gentle tears flowed down his cheeks as he studied the ticket in his lap.

“Where are you from, sir?” I said quietly, reaching out for the calloused hand of a laborer.

“Cuba.”

“Ay, si? Cuba? Cubano! Que parte?”

We continued for an hour while, coincidentally, stalled at the gate — the plane’s fuel cells were being repaired. He left Cuba 30 years ago after serving as a merchant marine. He’d sailed around the world. But today, his journey was from Tucson, via Phoenix, Denver, Charlotte and Miami to attend the funeral of his mother.

She’d lived a good life. A long life. She’d escaped Cuba too. He’d see his siblings and several of his adult children when he finally arrived. He was certain she would be proud of him for making the trip. But…

I waited. He reddened with embarrassment, coughing up so much of his life to a stranger. Yet, he rattled on like a boiling pot.

The trip was such a luxury. He felt guilty for the money he’d had to borrow to get the flights. And here he was without any money for food or any way to buy flowers for her service. But his heart truly ached because the one person he wanted sitting next to him was instead in Sonora, Mexico. Deported. His mujer had been swooped up in an immigration raid. She’d left behind her 16 year old American-born daughter, who he was now caring for.

“I drive her to school every day. She’s not mine, but she is mine.”

Now somewhere over northern Arizona at 30,000 feet, I simply nodded. I gave him what I could – my full attention.

And in a moment of grace, the woman sitting next to him on the aisle spoke up – hours after the confessional began.

“Señor,” she began with an accent I recognized as Mexican. “Señor.” I wondered if she was calling him, or God? She took his hand, looked him in the eye, and began to pray for his family and comfort him. A business owner in Denver, her grandparents were from Chihuahua. She knew the sorrow of having family spread across the world and not always being able to put the pieces of life together the way one wished.

The next hour involved the three of us discussing life, love, sorrow and faith. By the time the landing gear dropped, she’d opened her wallet and given him money for those meals and flowers. I passed off a bit of food I’d been given for the flight. His tears dried and slowly, a smile revealing missing teeth emerged.

Looking at a sea of amber lights shining from the city floor below, I found comfort. Refueled. Full of grace.

~K

Not the best photo to showcase Min’s fashion side, but I couldn’t find a good one. Trust me.

I’ve two women like this who I’ve regularly admired: Mini and Kara. Mini is a childhood friend who can wear a sequin mini-skirt, sky high boots and a tunic and somehow make it look like she’s ahead of both Gaga and Vogue. Kara is just the same. The girl has the most interesting collection of handbags, jewelry and shoes. She mixes and matches with a sense of fashion I truly envy.

Yep. Kara’s gorgeous. 

So, I nudged Kara last year into sharing her sense of style with me. She regularly blogs about her fashion choices and I thought it would be fun if we each shared something out of our wardrobes, monthly, that make us smile. (With, you know, the inherent selfish motive of hoping she helps me look at what I already own with new, fashionista eyes.) This month, she’s rocking turquoise. (My love of the stone is long documented. Several of my most cherished pieces of jewelry are chunky turquoise gifted by my grandmother Maxine.)

I also love chunky jewelry. I have a rule – I only ever wear two pieces of jewelry at one time. Earrings and a ring. Necklace and bracelets. Never all four at once. As a result, I often lean on big pieces of bright color that make me happy. Like this necklace I picked up in Johannesburg.

Or this one I bought in Cameroon from a street vendor.

I also love this ring my parents gave me for my 31^st birthday.

My sense of style is much simpler. I wear mostly solid colors. I love the Gap – as boring and mundane as it may be. And I fully believe a great handbag can tie together an entire outfit. I often wear thrift store finds paired with brightly colored clogs and a handbag that cost half a paycheck. Thrifty-chic? I wouldn’t go so far. But I would say I’ve got a lot to learn from Mini and Kara about putting together an outfit and rocking it with a sense of confidence.

Now, the challenge is to do so without the shopping. Anyone else working on this?

~K

New year, new paper, new start. A few I created this week as gifts for friends:

For Bruce, who is traveling regularly to Africa, doing amazing work. I used an old almanac to include geography text on the back:

A birthday gift with a bit of Heather Bailey flare.

For Dana, a PhD student in Forestry and birthday girl. I finally had a chance to use this patch, which I’d been holding on to for years in my sewing box:

It scratched a creative spot in my brain to use different materials — sewing cardstock, vintage trim, fabric, paint, stamps, hot glue. I’m trying to make more time to for this type of play; doing so simply makes me happier and more patient.

~K

Part of this blue weather can be explained on my recent dose of Phoenix sun. In Arizona, my calendar is full. I’m surrounded by friends who love me enough to shake me when I’m being ridiculous. And of course this time of year, the weather was glorious. Nelson pranced around the park as if to say, “DUDE! NO SNOW!”

He’s eloquent that way.

This holiday was miserable for my family. Truly, painfully miserable. My grandparents aren’t doing well and the stress of their on-going health issues made my parents sorrowful and despondent. Seeing my dad this sad shakes me. Knowing there isn’t a damn thing I can do fills me with useless, bitter rage. My mom’s sadness comes out as frustration. Pair all of this heavy emotion with a freak winter storm that kept my parents holed up in a cheap motel en route to Tucson, delaying their arrival by more than a day, and you can imagine how fun Santa’s arrival was.

The person I want to be would have wrapped my arms around my parents and told them how very sorry I am they are at this point in life. That watching their parents age and be sick must be so hard. That their sadness was my sadness and it was a pity our time together — one of two times a year we typically see each other — would not be ruined by the circumstances.

The person I am moped and played martyr. Once again, the only grandchild to show up for the holiday for either set of grandparents. Once again, the responsible one. Once again, the one who doesn’t run away from the sorrow of the situation, but doesn’t know how to deal with it anymore than anyone else. Because I’m not unbiased. I too am watching those I love slowly, painfully decline. I don’t know how to comfort my parents any more than I know how to help myself.

I do know the ways I have been trying to cope aren’t working. There is much to change in 2012.

~k

A few of my favorite photos from the year, including too many of the prized pup:

A year that begins in Africa can be nothing short of magical; 2011 didn’t disappoint.

Holy crikes. That’s how you do a year right. Thank you 2011! (I hear your younger sister 2012 brings great promise.)

~K

Be back soon, y’all.

xo,

K

Denver 30 was an attempt to step back from my blog for a bit and have more time for other things. For one, I’ve been taking a writing class for the last two months that wrapped this week. It was taught by Nick Arvin, who has published a successful novel, a book of short stories and has a second novel coming out in March. As a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, you’d think he’d be a cocky, leather elbow tweed coat jerk. And you’d be entirely wrong. He is a soft-spoken, kind and generous man who led our little class through a handful of other novels with thoughtful discussion and encouragement on our own projects. I was taken by his humble presence.

There has been a sweater knitting class too. Work travel. Thanksgiving. Ignite Boulder.  And oh, that little holiday in three weeks I spend six months planning for.

Denver 30 — all 110 photos of this lovely city — was an attempt to honor my father. He, who I idolize, isn’t such a fan of what I share on the interwebs. As an an intensely private, quiet man, I’d guess he’s fairly shocked to be in in someway responsible for creating a loud-mouth, all knowing, non-stop attention sponge of a daughter.

I’ve read in several memoirs that in your early 30s, people find a self-confident swagger and stride they could have only dreamed of, say, that pimply year of high school when jeans were never quite long enough to cover awkward limbs akimbo. Or maybe that was just last year, which had decidedly clearer skin, but ankles still in full view.

To my father’s credit, I did spend November considering thoughtfully about the blog. And yet, the plan backfired. The introspection brought me to a tail-feather shaking realization that frankly, you just can’t please everyone.

Let the blog trolls do their anonymous cowardly acts of malice. Let the crowds roll their eyes at my love of Christmas — the carols, the Excel spreadsheet planning of gifts, expenses and mailing calendar, the decorations and the pure joy I find in celebrating. Let the fashionistas laugh at the fact I still have a hard time finding jeans that cover all of my socks. Let the nutritionists scorn my autopsy, which will surely show veins coursing equal parts chardonnay and Diet Coke. Let those without pets snicker how a pound pup could complete change my life for the better.

Instead, I have some gifts to wrap, a soda to guzzle, carols to sing gleefully off key and a very happy Willie Nelson Mandela to snuggle.

Shake your tail feathers, Chickens.

~K

My friends in Phoenix are melting. And, surprise, surprise, nary a soul is happy to hear I’m blogging from my patio, in the shade, sipping a milkshake with the world’s cutest dog at my feet. I’m a wee bit smug pleased this is the first summer I can say I intentionally wanted to be out of the heat at made it happen. Although as far as the weather karma goes, I’m keenly aware this also means I’m going to be begging for Scottsdale guest rooms come winter. White stuff is rumored to fall from the sky, stick and make doing all the incredibly fun things I’ve been doing fairly difficult. I’m considering becoming a nomad.

I honestly am spending 90% of time my time outside this summer, without a sunburn, outside of a pool and even on occasion wearing jeans and scarves. Together. In the summer. JEANS AND SCARVES.

A bit of my leathery tanned Arizona heart leapt just reading that.

In other news, I’ve visited some great restaurants in the area lately with friends in town. Julia Blackbird’s is New Mexican cuisine in the Highlands neighborhood. The green chile is fantastic and the patio is delightful. Lots of shade, flowers and of course, the guacamole and tequila aren’t too bad either. It is reasonably priced, quality food with a relaxing and pretty environment.

Delite is a retro bar off Broadway and the perfect place to grab a pre-dinner drink. Next door to Beatrice + Woodsley, we people watched and enjoyed reading the creative list of cocktails. Be wary; the bartender is far too generous. By the time we took our seats at B+W, I needed food. Pronto.

Thankfully, I’d come to the right place. Beatrice + Woodsley is like walking into a fairytale. The wine is served with Alice and Wonderland inspired tags. There are giant aspen trees inside, with gauzy mosquito netting between tables glowing from hurricane lamps and candles. It is romantic and a bit dreamy.

The food was a wash. Some plates were excellent, others were simply not. It’s a little pricey for such inconsistency; next time I’ll likely have an appetizer and skip the rest.

Today I had lunch at Zoka’s in Pine, Colorado. If you are visiting me this summer — we are going here for lunch. The drive from Denver is about an hour into the mountains and couldn’t be lovelier. Zoka’s has a huge porch, with dog tie up stations at each table and the waiter gladly brought a bowl of water. The food was great, the scenery was unbelievably gorgeous and the outing was the perfect time away from the city.

Lucky, spoiled and happy to be living without an air conditioner,

~K

Sold.

One of my many nerdy loves? Dinosaurs. I love them. I always have, but especially since reading Jurassic Park in early high school.  Visiting Sue a few years ago was certainly a highlight. And now? Hiking up to see an excavation site? HOLY DINO BONES. I couldn’t wait.

Poor Charlie, a wee bit hungover from far too good of a time the night before with his wife and their friends Lyle Lovett and Lance Armstrong (long story), wasn’t too keen to keep his promise made the day before to do the dino hike with me. Alas, I wasn’t letting him off the hook. In fact, I was more determined to help him work off his haze and chirped along the trail until I am pretty sure he sped up to make me winded and quiet. It worked temporarily.

While the path was lined with fields of flowers and truly amazing views, the top was strange. This is the first hike I’ve ever done where the summit included a marble ying yang sign. Like a helipad, but too small for such things. Someone thought it made sense to create a marble, tiled circle on top of this little mountain. But never mind this strange pattern that greeted our summit. Where were the dinos? Wait. What? The construction equipment way over there? Those are the dinos? But you can’t see anything! We’d been duped!

It was hard to be too angry considering how gorgeous the hike was. Plus, the few pieces of pipe I could see in the excavation site quickly became mammoth vertebrae. By the time we got to the bottom of the mountain, I’d spun an entire tale of what the archieologists were looking for and what they’d found. Poor Charlie, I’m fairly certain, wanted to kill me and the barista who’d provided an extra shot of espresso pre-hike.

To which he only said, “I don’t think mammoths are dinos anyway.”

After a debate whether the Flintstones had woolly mammoths or not — and whether “actual people” lived with these animals — we agreed to disagree. It was a dino hike, whether we saw actual bones or not.

~K

He has my complete love and admiration.

To all the great fathers in the world — may you be celebrated and adored this weekend!

~K

I spent my last day in the Valley, among other things hugging many friends and hiking Camelback Mountain.

A sign I will always be Arizonan at heart? My tan officially matches the landscape.

The car is packed, including my bikes. I’m off to a new home in Colorado. Thank you all — near and far — for your well wishes, gifts, notes, meals and parties during this crazy month. What a month it’s been! I will miss this great desert, in great part to the many, many people of Arizona I love. I will miss you dearly.

Now, please start looking for flights to Denver. I will be preparing the homestead for your many visits, especially those with a relocation mission.

xoxo,

K

My current moving alert isn’t red. Or orange. It’s beige. I’m surrounded by beige. Boxes, boxes everywhere. It’s mayhem.

My happy spin on the current homeland Code Beige!: packing is a lot of fun for a girl who loves to organize. I currently own only socks with pairs. Only towels, pillow cases and white T-shirts without that random mascara stain. Only earrings that I’ll actually wear. Only shoes I really love. Only dishes, books, fabric, yarn, plants, and furniture that I plan on using for a very, very long time.

T-minus 56 hours left in Phoenix. Time to write a new story!

May the movers be gentle,

K