Chapter 4 - Like Becomes Love

I had a boyfriend. Only my second – and the first who never expected more than I was ready to give. Our years long friendship had paved the way for a relationship built on acceptance, understanding and trust. We had (almost) no secret pasts to hide from each other, and we shared the same interests, values and goals. It just felt so easy. From May to July, we were inseparable. His parents were thrilled he had a “normal” girlfriend, and my family immediately welcomed George. We talked – and talked – about life, our hopes and dreams. I met his circle of friends and he met mine. We saw very little of each other on campus, but spent every free moment together. And not once did that nice boy, George, ever ask for more than a hug and kiss at the end of the evening. 

Early George and Paula

July, 1971  While George worked full time all summer at Firestone, I headed north with my parents, to their soon-to-be retirement home in a quaint little hamlet in Northern California. I was their uh-oh, third child – an unplanned “gift” they had not expected in their mid-forties. My college graduation coincided with their retirement schedule, and this trip would be my last family vacation with them. It would also be the first time in months I would not see George on a daily basis.

After work cat nap in his Firestone uniform

Life at my parent’s “home in the forest” was serene. The house needed some TLC, so trips included their fair share of DIY time. On this trip, Mom and I painted the decades old cabinetry, using a popular technique of the 70’s – antiquing. Dad and my nephew, who accompanied us, combined fishing trips with firewood gathering. We spent evenings stargazing – viewing the Milky Way – clearly visible with skies absent of big city light pollution. 

My parents little retirement fixer-upper 1969

A few years and a lot of TLC later

A crew of young logging workers were renting one of the houses in town, and the presence of a 20 year old, single female caught their interest. My nephew (six years my junior) and I had been invited to a barbecue at their place, and I assumed it would be a fun afternoon with the only other people under 60, in the town with a population of around 60. I was so naïve. 

I soon learned how easily I could be caught in an unwelcome situation - and I remember the fear as I hastily left, nephew in tow. Shaken, I returned to my parents’ house and was relieved we would be heading home the next morning. When none of us could sleep we opted to start our ten hour trek before dawn, and arrived home on a Sunday afternoon. I thought of my boyfriend at home. His tenderness and restraint. His decency and respect, as our friendship was slowly blossoming.

For the first time ever I realized how much I missed George. How much he meant to me. I had never missed anyone in my life like this. I could hardly wait to get home and tell him - he was the one! I was in love with my best friend! And I hoped he felt the same about me.

The Homecoming

“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.” When Harry Met Sally

That road trip home felt like an eternity. I passed the time imagining the scene in TV ads, showing two lovers running from opposite ends in a field of flowers - in slow motion - and into each other’s loving embrace. That would be us in just a few hours. He would be as thrilled as I was to be home, I was sure of it.

I ran that visual through my head for hours, and called his home as soon as I could. But he wasn’t there. I finally tracked him down, thanks to his pal Barry. George was at a GTO Club car wash, at a gas station in North Hollywood. Not the flower field of my dreams, but it would have to do. I hopped into my not-so-special Buick Special and made my way to the gas station, wearing one of his favorite dresses – a home sewn white mini shift with matching shorts. I was ready to wrap my arms around George and proclaim my love.

When I finally spotted him at the club car wash, he was happy to see me - I think. “Hi!” he said, bucket in hand, ready to soap up the next vehicle before him. “Need your car washed?” Not quite the response I was hoping for, but I wasn’t deterred. I always admired George’s dedication to whatever task was at hand. He was in full-on fundraising mode, offering car washes to anyone who drove by and making sure the club members were properly cleaning cars and drying them to spotless perfection – a skill he learned working at a bona fide car wash (for fifty cents an hour and tips) in his pre-Firestone days.  

Clean GTO's - and cheap gas. $.32/gallon!

I watched him, chatted when he was within earshot, and decided this would not be our “moment”. We kissed as I left for home, and he promised to pick me up later that evening for a homecoming night out. I would have to wait a while longer…

I always heard George’s arrival before his knock at my door – the four-barrel carburetor and 360 horsepower of his GTO announced his presence before he reached my house. As promised, he picked me up and we headed to the Santa Monica Pier for a beautiful July summer’s night out. I held his hand tighter, and leaned my head into his arm as often as I could. We were both happy to be back together, and I wanted the night to last forever. But I couldn’t find the moment to say the L word – yet. That would have to wait until we parked in front of my house.

As my parents watched TV inside, George and I took advantage of his GTO’s front bench seat. I snuggled close and, as we “made out” (another term from the 60’s), I looked into his soft blue eyes and told him I loved him. His eyes and touch confirmed he felt the same. 

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, but must share one more reason I knew I was with the right man. George did not make the first move. In the parlance of that ubiquitous baseball metaphor, George never stole a “base” without my permission. That night, I gave him permission - to advance a base.

My love. My life. My Kahuna. My George.

The Story of Us - Chapter One

When Paula Met Georgie

My all-time favorite romantic comedy is Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Besides the classic scenes that made Top 100 lists, my favorite moments were the “older” couples sharing their “meet cute” stories, and subsequent happily ever-after’s.

Cancer stole our fairy tale ending. But George and I had a wonderful Once Upon a Time. I have decided to share our story – a way to remember the boy I met in high school, who became the man I loved – and who will forever be my one and only. The story of George and Paula… 

I have an overworked and underpaid high school counselor - a man I met only once - to thank for the happiest 50 years of my life. Without his begrudging acceptance of my request to opt out of advanced Economics class, I never would have been transferred into the English class in which the trajectory of my life would be determined...

September, 1968. My last semester of high school. I spent my entire high school career on the periphery, as an observer. I was most comfortable when I went unnoticed. I quietly studied, and silently admired from afar, the fun and frolic of the popular kids. A safe distance, I thought, from what I feared would be their rejection. I knew who they were, and I envied the ease with which they navigated high school – making friends and memories from “their” lunch tables and gathering spots. 

There was one boy in particular who always caught my attention. He seemed to fit in with everyone. And he seemed to own the campus in his own special way. As a junior, he would routinely appear out of nowhere, ambling into my in-session biology class and perching himself on the window ledge to “hang out” in the class. Mrs. Swanson, the teacher, obviously knew him. And she never booted him out! The rule follower in me was fascinated by his casual disregard for classes and hall passes. He never disrupted her lessons, and left with the same ease with which he appeared.

George, Class of  Winter, '69 Voted the Friendliest Boy in class.

Paula, Class of Winter,'69 Always flying under the radar.

“Oh, that’s George,” his next-door neighbor informed me. She was a casual acquaintance of mine, and ambivalent to George’s high profile, high school persona. To her, he was the boy with a ‘57 Chevy who gave her a ride to and from school when she needed it. George’s command of high school culture fascinated me. And never in a million years did I imagine being noticed by him. Frankly, I was happy to be a “nobody” in school. It was safer that way.

By my senior year I was more interested in war protests than muscle cars. Baez over Beach Boys. High school boys? Too immature for my taste. And, at 17, I had a boyfriend! My first. He had been the laundry delivery boy for my parent’s dry cleaner business, and had a year of college under his belt. He took me to prom four months earlier, and I felt some satisfaction in finally attaining boyfriend-worthy status. I walked a little more confidently down the halls of high school, and counted the days until graduation.

With one semester left, I had already decided to attend a nearby community college. The reason wasn’t my SAT scores or grade point average. It was my insecurity, and fear of being away from home. The traumas of  childhood left me scarred, and moving away to attend a university was simply terrifying. This decision meant I could coast through my last semester. College prep classes? Didn’t need them. I was looking for an easy A, and advanced Economics was not that class!

Enter the counselor. Mr. Friedman. I don’t recall ever making a trip to visit him, but two days into my last semester I signed my name on the counseling office roster, and took my seat. I would state my case, and hope for the best. Try as he might to guilt me into staying in that Econ class, I stood firm. He searched the schedule and found an opening in a senior English class. Bingo! That was my ticket to an easy A, and I jumped at it.

The only downside? I had to waltz into the class - already in progress - to present my transfer papers to Mrs. Barry, the teacher. To add to the discomfort, the only entrance to her room was at the rear of the class. From there, I had to walk the gauntlet between two rows of desks to the front of the room and her desk. I took a breath, and marched in, never making eye contact with a soul - but feeling their steely stares as all eyes turned to see why teaching had been interrupted.

As I quickly glanced up to make the turn toward the front of the class, I saw him. Seated in the last seat at the back of the class. George looked up from his book as I entered, and as I approached his desk, he quietly made a comment directed at me. I don’t remember his exact words, but whatever he said made me feel welcome. I handed Mrs. Barry my papers, and took the seat she offered. Smack dab in the front row. I was relieved to sit down, and imagined 35 pairs of eyes looking at my back – feeling the discomfort of the attention I so carefully avoided. I focused my attention on the teacher, took out my pencil and notebook, and settled into the safe haven of English composition.

Day two in Mrs. Barry‘s class ignited an unexpected friendship. As I sat down at my front row desk, the seat next to mine had a new occupant. George would later tell me he had negotiated a seat swap with the boy to my left, using his nearsightedness as an excuse to have a front row seat. In that move, our friendship was born.

He was friendly. Funny. Well-mannered and respectful. He made me laugh and I felt comfortable for the first time in any high school class. I listened to his painful breakup story, from which he had not fully recovered. 

His first high school sweetheart. Tall. Blond. Beautiful  They remained friends to the end...

I shared College Boyfriend stories. CB was a child of privilege, a pampered only-child who didn’t apply himself and lost his football scholarship after a year. I was flattered by his attention and overlooked his flaws. He was nothing like George. 

George, like me, was the child of solid working class roots, and spent every day after school and weekends as a “tire buster” for Firestone Tire Company. He made excellent money for the time - a whopping $4.50 an hour when minimum wage was $1.25 (tire busters were also card carrying Teamsters Union members). He was understandably proud to have purchased a replacement to his mom’s 57 Chevy - his royal blue, 1967 GTO. I wasn’t impressed by his muscle car, but I appreciated his work ethic. I was content to sing folk songs in College Boyfriend’s VW square-back.

For 20 weeks we spent an hour together, Monday through Friday. George would call me occasionally after school to chat, eventually steering the conversation to discuss the novels we were reading for class. He would ask my opinion about the plot and characters, or whatever the written homework assignment called for. And I willingly shared my thoughts as, I found out later, he took copious notes. I can safely say my A in Mrs. Barry‘s class was earned, while George’s B was directly influenced by those evening chats!

College Boyfriend wasn’t interested in any of my high school activities, so my new friend George graciously offered to sub in. He drove my girlfriends and me to and from football games (where girls were still required to wear skirts or dresses). Being with George gave me a sense of belonging, and it felt wonderful. 

When a bout with flu sidelined me from attending the Senior Class Breakfast (where he received the “Friendliest Boy” award), George took me to IHOP a week later as my consolation breakfast. I finally had happy memories from high school. I had a boy - friend. And he was “Popular”! My fragile ego felt a wisp of that oh-so-precious teenage commodity – acceptance. We graduated in January 1969 (baby boom overcrowding necessitated staggered enrollment with two graduating classes each year), and we went our separate ways.

Our paths would only cross a handful of times over the next two years. We never dated during that time, but our friendship never faded. And I had no idea it was the beginning of a fifty year love story.

Thank you, Mr. Friedman!

Prom 1968. Before Paula met Georgie

After 45 years, I finally made it to the cool kids table!

The Last "First" - A Birthday of Memories

The last “First” is tomorrow. Daughter, Niece, and Smile Sister have planned a gathering of family and friends – my village - who have provided the soft landing spot for my free fall into widowhood. Our home will once again be filled with laughter, music, food and drink. All the things George loved so much. There were other options available to me.  Staying in bed all day, or taking another road trip with Charlie, the Goofy Golden. Perhaps dinner with son and daughter. But for this first birthday without my Kahuna, my heart - and his voice in my head – knew I needed to be surrounded by love and happiness. The peace I feel in the energy of so many people in our house will top off my fuel tank as I prepare for the first “Last” – the day I whispered, “I love you, honey. It’s okay to go. I’ll be okay,” just three weeks later. That Day…

Happy Birthday, Disneyland style. 2017

At some point I have to sidestep this grief journey and acknowledge Paula 2.0.  Paula, party of one. She and I have been cohabiting my body and emotions for almost a year now. Paula 2.0 is my future. Instead of the pragmatic, unwelcome guest her presence usually conjures up, I have to learn to embrace this new persona. Paula 2.0 is strong, smart, mindful (thanks to an extraordinary 10 week course in mindful meditation), capable of making important decisions - and artful at disguising her loneliness with a veil of light-heartedness and laughter. Our journey together will be the yin and yang of emotions. Two dance partners taking turns as the lead. For now I feel like Ginger Rogers, dancing backwards and in heels.

This widowhood dance with my new partner can only truly be understood by those who, sadly, have had to lace up their own shoes. Just when I think I have mastered the combination of steps, I stumble. All choreography is lost as I frantically try to straighten my ball gown and regain my balance. I never know what will trigger the flood of tearful memories, puddling on the dance floor and sending me tumbling. And the dance partner who had kept me upright for so many dances is no longer there to catch me. Eleven months of agonizing practice has helped, and while some steps may never be mastered, I think George is applauding the new version of The Lovely Paula Marie – missteps and all.

Tomorrow morning will be tough. I won’t be awakened shortly after midnight with a hug and, “Happy Birthday, Gorgeous. Today is your day.”  There will be no birthday card propped up on the kitchen table, alongside a gift bag. We had everything we wanted, so gifts were not the focus of birthdays. George typically violated the “no gifts” pledge with a sweet surprise and a sheepish grin.

 

My Kahuna's final birthday gift to me. 2018

The true gift was the card – not the printed words, but George’s personal message – in barely legible cursive, filling the entire blank inner leaf, if not more, of the card. Love notes of reflection and happiness. Gratitude and promise. Humor, and my Kahuna’s incomparable wit. Read aloud with love and laughter, and punctuated at the end with a hug and kiss. So many hugs and kisses. so many cards. I saved them all. Valentines. Birthdays. Mother’s Day. Our Anniversary. I recently sat and re-read each card’s message – his love notes to me – recalling the beautiful life we shared for so many years. They are priceless. They were his everlasting gift to his Lovely Paula Marie.

The family joke was, everyone sounded like a second grader trying to read aloud George's "challenging" handwriting!

I wonder what George would have written in this year’s card.  I poured through some of his letters and cards, and took excerpts from past birthday messages (George’s words in italics). Here is the love note his words created... 

Paula my love,

Here we are again. I can’t imagine what I would do on March 30 each year if you weren’t in my life. I love you so much and I hope I tell you that enough times during the year. Thank you for spending so many of your birthdays with me…

I’ve had the good fortune of writing quite a few cards to you on your birthday. I am so very lucky to have you in my life. Not too many people get to have their best friend with them every year as I do. No one knows how much I love you, and how much I enjoy you, enjoying your birthday…

Our life is certainly anything but routine, except for our wonderful routine of celebrating birthdays - that just doesn’t change. You always make our individual day special and I want you to know how special you are to me... Life’s perfect ain’t it? I love you. Happy birthday...

This year marks your new career (1996 – I had left my teaching profession to open an educational toy/teaching supplies store). Yet some things didn’t change… your “self”, including but not limited to; beauty, your consistency at being the best wife and mother, your compassion and forgiveness. Let’s face it, you’re still perfect. We love you. I love you, Spencer (our Golden) loves you, the whole world… OK, I’ll stop, or you’ll get embarrassed,,,

For me your birthday is like our anniversary. We celebrate our years together and continue to be thankful we have each other to spend our birthdays with. Love and kisses from the guy you have put up with for the last 38 years…

Happy birthday to you; you survived another year with me. I know it has been difficult. I am always impressed with your week long birthday celebrations. Some people won’t even talk about birthdays. You embrace them. I guess most would if they never change year to year like you. You found the secret to staying forever young. That’s because it’s in your heart. I think I’ll ride along with you!

Happy Birthday! Love to my favorite girl (How do you like that closing?)

Love and kisses forever, Georgie

P.S. Yes I know my hand writing has not improved, but it’s not getting worse! I’m glad you judge me for my other attributes and not whether you can read my notes!

Love always, your Big Kahuna

If he were to write a card to mark my Big 6-8, I think George would add the following love note to his LPM…

My Lovely Paula Marie,

Happy Birthday. Remember, I am always with you. Love never dies, and our love will last forever. You have always doubted yourself, but I have always believed in you. Be strong. Be confident. Be the person you have always been. Paula 2.0 is going to be fine. I want to see  you dance again. And I am never far away.  

Love and kisses from he who kisses you most! Me

My Kahuna. My last birthday, 2018. Love and Kisses Forever

I'm Sorry

December 22. The date is burned into my memory. We had been bracing for answers to why Hubby’s health had taken such a sudden and catastrophic turn. The explanation for the sudden onset of acute renal failure didn’t fit neatly into any categories. Initial results indicated cancer, but more pathology was required before the specifics could be confirmed. We would have to await results. The wait was agonizing.

Two weeks later we held our collective breath as we sat, for the first time in either of our lives, in an oncologist’s waiting room. A muted big screen monitor screened footage of snow falling among the golden, shimmering aspen leaves in a serene idyllic mountain setting. A stunning arrangement of pine boughs and poinsettia acknowledged the jolly holiday season. A tabletop held neatly displayed brochures on a variety of relevant topics. Cancer support groups. Caregiver resources. A newsletter offered the BOLD Headline: California End of Life Option Act: Hoping for the Best, Planning for the Worst, and Knowing You Options. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Everyone was so positive!! The door to the inner sanctum opened frequently, as cancer patients and caregivers made their way to what, I was to discover later, was the multi-chair chemo center. Smiles abounded. Staff members welcomed patients back, engaging in congenial small talk. A jovial woman navigated her walker to a waiting room chair, smiling broadly under her crocheted cap to cover her hairlessness. “You still have your hair!” she commented to someone she apparently knew from previous chemo sessions. “So far!” he replied, smiling broadly. How could people here be so upbeat? This was an oncologist’s office. Cancer, the most evil, unfair and terrifying demon brought people here, yet they were exchanging smiles, pleasantries and holiday cheer. Christmas was just three days away, and the spirit of positivity abounded in a CANCER office.

Hubby and I were the exception to the light hearted mood. We were moments from the news we had been awaiting. My head was filled with hope - and fear. The “many voices of me” played an endless loop of happy endings, along with terrifying “life without Hubby” nightmares. We thought we were ready to find out….

No one can prepare for the news we received. Hubby’s doctor was gentle but direct. He told us how sorry he was that he didn’t have better news. Outlined detailed treatment options for the rare cancer threatening to steal my lifelong partner from me. Offered details about oncology specialists we should contact for second (and third, and fourth) opinions, and gave us his personal email for questions that may arise over the long holiday weekend. I had stopped trying to take notes, and secretly had my phone voice recorder capturing his words in order to play it back when my heart wasn’t pounding louder than his voice.

Through it all, Hubby listened intently, expressionless. No questions. No overt reaction. He may as well have been listening to a judge pronouncing a verdict after one of his court appearances. His only words to the doctor were, “Man, I’d hate to have your job.” That was it. A few closing comments followed, and the doctor gave Hubby an “I’m sorry” handshake and pat on the back as he exited the room.

We hadn’t uttered a word to each other. An examination table separated our two chairs, making even hand holding impossible as Hubby received the prognosis and time line. We had controlled our emotions in those agonizing minutes. Once the doctor left the room, we stood up, walked to each other and shared an embrace unlike any I could remember. I didn’t know what to say. But he did. Two words defined the man who has put others before himself his entire life. “I’m sorry.” As he received his “sentence”, my protector felt the rush of guilt for spoiling my happily ever after. We hugged as I melted into his still strong embrace. We wallowed in that tragic moment for a mere few seconds, then shook it off and put on our game face. There was no time to waste. Cancer wasn’t taking a break inside my Big Kahuna, and we couldn’t either.

We were unusually quiet as we headed home into the last light of what was a gorgeous SoCal winter sunset. As he drove, Hubby’s first comment was, “You’re going to be fine, I’ve got everything in place for you…” I stopped him mid-sentence. I was not ready. At the same time, I understood my man. Always putting others first. ALWAYS putting my needs first. He was about to begin the toughest battle of his life, yet his first thoughts centered on my future.

We made the decision to invite our son, daughter and their families to come to the house that evening, so we could tell them the news. Christmas was around the corner and our preschool and infant grandchildren were giddy with excitement. The juxtaposition of Hubby’s bombshell and Santa’s pending arrival had to be carefully played. Daughter held her 5 month old daughter, son attended to his 2 year old, happily eating blueberries, and son-in-law kept almost 4 year old son distracted…as their father found the words none of them wanted to hear. Like the doctor, he was brief and direct – and immediately assured them that he was ready to fight the good fight. Everyone guarded their emotions from the littles in the room, who were too young to feel the punch to the gut that followed the announcement. But their faces spoke volumes. Quiet tears mixed with bouncing baby girl and her sweet smile. Blank stares into the unknowns of their father’s future, against the playful banter of cousins happily engaged with treasures in Gigi and Grandpa’s toy closet. As unfortunate as the timing of the news, the joy of children at Christmas would prove to be a much needed diversion...

Christmas Eve was spent quietly, a seismic shift from the typical Hultman Christmas Eve Spectacular of the previous 38 years. Daughter hosted a Christmas Eve Pajama Party for our immediate family – the same party of 8 with whom we shared The News two nights earlier. Hubby continued his traditional reading of The Night Before Christmas to the less-than-attentive toddlers! Son, Daughter and I, on the other hand, didn’t want to miss a word. The significance of this Christmas Eve custom had a new poignancy. I recorded all of it – squirmy, chatty grandkids and all. I pray we will repeat the tradition next year and beyond.

Our quiet, mutually agreed upon giftless Christmas morning started with a kiss. We headed back to Daughter’s home, greeted by oldest Grandson’s announcement that Santa had indeed come, and the inquiry to both Grandpa and me, “Did Santa bring you coal or presents?” I assured him we were on the Nice List which brought him great relief! Daughter, our designated Santa delivered joyfully wrapped presents to their intended recipients.

One – then two – and three packages made their way to me, with the telltale handwriting and tags. “To the Lovely Paula Marie, from The Big Kahuna. To Mrs. H. from Mr. H. To Mom from Charlie (our goofy Golden)”. I could not hold back my tears. We vowed not to exchange presents, yet Hubby had broken the rules. “I’m sorry,” he said. I immediately understood the reason why he had ignored our no gifts pledge. We didn’t have to say it but it was never far from our minds – what will next Christmas hold in store?

In those first few days after the diagnosis, we rode an emotional roller coaster of fear and uncertainty, wistful hope and forced positivity. In the weeks since, we are finding our footing. Hubby feels well enough to continue working, with a few tweaks to his calendar. His kidneys are healing and dialysis may soon be discontinued permanently. His sense of humor is intact - his biggest compliment coming from the staff of his nephrologist's office, "Mr. Hultman, you are my favorite patient!" There have been some terrifying moments too, to be shared in a future post, along with immeasurable gratitude to family and friends for their seemingly limitless support. I don’t think Hubby comprehended how his lifetime of generosity and selflessness touched others. He has been moved to tears more than once – not by the fight he faces – but by the avalanche of kindness, compassion, prayers and support from so many. After one particular act of thoughtfulness, he commented, “People are being so nice,” as his eyes welled up and voice cracked. Wiping away the tears, embarrassed by his tearful moment, he said, “I’m sorry.” Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. You are still the strongest person I know. I promise to stay #kahunastrong

Who Are Your Penguins?

It began with a Christmas gift from one friend to three others about 15 years ago. Matching pins – each one a sterling silver penguin with abalone inlay. This was a step up from our usual gift exchange of decorative lemon zesters and scented candles, and it begged the question – did I miss the memo about the increased gift price limit?



The Pin

I wasn’t alone in my surprise. Three of the four of us were feeling a bit guilty about our presents soon to be opened – cute cocktail napkins, festive cheese spreaders, and gingerbread man coffee mugs!  Our friend had some explaining to do, but first she had one more gift to bestow– in a red silk pouch. The last gift was another pin – this one a group of three penguins – in stunning black coral and mother of pearl. With this pin came the story that has bonded us for years, and has seen us through the most challenging moments of our lives.

Why penguins? Our friend had done her research. In Emperor penguin society, huddling is a survival method. In the frigid arctic winters, penguins form tight groups to protect each other and to conserve body heat. The penguins constantly maneuver themselves from the outside to the inside of the huddle in order for each to have the warmth and protection necessary to conserve energy and avoid starvation or death. The individual penguin pins would become beautiful additions to our personal jewelry collections, but the three-penguin pin would belong to all of us – its next keeper to be determined by whoever currently had the pin in her possession. In our friendship foursome, the Penguin Pin would be symbolic of our “huddle” – if you received it, you knew that whatever challenge you were facing, your penguins were with you, in a huddle, keeping you warm and safe and loved.

I have a particular fondness for my penguin pals, because in this circle I am the baby penguin – P4 – and P1, P2, and P3 are going out of their way to welcome me into their decade! Our huddle has protected every one of us at some time over the years since P1’s original gift was shared. There is no meeting of the minds or timeline to determine when and to whom The Pin should be passed. We penguins know when someone is in need of being in the center of the huddle, and over the years The Pin has been with each one of us when we needed it the most. The Pin spent the better part of 2010 with P3 – huddling with her as she fought her battle with breast cancer. The Pin saw her through lumpectomies, mastectomies and chemo. If one of the penguins was not physically with P3 during her battle, our symbolic huddle never left her side.

There are also times when The Pin celebrates some of the best penguin moments. When P2 and her husband celebrated their 40^th anniversary with a renewal of their wedding vows, we offered to be her bridesmaids (as the baby penguin, I volunteered to be the flower girl). After lots of wine and laughter, we assured P2 that we would opt for a less obvious inclusion in the ceremony, and presented her with The Pin. We pinned it to her bouquet and “walked” down the aisle with her. It is one of my favorite penguin memories.

In January, after my first blog post admitting my struggles with turning 60, my penguins and I huddled over more wine – another method we use to keep warm – and I confided some of my fears, my regrets and my lowest moments that had taken me to that dark place I mentioned in my earlier post. I realized that I had felt like the penguin on the outer fringe of the huddle, shivering in the cold, fearing my future. Thankfully I had shaken off the negativity and was ready to embrace 60 – which, they reminded me, was not a death sentence! Not long afterward, I found the unmistakable red silk pouch on my dresser. There it was. The Pin. P3 was on her way to recovery and she had quietly passed the huddle to P4 – the penguins had my back.

One benefit of super adulthood is the wealth of memories you can savor - experiences shared with the most important people in your life. My circle of extraordinary friends and family extends beyond The Penguins, and I can not imagine this journey that has been my life without them sharing it with me. To those of you who haven’t already done so, celebrate the penguins in your life. Keep them close, treasure them, and be there when they need warmth, love and support. Thank you family, friends and my penguins - you are a magnificent huddle!

Junior Penguins



Colorful Penguins



Playful Penguins