New entry way to the front door of my friends. |
Slide your foot across a door jam and you might step onto a
floor of stories. A high school
friend and his wife have a floor like that.
Bob and Kristin are story-makers.
Bob teaches in the journalism department at the University of Nevada and
Kristin is a retired teacher with a knack for telling stories. There was
rarely a moment of silence during my stay! It made no difference which floor we crossed. We had so much fun telling each other stories.
Kristin and Bob ( the latter being absent, but present.) |
Kristin and I made pies together and Bob prepared steaks. Cooking with friends is lovely. Food of any sort can start stories. Without reading the recipe thoroughly, I
poured out the peach juice before realizing I was supposed to add it back in
later. We substituted orange juice and
the pie came out even better. The second
pie was a cherry pie, one of Bob’s favorites.
I used to eat cherry pie every night in college; my food plan allowed me
to do that. Hurrah for pies and Mother's Day flowers!
Orange Peach Pie and Fresh Cherry Pie (Photo credit: Bob) |
Paul, who is Kristin and Bob’s son, sent the flowers in the
photo. We are two moms blessed with good motivated kids. Both of our kids remembered their moms on Mother’s Day.
While visiting Reno I wandered around to places where I
remember making stories. The California
Building in these photos stands in Idlewild Park.
Wuffle
was a childhood friend, whose father was responsible for this building. We would often go and skate with Wuffle on
the shiny wooden floors. (Maybe this is
where my love of trees reflecting on wooden floors was first nurtured.) Wuffle. What a silly name you
must be thinking. That is another story. I could not pronounce “r’s” or “s’s” as a child. Hence, Russell became Wuffle. “R’s” and “s’s” are two of the sounds which
are often the last ones to be pronounced properly.
There was no rush to correct my pronunciation until I was in the first grade and my
teacher’s name was "Miss Smith". Or “Miff
Miff” according to me. I recall her rushing me to a speech therapist post haste. See how a door leads to stories?
Who used the front
door at Reno High School? Not me. I was destined to be a student of the side
door. The parking lot was on the side
and I rode to school with friends who had cars.
We had good friends then. We were
sure that we would never loose those friendships. I do still have at least a handful of
them. And Bob is back! Good to come back to Reno, a city of long-time friends. A place of stories behind doors.
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