A good friend of mine from back in the day when I had a small waistline is flying me and Dave out to visit her for a week.  Yup, flying us out there.  How does one even start to thank someone for that kind of generosity?  Ideas, anyone?  Because I’m still blown away by this.  I feel humbled that someone would want my/our company enough to buy us plane tickets.  On the other hand, I think I’d do the same thing if our finances permitted, but it’s always easier for me to appreciate someone OTHER than myself.  I’m not very good at the self-love thing at times.

Marcy and I met at a Jackstraws gig.  Jackstraws is a folk band that  played at renaissance faires (Huzzah, y’all!), restaurants, and at places like Seaport Village.  They’ve since branched out, but the cool thing is I still recognize names and faces from back in the day. I was their female singer/tambourine player/dancer for a year (somewhere I have pictures of me in a full red gypsy skirt, off the shoulder white blouse, cinch belt – did I mention tiny waist? – and many bangled bracelets).  Loved the music and the attention.  I was a little better at the self-love thing back then. 🙂 

I remember one gig, a special Halloween themed show at a restaurant, that got derailed when the other female singer and the flautist dropped acid.  The flautist could handle it.  The singer spent the evening in the ladies room, staring at her reflection and possibly watching finger trails.  The guitarist’s girlfriend tried to fill in, but unfortunately had no sense of rhythm or pitch.  It is from this gig the quote “A tambourine in the wrong hands is a dangerous weapon” originated.  This was a one time incident, fyi, back in the early ’80s. The musicianship of all the members of Jackstraws I worked with and/or just enjoyed listening to was and is of the highest quality.   

But I digress.  Marcy and I hit it off really well.  We had many slumber parties at our respective houses (more at hers, I think, because we could sneak into the kitchen at night and make strawberry daquaries, pillow held over the blender to avoid waking up her parents.  Couldn’t get away with that at my house), did Ren Faires together, went to parties (including one where the above mentioned flautist gave me my first hallucinogenic mushrooms), and wrote together.  When I ran away from home (three nights after a really stupid fight with my stepdad ’cause we were both tired and grouchy), I stayed at Marcy’s house. So did all of my clothing and furniture.  Drama queen that I was, I didn’t do anything half-measure.  

As happens when people grow up, go to school and get jobs, Marcy and I lost track of each other for a while.  We reconnected briefly when she moved back to San Diego with her young daughter, but fell out of touch again.  Then in 2009 Marcy found me on Facebook (at least I think it was Facebook) and we started corresponding sporadically.  She was living in Hawaii, a military doctor.  Gotta say that blew me away. I mean… a doctor.  And an officer.  Wow.  

Anyway, Marcy and her daughter Megan (now nearing high school graduation age) went on a trip to check out prospective colleges and several they wanted to see were in San Francisco.  So Dave and I happily hosted them for a few days.  Marcy still pretty much looked exactly as I remembered, not exactly old enough to be a mother to Megan (heartbreakingly beautiful and a total sweetheart).  And the friendship was also pretty much as it used to be, as in easy to sink back into it like a comfy chair.  Which is pretty much the way the best and lasting friendships seem to work.  Made me really regret the years we were out of touch, but completely appreciate having Marcy back in my life. 

So… Hawaii.  Leaving Saturday morning.  I’m hoping we will be making strawberry daiquiris at least once.  Guess we can leave the pillow out of it this time.

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