As I think on the time that I've known the two of you, the thing that strikes me about our friendship is its ability to hold together across expanses of time and space. Conversations and experiences begin one place, drift, rest, and conclude somewhere else-- sometimes thousands of miles and months apart. Another thing that strikes me about our time together is that we're always skirting some narrowly-averted disaster in which the two of you find some way, remarkably, to keep your cool.
I remember certain small potential disasters we avoided together such as finding Jeff a bike large enough to fit his lanky frame so that we could ride together in Austin. Because, of course, when two cyclists *have* to ride, a missing bike is a minor trauma. Unfortunately, riding a bike that was too small for him just after back surgery, Jeff looked like Lurch on a tricycle, his face contorted into some combination of agony and glee. We made it home not too much worse for the wear, our minor disaster kept at bay.
Most of all I remember a particular fateful Thanksgiving holiday wherein we attempted to serve a new side dish over barbecued turkey-- "Chopped Finger of Tim". The conversation was good-- something to do with Jeff's love of Martha Stewart I believe-- and the two of us worked over our vegetables with ease while chatting in the kitchen. I'm not sure if things were moving along so well because we were good at what we were doing or if it was because of the new knives-- the cutting seemed to go smoothly, effortlessly. Either way I remember pausing the conversation to fish something out of the pile of onions that clearly didn't belong there. I think it's then that we both realized something had gone wrong, but I, for one, wasn't quite sure exactly what. Strangely, our conversation simply continued along, rather matter-of-factly, no doubt due in part to Jeff's practiced professional patter. Leslie had no clue what was going on in the kitchen, though I do remember that at some point she realized the conversation changed from spirited talk of poppy seed muffins or somesuch to the quiet talk of two men working intently over something as if they were hunched together in the garage solving some small mechanical puzzle. Even as I became woosy from the realization that I had swiftly and deftly flayed myself, Jeff remained calm, doling out instructions as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Noticing my pale, sweating forehead and missing limb, Leslie moved quickly and smartly and picked up the phone to call nurse mom to help save the day, certain death averted.
Despite our adventures-- and I'm a sucker for a big adventure, missing limbs notwithstanding-- what I value most about the two of you can best be summed up in your own words. After a long day in London this last autumn you told me, "we're What-You-See-Is-What-You-Get kind of people." You confirmed for me then what I already knew: that despite our continuing struggle to make our time and space coincide, we can still weather disasters big and small together. In the end there's something more fundamental we can count on, and that's what all great relationships are about, after all.
Happy 10th anniversary. I hope to go on knowing you-- together-- for a very long time.