Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.

We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

Kinkeeping in the Month of May

"A kinkeeper is someone who cultivates a sense of 'family solidarity or connectedness'."  - Carolyn Rosenthal in the New York Times

"When researchers sought out kinkeepers for a 2017 study, more than 91% of the volunteers were women." - New York Times

The counter holds a stack of graduation announcements and party RSVP requests. Our calendars are filling with parties and reunions trying to elbow work aside. Many extended family members claim a birthday in May (seven at last count) and birthday cards, texts, and phone calls need to be sent (on-time if possible, but often lagging). 

The signing of checks, scrounging for cash, mailing of cards, represents work that I gladly complete, enjoying the thought of our family member opening the letter or spending birthday money on a favorite treat. But it does constitute effort and take up mental space, which is at a premium these days due to age and busy-ness. I was delighted when I saw the New York Times article on kinkeeping, lending a name and weight and honor to these tasks.

In my family it's true that women do the heavy lifting of kinkeeping, organizing Zoom calls, sending the cards and gifts. It's work that was not assigned or explicitly recognized in our house, but I wanted to do it and so it fell to me. I have excellent role models in my mother, mother-in-law, aunts, and good friends - they illustrate the means by which a large family, geographically dispersed, can stay connected.

Rob does a fair amount of kinkeeping, himself. He remembers gifts and anniversaries, particularly for his extended family, and created a family tree for both sides. He even printed out enough paper copies for each family to hang a tree in their home. In this joint effort I am blessed; I married someone who rates family connectedness as high as I do.

I think kinkeeping also refers to dear friends and chosen family. Graduation cards and gifts are part of recognizing important milestones for this wonderful group, and attending graduation parties a piece of being present to witness this moment in the life of a young person - and their parents. Though my introvert heart skips a beat when I see the calendar for the upcoming week, I remember that this work is old and hallowed - and important.