May for us was a month of focusing on one thing and forgetting everything else. Since we closed on the house April 30th and began renovating May 1st, everything from birthdays to anniversaries to dear friendships has gone virtually uncelebrated or unattended. We were literally more involved with choosing a toilet lever than we were in acknowledging our 14-year anniversary on May 30th. And, obviously, I have seriously neglected my poor blog, having spent too much time in work boots and not enough going barefoot. So, in a month when I slipped one year closer to “old age,” and my relationship progressed further into its teenage years, why not a retrospective on a time when “we” were teens and “WE” was in its infancy. Even if this “happy anniversary” to Matea is off schedule, at least it’s under budget!
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At some point in the late 80s/early 90s, my Dad decided to convert our family to a country music household. I resisted as much as I could at the time, holding firm to my beloved Debbie Gibson, Wilson Phillips, Whitesnake, et al; but after a couple of months of car trips featuring The Judds, Reba, and Travis Tritt, the twangy, story-telling tunes somehow managed to endear themselves to me. So by the time Matea and her family had made their way south from West Virginia, the year before we met, I was pretty much as honkey-tonk as they come. She says one of her earliest memories of me (other than my being generally obnoxious) was my singing Garth Brooks’s “Calling Baton Rouge” in the hallway of our junior high school. My earliest memory is having French class with her. My French name was Gabriella, and I think hers was Elise...Estelle...Monique? I can’t remember. But anyway, we were assigned to do a skit together on the topic of getting ready for bed. So we showed up that day decked out in pajamas and got up in front of the class to recite phrases like “je me brosse les dents, je prends une douche, je dorm,” etc. This initial collaboration somehow parlayed itself into a second later in the year. We were dismissed early from same French class to an end-of-year auction for participants in a program called Accelerated Reader. We had accumulated “dollars” over the school year by reading books and taking tests on the computer. Although I don’t remember our being the closest of companions at this point, we ended up pooling our resources in order to augment our bidding power. Who knew that would be our first foray into acquiring communal property? At the end of the day, I think we left with a Zip-Loc bag full of candy and a Santa Clause toilet seat cover which I gave to my grandmother. I was 13 then.
Nearly a year later, we had become slightly better acquainted. The passing of my grandfather in late November of 1994, however, had a profound effect on my life. It shocked me to realize that even family was not permanent. Matea was the first person I told about it at school, in English class. I wrote my first poems that December, and the period of angst and grunge had officially begun. Matea’s compassion during a tough time had galvanized our friendship, though, and I started walking to her house after school. My mom would pick me up around 5 each day, so for a good hour or two, we had time to eat frozen pizzas from the microwave, watch trash tv, annoy her sisters, etc. But mostly we listened to music. She had one Trisha Yearwood cd and one Garth Brooks greatest hits, but otherwise her collection was like a whole new world of unfamiliar musical territory. I had never been exposed to Little Feat, Steely Dan, Amy Grant (ha ha), Cat Stevens, John Prine, and especially not her favorite, Joni Mitchell. By this time, as necessitated by my new grungy modus operandi, I had begun listening to top 40 and alternative radio. Most of the classic rock was a familiar enough approximation to or amalgamation of the hair bands/pop country/alternative rock of my past and present. But Joni Mitchell, with her high-pitched singer-songwriter style, was enough to pierce my eardrums and send me running from the room. But as a much more mature 15-year-old, I learned to bear it somehow and began to break myself in on the folksy soprano, starting with “Big Yellow Taxi.” I sat in the floor of Matea’s bedroom listening to the track over and over until I got the words down. Sing-alongs were important. We routinely sat in front of the boom box for hours, belting out everything from Bonnie Rait to The Offspring. Over the next year or two, both Joni and Matea, had found a place in my soul. I had nailed the high-octave “Pleeeeease” at the end of “Big Yellow Taxi” and mastered most of the songs on both Ladies of the Canyon and Blue.
Fast forward: before we knew it, we were graduating from high school a year early and heading off to Clemson, then graduating and moving to Vermont, and now settling into our first house. Even after 15 years, it seems like we’re just getting started. We were lucky to have had so many years of practice, collaborating, pooling resources, helping each other through hardships. I have learned to have true compassion, conviction, and trust. But most importantly, no matter what we’ve gone through together since she first played “Big Yellow Taxi” for me, I’ve always remembered to savor the high notes.
“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter, and so sweet. Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet. Oh I would still be on my feet.”
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
4 years ago
