When Maisie Met Frankie

Love at first bite.

Oh, there had been others. Sunny in Oregon. The border collie in Utah. Ruby at Huntington Beach. But only to Frankie did Maisie attach like a barnacle.

A 4-year-old black lab, Frankie wooed her with pool leaps and hors d’oeuvres snatching. Unnecessary; he had her at the first tussle, as they rolled and nipped on the grass, in the dirt, over the gravel, and underfoot. So smitten was she that Maisie almost – repeat almost – skipped breakfast to find her new squeeze after the long night apart.

Nothing better than new friendship – except, perhaps, friendship forged over decades.

Lots of decades.

When plotting a trip, place is generally the determining factor. And place, of course, played a major role in our #vanlife itinerary. Who doesn’t want to witness the red canyons of Southern Utah? But, in truth, people cemented the key destinations. Maureen and John in Buffalo, NY, our first stop. Lorrie and Jim in Denver – pals since we were all 20-something singles drinking cheap wine at the Ferry Landing in Portsmouth, NH.

Our sons – one in Denver, the other in Manhattan Beach, CA.

Down the coast in Laguna was 93-year-old Dorothy, a mainstay in my world since college when I travelled all over Europe with her daughter Paula.

Our godson Matt in Hood River, Oregon.

And we couldn’t tour the west without visiting Seattle, which promised a reunion with the dearest and closest of friends, including Paula, who drove west with me after college graduation, and Janet, a pal from junior high who persuaded us to visit her in Seattle, where she lived with two fellow University of Vermont grads. And Val, another UVM grad who found her way to the Emerald City and never left.

And the journalism crew. Nothing like a newspaper newsroom to forge bonds. Perhaps it was the tight quarters. The constant collaboration. The constant pressure to produce. The constant schedule of after-work drinking. Whatever. Despite the four decades that have passed since we kicked the soccer ball around the Seattle Post-Intelligencer features department, among my favorite companions on the planet are the members of this tribe.

Frankie belongs to Casey and Sally, who hosted a weekend gathering (thank you Pfizer and Moderna) at their Yakima home, a little slice of paradise that included a pool, unrestricted views of neighboring valleys, and soaring hawks. It was hard to leave the laughs, the banter, the recipe sharing via the Paprika app that Ev recommended, the debates on whether prostitution should be legalized or if the Democrats can hold onto the House and Senate. It was hard to leave Paula, her husband Greg, and their clan of kids and grandkids.

In a way, traveling by van to these friends, to this former stomping ground that I have visited dozens of times since I returned back east to be closer to family, deepened the joy of the reunion. One reason: driving thousands of miles is a bit more challenging than hopping a 5-hour flight. But the real reason, I think, was that we arrived a self-contained package, complete with dish towels and dog. Although we were delighted to sleep in real beds and bathe in real showers, that we had our own mini house made us feel less like out-of-town guests and more like temporary residents.

As we drive the final leg of our van journey, I am awed by the beauty of Montana’s raging rivers, endless sky, pastures of grazing cows. I love the expanse of road cutting through mountains as we make our way to Yellowstone and the Tetons. I regret that we couldn’t visit more of our Northwest buddies – next time Donna and Chuck, I promise – or spend another week dragging Maisie on walks through Carkeek Park and eating Micki’s desserts and attempting more weights at CrossFit with Paula, I am so very grateful for the days we shared, and hope that the memories will buffer the pain in my keester as we drive the thousands of miles home.

If not, I can devote the west-to-east route sending Evelyn recipes on Paprika.