I knocked at her "last known address" and Emily—someone I knew of, but never met—answered the door. Her hazel-to-green eyes burned into me with hard "not buying anything" energy. As I explained who I was, Genie screamed from inside, "Suzie-cat, is that you? OH MY GOD! You wrote you were coming, and you're here!" She barreled past Emily and picked me up, spinning me around with this moment-in-time bear hug. But I'm bigger both ways since our last visit, and we fell with a crash inside the doorway. That didn't stop Genie as she kept kissing and hugging me. It all reminded me of the time a puppy had me on the ground, licking me with its happiness.
Emily walked around our giddy-fest and got to work lighting up lavender candles and incense. Genie pulled me back to my feet, calling out the clothes I wore, saying I looked like a mini Aunty Meg. I said she only guessed half the story and shared how I had impersonated a chaperone to get here, rehashing Genie's barmaid stories as my own to explain my work experience with children. She laughed at all the right places.
Probably not getting our "kin and country humor," Emily left for the kitchen. That gave Genie the cue to catch me up on three years' worth of re-tellings. We landed on their second-hand couch with a flop, and she spoke "stream-of-consciousness," never coming up once for air. I could barely keep up—college majors changed, guys dated, arrests, mosh pit injuries, cash jobs. Her ramblings reminded me of happier times. Go-karting down Old Man Martin's Hill. Sharing a quilt on Aunty Meg's porch during a cold morning. Walking barefoot into town for summertime ice cream.
At some point, Emily called us in for Chinese leftovers served on one of those square, brown tables with collapsible legs—the exact, same kind used by old folks playing bridge. Placing a serving on her lap, Genie sat down and put her feet on the table. Then—Lord—the re-tellings! Each of those college ladies tried to outdo the other! I thought I was going to die from laughing hard and, at some point, had to step away before embarrassing myself.
I noticed, on the way back from the bathroom, this blown-up photograph—a lavender field at sunrise—hanging on the wall between their bedrooms. Asking about it generally, Genie, with a lit cigarette between her fingers, raised the same arm as if we were in class, confirming it was hers. She said the photo started with following the Grateful Dead. During their Summer '84 tour, she befriended a photojournalist named Vernon—not the famous one—who gave her a masterclass in leading the moment with a lens.
Genie didn't follow the tour when it left Nebraska. And over good-bye beers, the idea for the photo shoot came up when Melvin, the oldest in their crew, drunk-challenged Genie to experience the climbs, wild sage, and farms of Grand Valley for herself. Fast forward to her wandering around Palisade and re-telling about the town and its characters—folks I would never meet.
