Harp

I have an old friend whom I don't see very often, despite the fact that we don't live that far apart.  John was a colleague at a high school where we both taught.  He was also one of my husband's best friends and helped us build our log home back in the 80s.  In turn, Pete helped John build his log home.  So we have those roots.

During the years that Pete was living with cancer, we hosted an annual bonfire at our home just before Thanksgiving.  I remember those occasions fondly.  Although I've lost touch over the years with many of Pete's friends who participated in those bonfires, a few have remained in my radar.  John, always the first to arrive and the last to leave, brought a case of Harp to every one.  Harp has become a kind of code word for us.  Meaning we should catch up with one another over an Irish beer.

Last week, John posted something on Facebook and I commented in one word:  Harp.  He got the hint.

This afternoon, John came by with a six-pack of Harp.  The warm weather was still here, with a steady rain throughout most of the morning.  About an hour before John was to arrive, however, the sun came out and the skies were blue.  Harp on the front porch!  Perfect!

What did we talk about over the four hours that we sat on the porch?  A little bit of everything, I suppose.  Travel, politics, education, family, friends, cars, houses, gardening, pets . . . and Pete.

Obviously, I love a good Irish beer.  But my love for Harp is more than that.  It's a connection to an earlier time in my life, a time before Cancer screwed things up.  Harp is a memory, a good one.  Harp is an autumn afternoon with an old friend.  A comfort.  And a buzz.