Member-only story
This Is Us
Gifts That Have Moved Me to Tears
Why creatives are richer than they realize
My friend Anne is an artist. Her specialty is rendering furry mammals from paper and pencil; she teaches her technique at a local art gallery. Anne has illustrated a few books and takes orders for pet portraiture, but her art hasn’t made her rich and famous. Even though, based on skill and my biased opinion, she absolutely should be.
I’m friends with Anne because she’s in my church-affiliated small group. We are a support group of eight folks varying in marital status, gender, sexual orientation, and adherence to any faith at all. Our oldest member is 83 and our youngest is 38. We call ourselves the Vigilantes of Love, because it’s quirky and risk-takey and sort of indescribable.
Kind of like us.
Kind of like love.
For Thanksgiving this year, since we couldn’t gather with our families or each other, we threw together a last-minute dish exchange. I spent my first six hours of the holiday mashing 10 pounds of potatoes and snapping five big bags of green beans. Vigilantes dropped by to swap for roasted veggies and pie.
Anne came to my door holding a plate of snickerdoodles and an envelope. “Open it,” she said.
My friend Anne knows my life story. She was there when I told the group I needed a divorce. She was there when I sob-squeaked that my torn ACL was going to require surgery, which was going to require everyone’s help to get my kids where they needed to go for two weeks. She was there in the park where we met this summer, six feet apart in lawn chairs, the day I shared that my new boyfriend, the one I was head over heels for, the one that felt like the One, had suddenly passed away. Anne brought her guitar, and when I asked her to play the mournful songs I wanted to hear, she played them.
Anne, a true lover of animals, also knows the significance of my rescue dog to my daughters and me. Maybe that’s why she chose to draw Ginger with her Wonder Woman Halloween costume on. A vigilante in her own right.
I had such a strong reaction to Anne’s unexpected Thanksgiving gift, I had to step away from the potatoes for fear of contamination. No flimsy cloth mask…
