Do you like weird people? - #48

Or are you the weird one?

Before we get into this week, my friend Becca and I started a bachelor/ette franchise recap newsletter & podcast called Thank You for Sharing That. It is a wholly different vibe, and we are having a blast. If you’re into that sort of thing, subscribe here.

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The rains are here. Monsoon season has begun and with it comes the clattering of hail on the ribbed steel above. Metal roofs are a requirement here — they can withstand the snow load, they mitigate wildfire risk, and my god they’re romantic. The record spins in the corner, Bonnie Raitt’s 1972 masterpiece Give It Up reviving every ghost seeking refuge from the storm. The doors to the patio hang open, cats on the railings letting their fur take in the mist. They’ll bathe on the comfort of the couch later, but they’re taking an assist from the weather for now. 

It’s a slow day in Shangrilogs and I need it. The past several days, I’ve been hosting a friend from Austin, and with hosting comes showing. A concert! Big hikes! Mountain bike rides! Dinner in the village! Hot springs! If writing a newsletter shows what life is like here, hosting a friend shows what life could be like here. And that is the mission: show them how good it is so they might be incentivized to join you. But recruitment is a moonshot. When it comes to connection, new blooms are nice but old roots will root you right back. 

In January, around the six-month mark of living here, I wrote about making friends. Another six months have passed, and it is time to revisit because I have news: I have some friends. It’s been a full year in this town now, and I have new First-Name-Place-We-Met numbers in my phone. 

When I first moved here, I followed every regional social media account I could find. I followed the library, the ski area, a coffee shop, the radio station, the pet store, a yoga studio, the humane society, the newspaper, the arborist, music venues, a leather shop, and a slew of others. It seemed like and has proven to be the best way to find things to do. And 10 days ago, the newspaper posted that a musician I liked was coming to play at a venue in the town over. I bought tickets immediately. It would be my friend’s first night in town, and I thought what better way to show her the town than to take her to a folk concert under the stars. The venue is small. It’s the shell of an old warehouse, just stone walls held up by new metal beams and a corrugated arch over the stage, it’s mainly folding chairs on gravel with a makeshift bar selling cans of Ranch Water. 

I expected to enjoy the music, have a couple drinks, and to feel in some ways like a local who knows what’s going on, but I did not expect to actually feel like a local. I put on my earrings and my old jeans and tied my old button down at the waist. I put on my confidence and my come what may and my well here goes and go it did. First, a recent new friend, the leatherworker, a friendship some six months of missed connections in the making. Hugs, introductions to friends, laughter and plan making. Wanna ride this week? Yeah! Then, the realtor who’d helped me land this cabin, how’s it been where’ve you been where you going. Then, another new friend, who hosted a BBQ where Coop did kitchen cleanup, back from a marathon in Italy. Let’s do dinner next week. We’ll round everyone up. And I spent the evening knowing and being known. 

Maybe this emboldened me. Maybe this lent me someone else’s courage, because a day or two later, my friend and I were out on the trails mountain biking — something she has done for ten years and I for fewer than ten months — and when I saw a group of women ahead of us, I felt a calling. I can’t even remember what question I asked first because I asked so many of them. Is this a clinic? Are you all friends? Do you live here? Do you ride often? Who is in charge? Can I be your friend? Can you be my friend? Who is the ringleader and can I have your phone number? Do any of you live in the tiny town over the ridge? 

“I did,” she said with a cool southern drawl. “Lived there for 8 years.” She leaned back on her bike, one foot on the ground, one on the pedal. “Which house are you in?”

“I bought Dick’s place. Do you know him?” 

Her smile turned up. 

“I sure do. I love Dick.” 

One of the other women said quietly, “I love dick, too.” And I loved her immediately. 

When we bought this place, Dick had his own realtor. The southern drawl was married to that realtor. It’s a small town. It’s a “which house is yours” small town.

I took two of their phone numbers. Then we asked for directions. 

“This way’s easy, that way’s more climbing.” I thanked them for being so open and friendly, and then we pedaled off in the direction of more climbing. And knowing they were behind us, I felt the fear of god in my thighs worried they would catch us, pass us, and deem me both too weak and too eager to be their friend. I combatted this feeling with pride. I’d acted with hope and openness. Is there a way to make friends other than making an effort, making a fool? 

I texted the two numbers at home. “Hey, thank you guys for being willing to give a strange girl your number! I’m Kelton, moved here a year ago and love the usual shit: hiking mtb etc. Would love to hang!” They both texted back. And when I sat down to write this, one of them texted again.

“Hey, I’m headed to the meadows tomorrow with one of the other girls if you wanna join us!” 

So when this lands in your inbox, I’ll be on a trail with two women I met this week, hoping I’m not too slow or too scared. Hoping my jokes and my jumps land. Hoping that the next time a friend comes to visit, I have even more people to introduce them to, more waves across the concert venue, more run-ins at the grocery, more people to call when life calls you out. 

That friend that came to visit, we’ve known each other for seven years. We met at a cycling camp in Texas Hill Country. We’ve been on epic rides and easy spins, girls’ nights and girls’ getaway weekends, but we’d never hung out one on one. She was roadtripping through Colorado and asked if she could stay. I was nervous about her visiting. Would we have enough to talk about? If I opened up, would she open up too? She was so cool, and I talk to ghosts in the woods and cry when I look at my dog too long. Historically, I am not good at investing in friendships. I think of the people I love all the time, but that love rarely showers — it only swirls in my own little snowglobe, contained and private. But week’s like this make me want to smash it. I loved hanging out with her. I loved seeing new friends in town. I loved whatever came over me that made me introduce myself to strangers in the woods. 

In therapy a few years ago my therapist asked what was the worst that would happen if I just let someone see who I am. Not in my writing or on social media, but in person. 

“They’ll think I’m fucking weird.”

“Do you like weird things?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they do too.” 

Making friends is like gardening. You find a plot to make a stake in. You weed, you churn dirt. You shovel, you plant. You stare out your window wondering why you spent $30 on that seed and haven’t seen a single flower. You give up. You go back. You weed more. You plant more. You water more. You get irritated with the deer you are holding responsible for destroying it. You fall in love with bugs. Never mind, only certain bugs. You research and invest and dig and plant and water and watch and one day after washing the dirt out from under your fingernails, you look out that same old window to see a swath of flowers. You pour a glass of wine and go outside to sit amongst them, grateful and relieved.

I have a plot. I have made a stake. And I just need to be willing to get a little dirty to make it work.

Taking a lesson from a busy bee.

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I’d love to know: how’s friend-making going in your neck of the woods?