Home is wherever I’m with you…Whistler

Home is wherever I’m with you…home is where I find myself walking alone into a crowded room and I see familiar faces in every direction.  Summer friends, winter one’s too, the patrols that used to hang out at the shop and talk surfing and pick up videos and White Planet books between storms and calls on radios from somewhere on high not far from right here right now.

It’s true a piece of my home is missing this winter…and I miss the faces that remind me and seeing so many of them at Duncan’s memorial brought it all rushing back.  I wonder sometimes if that was really the reason I was there…for them…the reason I built a living room at the base of a mountain and refused to sell anything I wouldn’t wear.  Where do you go now my friends?  Where did I go?

HOME…Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros take me back to the day I scraped 2000lbs of tile off the floors and my sister forgot to move our tools and jackets before she sprayed the ceiling white…or the day the McConkey Pontoons arrived and my son said, “Now the Mama and the little girl are a family”, and Ingrid and Arne together at Squaw in the Matchstick memories of four years on the big-screen over my shoulder, elbows on the counter I sanded and oiled with my own hands, in neon ski pants and sandals with a chai tea and a cinnamon bun from Ciao Thyme next door.

Whistle with me… (ha, ha…OK, better click on the song and get it playing then start reading again…go!)

Walked up once in my ski gear just before noon and a young couple was taking a picture of the sign I left on the door. ’55cm Gone skiing’…in Sharpy marker over the snow report for the day.  “That’s awesome!”, she said, and they laughed and walked away holding hands.  Ya, it was.

On sunny Sundays and market days the kids would come by with Mama and pizza and the sticky popcorn that fell down between the cushions of the black leather chairs and watch The Drifter with Dad while Kate played hide and seek with Jack and ran outside with the plexi-glass Spy signs from the sunglass cases…or lock the fitting room doors from the inside and climb out on their hands and knees from underneath…and all the nights my wife waited and packed them into the car to bring me home.

And the other days…mostly alone…when the rain thundered on the metal roof and showered down on the plastic bag on my bike seat and I wondered when it would end… like a summer love that left the locals in rain coats and out of work in the seasons between right here at home, I found you there.

Home is wherever I’m with you…and no matter what they build in its place, or what color they paint that wall at the skate park that I keep taking pictures of…it will still be right there where I left it.

I never said goodbye… to so many, to those friends, because like I said, I didn’t ever want to write that letter in the paper, you know the one, and when I meet them on the stroll or at film premiers and memorials they tell me, “I miss your store.”

Me too.


Home is wherever I’m with you Whistler.  See you there.


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