GOOD READ

HAVING GROWN UPWITHOUT SISTERS, my husbandhasalwaysbeenintriguedbyfemalegatherings.Thiswaswhy, 28years ago, hecrashed my bridal shower to givemea store-wrapped gift.

Thecardread,“Mayourlifetogetheralways be an adventure.” Inside the boxwas a pair of tomato red Patagonia long johns.They remain the most practicalwedding present I ever received, aside from a fireextinguisher frommyfriendRebecca.

Wewere married in a small stone chapel in upstate NewYorkontheunremarkable(atthetime)dateof September 11. Immediately afterward,we headed to Beijing,where Bobwould teach at the China University ofPolitical ScienceandLaw.Thiswasavery loftynameforaclusterofconcretebuildingsand dirtpileswewould callhome.

Our tiny cinder-block dorm roomwas a meat locker inwinter. Icywinds rattled the thinwindowpanes

and gusted through the cracks in the frame.The red long johns became my second skin as I trudged down the concrete hall to the toilets (which consisted of a series of holes in the floor) or curled up under the pile of paddedcotton quilts on ourtwinbeds. Wewere eager travelers in that post-honeymoon, prekidperiod.Withourmetal-framedpacks,weset offduringuniversitybreaks andlongweekendsfor far-flung parts ofAsia. But ouryear abroad ended abruptly and tragicallywith theTiananmen Square uprising:The government tanks fired on the demonstrators, killing students from our school. Shellshocked and traumatized by theviolence,we returned to California to make a new life, no longerwelcome afterthecrackdown. Whenwe lived in San Francisco, and then in the northern foothills of Mount Shasta, mywedding long johnswere regular companions on camping trips and skiweekends. In thoseyears, they resided in the top drawer of my dresser, a grab-and-go location behindthelacypantiesandbras. The long underwear had come to signify many things—the enduring possibility of adventure, our enthusiasmfornewexperiences, and thebeliefthat love really could conquer all, or at least keepyou warm at night. Butwith time the long johns began a slow migration to the furthest recesses ofvarious closets, mirroring my more sedentary life. Each time I happened upon them, theywere a gentle reminder of our present stasis. Four children, a career, and my attempts to be awriter in the margins of my life had predictably andwonderfullyhemmedmeinclosertohome. I had ended up exactlywhere Iwas meant to be.Yet the passage of time had piled on possessions, obligations, and responsibilities. Iwas no longer theyoungbridewhoaspiredtolive

About the author like a turtle,with her house on her back,

Lee Woodruff is a jour- committed to a life of “adventure,”as nalist and the author of Bob’slong-agonotehadpromised. three books. She is a Oh, to replay that stretch of time, cofounder of the Bob whenplanninginvolved onlythetwo

Woodruff Foundation, of us and our kneesworked likewellwhich assists post-9/11 oiled hinges. Iwas incredulous thatwe injured service members would be there again in a fewyears, as and their families. She empty nesters, albeitwithout the knees. is a half-empty nester This past spring, Bob and I attended with four kids. Find her aweekend inVirginiawith the nonat leewoodruff.com. profitorganization ProjectHealing Waters.The group hosts injured service membersatfishingexcursionsaround the country,using nature to help heal the internal and externalwounds of combat.As I packed, it occurred to me that longunderwearwould beessential in earlyApril,with cooler spring temperatures and rain predicted in the mountainsnearCharlottesville.

It took me a few minutes to recall wheretheywere. Poking aroundmy closet,Ifinallylocatedthemina ball at the bottom of a mesh bag behind a pair of boots, theway a much loved stuffedanimaliseventuallyexiledto theattic.YearshadpassedsinceI’d worn them, and after I tugged them out, I examined the top and bottom with neweyes.

Despite countlesswash cycles, the long johns’ red hue had barely dimmed. Thewaistband still snapped back, and over theyears the fabric hadn’t pilled or run.Thiswas gear made to last, utilitarian garments, designed for practicality andwarmth,notfor show.

I held up the top,with its bright red snaps at the neck, and highlights of my life flipped through my mind like animation frames.There Iwas as a fiancé, then ayoung bride in China, now a new mother on a ski trip, our son in a pack on his father’s back.The long johns appear in photos of us on afamilywintercamping tripinthe desert. I had onceworn them for a solidweek, mourning a miscarriage and bedridden, losing hope thatwe would conceive again.

The long johns had been part of each physical move, as Bob changed careers from lawyer to journalist after China andwe leapfrogged around the country to ever larger broadcast markets. Even if I hadn’tworn them regularly, they had been there for all of it, the sorrows andthecelebrations.

The memory of an early camping trip in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula suddenly flooded back, making me smile. During a night of torrential rain, the

tenttarphadcollapsed,drenchingourpacksand sleeping bags in awall ofwater. Iwaswearing the damplongjohnsunderapairofBob’sboxersaswe approached the portico of the swanky Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.We’d planned to meet upwith friendsforthemoreluxurioushalfofourvacation. The doorman moved to block our entrance, scowling as ifwewere covered in human feces.We howled, reenacting his expression later, under the spray of our room’shot shower.

Folding the long johns in mysuitcase, I felt a flash of excitement and anticipation.The comingweekend would be just the two of us on the road, like the old days, experiencing something new.The change of pace and springtime Blue Ridge scenerywould do usgood.And asitturned out,itdid.

Until I stood, learning to cast, in thigh-deepwater on that fly-fishingweekend, I hadn’t imagined the powerful magic that existed in the boil of a rushing river. Itworked on my soul like a balm.We reverted to our old, silly selves, the adventuresome couple who had lain dormant too long, aswe survived a day of hard rain, slept in ayurt, and fell for the romance of fly-fishing.Thiswas avastly different sport than what Ihadremembered from childhood recollections,which involved standing on the dockwith a container ofworms. Fly-fishingwas more art and poetry, finesseandreligion. Iwas hooked.

Whenwe returned home to NewYork after the weekend,Iwashed andfoldedthelongjohns,purposely creating a new, more prominent place for them in my top drawer. No more exile. No more purgatory next to my breath-sucking Spanx and ancient capsules ofL’eggsstockings insuntan andnude.

Secretly, I circled back to DustyWissmath, our teacher and guide from theweekend, and ordered two fishing poles as a birthday surprise.When I give themtomyhusband,Iwantthemtomeansomething, to stand for more chapters to come.What could be a greater gift than the experience of learning a new, sharedactivityinthis secondhalfoflife together?

When I open my top dresser drawer now, the flash of red catches my eye. I may notwear them as regularly as I once did, but they have become almost a symbol,aluckycharmorarabbit’sfoot.Insteadof admonishingme,theyrepresenttheroadsIwishto travel,the possibilities for experiencesasyet untapped, a reminder that adventure isn’t something you lose or outgrow. It is ever present, there for the taking, as much a state of mind as it is the physical actof going somewhere.