Melodious Wrap

Outside it's raining. Inside the house, I'm thirteen again. Lost in a morass of memories, I'm recollecting adolescent years when I flopped across my bed and immersed myself in music emanating from either WNAT or WMIS. Each session introduces a new singer or group whose talent is instantly evident. I could not know then that more than half a century later, I'd still be listening and appreciating these sounds.

Recordings from the 50s are swirling around the living room. My technologically expert husband has devised a way to bring Sirius Radio to his laptop. He's attached a couple of speakers to enhance the soothing sounds.




Inventively, Henry's found a solution to the wrapping blues. The room teems with ribbon, gift bags, rolls of wrap, and tissue both plain and adorned. Presents are askew and I soon realize that I don't quite remember collecting all these gifts.








My mood changes immediately. In a few minutes, I'm dancing around the table, tossing tissue in bags, singing familiar lyrics. True, I first heard these songs fifty plus years ago. I'll remember the words forever. Maybe part of me remains eternally thirteen.



I should mention that my singing is not something anyone wants to hear. Fortunately, I'm wrapping alone. As a child, my daughter used to admonish me whenever she caught me humming. She'd say in her sternest little voice, "Stop humming, Mom." I always did, though reluctantly. I really enjoy singing and am seriously considering accepting an invitatiion from the same once critical daughter to join her at Ladies Rock Camp next year.

My son, even more direct, once asked, "Were you born tone deaf or did it happen after that?" How does one answer such a question? I believe I told him that I was the only person I knew who had actually been asked to leave the church choir. Not a proud moment. I admit that when my musically gifted husband and I are driving and a tune from the 50s or 60s is playing, I sing along. Very badly.

Unwrapped gifts are disappearing. The dancing must be a tonic. My silly self is showing and no one is watching. Giddily, I'm accompanying Gary "U.S." Bonds as he wails about "New Orleans." Little Richard provides the follow-up with his immortal "Long Tall Sally." I chuckle as I recall the evening we took our very disinclined daughter to see this icon. She loathed him and worse. To this date, she laments the concert. We think she'll relent, maybe decades from now. Or maybe never.

Music is magic. I've found the antidote to holiday wrapping procrastination. Shall I share the recipe?

A Primordial Christmas

Surely she has no memory of that day. At exactly nine months old, the idea of celebrating anything would have been befuddling. Carefully wrapped and beribboned presents were basically ignored. Crawling across the carpet, she paused occasionally to touch a bit of tissue and hear it crinkle. Boxes beguiled ever so slightly. Six grown-ups and one pre-adolescent sibling nudged her towards an ever-growing pile of presents. She demurred and wailed a little.

Perhaps she was wondering what happened to lunch. Is it hidden here in all these papers? Who are these strangers in her house? Toys meant for older kids frustrate a small body with legs no yet able to walk. How can she manage a mini-fire engine?

The new and very bulky video camera is capturing the confusion. She's much too little to realize that each future holiday will be preserved in the same fashion. The equipment will evolve and improve vastly. She'll be walking, running, always talking, driving, graduating, moving away, marrying, coming home again. Her history is preserved, its memories tangible.

Strongly encouraged by a colleague, we've visited a studio for formal portraits. Each time I look at the chosen poses, I marvel at the faces, all so young, even the less than youthful parents. I remember vividly her outfit. A pale pink knitted dress and white tights. (In retrospect, I admonish myself for failing to choose a brighter hue.) No need for shoes. Her feet touch nothing.



We're sharing the season with her three surviving grandparents. It is the only time she'll be in the presence of all of them at once. Grandpa is gone within three months. Her paternal grandparents lived about a day's drive to the east. Our house is the residence of her widowed maternal grandmother.



Utilizing the video camera, Henry records his parents in an enlightening oral history session. Nearly thirty years later, it is touching to hear stories about their courtship and marriage, early careers, and many decades together. This brief glimpse is laced with humor and an abundance of affection. It is truly a family heirloom.

We've inaugurated the tradition of distributing a family photo. Persuading a mere baby to cooperate in such a venture is problematic. It will not get easier as she grows older and holiday photos multiply.



Sometimes I think about my own childhood or that of my husband. I'm fortunate that my mother took lots of pictures. Yet there are none of my first Christmas or those that followed until I was an adult. No seasonal photos exist for Henry either. Memory fragments are all we retain from those early days.

Maybe one of us received a miniature rocking chair.



I'll bet Henry had a fire engine at one time or he must have longed for such a conveyance. That's probably why he insisted we get one for her.



Christmas of 1983 is an important part of our family history. We've lost all her grandparents in the intervening years. They remain with us in spirit and are captured in countless images.

Now she has her own tree and traditions, shared with an adorable husband. This year there's even a holiday photo.



I'm certain the photographer encountered no difficulty in setting the primordial pose.

Cooking Memories

The answer was always a vociferous 'No.' The question, posed to my daughter throughout her childhood, was simple, "Would you prefer a mom who stayed home and baked cookies?" Depending on her age, I surmised that the negative response correlated with my pitiful baking attempts. As the years progressed however, I concluded that she admired my working life and would emulate it someday.

During the holidays, I'd retrieve the stash of cookie cutters, replenish the green and red sprinkles, heat the oven, and do the traditional 'mom' thing. Sometimes, well quite often, Pillsbury made the dough but the origin didn't matter. We'd giggle, make a mess, burn a least a few of the snowmen/stars/wreaths and I'd decide the results did not justify the effort. I don't recall that the baked cookies were grabbed by family members. I might take them to work, send samples to school with my daughter (kids will eat anything) or dump the remainder in the trash. An ignoble ending to be sure.

This year, I've again been deeply impressed by the cookie prowess of my dear sister-in-law, Carol. She writes of days and nights in her kitchen, creating award-winning (my descriptor, not hers) cookie dough. I weaken and ask for her recipe. She assures me repeatedly that it is fool-proof. Ha! I bet she is wrong. With the dough and frosting recipes in hand, I'm off to the grocery store for supplies.

Obviously it's no fun to make cookies singularly. I'll need help. An audience. Eaters who devour cookies without complaint. The little girls next door are perfect. They've joined me on culinary adventures in the past. We've happily made meatballs and cakes, even the occasional cookie.

My new sifter is ready for its task. Three and a half cups of flour to be sifted may take a day. This isn't working. I have a sifting SOS. I call Carol. She is patient, kind. I learn that sifting doesn't mean 'sifting.' All I must do is put the flour in a bowl with the other dry ingredients and use a whisk to blend everything. No need for a sifter at all.




The girls are bored. They're hungry and snacks are critical. While I tackle the Kitchen Aid mixer, munching keeps them happy. In a matter of minutes, the floor is covered with Pirate's Booty, a popcorn like concoction. Hanna declares it 'on accident.' I know what she means.

I find the much-touted Kitchen Aid confusing. Being left-handed, the levers are backwards. Frequently, I neglect to 'lock' the mixer and thus invite disaster. I've carefully measured multiple ingredients and tried to faithfully adhere to Carol's perfect recipe. The girls have abandoned me. They've discovered that Henry's doing something much more interesting than making cookies.



Soon I'm summoned to Caitlin's bedroom and advised to bring my camera. I find Henry, Hanna and Jessy deeply engrossed in a new game available on the iPad. It is known as 'Angry Birds' and the girls, with an alacrity only the young possess, master its intricacies immediately. Their lovely laughter helps relieve my cookie making stress.

I can't disappoint Carol, so I retreat to the kitchen and the unfinished concoction. The mass resembles dough and I blithefully transfer it to a plastic bag. For the best results, overnight refrigeration is recommended. I'm relieved to have gotten this far in the process.



Prior cookie-making didn't consume two days but maybe that fact contributed to the less than desirable results. I'm buoyed by this thought and the next morning, I begin the laborious task of rolling out half of the dough. Carol has suggested that I make a few cookies without little girl participation and then let them do the frosting.




The flattened dough reminds me of a map of England and then of a bird flapping its wings. Whimsy is invading my kitchen. Though I've been told to expect lots and lots of cookies, my dough doesn't yield that many. I make snowmen, gingerbread men, Santa and Ms. Claus. Stars in all sizes rest next to holly branches. I cut a few cats just for fun. The oven's ready for 5-7 minute baking.



The next step is frosting, once the cookies are completely cooled. (Another Carol admonition.) I need the girls. Uh oh, one of them is at Immediate Care. Allergies may be the culprit. Hanna is happy to accompany me home but wants to delay any cookie activities until her ailing sibling joins us. There's time for a 'Chopsticks' duet and a swing session.







Jessy is fine and eager to begin frosting. Colors are chosen. Purple, blue, and pink are favorites. Who cares if they don't match the season? I'll ask Carol if frosting freezes.



We've been cooking memories.

Serendipititous Skies

I consider it a comfort to wake nearly every day and find a blue sky, few clouds and tolerable temperatures. Torrid heat does mar successive months but eventually triple digits lapse and simply sublime weeks ensue. Looking out my office window, I gaze contentedly at an almost 11,000 foot mountain. Its colors are mostly muted shades of grey. Some springs there's a special treat as desert fauna punctuates the rock face with a touch of green. Too soon it vanishes, crushed by overpowering warmth.

Growing up alongside the magnificent Mississippi River, I developed a natural affinity for water. I envisioned always living near that mighty stream or maybe the Gulf of Mexico. The mountain I see through the shutters is my loadstone. It centers me and quietly affirms that I am home.

Rarely does it rain here in the desert. Sunshine is a given, dark clouds an anomaly. My vista is altered significantly when the mountain disappears.








Last night, I walked out to the patio, intending to turn the turkey burgers that were cooking on the grill. The sky startled me with its deep crimson hue. I hurried into the house to grab my camera, immediately alerting my husband to the unusual sight.




Lacking an unobstructed scene, the resulting photo resembles not so much a fiery sky as the landscape of Jupiter, glimpsed through bushes. Hastily, I moved to the front yard with its expansive panorama.










Within only a few minutes, the vermillion sky vanishes. Its origin is unknown. Today, the firmament's again prosaic. My memory retains clouds and color.

Past Christmas

The little blue Datsun made its way along the dirt farm road. Tucked inside were a man and his nine year old grandson. They're seeking a Christmas tree, grown on the family farm. The city boy is intrigued. He knows trees from lots, not land. Soon the grandpa stops the car and, taking the youngster's hand, walks into the pasture. Standing in front of a multitude of evergreens, the older man directs the child, "Pick one." With gentle persuasion, the small searcher is guided to a particular specimen. Not grand at all, it's about his size. "Take it out of the ground." he's advised. Suddenly uncertain, the boy looks for reassurance that it is actually possible to remove a tree using only a small body for force. Magically, the tree releases from the ground and is soon safely stored in the trunk of the car. What the young man doesn't know is that his grandfather made a trip to the trees the previous day, chopped down this solitary tree and then stuck it back in its former space to be 'discovered.'

The youngster is part of a family threesome that's flown from the west to spend Christmas 1979 with the mother's parents. Decorating the tree requires little time but creates a special legacy that touches many future holidays. A rakish red star, blinking intermittingly, sits atop the boughs. Bubble lights are wrapped ever so carefully around fragile limbs. Four adults witness the process, clearly aware of the magical moments, seen through the eyes of a child.




Three decades plus have passed since that country Christmas. The forest has other owners, quite unaware of magic trees. The flashing star survives, albeit a bit bedraggled. The boy's younger sister, born four years later, proudly proclaims that the star is the ugliest thing she's ever seen. She is non-accepting of the idea that sometimes ugly can also be cute. The story makes the star a star.




The star twinkled from the western family's tree for more than twenty years. Currently it's on temporary hiatus, nestled deep in a box of decorations. With no children living in the house for the last decade, the traditional tree has been replaced by simple branches which cover the mantle and other surfaces. Aging parents, now nearly as old as the boy's grandfather was in 1979, are content with less time-intensive embellishments.

Bubble lights languish in boxes. When plugged into sockets, their liquid still flows. In their reflection, memories of the magical tree are rekindled.






A menagerie covers the hearth, supplemented by several Santas, a snowman, and a gingerbread man chef. Each toy is festively attired. Many will sing or wiggle if a button is pushed. All children, and some playful adults, delight in the music.




In another room, two youth chairs from the farmhouse provide seats for larger animals. Mother bought the unfinished rocker more than fifty years ago. A man came to the house with his truck piled high with such furniture. He traveled lonely roads, selling his wares. Crudely constructed and free from stain or varnish, these simple household goods were utilitarian, not decorative. This rocker is treasured as if it were museum quality.






Traditions are created. Some by accident, others are inherited. Generally there is a bit of grousing when parents, usually the mother of the family, insist that holidays adhere to repeated rituals. Though a few grumbles accompany each celebration, if there's an attempt to alter some part of the family's holiday customs, the dissent is even more vociferous. One must not trifle with tradition except for a few tweaks.

At this house, a droll practice enlivens the present-wrapping process. The tags are far from ordinary. Each one contains a clue as to the recipient of the gift and the contents of the package. Deciphering the clue's meaning is challenging and often produces unrestrained laughter. Henry, the clue creator, generally stumps the giftee. In recent years, the newest member of the family, our son-in-law, has proven an apt untangler of coded clues. Very impressive. This special ability may originate in his own family's penchant for games.

Stockings, as yet still empty, hang from the mantle. Caitlin's monogrammed version predates her. It was ordered the Christmas before her birth.



There's never a Christmas breakfast without French toast. The same brown bowl is used each year to mix the eggs, milk and cinnamon. Challah soaks the liquid precisely and all health admonitions are suspended. Lately, cooking has been ceded to the Oregon visitors for whom breakfast is the very best meal anytime.

The table's been set for several weeks. Poinsettias, appliqued so prettily, swirl across the tablecloth. Place cards identify each guest. Napkins await unfurling. There'll be no holiday dinner this year. Is the scene too grand for French toast? Not at all.




This holiday, Caitlin and Bobby will arrive quite tired after a day at Knotts Berry Farm. Summer like weather, 40 degrees warmer than where they live, will be embraced immediately. The 28th is reserved for gifts and the traditional breakfast. We'll video the proceedings and take more than enough photos.

Caitlin will surely smile when she notices that a tradition she created continues. Lying in the middle of the front row of holiday animals, one small reindeer is turned upside down. Is it past Christmas already?

Bursting Black Balloons

Though none of my friends had part-time jobs, my parents decided that I'd enter the workforce at the young age of fourteen. They gave me a few choices. I could join the family laundry and dry cleaners business or become an employee at the local public library. With a passion for books and an addiction to air-conditioning, the library seemed an easy selection. For a mere fifty cents an hour, less than minimum wage at the time, I began to shelve books, repair damaged spines, read stories to children, and travel the county in the rattling bookmobile. I'd like to report that I saved my salary for college or bought something substantial like part of a car. The teen-age me was mildly obsessed with clothes and nearly every cent I earned was soon transferred to the Ideal Shop, a local store specializing in the latest fashions for young ladies. My parents allowed this self-indulgence without complaint.



Three years at the library provided invaluable work experience and cemented my desire to become a professional librarian. The Library Director, a formidable lady named Eleanora Gralow, became a mentor. Along with other library employees, I enjoyed several day trips to New Orleans and Natchitoches for cultural events. Miss Gralow's close friend, Miss Jeanerette Harlow, wrote a column, 'Pot Pourri' for my hometown paper. She read my articles in the high school paper and counseled me to become a writer. Mrs. Flossie Klotz, who brilliantly taught U.S. History, routinely insisted that I become a History major in college. I tried to please all of these august women as I made my career choices during the next four decades.

With a degree in History and a minor in Library Science, I worked in Arizona as a librarian for over a decade. My skills, honed in classrooms, improved as I designed outreach programs for the community, selected books for the collection, served on multiple City committees, and participated in state-wide professional activities. Two of the influential ladies from my past would be happy.





Nine years ago today, I left work early. I'd arrived on campus in early June, 1978, one of many being interviewed for a technical position in the Personnel Office. With exactly no experience in this field, I was nevertheless hoping to make a favorable impression. When I talked with my husband that evening about the interview, I shared a few of the questions I'd been asked. I remember one in particular. A dean wanted me to describe myself in terms of being able to work without supervision and to use a scale from 1-10. My answer was, "11." I realized that my answer was unorthodox but I told the truth. My husband, though agreeing that the number was probably accurate, cautioned that interview panels usually don't expect or even appreciate such candor. I went to sleep convinced that I'd be receiving a rejection letter in a few days. Amazingly enough, the phone rang before 7:30 the next morning with a job offer. I was stunned and asked if I could call back with my answer. Again, my patient husband inquired as to why I hadn't simply said, "Yes." In a few minutes, having recovered my composure, I telephoned the lady who would become my boss and arranged for a start date.

Immersed in the collegiate world, I began to master the nomenclature. FTES, ABE, ESL, full loads, Board agendas, EEOC, Chancellor's Office, credentials--each term soon meant something to a novice. Years passed, then decades. Presidents' resigned, voluntarily or not. Lawsuits became commonplace and labor negotiations brought days of exhaustion. Richly gifted instructors joined the faculty and introduced their magic to responding students. I never expected this job to become lifework but it did. The office expanded to meet the needs of a growing campus. Named a member of the management team, I strived to succeed with the support and dedication of a talented staff. Not every day was fun, not every conversation resolved difficult issues. Not every person appreciated the laws and Board policies the office had to administer.



Toward the end of my tenure, I spent more and more time in meetings. Often these gatherings focused away from the institution's only purpose--the students. In frustration, I began to scribble on my notepad. With extremely limited artistic adroitness, I drew feathers. When I'd return to the office, a staff member might inquire, "How was the meeting?" I'd declare, "Well, it's been a forty feathers day." That phrase has become a mantra for me.



In the week prior to the grisly events of September 11th, I submitted my retirement letter. My husband had made the transition to non-working status in a seamless fashion. I seriously doubted that I could emulate his elan. Everything about retiring frightened me. Who would I be? What would I do? Could we be in the house all the time together? What if I regretted the decision, would anybody hire me again? How could I live an unstructured life?

With false bravura, I'd picked my departure date. I began to close files, say farewell to colleagues around the State, and visit various offices on campus to thank those who'd shared my journey. I also decided to have a bit of fun. Around the door to my office, I hung black balloons. Each one was labeled with a week. On Fridays, I burst a balloon, signifying advancement to the inevitable ending.



My apprehension had not abated but inertia carried me forward. Those final days, I cried sporadically. So did my staff. We met at a Chinese restaurant for a celebratory meal. They gave me a beautiful Emily Dickinson book, inscribed with poignant words. To lighten the mood, I also received a trophy with the words, 'First Aardvark' on its base. These ladies knew that when my supervisor, the President, asked if I'd like a new title, I told him that I wasn't partial to fancy names and would be happy to be called an 'Aardvark.' I do not believe he was amused.

I couldn't have foreseen my future as a college employee that nervous day in June. I joined the staff as the mother of a seven year-old boy and left twenty-three and a half years later with a college freshman daughter. I suppose I had abandoned history, librarianship, and writing during those years. With the rest of my life unfolding before me, I could and would reclaim those interests.

I can proudly say that I've become acclimated to the tenor of retirement life. It did take a while but as my often quoted husband likes to say, "It is emancipation." So far, I've volunteered in the Literacy Program at the library and been profoundly gratified assisting at the Adult School in the High School Equivalency program. Smitten by genealogy, I've created a family data base that is burgeoning with over 7000 names of our matriarch's descendants. I write the reunion newsletter, continue to compose poems and essays, and recently have become an avid blogger. I've been lucky enough to travel widely, often visiting family and friends.

I have a routine. I know the difference between Tuesday and Friday and realize that it really doesn't matter. I relish the luxury of an alarm clock that is only set if we have an early flight to catch. I've found 'new' cousins through genealogy message boards and added them to my life. I've learned that it is possible, actually preferable, to spend all day, every day with my darling spouse. He is a source of constant entertainment, thought-provoking intellectual stimulation, endless serendipity, and boundless love. I've watched with a bursting heart as our daughter married her special man and reveled in the amazing young woman she's become. I never doubted it for a moment. I've been blessed by neighbors who are truly family, whose unstinting gift of time reminds me constantly of my good fortune.

As I peer into the next year, I see another milestone. An early birthday will activate the blue and white card in my wallet. Medicare is my destiny. I don't mind so much. I'm retired, you see, and there are balloons aplenty.

Family Quartet

A set of relations, living together or not. So reads the traditional definition of 'family.' With apologies, I believe Mr. Webster erred. Perhaps he meant relations in the broadest of terms without regard to bloodlines or marriages. For me, family means those people whose lives truly matter to you, whose joys and sorrows you share without considering geography or time intervals between personal encounters. I celebrate families of all varieties and consider myself among the very luckiest of mortals because my own family is so sizable.

What better way to celebrate Thanksgiving than with family? Last week, our table radiated with harvest colors. Six chairs are occupied, spanning three generations. On this special day, diets are forsaken and overeating, however slight, is embraced. The meal continues in the house immediately to the north.



We're sharing dessert with 14 other people. Included in the group are the four residents of the home, 6 Washington state residents connected to a house across the street and 4 local friends. A lively group, sated from supper, but eager to sample the sugary wares on the buffet table. My contributions are the super easy to make Pecan Pie and a Pumpkin Cheesecake, cooked in a springform pan. Though this is my inaugural attempt, the cheesecake brings accolades. If nothing else, it is pretty.



Within the expanded group are six little girls and one lone boy. He stays near his mom. I'd do the same if I were outnumbered 6 to 1. Three black and white kitties can't hide. Girls are everywhere, chasing them, crawling under beds, insisting on kitty cuddles. No scratches are reported. No kids' fights. Grandma Carol has thoughtfully provided a large box of caramel apples for the younger set. Studded with nuts or M and Ms or chocolate chips, the adults are sure there's nutrition to be found. First you have to eat your way through the saccharine coating to the fruit.

There must be pictures. Girls bunch in the kitchen, apples in hands. Hanna climbs onto the granite counter top and drapes her small body across the space. The remaining five can't be still. Neither can they smile simultaneously or look at the camera. I know. I'll trick them. I call out the magic words that cause every little girl from about 3 to 13 to squeal. JUSTIN BEIBER!! The room erupts. Are these nascent hormones responding? I casually remark that the girls should pretend they're seeing the ubiquitous JB himself. It works. They smile gloriously and bounce around, hollering just a bit. I almost wish I could produce that 16 year-old phenomenon and truly send them into pure ecstasy. I settle for numerous poses and later determine that at least a few are fine.



Keith and Alisa have brought their girls to the desert from San Francisco. They're seeking the sun and serenity of this special place. Even more enticing for their daughters is the promise of unlimited play time with our soon-to-be-six-year-old neighbors. Through twice yearly visits, the relationship between these two sets of sisters continues to develop.



Friday morning we agree to meet at the Westin Mission Hills hotel for winter swimming. The main pool's a busy place filled primarily by youngsters enjoying the warm water. Dozens of lounges are occupied by smiling, sunning older guests. Shorts vie with bikinis as appropriate attire and toes peek from sandals. Bodies are basically pale because their owners reside in cold places where parkas proliferate this time of year.

The northern California sisters are dripping as they emerge from the hot tub. They welcome the twins to their watery world. The local blonde Kindergarteners have spent at least five months waterlogged in their backyard pool. Swimming is commonplace for them. Besides, it's cold. Maybe not for visitors, but residents know that 60 degrees is not swim weather. Shivering is common and double towels are necessary to restore an appropriate body temperature.



I'm wearing jeans, two shirts and a light jacket. Henry's happy with his leather coat. Does he look amusing amidst all this exposed skin? He doesn't even notice.



Drew, the most senior of the foursome, is audacious as she climbs the steps to the water slide. Again and again, she swishes into the bottom of the pool with her boogie board. The other girls can't be tempted to join her. Maybe next year. Maybe never.

Parents hover around their children smoothing feelings, praising strokes, and warming little bodies with giant hugs. It is a beautiful day in the desert.



This session is finished. Suits are abandoned for the comfort of tops, leggings, and hoodies. We're going home for a while.



By evening, there's additional girl craving and shared meals are a must. Pasta with pesto, pine nuts and Parmesan is popular. Ever the individual, Brooke chooses her own farfalle pasta, liberally doused with butter. Energy is required to decorate the Christmas tree. For this special occasion, Gilly, our peerless neighbor, has bought matching fancy dresses. It's a tradition she started several visits ago.





Shawn solves the conundrum created when each girl rather demands that she be the one to place the star atop the tree. He simply gets out the ladder and allows one girl after the other the honor of securing the star in its niche. Clever dad, marvelous neighbor.



To end this girl perfect day, there's sugar-free cocoa and butterless popcorn for all as a movie plays on the huge screen in Shawn's 'man cave.' What more fitting use for this space? Giggles abound as bonding continues.

Saturday is reserved for a family hike in the Indian canyons south of town. The natural beauty of this unique locale impresses everyone. These moments will be remembered long into the future.

There's something to celebrate. Jessy's lost her first tooth. An important rite of passage, properly acknowledged by all.



A closing meal together preceeds yet another showing of 'How to Train Your Dragon.' I drift by the bedroom where many giggles are overheard. I pause and listen. One small voice says to the others, 'This is where they kiss.' Disney? Such a different world these small people inhabit. They're already pre-teens in thought and interest though their maximum years total merely seven. Lady Gaga and Katy Perry are clear favorites after the awesome young Mr. Beiber. Lyrics are learned, sung with abandon. Do they understand the meaning of the words? Unlikely.

Snacks provide a diversion and I offer Pirate's Booty, Gogurt, chocolate-covered marsmallows, fresh veggies with dip. Always ravenous, they'll have some of each. Revived, we play a game of 'Simon Says.' Two of the girls are proficient at responding to the commands. The two others can't seem to get it.

I instruct them, Simon says: Hug your sister. They all obey. Next, I simply direct, Hit your sister. Oops. Two do just that. Not a good choice for me to make. The 'hits' are gentle, but I feel badly.

The doorbell rings and the neighbor girls are retreived by their parents. The nieces are sad but know there'll probably be another visit or two next year.




Thanksgiving has lasted several days. A flight from LAX must be taken home. School and work await. We hug farewell to this special family. Looking to the right, we smile. Living in that house are four people who've been our relatives (an expanded Webster definition) since 2006. No blood required. They're family, too.