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.

Country Living, City Dining

Someone's at the screened back door. Set another place, there'll be more sharing this meal. A 1950's Thanksgiving features a large, round oak dining table, laden with food. There are so many dishes that a mottled grey metal folding table is pushed against the wall to receive the overflow. This room was once a bedroom where the childhood of my aunts and uncles unfolded. They're living in their own homes now but Daddy remains in residence here with his own family. We're eating at noon and yes, it is dinner. Southerners know that the evening meal is always supper.

When you live on a farm, it's the turkey's home, too. This magnificent bird will be sacrificed in a swift procedure I never can bear to watch. Our kitchen is immersed in aromas that today's Food Channel celebrity chefs cannot replicate. There are no recipes in view and scant measuring occurs. Ingredients are mixed together by 'feel.' My mother 'feels' a pinch is just enough or maybe three dollops will do. No cookbooks line her shelves and she's spent not one single minute carefully copying recipes from magazines or asking a friend or relative to share her culinary secrets.

The pantry is loaded with lard. It's used with alacrity and no awareness of the harmful effects this product has on the health of anyone who ingests it regularly. The word instant hasn't yet permeated a cook's vocabulary. On those very rare occasions when a pot of coffee isn't brewing or sitting on the back burner of the stove waiting to be reheated, my daddy might scoop a few instant granules in his cup and accept the totally inferior results. Never a coffee drinker, I cannot personally share his disappointment.

Mother always made dressing, not stuffing. Hers includes lots of eggs, thoughtfully provided by our chickens. Choppped onion and celery add a bit of crunchiness to the smooth mixture. Because exotic spices such as sage, rosemary, thyme, and basil were unknown on our ridge, she liberally sprinkles salt and pepper on everything. Daddy, a significant salt lover, scatters supplementary granules before tasting any food. Only then is he truly satisfied.

Sweet potatoes are mushed into a clear Pyrex dish and covered with marshmallow goo. String beans, lifted from our garden, are cooked beyond edibility and served sans garnish. Blissful biscuits, so bad for you, are eaten without regret. Cranberry sauce is jellied, dumped from a can. Nobody considers creating our own. Gravy is perfect, a light brown color, infused with little bits of turkey meat. If Granny is eating with us, there'll be ambrosia for sure. Loved by Southerners, this fruity concoction gently blends coconut, orange sections, sliced Maraschino cherries, and pecan pieces. Light and lovely, perhaps mostly healthy.

Around the table, our family of four expands to include anyone seeking a holiday meal. It might be a relative, of which there are so many, or a friend or somebody from church. All are welcome. The table is cloth-covered. We worry not about any spills, regardless of their potency. Daddy owns a dry cleaners and laundry so he'll be able to eradicate any traces of this meal that might have landed on linen.

Dinnerware is special but definitely could not be classified as fine china. Pink roses spatter across a white background. When not in use for Sundays or holidays, the set reposes in a nearby cabinet. I don't know the vessels' provence. Definitelynot old enough to be classified antique, perhaps they were a wedding gift for my parents. I never ask. It didn't matter then, but how I'd love to know the answer now.

The silverware isn't sterling but nobody notices. Today, that set rests safely in my guest room closet. I cannot open the chest without seeing family faces for whom these utensils were so familiar. No sterling could be more precious.




Southern meals are only complete when multiple dessert options are available. Coconut cake bristles with fluffy frosting, made at home. Pineapple cake contains a cooked frosting that is so moist the layers are wet. Lane cake is the most profligate with its nougat type frosting that deftly combines pecans, raisins, coconut and an enormous amount of sugar into.... well, heaven. Some diners have a sliver of each.

There's no texting during the meal, no phones to silence. Sounds come from satisfied eaters whose sighs say so much. There's little appreciation of the memories being born, the chance that the day can't or won't ever be repeated exactly as it is this one time. Cameras aren't lifted to capture the table and its largesse. In fact, there're no known photos of that bountiful table at all. It was so ordinary, so much a part of our everyday lives. Why memoralize something so mundane? I wish we had.

I'm the last one living of my immediate family members who gathered around that servicable oak table. My own version is now thirty years old and bears a few scars from decades of use. Mother sat at this table for twenty of those years. I know its special provenance, a gift from Daddy.

My menu differs considerably from Mississippi dining. No gravy graces the table. The turkey entree has been reduced to just the breast, based on personal preferences and its healthier reputation. I buy the frozen meat from my local grocery store. Stuffing, not dressing, is prepared in two varities. Plain and simple for the person who enjoys it that way and replete with veggies and fruit for those who savor more flavor. Spices clog my cabinet and lots of bottles are opened as I assemble the holiday meal. I'm quite fond of fresh sage, thyme and rosemary. Their fragrances swirl around the kitchen as cooking proceeds. Underneath the roasting turkey breast, I layer citrus-- slices of grapefruit and lemons from our trees, oranges from the store. As an homage to my mother, no turkey joins the table without a cloak of deep red paprika. Why this spice, one might ask? Did my Grandmother Carter start the tradition? It seems a curious choice for turkey but I'll not be the one abandoning this custom.

My table boasts a centerpiece of dried fruit and vegetables, somewhat artfully arranged in a deep basket. Just in front of this festive assortment, four ceramic figurines are placed. Two Pilgrims, two Native Americans, ready for a feast.




Cranberry sauce bubbles on the stove courtesy of a Southern Living recipe. Now a staple in our household, the green bean salad evokes compliments whenever it's served. No biscuits burrow beneath a cotton napkin-lined basket. I settle for mini-challah rolls from the bakery.

Candles flicker but provide little light as diners struggle slightly to fill their plates. Comforting musical notes seem to float around the room, adding a measure of tranquility to the table. A pickle dish, once owned by Granny Ruth, brims with crimson cranberry sauce.



In a few days, our trestle table will be dressed for company. New napkin rings promise a bit of whimsey. We're anticipating that six family members will eat Thanksgiving dinner together. Great-nieces Drew and Brooke are part of a recent tradition. They know nothing of those farmhouse repasts but maybe, just maybe, someday they'll be sharing memories of holiday meals on Sunset Way.





UPDATE: As of December 7, 2010, the family table has been miraculously located. It is well and living with a second cousin and his family. There is quite a story about this discovery, but most importantly, it remains a treasured artifact to three generations beyond my own. The table is pictured below:




An unexpected holiday blessing.

Such Silent Service

Lying recumbent upon the bed, his exposed feet protrude over the edge. We stand on the other side, brandishing Q-tips which have been soaked in a deep red Mercurochrome-like medicine. Lazily we paint his suffering soles and I ponder the circumstances which caused the deep fissures marking his skin. The nails resemble those found on animals, not people. A greyish cement color permeates each one. No nail lies flat against the skin but rather each is raised and pointed as if some thunderous action lifted them from their former spaces forever.

He arrived on Easter Sunday 1910, just ahead of Halley's Comet. Born in the bedroom of a farmhouse where he'd live his whole life and draw his last breath at seventy. The fifth child and third son in his family.




Years later, he'd chuckle in retelling the story of his mother's doctor who encountered a rare automobile coming toward he and his horse as he reached the farmhouse to attend the impending birth. The frightened horse dislodged its rider and the unfortunate doctor flew through the air, landing on a large bush and seriously tearing his trousers. From that day forward, the doctor proclaimed that the newborn infant owed him a pair of pants. Country medicine has its price.

The baby was named for a maternal uncle and given his mother's maiden name as a middle name. Though his birthdate occurred in the early twentieth century, he always seemed like someone who might have been more comfortable living fifty or even one hundred years in the past. The farm was his paradise. He cared not for comforts and never seemed to notice heat, humidity, the lack of indoor plumbing, or the incessant dirt and grueling work involved in coaxing food from the land. He reveled in overseeing an array of animals who provided sustenance or bolstered the family's finances through the dairy operations.

Through the decades, he remained single and lived at home with his widowed mother as his siblings married and established their own residences. Farm work was combined with toilsome hours at the laundry and dry cleaners he owned with his brothers. This halcyon life might have continued indefinitely had not the world erupted in countries far from his eden.

An older soldier, honed by physical exercise and privations, and smoking incessently, he's volunteered for this omminous task. His rank's the lowest available but he's content to be mostly unnoticed.



Precious letters to two of his sisters survive. Each is unconditionally positive. He asks about their children, sends hugs to the little ones, inquires about a brother-in-law who's also serving, acknowledges his gratitude for much appreciated packages, inquires about the health of another sibling. Just once he casually mentions that he's working hard, but no further description is provided. He's almost eerily mute.





Training is exhaustive and must have been exhausting. He begins in a military camp near enough to his hometown to allow sporadic visits with his family. After some months, he's transported to the Mojave Desert, subsisting in tents where the enemy is torrid heat, endless sand, and dangerous scorpions. He'll next glimpse this bleak landscape three decades into the future.





Once he's thoroughly trained in desert maneuvers, those skills are no longer needed when Rommel's army is routed and the sand his soldiers conquered is once again safe. Guarding German war prisoners in Georgia delays embarkation and he meets the woman who becomes his wife.



The venerable Queen Mary is transformed into a troop ship and on June 6, 1944, he's among thousands of soldiers, sailing from New York harbor, bound for battle. Did they know of the events unfolding that day across the Atlantic? Did they hope that the conflict would be over before they reached Scotland?

Tidworth Barracks in southern England is a staging area. The men all know they're leaving this protected place, just not when. A quarter century later, I'm standing at nearby Stonehenge and notice British fighters streak across the sky. I'm overwhelmed with a feeling that he's with me. Does some of his spirit remain in this now peaceful place? At the time, I didn't know the location of his English camp. Returning home, I fail to share my experience and never ask him any war-related questions. I learn about Tidworth while researching his unit.

Within two months, the order is received. France is the initial destination for our farmer. The 7th Armored Division marches through the countryside, liberating small villages, pushing back the invaders, becoming beloved by the residents.



He continues to write his wife, mother, and sisters. Packages arrive sporadically and are gratefully accepted. Though losses escalate and months of inhospitable terrain must be endured, his determination to survive never wavers. Letters, heavily censored, barely hint at unimaginable circumstances. A postcard to a beloved young niece contains these cryptic words, "All the children here wear wooden shoes." He's unquestionably in Holland.






Inexplicably, he is able to send monogrammed Christmas cards from the carnage. He cannot fortell that it is almost his last Christmas.



Stories shared from these horrific months are sparse. One treasured tale captures hope and disappointment very clearly because it transpired away from battle. His unit walked through a small town and saw a cherry pie in the window of the local bakery. With only routine rations where dessert was always chocolate bars, the men longed for other sweets. Overcoming the language barrier, they offered candy and cigarettes for the coveted pie. With one bite, the soldiers knew the folly of their trade. The pie contained not one ounce of sugar, a very scarce commodity in wartime.

It's winter and provisions are inadequate to staunch the cold. An epoch battle rages. Snow covers equipment, roads, and shelter. Communication is erratic and men must rely upon their own wiles to outlast the enemy and prevail in the frozen forest. The Bulge has begun.



The feared telegram is delivered. It reads, "Missing, presumed dead." He's lost. Not with his unit. Can't be found in the vast whiteness, sprinkled with comrades' blood. The family waits, worries, imagines the unthinkable.

Another message arrives. He's been found and transported to a hospital in Paris. His injuries are serious. A burst eardrum. Frozen hands and feet. Recuperation is lengthy, arduous. But he's safe and after five months, the Queen Mary, now commissioned as a hospital ship, will carry him back to New York.



Army scrip, printed in France, continues his meager military wages. He's alive and will return to his beloved hometown to father me and my brother.



Older male cousins have said that he occasionally talked of his wartime experiences. I believe he wanted to spare his children from knowing the depths of his suffering and so he stayed silent with us.

We recognized his sacrifices. We'd painted his feet. They spoke loudly about our Daddy.

Leaves and Branches

I'm surrounded by brown. It seeps down from the mountains and creeps across lawns. It infuses the palm trees that provide scant shade but some shadows. We have two seasons here--hot and less hot. Neither encourages leaves in bountiful colors. Fall envy envelopes me each year and I yearn for the unique sound of crunchy variegated leaves beneath my feet. Not having to rake, pile or burn these fallen beauties, I'm prone to almost euphoric musings.



Perhaps it is silly, as my dear husband remarked, to be excited about leaves and to capture far too many of them in photos. I think not. I can't get enough of them. We've arrived in Virginia and are lodged near Dulles Airport for a few days of visiting family and exploring the region.

Near the airport, there's a gigantic auxiliary to the incredible Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Set in the countryside, the building contains historical aircraft from this country as well as others. Visitors can ascend to the museum's tower and view planes arriving and departing from busy Dulles. One floor below, there's a mock air traffic control facility which provides insight into these critical functions. We're awed by the enormity of the space shuttle Enterprise. Consumate technical genius was required to create something so large that could soar through the heavens safely and return its human cargo to this planet.




There are Russian MIG jets whose provence is clouded in cold war history. We ponder experimential planes, view uniforms from multiple conflicts, and notice the number of foreign visitors who are strolling around the building. They, too, are swayed by the significence of the achievements prominently displayed.



The air is cool, the wind mild and jackets are welcome. My leaves are changing rapidly. We're meeting Penny and Jeff for dinner at the Pines of Florence in Arlington. A white tablecloth restaurant with few pretensions portends delectable Italian food.

Penny is my cousin. We share a long ago multiple great-grandfather, Albert G. Penny, whose surname now serves appropriately as a given name for his female descendant. She and I 'met' through a genealogy message board when I answered her post inquiring about my great-grandfather who married one of Albert's daughters. Interestingly, Penny and I grew up only 90 miles apart but we knew nothing of each other or our connection until our love of family history brought us together.

She and Jeff are genuinely gracious people. Deeply devoted to each other, they share a love of travel, reading, politics, and family. Our conversations are replete with the names of ancestors, stories about our respective children (now adults), potential future visits. Though we see each other rarely, there is no awkward transition. We are family from the same branch.



After dinner, we adjourn to Penny and Jeff's condo. It is teeming with books. I'm especially intrigued by the exhaustive genealogy collection. Multiple volumes of Baton Rouge Catholic diocese historical documents yield marriage records for three different couples in my family tree. I am thrilled. There is so much more to explore but time is limited. Penny shows me a photo of Albert Penny's daughter, Eleanora, her great-grandmother. She is a nineteenth century beauty. I bring home a copy of that image for my files. There is talk of Penny and Jeff joining us next May when I address the family reunion. What fun it would be to introduce her to so many previously unmet relatives.

The next morning we drive to Richmond where first cousin Jeanelle lives with her husband, Gene. Their house is just around the corner from that of their daughter, Jeanine, and her family. The grandparents' house is rife with young voices and the children's activities crowd their schedules. Jeanelle is devoted to the local Ikebana Society, remains active in the Episcopal Church, and dotes on Gene, her spouse of 46 years. I was a bridesmaid at their wedding and I sometimes think it was only last year.



Henry and Will, the nearly thirteen-year-old, are exploring mathematics. Will's an outstanding student and he grasps complex concepts easily.



My admiration of Jeanelle is deep rooted. Though she didn't live in my hometown, she visited regularly. Once I was old enough, nearly every summer, my parents took me to a nearby town and put me on a train to her house. There, I settled into the Presbyterian manse where her family lived and reveled in day after day of bacon/lettuce/tomato sandwiches, washed down by frothy Coke floats. I'd sit on the swing situated on the screened in front porch and blissfully while away the afternoon. Sweet Jeanelle, four years my senior, never treated me like a kid. She included me in all her events, introduced me to her 'cool' friends, took me out for donuts doused in butter, a local delicacy. I was also the lucky recipient of all the clothes she outgrew. My closet blossomed with adorable dresses by Jonathan Logan. I attended her high school graduation and was a member of her wedding party. Our bond is potent, never strained by decades of living too far apart or having lives that demanded our attention and allowed for little interaction. Her strength at the funerals of my sweet Brother and Daddy continued our inseparable allegiance.



Intermixed with leaf viewing and family visiting, we've discovered several Chick-fil-A locations and dined with delight. The grilled chicken sandwiches are seriously scrumptious. Equally tasty is the carrot raisin salad. I planned to indulge in one of the chain's sinful shakes, but I miss that opportunity. Probably a good thing in retrospect.

Shopping isn't neglected and I'm able to compare west coast merchandising at Nordstrom's with their stores in suburban Virginia. And, I'll admit, those in Florida. Purchases proliferate and some are destined for Portland. No photos of these forays.

Sunday is the perfect day for ambling through the 95 acre Meadowlark Botanical Gardens in Vienna, VA. A part of the Northern Virginia Regional Park Authority, this protected space abounds with brightly dressed trees, lakes, fountains, paved and mulch trails, a butterfly garden, meadows, multitudes of flowers (mostly dormant in the fall), wildfowl galore, and a special turtle, maybe more.













Our last day in Virginia offers even more natural beauty. We discover Riverbend Park in Great Falls and are able to walk to the shore of the Potomac and gaze across to the forest which abuts the river. The weekday visit attracts few others and we can absorb the surroundings without sharing.





We're actually searching for Great Falls National Park and meander through neighborhoods where colossal houses seem simply too large for any single families. Trees intersect across winding roads to form canopies of color. They must be sheltering the enormous mansions and their inhabitants from the economic plight being experienced by the rest of the country.

Great Falls is glorious! Grey rock formations create showy waterfalls as the Potomac rushes forward. Signs mark high water crests and it is difficult to believe that the relatively low flow could increase so dramatically. Today there are kayakers intrepidly fording the falls. Their colorful blue and red kayaks are buffeted as the men paddle furiously. Eventually we see two of the brave, or foolish, souls climbing the rocks with the boats on their backs. Wetsuits are no protection from the perils of the Potomac.




We climb a few rocks ourselves to view the water and its temporary occupants. It's late afternoon and only a few people lean against the railing, reluctant to relinquish the view.





Near an overlook of remarkable beauty, we meet Norma and Ned. They live in McLean, VA and visit the park often. She's Bolivian but has lived in this country for many years. Married for over forty years, the couple is bright, informed, well-read, energetic, charming, engaged in conversation. Norma is a writer who worked for the Associated Press, United Press International and the Voice of America. She's an inveterate reader, a soulmate. We discuss books and yelp over discovered favorites. I suggest more titles to her. She does the same for me. Henry and Ned talk about politics, investments, Treasury purchases, rental properties. We take photos, exchange e-mail addresses. They may come to Palm Springs in the winter. We've so enjoyed meeting them and hope to continue the connection.



Somewhere in this visit, both of us are nearly felled by a respiratory infection. The usual complaints ensue and flying seems like an impossible task. But, we must go to Florida. JetBlue is spacious with its leather seats, individual monitors, and expanded legroom. There's the true luxury of no fees for the first piece of luggage as well as reasonable fares for its many destinations. We are miserable and happy too. Dulles is an impossible airport with very long lines through security and then a train to ride to the designated gate. We endure and mostly collapse into our seats for the trip south.

There's additional discomfort awaiting. The ladies (term loosely applied) in the adjoining room of our hotel are celebrating loudly in the middle of the night. Two phone calls from the front desk only heighten their voices. We sleep little and might just succumb to our respiratory condition. The next morning, Henry talks to the manager who 'comps' our room for the night, provides a complimentary breakfast and moves us to a quiet space. We are grateful and exhausted. Time to enjoy the peacefulness of Dania Beach.





The afternoon is spent with Bill and Sue. He's Henry's classmate from Yorktown. In August, the two men collaborated to honor a fallen colleague by placing a memorial plaque near the street sign that bears his name. Their branch links back to fourth grade and remains inviolate today. Bill was a sports hero in his hometown whose records were unrivaled. He won a scholarship to the University of Connecticut and further distinguished himself there. His career as a high school English teacher is all the more remarkable because of the profound influence he had on so many students. Many of his experiences working with broken youth have been captured in his novels. They deserve a wide audience and hopefully will reach that status someday. Bill's a kind and caring man whose devotion to peace permeates his being. He and Sue have been married for forty-four years. She's an exuberant lady who admits to loving the gaudy and glitzy. On her, it looks great and appropriate. Totally dedicated to saving cats and kittens, she works tirelessly in this effort to great effect. They are an amazing couple with two accomplished children and a bevy of five grandchildren.

I'm still suffering with my malady and a bit of an allergy to the two long-haired cats who share the home. Sue tucks me into the guest bed, shuts the door, and I slumber peacefully. It is only when I awake that I discover I'm not alone. Cat napping with me is a dark black beauty. So much for escaping from any dander.

In the evening, Bill joins us for dinner at a local Italian restaurant which is owned by yet another high school classmate, Lynne and her husband, Jerry. She is also a first cousin of the young man whose tragic loss we commemorated in August. There are no sad stories this time, just laughter and sharing of ancedotes from a New York life that I never lived. Lynne and Jerry are wonderful hosts. Each of us gorges on the delicious cheese bread. Maybe it can cure the respiratory problems. Pasta is light, Chicken Marsala is perfectly prepared. We are stuffed with food and friendship.

Our days are dwindling, the infections are receding. There are malls to measure against previous sites and casinos to survey. The Hard Rock Casino is owned by the Seminole Tribe. It is classy, filled with rock and roll memorabilia. I'm intrigued by the tan corduroy pants, now filled with large holes, worn by Elvis in 'Love Me Tender.' Shoes which adorned the feet of a Pointer Sister, Madonna, and Lady Gaga look very uncomfortable and garish. I try the triple slot machines and quit when I've lost about $5. Henry, naturally, does much better. There's a Blue Plate Diner where we find comfort food in the form of hot turkey sandwiches. Another potential cure?

Wherever we go, in hotels and restaurants, there are large glass cylinders filled with water or iced tea. Sprinkled in the liquid, without exception, is some variety of fruit. I see watermelon, canteloupe, oranges, lemons, limes. Each adds a unique flavor to the drink. A Florida tradition, I suppose.

As I troll for possible items to post to Portland, I spend a considerable amount of time in the Nordstrom BP (Brass Plum) departments. Encased in a dressing room, the occupants of adjacent compartments don't know I am nearby nor my age demographic. Maybe they wouldn't care anyway. Two high school seniors talk animatedly about their lives. They attend large schools and are somewhat anxious about college next year. One will major in Psychology, the other Chinese. The latter student is enrolled in her fourth year of Chinese and thinks she'll be able to get a good job with this special skill. Her friend isn't so sure. Their conversation is salted with swears. I'm not shocked, maybe just disappointed. If my daughter were with me, she might pop out of the dressing room and admonish them not to talk that way around her mom. I can handle it. Truly.





We're up before the sun and all packed for the trip to the airport. It's been a memorable journey. I'll recall Jeanelle's story about taking her grandchildren to the cemetery in my hometown and giving them a list of ancestors to locate. She carefully explained the relationship of each person to the young descendants. I'll cherish Bill's retelling of his experience when he visited the Navajo reservation and after sharing a his tribal affiliation with a resident, was thanked for bringing the rain. I'll smile when I think about the tall, thin young woman who sat in First Class with her clay colored pug snuggled quietly in a carrier beneath the seat. I'll remember the expansive music store in an otherwise totally closed mall in Florida where Henry bought a book of The Doors sheet music which he's played every day since we arrived at home. I'll muse about the historical marker and gravesite for Laura Ratcliff, a Confederate spy, who lies totally protected next to the parking lot of the Marriott Suites Hotel in Hearndon, VA. I'll chuckle when I use my booty from Sephora, carefully selected in concert with my own personal beauty advisor, dear Sue.




Leaves and branches connect us all.



Additional photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/51916128@N03/