Seven Times Two

They're startlingly alike and yet so very different. Blondes with azure eyes, one's locks are straight; the other's curly. Fiercely intertwined but also absolutely independent with individual strengths, they're an awesome twosome.



Born just three days before Christmas, they impatiently wait nearly the whole calendar year for 'their' day. Finally it's nearly here and time for a birthday party. Friends of all ages gather on Saturday to celebrate.

Hanna and Jessy are amazingly social little girls. They're comfortable with peers as well as people born two generations prior to their own. With an ample amount of whimsy, they enliven any setting with their energetic presence. Can it be that they get cuter each year?

On the night before the party, with friend Linnea joining the fun, the girls submit their fingers for multiple layers of nail polish. Deep holiday red is the perfect choice. Flowers are painted on several nails and adorned with tiny beads. Where are those little ones we met five years ago? We're now watching young ladies evolve ever so quickly.



Parents Shawn and Gilly have planned an activity laden afternoon. A raffle promises prizes to lucky winners. Presents proliferate as more and more people arrive. With an unusually cool day, sporadic rain, and temperatures well below normal, outside events are curtailed. Small clumps of kids drift from the house to the party room at the rear of the yard. Adults stroll leisurely, sipping wine or soda. Girls vastly outnumber boys but the genders meld and mingle nicely.




Musical chairs morphs into 'musical cushions' played inside the party room. A young male party-goer serves as DJ. Laughter surrounds the room while each child scrambles quickly around the circle. Finally there is one cushion and one girl remaining.



Sunshine returns at the right moment. Eduardo rigs up a rope and climbs atop the roof. He pull the rope back and forth as each small guest whacks at the pinatas. (It's an easier game without blindfolds.)



With a ladybug demolished, the children move on to destroy the monkey.



Candy covers the patio and is quickly scooped into individual plastic bags for consuming later. (A terrific use of left-over Halloween treats.)



Throughout the afternoon, Storey, an extremely amiable server, dispenses delicious hors d'oeuvres. These miniature delicacies are the creation of Mike, an accomplished caterer who happens to live a few houses down the street. Tiny pastries stuffed with brie and apricot chutney, topped with almonds vie with perfect burger sliders and minute mac and cheese encased in phyllo dough. An endless variety of kid-friendly food emerges from the kitchen. It's very difficult not to sample each new treat.

Games dwindle and the birthday cake beckons. It's a two-layer masterful creation with a Hello Kitty theme, created by a colleague of Shawn's. Candles are lit, the traditional song sung, and cake devoured down to the crumbs.



Guests with full tummies crowd the couches for a flurry of present-opening as dual gifts are admired and thanks dispensed. It's difficult to discern the favorites. Each choice seems perfect for the smiling sisters.



Without intruding at all, Henry has videoed the panorama of events. From the early moments of make-up application and face-painting to the popular 'Pass the Present' game, he's captured the afternoon forever.



I've taken nearly a hundred photos. As very involved neighbors we often act as recorders for special events. We're honored to provide such service.

At a little past four, a white stretch limo arrives. The kids have been expecting it all afternoon and they're anxious to see inside. There's little hesitation as the group moves en masse to the rear door of the intriguing vehicle. For most, if not all, this is a first-time experience. Gilly is the only adult along for the ride, except, of course, the driver.


As the enchanted car disappears up the street, we leave for home.



How lucky we are to have seven times two next door.
Happy Birthday Hanna and Jessy!

What Winter Looks Like

Sir Richard left the cockpit to greet the press and assembled politicians, immediately commenting on the unseasonable weather. Inaugurating Virgin America service from Palm Springs to New York via San Francisco, Branson expected the desert to be resplendent in bright sunshine ten days before Christmas.

With tourism responsible for much of the local economy and warm winters enticing those escaping less hospitable temperatures, the sun is our mighty magnet. At least one resident feels so strongly that his license plate proudly proclaims GR8 SUN. Not, however, for the last few days.

Clouds and rain recently invaded the valley and caused a scramble for hidden umbrellas and warm hoodies. The weather pattern also brought beauty as I witnessed these scenes.



Soon a partial peek at the sky.....



We're getting sun-soaked for Christmas.

A Challah in the House

Mention mince meat pie and most people wince. I do not. My upbringing included a substantial amount of this traditional treat. It may be a Southern thing. I always found the combination of raisins and spices very palatable. Therefore, one can conclude that I'd be a fruitcake aficionado as well. It is true. The much maligned fruitcake is actually very tasty. How can a combination of fruit and nuts provoke such agitated responses from potential eaters?

My family always, always served fruitcakes at Christmas though my mother did not generally make them herself. She'd buy a big one at the grocery store or some obliging family member would ship one to our house. I vividly recall the pleated red paper in which the fruitcake was encased. Though I've lost the brand name of our favorite variety, I can summon the richness of a thick slice without any difficulty.

Having spent the last thirty-five years with someone whose heritage is thoroughly New York, mincemeat pie and fruitcake have been mostly absent from our table. I recall that at least once I bought all the various dried fruit needed to assemble a fruitcake. I believe I followed through and baked the cake. I've erased any memory of what happened next. With my Southern mother living with us, most likely at least two slices were eaten. The rest of the cake was trashed, I am sure. I never attempted to sway my family towards mincemeat pie.

It is an established fact in this family that I am a subsistence cook. I can keep people alive, generally healthy. I have no specialties unless you consider a turkey sandwich on whole wheat with honey mustard something unique. No, I don't think so. I've recounted my many culinary catastrophes in previous blogs and can mainly laugh about them now that enough time has passed.

Holiday traditions at our house include a breakfast with an inviolate menu. This food is served just once a year at Christmas time. I have a dark brown pottery bowl that is removed from a top shelf in the kitchen for this singular purpose. So it has been for the last 30+ years.

Carefully kept is the practice of enjoying French toast once presents have been opened and admired on Christmas morning. In anticipation, a large challah from the bakery is tucked in our freezer.


Real maple syrup resides on a pantry shelf. An ample supply of "fakin bacon" is ready for tasting.


In years past, when the people living in the house numbered five, I'd cook a whole turkey, amply stuffed. The bird was dusted with paprika, just like Mother prepared it at our farmhouse in Mississippi. This spice addition made no sense, but some traditions just 'are.' For a long time, I served the ubiquitous green been casserole. Four people ate it in dainty portions. My all-things-green adverse husband politely declined. (He was probably the clever one.) Ocean Spray cranberry sauce filled my Granny's pickle dish, just as it had in my childhood. I never even considered making my own sauce. Desserts often included an Apple Crumb Pie, Henry's favorite.

Through the years, the number of residents at the house has shrunk. Our daughter is a devoted vegetarian. No longer does a whole turkey roast in our oven. A few years ago, I found a fabulous recipe for Cranberry Sauce (Thank you Southern Living.) and now make it in large quantities to share with neighbors. The green bean casserole has been abandoned for a much healthier (and better tasting) Green Bean Salad. It, too, is requested by friends and neighbors and often the recipe is multiplied to accommodate those additional tables. My gravy boats are gathering dust.

I very much enjoy setting the Christmas table with red and green linens. Polishing the silver, washing the crystal, these are tasks laced with love. Each chair around our 1980-era dining room evokes a memory of some loved one who has sat at that particular place over the years. Their faces and individual cadences continue to enliven the room even in their absence.

I think I glimpse a small, dark-haired Caitlin who barely peeps over the table when she asks for more turkey. Mother sits quietly, probably reminiscing about the absence of Daddy and Brother, and eventually engages with the family surrounding her. One special Christmas, niece Diane and nephew Keith share the holiday with us. Can that really be twenty years ago?

While we still lived at our old house, and on Caitlin's very first Christmas, she was surrounded by her three surviving grandparents. Photos and videos from that day capture three generations opening presents and enjoying the holiday meal. Nine-month old Caitlin is mostly oblivious, completely fascinated by the wrapping paper and boxes which contained a plethora of gifts. Her elder brother patiently demonstrates each toy and tries to distract Caitlin from her paper obsession.

With only a threesome assembling for Christmas 2011, we'll not be sitting at our table. Instead, we'll dine at the Great Wall, a Chinese restaurant in downtown. Owned by the parents of Maureen, President of Caitlin's high school graduating class, the venue is a very comfortable place for celebrating. We may be inaugurating a new tradition that is free from preparation, presentation, and ultimately, removal of the Christmas meal. Not one of us is troubled by this decision, rather, we are each elated. Doubtless new stories will emerge from this culinary deviation.

It's been decided that we'll 'dress' for dinner. A new festive red frock for Caitlin. Muted grey for me. Henry will be dashing in navy. We'll linger over soup and special entrees, sharing stories of our family's past. It will be the very best Christmas dinner ever.

Sunshine and Santas

Softly the voice enwraps the listener and almost immediately it's possible to detect a distant dialect. She's a Texas native, though long removed westward. Traces of initial language tinge her words and phrases, adding extra charm to her delightful personality. She's part of the past, specifically Henry's history. They met ever so long ago when each was merely twenty-something, busily ensconced in graduate school at Arizona State. (I joined their friendship circle in 1977.)



It's easy to imagine that the two students became instant friends. Her innate inquisitiveness blends harmoniously with his tenacious intellect, while allowing ample room for gamboling along the way. For a period of time, when his life changed dramatically, she became his tenant. They stored many moments from those months and have quickly recalled particular incidents whenever they've been together in the years hence.

She is Connie, a treasured friend, whose life's journey includes heady days as part of Microsoft's gifted team during it's near infancy. With superb writing acumen, her skills matched the rhythm of a burgeoning business as it grew to portentous proportions.

We're excited to welcome Connie for a fleeting December visit. The agenda includes Shrimp Tacos at Fisherman's Market, several meals at our table, and sharing stories of our respective lives during the 22 months since we were last together.

Financial discussions are lively as Connie and Henry ponder an unsteady world and the prudent choices critical to avoiding monetary mayhem.



Music soothes while the duo sways to songs from earlier decades during an impromptu concert featuring Henry on keyboard and Connie handling vocals. They sound really great to me, the audience of one.



As a resident of the often chilly Northwest, our desert winter weather is a beacon for Connie. She's astounded by the array of roses, freshly plucked from our garden. One morning, she chooses what she declares is a perfect orange from the fruit-laden trees near the pool. Nothing but the rind remains after breakfast. Several times I find her gazing at Mt. San Jacinto with wonder. It is an awesome sight no matter the season.

On Tuesday, Connie graciously agrees to help me decorate the house for the Christmas holidays. With superb design aptitude and an 'eye' for details, Connie's vision soon resonates throughout the rooms. In truth, I am merely the one who fetches and hands her various items. Several closets are raided, special treasures located, boxes piled on the dining room table. I smile when angels, reindeer, snowmen, and Santas are unwrapped, each one a reminder of holidays past.


Non-Christmasy decorations are quickly sequestered in closets. Seasonal specialties occupy newly vacant spaces. Interesting, and often unusual, groupings greatly enhance the overall holiday theme. Connie is gleeful, clearly enjoying herself immensely. I'm exhuberant too, admiring the remarkable results.



Branches, procured from the nearby high school's Christmas tree lot, emit a strong evergreen fragrance and are a worthy substitute for the tree we no longer trim. Scattered across the mantle and onto tables, the greenery provides a becoming backdrop for each holiday display.



The stockings are hung, awaiting their fill. Just seventeen days until Christmas.




Thank you, dear Connie. You are a lifetime gift.

Celebrating Symmetry

Clustered around the calliope, we answer his question and call out our states. Tennessee, Mississippi, California. Soon the river reverberates with The Tennessee Waltz, Mississippi Mud and California, Here I Come. With cousins gathered in Natchez for Thanksgiving, we're touring the docked Delta Queen.


Our host, Vic Tooker, is the man in charge of the steamboat's music. He's a curious character whose floating life is replete with adventures. Traveling with him is his mom, a spry octogenerian. She, too, is a multi-talented musician.



With a resident as our guide, we've delved into the bowels of the boat, seen the tiny cabins where the Tookers reside, been to the wheelhouse and met the august captain. All the passengers have gone ashore to enjoy Natchez history and charm and indulge in holiday fare.

Though we are very grateful for this family gathering, a specter of sadness surrounds us. It is barely two months since we've lost my only sibling. Grief tinges our days but, for the sake of our eight year old son, we focus on traditions bounded by thankfulness. The boy is viewing the mighty Mississippi for the first time, meeting countless kin, and sleeping in the massive oak bed where his late uncle spent his childhood.



What none of us knew is that far away in Oregon, a baby boy has just been born. He will grow up to marry the daughter who is, at the time, four years, four months, and four days in our future. For both these remarkable people, we are incredibly thankful.

It is thirty-three years later and Thanksgiving is being celebrated in the desert.




This particular holiday seems especially designed to blend with the dominant colors of the region. In fact, our house is awash with shades of cream, taupe, chocolate, khaki, camel, and pale umber. The palette covers our walls, floors, carpet, and most of the furniture. It appears in bedding and sheets.



One saucy opinion (that of our dear daughter) contends that the hues (or lack thereof) are consistently boring. We smile indulgently and proceed to purchase more of the same. Perhaps I should respond that we're simply coordinating for Thanksgiving year-round.

Our house is decorated with pumpkins a-plenty, russet-colored candles, several sets of Pilgrims, baskets overflowing with gourds and seeds, and assorted colorful turkeys. Each item is carefully spaced and continually admired by the neighbor girls.





The last two days have been reserved for holiday meal preparation. Cranberry relish multiplied by three infused the rooms with delicious fragrance. Two batches have been distributed to the neighbors. The third will be gently placed in Granny Foster's pickle dish for our dinner tonight. Double pecan pies rest in the frig for evening consumption shared with special friends.



Separate stuffing is almost ready. One version includes sauteed celery, onion, and bits of apple. The other is unadorned, maybe ordinary. It's easy to guess which one of us will be consuming each recipe.

Thanksgiving is a soothing holiday. It is a time to reflect, to appreciate the gifts of family and friendship. People who inhabit our history are remembered with unending joy, both those who remain with us and all those whom we've lost along the way.

As we enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, I'll pause to acknowledge the awesome impact these people have on my truly blessed life:
Henry
Caitlin
Bobby
Carol
Steve
Di
Keith
Jackie L.
Mike
Nan
Barbara
David S.
Jeanelle
Dottie
Kenny
Weatherly
Alex
Laura Jean
Lois
Susan
Josie
Denise
Jo Ann
Connie
Bob
Davene
Shawn
Gilly
Hanna
Jessy
Rick
Renee
Madison

Evil Elves

In outfits rife with pale pink, they prance around the workshop. A comely young lady dances through and smiles beguilingly while touting a cell phone plan. The commercial message is nearly subsumed by the cuteness quotient. I'm not buying but I bet others do.

'Tis the season of elves, those consistently cheerful helpers who assure that holiday gifts get transported across the globe to eager children. At least that's what we've been told and maybe what we want to continue to believe. Elf images abound in print, commercials, movies and books. They're benign, harmless, friendly and appear to be infinitely huggable.

Recently my opinion of elves has evolved into a negative stance. I've decided that a colony of elves has invaded my computer. Somehow they gained access and are creating a maddening array of devilment.

The other morning, I looked at my e-mail account and discovered that it had changed overnight. Not one of the endless updates that promises to improve the service but never does. Not the annoying messages that calmly report the site is not working right now and to check back later. Not the frozen status when no amount of clicking will change the screen.

My list of Favorites, carefully composed and constantly utilized, had vanished from the left side of the screen. Given that the list was in place when I went to bed the previous night, how could this have happened? Truthfully, I wasn't responsible. No errant clicking caused the list to disappear.

With my level of frustration escalating, I tried a secondary e-mail site. The same condition greeted me. Fortunately the altered screen configuration isn't a total disaster. I can locate my precious list by clicking on 'Favorites' in the tool bar. Why should I have to add another click when I was quite content with the previous iteration? There is no choice.

By now, my audible sighs are attracting the attention of my techno adept husband. He offers to rescue me. I relinquish my desk chair and stand to the side, ready to absorb any nuances that might restore the favored page. Even he is unsuccessful in this quest and he gently suggests that the annoyance is minor. Of course he is right but my change averse self is still rebelling.

I trust that the elves who reside within my desktop PC don't read blogs. I wouldn't want them to know how stymied I am or my level of disdain for their unwelcome activities.

Though technology inhabits that part of my brain where the lack of math acuity also dwells, I've made an effort to become, if not exactly facile, at least less hopeless. I'm much more comfortable with technology, particularly computers, than I'll ever be with mathematics.

I am able to send and receive e-mail easily. That is, assuming that the browser is cooperating fully. (I know that I must transition to Firefox and abandon Internet Explorer altogether.)

Downloading photos, scanning documents, making DVDs and CDs, I perform all of those tasks. My Flickr account is active, my blog updated regularly. I've certainly left the novice category behind.

There are days, however, when I look at my office window and wonder if it would shatter should I lose control and attempt to hurl the CPU or computer screen. These thoughts are very fleeting and totally fanciful. My usual solution is to leave the room or ask for assistance.

Maybe I should make peace with my imaginary elves. Perhaps they need attention much like small children. Soothing talk, a letter perhaps?

Dear Elves: While I may appreciate your presence, do remember that I am somewhat technologically inept. Please consider my condition when toying with my system.

Yours sincerely,

I'm not a swearing person, even when provoked. A favorite expression is 'horsefeathers,' hardly profane. Shall I create a special computer oath? It can be uttered when sanity is slipping and sighing is useless.

It may be easier to request a tutorial from my daughter whose eminent technology acumen can surely eliminate all elves.

Not Just Another Monday Evening

He's calling from the San Francisco airport and tells his uncle that he'll arrive around 7:30. "Could we meet for dinner?" he inquires. There's really nowhere to eat at our airport but we live only a mile away. "Why not come here?" the uncle suggests.

It's complicated. This constantly traveling businessman will be met by a driver who'll take him to another town about an hour to the east. A very early meeting is scheduled for the morning and hours of preparation still hover.

"Just tell me what you'd like to eat and we'll have it here waiting for you when you arrive." says the accommodating uncle. That does it. The nephew can't resist a meal from his favorite local restaurant. The order is taken, a time fixed for his arrival. The driver will leave him at our house for an hour and then whisk him away to his hotel west on Interstate 10.

I'm unaware of these developing arrangements as I chat on the phone with a Southern cousin in another part of the house. Henry interrupts the conversation and says, "In about an hour, there'll be a surprise visitor." My mind shuffles. Who could it be? Surely not Caitlin on a week-day evening. Not the dear cousin to whom I am speaking. She is at least 1500 miles away, right? No other family members or friends are expected just now.

It's Keith, our nephew. Through a fluke in his flight plans, he's going to be in town just briefly and we'll get to see him. What serendipity! A wonderful surprise.

Hastily concluding my cousin conversation, I locate the Las Casuelas menu and call the restaurant. One Chicken Burrito Ranchero and an order of chips and salsa. I'm informed that chips and salsa come with the meal. Great. I'm thinking that Keith will probably be famished, so I order sides of black beans and Mexican rice. (It's a 'Mom' thing.) A carb feast for one.

Over to the sink to make more iced tea. He specifically requested that popular beverage.

Soon we've picked up the delectable Mexican food and made a stop at Fresh & Easy for a super-sized slice of chocolate cake.

The food reposes in a warm oven and emits tantalizing fragrances throughout the house. Keith'll be more than pleased by this culinary welcome.




The doorbell rings and he's outside. Looking slightly weary, Keith's wearing a handsome suit and perfectly striped shirt. The driver leaves. Not much time, but it will suffice. People in our demographic cherish every moment with the younger generations. Lucky for us, most youthful members seem to enjoy our company as well.

After generous hugs, Keith changes into jeans and a tee shirt. Now he can relax for a brief interlude, protected from the expectations of his demanding career.

In this house, we will always glimpse that adorable young man whose athleticism, ever-present smile, academic acumen and bounteous nature make us proud to be his uncle and aunt. Though he's now in his forties, married and dad to two special little girls, we fondly remember when he moved across country to our town immediately after graduating from college.

Keith, age 22, and his first cousin, Caitlin, age 7, became an improbable duo. He gamely rode with her on bumper cars, played mini-golf, and unwound as both of them spent time reading. She affectionately called him "Keefee." With her own brother off at college and a vast number of cousins living great distances away, Caitlin enthusiastically embraces the availability of a same-generation relative. The fifteen year age difference matters not at all. While Keith lived in our area, he ate spaghetti with the family at least once a week and joined us for holiday celebrations and birthdays.




During this most recent visit, we chat about his daughters' school year, the family's plans to return to the desert in the spring and his cousin Caitlin's latest exploits. Uncle Henry demonstrates newly acquired magic skills which are already pleasing audiences young and older. (He'll be even more facile by next April when Keith's family arrives.) There's just enough time to explore the latest electronic toys.



Too soon,the hour elapses. The driver returns. Dishes are empty, two glasses of tea have vanished. He's gone.

As Keith is so fond of saying, "Sweet."