A Dog's Tale

His name was Kitty Tom, a farm feline who feasted on fallen birds, rodents and scraps tossed from the table. He may have been orange striped or perhaps black and white. My memory doesn't stretch back that far and those who would know are long departed. As a rural cat, he spent his time prowling the yard, barn and chicken houses with infrequent coddling. Several times a day he'd wander up the wooden steps to the back porch, looking for food. As the resident toddler, I'd give his sleek back a rub or two.

One day Kitty Tom, normally quite docile, took offense at my intrusion or mistook me for food and left a long scratch on my tiny arm. The adults panicked. With domestic animals everywhere as well as woods rife with other critters, the potential for disease was high. After consulting the family doctor, my parents made a grave decision. The cat must be tested. Doing so ended his life.

Though the state lab found no evidence of dreaded infections, three of us began a series of injections. Thankfully I was so very young that I have only stories instead of real memories regarding those unbelievably painful inoculations. My mother often said that I would begin crying the minute they put me in the car and wouldn't cease until we had gone into town for the next shot in the series and returned home. I'm sure this scene was heart wrenching for everyone. Rabies shots are administered around the belly button and remain excruciating even today.

I choose to believe that this experience poisoned me forever with respect to cats. There is the little problem of dander which causes me to sneeze uncontrollably with eyes watering and a throat that threatens to constrict. Kitty Tom's innocence has not mitigated my aversion to his species.

No more cats came to live at our house. Dogs, however, were welcome. I recall a large, somewhat loopy, Lassie look-alike named Pal. He disappeared one day and I was told that he'd wandered away. In retrospect, the truth was probably that the beautiful collie been hit by a car or had died a natural death. Frequently, the yard teemed with assorted German shepards. Daddy firmly believe that this breed knew instinctively the ways of moving sheep and cattle from one place to another. He never tired of trying to get the newest dog to practice this technique. I'm not sure why, but none of the dogs through the years ever became proficient at a skill which was supposedly inbred.

As puppies, the shepherds were adorable. Fat and cuddly, lazy and loving. My brother and I would romp with them across the pastures, down to the barn, and into the orchard. We weren't the most attentive of pet owners and were distracted by having our own horses to ride at any time. The dogs always lived outside and sought shelter beneath eaves or in their doghouses. Not much thought went into the selection of individual names. The only one that I can recall with clarity is 'Blackie.' I'm certain many dogs bore that moniker.



By the early 1970's, I was married and living in suburban Phoenix. For reasons I simply don't recall, a decision was made to get a dog. No breed other than English bulldog would do. A newspaper ad alerted us to a litter for sale in nearby Mesa. Once we saw him, we'd made our choice.

Were we prepared to be dog owners? Not at all. Was our yard secure enough to keep this adventuresome animal secure and enclosed? Not at all. He was a purebred, so what could go wrong? Plenty.

But first, the selection of a name. Purebred puppies come with papers and names. We discarded his birth name immediately and began calling him "Thaddeus." Not the commonly selected name of "Winston" or some play on his ugly/cute face. He'd have a name worthy of his breed.

As two people who appreciated American history, we'd named our new dog after the Civil War era Radical Republican Congressman Thaddeus Stevens (1792-1868) from Massachusetts. Maybe there was some facial resemblance.

The name felt right. It was strong, manly, uncompromising. Our Thaddeus proved to possess all these attributes and more.

Possibly we should have sought a dog training class as we began our lives with our first pet. Today, we could watch "The Dog Whisperer," purchase numerous books on the subject, find a Facebook site devoted to bulldog owners. Instead, we began attending the Phoenix bulldog owners meeting. It did not go well. Thaddeus, perhaps excited about seeing faces that mirrored his, misbehaved badly. We were chagrined but our naivete made us rather helpless to correct his actions. We were politely, but firmly, asked to leave him at home. Feeling rejected, we abandoned the group entirely.




Our house was new, built as part of a development where one could choose among three or four styles and floor plans. Neighbors were mostly young marrieds with a sprinkling of older couples and retirees. The gamut of professions included certified public accountant, air traffic controller, Xerox salesman, graphic designer and librarian. At least one dog lived at each residence.

In the evenings, a parade of people and their pooches meandered through the neighborhood streets. Thaddeus seemed to relish this activity and we thought he might have a social side. With his very low center of gravity and fully grown weight of almost eighty pounds, it was he who took us for a walk and not the other way around.

While we were away for very long work days, he must have gotten bored. His innate curiosity could not be controlled and often there would be a message on our answering machine regarding his wanderings. Some kind person would have found him, coaxed him into his or her backyard, and called the number thoughtfully included on the tag of his collar. A few voices were almost shrill and seemed to infer that we were negligent pet owners. With fallen faces, we'd retrieve our Thaddeus and admonish him (again) for his misbehavior.

Grape stake fences were no deterrent to this determined bulldog. He could paw his way through a section and be on his way. Some drastic action was necessary to contain our canine. Replacing the wooden fence would have been too costly so we searched for alternatives.

In homage to the raging heat of Arizona summers, we'd installed a doggie door which led from the covered patio directly into the kitchen area. Not wanting Thaddeus to be loose in the house when we were away, a three foot wire mesh and wood cage was built and attached to the kitchen wall. He could escape the weather by popping through his own door and splat on the cool kitchen floor. Water and food were plentiful in his enclosure. It seemed ideal.

One night, a colleague from work was staying with me while my husband was away on a business trip. This very tall and gracious lady loved dogs. She owned several adorable daschunds and was completely devoted to them. Our evening progressed nicely and sometime around 11, we said good-night and were soon asleep. That slumber was instantly interrupted by a cacophony of doggie noises. My sleepy mind couldn't comprehend how Thaddeus could sound like several dogs at once.

My friend Merle appeared at her bedroom door at about the same time I arrived at mine. She looked very alarmed as did I. Cautiously, we approached the sounds, by this time even louder than when we'd first awakened. Turning on the lights, we saw, with startled faces, a trio of dogs in the pen meant for one. Each was standing on his hind legs with paws casually draped over the wooden slats.

Immediately I recognized the two intruders. They lived next door. Picture the scene. Short, squat, brown Thaddeus flanked by a lumbering white Old English Sheep dog and his companion, a tall, sleek black Labrador Retriever.

If I hadn't been so outraged and tired, I might have laughed. Obviously, my pet had clawed his way through our fence and made enough of an opening for the next door dogs to bound through. I suspect he may have had some assistance in this endeavor. Perhaps it took several days or hours to complete the task. I believe I detected the slightest look of smugness in their eyes, if dogs are capable of such emotion.

What could we do? With great effort, we separated the threesome and sequestered Thaddeus in our backyard. Hastily, we tried to repair the fence. Then, we managed to hold on to the larger dogs long enough to take them next door, ring the doorbell, and deliver them to their owners. Not the most neighbor friendly action in the middle of the night. We are fortunate not to have been shot on sight.

That episode brought a new era into our lives. A fence company was contracted and a dog run built which attached to the patio and disallowed any more fence tampering or social gatherings with other dogs. Thaddeus could not leap the wire fence nor was he able to dislodge it at all. He was stuck. Home for good unless we deigned to take him some place.

During the coming months, we learned that dogs get sick much like humans. A trip to the vet confirmed old-fashioned flu. Maybe we gave it to him. He stepped on a thorn and required surgery. His front paw bandaged and his body filled with antibiotics, he wobbled when he walked and we felt pity for his suffering. Another time, the vet informed us that bulldogs have a natural proclivity for ingrown eyelashes. Strange, but true. A second operation was required to correct this problem. Thaddeus was tough and survived these maladies with dignity.

One unusually cold January day in the desert, I was helping move Thaddeus' doghouse from one part of the yard to another. Not watching my path, I inadvertently stepped into the deep end of the pool and sank to the bottom. Wearing a heavy sweatshirt, tennies, and jeans, I was sodden immediately. Why didn't I allow the doghouse to be drenched instead of myself? Truly I couldn't blame Thaddeus for this frigid mishap.



The last time I saw Thaddeus, I began to cry uncontrollably. I was taking my belongings from the house and leaving forever. He looked confused and I like to think, almost sad. I could not retreat. I turned from the kitchen and walked out the front door.

I don't know his fate. By now, maybe he's been in the equivalent of doggie heaven for decades. I hope he's totally free, mingling with friends, gnawing on fences, dragging people down beautiful streets.

Thaddeus taught me that though pets aren't people, they require much the same care and direction. I probably failed him though my intentions were otherwise. He's been the subject of many conversations with my daughter over the years. She's especially fond of the middle-of-the-night debacle. It's quite funny to her. She knows that her childhood was pet bereft primarily because of my earlier experiences. Once she was living elsewhere, Leaky, her beloved tuxedo cat, joined her household. Now Leaky has grudgingly accepted an unwanted 'sister' named Georgia. These cats enhance the lives of my dear daughter and her husband. She has her own pet tales to share.

Sensing Civility

When my daughter is at home, she knows that any clothes she leaves outside her door will magically disappear and be returned all clean and folded. It's a perk of visiting the place where she spent her childhood. I've heard her mention to her friends who might be staying overnight, "Be careful. Anything you leave on the floor will be scooped up by my Mom and washed, dried and folded." Thus far, not a single friend has objected to this service.

While having your own personal laundress is definitely a plus, I believe that I was even more indulged (spoiled) as a young person. My own mother simply handed any items needing washing to Daddy. He took the bundle to the laundry and dry cleaners that he owned with his three brothers. The care was exquisite. Blouses or dresses with special buttons were set aside. All buttons were removed before the laundry process commenced and were re-sewn afterwards. Skirts with multiple pleats were carefully ironed. The business's customers paid by the pleat. I paid nothing.

Giant washers tumbled with mesh bags filled with assorted laundry. Huge metal pins with numbers assured that clothing could be identified and the owners would be able to retrieve exactly what had been left at the plant.

Steam pressers and a flatwork machine created a cauldron of heat that few people could endure. No air conditioners and few fans dotted the area. Workers endured these unhealthy conditions and were paid little for their service. As a child, I was oblivious to these matters and I'm sure I focused on the condition of my clothes, not the sacrifice of those who prepared them so expertly.

With this background, I emerged from my teens never having encountered a washing machine personally. What a shock to learn that quarters were required if one did not own a washer. Lots of mistakes and ruined clothing ensued.

Through the years, I've discovered that home washers are not designed to accept large pillows. No matter the placement of these items, the washer becomes unbalanced. Trying to heave a water soaked pillow into a different position and coax the washer to continue it task is exhausting. I will admit that I actually wrecked one washer some years ago. When pillows became entangled, I was not vigilant enough and the motor simply burned out. A very costly error.

With these experiences haunting me, I decided to start the year by taking a collection of pillows to a local laundromat. If there were going to be a malfunction, let it be at a business, not my house.

The back seat of the car was piled high with an assortment of seven pillows. Two standard sized, two king, and three rather large square-shaped decorative pillows.

Before taking the pillows from the car, I stepped inside the laundromat to inquire if the machines would accommodate my cargo. I immediately encountered a young man who may have been the manager. Though I was obviously not a regular customer, his attention to my question could not have been more helpful. Machines were available but he needed to warn me that pillows were finicky. (As if I didn't already know.) It did not matter if they cost a little or a lot, things happened. Sometimes the results were ruinous. Lumps, uneven sides, disintegration altogether. Horrors.

I responded with calming aplomb. Even if the pillows were less than perfect, at least they'd be clean. We'll proceed. He suggested pairings of the various sizes and showed me how to pack three extra chubby pillows into an oversized washer. Two more machines were needed for the remaining pillows.

All around me, other customers were unloading laundry, stuffing it into machines, getting change, and settling into the chairs to wait for the cycles to conclude. One lady asked if I needed a washer and said she'd mistakenly plopped nearly $5 into a machine before she realized it wasn't a dryer. Oops. At least I was not guilty of that error. I agreed to move my pillows and return to her what had already been deposited. She said that wasn't necessary at all.

Before I could move anything, the congenial attendant rescued her. He brought a bedspread and put it in the ready-to go washer and returned the money she'd mistakedly inserted.

Feeling very confident and $10 poorer after feeding my own machines, I walked over to the nearby grocery store to get a jar of peanut butter. Upon my return, I learned that one of the washers had a mechanical problem. Again, the affable attendant had identified the difficulty and resolved it without being asked. My pillows were now rotating in another washer further down the line.

As I sat reading a few pages of the book I'd brought with me, I couldn't help but overhear continuing conversations between arriving and departing customers and this angel of the laundromat. All people were treated with dignity, no matter the appearance of their personal circumstances. Smiles were dispensed with quiet decorum and genialness. Assistance was offered without being requested. The atmosphere exuded friendliness and made a routine chore much less onerous.

My pillows survived their tumbling and I toted them out to the car, still wet. With our winter days creeping into the 80's, setting pillows outside to dry in the sun seemed like an excellent choice. I detected no lumps or shrunken sizes. The fresh clean aroma remained later in the day when the perfectly dried pillows were returned to their spaces on the master bed.

During the intervening days since the pillow pilgrimage, I've thought about people I encounter whose demeanor assures me that civility survives. The ladies who work behind the deli counter at Ralph's, my grocery store, smile when they see me. Most of them ask immediately if I want my usual order of 1 1/4th pounds of Boar's Head low-sodium turkey, sliced super thin. I do realize that I order the same amount of meat twice a week but I am only one of so many customers. I appreciate the personal attention and feel a bit badly that my needs are so specific.

Down the street there's a Rite-Aid drugstore. It's in somewhat neglected condition and will soon be abandoned for a brand new facility a few blocks to the west. Whenever I enter the store, the clerks smile and greet me. If I'm picking up a prescription, the Pharmacy Technician calls me by name and hands me my medicine. How does she remember me so clearly? I am a very irregular customer yet she knows me and my husband.

Aspen Mills Bakery prepares delicious and good-for-you whole wheat Omega-3 rolls, studded with flax seeds. They also make sinful cookies, croissants, muffins, and huge brownies. I have relinquished the desserts and other baked items with slight regret. Here, too, the staff is unfailingly engaged with customers. The owner is nearly always present and he consistently thanks me for my continuing patronage. A couple of times, I've ordered rolls and upon arriving to get them, learned that they weren't ready yet. Immediately, the owner stepped forward and offered to bring the rolls to my house. I politely refused his generous overture and returned later for my packages.

I'm aware that many companies insist that their employees continuously display a sense of welcome to customers. I believe I am able to discern the forced from the truly friendly. I also understand that the 'whole person' arrives at work each day. He or she may not be feeling well, may have a sick child or spouse, could be facing the loss of a home or is just having a bad day. It is difficult, if not impossible, to shed these concerns at the door of the workplace and be transformed into an amiable associate who displays pleasant attributes.

With economic conditions imperiling so many people's lives today, I am even more cognizant of those who remain steadfastly courteous. The zest for life which I glimpse reflected in their eyes gives me hope and reminds me to ingrain my own behavior with greater graciousness.

A Shoe Full of Champagne

Looking for the greatest number of 7's, it didn't occur to us that we'd chosen a date so near to the Christmas holidays. With so much preparation, celebrating, and storing away involved in those two weeks, this very significant day has often gotten somewhat short shrift. Regaining our energy, tackling tasks ignored or postponed for too long, we acknowledged each succeeding year of togetherness with a card, perhaps a quiet dinner at a favorite restaurant. Nothing fancy, no need for that. Nine years ago, when the numbers read twenty-five, we returned to Arizona where the nuptials took place. A silver moment and one which buttressed my then recent retirement. I suppose we might have been commemorating both events.

My dearest husband, being the selfless person I've always known him to be, offered me an anniversary gift perhaps only a woman could appreciate. He'd take me to my favorite shopping center, join me for lunch, and then leave me alone to troll the stores for hours while he occupied himself nearby. How could I possibly resist? This may well be what love looks like after nearly three and a half decades.

A few days before our departure, I was reading the "Calendar" section of the Los Angeles Times, when a snippet seemed to speak to me directly. A performer whom we both greatly admire would be giving a one woman show adjacent to my beloved mall on the very day we planned to visit. Is this kismet? serendipity? fate?

I mentioned her name to my supportive spouse and he began to research the venue. Tickets were still available. The fare was reasonable, not that he cared. Timing couldn't be better. We might extend our jaunt, take the appropriate clothes in the car, have two meals instead of one, enjoy the show, and come home afterwards. Sounds divine.

Wait a minute. Should we spend the night? Will it be too late to travel home after a long day? As the passenger whose energy will be utilized wandering from store to store hopefully laden with shopping bags, I am not concerned about myself. My husband, however, will take us through terrible traffic, wile away his afternoon, and then drive another two hours after an exhausting day. We discuss. I dither. Which hotel? Near the mall, further away? What would we do the next day? Get up, dress and come home? Seems unwise. Our house looms as the best destination, regardless of the time factor.

As a retired lady, I dress the part. During our endless summer which lasts most of the year, I am not so fetching in cotton tops and mostly capri pants. When our mild winters descend, I'm encased in jeans, longer shirts, sweaters and light jackets. Flats, sandals and tennies cover my feet. I am, in a sense, unfashionably boring. My closet contains a few items that have a smidge of style. I say so because my fashionista daughter has combed it critically. Many of her comments go something like this: "Too big." (Very common.) "The print is sooooo loud." "Those pants aren't worn any more by anybody." (I'm paraphrasing.) Occasionally there's a hint of acceptance, even more rare, embracing of some article of clothing. During her most recent visit, I returned home from an errand just as she came into the kitchen area. Something about the shirt she was wearing seemed familiar. At first I thought I might have bought it for her, but then, she confessed. "I was tired of everything in my suitcase and I found this in your guest closet. You don't mind if I wear it, do you?" Well, no, actually I was flattered. It was a favorite shirt. Later in the day, I asked if she wanted to keep it. She hesitated and then said yes, but only if I didn't want it myself. Being the dutiful mom, I washed the dark purple shirt and put it in her suitcase.

I've digressed, as I often do. My immediate problem was what to wear to the performance. Men are effortless, or so they seem to me. Pants, dress belt, nice shirt, shoes that aren't tennies or deck shoes. Done. Gorgeous. Comfortable, or mostly. Women have choices. Too many. A dress, skirt and blouse, pants, fancy, businesslike, casual. What to do? Where's my daughter when I really need her outfit advice? I'll go through the closet containing my old stuff, have a style session for my sweet husband, and make a decision. Bless him, he likes everything. What a guy! Lovely, but I still have a conundrum. Maybe I like a certain outfit but don't have the right shoes. Perhaps this older frock has, gasp, shoulder pads. Even I know they are passe. After much hand-wringing, I choose, or settle for, a cranberry colored sheath with an Oriental motif. High collar, dragon enclosures on the bodice, tiny black threads throughout the fabric. It is old but who will know? The maker, Jones of New York, is classic. The event will be in a darkened room, so less exposure. My New Year's Eve shoes are just fine. Whew. I'm not exactly thrilled, but .....

Friday morning we leave the house around 9 am and arrive at South Coast Plaza in Coast Mesa in time for lunch. Because we frequent this mall more than Henry might like, we have a favorite restaurant. It is the Corner Bakery and Cafe, tucked next to Bloomingdale's. With an impressive array of sandwiches, salads, soups, pastas, and desserts, we're very comfortable with the menu. As we place our order, we're given a number to display at our table so the server can deliver our food. I notice that it is '107.' I can't help but remark that '7' is our lucky number and that it is our anniversary. The staff member just happens to be the store manager. She says sweetly, "In honor of your special day, choose two desserts as our gift to you." I knew I liked this place. Henry has forsaken desserts (well mostly) in homage to his health and he insists that I decide which ones will go home with us. It is difficult, but a brownie and a lemon bar make the final cut.

Sated, we're on our way to Macy's where men's belts are our quarry. Henry, the most reluctant shopper I've ever known, acquiesces to my entreaties, and in a brief amount of time we are at the counter with two new belts for his wardrobe. Then, we part. He's off to spend the afternoon with a high school classmate and her husband who live in nearby Laguna Niguel. I'm free to flit from store to store, fiddle with merchandise, try on/discard/purchase items that entice, and remember to meet him promptly at 4 pm at the concierge desk at Nordstrom's. No problem.

For the next few hours, I'm in a trance, a shopping induced trance. It's almost as if somebody set a whole chocolate cake in front of me and declared, "Eat." Oh, and said with surety, "No calories and you won't get sick." Like that could happen. I forget about chores that are undone, correspondence that is unanswered, a long list of tasks that beckon me to respond and I SHOP.

In Macy's, I wander from floor to floor with my arms piled high. I've learned over the years that much of what looks divine on a hanger, looks revolting on a body. I suppose in a way, that's a good thing. Many items are rejected but two are compelling purchases. A steel grey soft wintery dress once cost $139 and now sports a tag announcing, $45.95. Bargain. I run the tag under the scanner and am astonished that it's now a measly $29.99. Who could leave this treasure in the store? Not me. I muse, might I wear it tonight? Perhaps.



Enough self-indulgence for a while. I'll peek into H & M and see if there's anything that ought to live in Portland. The pickings aren't plentiful. I also remember that Portland has its own Swedish mercantile store and so I'm not driven to find something suitable to send northward. As a treat for the neighbor girls, I stop at Sanrio and find two very cute Hello Kitty water bottles. I can already see their smiles as they tote these gifts on hikes or around the house.

All this shopping has made me mighty thirsty. A tall glass of iced tea is the perfect antidote. I've made my way to the Petite section of Nordstrom's. Since my last visit, the department has moved to a different part of the store. It seems smaller. Are there fewer petite women shoppers? I think not. I am undeterred until I inadvertently swallow wrongly and commence coughing and can't stop. I've made this mistake in the past and nearly had to visit an ER because I triggered an asthma attack. This cannot happen. I'm alone in the store and far from home. I concentrate on breathing but continue shopping. Several ladies approach me and ask if I need help. I can barely talk but I mumble that I am fine. I am not. Somehow the fit subsides after a few minutes. By that time, I've discovered a bonanza of potential acquisitions. I meet the manager of the department and she becomes my fashion guide. I'm going through a 'top' phase and seem to concentrate on this particular article of clothing. More discards litter the dressing room but there are some prizes, too. I'm more than happy with the finalists.

In chatting with Stephanie, the manager, like I always do, I ask about her career goals. She wants to get into merchandising with the store but that would mean relocating to Seattle. Her boyfriend/hoped-to-be fiance is a surfer. He's in the water every single day. No surf in Seattle. A relationship dilemma. I wish her well. I also ask if I might be able to change in one of the dressing rooms later in the day before we leave for the theater. She assures me that there'd be no problem. I'm not interested in peeling out of my clothes in the ladies' restroom.

Down one floor and I'm at Brass Plum, aka 'BP' to its loyal customers. I've been in this department often in Nordstroms across the country. It is filled with clothing and accessories for the young, hip, stylish young lady. Because I am self-conscious about my presence in a department where I obviously do not belong, I always explain that I'm shopping for my daughter. Yes, I do realize that the salespeople don't care if I'm shopping for my elephant or if I'm a hundred years old. They want to sell stuff and my demographic is immaterial. Still, I continue to explain. Almost always, I'm torn among many terrific possibilities, but not today. I guess the shopping gods are in my corner this day. I mull a couple of jackets but each one has something that doesn't seem quite right, so they're left on the racks. I find a sweet, inexpensive silver and faux pearl necklace for myself. The daughter has said I need some 'fun' jewelry. Probably this necklace doesn't qualify, but it's a start.

The meeting hour has arrived. Together again, we're off to look at furniture. After a short twenty-four years of usage, it may be time to get new couches and a chair for our living room. Macy's is having a sale. We meet Doris as we're testing the comfyness of couch cushions. She's knowledgeable, friendly, eager to assist. We discuss delivery timelines, colors, heights, whether to get another sofa bed, when the sale actually commences, and myriad other details. She gives us her card with a cell number which she says can be utilized even when she isn't at work. We like her and believe she deserves this sale, if we decide to buy.

During our conversation, she tells us to remember her first name as in 'Doris Day' and her last name as in 'Red Skelton.' She elaborates further, sharing that her husband has researched his family's genealogy and that he is a fifth cousin of the famous comedian. We relate that we once were on a commuter plane going to Las Vegas and Red Skelton was one of the other passengers. Small world. Charming lady.

Past experiences at Nordstrom's Cafe led us back there for dinner. Scrumptious sandwiches fill the menu and both of us are happy with the selections. I'm off to change. The nearest department is Kid's. Clearly marked are boy's and girl's dressing rooms. I suppose such segregation is a good idea, even at young ages. I ask the salesperson if I may dress in one of the rooms. She's busy with a customer and I'm in a bit of a hurry. She says, "I shouldn't tell you this but there's a trick to opening the locked doors." She demonstrates how to use the crook of a hanger to jiggle the lock and open the door. It works. Soon I'm removing the tags from my new frock, pulling on panty hose, stepping into my slip, strapping my heeled sandals, and tossing the new necklace around my shoulders. I'm ready. I'll freshen my face and hair after dinner.

Driving to the performance venue takes about five minutes. We find a parking garage and ask the attendant where to locate the Samueli Theater. She also tells us that after 9 pm, parking is free. Nice bonus. Unfortunately, the theater is rather far from the garage and walking in fancy shoes is a challenge. We arrive early and mingle in the lobby for a while. Two fascinating ladies engage us and learn that it is our special day. They want to know our story. I'm sure they never imagined its content. Once we have told the abbreviated version, the mother of two college aged girls who are sitting next to her, turns to them and says basically, "Don't expect it to turn out like that. It rarely happens." We demur. You have to trust your instincts. One of the beautiful daughters says our story should be made into a movie. She's obviously enchanted by the romanticism. Believe me, it's still very much alive.

Our table is labeled '155.' Two people are already seated. They introduce themselves as sister and brother. He's an incredibly astute theater aficionado. No matter what show or performer we mention, he can discuss the subject at length. He's seen everything except "Rent." I recommend it highly. Henry discusses the new production of "Ghost: The Musical," whose score has been written by cousin Glen Ballard. This man has seen the rehearsals on the Internet and has made the photo of the cast walking across Abbey Road his screensaver. We are startled and deeply impressed with his unpretentious manner. How fascinating it would be to talk with him for hours. He saw this show the previous evening and will return a third time. That's a true fan.

The lights dim, the show is about to begin. A waitress threads her way through the crowded tables, clutching a tray crowded with drinks. She stumbles and liquid pours over my foot. By her reserved reaction, I gather that this happens frequently. I'm wondering if my shoe will disintegrate due to the wetness, and whether the stickiness will create havoc when I try to walk. The server says simply, "Don't worry. It's champagne. There'll be no stain." She proffers a handful of napkins and exits. I dab my foot and stuff the toe of my sandal with the rest of the napkins. What's a little mishap on such an enchanted evening?



We've come to be serenaded by the incomparable Miss Sutton Foster. We first were in her presence a few years ago when we saw "Thoroughly Modern Millie," her Tony Award-winning performance. What a glorious voice, superb dancing ability, perfect stage presence. The night is blissful. She sings as if she were born specifically for Broadway. No note is too high, no gesture unattainable, no smile withheld. She's funny, engaged with the audience, well aware of her gift but ever so willing to deposit it with her fans.

As part of her routine, she uses few props. She's accompanied by an excellent pianist who matches her talent without intruding. I'm struck by her length, her angular quality. With an endless energy reserve, she begins the show with three songs. Immediately we know that we're in the midst of a unique audience. These people know theater. They're more aware of songs than any group we've ever encountered. Nothing is foreign to them. With just one or two notes played, they respond with alacrity. Though we've been to numerous theater productions on Broadway, in London, Los Angeles and other cities, this is a rare experience. As a whole, the audience resembles a grand graduate class in theater. We are humbled.

Sutton soars. We want her to sing forever. It is, after all, our anniversary. How can she not continue? We laugh when she uses a cup labeled 'Pimp' and another labeled 'Ho' from which she draws the title of a song and then proceeds to sing it flawlessly. I want her to dance but she doesn't, not tonight. She pauses once or twice for a swig of water and plunges into lyrics that would waste the less gifted quickly. A young co-star from "Little Women" joins her for one song. They have a singular symmetry as their lilting voices fill the room.

We listen to Sutton's stories including a harrowing episode when the plane in which she was flying from the west coast to New York encountered mechanical trouble and made an emergency landing in Chicago. She says that incident impressed upon her the value of life and love. A lesson for all of us to remember. In a less dramatic tale, we learn that she's very proud to have been an answer on "Jeopardy." Oddly, none of the contestants was able to form the correct question. Bummer. Not theater fans, evidently.

Nearing the end of a year-long tour, she'll travel to Washington, DC and Florida for sold-out shows and scurry back to New York and its frigid weather. In March, she'll headline a revival of Cole Porter's "Anything Goes" on Broadway. She'll be extraordinary as always. Maybe another Tony is in the wings.

Two encores and she's vanished. Taken her water bottles and departed. Probably spent from her performance. The audience is reluctant to disburse. There's something magical in this room. It is the essence of Sutton, a star. With the surname of Foster, she must surely be a distant cousin. I recognize that spirit, see some facial resemblance and would be so proud to call her family.

Walking to the car, we reminisce about our day, our decades together. We're happy to be going home. As we travel without impediments along the freeways toward the desert, I feel as if we are being teleported. In less than ninety minutes, we're opening the garage door. There's still time to check the mail, do a load of laundry, put away the purchases, and get to bed just after midnight. A day of jubilation is done. Let the next year begin.

One Plus Three Sevens Equals Thirty-four

On her birthday in the monsoon month of August in Phoenix, my boss wasn't inclined to attend a meeting. Instead, she designated me as her representative. I don't remember being particularly delighted about this assignment, but I had no choice. I could not have known the monumental impact that acting as her surrogate would have upon my life.

As a librarian working for what was considered the most innovative city in the State of Arizona, I interacted frequently with professional colleagues. Many of them had become close friends and we enjoyed getting together at conferences, workshops and visiting each other's facilities. I'd heard about a new maverick city library director whose ideas promised to bring many changes to the state of libraries and librarianship. It was he who'd be chairing the fateful meeting at the Arizona State Library for the Blind.

Much of that afternoon has receded into distant memory. I do recall vividly walking into the reception area and immediately seeing a familiar face. David rose from the couch and embraced me. He then turned to the man who stood next to him and introduced us. So this is the already fabled 'new kid.' Hmmmmm. Seems quite nice. Well, what about those clothes? He's wearing plaid pants and a patterned shirt. Interesting combination. And his shoes? What are they? Sort of dress shoes but not really. Well, no matter, just listen to him talk. This guy's a thinker. No, he's way beyond that description, he's brilliant. Forget about the attire. That's fixable. He has the warmest smile, the bluest eyes, the gentlest demeanor, the greatest enthusiasm for his latest project. I will listen, observe, study this person who is really like no other I've ever met.

More people arrive and we move to a conference room. David introduces everyone and the meeting begins. Instantly I know he's a force of positive energy. I really can't keep up with his facile mind. His idea is commendable, worthwhile, and has great potential. The assembled librarians offer suggestions, concur with his proposal. We've caught his fever.

When the meeting ends, he talks to me and asks if we can get together to discuss the project further. I say "yes" without hesitation. Inertia has captured me. I may not grasp it fully, but I am his from that moment forward and thankfully, I still am.

As with most relationships, ours included complications. He was a single dad with full custody of a precocious six year old son. An ex-wife made life more interesting than necessary. I was, well, married. Though the union had essentially dissolved years before, the connection was still viable and had to be severed permanently. Through these often difficult machinations, he remained steadfast and never lost faith that our being together was inevitable.

On a rainy night in January, we were married at the Phoenix AME Church. His son participated in the ceremony. Each of us wrote our own vows. The Rev. Floid D. Parker officiated.




Our attendants were David, who introduced us, and Jerrye, my boss, who skipped the now famous meeting.



The ceremony itself was short. We had a plane to catch, destination unknown to me. A friend had inadvertently mentioned that I should pack a swimsuit. I thought we might be headed to Hawaii. First, there was time to see his parents and sample the cake his mom had created.



Initially, we flew to San Diego for a few days. Almost as soon as we arrived at the hotel, the electricity went out. We dined on room service cold roast beef sandwiches and I felt like we were in heaven. No bad omens shrouded that day. The next morning, we awoke and discovered a Navy carrier anchored outside our window. Perfect.



Once our plane was in the air, the flight attendant asked us to identify ourselves. We were handed a huge bottle of champagne and a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses. No cards identified the source of this bounty. Upon landing in Honolulu, we were required to stop at the Agricultural Inspection Station. Flowers and fruit cannot enter the state without special permission and/or appropriate tags. I used my most plaintive voice and explained the origin of the roses and asked for dispensation. It was granted and we left the airport with the yellow beauties.

After a few days strolling along Waikiki Beach and visiting historic sites, he said there was another surprise. What could it be? We took a taxi to a small strip mall and walked into a camper rental store. Gleefully, he announced that we would have our very own camper in which to explore Oahu. In the succeeding years, whenever this story is told, he casually mentions that because I had grown up on a farm, he was sure I'd love the rustic nature of camping. Obviously we knew little about each other. I was a farm girl in name only. I loathed camping and had only tried it once. Since this was our honeymoon, I smiled and mused, "How bad can it be?"



The little camper was red. It had no special accoutrements except a shell on its back. Inside was a platform with a foam mattress. Maybe there were are few utensils stored in small cupboards. Certainly there were no bathroom facilities, no heater, no comfy chair or electronics.

We drove away from the big city not really knowing where we might be stopping for the night. We were on an island and campsites were presumed to be plentiful. We were in no hurry. Our temporary home was with us. We stopped at the Crouching Lion Inn for a delicious lunch. The meandering roadway traveled every northward. We looked for campsites. None yet, but we weren't dismayed.

By mid-afternoon, we'd arrived at the famous Banzai Pipeline, beloved of all surfers. The waves were spectacular and a small group of intrepid surfers rode them with elan. We talked with a young man who informed us that we could, indeed, camp near the beach. One requirement, strictly enforced, was a permit. It could be obtained at the police station in the next town. And, one other thing. It's necessary to get up in the middle of the night and move one's camp when the tide comes in. Good to know.

Reinvigorated, we're off in search of the elusive permit. The town was close by but we couldn't locate the police station. Another insurmountable difficulty arose when we discovered that the residents of the town spoke only Hawaiian. No permit for us. We'll keep looking.

By this time we've traveled around half of the island and are on our way back to Honolulu. There's time for an extensive tour of the Dole Canning Company and some free samples.

We are now accepting the fact that campsites are not readily available on Oahu. OK. We devise a new plan. We'll return to the city, find a place where cars park overnight, settle in to a space and decide what to do in the morning. A hospital seems like a good choice. Large lot, many vehicles. We climb in the back of the camper and believe we're going to sleep. Nope. We are adjacent to a church where the chimes ring every half hour. No sleep will ensue if we remain here.

What now? Let's see. We're both librarians. We'll just look for a library and park in its lot. If we're bothered, we'll simply proclaim that we're visiting libraries throughout the island and wanted to get to this one early. Sounds reasonable enough.

There's the cutest branch library all nestled in a neighborhood and nearly covered in greenery. We pull around the back and are absolutely certain we've found peace and quiet.

Almost. It seems that this secluded space is a favorite for teen-agers seeking solitude in their cars. For hours, they come and go. We expect that the police, who must know about this rendezvous space, will arrive shortly. Thankfully, they don't.

After a mostly sleepless night, we make an important decision. Camping is not for either of us. We return the little red vehicle and give the unopened bottle of champagne to the guys in the office. California sounds wonderful. There are abundant hotels. We're on a plane by noon. These adventures will make quite a story.

Tomorrow is our thirty-fourth anniversary. I'm still in love. Henry is so much more than I ever deserved. We've built a life that suits us and the memories of our years together resonate sweetly. We've sadly lost two sets of parents and my only sibling. We've joyously welcomed a daughter and more recently, her husband. Our careers reached a comfortable trajectory and we left them with feelings of satisfaction. Family and friends surround us and enrich our lives every day. Travel has broadened us in myriad ways and we gave that gift to our children also. Our health has been astonishingly positive and we're trying to be diligent caretakers of our bodies for the years yet to come.

We deliberately chose to be married on January 7, 1977. With '7' as our lucky number, it seemed like our destiny was set. I'd do it again tomorrow and welcome an additional thirty-four.

Dining with Frank, Family and Friends

In any town across this country, extraordinary people reside. Most of them are known locally, make a real difference to the community, and are part of the reason folks enjoy living in a particular place. The city where I live is really like no other. On any given day, the last eighty years or so, a casual visit to the grocery store could become memorable when the person poking through the green beans is an Academy Award winner. Truly, it's that sort of town.

Since moving here in the late '70s, I've encountered my share of celebrities. Some were legends, others mere facsimiles of their former fame. Whether it's Bob Hope standing next to me in the card section at Long's Drug Store, or Jimmy Stewart sitting on the sofa facing mine at a Film Festival reception, these slight brushes with immortality have caused me to wonder if perhaps I've wandered into a third dimension of stardom.

Thus, it is not surprising that the lot on which our house is situated was once part of Bob Hope's exhaustive real estate empire. Nor does it seem odd that the house next door to ours is reputed to have been the trysting haven for Frank Sinatra and his amour, later wife, Ava Gardner. I suppose it was handy that the modest dwelling stood less than a mile from the much more expansive home where Frank lived with his wife, Nancy. The current occupants of this fabled house, our dear neighbors, claim it is haunted by the raven-haired movie star. Maybe....

A few weeks before the holidays began, Gilly asked if we'd join her and Shawn for an evening out on New Year's Eve. We didn't accept this invitation immediately because Caitlin and Bobby would be visiting during that time and we weren't sure of their plans. However, when I mentioned the proposed engagement, Caitlin enthusiastically embraced the idea. After all, real celebrations on New Year's Eve, at least the ones designed for young adults, do not begin until long after dinnertime.

As the weeks unfolded, the dinner group increased. Johnny Costa's, a local Italian restaurant in business for more than thirty years, would be our venue. Mr. Costa himself was once Sinatra's personal chef and one of the signature dishes on the menu is 'Steak Sinatra.' Because of the size of the party, we were assigned a private room. Upon entering, we noticed the photographs immediately. How lovely that Frank is joining us for dinner.




For this special evening, Caitlin, Gilly and I are swathed in tulle, sparkles, and soft fabric. Our feet, usually encased in tennies, clogs, or flats, are mostly uncomplaining in heels of various heights. As our unquestioned fashionista, Caitlin's wearing pink pumps. They are lovely and treacherous. Despite moleskin and discreet bandages, she'll have aches for hours. There's a price for beauty that I'm rarely willing to pay. Caitlin simply grimaces and accepts multitudes of compliments with grace.







Despite the fact that the restaurant is really crowded on this special night, the service is excellent. A newly hired server named Margaret knows the menu, attends to our many requests and smiles throughout the evening. Ten of us share a long rectangular table. Nearby, the younger set revels in being close by but not claustrophobically so. We interrupt them from time to time for the requisite photos.




The evening unfolds with a camaraderie that transcends each separate couple. Six of us own houses on the same street. We are bound together by addresses and much more. The remaining four dinner companions are family and friends of our Washington-based neighbors. All are congenial, even when the topic turns to politics.



We're so accustomed to informality in our daily lives that it's refreshing to see each other wearing fancy clothes.




There's a babysitter who's got a party to attend. He must be relieved by 8:30 and so bills are paid, wraps gathered and folks ferried back to Sunset Way. The three little girls are ready to party. They have poppers, soda in wine glasses, and the wide-eyed expectation that something wonderful is about to happen. All of us arrive in time to toast the new year--New York time. Henry's been at that world famous site and watched the ball drop. He was a college student at the time but the memory remains satisfyingly new many decades later.



The little girls move from adult to adult, sometimes hugging or pausing to chat. They're completely at ease in this milieu, socially adept, uninhibited in their sharing. I wonder what they'll remember about this evening in distant decades surrounded by families of their own.




Caitlin and Bobby must depart and we're the taxi service. Their night is about to begin. The Riveria is touted as a happening place. They'll meet Scott and Stefan to investigate. Lonnie will join them when his shift at the hospital ends at midnight.

We're done. Exhausted a bit, definitely exhilarated by the perfection of the evening. With so many New Year's Eves witnessed through the years, there's no need nor desire to stay awake to welcome 2011. Sleep sounds enticing. I drift away just as a few sirens herald January 1st. My last thoughts are that Frank never had such a night.

Past Faces, Old Places

It is a ritual practiced by some, shunned by many. Going home can evoke elation or despair. Often those who couldn't wait to leave are among the ones who return gladly, after a while. A sort of peace settles over the individual and people and things that crafted the early years become more tolerable, perhaps even embraceable. Returning home during the holidays requires little explanation. Parents welcome children now domiciled in distant zip codes. Family traditions can crowd brief visits. The older generation must govern itself and not monopolize every moment.

Married couples with parents in different states find themselves balancing celebrations. Traveling from the soggy northwest to sunny Southern California is enticing, even in those years when sunshine is sporadic. Does it really matter if we're together on the actual day of Christmas? Not one whit. The house and the town don't know the difference and neither do we.

In 2010, Christmas arrives on the 28th. We've had extra days to prepare and with our daughter's firm veto of the usual holiday meal, there's much less cooking to anticipate. Caitlin and Bobby have graciously accepted our request that they not leave the guest room until 9 am and when they open the door, the reason for that admonishment becomes abundantly clear.






A meandering trail of $1 and $5 dollar bills leads the smiling couple to the living room where more gifts reside. Bobby, the clue deciphering genius, quickly unravels even the most esoteric phrases. Henry and I are really impressed. Caitlin has played this game for too many years. She just tears into the presents pile.



With no dinner preparations looming, we concentrate on French toast. I'm allowed to create the egg mixture. Caitlin will handle the spatula and decide when each dunked slice of challah is flawlessly finished. As the resident cook, not nearly good enough to be considered a 'chef,' I've decided we'll eat at the dining room table. It is festively appointed and has been set for weeks.



Just two days earlier, I'd spent most of an afternoon making a Red Velvet Cheesecake. Though the recipe seemed simple enough, the actual effort involved proved to be extensive. Having only a novice's acquaintance with my Kitchen Aid mixer, I failed to properly mix some of the ingredients. Then there was the 'moisture' problem of unknown origin which made the cheesecake, well, soggy. After returning from Knotts Berry Farm on Monday evening, I'd finished this dessert by making a cream cheese frosting. It, at least, looked good. So much was entailed in creating this first-time cake, that I remarked, "This is what love looks like." Caitlin and Bobby gamely tried several slices as the days unfolded.




There are places to go, people to see. We'll manage to insert a shopping foray between brunch and a visit to the dentist. Caitlin and I are on the hunt for fancy dresses to wear on New Year's Eve. A bonanza of finery awaits us in the Junior Department of Macy's. I think we're like girls searching for prom dresses. I suppose I'd be the elderly chaperone in that scenario. She chooses two frocks with shimmering glitter, netting, and polka dots. Which one will have the honor of the evening is yet to be decided. I'm quite content with a more demure black and white concoction in which I do feel prom-like, despite my years.

As requested, the four of us dine at Great Wall for dinner. This restaurant is owned by the parents of Maureen who was President of Caitlin's senior class. Coincidentally, she's home from lawyering in the Bay area and we see her while we wait for our food. There's animated talk about the 10 year reunion scheduled for mid-May. Is it really a decade since these young women graduated from high school?

Easily recovered from the previous day's rigors, Caitlin and Bobby are off to meet friends for an evening of karaoke. As related the next morning, the venue changed several times as the hours progressed. Finally home around 3 am, they're up in time for breakfast eaten at lunch time.



No trip to town is complete without ingesting as much Mexican food as possible. It is good no matter the hour. Fortunately, the area abounds with good to excellent restaurants specializing in what is considered the regional cuisine. With Las Casuelas continuing its long-standing position as number one favorite, it's the choice for dinner on Thursday night. In between, Guacamole, a bit more casual, is suitable for a late lunch. Quite handily, Del Taco is open 24/7 and a 1:30 am run on New Year's Day tops off an extraordinary evening. Southern California is famous for In 'n' Out Burger and there's one on the way to another gathering with friends in an adjacent town. The unturkey sandwich at Nature's health food store is now strictly gourmet. What average vegetarian would spend $9.50 for a sandwich, regardless of its delicious quality? Just a few years ago, the price was half as much. The almost embarrassed counterperson indicates that all the ingredients are organic. Is that another word for outrageously expensive? This favored food may lose its status in the future.

Friends call, text, drop by the house. One of them implores Caitlin and Bobby to join him and unnamed others at a local place known for its vast array of beers. She demurs, really doesn't want to go there, but is convinced at last. It isn't too awful and she encounters yet another high school classmate. They appear to be everywhere in this valley, either visiting or residing.

Together we've gone to view Becca's nearly new daughter, Nola. They're in town from Denver. This is the first time the couple has seen Becca since she created their unique and delicious wedding cake in 2008. Now she's a mom and a fully credentialed pastry chef at Whole Foods. Another afternoon is spent seeing Raime and her family. The three girls have known each other since they were six.

Thursday night is Village Fest. Palm Canyon Drive becomes a walkway filled with booths selling goods and food. Though it's too cold to tarry, Caitlin and Bobby walk a few blocks with Tracy, a friend from middle school. She lives an hour to the west and labors unceasingly as a young lawyer.

One evening, we're assembled in the kitchen. Henry looks for something in a high cupboard. There is a yelp. It comes from Caitlin. She's seen something from her childhood. Take them out. Can she have them? Are you kidding? These are Welch's grape jelly glasses with dinosaur drawings. Also, a couple of plastic dinosaur festooned cups. The glasses are dated 1988, the year she started Kindergarten. Vintage stuff. They aren't in good condition, having been used to store paintbrushes during her artistic stage. Will I send them to Portland? You bet. I guess they are precious and I'm happy I didn't jettison them last year during the kitchen renovation.



The days are evaporating much too swiftly but there's time to linger at the neighbors' house one evening. Caitlin knows how intricately her parents are connected to these lovely people. She, too, has come to regard them as treasured family members. It is a joy to watch their warm interaction.

On Friday, Caitlin says, with a tinge of regret, "I don't want to go home." She doesn't mean it. Not for one minute. She chose Oregon as her home. I know that home is always here, too. It's just not where she lives. It may be where she's left part of her heart, however.

A Little Jam

Loose roosters greet guests with insouciance. They're nonplussed by crowds parading across their property. Generally it is a child who views the birds with curiosity and wants to tarry along the pathway from the parking lot. Adults, more focused on the nearby delightful destination, urge their charges forward.

Weather is a holiday bonus with rain in retreat and sunshine in abundance, at least temporarily. Decades ago, fruit and animals co-existed in this once agrarian space. The owners produced more than could be consumed and a roadside stand soon appeared by the dirt route on which cars passed, bound for the nearby beach.

In the backseat of our own vehicle are two lively blondes. They're just five days past six and thus presumed to be mature enough for an all day outing sans parents. Though these youngsters appear to be completely calm about this new adventure, the adults are slightly uneasy. What if separation anxiety envelopes the girls? What if they whine and cry, fight and fidget? Will there be endless bathroom breaks or fussing about which sister sits with which one of us? Considering that we are no longer young, can we keep up with them?

These worries quickly disappear as the ninety minute ride is totally pleasant and without incident. They're excited and definitely realize that this is a 'big girl' activity. We relax and recall years earlier when we shared the same fun with our own children.



Knotts Berry Farm is a famed Southern California amusement park. Close by the behemoth Disneyland, it offers a more muted outing with reasonable pricing. Parking is uncomplicated, crowds are manageable even two days after Christmas. Camp Snoopy entices little ones and their adult guardians. There's time for an initial ride as we await the arrival of Caitlin and Bobby who've traveled from Portland to Long Beach on an early morning flight.




With a bit of difficulty, we connect with the almost already tired travelers next to a gigantic inflatable Snoopy. Somewhat still kids themselves, Caitlin and Bobby are ready to ride. They've practically insisted that we join them and bring Hanna and Jessy, too. We stand aside and watch the foursome become re-acquainted. There's some initial hesitation and we know that it'll be our role to bridge the differences.



Other attractions beckon, particularly the Hat Dance and merry-go-round. It's difficult to discern who is having more fun.








Hunger has descended upon the sextet. With a vegetarian in our group, locating an accommodating restaurant can be challenging. We traverse the park to Johnny Rocket's. Fries and shakes supplement burgers big and small. The girls sip leisurely and eat very little. Maybe this day is just too much to absorb. Refueled, we're off to watch the big kids soar in a scary roller coaster. With mechanical troubles heralding unspecified interruptions, we leave the coaster lovers and return to the safe haven of Camp Snoopy.






We're checking our watches, worrying about rush hour traffic and the long ride east. Just a couple more lines and we're leaving. The heart-stopping coaster has resumed, the wait rewarded, and we're all together once more. Hanna and Caitlin choose the Ferris Wheel. It's more aptly identified as 'glacial.' Even with a wait exceeding an hour, the Kindergartner demonstrates an astonishing maturity. Her sister, Jessy, partnered with me, has time to sample two rides during that time frame. The final ride proves irresistible and the twins rotate into the sky a few times before we say good-bye to the Oregonians and walk to a gift shop. With souvenir Snoopys tucked under their tired arms, we've waved good-bye to the roosters, found the car and pointed eastward. Along the way, the 'naming' process ensues. Several apt names are considered. "Snoop Dog." "Snowflake." "Soupy Snoopy." The last name is my contribution and it elicits unlimited laughter each time we repeat it.



As we join the mostly non-moving stream of cars, exhaustion breeds discontent and questions multiply. "When will we be home?" "How long will it take?" There's an immediate solution. Call their parents, let them hear the dearest voices. Relief courses through their small bodies. They relax and soon slumber. Two Snoopys keep watch.






The freeway is impacted, though no accidents or disabled vehicles contribute to the delays. We creep along, recounting the wonder of the day. Hanna and Jessy awake refreshed as we reach our exit. All of us realize that out there in the darkness, Mt. San Jacinto looms and silenced windmills stand stalwartly awaiting stiff breezes. We see the city's lights and soon are traveling down the main thoroughfare. Hanna says, "I love the smell of Palm Springs." We know exactly what she means. We are home, jammed with memories.