Lady Logic

If I buy something, is it a forever purchase? I think not. Sometimes it's only temporarily owned. What happens between the time I leave the store and I look at the item in my closet and decide it's not for me? Did it change size/shape/color in the meantime? Am I different now that I own the item? Did I see another dress or top that has more appeal and the new one became superfluous?

Perhaps this penchant for returning things is but one, albeit occasionally frustrating, facet of my feminine personality. I do not observe this habit in men, especially my sweet husband. Henry has the innate ability to make decisions without remorse. He expresses genuine confusion when I'm relinquishing a recent acquisition. His first question is always, "What happened?" I really have no sensible explanation. It's just that somehow I know it isn't right. Maybe there's an inside voice that only awakens afterwards and then insists I forgo the new purchase.

If I were truly insightful, I might admit that I have a tendency to over-buy. I'm a sucker for sales and am buoyed by a bargain. I often become hopelessly attracted to a particular color during a brief time period and am really amazed when I gaze at the clothes hanging in my closet and view a sea of the same shade. What was I thinking? Did I forget that I already own two tops in cranberry? Apparently so.

Recently I've been trying to winnow my collection of clothes. With just a tinge of regret, I folded several summer dresses and placed them gently in a plastic bag destined for my favorite local charity. In so doing, I separated myself from faithful fashions that I'd enjoyed for multiple seasons. Obviously, the reject voice stayed silent in these instances.

Remaining rather forlornly at the rear of my daughter's childhood closet are several suits. It's been almost ten years since I wore these garments regularly. There's absolutely no possibility that I will ever use them again. And yet, they linger. What if I really need a suit? Well, I still have several from which to choose. Should I be concerned that the shoulders are a bit too prominent and the fabric not as fresh as it once was? Why can't I part with these reminders of a person who dressed, really dressed, each weekday? She's happily wearing tees, jeans, tank tops and capris. The heels left long ago, but not the rest of the costume.

My emancipated life, so aptly described by Henry, requires not a single suit, with the possible exception of the swim version. I'm comfortably casual, never mourning the absence of more formal attire.

Last year I bought a basic black dress. Simple, on sale. Selected from Nordstrom's on-line. Upon arrival, I deemed it chic, understated, packable, and maybe even enduring. Excellent characteristics for a classic wrap. Via a phone photo, it received the highest compliment, Caitlin's approval. Yet it hung in the closet awaiting its debut.

Eventually I located the receipt and gave the perfect dress back to the nice people at Nordie's. Sharing this decision with my daughter, I encountered a puzzled, "Why?" I explained that I really had nowhere to wear such a dress. She said, calmly, "Create one. You can always wear it to the grocery store and say you're on the way to a party." What a refreshing attitude. Her lady logic sounds so sensible.

Baskets of Brother

The stories are silent, interwoven and artful. I'll never know the significance of the purchases or their true provenance. A few paper hints provide a trail to a place I've never ever been and perhaps, neither had the previous owner.


Because of tiny tags tucked inside several pieces of the collection, I can identify not only the origin but also the artisan whose skill is so evident in the finished product. With a bit of research, I learn that longleaf pine needles form the basis for the intricate weaving.

The individual items have been scattered around my house for the last thirty-three years. They are a legacy, sorrowful in its making. I look at them in pairs or singularly and sense an invisible affinity. They were his, now they're mine. At some future date, they'll be hers. A portion of our family heritage, so far removed from their genesis.

The Coushatta tribe of Louisiana is a Sovereign Nation of approximately 875 members. Their home is in southwestern Louisiana. Basket weaving is an important part of the tribe's cultural life. Though originally designed for utilitarian uses or trading purposes, today the baskets are considered works of art. An important collection is on permanent display at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C.


No matter how long I ponder the path of the baskets to my brother's house, I have no anecdotes to lead me in the right direction. It's possible that he was involved in mounting an exhibition of baskets when he worked at the Historic New Orleans Collection in the French Quarter. Perhaps he became so enamored of the basketweavers' complex craft that he began to assemble examples of their work.


Today I visited the local Agua Caliente Cultural Museum. An expert was available to examine Native American baskets, though no appraisals would be provided. With my collection of eight items safely stored in a large bag, I anxiously awaited his comments.

In retrospect, I didn't learn much. Mr. Salk immediately identified the pattern woven into several of the pieces as being the 'wheat stitch.' Looking at the weave carefully, I can see the resemblance. Both he and the director of the museum were fascinated by the turkey basket. It was deemed to be rare and of museum quality. The small tag inside that particular basket contains the price which Brother must have paid for it, $21.50. A basket bargain.

I had reluctantly included a shallow basket although I wasn't sure it was of Native American origin or had perhaps come from Target or some similar store. I'm glad I took it along because it was identified as definitely being of Hopi origin. The basket mystery becomes even more confounding. How did my brother acquire a Native American basket originating in Arizona?


My house in the Southern California desert is best described as eclectic. Old things mingle with the new. Family history, mine and Henry's, is evident in furniture, photos, silverware, and dishes. I am comforted by these possessions and prefer to see and/or utilize them regularly. I strive to remember the lives of those who owned each piece.

Perhaps the most precious for me is that which once resided with dear Brother in New Orleans. As long as those things exist, he remains close to me. Maybe his spirit seeps out from a basket now and then and intuits that it's still with family. Solace in these surroundings.

No Peaking

Vying for best-dressed even at age three, her outfit is perfect. Pinafore dress in discreet red, tiny blue bows affixed to the lace. Perfect white sandals, fussy socks. Dark hair pinned back with charming barrettes. Is she anxious? Probably not. She's always possessed an overabundance of 'cool.' We're somewhat unsettled but sure the experience would expand her small world. She stands at the door with readiness written on her flawless face.


It's the first day of pre-school and she might be unwisely dressed for playtime. (Do remember that her mother is Southern and little girls in that region wear these clothes everywhere.) In about a week, she's a drop-out. A minor cold, caught from a classmate, causes her dad to reconsider early education. She is too young for this exposure or maybe it is we who aren't ready. Besides, she already knows how to read and her social skills simply require a bit of finesse.

Twenty-five years later, the fashionista flourishes and she's spent considerable time pondering the outfit for her high school class reunion. The decade disappeared so quickly and brought such changes. New crucial people joined her life's journey. Decisions, often exceedingly brave ones, insure that her spirit remains visible and vibrant.

Near the end of her senior year, we realize that Caitlin will not tolerate traditional closure. Her senior photo features a dark-haired young lady snuggled in a cranberry corduroy coat. She's standing in a field of crimson tulips north of Seattle. Printed announcements proclaim her admittance to UC Santa Cruz, not the date and time of a ceremony. No need to acknowledge that event as she won't be in the audience. We're somewhat surprised, maybe disappointed that graduation isn't a given, but it is her life. We've fostered a fierce independence in our progeny and watched as this characteristic manifests itself.


Caitlin's ready to leave her town, her classmates, her parents. Santa Cruz lures with its promise of unfettered freedom. We believe she'll return but know she won't stay.

Always living on adrenalin that few people possess, Caitlin scrunches the PSHS reunion into a regular week-end. Leaving Portland much later than scheduled erodes an already short night. Ontario isn't home and the I-10 is unappealing as the clock moves past midnight and her rental car careens toward the desert.

We parents, whose energy is adequate but not excessive, are asleep when the threesome arrive. We hear nothing and simply assume in our slumber that the bedrooms will be occupied when we awake. They are. On the counter, in testament to temporary residents, is an empty wine bottle. Hanging prettily from the cabinet door pulls are two faultless frocks. Above them, the young lady owners have kindly left notes. Instructions for ironing. I'm the designated destroyer of wrinkles and other imperfections. A mom's expertise, greatly needed on this special occasion.


Even with too little sleep, the sun can't be ignored. It's a primary reason for the visit. Chaises allow for good exposure as reading material is scanned. Bobby hones his photography skills, snapping girl photos as well as backyard scenes. Caitlin and close friend, Alex, succumb to rays too rarely seen in Portland and Seattle.


Six-year-old neighbors join the sun brigade and demonstrate their affinity for cool pool water by repeatedly jumping from the diving board. I know Caitlin's remembering her own diving tutelage and now she's ready to impart that knowledge. Hanna and Jessy listen lazily. Form is not their focus. They'd rather squirt Caitlin. She complies after admonishing them to avoid her hair. It's awaiting the unveiling at the reunion and can't be tarnished.


With her inherent ability to plan and execute, Caitlin has incorporated all her favorite desert activities into the miniscule visit. Unturkey sandwiches as part of a floor picnic shortly after arriving were the culinary reward for a 21 hour day. By afternoon she's ready for her Cactusberry fix. A tiny shop in The Plaza dispenses quirky frozen yogurt with aplomb. She's a convert, as is Bobby.

Dinner has been decided. Las Casuelas take-out. Sitting in a restaurant is too stressful this day. Henry will have a turkey sub and watch the rest of us enjoy the flavorful Mexican food. In the luckiest of coincidences, Bobby's parents, Mike and Jackie, are also in town. The table will seat seven, including Alex.

We're celebrating an early birthday for Henry. The cake has been hidden next door. Store bought, I feel a bit guilty that it isn't homemade. One bite and I relax. Ralph's bakes so much better than I do. The house is humming with familiar voices. Candles, not nearly as many as warranted, threaten to melt the frosting.


I realize that excitement and anxiety are coursing through Caitlin's mind and body. She's ebullient, smiling constantly. For months she's declared that this will be her Janis Joplin moment. I've remarked that her high school experience was much better than that of the storied songstress.

Perhaps she has something to prove. People attend high school reunions for a myriad of reasons. They stay away for equally as many. Justifiably, Caitlin's very proud of the decade she's lived. Self-confident, radiantly beautiful, married to a stellar guy, and utilizing her writing prowess for a livelihood as well as a life-affirming avocation, she's the whole package. There's the added cachet that of all her classmates, she received the first bachelor's degree.

During the intervening years, she's perfected her tact, honed her compassion, and demonstrated a reservoir of courage. Friends abound and relatives are becoming even more dear than in the past. Words whirl in her fertile brain and pour onto pages, generally electronic. Palm Springs has grown in stature as the miles between her hometown and her home have lengthened. Even her parents seem to have improved a bit.

She's ready to sashay into the reunion at the Riveria with some swagger and a sense of satisfaction at who she's become. Her classmates knew the incubating Caitlin. They may not recognize this version but they will definitely want to know her better.


Like the days of early high school, we are driving the kids to an event. This time it's because of the lack of parking at the hotel. They'll find a way home or get a taxi. We say to call us and we know they won't.

Back home, we wonder about her reception and whether her particular concept of this homecoming is actually unfolding. In the morning, we see the shoes. They look spent but happy. So, evidently, is their owner.

During my pregnancy, I harbored a powerful wish. I wanted a window on my tummy. Just a look now and then at the person residing inside. As the months passed, I accepted that there was an invisible sign on that space. It read, "No peeking." Therefore, I imagined her face and her future without looking. Now I can see both.

I've often maintained that for some, high school is as good as it gets. Those people seem to reach their life's potential by graduation and are never able to attain that pinnacle again. For Caitlin, we know there's been no peaking. She's ever ascending and we're watching, proudly.

Two Springs

With water in my veins, whether ponds, streams, creeks or the mighty Mississip, I longed for sandy beaches and welcoming waves. Sometimes, if I were really, really lucky, my Daddy would complete his six day workweek, load the family into our unairconditioned, stick shift car and head south. If we left too late on Saturday night, we might stop at a tourist court. This familiar accommodation has mostly vanished but once it ruled the two lane roads where vehicles rumbled past all night in a harmony so different from my usual farm sounds. Made of concrete blocks and with only the barest of decoration, the small rooms were serviceable, generally cooled by a window unit, and without exception, impeccably clean. I paid little attention to the lack of amenities. I wanted the water and considered this diversion barely tolerable.

Once we reached the coast, I'd sink my toes in white white sand, sample the salty surf, and think about a tan. Often we'd take a boat out to Ship Island for the day. With a collection of beach towns strewn along the highway, there was plenty to explore. However, I have no recollection of wandering the quaint streets of Ocean Springs. Nor could I have known then that this small town would someday contain a very special person, related to me through two separate familial lines.

We found each other the modern way, via the Internet. Picked up on a genealogy message board where she inquired and I responded. Sitting in my own 'Springs' town, I was thrilled that someone had posted a question that I could actually answer. With a simple click of the mouse, I acquired another cousin to add to the lengthening chain.

Typical of her caring nature, she archived that first e-mail. Apparently I signed it, "Your cousin....." Generally these exchanges last a little while. Information is shared, fragments from our collective past traded. I may have dates or names the other person seeks. He or she will offer data which bolsters my own research. It's all perfectly pleasant and generally useful.

Not this time. It becomes personal very quickly. Without saying so, both of us know. Quickly we recognize an invisible and inviolable bond that transcends generations, crosses states, and ignores the years each was unknown to the other. And yet, the words ceased. Stopped. Vanished. It happens.

A few years intercede and one day there's a new message from a choice correspondent. She has an explanation. There was a visitor, a savage one. Named Katrina, but definitely no lady, she took a house and a history but not the unquenchable spirit of my recent cousin. She found me again and this time, it's forever.

We're on our way for a third visit to her cherished town, Ocean Springs. An arty town so different from Natchez and New Orleans, yet born and bounded by water like those sister cities. This is lagniappe because we cousins have recently seen each other in Natchez. Carol and Steve must experience the Gulf Coast and witness its incomparable beauty and resilient residents. The fact that my dear Dottie lives in the region is, well, Foster fate.

Cast adjacent to the shore, the Beau Rivage is phoenix-like, having survived the hurricane and been revitalized with an energy that proclaims it as unvanquished. Gamblers amble the carpeted space, spreading money, sometimes enjoying the largesse of small and large winnings. We know this place from pre-disaster days. It looks the same, only stronger. Rooms are spacious and windows unveil a calm wetness beginning with the tranquil pool and beyond, the majestic Gulf.


Passing over the bridge, we're going to Dottie and Kenny's house. There's a local restaurant we must sample. Bozo's is legendary and attracts working people, families, generations of seafood aficionados. It's a humble place that doubles as a regional grocery. Wander the low stacked shelves and you'll be enticed into buying crawfish batter; Creole rub and its cousin, the Cajun kind; and butter pecan sauce for fish or chicken. Not found on western shelves, these treats make great gifts.

Tucked in to the back corner is a small table. A man sits next to it, pencil in hand. Before him, a stack of white paper bags. To his left is a miniscule kitchen with a tall opening and a broad shelf. The menu is posted above this space. Customers peruse the listing to make their choices or recite personal favorites to the seemingly innocuous man who is actually the order taker. He patiently writes each order on a paper bag and hands it through the window to the kitchen crew. Sandwiches are stuffed in this multi-purpose bag and readied for the person whose name appears on the outside. Fish or shrimp boxes arrive in their own containers. It's all very efficient and not the least bit strange to the regulars.

Kenny buys several plastic bags full of crawfish. He brings them to the high round table where we're assembled. Immediately we notice something unusual. There's a square hole in the middle of the table and a lined trashcan underneath. As shells and inedible parts are removed from crustaceans, the debris is shoved into the waiting space. Ingenious. Soon Carol and Steve have mastered crawfish preparation and the pile is growing. There are moments to stop and savor the sea's delights.


After the crawfish appetizer, oyster and shrimp poboys nearly create culinary swooning. I'm quite content with the bad-for-you box of fried shrimp, hushpuppies and French fries. We later learn the Bozo's occasionally encounters health code problems. Kenny's theory is that once those issues have been addressed, it's the perfect time for a meal. You can bet that everything is in order immediately after the inspectors make a return visit.

The white Tahoe meanders through the streets of Ocean Springs with Kenny providing a Katrina commentary. Henry and I shared this odyssey during a previous visit yet the sorrow remains profound. Carol and Steve ask questions, consider the enormous losses. Later, there's enough time for Shearwater Pottery and as a result, my collection of unique glazed work continues to grow.

Family dining includes absolutely too cute Wes II, nearly one and irrepressible to all. We speak in baby talk and I wonder what I just said to him. Coincidentally, all the ladies are wearing orange. A happy color. A happy moment.


We are family, settled around the table. Crawfish stuffed shrimp tingle the adults while the high chair accommodates sedate mac and cheese for the little man. Everyone is congenial, relaxed. Nobody watching this movie could guess that we haven't been together always. I freeze frame the scene for future succor. Others may be doing the same.

Carol and Steve have adopted the South. Its people, rather,
my people, consider them family. No reservations, fully embraced. Realistically, they must return home to New York. Our own 'Springs' is where we belong and will retreat. Parts of our hearts will stay in Southern waters permanently.

Watery Ways

It's pouring and I've lost the bridges. They've disappeared into fog that's shrouding the roiling river. Just the previous evening, we leaned on the bluff's rail, mesmerized by the murky liquid below and charmed by the lighted spans that connect two Southern states.



A tooth needs mending and an unknown dentist is being consulted. Carol is the willing supplicant who'll seek a permanent solution back home in New York. There's luscious food waiting to be consumed and she doesn't want to miss a morsel. We admire her tenacity and after a few more errands, leave my native city. Departing is always accompanied by angst. So much of me lives in this special place. So many whom I cherish still cling to its historic spaces.

Awash with fresh memories, we follow the raindrops to the freeway. I think about "Finian's Rainbow" and the magical location depicted in its story. I'm ruminating about the perfection of the last few days and acknowledging that the serendipitous events, peopled by an eclectic mixture of relations, are unlikely to occur ever again. I'll be feeding on these moments eternally.

New Orleans with its nuanced cuisine and abiding music beckons. Cool weather, unwelcome wind, and scant humidity greet us.



Powdered sugar permeates clothing, attaches itself to noses. Beignets plop into tummies and smiles alight faces. Cafe du Monde is magnetic. We send a cell phone photo to Caitlin, languishing in Portland, beignet-less. Her response is one cryptic word, "Mean." If we could stuff the deliciousness into the phone and transmit it, we would. Instead, every crumb is savored.

As we walk across the street towards the Pontalba Apartments and Jackson Square, an alto clarinetist begins to share his story. We've listened to the extraordinary pick-up band, jamming adjacent to the restaurant. He relates, in a distinguished British accent, that while watching the royal wedding a few days earlier, his wife told him they'd be in New Orleans in 24 hours. Happy 71st birthday! Sitting serenely in a nearby folding chair is that generous woman. She's smiling as she watches her husband's musical dream unfold.

Shops line the pathway and I can't resist one labeled "Jackie." I inquire about the origin of the name, thinking it might belong to the shopkeeper. Almost. It seems the owners had a bulldog named 'Jack' and thought he deserved his own store. Unique jewelry teases me and I try to imagine various earrings being worn in constant wetness. With some shopgirl assistance, I select delicate dangly leaves. Maybe too plain for my own girl.

Streetcars rumble across ancient streets and parlay the city's romantic past. Walking a few blocks from our hotel on Tchoupitoulas (impossible to pronounce or spell), we climb aboard the St. Charles line. Our destination is the storied Garden District with its sumptuous homes, universities, and awesome Audubon Park and Zoo. Carol and Steve are enchanted. We're familiar with this ride, but no less charmed.


With my hometown's name stretched across the boat's side, we're drawn to a liquid ride. Though considered a touristy activity, this languid voyage offers historical insight into the great river and its environs. A voice permeates the din and identifies huge ships carrying products both edible and utilitarian. We pass a gigantic sugar plant and marvel at the tonnage produced each day.

Lunch is Southern sumptuous, included in the admission price. Fried chicken rivals Mamie's memorable meals. I chat with the Food and Beverage Director. He tells a haunting tale of being the last person to leave famous Brennan's restaurant just a few hours before Katrina swept through town. He carefully placed a note on the door saying they'd be closed for a few days. Seventeen months later he was able to return to the town he loved and whose near destruction he still mourns.

Back to the dock too soon, we're captivated by a colorful scene. It is, after all, New Orleans.



Our days in town are wedged in between the Jazz Festival celebration week-ends and we know that crowds will soon complicate the city. We sample Creole and Cajun food, visit the emotion-laden D-Day Museum, inhale unique flavors of the French Quarter, and assure ourselves that this grande dame of a city still thrives, despite the catastrophic chaos it's endured. More water lures us eastward.

You Had To Be There

The small bowl of nuts looks promising but is forlorn, ignored. One of us is a nut person but not the salted kind. Orange juice is refreshed automatically. Seats are so commodious that I could use a pillow or a stool in order for my feet to touch the floor. Twenty people share a bathroom. We are special, at least for the length of the trip. A gentle lady inquires, "May I hang your coat for you?" I am startled, unaccustomed to such attention. I decline but consider the moment. She calls us by our surname and pronounces it correctly. It's nearly quiet in this space except for keyboard clicks and a few restrained conversations whose content probably includes conquests and successes. The demographic is skewed older, whiter, maler. Those around us seem business normal and I consider that we are probably the interlopers. Points persons. No company paid our way, no income tax savings accompany this journey. Is the difference between us and them totally discernable when I can't figure out how to utilize my tray table?

We're off with Zach tucked safely in the quilted giraffe bag. His unveiling will be in a few days. So far, this is perfect.

Cancelled flights are not fun. Luggage is not retrievable, reservations are nixed. We're stuck in Dallas with a carry-on suitcase, the camera bag and miles yet to go. Through the deep darkness, we travel tiredly eastward by car. The GPS is our guide as unexpected downtown Dallas appears in the foreground. We struggle into Shreveport, find the hotel and gratefully tuck into an IHOP for sustenance. We can't see ahead. There are clouds and lightning, and very recently, torrential rain and hail. As we finally lie in our unintended bed, we're almost sure that this will make a great story. Just not right now.

Henry hands me the cell phone and I hear the breathy sweet voice. "Where are ya'll? We're looking at the river." It's Jeanelle, newly arrived from Richmond. Getting her early river fix. We gather in the hotel lobby and plot the next few days.

Streets are so familiar, even with former favorites long absent from the buildings. Mims' Jewelers remains and Mr. Mims himself, a sprightly ninety, comes to work every day. He still enjoys engraving and the people who populate his small store. We must buy something. Pewter boxes are attractive and perfect as Mother's Day remembrances. Could we get them monogrammed? Today? The answer is yes. We choose specific sizes and shapes, decide to inscribe the given name initial and then leave for a cousins' lunch rendezvous. As we're eating, I notice the salesperson from the jewelry store. She's headed for our table. More options have been found and she wants us to view them. How thoughtful to seek us out but we're content with the original selections.

There's a first cousin who greets nearly everyone with a snarl. Despite the rejection, my generation continues to court him as do his own nieces and nephews. Three determined ladies descend upon this man as he relaxes at a favorite haunt. We gently implore him to join us for a family gathering. He growls, protests, is mildly abrasive. We're undaunted and are just sure that he really wants to attend but his persona won't let him. The next day I find him in the same space, alone. He deserves another chance. I'll do it for his mom, a beloved aunt. Some of the conversation is bordering on pleasant. I remain calm. He's probably fooling with me. When I request a photo of the two of us, he begrudgingly obliges. Later, other cousins are stunned by the shot. It is probably the only one I'll ever get. Honestly, I really didn't tickle him to elicit that shy smile.


Dinner with cousin David includes Italian favorites and family stories. I recount how he generously offered to come home from his last college semester and escort me to my senior prom. I didn't accept but I've never forgotten that gesture.

I'm eating my way through a typical Southern cookbook. The calories don't count when you're in anxiety mode, right? I simply can't resist a catfish poboy, gallons of the very best unsweetened (must ask for it) iced tea, gumbo, jambalaya, sinful fried chicken, carrot souffle, caramel pie, a Pecan Praline Parfait, fried shrimp, hush puppies and many other regional delicacies that I should have skipped.

Caitlin excitedly reports a live armadillo sighting. Her first. Not the usual happenstance for someone who lives in a big city in the northwest. Too bad she didn't have her camera handy. She's just as thrilled by the gourmet breakfast served at 'The Elms,' her temporary residence. The hotcakes are particularly lauded.

I misunderstand the protocol for the reunion and think that each person is responsible for his/her lunch. It seems that actually this meal is considered a potluck. Oops. I bought four sandwiches and kept them in the hotel room frig. In my eagerness to forestall any spoilage, I set the temperature a bit inaccurately. When we open our sandwich containers, we discover that the contents are frozen. Solid. The turkey could hurt somebody. Tines of my fork won't penetrate the chicken salad. No lunch for us. Our belated reward is a post-reunion visit to the Malt Shop for too large shakes and one lime freeze.


With the Natchez stay nearly complete, real life intrudes. Laundry must be done. The hotel has self-serve machines. Carol and Henry go off to the local casino for a brief time, just to get the vibe. I'm fine with this task until I can't get one of the dryers to work. A helpful maintenance man, working the night shift, comes to my aid. He can't fix the machine either.

The solution is to admit us into the hotel commercial laundry. Huge machines, super hot. We'll be done quickly. Well, if we can master the intricate instructions. He stays nearby and declares that we are entertaining. Perhaps it's because we can't find our packet of dryer sheets, extra laundry soap, and stain remover. Where could it be? We scour the area.

Perplexed, we continue the drying process. At one point, Carol is searching the dryer bin and finding parts of the missing packet. Lots of parts, interlaced with the nearly dry laundry. I am talking to her and she blithefully responds, "I can't hear you. I have my head stuck in a dryer." For some reason, this statement sends us over the edge and we laugh so much that both of us develop stomach aches.

With almost instant drying, we're soon folding underwear, socks, shirts and pants. Carol, ever the clever one, says, "We even have fun doing laundry." More laughing. Anthony, the hotel employee, must think we are crazy or drunk or both. When we have everything neatly sorted into our respective piles, there's an extra item. It is an apron which belongs to neither of us. How did we acquire it? We can't solve this mystery and decide to leave it with the front desk. Enough excitement for one evening.

I'm stoked with boundless joy. My dream has been realized. Although I have often thought that the ideal world is one in which all the people whom I love live on my street, I've decided that having so many of my dear family members in one place for a few days is as near to nirvana as I need to get. They were there for me.