Celebrating Symmetry

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


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



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

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



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

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




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



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

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





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



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

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

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

Evil Elves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

Not Just Another Monday Evening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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




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



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

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

A Fall in the Desert

In a Texas guidebook, I read a litany which some residents cite to describe the weather in that behemoth state. Each season included the word 'hot,' with a few qualifying words such as 'a little less...' or 'soon to be....' I completely understand the sameness of sunshine. No doubt my town gets more sunny days than any part of Texas.

It is, therefore, with great joy that I welcome a season which is generally a little less hot. The ubiquitious sun remains fixed on our locale but there are intermittent cloudy moments. Why, it even rained the last two days. Almost nowhere else in this country is rain worth mentioning. There are even places where inexorable rain is endured with disdain.

My office window faces a formidable mountain. During much of the year, its surface nearly disappears from view because of the dusky shades of its crevices. It appears as if the rocks are unfinished, awaiting the addition of vibrant color. If there is an unusually wet winter, greenery will often speckle the lower portion of the peaks.



Clouds give the mountain character. They herald weather. Not just sunshine, heat and repeat.



Sunsets crest the jagged edges closest to the sky with brilliant shades that range from umber to scarlet.



The mountain changes as residents below begin to put away tank tops and shorts and embrace light cotton sweaters and jeans.



Finally, a fall in the desert.