Silent Celebration

The young woman in the photo looks askance. I wonder what drew her eyes to the side. Was it her gentleman friend? Did she not anticipate the shutter clicking? Was she being coy? Many questions creep across my brain but I'll have no answers. She's beyond my reach and communication cannot occur.

My guess is that she was nearly thirty when she posed so demurely. Hands folded carefully in her lap, she's wearing what appears to be a jacket with a bit of decoration. I'm assuming she has on a skirt in keeping with the expectations of the decade. I wonder about the color. Given her preferences later in life, I'd almost bet that she chose some shade of blue, or possibly pink.

Her lips are fully painted, dark red no doubt. The nearly black hair is thick and curled. It's swept to one side and high off her forehead. Not a single wrinkle mars her clear skin. I know her eyes were deep brown. I look out from that same hue every day of my life.

I found this small snapshot a few months ago. It was safely tucked inside a very old envelope, hidden away in a closet that used to be hers. In the same envelope were French Francs dating from the Vichy government days of World War II. The paper money's existence is easy to explain. Her husband was in a hospital in Paris for several months in 1945. Did he have this charming photo with him as he recuperated? I'd like to think that is the story.



Tomorrow is her birthday. My mother will be 98. In the decade since her passing, my life, and that of my immediate family members, has changed significantly. A wonderful wedding brought us a beloved son-in-law. Visitors to our home have enriched us greatly. We've renovated so much of our house that she'd hardly recognize it any longer. Travel has kept us in touch with dear family and friends while close to home, new special people have joined our immediate circle.

Mother grew up in a financially burdened family with five sisters and six brothers. She enjoyed no luxuries and witnessed firsthand the struggle to provide life's basic necessities . As a farming family living on someone else's land, all her siblings understood that only hard work and personal sacrifice would ensure survival.

She never learned to ride a bike or to swim. Her comfort zone was very narrow and included family, special friends, and the South. Deeply devoted to her religious faith, Mother read the Bible every single day. When she reached the last chapter in Revelations, she began again at Genesis. Though I do not share her beliefs, I've retained her Bible and its tissue-thin pages. It is part of her legacy and I honor it.

In the eighth grade, she became seriously ill with a burst appendix. Immediate medical attention saved her life but a medical mishap during the hospital stay prolonged her recovery. When her health was fully restored, she decided that since she'd missed so much school and would have to repeat the grade, quitting was a good option. Thus, Mother's formal education ceased.

Despite her truncated schooling, Mother loved to read. While she did not select classics, she loved a story. Paperbacks filled her days with adventures, lots of romance, and dashing and beautiful characters. Maybe my penchant for books has as its core my mother's example.

In going through stacks of very old photographs, I've found many taken in the 1930's and 1940's. Without exception, I glimpse a fashionable young woman whose grooming is immaculate and whose smile is winsome. Often she's surrounded by contemporaries and somehow she always seems to be the center of any grouping. I believe that particular trait has been inherited by her super social granddaughter.

Mother had very strong opinions about many topics. For example, she believed that women should not work outside the home. Never mind the fact that she spent years working alongside my daddy in their laundry and dry cleaners. I guess what she meant was that women should not have careers. Mother was adamant that women should not vote and did not need to do so. It is a bit difficult to reconcile this notion with the fact that she nearly always voted in whatever election was being held. Curious. I suppose contradictions are a woman's prerogative.

If you asked my mother whether she was a strong, self-confident person, I believe she would have answered in the negative. In some ways, she would have been absolutely correct. However, this is a person who lost her youngest child when he was only thirty. The searing pain of that separation informed her being for the rest of her days. Two years after she suffered the horror that every mother dreads, my daddy died. She was alone, bereft, her life over and yet continuing.

At the age of 68, she exhibited bravery and separated herself from the South to move to Southern California. Giving up her home and most of her possessions, saying good-bye to family and friends, relinquishing the familiar accents that marked her days, she came to live with us. She didn't ever say much about this decision. I know she had become frightened living in the farmhouse by herself. I was her only surviving child and the impending arrival of a grandchild helped smooth the transition.

For the next twenty-two years, this was her house, too. Three generations living under one roof. Yes, my dear husband is a saint and his willingness to share our everyday lives with his mother-in-law is one more testament to his impeccable character and devotion to me. I am truly blessed.

I never thought I was much like my mother. Education was/is a critical part of my life. Though I, too, might describe myself as timid at times, I have been known to take risks, some of which make others gasp. From my earliest memories, I knew with certainty that I would have a career. Perhaps several. I did learn to ride a bike and to swim. I have very strong opinions about social and political issues. I've traveled widely and believe that my thinking has broadened as a result. We share that love for reading but I am not a religious person at all. Our eyes are the same and once our hair color was nearly identical. As I've aged, I've acquired her wrinkles. I've decided that they are charming and add character to my face. She wrote multitudes of letters and notes to her many nieces and friends. Hallmark cards flowed from this house constantly. I continue those traditions as I write to cousins and friends around the country. Writing with a pen that is, not a keyboard, although I do correspond electronically as well.

Tomorrow is a special day. I hope Mother is somewhere safe with Daddy and Brother. I'd like to believe that cake and ice cream will be served and there'll be candles lit. Even if it isn't so, I'm comforted just imagining the scene. I'll stage my own silent celebration.

Happy Birthday Mother!!!

Blown Away

Our weather comes in two flavors--truly hot and simply divine. This time of year, we are accustomed to the latter variety. Generally, we are not disappointed and neither are the thousands of people who flee to the desert, escaping less hospitable climes. Those are the individuals wearing shorts, sandals and smiles. The natives bustle about clad in long pants, light sweaters, and sometimes, a scowl or two. Our peaceful place is almost overrun with drivers (often very, very slow ones), walkers, and shoppers. Lines proliferate at all our favorite stores, popular seasonal events sell out quickly. I try to visualize all the green that's flowing into the valley and ignore the inconveniences. Golf and tennis, hiking and swimming are favorite activities of temporary residents. Sunshine is the siren call.

While other parts of the country cope with indeterminable cold, ceaseless rain, and bouts of snow, we try not to be too smug about another day of 70+ degree days. Occasionally the harmony of the season is interrupted by a mild earthquake. After living here for more than three decades, we hardly notice. We're blessed not to encounter hurricanes or tornadoes in any forecast and we worry about our family and friends in other parts of the country who face these conditions regularly.

But then, there is the wind. Living in the shadow of several mountain ranges, we are affected by a scientific phenomenon known as the Venturi Effect. Basically it is wind being whipped through a narrow pass and the results can be devastating. Several of our north-south routes are routinely closed due to blowing sand creating impassable streets. Detours are commonplace in those areas.

Yesterday, the wind visited with a vengeance. In all our years here, we've never experienced such ferocity. The house shook, debris blew from every direction, and trash littered the grass and flowerbeds.



The pool became a haven for dirt, leaves, needles, and flying papers. Some of this mess sank, the rest still floats on once almost pristine water.



In the back yard, our lone lemon tree cracked. A sad branch rests against the concrete wall. Grapefruit, lemons and oranges plummeted to the ground and could have caused injuries had anyone been nearby.




As wind gusts approached 66 mph, Henry and I ventured into the front yard, hoping to rescue a cactus, perilously leaning to the left. With a strong length of yellow string, we tied the plant to a nearby light standard. Later, our neighbor brought an additional length of blue tape to add more security to the improvised remedy. This afternoon, the wind is absent. The cactus is not uprooted. It may survive.




Taking a drive to the grocery store today, I saw many trees totally destroyed. Not just fairly new trees, but also more substantial varieties which lay sideways in parking lots and along busy streets. A commercial building's roof is literally peeled back--a startling sight.

At the grocery store, I learned that power was lost mid-afternoon yesterday and that dry ice was brought in by huge trucks in an effort to save all the perishable food. Many homes and businesses were powerless the whole night.

The wind continued for about 10 hours. It howled and hit whatever was in its path. News reports indicate that no people were harmed by the assault. For that, everyone is grateful.

In the next few days, gardeners and pool cleaners will have an enormous task undoing the damage caused by the wind, if that is possible. Felled trees will be hauled away. People will continue to emerge from the safety of their homes or hotels.

This brief weather pattern could have been so much worse. We are very lucky that we weren't blown away.

Out of My Mind

I'm ironing when the phone rings. Henry hands it to me. A dear friend says "Hello" and then asks, "Are you joining us for lunch?" "Well, yes," I respond, "I'll see you tomorrow." Very sweetly she says, "The lunch is today." I am horrified, embarrassed.

I keep a rather complete calendar. It includes appointments, birthdays, reminders of chores, the minutiae of my life. My December calendar clearly shows that lunch is set for the next day, doesn't it? Susan tells me that she and the other ladies waited thirty minutes for me to arrive and then, fearing something had happened, decided to call our house. Very tactfully, she reminds me that it was necessary to move the lunch from Tuesday to Monday because of a guest's schedule conflict. Uh oh......

The filed and temporarily lost bit of information finally reappears in my head. Now I recall the change and further realize that I failed to alter my calendar. A much anticipated once-a-year luncheon is thus forfeited. My chagrin is palatable. These three ladies, whom I won't be seeing, were once part of my staff when I worked at the College. Throughout my retirement years, I've maintained these special relationships through occasional lunches and more frequent e-mail communication. Getting together with all three necessitates careful planning and always results in strengthening of our long-time friendships. We'll set another date.

As my years have advanced, I've become more cognizant of things I am able to retain and those which appear to be slipping deeper into the crevices of my consciousness. For a while I was certain that the losses were overpowering the storage of memories. At present, I'm comfortable that a person forgets things, gets mixed-up occasionally, is absolutely sure about something and is totally wrong at the same time. I am, after all, quite human. I have scores of foibles which are kindly tolerated by the incredible people in my life.

To combat concerns that I'll overlook a vitally important event, appointment, or even a loathed chore, I make notes. My brain sits in the middle of my desk, disguised as a large calendar. Each day has its own square into which I can write that which must not be forgotten. Supplementing this device is the front of our fridge. Utilizing colorful magnets collected when we travel, I'm able to insure that immediate tasks receive the proper attention. Repetitive messages are stored on the side of the fridge and moved to the front as necessary. A 'Call Barbara K. tonight' note is on display nearly every week, for example.

Being slightly OCD, I will admit that I also stick notes on the mirror in my bathroom. The most frequently used of these notes says, "Take out trash today." Is this pattern too telling? What would happen if I dashed all the notes, turned the brain calendar over so that it couldn't be seen? I'm not really sure. However, I know I'm not ready for such an experiment.

There are people who often say that I have an outstanding memory. Just ask me about a long dead ancestor. Most likely I can fit that person into our family tree, estimate when he/she lived, and probably name his/her spouse and most of their children. I can explain how this ancestor connects to the person with whom I am conversing or e-mailing. I remember vividly stories about my childhood as well as tales my parents and Granny Ruth shared about their young lives. I know the names of all my first and second cousins on my daddy's side and most of the next two generations as well. I track birthdays of family and friends and send cards, often e-mailing and/or telephoning the person as well. I'm able to discuss the plots of countless movies, talk about actors and actresses from the 1930's forward. I'm acquainted with multitudes of authors and can recommend long lists of titles that should be added to one's reading list. I'm fairly familiar with people in politics, music, art, history and to a much lesser degree, the sciences. Abundant data still dwells in my head.

I live with a person who keeps no notes. He doesn't seem to need assistance of any kind in handling deadlines or appointments. I marvel at his ability to synchronize his daily life with a lengthening list of responsibilities unaided by reminders. Not only can he handle these tasks for the two of us, but often he is providing some of the same oversight for relatives and friends. I wonder if there's a different type of wiring inside his head.

Our daughter has a facile memory. She's very proud of the trivia corpus that she's assembled. One of her specialties is that she can cite the middle name of every friend she's ever had. I'm not sure when or how this information becomes useful but it does say a lot about her intense devotion to the important people in her life.

Nearly twenty-nine years ago, two exhausted parents found themselves in a small hospital room. About thirty minutes prior, a much anticipated daughter had been born. My weary husband looks at me and says, "I can't find my glasses anywhere." From my bed, I reply weakly, "They're on the top of your head." I guess he was out of his mind.....with joy. We both remain in that condition today.

Wrong Name, Right People

No brogue emerged from her lips. She'd learned Southern speak only. Her older siblings, and definitely her parents, must have retained the language of their native country throughout their lives. Sadly, all of my great-aunts and uncles had died before my first birthday.

My dear Granny Ruth possessed no memory of her birthplace, having been removed from there at about nineteen months of age. Even so, there was never any question of her origins as all who knew her, and most especially her own family, recognized her roots.

Her parents married on December 24, 1852 in Ballysnodd, County Antrim, Ireland. A copy of the certificate declares that David was a bachelor and 'Jane,' a spinster. He is further described as a labourer. Both their fathers are listed: Francis Junkin and Thomas McKinstry. Seeing the signatures of my great-grandparents on this historic document is stirring. I doubt if they ever saw the document themselves. Certainly they would be stunned to know that a great-grandchild now cherishes a facsimile.

The couple settled near Larne and while enduring the horrendous Potato Famines, expanded their family for the next twenty years. Granny was the last child born in that locale. Life must have been unimaginably difficult.



When the eldest child, Thomas James, was yet a teen-ager, he left for America to work in his Uncle Jim Junkin's blacksmith shop. Jim had emigrated to Natchez, Mississippi in 1851. How curious it is that this small Southern town was chosen as the Irishman's new home. Whatever the reasons, they are unknown to us today and remain a tantalizing mystery.

As was fairly common in the 19th century, Thomas saved his money and sent most of it back to his family in Ireland. This sacrifice allowed the entire David Junkin family to sail from Liverpool to New Orleans. They arrived aboard the Saint Louis on August 10, 1874.

All that I ever knew about this momentous crossing was that the family disembarked in New Orleans. A few years ago, I discovered a copy of the original ship's passenger list as part of the New Orleans Passenger Lists, 1820-1945. By typing in my great-grandfather's name and the port of arrival, I soon gasped as I read a litany of familiar names. Thankfully, the indexing provided for alternate spellings of surnames. Otherwise, I never would have located my ancestor's records.

About halfway down the page of passenger's names, written in mostly legible script, I stared at David (age 40), [He was actually 49.] Janet (age 38), [She was actually 42.] Eliza (age 16), Ellen (age 15), William (age 13), Hugh (age 11), Sarah (age 9), Francis (age 7), Samuel (age 5) and Ruth (infant.) The surname is recorded as 'Jenkins.' Once again, David is described as a 'labourer.' The 'Country to which they severally belong' is listed as Ireland. The 'Country of which they intend to become inhabitants' is the United States. There's a column for 'Died on the voyage.' The final column is denoted, 'Part of the vessel occupied during the Voyage.' For my family, it is steerage.

The early Mississippi days were spent in a home owned by Uncle Jim. Eventually, the burgeoning family moved to a house in the country known as 'Sunnyside.' Adapting quickly to local farming methods and crops, the Junkins prospered. One more child, a boy named John, was born in 1876.

My own Uncle T.J. told me that the strength of the family resided in Great-grandmother Jennie. (She of the various given names: Jane, Janet, Jennet, Jennie.) Stories abounded about her ability to look at a wagon of cotton, newly picked and ready to be weighed. She's shout out the poundage as she sat in a rocker on the porch of her house. Almost always, she predicted the exact amount of cotton picked during the day.

In December 1902, this venerable couple celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. For two people to have survived together to reach this milestone is remarkable. As part of the celebration, a local photographer was summoned to capture the day. The resulting photograph is one of my favorite family heirlooms. An enlarged version of the nearly 110 year old scene is prominently displayed in my family room. The assembled kin bring me abundant joy on a continuous basis.



I look at the upper right-hand corner and gaze at my then young grandparents. Each is holding a small child, my eldest aunt and uncle, Ellen and Harry. My own daddy, named for Granny's brother Hugh, won't be born for another eight years.

Through the years, I've created stories about the various generations gathered to honor David and Jennie. I simply love the little girl dressed in a pinafore. I can sense the rambunctious nature of the small boys on the front row who appear a bit peeved at having been required to stop their game of stick ball and pose somewhat sullenly. I'm drawn to the lass who must have insisted that her doll join the group. I ponder the origin of the striped throw lying across a great-aunt's skirt. It might have been a serape, given its apparent texture. (One of my first cousins owns this ancient piece of fabric, having inherited it from her mother.) I smile when I look at the feather boa draped around the neck of a young maiden. I'm impressed by the multitude of beards worn by the gentlemen and wonder about their scratchiness. Sometimes I long for a colored version of the photograph. What hues were present in clothing, eyes, hair? I can only imagine the answers.

As a gift to honor David and Jennie, the surviving eight siblings and their families presented their parents with a stunning set of china. Recently, I viewed an original dinner plate from this service and continue to wonder if other pieces exist in the homes of various distant cousins.



Two years ago, I began the process to become an Irish citizen. My paternal grandmother's birth in what is now Northern Ireland assures my eligibility. I learned that all her children were automatically citizens of Ireland. Not one of them knew of this dual citizenship. Gathering the required documents to prove my eligibility required considerable effort and expense. Subsequent correspondence with the Irish consulate necessitated additional documentation. Perhaps in 2012 a letter will arrive confirming my status. The circle will then be complete.

Seasonal Snippets

If someone were haunting our house and overheard a few conversations during the last week, he/she might have been intrigued by these words:

Scene 1:
I'm in my office and exclaim a bit loudly.
"You broke something?" She asks. (I break things too often.)
"You sound like your father." I respond. (He's witnessed my breakage habit.)
"You broke your blogger?" (She thinks I said.)

Scene 2:
We finishing the last of the presents and have an unwieldy item to cover.
"Be careful or you will run out of penguin." She implores. (That's the design on the Christmas wrap.)

Scene 3:
"Mom, did you steal my jeans?" She inquires. (Actually, she left them outside her closed bedroom door. I had picked them up and put them in the washer, as is our custom when she's visiting. They were still dry. Mystery solved easily.)

Scene 4
"Don't set my bangs on fire." She warns. (I'm trying to give her a whiff of the Christmas cookie candle scent.)

Mother/daughter words excerpted from another significant season.

Messing with Mom

Looking through albums of nearly thirty years, there are lots of pictures of the various family members. Caitlin appears in nearly every shot but the rest of us are fairly represented as well. (My cousin Robert used to say, "If you want to be in the picture, stand next to Caitlin.") Henry is seen only occasionally as his role as family photographer/videographer generally prevented his inclusion in the scene. There were times when a tripod allowed for a true family portrait or some stranger whom we encountered on one of our trips was asked to capture all of us in a few poses. This priceless collection chronicles our celebrations, vacations, the birth of our daughter, the building of our house, the striking and the ordinary.

Since retiring, Henry has encouraged me to embrace photography. I'm now enjoying my second digital camera and seem to have unleashed an unquenchable desire to photograph nearly everybody and everything. A few of the results are artistic, lots are out-of-focus. I am undaunted and continue to click the shutter with abandon.

During the recent Christmas holidays, I asked Henry and Caitlin to pose. They love to tease me because I am so very gullible and that trait only increases their fun. There's no malice in their behavior, but it can be just a bit frustrating for me as a still novice photographer.

Though I wasn't exactly elated as they laughed and encouraged each other to strike unexpected stances, the results are well worth sharing. Try not to giggle.



For the final photo in the series, I asked my delightful duo to step forward because the overhead light made it appear that there was a halo over their heads. Believe me, they were not angels that night.



As always, we make great stories.

Bobby, our photojournalist son-in-law, took this picture. I behaved politely.

Toe Story

The only photo chronicling this story has been banned by the patient. It is actually a rather sweet scene. She's sitting apprehensively in one of her Dad's home office chairs. One foot is bare and being examined by our dear friend, Dr. Marvin. He's speaking soothingly, assuring her that the problem is correctable. He hastens to add that timely intervention is advised. She frowns, winces, looks almost five again. This precious adult child has always been healthy. Any illnesses or injuries have been fleeting and totally rejected by her from their onset.

Caitlin's concerned parents are relieved that she's being seen, albeit in a unique setting, by the man whose patient she became while still in the diaper stage. He knows her well, treats her like family. She has complete confidence in him and we suspect her digit has been inflamed for some time. Most likely she wanted to wait until familiar hands could inspect the injured area.

With some trepidation it is agreed that the procedure will be performed the next day. Not exactly a scintillating way to spend a holiday. Dr. Marvin assures her that it won't take long. She'll be able to wear socks and shoes immediately afterwards. Even spend the day at the zoo as she has planned.

In the meantime, soaking in warm salt water three times a day for twenty minutes each session is prescribed. Being a mom, I have just the right small plastic tub in which to insert her ailing foot. Table salt is in the cupboard. I can tell she's not convinced of the necessity of this ablution, but she humors the older generation. Her easy acquiescence tells me that there's more discomfort than she's expressed.

On the appointed day, we wait to learn at what time she will be worked into the clinic's schedule. She is, after all, without an appointment. No problem. Dr. Marvin will fix everything.

The question of who will accompany Caitlin to the clinic receives much discussion. Her dad and I are the final choices. There's something really endearing about going to the doctor with your grown-up daughter. We must give her comfort and increase her bravery quotient.

As we sit in the clinic waiting room, the next decision looms. Who, if anyone, will join her in the exam room? She says rather self-assuredly that she'll be going in there alone. Fine. We respect her need for privacy and the fact that she's no longer a kid, just our kid.

A nice nurse leads Caitlin down the hallway to take her vitals. Dr. Marvin starts the very painful procedure by anesthetizing the affected area with shots of Lidocaine. We're waiting patiently where she left us.

In about five minutes, Dr. Marvin appears at the exam room doorway. He says, "She wants her Mommie." That's me. A very non-brave person, but one who is ready for Mom duty always.

I find a girl in pain. The injections aren't working for some reason. She can still feel too much.

We'll hold hands like so many years ago. This time both of us will be very careful that our ring fingers aren't involved in the hand-holding. No extra pain needed when squeezing is involved.

She has a firm grasp on my right hand. I'm trying to look confident, slightly casual. With my hopelessly non-poker face, I speculate that she sees right through my thoughts. I'm focusing on the flooring. She asks why. I comment on the tile. Is this inane or insane?

Remembering how we handled health matters in the past, I ask if she wants a story. Both of us know that I asserted that a whole phalanx of maladies could be cured with a sick cloth (aka wet washcloth) applied to the forehead, a new coloring book and box of colors, and Mom sitting nearby telling one of her 'stories.' Part myth, part reality, Caitlin has clung to these home remedies. They've gotten her through flu, food poisoning, respiratory ailments, wisdom tooth extraction, and maybe even a broken heart or two.

I have none of the usual accoutrements with me so I must rely on my invisible box of stories. I ask which one she'd like to hear. She's thinking about Dr. Marvin's ministrations and her misery. I suggest the "Grandpa, the goats, and Michael" tale. She readily agrees. So I begin with a family story that she can tell as well as I can although it happened three years before she was born.

Her older brother was visiting my parents on their farm in Mississippi. He'd been 'helping' my Daddy gather the goat herd into the barn lot. Daddy told Michael specifically to stay away from the goat kids and to be sure to latch the barn gate.

Michael was merely eight and definitely not a farm boy. He chose, for whatever reason, to ignore Daddy's directions. The results were almost disastrous. Approaching the small kids, he invoked the ire of the nanny goat and she proceeded to butt him. At that moment, the barn gate loosened and all the goats escaped.

My daddy, the soul of patience, banished his small helper and sent him back to the farmhouse. Daddy spent considerable time corralling the errant goats and firmly latching the gate. Then he walked back to the house.

Once there, he found a saddened and chastened grandson sitting on the concrete steps. Several small puppies played around the steps and Michael stroked them absently. Daddy sat on one edge of the step. Michael was at the other far end.

As they sat, perhaps each re-thinking recent events, Michael began to inch closer and closer to his grandpa. In a few minutes, their shapes were side-by-side and the incident was over.

The story doesn't take much time in the retelling. Dr. Marvin is still busy with the invasive procedure. Caitlin has uttered "Ow." repeatedly. She says, "I'm almost ready to swear." Her doctor tells her to go ahead. Caitlin replies sweetly, "I can't swear in front of my mom." I try not to chuckle.

We need another story. During her childhood, I created a character named Paul Pig. He had many adventures and was available in the evening before she went to sleep, on long trips, during sicknesses or for no reason at all. Caitlin's dad invented his own character whose name was Horace the Horse. I'm sure she considers these stories an integral part of her personal history.

Paul is called upon to ease us through these unpleasant moments. I haven't thought about him in quite a while, but I'm willing to invent a new chapter or two. Caitlin is temporarily mollified and during my spin, interjects embellishments. I'm relieved because I figure the story has distracted her from the pain and discomfort.

Paul and Petunia Pig now have two daughters. They are named Penelope and Persephone. (She approves of the names. Whew.) The Pig family wants to go on a pigcation to Pittsburgh. They spend considerable time getting ready and are confident that their destination is just a few farms distant from where they are living. Along the way, they stop at IHOP. (She's mortified at this choice. I quickly explain that the Pig family wants pancakes.)

I'm running out of story ideas but luckily Dr. Marvin is finishing his work. He's used a clamp, though we're not sure why. A scalpel in the hand of our practiced physician completes the task. He's certain the problem has been eradicated.

In Caitlin's deep blue eyes, I believe there are unshed tears. Her bravery is admirable. I'm sure I would have faltered repeatedly if I had been the patient and she the one holding my hand.

She slips the healing foot into a flip flop. Antibiotics are being prescribed. There's a pharmacy nearby. Dr. Marvin escorts her to the facility and tells the staff that she's a very important patient and to fill her prescription. She'll wait her turn and pay a $2.40 co-pay. (Her current health insurance is excellent.)

We're done. Fixed. Almost all better. I'm breathing easily once more. She's smiling. The redness in my right hand is fading. Pills in hand, we leave for home.

Once back at the house, there's a very minor cut on her hand that needs Neosporin and a Band-Aid. She rummages through my assortment and is tickled to find a Care Bears Band-Aid. Childhood revisited once more.

Later in the week, Caitlin's visiting friend, Alex, awakes with a viral respiratory infection. Caitlin calmly tells her, "This is the best house in which to be sick." Great compliment.

Dr. Marvin makes another house call just before Caitlin and Bobby are scheduled to leave. He inspects the recuperating digit, pronounces it totally well, and says that no more antibiotics are necessary. She's elated and I bet she'll be sharing this experience for a long, long time.

That's the end of the Toe Story.

Christmas Gift

The farmhouse phone is ringing. We already know who's calling and what she'll say when we answer. It is always the same. My beloved Aunt Bessie has a special greeting on this day, "Christmas gift!!!" She is not absorbed with receiving, but rather with giving. As the years progress and I move time zones away, the tradition continues, despite the extravagant cost of long-distance calls at the time. Aunt Bessie's sweet Southern sounds transport me home instantly, despite the real distance between us. That dear voice lives in my memory and I never fail to think of her as holiday decorations proliferate.

Being a somewhat self-absorbed mom, the Christmas gift I want every year is to have our daughter in residence, even for a few days. I'm totally comfortable if she isn't here on Christmas day. Anytime is fine with me and her dad. Because Caitlin started a new job in August, we were doubtful that she'd see the desert in December. However, the lure of sunshine, friends, Mexican food, In 'n' Out, and piles of presents is difficult to resist. Lucky us.

The Christmas Eve arrival is delayed due to the JetBlue plane's mechanical problems. Caitlin's driving a rental car from Long Beach and is inspired to hasten the journey knowing that her favorite unturkey sandwich awaits in our frig. The parents wait impatiently and happily throw open the front door as her Mazda 3 hatchback pulls into the driveway. Let the celebrating commence.

With six days to squander, Caitlin vows to keep a flexible agenda. She'll see some people, explore a couple of new restaurants, seize every sun-filled moment, and laugh unchecked. Henry will tutor she and Bobby in the mystical worlds of muni bonds and mortgage re-financing. I'll gratefully accept numerous sessions of 'computer Rx' from the two Portlanders and enjoy the results of enhanced ease of use.

Caitlin and I delve into the cluttered closet in her old bedroom and soon are tossing childhood treasures. She enthusiastically unearths now vintage letters from favorite friends, elementary school yearbooks, once loved toys. The most special articles are carefully placed in a plastic box and will be transported to Oregon in February. During my own fall cleaning frenzy, I discovered a Foster family photo, taken in 1959. Its black and white crispness evokes pungent memories as I recall my red dress with velvet trim, my mother's pale lavender suit, and the men of the family in proper 'church clothes.' Somewhat tentatively, I ask Caitlin if she'd like to have this historical relic and am so gratified when she responds positively. It will have a place of honor on the mid-century buffet she and Bobby hope to acquire. A perfect match.



On Christmas Day our own family rituals are observed with presents containing enigmatic clues as to their contents and the whole process faithfully recorded on video and photo format. She's the dutiful daughter, enduring our quaint customs. It's the year of the owl, her favorite motif. Pajamas in turquoise sport a flock of plucky owls. Adorable owls peep from notepaper and one, quite decorous in grey, centers a new doormat. Small silver owls with beaded black eyes make perfect earrings. Perky birds cover a soft-sided lunch box, probably meant to be carried to elementary school. An electric toothbrush, sans owls, is much appreciated. The unwrapping is a bit hasty as a Santa visit is expected at the neighbor's house.



Henry, aka Santa, is festive in his red suit and snowy beard. This year he's decided to forgo his preferred footwear (tennies) and chooses his black dress shoes instead. The sisters next door always tease him about his shoes and say that's how they know it isn't really Santa after all. Caitlin thinks the dress shoes are a hilarious choice. We use the dolly to load presents which include a computer we've been storing for Gilly to give to Shawn.



Jointly we've agreed that the holiday meal will be enjoyed at Great Wall, a Chinese restaurant downtown. Reservations are set and we each look very presentable as we arrive on time. Unfortunately, our waiter either loses our order or gets involved in some other activity and we wait nearly an hour for the food. He is noticeably absent the entire time. When food finally appears, my entree is missing. Eventually there are three plates on the table and we're concentrating on our good fortune to be spending this special holiday together. No cookies necessary.



Days drift into nights as sales beckon and bargains are found; Rio Azul nudges Las Casuelas from its vaulted position as favorite local restaurant; totally unhealthy food is consumed at In 'n' Out;

an unturkey encore satisfies once again;



high school friends ring the doorbell;



a pecan chocolate pie proves not as sublime as the original recipe;
little girl sprites infuse the house with their boundless energy;



lying on lounges in the sun-drenched backyard brings perfect bliss;



the guys immerse themselves in a PlayStation car racing game;



and northwest-living young people succumb to the serenity of a hot tub on a cool December night.



I continue my ditzy behavior by mistakenly mixing Swedish glog with iced tea. (Well, both liquids are the same color.) Caitlin thoughtfully attaches a note to the probably undrinkable combination.



Dad and daughter play a highly competitive game of Bananagram. He wins. She is not pleased and admonishes him sternly.



When Bobby arrives on the 27th, our household is complete. Watching he and Caitlin interact is exhilarating. Bobby tolerates the clue strewn present process and delights in his gifts.




The happy couple investigates the menu at Pinocchio's and pronounce it worthy, just not quite as good as similar places in Portland. Cactusberry's frozen yogurt is a repeat treat. On the last day here, there's time to finally eat at Tyler's. It gets raves and will be on the agenda for the next desert visit.

It simply can't be Friday already. I want to lock them in the bedroom and throw away their boarding passes. However, I act bravely and busy myself removing pine branches from the mantle and various locations around the house. I know Caitlin and Bobby must go home. There's a party waiting, friends who miss them terribly, jobs to restart, kitties to love.



We've been gifted.