Getting Carded

Blue eyes and being the eldest, or only, son were among the preferred characteristics. He easily qualified with his enviable eye color and single son status. Brilliant test scores completed the package and soon he was training to be an Air Force pilot. The fulfillment of yet another personal goal.

My Renaissance man husband brims with an impressive array of interests. Family, friends, finance, music, cars,



motorcycles,



board games, coins and paper money, travel (preferably to Manhattan) and sports (especially his beloved Yankees) are among his favorites. His unstinting positive attitude inspires others and is a lifetime mantra regardless of any difficulties encountered.

Born in Manhattan during the baby boom explosion, Henry entered the world with an absent father. Dad Maurice started a brand new job with the State of New York on his son's natal day, making his temporary nonappearance in the maternity ward
totally understandable.


(8 months old, 25 pounds, 4 ounces)

Sister Carol, five years the elder, established a permanent bond with her new sibling and that endearing relationship flourishes decades later. During her recent visit to our house, the twosome re-told family stories. None of us ever tire of hearing about the 'knife' incident which Carol insists involved a harmless butter knife.



Living with Henry these past thirty-five years has been exhilarating. He is consistently enthusiastic about so many ideas, concepts, notions. Endlessly curious, he's fascinated by all that is new, except for food that happens to be green. With a near-perfect memory, he shares what he's read or observed with acute precision. Mention a topic and he has an opinion, well-founded in fact and logically presented.

There's not a day when many hours pass without some musical interlude. Utilizing thousands of pages of accumulated sheet music, with more available via the Internet, he'll spend the rest of his life honing his musical skills and accompanying himself vocally. My very own private radio station. From time to time, he stops and recounts the history of a particular piece, its composer, the solo performer or group that made it famous. I'm partial to songs from the '50's and 60's as well as show tunes. His repertoire contains more than enough for me to absorb. We supplement his renditions by attending concerts and musicals whenever possible. The Beach Boys are on our horizon for late May. Nostalgia for our youth.

When there are no notes to be heard or lyrics emanating from his office, it often means that he's dispensing critical financial advice in person, on the phone or via e-mail. Maybe he's in negotiations with a car dealership to buy new wheels for some acquaintance or more importantly, our daughter. His ability to obtain the very best price for a very desirable car is legendary.

No project is too daunting for his inquisitive mind. Think of something, mention it to him, and the next thing you know, he's found a supplier, located a great air fare, or made a reservation. One must be careful what one wishes for, as successful fruition is almost certain once Henry becomes involved.

As a man who is self-contained, he can spend hours expanding his mind and not regret for one second that he's hardly left his office. Though he warmly welcomes family and friends to his space, he can also be alone very comfortably.

This year there's a special birthday. The celebratory number chosen by some governmental official for reasons unknown to me but probably lodged somewhere in Henry's vast store of knowledge. You see, he's getting carded. Medicare, that is. The card itself, produced on flimsy paper, arrived months ago. Typical of Henry's organized nature, he had it laminated for longevity. In just eight days, he can use it for medical visits, lab tests and other health-related issues. As a very healthy sixty-something, the card is likely to languish in his wallet.

When we met, Henry was a youthful twenty-nine. Today he exhibits a still luminous personality with cerulean eyes dancing and massive intellect always ablaze. His hair has transformed to a lovely silver shade that's very becoming. Contentment seeps through his being as he relishes the prolific pleasures of retirement.

In honor of this particular birthday and our thirty-five years of marriage, we're embarking upon an ambitious European sojourn, culminating with five days in New York. Appropriately, we'll spend the birthday evening with Carol and her husband Steve, suffused by the brilliance of George Gershwin's immortal Porgy and Bess.

Happy early birthday, dear Henry.

Too Cool

During the early months, one of us would sit her diaper-clad bottom on that space. Learning to crawl, she tenaciously moved her small body up the slight incline to settle comfortably on what she dubbed the 'cool tile' when she mastered language. Located immediately inside the door at our old house, this rectangular entryway provided a welcome transition from the often blistering sunshine. Our daughter always loved her 'cool.'



Now a grown-up twenty something, she lives in her favorite city, subsisting on sunless days and plotting desert getaways. For the most recent sojourn, she informed me that she'd be packing light. Three 'S's' were being tossed somewhat cavalierly into a carry-on bag. No need for anything more. Sundresses, sandals, swimsuits (3).

As the date approaches, weather.com forecasts unwelcome numbers. It's mid-April, not January. What's happening here?

Arising at an unseemly hour, Caitlin and her jaunty gentlemen trio fly south then drive north. They're destined for one of her personal meccas....Magic Mountain Amusement Park. Fortunately it's dry, not uncomfortable and rather reasonably crowded. Let the roller coasters undulate. She blithely chooses to ignore the respiratory infection that invaded her body the previous evening.

Nearly twelve hours later, there's a bright rental car in our driveway and a quartet of exhausted revelers spilling out its doors. Caitlin, Bobby and their Portland buddies, Conor and Jonathan, are here to eat, tan, tour the town, converse with relatives, and swim. The night sky does not look friendly and by the next day, the temperature is chillier than predicted.



For such a short visit, the agenda is impressive and exhausting.



Start the day with breakfast at Cheeky's. Drive by special sites with commentary from the native daughter. Drag the chaises to the pool deck and slather on the sunscreen. Wishful thinking meets triumphant determination. That evening, a rare rainstorm rages, bringing snow to the mountain peaks.



Guests arrive for a long-anticipated family dinner. There are no sad faces. The unwelcome weather surprise makes good conversation.

More food and drink to consume at Tyler's (famous for its burgers), Cactusberry (frozen yogurt), Rio Azul (Mexican treats), Toucan's (friendly bar and room to dance), and Lulu's (even better breakfasts.) She did it. Hit all the places on her formidable list.

Saturday afternoon is warmer. The spa heater kills a bit of the chill, but our pool is still frigid. Resolve that dilemma by cajoling the neighbors to share their solar blanket heated pool. Bliss. Four happy Oregonians. Maybe more than happy, euphoric.



Even with the return clock rapidly advancing, there is time to linger in the backyard, sit in a shady spot and read electronically, catch up on e-mail, talk about the upcoming return visit in June.



It's time. Suitcases crowd the trunk. Jeans are once more the appropriate apparel. Swimsuits are stored. There's a small bag filled with 'car cake,' remnants of the beloved Lemon Apricot Cake that might not make it all the way to the Long Beach Airport. It's such a temptation and contains fruit, so how bad can it be?

The traditional departure photos will remind us of a few days when the desert was too cool.



For always bringing us so much warmth, we

Dining by the Dozen

Once upon a time, I walked into our dining room and observed a teen-age carpet. Strewn across the dark chocolate space were bodies askew, slumbering selves recovering from the previous night's party. Looking at mussed hair and slightly tangled clothing, I noticed a few faces that hadn't been there some hours earlier when the door to our bedroom closed gently. Apparently as we slept, more friends arrived. We heard nothing so deep was our reverie.

Last Friday night our house expanded to enfold precious family and a cadre of friends, both fresh and forever. Before everyone arrived in the desert there were lengthy discussions about the menu and guest list. What to serve ten adults and two children? How do we accommodate those whose food 'likes' are rather limited and yet please others with more eclectic tastes? Did I mention dessert? Homemade or bought? Both? Yes. Let's choose something easy on the designated cooks. Pizza? Such a risk when five of the diners are native New Yorkers and everyone knows the world's best pizza originates there. We'll chance it and trust that SoCal versions will suffice this one night. After all, it isn't about the food. It's about the people eating it.

The familial table with its garish blemish, a small space where the top layer of wood no longer exists, seats eight easily. OK. What about the other four? Improvisation is required. Move the massive table and set it lengthwise in the room. Scoot table and chairs closer to the outside wall. Leave space for a smaller table, two chairs and two 'just right' stools. The gateleg table is nearly two hundred years old and usually sits with sides folded down against a south-facing wall in the family room. It belonged to my brother and is a precious legacy that brings me continued comfort in his permanent absence.

White place mats and matching napkins are colorized by bright daisy napkin rings. We're using paper plates tonight, again in deference to those who would be charged with clean-up duties. The second table sports cream place mats, orange/green/yellow striped napkins and russet metal flower napkin rings.



We'll serve from the breakfast bar. Three 18" pizzas from Bill's in downtown. They know us from previous orders and greet Henry by name when he arrives at the restaurant.

With an array of toppings on the menu, it takes a while to make the final choices. The easiest decision is a simple cheese with red sauce. Satisfies many palates. Less mundane are 'Christine's Rocker Pizza' [oil and garlic, Sicilian sausage, caramelized onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, pepperoni and black olives,] and 'Elton John' [red sauce, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, cooked spinach, red onions and four cheeses plus feta.]

Hummus (three kinds), baked chips, veggies and two salads [one with mixed greens, almond slices, mandarin oranges and raspberry vinaigrette] add variety to the meal. Fat Tire beer interests the young adult guests while others are more than content with tea or water.

We're settled, talking easily. I'm beaming, inside and out. How I longed for these people to grace our house at the same time.



Caitlin hasn't seen her cousin Keith in nine years. Her second cousins, Drew and Brooke, are nine and seven, respectively. The sisters' whole lives have been Caitlin-less. We're establishing relationships anew.

Conor and Jonathan, Caitlin's Portland friends, may feel somewhat adrift as family stories proliferate but they join the conversation with ease. Everyone is cordial, engaged, interesting and interested. It's a splendid gathering and one of historic proportions.

With copious amounts of pizza consumed and the salads vanquished, dessert beckons. Ralphs, my regular grocery store, is a good source for tasty chocolate cake with whipped icing. I've also made my standard Lemon Apricot Cake, much touted by my daughter.



The doorbell rings. More company. The neighbors, Shawn, Gilly, Hanna and Jessy, are joined by friends from Vienna, Mikael, Claudia and Linnea. Now we are nineteen. Clusters congregate in the kitchen, living room, hallways. Five little girls flit from place to place, watching a movie, eating cake. The noise level ascends and I have a feeling that I need to hit the pause button and capture these moments eternally. My head and heart will have to hold the evening because I can't stop it from ending.



The two adult cousins are deep in conversation. I look at them and see a 22 year old young man, newly graduated from Penn and his then seven-year old cousin. Such changes in the last 22 years. Both are so charming, self-assured, content, and posses enviable social skills that draw people to them instantly. They are kin and also kindred spirits.



It's late, children are drooping as are a few adults. Departures reduce the crowd and soon our exquisite night will be concluding. I have one last request. A photo of the three generations assembled who descend from Maurice and Sylvia. Six people total. We settle for five. I consider how proud Carol and Henry's parents would be of each of them.



We've dined divinely this night.

Guest Relations

Many businesses in the hospitality industry boast an Office of Guest Relations. The purpose of this entity is to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of customers, regardless of their requests. In truth, relations aren't always cordial or considerate. Guests are nearly always paying for services but all too often are disappointed, or worse, in what they receive.

Each month thus far in 2012, we have hosted visitors at our house. With schedules intricately coordinated, we've eagerly awaited all arrivals. Starting with a couple whom I've known since the 1960's, we've welcomed individuals who are interwoven into our history through blood or bonds of friendship. Bob, Davene, Dottie, Mike, Jackie, Bert, Nancy and Anne. All have been seated at our dining room table recently, creating new stories that we'll all remember for years to come.

I've said repeatedly that I want the people whom I love to live on my street. Because I realize such a concept is totally impractical and completely selfish, I'm generally able to embrace visits in place of permanent residency on Sunset Way.

For far too long, we've talked to Henry's sister Carol about escaping to our desert and bringing her husband, Steve.



Though I'm absolutely certain such a trip was highly desirable for both of them, life intervened to preclude the visit. So, we waited and reminded them of the invitation and waited some more. Our patience, or lack thereof, was grandly rewarded when dates were finally set for early April 2012. Not only would we be welcoming the New York residents but also their son and his family from the Bay area. Such largesse.



To make the gathering even more a family occasion, Caitlin and Bobby chose the same time period for a spring sojourn, bringing along two Portland friends. This is much more than we could have wished.

Within a period of seven days (all flitting past too quickly), we successfully dyed Easter eggs, hid the colored gems, assembled at the family table for an Easter meal, dined at several restaurants, walked the neighborhood accompanied by a spectacular fireworks display, sought medical advice for a pesky ankle (Steve),



chose new quilts for the second guest bedroom, laughed long while attempting to control a race car video game (Carol),



enjoyed a sextet serenade,



splashed in the hotel pool while creating a new wet hairstyle for Grammie Carol, and listened intently to Henry's multiple teaching sessions on the intricacies of municipal bonds (Carol and Steve.)

Repetitive household chores proved almost fun with two ladies working harmoniously to finish them with dispatch. Deftly balancing the agendas of six adults and two little girls, we quickly internalized the 'gift' of togetherness.

The east coast accents surrounded our days and nights and every once in a while, I found myself thinking, "This is very, very special. Family is, after all, what really matters in this world." I am completely certain that if I had met Carol and Steve at about the same time as I became acquainted with Henry, I would have married him even sooner. Having these two exceptional people as an integral part of my life for the last thirty-five years has brought me strength in difficult moments, solace when I needed reflection, humor to laugh at myself in stressful situations, and abiding affection that is unassailable.

Our house is not the same. It is less festive, too quiet. I look at my calendar and it appears vapid, colorless. The guests are gone. Soon we too will go visiting. With us we'll carry beloved faces and the cherished memories recently created. These relations matter. A lot.

When There Were Six

Little girls love Easter. So do most of their moms and grandmas. Why else would females go to the trouble of buying and boiling dozens of eggs and spending much of an afternoon surrounded by squirming children? Because it is fun. Great fun. It's a time for creativity, messiness, spills galore, fingers painted accidentally and the creation of stories to pass along to future generations.

I have no memory of painting Easter eggs during my youth. I've never seen any photos of such an event which reinforces my conclusion that such activities never happened at my house. Maybe we were too busy focusing on the religious aspect of Easter to spend time on such frivolity. I do vividly recall quite a few of my Easter outfits and know that I always looked forward to dressing in a brand new ensemble, including shoes and socks, and eventually, a hat. Sometimes my dress matched my mother's. I didn't think that was weird. It was how we did things in the South. In the '50's and 60's. I treasure each photo that captures those days.

With no biological grandchildren of my own and a youngest child who recently turned 29, I must forage for egg decorating candidates. Luckily, they aren't difficult to locate. This year we gathered a half dozen young ladies on our patio where I expected gaiety to rule.



The residences of our awesome six ranged from Vienna to Washington state and from Tiburon to the house next door. These girls know each other from past parties and though the eldest is an almost 'ancient' eleven and the three youngest are merely seven, the age difference is mostly inconsequential. They're bonded by fun, buttressed by camaraderie. Two sets of sisters and two singles, ready to paint.

As the party hostess, I welcome moms, dads and grandparents. I've prepared 36 eggs and only one is imperfect. Dye tablets and dipping wands are strewn across the $1 plastic tablecloths being used to protect our ancient comforters. We're assembled at one end of our patio, safe from the spring sun.



Before the vinegar is measured into the egg cups, there's a pre-dyeing ritual. Each girl is expected to wear an oversized tee shirt to safeguard her clothes from damaging dye. These tee shirts are part of a collection of family vacation mementos from years past. I look at each one of them and fondly remember their purchase. However, realizing that some shirts are more desirable than others, I've devised a way to reduce any fussing about who receives which one. I close my eyes and toss a shirt toward the group. My instructions are that you keep what lands in your hands or trade it if somebody is willing. Wonderful cooperation ensues. They just want to get to the dyeing.

Carol deftly handles the vinegar measuring and we parcel out the tablets. Giggles accompany the fizzing as liquids turn various intriguing colors. Let the dipping begin. How about a double dip?

"Can you help me get my egg, Jackie?" Yes, I can. Again and again. Other mothers hover and offer comforting assistance. Nobody whines and not a tear is shed. Faces are focused as deep colors emerge and cries of "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." resound across the space.

I distribute the eggs, six to a girl. Linnea gets the cracked one. I tell her it is very special and that all of us are 'cracked' in one way or another. She nods and accepts my nonsensical explanation. I breathe out. Slowly.



Fingers aid egg extraction and accumulate color instantly. When we finish the activity, I gently apply a wet washcloth dabbed with Softscrub to multicolored digits nearly erasing the tint. At least this time I won't be using the product on anyone's face.

Mom Renee has brought sparkling glitter to the party. She holds an egg, paints it with craft glue and then rolls it in glitter. The resulting mess is astonishing. I believe we'll have glitter on our patio for eternity. The glamorous eggs are stunning and well worth the fuss.



Too soon, we're done. One final ritual remains for this day. Matching tee shirts for each girl. The sizes selected appear to be accurate and soon there's a march around the pool in purple Old Navy shirts, decorated with hearts.



Early the next day, Easter Sunday, Carol, Henry and I are hastily hiding eggs all around the backyard. Henry, ever the clever one and with a bit of whimsey, uses scotch tape to affix several plastic eggs to our citrus trees. We plop more 'fake' eggs in the pool where they casually float to the sides for easy retrieval.



The sextet reassembles to hunt for their eggy treasures. Easter Baskets line the swing. The excitement is palpable. Even the grown-ups are part of the game. They provide subtle, and not so subtle, hints when a hunter is temporarily stumped.



Very soon it's decided to take all the eggs next door, re-hide them, and find them again. Why not? Multiple Easter egg hunts never hurt.



I look at the beautiful eager faces of Maddie, Drew, Linnea, Brooke, Hanna and Jessy and I see pure joy reflected. I try to imagine each one of them as adults, guiding precious children through Easter traditions. I hope they tell those special people of the future about a time when there were six.