Standing Up

The phone rings and a voice says, "Hello Mom." Then there's a giggle, maybe multiples. I realize that she has another mother, the real one. I'm the 'Second Mom.' Vanessa, AKA Nessie, isn't my daughter although she spent considerable time at our house as a teen-ager. In those days, she and Caitlin were nearly inseparable. Overnight visits, many meals and snacks, as well as indeterminable phone calls kept them close. Later, the University of California campuses at Santa Cruz and Davis are near enough so that their bond remains intact. After college graduation, they found jobs and a new state beckoned Caitlin. Cell phones, Facebook, and texting replaced former means of communicating. Their lives became more complex, filled with new friends and for each, a mate.

I really don't know if their teen-age selves ever discussed desirable characteristics of potential husbands or the subject of marriage someday. These two girls/women are smart, independent, and imbued with tremendous spirit. It's more likely that they generally do what they want rather than what might be expected of them.

Five years ago, Caitlin announced her engagement via a phone call as her dad and I sat at our table eating dinner. We listened to our elated daughter, completely confident about her marital decision.

Some years later, there's a similar call from Vanessa who shares her excitement about marrying Josh. Early in 2012, a 'Save the Date' card arrives, citing the ceremony planned for November 10th. Caitlin will be a bridesmaid.

As the Second Mom, I have no duties except to attend the wedding. As Caitlin's mom, I am the designated driver for both the rehearsal
and the wedding itself.

Late on a blustery Saturday afternoon, with the spare sun fading and the outside temperature dropping precipitously, slightly uncomfortable guests gather in front of a flower draped trellis and await the bride.

The groom's father, an ordained Presbyterian minister, performs the ceremony.
Three longtime lady friends, shivering in their navy frocks, stand to the side, blue hydrangeas in hand. Directly opposite, three suitably attired young men support their friend, the groom.

Though brief, the service is intensely personal, deeply meaningful to the young couple. A lot of smiling, a few tears, a bit of laughter and very soon the wedding party is exiting the scene.

Grateful to return to the country club lobby, guests mingle and enjoy hors d'oeuvres. Dinner is served attentively while family and friends linger at various tables to chat, hug, catch up on the latest news. Several high school classmates are among the guests. I'm reminded of the marvelous mixture of students who shared so many years together. Vanessa and Karla are Filipino and speak fluent Tagalog. Mircea moved to the desert from Romania as an eight-year-old. Shalini's family is from India. These young adults are part of an amazingly rich panoply of cultures which greatly enhanced Caitlin's childhood and her educational experiences.

Dancing dominates the evening.

The bride's sprightly grandmother, a minute little lady, steps onto the dance floor. The ring bearer and his younger sister, the flower girl, show off their impressive juvenile moves. The new husband and wife barely move as they command the space, lost in a world of their own.

I'm almost teary when I see Vanessa's mom, the bride and her brother locked together, swaying gently and talking softly.

Caitlin says I owe her a dance. She reminds me that I broke my toe at her wedding, thus eliminating any possibility of dancing on that glorious day. I respond that I don't dance. Can't. Never learned how. My mind shifts to a long ago scene when a girlfriend tried to teach teen-age me to dance utilizing a towel to help me with the rhythm and coax my not-so-agile body to move accordingly. She, and I, failed miserably. I quit dancing altogether.

More than a half century later, undeterred by my protests, Caitlin enlists the aid of Mircea, Shali, and Jen to get me from my chair to the floor. I'm politely told that I don't need to know 'how' to dance, I just dance. I'm not convinced at all and remain stubbornly in my seat. As the evening's festivities wane, Caitlin and I are at the edge of the dance floor. She's captures me. The DJ plays You Are My Sunshine. I begin to sing quite badly. She dances effortlessly and shares the lyrics with me. I move just the slightest. "You're dancing, Mom." she says, using her special Disneyland voice. I am also crying. It's a magical moment, one which I'll relive many times as I sigh deeply with emotion. I'm grateful for her persistence but most of all, for her existence.

Blisters crowd Caitlin's feet. Heels aren't kind or comfortable and dancing for hours only increases the pain. I know her smile very well and I'm confident that she's enjoyed the evening. With very little cajoling, I agree to stop at In 'n' Out on the way home for a post-nuptials fix. It's a fitting ending to a memorable day.

I'm pleased that Caitlin has been standing up with Vanessa for a long time.

Vintage Family

Once upon a time, a horse lived at our house. He seemed real, though he wasn't and actually only existed in splendid stories. The author of these tales, my dear husband, crafted each adventure as a way of encouraging our very young daughter to expand her reading prowess. For years, Horace romped through his make-believe life, getting into an occasional bit of trouble while retaining his charming personality. A few months ago, our now adult daughter, asked if any of the Horace stories were available. I responded that I knew just where to find them if she wanted copies. She did and after scanning the pages, I promptly forgot about the inquiry.

Recently, we eagerly anticipated a Caitlin visit occasioned by responsibilities as a bridesmaid for a high school friend. We are never particular about the reason why she's in town and are always delighted to have her sleeping in this house. Near the end of the first evening, we received an early Christmas gift. Two of the Horace stories, illustrated by a Portland friend and printed in a hand-crafted book with pages tied together by bright blue ribbon, remind us beautifully of a unique childhood tradition. Caitlin's remarkable caring, thoughtfulness and creativity produced this extraordinary new family treasure. Horace inhabits her memory and ours.

Often, even during the briefest visit, I rummage through boxes and closets, pulling out items from our family's past. Caitlin is quite familiar with this routine and generally tolerates my mild mania. She's frequently taken possession of her 'treasures' and during the college years, filled her car with an eclectic assortment of stuff. A few years ago, a friend loaded his SUV with her specially selected articles and drove them to Oregon.

My jewelry box and several spill-over plastic bags teem with family history. Three charm bracelets from my teen years and one that belonged to my mother intermingle with necklaces, pins of every description, and earrings tossed aside and forgotten. None of this eclectic jewelry matters as Caitlin focuses on a collection of rings. A particular favorite is my high school class ring, now a half century old. It fits perfectly and she begins wearing it immediately. Mother's gold ring with a cluster of small diamonds is definitely coveted. (I thought she hated gold.) It's hers now. Forever. She spies a silver ring without a stone. The antique style appeals greatly and she knows immediately the replacement stone she'll choose...a purple sapphire. This ring belonged to her paternal Grandma and may have been her engagement ring from the early 1940's. We agree to select the new stone when we visit her next year. I'm so pleased that three generations of women are sharing rings.

Henry was a student at SUNY Stony Brook in the turbulent sixties. His campus hosted many of the most famous musicians of the time (Big Brother and the Holding Company [Janis Joplin, lead singer], Jimi Hendrix, Simon and Garfunkel, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, to name a few) and was also the scene of anti-war protests, drug busts, and rampant student activism. (All concerts were free with a student activities card.) Rife with an impressive array of amazingly intelligent faculty, Stony Brook attracted brilliant students. Serving as a dormitory Resident Assistant, Henry interacted with university staff on behalf of students. Not long ago, he discovered that two yearbooks from his college years are now available in reprint format.

Though the quality of these new books is merely adequate compared to the originals, the content remains vibrant and evokes a significant period in twentieth-century American history. Students are eager, engaged, ethereally optimistic. Clothing is hippie-ish with bold prints and minimal fabric, at least on the young ladies. Hair is long regardless of gender, a visual statement of individuality becoming the norm.

To Caitlin, the mid-sixties are history. Her parents' history. She listens attentively as her dad shares his student experiences. I know she's impressed by his passion and perhaps she realizes that the Stony Brook campus might have been a good match for her. Except, of course, for the weather.

For those of us who are readers, words satisfy an array of emotions. We're often drawn to fiction and find ourselves awash in sentences, compelled by characters, finding solace within pages when life itself is intolerable. As a middle teen, our daughter found peace (and parts of herself) in Stephen Chbosky's, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. She read her paperback copy so many times that it finally succumbed to tatters. While carefully retaining that original small, precious volume, she bought many additional copies through the years. Some have remained with her as she moved from home to dorm to apartments to other houses and then away from California. Her constant companion, her lodestar, the beloved coming-of-age book that was, and is, and forever will be, her favorite. Copies have been distributed to friends in multiple states and she's been pleased, but not even slightly surprised, at the reaction to characters and their story.

Naturally she was apprehensive when Perks became a film. She approached her first viewing with great unease. No need. The movie honored the book and its messages. She relaxed, recommended it to others, returned for a second look. Along the way, she encouraged me to see Perks myself. During the weekend, Caitlin practically insists that we see the film together. With the geographical distance between us, we have little time or opportunity to share a movie.

I, too, am now a Perks devotee. I believe I understand Caitlin's teen-age years much better after spending ninety minutes in the dark with her favorite book's characters. I know that slim volume proved an essential companion through often perplexing years and made the unendurable bearable.

In four frenetic days, there's time to savor Rio Azul's Mexican food, sweep through multiple stores shopping purposefully, and watch our long-time stylist, Frank, transform raven tresses into charming curls.

The seven-year-old neighbor sisters stop by long enough for Jessy and Caitlin to create drawings which they exchange.

Unturkey sandwiches are a desert treat. Sunshine, even though it's somewhat faint, demands sundresses. Caitlin's dad dons a leather coat.

Too soon, all these stories are newly vintage and she's home again...in Portland.

Sharks and Ferrys

Neatly printed, the blackboard sign encourages buyers to pick from the Honor Farm Pumpkin Patch. Prices for various sizes are posted. A white metal box, affixed to the adjacent building's wall, serves as the payment receptacle.

We watch as the ferry pulls away from the dock and then retreat across the pedestrian bridge to a small collection of shops, awaiting the next crossing. The Rustic Bakery and Cafe is replete with tantalizing aromas, a welcoming menu. We order sandwiches for the thirty minute trip and soon are riding in comfort for the senior rate of $4.50 each way. Our watery transport across the Bay from Larkspur provides glassy views as the cityscape looms, bridges arch and an azure sky portends a sublime day.

With dangly silver dragonfly earrings, the age-compatible lady projects an artistic flare as she inquires if we are natives. Though residing elsewhere, perhaps we can assist her. This fellow traveler wants to purchase an all-day bus pass and is uncertain where to find the nearest Muni stop. We lack that information and so the conversation evolves as we discuss where we do live. She's from Portland, having driven down to visit a friend in the area. We quickly extoll the many virtues of that northwest city, most particularly two special people who call it home. Upon learning that we're long-time Palm Springs residents, she's exuberant about our desert town. For two months each year it is her home, timed to coincide with the Film Festival and Modernism Week activities.

Too soon, the journey ends at the Embarcadero and we begin walking toward Union Square. Our last visit to San Francisco was in December 2004 but the unique allure of the city holds very special memories for us. However, we have forgotten just how far we are from our destination. Almost three (gulp) miles later, we're turning onto Powell Street, buoyed by the singular beauty of a late October afternoon. In my purse, there's a list of 'wants,' provided by our daughter. My mission is to visit the newly open Uniqlo store and purchase as many of the items as possible. The popularity of this Japan-based emporium is impressive. Customers crowd the three floors, ogling piles of merchandise. Traipsing from one display to another, I consult my list guide but am able to locate only a few of the desired items. On-line seems like a much better way to shop successfully.

Henry's off to the Mint and I have a couple of hours to explore a massive shopping center. A favorite space, I'm familiar with the range of stores and can maneuver through easily. Later we reconnect and, laden with shopping bags, turn toward the distant ferry terminal. I'm so grateful for Henry's suggestion that I wear my Sauconys to traverse the city.

Energy depleted, we devour a delectable grilled cheese sandwich from Cowgirl Creamery before boarding the ferry back to Larkspur. The return trip is just as spectacular, but this time it's crowded with passengers traveling home at the end of the work day. Our hotel is about three hundred yards from the dock, a leisurely stroll.

In the evening, we search for food and are quite content with the menu at The Counter, having eaten at their Times Square location in May. Leaving the restaurant, we chance upon a gigantic turkey. This bird is inanimate but its purpose is noble. Climb a few stairs, open a hatch and place canned goods inside to be distributed to needy families in time for Thanksgiving.

On Saturday, we're spending the day with soccer. Many matches, actually. Our second grade great-niece, Brooke, is smartly dressed in her team uniform. Pony-tailed seven year olds, with the exception of Eliza whose dark Dutch bob sets her apart, dash around the field. Their eyes are mostly on the ball and some demonstrate budding athletic skills. All are having fun. Parents, grandparents, siblings, and at least one great-uncle and aunt, cheer. The Sharks win every match despite having so few players that there are no substitutes available.

In the early afternoon, we're at yet another field. This time we're supporting fourth graders with great-niece, Drew, as a team member and nephew, Keith, an Assistant Coach. Also named Sharks, these girls are a bit more sophisticated, better attuned to the nuances of the game given their additional years of play. Ponytails prevail, hair is somewhat longer, bodies have grown significantly. Enough players are present to allow much needed frequent substitutions. Given that these girls already played in the morning, it's amazing that their energy level remains so high. The field appears vast and I'm sure I couldn't run from one to the other even once. But then, fourth grade for me was a long, long time ago. Several of the parents of the second grade Sharks also have girls on this team. The match ends with a tie. Exhausted girls have satisfied smiles.

The sports marathon continues as families, all with girl children, gather at the Stimsons' home to root for the San Francisco Giants. With stunning bay views as a backdrop, guests wander inside and out.

The downstairs playroom buzzes with residual adrenalin and this creative collection of friends is soon presenting skits in front of the adults during commercial breaks. Henry shares his paper airplane prowess with the group. I engage little Eliza in conversation covering topics such as favorite foods (She inquires, "Do you like broccolini?") and the difficulty of playing soccer with short hair.

There's a new resident named Fender. A rescue kitty, this feline is a perfect pet. She accepts endless cuddling, explores the house with boundless curiosity, and projects a people friendly personality.

I, who generally disdain cats of any kind, find Fender appealing. She, not intentionally, causes me to experience a near asthma attack which I forestall with antihistamines. We're friends from afar.

Our final day could include more soccer but we choose a leisurely lunch in the bright sunshine. While I'm checking on the order, two ladies approach our table and ask if they can share our shade. I return to find them engaged in a financial discussion with Henry. One is a local and the other lives in Fresno. Muni bonds, Treasury notes, stock (frowned upon at this house), 401Ks are considered in depth. They take notes on napkins and ask informed questions. I nibble on my tuna melt, drink more iced tea and return to the bakery for a scrumptious hazelnut croissant. This discourse is very familiar. I'm always impressed with Henry's financial acumen and his ability to transmit his knowledge to others.

Keith and Henry want to look at houses for sale in the area. Alisa has a tennis match. I'm happy to remain in the house with the girls and several of their friends. My allergic reaction to Fender has mostly dissipated and I watch bemusedly as she tries to participate in the kids' game of hide and seek.

The house hunt continues with several new possibilities. Such a life-altering decision with so many factors to consider. Exhilarating and intimidating at the same time. The family will find its new home where memories will be stored for everyone. With so many friends and a stellar school system, this is a good place to reside.

Six of us share dinner, glimpse a bit of the final Giants game, and talk about the next time we'll be together. Spring in the desert has become a Stimson family tradition that all of us are eager to maintain. Perhaps we'll add San Francisco to our annual travels.