Classy Mates/Sunshine State

Our couple vocabulary now includes the phrase "Remember Miami." These words are not meant to be a tribute but rather to provide some semblance of solace when travel becomes annoying, frustrating, or exhausting. Yes, we have found the nadir (or so we hope) of airports. It is located in a physically beautiful part of the country, especially desirable during cold winter months. We, too, enjoy Miami but in the future will likely find alternative destinations when traveling to south Florida.

In 1996 we flew to the area with me recovering from a broken kneecap, wearing a removable cast and walking gingerly with a cane.

A few days into our visit, Henry's battling a nasty upper respiratory infection. Though it was December, we experienced primarily cold days and relentless rain.

Those memories recede significantly when compared with this year's experience at MIA. The terminal is poorly designed with gates positioned far from the baggage claim area and even further from car rental lots. We certainly recognize our senior status but having spryly triumphed earlier this year on a spirited trip across Europe, there's little doubt about our energy level. After nearly an hour of attempting to master the intricacies of Miami International, we gratefully settle into our black Impala, turn on our GPS and head north on the Interstate. No need to ponder the difficulty of returning the car in a week and then trying to locate our departure gate.

On a warm and humid Florida night in September, the Turnberry Isle Resort is a splendid oasis replete with abundant tropical foliage. The multicultural staff epitomizes the very best in customer service and quite soon we are shown to spacious accommodations.

The next day we join two special people who've known Henry much of his life as we watch the Marlins baseball team flounder in their magnificent new (nearly empty) ball park.

Classmates in Westchester County, New York decades ago, the trio exhibits a collective youthful spirit, an abiding passion for all things political, and an absolute devotion to family and friends. I've been lucky enough to include Bill and Sue in my own life in recent years. Each time we are together, I am more impressed by their thoughtful generosity, consistent ability to triumph over adversity, and very evident wit and wisdom.

The days that follow are a congenial mixture of conversation, dining, and shopping. We gaze in wonder as Bill shares his latest hobby, the crafting of artful walking sticks from found wood. With his own Native American heritage as a template, he's creating impressive works that have a timeless quality. A published author, outstanding high school teacher and counselor to troubled youth, Bill has impacted the lives of countless young people. He's persistently modest about his accomplishments but get him talking about some of his 'kids' and the pride he exhibits is palatable.

Sue is an Earth Mother with panache. She's a lady who embraces bling whether associated with clothing or accessories. Maybe even both. Sue's interior decorating skills are a manifestation of her charming personality. Her absolute commitment to feral cats keeps her busy with efforts to neuter and feed the many felines that roam the nearby beaches. Deeply involved in fund-raising efforts for this cause, she's constantly planning events, storing donations and staying in touch with like minded associates. Entering her home is like being transported backwards to a time when food and fellowship were hallmarks of living.

Across Alligator Alley, heading toward Tampa, we're disappointed that not a single reptile is spotted behind the tall wire fences alongside the highway. In previous years, we've seen alligators of varying sizes lounging near the waterway, perhaps curious about us as we whizz past.

We're happy to traverse the architecturally interesting Sunshine Bridge near the end of our journey.

I've often wondered why there are not more hotels sharing space with major shopping malls. Such a juxtaposition seems so obvious. Well, somebody capitalized on that idea when selecting a location for Tampa's Renaissance Hotel. I'm elated. This may be nirvana. There's not much time to wander the extensive mall before we must leave for a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game but I'm quite satisfied with a quick survey of the stores.

Watching the Rays play the Texas Rangers is a totally different experience from the ball game a few days earlier. These teams are contenders. Excited fans arrive in colorful regalia, ready to cheer. Sitting near the ball field, we soon recall the game a few years ago in this very location during which I barely missed being beaned by an errant ball. Munching on a slightly mediocre Cuban sandwich, I'm certain there'll be no repeat incident.

The next day we attend the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' season opening game in which they're hosting the Carolina Cougars. (It is much more relaxing to attend ball games when your favorite team isn't playing and the final score matters very little.) With thunder, lightning and rain predicted during the game, I've brought along two umbrellas. As we park the car, I glance at a rather long list of "Fan Behaviors" that is given to each driver. Yikes. No umbrellas allowed. Towels aren't prohibited so I stuff one, purloined from the hotel and returned promptly,in a nylon bag as we walk toward the stadium.

We're hours early for the mid-afternoon kick-off and are able to observe the near frenzy of the hometown crowd as the stands morph into an almost uninterrupted wash of red clothing, hats, banners, and beads. Here and there, a few brave Carolina fans proudly display their team colors. One young man has a cougar painted on the back of his scalp.

Security is very serious throughout the stadium and it almost seems as if the TSA folks are lurking nearby. Fan deportment has deteriorated significantly across the country and new rules seem increasingly ineffective in reversing this frightening trend. Though we witness no fights, we certainly were subjected to crude language,(directed toward the opposing team but also including unsavory remarks about the home team's cheerleaders), exceedingly loud voices and nearly drunk fans.

Combining tradition with theatricality, the game is a show, a spectacle. As the ball advances down the field, the huge pirate ship's cannons boom.

Plumes of smoke accompany the Bucs as they race out to greet their jubilant fans. There's a carnival atmosphere and the heat, humidity and menacing clouds are ignored in the quest for early glory.

The much touted Cam Newton, Cougars quarterback, warms up beautifully, performs pitifully. Bucs fans taunt him and rejoice in his inability to lead his team effectively.

Sweltering and slightly sunburned from the intensive UV rays, we hear ominous thunder that is not more than a mile distant. It's halftime and the players have already left the field. Soon there's an announcement to vacate the stadium immediately. Then it begins to rain heavily. For twenty minutes, we huddle under the soon soaked towel as we slowly make our way to shelter. The game's already very one sided and we're not invested in the outcome. It's time for us to exit.

In seven days, we explored south Florida, traveled to Tampa (post Republican Convention and Isaac's brief visit), saw three ball games, shopped successfully, slept in ample beds, and relished many hours with cherished friends.

I observed my very first white rabbit (enormous in size) being paraded through a high end mall in a baby carriage. (His/her name was 'Fluffy.') The pure joy of gelato became a minor obsession as we tasted flavors ranging from coconut to wild berry and hazelnut to delectable chocolate.

We ate pizza on the beach with waves just beyond our shoulders and then walked to an outdoor concert where music washed away the years and for just a little while, we were much younger. Sometimes sunshine seems so right.

Grocery Stories

We bought a lot. Not the one he wanted, wrapped with mountain views in a nearly windless location. He gracefully acceded to my illogical desire for proximity to....a grocery store. So, our family home was built in a neighborhood where I could stand in the street and see my favorite market just two blocks to the south. Never would I have imagined the abandoned building which occupies that space today.

I have a penchant for grocery stores. I find them fascinating and endlessly worth exploring. Size doesn't matter but cleanliness, friendly staff, and quality products entice me inside. I frequent food markets when I travel and visit local outlets multiple times a week.

When we moved here in 1977, I met a lovely grandmother at a grocery store check-out counter. With her was a young boy just the age of my son. The six year olds became friends quickly and the two families spent many happy times together in the years that followed. Tales from the aisles are worth remembering.

In my hometown, there were at least three grocery stores. Residents rarely drifted from one to the other. In most cases, the choice was dictated by where a person lived, but occasionally customers ventured into other parts of town searching for better bargains, more selections. Stores weren't open on Sundays or late at night. Shoppers were nearly always women, most of them were stay-at-home moms.

My own mother could have shopped at any of the trio of markets since we lived in the country, far from all stores. I cannot remember her ever venturing into the large A & P or the compact Piggy Wiggly. Her consistent destination was the Jitney Jungle. Because we grew our own vegetables and a variety of fruit, those items weren't on her list. Also, cows, chickens, pigs and sheep were slaughtered on the farm and we visited the local cold storage facility to retrieve packages of meat when our freezer needed replenishing. Eggs and milk were also plentiful at home.

What I do recall being placed in our cart was bread. You could select any variety as long as it was white. The days of multi-grain, whole wheat, pumpernickel or any other exotic flour were far into the future. With the Holsum Bakery making fresh bread and rolls at a factory right in town, there was no expectation (or awareness) of what we might be missing. We bought peanut butter, canned spaghetti and meatballs, pizza mix, tea bags, chocolate syrup, condiments (especially mayonnaise) and paper products. Mother paid in cash or with a check, signed by Daddy beforehand. No identification needed, of course. The groceries were placed in paper bags by a clerk who then wheeled our cart to the car and set our purchases safely in the trunk.

I don't think my mother dispatched me or my brother to the grocery store very often. I know I never paid much attention to the way she shopped except to note brands which, in some cases, I still select all these years later. Moving to Arizona as a young adult and finding myself responsible for grocery shopping provided an instant education. Living in a much bigger city offered many more choices in stores as well as the products they sold. In the 60's, I was a faithful customer at A.J. Bayless, a local Phoenix chain. I distinctly recall that my weekly grocery bill, including all those items my mother rarely had to buy, was approximately $20...for two. Bread was stocked in great variety and I quickly embraced the available diversity. My eating habits in those days could not be described as healthy and the grocery cart contained plenty of red meat, few greens and definitely whole milk.



While in high school, Henry worked at Daitch Shopwell, a New York grocery chain. He began with a moderate number of hours per week and before graduating was working full-time. As a teen-ager, he was promoted to Frozen Food Manager and for an additional twenty-five cents an hour, worked the night shift. How he was able to go to school much of the day and work all night remains an absolute mystery to me. He recalls those experiences very positively and remains especially proud of the money he was able to accumulate which significantly supported him in meeting financial obligations at the university he attended. I never tire of hearing about a truckload of ice cream being delivered to his store due to his naivete regarding the ordering process. Ever resourceful, Henry found enough space to sequester the voluminous cartons in store freezers. His 'mistake' became a boon when a sugar crisis spiked the cost of ice cream and his store was able to profit from their unusually large inventory. A classic memory.

I find that grocery stores help me to better understand the culture of places we visit. I observe the other shoppers, notice what is being bought, imagine the meals that will be prepared. I frequently engage in conversation with fellow shoppers, asking about a particular brand or whether something is as tasty as it looks. I'm very fond of miniscule spaces in Manhattan which stock essentials but also offer full service delis with fresh turkey, rare roast beef, ham and other meats in addition to already cooked entrees and a salad bar with too many tempting options. The fact that these small enterprises deliver to surrounding addresses until about three in the morning and stay open all night enhances their appeal.

European grocery stores vary widely from country to country. In London some years ago, I first encountered plastic bags at the check-out counter. I also learned that shopping carts were designed not to leave the store. If you tried to take the cart outside, the wheels locked. Shelves routinely abound with unfamiliar products that puzzle me. I'm naturally drawn to the unparalleled array of local breads, rolls, muffins, croissants and jams. I like these products far too much. In Brussels, we discovered a Manhattan-sized neighborhood grocery store replete with ready-to-heat soup, more marvelous bread, and puddings galore. The commodious shopping bag that I purchased, and still use, is thoughtfully designed with straps inside to hold bottles of wine.



In New York, I enjoy browsing at Turco's, located in Yorktown, where Henry spent much of his childhood. I've brought home multiple bottles filled with spices from that store. Turco's exhaustive deli is my idea of perfection.

Stew Leonard's in Danbury, Connecticut is legendary. Talking cows and other bits of whimsey decorate the cavernous space. Surely there is little that cannot be found at Stew's. The fun of wandering through the maze of aisles encourages customers to add many items not on their carefully composed lists. In the summer, there's a weekly bar-be-que adjacent to the store with picnic tables where customers dine comfortably.



On the west coast, I'm partial to New Seasons, a totally Portlandesque food emporium. The deli is first-rate and the bakery selections are worthy of European status. Though a bit more ordinary in its approach, I also like Lamb's Market in nearby Beaverton. Catering to a suburban crowd, Lamb's features many local and regional products so popular with Oregonians.

Down in the South, my hometown grocery stores are gone. Today there is a Wal-Mart, which I dislike intensely. I fret about the grocery stores and other businesses whose existence ceases when Wal-Mart moves into an area. In addition to that philosophical concern, I do not find their merchandising methods welcoming nor their products appealing. An alternative is the local market where I once stood in line behind a gentleman whose sole purchases were a bottle of Pepto-Bismal and a glass jar of pickled pigs' feet. I've pondered whether he felt the need to have the first product handy in case there was an unpleasant reaction when he consumed the second.

In the desert, I've adjusted to the closing of Vons which flourished for so many years near our house. Now I am a faithful shopper at the Ralphs location in the south end of town. I prefer it to the other Ralphs which is closer to home. I can't say exactly why I feel so strongly except 'my' Ralphs just seems right. As a twice-a-week customer, sometimes even more often, my face is fairly familiar to many of the staff. When I approach the deli counter, one of the ladies will generally say, "Do you want your pound and a quarter, thinly sliced Boar's Head Low Sodium turkey?" "Yes, thank you." I will respond. I'm almost addicted to the Cranberry Wild Rice Salad, the Carrot Raisin Jicama Salad, and most particularly the Tuna Salad (made without mayo) and Honey Nut Chicken Salad. I have a favorite checker named Karla, routinely ask the fishmonger about the freshness of the salmon, and discuss produce with the manager of that department. Ralphs is a kind of home for me.

In the last year or so, I've also become a regular customer at Fresh & Easy.



Maybe I like it because of its British origins. Maybe it's because their own brands do not contain high fructose corn syrup, or preservatives of any kind. It could be that I'm captivated by the tasty and reasonable fresh entrees that are ready to be microwaved or frozen. I will admit that I'm having trouble staying away from the yummy breakfast scones, full of nuts and fruit. Also more calories than I should ingest, but healthy nonetheless...... There is also the factor that, although I can't actually see the store from the in front of my house, it is close enough for a walk during the less blistering months of the year.

In the 21st century, grocery stores have altered product lines and business techniques. Customers are invited to sign up for cards which offer instant discounts, receive coupons which reduce final bills and sometimes get lower prices at certain gas stations. Plastic bags are strongly discouraged, even banned in some cities. Recyclable bags last longer and champion the concept that the user is doing something positive for the environment. Credit or debit cards account for most grocery transactions with very few customers using cash or writing a check. We've become accustomed to emptying our own carts and placing items on the conveyer belt. At Fresh & Easy, there are no clerks totaling purchases. The customer does the scanning and bags his/her items. Occasionally, there's bagging assistance from store personnel. Either method works just fine.

In late summer 2012, my grocery carts are lighter, though the bill is many times what I spent 40-something years ago. Not that there are fewer items, but the food is healthier. Beef is never selected. Turkey and chicken fill my freezer. We really enjoy turkey burgers (extra lean variety) and turkey sausage. Milk is always fat free. Meat loaf and meat balls are made with egg whites only. Spinach is a staple for me. Tomatoes reside on my counter. Broccoli, asparagus and zucchini are stored in the fridge. Yogurt claims a whole shelf in the refrigerator door. Bread and rolls are always multi-grain or whole wheat, as are tortillas. Chicken stock, used constantly, is 100% fat-free. Sauces are made with stock, lemon juice, honey and herbs. Watermelon, grapes, and bananas are favorite fruits. Oatmeal is a preferred snack. Desserts do appear, especially when there are guests in the house. (How can a Lemon Apricot Cake hurt anyone?)



Grocery stores rarely fail to provide me with moments of reflection and stories to savor.

Hot Blocks

I've been hot my whole life. Not hot like Jake Gyllenhaal or Salma Hayek, but temperature wise. Growing up in Mississippi where little was air-conditioned and heat combined with oppressive humidity wilted even the most stalwart, I longed for milder climes. The fact that I've lived in the desert since 1965 says something about my fate.

On a recent Saturday, wandering the streets of Manhattan required the coolest of clothes as nearly hundred degree temperatures mixed manically with heinous humidity. Add impossibly tall buildings surrounded by endless concrete and most humans wither quickly. Despite these weather-induced challenges, the three of us welcome a day together.

Still somewhat fatigued from the previous night's birthday celebration as well as a modicum of jet lag, we'd set our ambitious agenda and were determined to enjoy it fully. First, the rental car is sequestered in a Hertz lot at 64th and 2nd. Very handy, given that one of Caitlin's favorite restaurants is a mere 10 or so blocks away. We walk, talk, reminisce about Carol's party. I don't think we realized how warm it was until we reached our destination.



EJ's is famous for its breakfast menu. So many choices are offered that making a final decision is really difficult. An egg white omelet? Regular omelet with feta, spinach and tomatoes? Challah toast? You bet. Multiple glasses of iced tea. A burger for Henry. If we lived nearby, we'd eat here often.



Now we are more than 20 blocks away from the theater where we'll be seeing a matinee performance of "Once." We start walking in that direction but soon realize that time and temperature are conspiring against this endeavor. A taxi whisks us to the Times Square area and provides a few minutes of much appreciated cool bliss.



Once is a new production which garnered multiple Tony Awards this year. Based on the movie of the same name, it traces the true story of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova and their musical collaboration in Dublin. Inside the theater, we are intrigued by the lack of a curtain as well as the functioning bar on stage. Audience members freely climb the steps, walk to the bar and order drinks. Soon a group of musicians appears, people move to the side of the stage, and the theater resonates with Irish sounds. Though we've seen countless plays, this one is definitely unique in its remarkable creativity.

With no disruption at all, the musical begins. We learn quickly that the on-stage musicians are actually members of the cast. The main characters mingle, speak their lines, play the guitar or piano, sing their songs.

There's an iconic scene from a famous television show in which Lou Grant (Ed Asner) says to Mary Richards (Mary Tyler Moore), "You've got spunk." She smiles that toothy smile. Lou finishes his thought, "I hate spunk." Well, believe me, Lou's character would have hated Ivanka, the female lead in "Once." She is spirited, resolute, supportive, and above all, supremely talented. Maybe Mr. Grant would have actually embraced her after all.

Ivanka reminds us of our new friend, and fellow Czech countrywoman, Vladka. She, too, combines those characteristics attributed to the musically-minded Ivanka. Perhaps it's a Czech thing.

Our first-row mezzanine seats offer an excellent view of the stage. During intermission, the bar is open again and thirsty patrons mingle where cast members
stood moments earlier. We're more enchanted with the play and its presentation than Caitlin but she enjoys the experience nevertheless. Beginning when she was just six and we sat in stage seats at a performance of Cats, she's been a devoted Broadway fan. An important legacy in her life.

By 4:30, the play has ended but the teeming streets are not much more inviting.
We detour to TKTS and with no lines at all, walk away with two tickets for the evening's performance of Nice Work If You Can Get It. Yes, we overdose on Broadway whenever possible.

Off to New York Public Library, we connect with Caitlin's "bestie," Weatherly. Confirming their schedule for later in the day, there's just enough time for a taxi to the stored car, retrieval of her all-purpose traveling bag, and another taxi back to the vicinity of NYPL. Hugs and she's gone.

Deli sandwiches (the very best anywhere are found in New York) sustain us through the hot,crowded streets to our second play of the day. We're excited about seeing the ever-adorable Matthew Broderick and his leading lady, the supremely talented, Kelli O'Hara. With music and lyrics by George and Ira Gershwin, we know we'll be exceedingly entertained. An added bonus is the opportunity to see Estelle Parsons, famous for her role in the classic film, Bonnie and Clyde, as Broderick's character's mother.



The story is....stupid. Quite common for a certain genre of musicals. We're unfazed and chuckle at many of the antics and inane dialogue. Matthew Broderick delivers his lines with polished comedic timing. His shock of black hair behaves independently, enhancing his considerable charm. Kelli O'Hara, tall and slim, belts out her songs and is remindful of a glamorized Ethel Merman. It's a loose, light play, laced with timeless music, written by the master, Mr. Gershwin.

We scoot out of the theater while the talented cast is still bowing. The staff at the Hertz garage goes home for the night very soon and we can't chance having our rental car unavailable for the trip back to our hotel. Yet another taxi transports us to 64th Street. The late night crew seems happy to see us and the congenial employee who drives our car to the exit offers to park it across the street while we scour for a midnight snack. Because we're in Manhattan, food is never far away and restaurants stay open until the wee hours.

Hale and Hearty looks appealing. Henry's traditional turkey/swiss/honey mustard/whole wheat is prepared quickly. I'm weak from coping with the heat and succumb to a rather unseemly-sized slice of chocolate cake. Select a second for my equally famished husband.

Supremely comfortable in our air-conditioned vehicle, the miles to White Plains pass easily. No longer one bit hot, I devour my cake reward when we're in our hotel room and sleep with musical notes accompanying my dreams.

Patterson Party

She's not the kind of person who enjoys a fuss, especially when it's all about her. We didn't listen to her cogent comments and instead chose to ignore her desire to let the special day pass without commemoration.

Sometime in early May, niece Diane sends a broadcast e-mail, announcing a party to which we'd been invited. The date had been set, the location easy....the family home. Diane's mom won't know and thus can't object. The surprise will surely erase any reluctance to celebrate grandly.

During the period prior July 6th, family and friends from around the country selected flights, made hotel reservations, pondered outfits (some of us did) and consciously avoided accidentally indicating that we'd see her soon. In the same time frame, her sweet husband bravely endured his fourth ankle surgery and settled in for a multiple month recovery. Perhaps she was right in insisting that her birthday be eschewed. Her supportive caregiver role required total commitment. Still, we blithely overlooked her wishes.

Diane, ever awesome, handles the complex party logistics with absolute aplomb. Though two jobs absorb nearly all her waking hours, she has somehow found the energy and determination to also enroll in a rigorous week-end culinary school. Adding to this relentless schedule a spectacular party for her mother attests to Diane's limitless love and devotion.

E-mails update everyone as the weeks dwindle, the New York temperature rises to uncomfortable levels, and suitcases are filled for journeys of various lengths. Deftly combining scattered family members with friends from near and far, the guest list focuses on those people whom the honoree cherishes the most. Not one person said 'no' to the invitation. Each felt honored to be included and could not wait to shout 'Surprise!'

On the appointed day, friend Rosie, coincidentally in town from North Carolina, whisked birthday girl Carol away for a shopping jaunt to a favorite hamlet. During the afternoon, the ever thoughtful, soon-to-be-astonished Carol called home several times with suggestions for dinner. Diane firmly dissuades her from getting pizza or anything else. It isn't easy.



As Steve sits immobilized by his recuperating ankle, the house surges with guests.



From Colorado came sister Flory, recently evacuated from her home due to monstrous wildfires. Nephew David flies in from Washington, D.C.



From Oregon, long-time school friend Marina.



From Florida, venerable Aunt Dorothy, hair beautifully coiffed and dressed perfectly in white. Her son, Carol's first cousin Mark, drives from New Jersey.



Niece Caitlin, animated despite a red eye flight from Portland, is delighted to attend. The California contingent: Henry and myself plus Carol's son Keith, his wife, Alisa and daughters Drew and Brooke.



Rosie and husband, Ray, up from North Carolina.



Local friends, most of whom we knew only from their names having been mentioned through the years, mix easily with family members. Chatting, sipping liquids constantly in an effort to withstand the unpleasant weather, we wait impatiently. Finally, we're rewarded. She's downstairs, headed our way. As she reaches the landing, Carol realizes she's been tricked. Her first words are, "I hope the toilets are clean." (They are spotless.) She smiles graciously and ascends.



The party begins.

Thus unfolds an evening that will always resonate joyfully in the guests' memories.
Henry sits with his Aunt Dorothy whom he hasn't seen in many years. He hands her a brittle, yellowed letter. It is something she hasn't seen in 65 years. A charming note which Dorothy wrote to Henry's mom, her sister Sylvia, in the hospital just after Henry's birth. The letter will go to live in Oregon with Caitlin. A special family legacy.



Cousins converse, adroitly transcending decades and distance. They're drawn together by common ancestors, shared snippets of lives lived apart.




Carol happily hugs all assembled, pausing to speak a few words to each person.

Meanwhile, the dining room table is laden with Italian specialties, cold cuts from Sauro's deli, cheeses, fruit, olives and more. Plates are carefully balanced on knees, placed on tables, quickly emptied and then a bit more food selected.



Caitlin's a temporary bartender, dispensing white and red wines.



Diane never pauses as she continues to bring an endless array of food from the kitchen and yet somehow neglects to eat anything herself. Her smile is radiant. She knows instinctively that she's created a miraculous event. We are so terribly proud of her. Her parents glow with good reason.



Employing her culinary expertise, Diane creates decadent desserts. She could open a restaurant and be assured that everyone at the party would be instant customers.



Sometime after dinner is finished, the youngest guests play catch in the spacious backyard.



Wandering out to the deck, I see our great-niece, Brooke, standing at the top of the stairs. I gently suggest she join her contemporaries in the yard. She demurs and confesses softly that, though she was once shown how to throw a spiral, she doesn't remember the details. I tell her to wait right there. Inside, I locate Henry and apprise him of the situation. He'll gladly serve as the temporary coach. In a very few minutes, Brooke has learned the spiral technique and is throwing hard. She's a natural athlete.



Silly putty hasn't lost its appeal and youngsters of all ages squish the goo into newspapers to make patterns or create long strings of pink. Multi-generational fun.



Seeing Henry and his two sisters together is such a treat. Their shared childhood evokes many stories and much laughter. I think about their parents, Murry and Sylvia, and imagine that somewhere they are smiling as they observe this special night.

We realize that the hours are precious, that almost certainly this whole group of people will not ever be together again. The Kaner and Weiss descendants congregate on the porch, creating a photo for posterity.



Several of us vainly attempt to capture all the guests in one people-packed photo. We settle for several views.



For more than a few, the hours are especially poignant. I, for one, am so grateful that we've assembled to celebrate Carol and not because a loved one has been lost. I'm also reminded that upon marrying Henry, I gained a new family that embraced me totally from the onset, deep Southern roots notwithstanding. A unique and special group of individuals who have enriched my life, added immeasurably to my years and loved me without restraint. As someone who places the highest value on family and truly cannot count all her cousins, I'm profoundly privileged to be 'married-in.'

The party in Patterson owes its genesis, as well as its genius, to niece Diane. We celebrate her with love.

Missing Carol's extraordinary zero birthday celebration would have been unthinkable. I believe she feels the same way.