Back Room School

No photos of that day exist or at least, none that I've ever seen. Her dress remains a mystery although I can imagine it must have contained lots of lace, some satin, maybe a bit of beading. Once, too many years in the past, she took a box from the bottom of her armoire and gently lifted its lid. Nestled inside were pale ivory peau de soie shoes, barely worn. With French heels, discreet straps that fastened onto pearl buttons, and a rounded toe, they looked quite comfortable. Definitely stylish. For someone with the same size foot, these shoes could transcend decades or even a century plus. How I wish I had said I wanted the special footwear. Would she have parted with them immediately or said a daughter deserved their legacy, not someone from the next generation? I never saw the box or its contents again. When we lost her, inheriting her possessions became the purview of seven siblings.



Marrying on Valentine's Day reflects romance. Was the 14th chosen with emotion in mind or did it simply fall on a convenient day of the week in 1898? Already in their late twenties, the bride and groom might have been considered 'old' for their era.

They moved into a farmhouse perched on a slight knoll. Behind the site lay approximately 165 acres. Land marked by deep kudzu filled bayous, pastures bordered by thick forests, small hills sloping down to muddy ponds. Twenty additional acres across the narrow dirt road contained a sharp abyss covered in tangled foliage.

The land linked him to family four generations in the past, having been part of a Spanish grant in the 1780's. He bought it from a distant cousin and brought his bride there to begin a life together.

Rural and rustic with basic rooms, high ceilings, abundant windows and the blessed shade provided by ancient pecan trees, the house mirrored not the expansive home situated on the adjoining property but a much more functional style. Modest in its construction, nearly devoid of detail except for simple carvings around the front porch posts, the dwelling perfectly suited its setting.

Four large rooms were bifurcated by an ample hallway which ran the length of the center of the house. Its width measured approximately ten feet and easily accommodated many pieces of furniture and other accoutrements. An eat-in kitchen and adjacent pantry completed the space. At some time in the future, one room morphed into a bathroom. With intermittent running water, its usage was often precarious and unpredictable.

As the twosome expanded to include seven children, the necessity of more living space became paramount. In addition to gardens, livestock, fowl, horses and mules, the farm yielded revenue with its dairy. More income was desperately needed and fortunately in the early years of the twentieth century, the situation was eased when he became the local schoolmaster. Conveniently, the school district built a structure on the property across from the house.

When the teaching days ended, the building became surplus property and was offered to the family. Moving it must have been quite an undertaking. I can imagine that horses and many men were involved in that process. The rectangular shaped room was attached to the existing house. Its connection was not exactly precise and the whole room listed a bit to the west. I felt that the imperfection gave the room character.

I never met my Papa, the schoolmaster, as he died seven years before I was born. I failed to ask Granny about the room and its unusual origins. I always knew that it had been a schoolhouse even though my family referred to it as the 'junk' room or the 'back' room.

Two doors provided access. One opened from the screened-in back porch. The other provided entry into the pantry. Three sides of the room contained two large windows each. It was possible to stand at the end of the room and gaze beyond the first pond into the surrounding pasture. A scene of gentle tranquility. Looking toward the west, a huge chicken house anchored the grassy plot. Just beyond, a once red, but now weathered to rust, barn reached two stories with its hayloft overlooking a silent silo.



As I reached my teen years, Daddy decided I needed my own space for entertaining my friends. I must have strongly encouraged him towards this decision. The room was cleared of its accumulated debris and modernized into early '60's chic. Along one wall, a storage bench was built. It could serve as a seating area or place to house games and other party necessities. The walls received the requisite pine paneling, the floor's original oak planks were soon hidden behind what was, in retrospect, truly hideous brown speckled tile.

Near the pantry door there was room for a Hi-fi. My record collection included Elvis, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, The Kingston Trio, Duane Eddy and so many more. A set of bookshelves was built into the corner. Between the west windows, a faux fireplace with gas log promised warmth on winter nights. Cut into another wall, a room air conditioner helped erase humidity and seasonal heat.



Only Early American furniture would adorn this room. A brown muddled fabric, soft to the touch, covered the couch. The comfortable side chair featured a dark green version of this pattern. Tables were topped with matching lamps which today might cause endless smiles for seekers of '60's styles.

I loved every single inch of the room. I filled it with friends and even spent some evenings there with a boyfriend or two. I don't know that my younger brother ever enjoyed the room as much as I did. Once I moved away, it reverted to the previous status of 'junk' room. My parents moved the furniture to the hall, replacing older pieces as necessary.

The house is no longer ours but the room remains mine, safely ensconsed in memory. Occasionally I visualize my Papa standing behind his desk, educating children in multiple grades simultaneously. I've been told that he was stern, perhaps overly so. That characteristic may account for the brevity of his assignment. I focus not on those factors but on the room's story. Though silent, it speaks loudly to me of family and tradition.

YPCO

Three choices loomed. One promised adventure (a far away job), another acceleration (summer school). The last (going home), and least desired, offered basic bleakness. I hoped for the first, would settle for the second, and dreaded the third.

As the next-to-last born first cousin, I was accustomed to hearing about what seemed like exotic opportunities enjoyed by the elders of my generation. The boy cousins' stories especially intrigued me. A couple of brothers captured my struggling self with tales of piloting historic buses over Glacier National Park's glorious Going to the Sun Road. How could a kid from my small town hope to experience such spaces? I was, after all, a girl. Just eighteen, finishing my freshman year at a state women's college. My world was little, very proscribed.


Yet something called to me from vistas I could only imagine. Maybe my future would unfurl in a place where summer snow is not uncommon and animals generally only encountered in zoos, roam freely.

By the time I reached the age eligibility for such exploration, the boy cousins had finished medical school. I had not forgotten the almost mythic stories of their past summers and set about to replicate their tales.

I really wanted to work in the same park they had chosen but decided to also seek an alternate, just in case. To secure a spot for me, my dear daddy called upon his first cousin, the Speaker of the House of Representatives in our state. He, in turn, asked a favor of the state's senior U.S. Senator. A letter of recommendation was crafted and sent along with my application. I really don't know if this support was truly necessary but it couldn't have hurt my chances.

I never received a reply from my favored site, but delighted in acceptance from the alternate. My destiny was thus determined. Hired as a checker/cashier, I'd receive room and board and $90 a month for a six-day week. If I stayed the whole summer, I'd collect a bonus which could be used to offset transportation costs.

Did it bother me that the journey of thousands of miles probably cost more than I would earn in three months? Not in the least. I was focused. Ready to escape my environment, to test myself in another setting without family or friends. Me, alone. A near grown-up. I was absolutely unafraid of what I might discover or who might discover me.

For months I updated my parents on my progress toward the summer sojourn. On the day they drove me to the train station and I was about to eagerly alight, my mother looked at me and said, "I never believed you would do it. I thought you were just talking." Not for a minute. I waved without wavering and boarded without regret.

Riding on the City of New Orleans, I looked forward. First stop, Chicago, where a close high school friend was ending his own freshman year at the University of Chicago. We spent the day together. I rode the El to his campus without pausing to think of potential danger. That night, I returned to the train station, found my sleeper on the Great Northern Railway, and bid adieu to all that I knew.

So began my Yellowstone National Park days. In many ways, those months marked my life indelibly. I learned a lot about myself and set the course that would bring me, through many meanderings, to the joyful life I embrace today.

We were all young. Even the people we considered 'old' were not. I was assigned the cafeteria at Fishing Bridge. My dorm room was perched atop a rustic lodge where workers and guests gathered on nippy nights. Girls from many states and a few foreign countries crowded our narrow halls. Some had recently graduated from high school and seemed overwhelmed by the absence of the familiar.


Guys lived in their own dorm a short distance away. Because of an overflow, a few had been assigned to nearly primitive cabins generally rented to visitors. Wandering at will among the cabins were rather formidable brown bears. They were so prolific that we quickly learned to basically ignore them and stay out of their way.

Whoever chose the uniforms for the cafeteria workers must have possessed a macabre sense of humor. The material was thin, flimsy rayon. Its surface featured puckers and not in a positive way. Down the front, a white piping lent an air of lightness to the dress. Short sleeves, buttons hidden behind the white placket, and a slight A-line shape did nothing to enhance the outfit. The color can only be described as awful, pale mustard. I remember that uniform needed extensive hemming. No petites in the inventory apparently. It fit loosely and looked comical. I wish I still had a photo of this unlovely frock. A somewhat perky apron and plain tennies completed the ensemble.

Standing at the cash register, I added up whatever choices had been placed on the customer's tray. The bill was given to the cashier who then asked for payment. To my right, there was a long row of steam tables with meat, vegetables, desserts, rolls. No plastic gloves anywhere. Sanitation was scant. After a few weeks, I could barely tolerate seeing and smelling the food day after day.

Customers were often in family groups, sometimes tired, occasionally difficult. We offered a service for those who caught rainbow trout in nearby Yellowstone Lake. The kitchen would prepare the fish and serve it to the guest for a small fee. I still recall the excellent flavor of this fish which also appeared regularly on the staff menus.

As young people do, alliances formed quickly. Boys met girls. Dates ensued. Romances blossomed, though few were permanent. In addition to those who worked for Yellowstone Park Company, another group toiled for Hamilton Stores. Those enterprises offered clothing, camping supplies, groceries and restaurants featuring soda fountains.



Company buses offered transportation throughout the park. Traveling to other sites was simple enough. I marveled at the magnificence of Old Faithful and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, walked carefully quite close to many geysers and hot pools, joined an excursion to the top of the highest point in the park, and ate my way from Canyon to West Thumb and Mammoth to Roosevelt. I reveled in light snow with my head protected by a pink plastic umbrella.


Bison moved in lumbering herds and seemed oblivious to passing cars and gawking tourists with cameras. Once, while exploring off the main road, a gigantic moose nearly collided with the hood of the car. It's difficult to say who was more startled. I often rode around the park with new friends and blithely stopped for bears. With Oreos in hand, we offered samples to these monstrous creatures. For fun, we'd drive to West Yellowstone late in the evening, park the car and watch grizzlies eat garbage. No fear fused through our minds. Did we feel invincible?


With only one free day a week but energy to spare, destinations outside the park beckoned. Over the circuitous road through Beartooth Pass, we exited to the east and visited Billings. I remember an almost empty theater where "The Parent Trap" was the feature. Down south to Teton National Park, a first attempt at sleeping outside at Gros Ventre Campground convinced me that I was not an outdoorsperson. The historical town of Cody offered a cute vaudeville show and huge, not so tender, steaks eaten at a rustic restaurant overlooking the frightening edge of a deep canyon.

Though my self-confidence was in its infancy, and I probably lacked any real courage, I must admit that several times I walked with a fellow female worker to the junction of the main road, stuck out my thumb and hitchhiked to another site within the park. The fact that these rides were totally uneventful must be attributed to simple luck. There is no other explanation, even in what seemed like halcyon days.

My favorite spot in the whole park was, and remains, the dining room at Lake Lodge. With an absolutely spectacular view of Lake Yellowstone, white tablecloth-covered tables, and college-age servers, it really didn't matter if the food were palatable. It was much more than that. I've rarely eaten more satisfying meals. In the background, young musicians played effortlessly and transformed the setting into the sublime.

In the decades since my park employment, I've returned multiple times to that place of astounding beauty. My husband and children agree that my assessment of Yellowstone is absolutely accurate. I've been pleased to observe that despite the years, increasing usage, and ravages of nature, the wonder has not diminished. Roads may be in need of repair, buildings have faded a bit or been razed. The college student workers continue the tradition of enthusiasm and energy. Yellowstone Park Company has been replaced by an absentee corporate landlord whose focus is finance not heritage. The park, however, still belongs to the people. May it ever be so.

As for me, I have only to look at this adorable face, and know that I found my future at Yellowstone National Park.

P.S. Love

Five years at most. That's what we said. After that, well, we weren't sure. Another place, another state, different careers. We were young thirty-somethings. Learning a life together, creating a future. He was undaunted, fearless. I was cautious, fearful. True I had abdicated my old self without regret. Friends and family members were stupefied and tried to stop me. I listened to no one but the voice inside that assured me I was right. And, of course, his voice.

So, we packed a U-Haul, a kid and two cars and crossed the desert to this place. Thirty-four years ago last month. So much for the five year residency. We've chosen to be here forever.

One of the statements I made early in our relationship centered on my hatred of heat. I declared that I'd move anywhere (almost anywhere) as long as it wasn't hotter than where I was already living. We moved. It is even hotter here. That's definitely not what I love about this location. I guess I could say it's what I loathe. Yet we're staying and I totally agree.

The other day I began thinking about why I do love this area. These thoughts emerged as the thermometer began its annual climb to frying numbers. I have somewhat adapted to the heat and know that it won't last forever. It will just seem that way. The absolute bliss of late fall, winter and spring will return to refresh my attitude and cool my soul. During those blissful months, I'll remark repeatedly that the day is glorious, the sky sublime, the air so dry the humidity can barely be measured. I'll be serene, suffused by temperatures that are simply perfect.

Until those favored days return, I shall focus on all there is to love about Palm Springs as it sizzles. My list includes:

.grey, purple mountains with smidges of green that provide a rocky barrier and signature landscape
.wide, clean streets made for walking or biking
.Spanish tiled roofs of houses old and new that herald a Southwest heritage
.seminal Mexican food at Las Casuelas, the original
.grilled shrimp tacos surrounded by chips (fries) that shouldn't, but will, be eaten at Fisherman's Market
.the deli crew at Ralph's who know I'll stop by at least twice a week for 1 1/4 pounds of Boar's Head low-sodium turkey, sliced extra thin
.whole wheat Omega-3 dinner rolls with flax seeds, adorned with oatmeal flakes from Aspen Mills Bakery
.orange and yellow lantana that relishes the heat and spreads across our xeriscape rock lawn
.our pool, complete with diving board and spa, which beckons the neighbor sisters and offers a wet escape in the evening when the water temperature approaches that of a tepid bath
.the convenience of an airport so close we could walk there, featuring desirable destinations and occasional reasonable fares
.wandering the aisles of the public library, searching for new titles as well as older tomes and trying not to lament how much it's changed since Henry retired
.leisurely lunches with sweet special friends--Lois, Denise, Josie, Susan
.non-blockbuster, but intellectually satisfying, movies at the Camelot Theater just down the street
.good enough, but not quite New York pizza, from Angelina's
.grilling turkey burgers and chicken on our patio
.driving down Palm Canyon with sparse traffic alongside me
.stopping at the Farmer's Market, relocated to the almost abandoned mall, and encountering the mother of Caitlin's very first friend from Kindergarten
.sharing these special places with family and friends who are astounded at the mountain vistas, the unique beauty of our desert and the hominess of our adopted town and who do not expire despite the temperatures
.the deep ripe orange of Mexican Bird of Paradise plants that languish in winter and thrive spectacularly in summer


Occasionally as we travel, people inquire about where we live. Most have heard of this place. Some have visited, though not in summer. Almost always there is astonishment that we are in residence year-round. Of course we are, this is home.


Yes, it is love, Palm Springs style. Even today when it's 118 degrees. I'll just concentrate on this photo.

Knowing Neighbors

June Cleaver did it in pearls and heels. If not, she surely considered it. Supping with folks who live near by. Not exactly a progressive dinner concept where each house hosts one course of the meal. This summer night, we're not moving from place to place but rather are collectively assembling food and friends at the house across the street.

Co-mingling favorite dishes is fun for everyone. We're a congenial group of three children and nine adults. Women vastly outnumber the men, but they can hold their own with this crowd. Rick will be the master grilling guy. He'll supervise burgers and salmon, as well as an array of fresh vegetables. The ladies will create a display of salads, condiments, rolls, and desserts. The little girls will do their part by swimming in the pool and entertaining the rest of us with an original impromptu theatrical production.

My contributions are two salads and two desserts. One dessert is a cheater. I bought a dense dark chocolate cake at Fresh & Easy. I believe the calories are oozing out of the container and I dare not lift the lid to investigate. The homemade confection represents a bit of brazen bravery. I'm testing a new recipe on these unsuspecting folks. The photo looks amazing, the directions aren't too difficult. Working my way through the various steps encompassed nearly two hours. Not the smartest decision on a broiling hot day. Who needs to use an oven when the whole desert is already one? I did it anyway. I may not confess as to the provenance of the dish. At least it will be pretty. Sometimes that's all that matters with food.



Wilting temperatures fade behind our glorious mountains and a welcome breeze causes people to stir. We can sit outside without losing consciousness. Perhaps it's because the pool exudes just the appropriate ambience and we all feel cooler even if we actually aren't.



Joining our beloved next door family is the new trio from Olympia. They aren't one bit bothered by the heat and see it as a welcome talisman to an endless winter in the northwest. Shorts predominate along with sleeveless shirts. The Bushes brought with them another Washington based couple, dear friends who've never been exposed to stifling desert heat. They are smiling, nonplussed by triple digits. One additional guest is also a neighbor. Kathleen is someone we've never met although we've noticed her walking past our house with an elegant pair of Airedales.

With no dinner hour established, there's time for talking, sharing life stories, and watching the girls frolic in the water. Each is a sprite, supremely at home in the blue-tinged liquid.



Three guys grill. There's a moment when an errant hamburger patty, perfectly cooked, slips between the bars and is lost and briefly lamented. Salmon's smoking and emits a tantalizing aroma. Grilled veggies look so good they could almost entice those who usually demur.



It's after eight when the meal is served. We're all hungry despite delicious appetizers nibbled the last several hours. Food totally tastes better consumed outdoors on a starry night. Sunshine is a distant memory. Tonight we're feasting without that burning light.

On a brief visit home to place remnants of a salad in our frig, I find Alex. She's devoured her favorite unturkey sandwich and is reading Tolkien. I insist that she join us and she does. Munching on fresh watermelon slices and plump strawberries from the farmer's market, she knows she's made a good decision.

Alex is a longtime friend of Caitlin's, born the very next day. I claim her as my second daughter. The one who is left-handed. Worn weary from another year immersed in her PhD program, she's elated to have survived (not unexpected by us) her oral exams. Now she'll focus on the dissertation process, graduation and a college faculty appointment somewhere. Our house is a haven where she is surrounded by quiet, fussed over endlessly, and completely at home. She is family, too.

The adults watch politely as the young ladies parade around the pool, declaring themselves 'zombies.' They make somewhat scary noises and regroup every few minutes to add another 'act' to their repertoire. Endlessly cute and creative, they inject zest into to our gathering, quite cool in their summer jammies.



By 10 p.m., the night is finished for us. We're grateful that our house is just across the street. A very satisfying social occasion. The Strawberry meringue vanished with accolades. Whew! It can appear again at some future gathering, I suppose.

The next day there's a large load of laundry that needs attention. Alex has several heavy coats used for camping in Idaho recently. They smell of campfires. She's depleted from too much sun and considers a snooze before driving to Los Angeles. I attend to the laundry and make sure that items which should not be dried are hung on the patio where the wetness evaporates almost instantly. It takes me only a few minutes to sort and fold the clean-smelling clothes once the dryer cycle is finished.

Alex awakens refreshed and is happily surprised by the neat piles on the breakfast bar. She says, "There's nothing better than taking a nap and finding out that your laundry has been folded." I smile. I'm a mom. It's what we do. No questions asked. I have a laundry thing anyway.



After nearly a quarter century at this house, knowing our neighbors is bliss. So is hosting favorite people.

Hot As Here

I first saw Phoenix through wilted eyes after a 23.5 hour drive from Yellowstone National Park. Actually, I was the passenger. Just eighteen, I lacked the personal strength to suspend the journey as I grew sicker by the mile. Traveling minus air conditioning only increased the misery.

Nearly five (!!!) decades later, we arrive in style. A mere four hours brings us east through desolate terrain but in absolute comfort. The capacious rental car is nearly new with just 700 miles accumulated. An impressively sized trunk awaits assorted shopping bags. No illness haunts this journey.

Camelback Inn is our destination. We've stayed there in the past and even when the temperature is intolerable, the resort's beauty and serenity surrounds its guests. Our room is spacious, nearly 600 square feet. In keeping with the southwestern theme, the color palette features bright orange, green, and yellow amply offset by the purest white linens. Enhancing the room is a tall ceiling complete with much appreciated fan and dark wooden beams. A foursome of glass blocks provides muted light for the bathtub. Our own patio beckons with its chaise, small table and dining chair. We'll be more than happy in this environment.


The long drive increases our hunger and we're soon in the covered parking lot of Scottsdale Fashion Square. Five Guys is a new addition to the food court and Henry can't resist. I'm content with a salad from Paradise Bakery. How long do I need? Hmmm. Don't be greedy. "A couple of hours, maybe 2 1/2?" Singular shopping. Heat is forgotten as I forage for bargains.

Henry visits his parents at their gravesite. The cemetery maintenance is impressive. Across the street is a casino. Within a very few minutes, he can't lose. A substantial jackpot appears on the video poker screen. It requires the assistance of a staff member. Bills are counted into Henry's hand. Blackjack is equally as remunerative. He's leaving. No reason to stay. He's already won and is happy to take the money elsewhere.

My luck isn't as impressive but after lingering far too long in Dillard's shoe department, I'm the new owner of dark chocolate sandals. I love this store and only wish there were locations closer to home.

We reconnect and I hear the exciting gambling story. Some of the stash has already bought adorable outfits for the neighbor girls. Our goal is to keep their closet current. Seeing them wear their gift clothes is such fun.

Driving toward Chandler, place names are familiar. Henry lived there in 1969 while he was in pilot's training school at Williams Air Force Base. A mighty young man, he fulfilled a lifetime goal of flying a jet. I've seen the small apartment near the base where he spent several months. We ponder whether we might have seen each other during that time. I lived in northeast Phoenix and worked in Scottsdale. Chandler is east of Phoenix. Maybe we passed each other in a department store. Nah. I would have noticed him for sure. We had seven more years to live before finally being in the same room simultaneously.

Investigating a new mall is fun for me. Henry is a wonderful partner who accepts this mania of mine. I think there's a Chick-fil-A to be found. I'm wrong. It's actually about a mile away. A couple of Nordstrom's purchases validates our visit to the Chandler location.

I'm thinking Southern and happily ingesting a grilled chicken sandwich, waffle fries (sorry Caitlin)and a side of delectable carrot-raisin salad. Surely someday an enterprising member of Chick-fil-A's team will decide our valley deserves its own branch.

In the restroom, I encounter a young mother and her two children. The little girl is a looker and a talker. She says to me, "How do you like my pretty pink bow?" Before I can answer, she continues, "I got my hair cut today. Isn't it pretty?" I mumble something quickly. I can tell she isn't finished. I'm kneeling now, looking into huge blue eyes. Her mother, holding her small son, is waiting patiently for the conversation to conclude. I have a feeling that happens often. I ask, "What's your name?" She replies, "Ella." That's a Foster family name I like very much. Her brother is Dylan. I inquire, "How old are you?" She answers quickly, "Four, and how old are you?" Her mother apologizes. No need. I don't believe I've ever been asked that question by such a precocious person. Ella is somebody sensational already.

Mid-morning Saturday we drive north to Kierland Commons. Most stores are still closed so we get a primo parking place with lots of shade. Worth being early for this prize in the desert. Walking a ways, we find a huge bookstore that is open for business. Henry discovers two fat music books to add to his collection. Some of the songs included are ones that he's been playing by ear for years. Now he will have the music and can reconcile the notes. He tells me that often sheet music is inaccurate in places.

Tall iced tea, fresh salad, and lemon chicken orzo soup sustain me. Henry's happy with his favorite turkey/swiss/honey mustard/wheat bread repast. I believe I have renewed energy for a bit more shopping.

On our way to an Arizona Diamondbacks baseball game, we drive through Tempe. Stopping in front of the Beck house, we're impressed with the care it's been given. This is where we left on a hot June day in 1977, moving to a new life in California. It's the house that Henry bought when he had no job, little savings, and a family. Most people would never attempt to get a mortgage, even a VA loan, under such circumstances. Henry is not most people. He got the loan and when his family changed and funds were needed to keep the house, he simply took in boarders. Proximity to Arizona State University enhanced the rental's appeal.

Brilliantly, the ball park has a retractable roof which is tightly closed. A very comfortable 79 degrees inside, I have no need for my sweater. We're immediately behind the D'Back's dugout, second row. Great perspective. One row back, a family of five sits. All blue-eyed, there are three blondes and two redheads. The older kids, maybe 6 and 4, have their own mitts. Hers is pink. The youngest child commandeers his sister's mitt after she catches a fly ball. Later in the game, a youngster in the next section who's already nabbed four balls, gives one to the little guy. He immediately throws it on to the field. His thinking process must have been that balls belonged there. Everyone laughs and he's not sure what he's done. The parents are supportive and don't chastise him for this game faux pas. He giggles, thinks he's fine. It's a moment that deserved to be on YouTube but is just a memory.


On the Jumbotron, there's a video from a few days ago of Commissioner Bud Selig naming a player drafted by the Diamondbacks. Immediately, on-site cameras point to a smiling blonde teen-ager seated two sections to our right. He stands, smiles even more, acknowledges the introduction. Just graduated from high school in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, his new status is professional baseball player. Seated next to the ebullient young man is his beaming mom. First a farm team and then, if he's truly gifted and amazingly lucky, he may someday play in this ball park. When I walk past him later, he seems dazed but permanently smiling.

Ball park food can be surprisingly pleasant or nearly wretched. We're not impressed with the selections and decide to try the traditional hot dog. Henry orders a large bottle of water and asks for a cup of ice. In the nicest language, the man behind the counter says he can't honor the request. No cup without buying a soda. Another worker, a lady, says she'll look in the back for a cup. "How much is a cup?" Henry inquires. "$4, with or without the soda." It is the cup that costs, the soda is negligible. This is crazy. We pay the $4 for a Pepsi cup.


I'm reminded of one of my favorite scenes from the classic film, "Five Easy Pieces." You know the one. It's a rainy northwest day at a diner. The hero wants toast. Plain toast. The waitress says they're not serving toast. He continues his quest. Finally, he orders again. The script goes something like this. "You have chicken salad sandwiches. I want one. Hold the lettuce. Hold the mayo. Hold the tomato. Hold the chicken salad. Toast the bread." He interjected a few other descriptors that I'll not repeat. If I remember right, the customer, portrayed with adroitness by a youthful Jack Nicholson, had to leave the restaurant toastless.

We have our cup. No Jack behavior exhibited.

The baseball game provides great entertainment, secluded from the sun. Driving back to the hotel, we're searching for food. It's Saturday night and people are taking advantage of the slightly cooler temperature. Serendipitously, Henry decides to check the menu and availability of take out from the Village Tavern. We've arrived after the dinner rush. Take out is no problem. The menu is tempting. A burger and grilled chicken bar-be-que sandwich will be packed for the short ride to Camelback Inn. Two cups of ice accompany the hot food. No charge.

The food is so good that we're adding this restaurant to our 'musts' for the next visit. The hotel room has perfect ambience for a late night meal. Afterwards, we get into our swimsuits and walk to the vast Jackrabbit Pool. In one corner there's a vacant spa. The water must be over 100 degrees so we stay only a short time. The addition of a group of twenty-somethings, completely well-behaved, makes for a crowded scene.


Sunday morning dawns hot but with a bit of a breeze. We're packed and ready to go home. Walking around the grounds, there are photos to capture of the extraordinary landscape. We're sensing the sun and soon heading west to our own desert.

Sunset Celebration

Closed shutters create a sense of calm and help to barricade the relentless sun. Inside, the table is festive with daisy napkin rings, the coolness of white placemats and six place settings awaiting our guests. The doorbell rings and the ladies have arrived. Soon the birthday boy will join us for pizza, a pedestrian salad of spinach and cherry tomatoes, and a tray of veggies surrounding creamy dip. Glasses have been properly iced. The girls prefer the metal ones that frost almost instantly and will be filled with diet Root Beer, the current beverage of choice. Two large pizzas from Angelina's are as near to New York as we can manage from 3000 miles away. Thin, nicely sauced, craftily cheesed. Sausage is a favorite topping for the Kindergarteners, so half of one pie is dotted with meat. The grown-ups are purists. Just cheese, please.




Finding forty is sometimes a shock. It does appear unheralded. One day you're twenty-one, then slip into thirty. There's hardly time to breathe and create a life when the next decade dawns.

Shawn's a special person. A superb husband, dad, and neighbor. His job is continually stressful and critical to the well-being of our country. Despite such monumental work responsibilities and a long commute, he remains jovial and totally engaged with his extraordinary family.



During dinner, I tell the girls that they won the 'parent lottery.' How clever of them to pick such splendid parents. Hanna responds, "We also won the next door neighbor lottery." I am silenced by such a statement.

Dinner disappears as conversations linger. We've forgotten the triple digit heat, the outside cares. It is our friendship that matters and the special man that we are honoring. Talk centers on the waning days of school and the much anticipated upcoming trip to England. In between, mutual dear friends will arrive in the desert and gatherings will ensue. We are surrounded by such caring people and we recognize the richness of their presence in our lives.

Chocolate birthday cake blends well with our Italian meal. Festive plates are scraped to extract the very last bit of crumbs and icing. No restaurant could be finer on this evening.



Two precious sisters tote gifts to the living room. They are smiling and can't wait for the opening process to begin. Their dad, the honoree, is equally gleeful. He smiles as each present is revealed. A fancy model of his special vehicle, the much loved Land Rover. A book which traces the history of this storied car. Also a new key chain to remind him of what he drives. A soccer ball for playing in his expansive back yard. To lighten the mood, there's a plastic snake as a reminiscent of a recent encounter during a desert hike with our nephew. Laughter erupts and the girls determine that the snake will be great as a pool toy.


Closing the night on a musical note, we adjourn to Henry's office. Hanna commands the keyboard and deftly plays a song. Jessy has the microphone and is the vocalist, emmitting a pure sound. Dad and Mom sit at the edge of the room and can barely contain their pride. Why should they? These girls are unique, talented, glorious incarnations of themselves. At one point, Jessy sits at the electric piano with its power turned off. Her fingers move lightly across the keys as she hums on perfect pitch. Music flows from each small frame and will be a part of Hanna and Jessy's lives as the years unfold. Mom Gilly, with her remarkable voice, leads the girls with assurance. These are special moments that someday will occupy space in the sisters' respective memories.


Being forty isn't bad at all. It is, in fact, time to soar. To realize all you've accomplished. To recognize those who love you without reservation. To acknowledge that the life you've chosen is incomparable and fabulously fulfilling.

We celebrate the gift of Shawn. Today and always.

Ball Fried

My athletic ability is akin to my math acuity. I have neither. Admiring those with either or both skills is a talent I do possess. Long ago when I was a student, physical education was a required course. Girls weren't expected to do much, however, and were actually limited to specific sports. No Little League teams vied for female members. Pop Warner shunned my gender and probably still retains that stance.

Each spring for a couple of years, I reluctantly played softball as part of my P.E. rotation. For all the times I came up to bat during those dreaded days, I actually hit the ball once. I was hopeless, the girl chosen last for every team. Being so physically inept really didn't bother me. I was much more interested in books than scores.

At our house, Yankees rule. The team, that is. In his youth, Henry saw the fabled team play many times. His younger years coincided with the best days of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris and others of similar stature. Once, he skipped school at Yorktown Heights High and went with a friend to Yankee Stadium on the first day that tickets were available for purchase. These somewhat naive teen-agers thought by getting to the box office so promptly they'd be able to buy excellent seats. Not so. This thwarted outing did nothing to diminish Henry's devotion to 'his' team.

I've become a Yankees fan by proxy. As a many generation Southerner, I see nothing quixotic about this affection. After all, I married a Yankee. Very happily.

Together we've watched the Yankees play in various ballparks around the country. Whether in the frigid enclosed Tampa Bay Rays' stadium or at the Seattle Mariners' usually super cool outdoor field, we've followed our team faithfully.

True fans visit the home turf and we've sat in the old Yankees' stadium as well as the new concrete prison like enclosure. I admit there's something magical about those spaces. We've even toured the now demolished stadium and sat in the storied dugout, imagining the legendary bodies that had crowded those benches in the past.

Twice we've driven to Anaheim to watch the Yankees play the Angels. Generally the stands are awash with bright red, an homage to the local team. This past Sunday, we noticed nearly as many people in the traditional navy hue so familiar to Yankees fans.

Traveling from the desert in June is generally a delight. Almost anywhere is cooler. Checking weather predictions, I smiled at the projected numbers. Sitting outside all afternoon in 70 degree weather would surely be a respite from our much warmer days.

Was I wrong!!! Though the official temperature was a balmy 77, I can attest that inside the concrete oven of a stadium, it was at least 15 degrees warmer. Thankfully, Henry had his '#1 Dad' baseball cap. It saved his scalp. He also chose to wear a light cotton jacket throughout the game, despite the discomfort. Thus, he saved his arms from toasting.

I, believing that suncreen could save me, failed to bring a hat to the game. Not a good decision. My own scalp remains crimson three days later and is a bit tender when touched. I have an unsightly 'V' of redness on my chest. Poor choice of tee shirt and inadequate sunscreen. It could have been much worse. Having dwelled in two different desert locations since the mid '60's, I should know better.

Angels Stadium is very near Disneyland. The parking lot is vast but contains no helpful signs which could assist fans in retrieving their vehicles. Perhaps somebody should invent an app which you touch when you leave your car in a lot and touch again when you want to find it. The app would immediately guide you to the proper parking space. Sort of a parking lot GPS. I suppose such an app already exists or is in the development stage or might be impractical. Surely we can't be the only people who would benefit from such a device.

We arrive early and join a long line of fans awaiting the opening of the stadium. Almost immediately, we notice that there are people holding threatening religious signs. The kind that indicate dire consequences for non-believers. Walking amongst the crowd are more of the faithful, dressed entirely in white. They carry pamphlets extolling their beliefs and buckets for donations. Nearby a child, definitely not more than 10 years old, speaks in a small voice. She recites Bible verses and warns all of us. I can't help but wonder how long it has taken her to learn these words. I am confident that her childhood has been hijacked and her life molded in ways that cannot and will not be altered.

A city fire truck approaches and parks near the crowd. A group of fit firemen alight. They, too, are soliciting donations. The cause is Muscular Dystrophy. Money can be deposited in tall boots which the firemen carry.

The two groups appear to ignore each other. Primarily,the waiting fans do the same. It's a mixed group, ethnically speaking. All around us, Spanish flows as families eagerly await a day with their heroes. One man walks by wearing an 'Indian power' shirt. There's a homogeneity that's recognizable to anyone who has lived in California for very long. We are people from everywhere. Accents abound with displaced New Yorkers conversing excitedly about games they've seen in the Bronx.

Our seats are spectacular. We're two rows behind the Yankees dugout. The players pass in front of us so closely that we can see into their eyes. Do I detect fatigue? A night game followed by a day game plus the heat. I am tired and I'm just sitting.

In a somewhat strange coincidence, we're mostly surrounded by Yankees' fans. Team jerseys adorn fans of all ages. Caps cover heads big and small, both genders. I've left Henry's Yankees shirts at home. He's an incognito fan. I'm more effusive with my clapping or wincing when things go awry for the team. He's sedate, cerebral, always studying the action on the field.

With our generous access, photos are much more focused. We seek our favorites--Jeter, Rodriguez, Granderson, Teixeira. The latter player has a grand day with two home runs. An Angels fan sitting behind us provides an almost sports commentator-like description of the game. His knowledge of teams and talent is impressive. He knows who was on which team in the past, why that player left for another town, what ailments plague certain ones and every iteration of the ball park since the 1970's. From him, I hear that Teixeira makes $20 million a year. I have to think about that. He isn't even the highest paid player on the Yankees team. I guess when your paycheck is so astronomical, the numbers become meaningless. Getting two home runs in a game is what matters.



Before the game begins, we search for food. I'm particular about my ball park dining. I do enjoy hot dogs and much prefer those available at New York stadiums. Angels Stadium does not excel in culinary choices. Henry is content with a burger from Carl's Jr. I settle for a Der Wienerschnitzel hot dog. It is acceptable, average. We're both happy to have water to sip as the heat magnifies. With the sun directly over our heads, we're profoundly grateful for the soft breezes.

Three seats remain empty just to the right of us. About half way through the game, a trio of 20-something seat surfers appear and claim the vacancies. No doubt their real tickets are elsewhere. They loaded with beer and one of them is extra loud. He needs no magnification at all and I can almost hear the wincing around me as his voice permeates the heat waves. He's an Angels fan as are his buddies. He's also shirtless. Maybe a bit mindless too. He either has the ability to withstand harmful ultraviolet light or Monday morning he was hurting badly from burns.


Some tense moments occur as the innings fade and the score tightens. Both teams replace their pitchers. Joba Chamberlain will save the day. He looks like he lumbers a lot and if he were seen outside the park, it might be difficult to believe that he is a major league pitcher. Not a starter as he was once touted, but a player nonetheless.


By the eighth inning, a Yankees win seems assured. We're parched, wizened by the exposure. Henry suggests South Coast Plaza. Air conditioning and shopping. My favorite combination. The perfect mall is conveniently near by. We turn away from the Yankees this sunny afternoon. The team may be part of our northwest itinerary in September. Jackets will be required in Seattle and with a night game, we're apt to think we are freezing not frying.