Behind Me

I hear voices and glimpse fading faces. I know these people are gone. Truly gone. Some left decades ago, yet they linger in the people they created. I fit in the middle of six generations. Two before me, three afterwards. All relatives who've touched my life and left an impression. I think about the vast Foster family lineage and realize that the same number of generations prior to mine stretches back to my third great-grandfather.

I'm submerged by "Ya'll," "Hey," and Ma'm." Cousins nearly collide before me and I wonder if my arms can enwrap them all. I want to freeze frame these days and then elasticize them indefinitely. I cannot create such space and must merely recognize that my mind is storing each memory permanently.

Even for me, a person who dines on cousins constantly, the array of names, connections, and generations is daunting. There's a familiar refrain in this part of the country, "Who are your people?" Easy answer. All of you assembled. Every single one.

It is not enough to plan and attend one reunion. Family overflows and two scheduled events take shape. As I wander the transcendent grounds of Magnolia Vale, I feel the essence of kin whose days have ceased.




Voices carry close to the river. We're watching the water, amazed and unsettled by its force, worried about flooding.



Food quiets most concerns and conversations never falter. On the table is a treasure, a copy of the marriage certificate for our Irish forbears whose union occurred on December 24, 1852 in Larne. We ponder the notation that Jennet was of 'full age' and described as a 'spinster.'

Children, some still toddlers, intermingle with octogenarians whose sparkle is undimmed by decades. It must be those stalwart Irish genes. Do you detect any of Granny Ruth in these Foster first cousins' faces?



New York tones soon intermingle with their Southern versions. Carol and Steve are finally and blissfully descending upon my hometown. I fret a bit that more than three decades of boosterism about this exceptional place, its unmatchable people, and the superb regional dining may disappoint. There's little time for pondering the possible as the river must be viewed in all its splendor before we drive down Silver Street to Magnolia Grill.



I'm deep into buttery grits and catfish ensconced with mushrooms. This is most likely heaven. Around the table, all loved ones. I'm watching the river through the glassed-in porch. I may be a tiny bit delirious. What was that? A tap. On my shoulder? I turn. And scream. And jump up and hug the tapper.


No matter that there are servers and other diners in the room. I cannot/will not be quieted. It is she. My dearest daughter, Caitlin. Just arrived via the Inman Express. Fresh from Portland/Dallas/Baton Rouge. Wearing a bright red sweater and her inimitable smile. I am not speechless but I may have a heart attack. Henry's done it again. Surprised the gullible me. Brought our daughter South to be with her mom and support her presentation efforts. I am humbled by the logistics, undeserving of this grandest of all gifts.

Dottie and Kenny, whom Caitlin has not met previously, nabbed her from the airport and drove her to Natchez. Dottie is smiling at the secrets kept, the 'bundle' delivered. Kenny is ever supportive of these family plans.

My grits portion is commandeered. She's a lifelong convert. It's been a long journey. A Portobello salad is ordered to be supplemented by a glass of white wine and a couple of desserts. Difficult to discern which is better-Mississippi Mud Cheesecake or Chocolate Pecan Pie. Easy solution. Eat both.

Cousin Barbara is smiling. Cousin David, dining in another part of the restaurant, hears my raised voice and investigates. He is relieved and relishes the chance encounter with Caitlin.


Barbara's daughter, Sarah, and husband John, knew of the impending surprise. Fat Mama's is the desired destination.


I've been sufficiently distracted from the anxiety associated with the next day's presentation at the Foster Family Reunion. I know that those I love the most are behind me.

My Music Man

Loud plaid pants partially covered Air Force issued low quarter shoes. A pale blue patterned shirt didn't really match but no matter. Totally precious, he spoke and I knew. This was the man. My man. Maybe not yet, but soon. Our introduction was easy, our life has been bliss. Behind that nearly outrageous outfit was, and still is, someone who has added music to my life for three decades, plus four. He hears harmony where I do not. He knows notes that puzzle and confound me. Lately he has been perfecting a new theory which revolves around the concept that everyone is born with perfect pitch. "Everyone?" I muse. "Surely not me." I am, as most people can attest, totally tone deaf. This condition is part of my genetic make-up, like being completely left-handed.

I've really tried to understand his theory and to accept the possibility that infants lose this magnificent gift as a result of inattention by the adults who surround their young lives. Perhaps he's right. He has a child, now a forty year old adult, who possesses perfect pitch. Very rare indeed and only found in one in 10,000 people. Could it be that Michael is so enriched because of constant exposure to music from his very earliest days? Certainly the idea merits exploration and further thought.

In the meantime, I am serenaded daily with impromptu musical interludes, often accompanied by song. I recognize many of the pieces as they were part of my own youth and young adulthood. The best songs from the 60's are on his play list. Some are mournful in sound and sorrowful in lyrics. I prefer the peppy ones and find that they provide just the right background as I attend to tasks through the hours.

With a dad whose talent allowed him to be a professional musician for a time, genetics may have been a causal factor in his consummate love of music. I look into his dear sweet little boy face and wonder if I can detect any nascent notes.



In his office, music books spill from shelves and await their turn beneath his facile fingers. A loose-leaf notebook lies open with plastic pages stuffed with favorite songs. Nearby, a microphone is silent, ready for the next guest songster.





Sometimes the house is filled with faces from our past. Visages that we've watched emerge from chubby cheeks and vacant teeth. Now confident young adults, their liveliness has a music of its own. He knows how to corral their endless energy and soon the room is rocking with voices we've loved so long. Too quickly, they're gone. Back to the lives they've created and which we watch in wonder. He's the director of their fates in so many ways, having spent uncounted hours advising, cajoling, complimenting and watching with pride as their futures unfold. These special people are a gift to us, friends of our daughter, and family members created by association.

He's playing now. The music is comfortingly melodic. I'm trying to recall the title or artist. I know it. I really do. Why are the words tucked back in my mind at the moment? Ah, sounds like Beatles. Other than George Gershwin, there is no more revered music. He's definitely a devotee. I am a listener, a no talent one.

Over the piano is a magnificent photo of the peerless Gershwin. His flourishing signature speaks of greatness, of a life too short. Perhaps he is smiling because of the sounds emanating from the room. He'd be comfortable in this setting with notes aplenty.

Broadway tunes compete with depression-era songs. When we drive, he often asks me to name the song and/or singer of a record that's playing on the radio. Rarely am I able to respond correctly. I give some ridiculous answers. I can sing along very often, but if it isn't Elvis, I am usually stumped. He tolerates my ignorance and continues to try and tutor me. I believe I am in the remedial stage. Permanetly.

On occasion, we discuss the difference between song lyrics and other types of writing. He reasons that lyrics require the greatest ability to use language. I counter that marvelous writing appears in other formats. He is unshakable. I guess I just don't hear.

Our daughter has inherited this affinity for music. She cannot exist without it. Her knowledge is astounding and is being utilized as she flourishes as a music journalist. Combining a lifetime love of writing with the primal need for music is creating great joy in her life.

I am the observer and the beneficiary of all this tunefulness. His music defines our lives, cushions the unexpected, heralds the triumphs and sets our tomorrows.

He is my music man. My very own. I share him with others. On the 16th, we'll celebrate a special day. Happy early birthday, dearest Henry.

Streetwalker

Often I go mind strolling through streets I once knew. Quiet streets with ordinary names. Main. Franklin. Pearl. Commerce. Belonging to an old, old town whose history reaches back to native people and forward to mine. No longer my home, it resides comfortably in my heart, its streets a map to my past.

Come with me on a nostalgic journey. Visit the scenes I never recognized as special until they were merely memories, precious and permanent.

With most of the stores vanished, I'll walk past their ghostly shapes, peer into smudged windows, and see my younger self. On any given afternoon, I might wander from one dime store to another. Why there were three of these businesses in a place barely big enough to earn the name 'town,' I never knew. I patronized them all. Anchoring a corner, Kress has a special allure. The soda fountain serves burgers, fries, Coke floats, shakes and other childhood staples. Nearby, a riot of candy spills from large glass jars. I believe I need some orange slices.

Half a block away, Sterling is a darker space, crammed in-between a tiny magazine/popcorn store and a sometime grocery store. I'll buy some buttons, though I don't need them.

Around the corner, two blocks south, the newest five and ten cent store seems fresh, inviting. Then I remember how their Santa roamed the aisles, talking to children and their parents. I was terrified of him and hid whenever I saw him coming my way.

Maybe I'm looking for an Easter dress or new outfit to impress some young man. Across the street, Cole's department store's staff is ready to assist me. In the basement, I could buy fabric and make an outfit. Are you kidding? Me, sew? I once hemmed a dish towel in order to pass Home Economics, a required course. I'm headed upstairs where already made clothing awaits.

Need a bit of jewelry, a wedding or graduation gift? Stop by Dixon's where Mr. Dixon will help select just the right bracelet, silver pattern, monogrammed bookmark. I still have many items bought in that store. Each is unique, has a story, remains a treasure.

I remember one day while I browsed past the cases filled with splendour, I recognized a young lady of striking loveliness. Accompanied by her brother, she was dressed in a rather plain black skirt, white blouse, and soft lavender sweater. Miss America 1960. Our hometown queen. Gracious and soft spoken, she gave me an autographed photo.



Walk a bit further, cross the street, going south. The aromas lure me to Home Bakery. This time I'll only buy a few Mexican Wedding Cookies.....and one or two petit fours. Maybe one of each icing color. Taste the difference. Scrape the crumbs from the bottom of the small white paper bag.

This is Commerce Street. It's a particular favorite. Amble by the Italian (pronounced languidly, "Eyeeeee Talian") Kitchen. Meatballs and spaghetti, made old style. Smothered in fresh Parmesan cheese. No cholesterol or calorie worries. Who'd know as I devour the meal sitting in a dark red booth behind a wall of translucent glass bricks?

I'm skipping now. Two doors away is The Ideal Shop. Yes, it was. Featuring clothes only teen girls would want, have to possess, this dress shop devoured nearly every cent I made working at the public library. The owner and her son knew me well. Trusted that I'd make the payments on my lay away card. They allowed me to take my purchases home prior to receiving full payment. Sort of like a credit card today. No interest. No expectations except that final remittance. Eventually. My sweaters matched my skirts in glorious colors I no longer wear. Stitched-down pleats, incredibly itchy rabbit fur tops.

Over there is the Ritz Theater. It's being renovated. Slowly. The iconic box office from which I purchased countless tickets has survived. The theater has lost its roof and its reason to exist. Do I still see the movie posters in glass cases alongside the steps leading to the entrance? Is a western playing today? Perhaps a romantic comedy or some unsettling tragedy? I didn't care. Inside, I can escape, be transformed. I've never lost that feeling about movies.

Shoes speak to me. Not really, but they do usually make me happy. Lots of shoes. Case's sells the best. Mr. Case knows my size (7 1/2 N), sets new styles aside for me. I'm a good customer, maybe too good. I still am.

Am I hungry again? If I'm working the late (6-8 pm) shift at the library, I'll need food. Top's Grill offers an open-faced hot roast beef sandwich. White bread, slices of meat, lots of gravy, mashed potatoes. Washed down by a large glass of Pepsi. No room for dessert though the pie is tempting.

Perhaps Daddy will be picking me up after work. He wants a cup of coffee and the Eola Hotel Coffee Shop beckons. Inside, we greet Miss Postlewaite. She sits at the counter all night, every night, reading various papers. I'll order pecan pie and eat every bite. Daddy's content with his black coffee.

Another stroll brings me to Franklin Street. I'm discovering rock and roll, especially a Mississippi boy named Elvis Presley. I'll stop at Tillman's and buy "Return to Sender." Its message is mournful and seems right for a high school senior whose boy friend if away at military school. Maybe I'll also select Jerry Lee Lewis' latest. Brother and I saw him at the Billups service station one Saturday night. He's an almost neighbor, born and raised across the river in Ferriday, Louisiana.

Am I late for work? Fisk Public Library is located in Memorial Hall. Books pour out of rooms never meant to house them. Responsible for returning volumes to their proper places as well as repairing torn and damaged books, I also read stories to the young patrons. For these multiple tasks, I'm paid fifty cents an hour. Enough to buy clothes and shoes.

Butts & Yootse, Ullmans, Famous and Price, Benoist, News & Noveleties, H.F. Byrne, Geisenberger Drugstore, Feltus Brothers Hardware, Britton & Koontz Bank--all gone.

I guess I'm street walking. Almost home.

Calamity's Kitchen

If you're Southern, you're born knowing how to make fried chicken, right? Something ingrained in the genes. After all, Southerners choose that entree more often than any other. At least that was the case when I was a child. Mamie, who lived with her family on our farm, and cooked most of the meals at my house, made the very best fried chicken ever. I ate plenty of it but never thought to ask about the recipe. It's almost certain that there wasn't one. She just knew how to create perfection with a bit of lard, flour and freshly killed chicken. Today those ingredients sound rather ghastly. Back then, they created nourishing nirvana.

My own mother never taught me to cook. Anything. When I asked about this obvious omission, she replied that I would get married and I'd need to cook whatever my husband wanted to eat. Therefore, why should she teach me to cook something else? Any logic is noticeably absent and the sexism is appalling. I remained cooking ignorant.

I married very young and that husband knew even less about a kitchen than I did. How hard could it be? People cooked all the time....and survived. So, being sure of my Southern heritage, I decided I'd make fried chicken for one of our first meals.

I bought chicken pieces, dunked them in flour, poured the Crisco (no lard) into the skillet and turned on the stove's burner. Once the oil was very hot, I began dropping chicken pieces into the bubbling liquid.

Disaster. The oil spattered, reached my face, and gave me two cheeks with serious burns. I did the only reasonable thing. Turned off the stove. Tossed the chicken and oil in the trash and went out to eat.

Gradually, I figured out how to make very simple meals. No more fried chicken. My Southern gene had deserted me.

The first Easter after my marriage, a guest was invited for dinner. I chose chicken as the entree but wisely revised the menu to focus on the roasted variety. No worries about oil mishaps and trashed meals.

The day was proceeding well until I became convinced I just couldn't entertain anybody. We called our guest and postponed the meal for several hours until I was able to calm myself, stuff the bird, and get it into the oven without suffering a total culinary breakdown.

Through the years, life has brought many cooking lessons. My mishaps have become more humorous, less life-altering. The family, especially my daughter, fondly recalls the Christmas when I absently covered the turkey in cinnamon instead of paprika. Maybe I had a secret yen for a more exotic flavor.

The most egregious holiday meal mistake involved forgetting to change the oven setting from 'pre-heat' to 'bake' for the entire 3 hour span required to cook a large turkey. With the rest of the meal ready to be plated, the turkey remained almost raw. My wonderful family was totally supportive and did not complain about a meatless meal. I gently dropped the uncooked turkey in a large trash bag and took myself to bed.

Maybe my travails in the kitchen are rooted in the lack of instruction I received from my mother regarding food preparation. No, that can't be it. It must be me. I distract easily. My mind wanders as I'm putting ingredients together.

Just tonight I was making Henry's favorite meal. It's very simple but quite enjoyable. Farfalle pasta, sweet turkey sausage, a bit of shaved Parmesan. Green peas on the side (only for me.) I like to provide a bit of color to the pasta dish and enhance the flavor with herbs. I liberally sprinkle Italian seasoning, black pepper, maybe a bit of oregano.

I looked at the skillet and suddenly realized that I've accidentally opened the 'scoop' side of the seasoning jar and dumped a mound of green herbs onto the pasta. Maybe it won't be too bad. So much better than if I'd been using salt. (Truly I don't put salt in anything except for a pinch or two when making mashed potatoes.)

It's been forty-five years since those initial clueless culinary months. I haven't made anyone sick or at least I don't think I have. Some people seem to enjoy meals that I've prepared. I've accepted compliments and cleared lots of clean plates. I'd say I'm almost average, perhaps slightly below that mark, in the kitchen. I know, however, that calamity awaits.

We Were Seventeen

Porch pictures capture my young life. Mother was generally the photographer, using her small Brownie camera. With little artistic finesse, she managed to save moments that I treasure decades later. The resulting pictures are sometimes fuzzy, often a bit off-center, and may even contain parts of bodies but not the whole. These characteristics make them all the more precious to view. I can be transported to our farm and almost retrieve the cacophonous voices, sweetened with languid drawls. Once again I'm surrounded by dear ones whose current absence from my life diminishes it somehow.

As the next-to-last first cousin, I felt very special to be accepted by my senior kin. Family gatherings included our beloved Granny Ruth, six aunts and uncles and their spouses and my own parents. With food as our anchor, and conversation our sail, we spent many sweaty Southern afternoons together.

The years between the eldest and youngest member of my generation number twenty-two. Sadly, it was the baby of the group, my darling brother, who left us first. In the years since his loss, two more cousins have passed away. I try to keep connected to those who remain through visits, phone calls, and letters. There's something so comforting about these special people, each one unique.



Some summer day in about 1950, we gathered on the front porch of our farmhouse for this historic snapshot. Fourteen cousins, Granny Ruth, and our friend, Jerry Jr. AKA 'Pee Wee.'
We were:
Row 1 (l-r) Pee Wee, Bette, Carter, Jackie
Row 2 (l-r) Kathy, Jeanelle, David, Jessie
Row 3 (l-r) Joe, Nan, Granny Ruth, Foster
Row 4 (l-r) Frank, Frank Jr., Reg, Lawrence

Three were missing that day. Gordon, our first-born of the generation, is pictured here in 2005 at a Thanksgiving family gathering.



And Gordon's sisters, Irene and Ruth, photographed in my front yard during a visit in the 1990's.



We were seventeen. Linked together, separate and singular. Our stories are worth telling. My husband and daughter, as well as my friends, have heard many of these tales. They know I'm cousin rich.

First One

She calls from the airport and we ask her not to go. We're her parents, after all, and we want her safe. She has no fear. She's not yet twenty. It's eight years ago today and she's off to celebrate her birthday in Sweden. Our country has picked this day to invade Iraq. Shouldn't she cancel and wait to see what happens? There's no hesitation in her voice, only excitement. She knows we can't stop her, but then, we've rarely been able to do so. We try reasoning, citing ominous possibilities. I may have cried or my voice may have wavered. She is nonplussed, blissful in anticipation of seeing a dear friend and exploring her Scandinavian home. We are helpless, far from the airport where she's about to board the plane. We wait anxiously as the world changes forever. She arrives without incident and immerses herself in a culture that feels totally natural, not foreign at all. A birthday haven and one to which she'll return with her fiance to commemorate her twenty-fifth birthday.

Once, now so long ago, she'd had no birthdays. The first one was a mixture of sadness and joy. We'd recently returned from her paternal grandfather's funeral. Around our table were two grandmothers, one in mourning, and her aunt who'd come from New York to bury her father. Looking at those faces, I see youth that today has lapsed for all of us except the birthday girl. Henry, Carol and I are now nearly the age of our mothers on that celebratory day.



In a box high on a shelf in my office closet, I find a cache of cards. I must have kept every one received that year.



Caitlin's especially adorable in Oshkosh B'Gosh shortalls of pale lavender. She's not sure what's happening but tears into the presents, tosses them aside, and becomes enchanted with the purple Miss Piggy balloon.




There are no kids to share this special day except for her big brother, Michael. Given their age difference of a dozen years, he seems more like an adult than a playmate. On this warm spring day, we enjoy a sit down meal, light one special candle, and sing "Happy Birthday." The cake's made by Kelli and it's luscious as always. The beautifully designed bear is composed of devil's food cake, not hollow inside. Kelli has thoughtfully added 'fur' to the body by artfully carving the frosting. We celebrate and smiles surround us.



This Friday, the 25th, Caitlin will be 28 at exactly 2:34 pm. She'll be at work contemplating her party the following evening. Birthdays are big in her life, especially her own. An eclectic box of assorted items has traveled from our house to hers. Inside she found five birthday cards. I'm a bit obsessed with birthdays myself.



First one birthday, then another. Each one unique, every set of memories worth saving. May this birthday be sweetly savored.

It's a boy, right?

With racing heart and cracking voice, my hands shook as I dropped a quarter into the pay phone that monsoon drenched August day. Making the call from my office seemed too public. Mid-afternoon, the campus was mostly deserted and I could receive the news, compose myself, and return to my desk as if I'd simply taken a walk. I gave my name, stated my purpose and was quickly transferred. The person who answered my question asked very gently, "Is that good news?" Confirmation immediately replaced weeks of wondering and months of despair.

So began a journey, inseparably shared. I could not have known how the full fury of your presence would be unleashed. I could not have anticipated how your life would alter mine irrevocably.

The months melted as notification brought surprise in some, giddiness in others. I began to modify my diet and relinquish beloved iced tea, all processed food, and chocolate. These exclusions hardly mattered as almost everything ingested became intolerable. I existed, barely, with a regimen of oatmeal, broiled chicken, and granola bars. Tiny bits of each, eaten throughout the day. No recommended medication was accepted, no dramatic measures undertaken.

With complete support from my hovering husband, I went to work each day no matter my condition. I'll admit that more than once I laid my head on my metal desk and rested for a brief moment. Then I'd read a note that I'd taped in the center of the desk. It read, "In a moment, you may feel better." I always did.

As someone who'd been categorized as an 'elderly,' I embraced diagnostic tools. By fall, I'd scheduled amniocentesis counseling and the test itself. As I walked toward the parking lot on the testing day, a colleague stopped to say hello. He remarked that I was looking so much better and that he'd been very worried. I assured him that I was more than fine. Within 15 minutes, I wasn't.

The brain is a curious organ. Shock can erase trauma and some events can never be recalled. On October 7th, I drove along a familiar street, headed for my house. From there, your dad planned to drive us about an hour west to a teaching hospital for our genetic counseling session. I clearly remember the stop sign as I turned left toward the mountain. That's it. Nothing further until I heard a man talking to me through the window of my station wagon. I was stuck in sand on the side of the road, my car demolished. I'd lost consciousness, meandered from the street and crashed into a parked car. I was alive and more importantly, so were you.



After five days in the hospital, including a bit of scary drama, I was released. Only the car couldn't be saved. We were intact, ready to resume our journey to separation. On another day, I'm again turning a street corner after an exhausting day at work. Something happened. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible tap from inside. Like hummingbird wings fluttering. It's you. I imagine you're saying, "Hello, Mom. I'm here."

We're waiting for the results that will tell us what we think we already know. Knew from the beginning. Ordered, in fact. The lab is supposed to tell only the mother but Dad calls and gets the answer. He can't wait to share the news. I realize from his excited voice that he knows something. I say, "It's a boy, right?"

I'd told Dad months ago that I wanted a girl with dark hair, blue eyes, very smart, left-handed, and exhibiting lots of spirit. He cautioned me against such a list. My brown eyes might disallow any other color. I shouldn't have worried. Only the left-handed trait is absent.

In February, shock masks Dad's face as his staff honors him and you with a surprise shower celebration. There's a Kelli cake, your first of many. The months and the doctors indicate we're getting close. I'm ready. Are you?



Sorry about the naked bottom.



I'm waiting. Impatiently. There's a lottery at work. Someone will win when the day's finally chosen. Actually, we are the winners. Forever.



The name's long chosen. A savings account awaits. Furniture is positioned, clothes and ubiquitous diapers abound. Thank you notes for presents have been written and mailed. There's nothing left to do. Time's up. What's the day? Where's that face? I just want a peek. A tiny peek and I'll be satisfied. Maybe.

I'm hoping for March 27th. My daddy's birthday. What a present. Though he won't be able to share the joy, I believe that somehow he'll know. You have selected a different date. The digits are 25. Fine. Your Great Uncle Jack's birthday. I'm his namesake. Almost as good. Now it's your day. In perpetuity.




For the car trip home, your tiny body, less than six pounds, is swaddled in a festive onesie decorated with pink lambs. It hardly seems capable of clothing a person. You are doll-like, in fact. So small, so large in our lives.



During the waiting months, I tried to write about the experience. One essay, given to Dad as a Christmas present in 1982, is titled "Passenger Notes" and chronicles the journey. Reading it more than twenty-eight years later, I'm struck by the seeping emotion. The language erupted in part due to hormones, but definitely heightened by heart. Most of the questions I asked in those pages were answered long ago. Life took care of them as well as the ones I didn't know to ask.

I wrote that I expected to learn:
.to love without reservation
.to ponder and wonder more
.to be softer and kinder
.to really see
.to admit mortality

As your mother, I expected to share:
.the discovery of your toes
.the power of a smile or scream
.the lusciousness of ice cream, syrup, gooey cake, pizza (for your Daddy's sake)
.the roar and wetness of the ocean
.the cool quiet of a green forest
.the magnificence of a rainbow, the terror of thunder
.the flight of a bird
.the sweet smell of a flower
.the joy of Christmas
.the words you'll form
.the friends you'll have
.the sorrows you'll feel
.the hope you'll store
.the love you'll bring

Sappy perhaps. Overly emotional. You bet. A messy mother writes raw.

Once you'd arrived, I tried again. This essay may be even worse. Its title is 'Incubation.' The beginning reads, "What has it been like, dear one? A sloshy resting place."

Obviously I hadn't recovered. Regained my sense of restraint. (Usually not evident anyway.) I'm still excessively effusive. As excited and enchanted today as I was in 1983. Perhaps more so. Too lavish in my attention at times. Too anxious at others. Totally committed inexorably.



Happy early birthday, Caitlin, my favorite daughter. Thank you, Henry, for giving her to us.