Perfect Presence

Christmas is a memory, celebrated separately last year. During the holidays, a phone inquiry ascertains our plans for early February. Combining a birthday with a sun break is very appealing for our northwest couple who seek refuge from gloomy days, continuous cold, and negligible Mexican food. Living in the desert, we can satisfy their longing during an extended weekend.

Even with clouds obscuring the totally brilliant sun, there are no complaints from Caitlin and Bobby. They've brought 'summer' clothes in their suitcases and revel in short sleeves, flip flops, and swim suits, with jackets tossed carelessly aside.

The agenda includes a lot of doing nothing. No friends to visit, except the much beloved neighbors. Caitlin conducts several very patient iPhone tutorials. I should have kept a notepad handy as the various gyrations required to take photos, email/text them to my contacts or upload to Instagram, befuddle my baby boomer brain. There's a list of computer woes which is dispatched easily. My mouse now cooperates promptly thanks to Bobby's insightful advice. Tech expert visitors are always welcome here.

Following an al fresco lunch at Lulu restaurant downtown, the hot tub next door is a wintery treat. With a much bluer sky and majestic mountains as the backdrop, grey Portland seems very far away.

Rio Azul beckons with just right spicy salsa and warm chips. Burritos, enchiladas, quesadillas, and tostadas cover very hot plates and disappear quickly. A Pomegranate Margarita is merely average but fails to dispel the magic of the evening. We escape the restaurant just prior to its invasion by large groups of cheerleaders and their parents in town for a convention. Walking a few blocks toward downtown, the young adults decide there's enough room for frozen yogurt from Tutti Frutti. This version of pomegranate is perfect. A flexible evening allows for relaxing at the neighbors' house, including another hot tub interlude.

Sunday morning, the four of us venture to Palm Desert in the snazzy red rental car. The ladies, shopping experts, find bargains at several stores. Bobby isn't so fortunate. Henry's not looking and uses his phone to occupy his time. Before returning home, we exhaust our grocery list at Ralphs, getting ready for the birthday dinner scheduled in a few hours.

How very splendid to stand aside (mostly) and observe as the menu takes shape. Bobby is the grill master and is busy marinating chicken breasts. Caitlin is intent upon creating her signature Red Velvet Cake. I've removed the Kitchen Aid mixer from its storage space and set it on the counter. All the ingredients are available and soon there's a comforting whirring sound surrounding the kitchen. Butter and sugar cream easily. Suddenly there's a problem. A serious problem. Oil is dripping from the motor into the mixture. How can this be happening? The bowl's contents are dumped in the sink. Is there another mixer? Yes, a hand mixer circa 1977. It still works well and will resolve the unexpected dilemma.

With two cake pans baking in the oven, Dad, Mom and daughter take a walk through the neighborhood. A tranquil saunter during which we talk of nothing special but perhaps each of us realizes we're creating a memory to savor.

Refreshed, we continue the dinner preparations. A Greek salad requires extensive chopping and mixing. Potatoes are scrubbed and sliced, dabbed with butter and ready for the oven. Cake layers cool, frosting is made. The grill heats, the table is set. Caitlin and I have a moment to change into dresses for the occasion.

During the day, cards and presents have been opened, exclaimed upon, and shared. I have a new distinctive necklace featuring the shape of Mississippi, my native state. This incredibly thoughtful gift is from Caitlin. I'll wear it with love.

The doorbell announces the arrival of the neighborly quartet. Surrounded by a circle of loved ones, I could not ask for a better birthday. The new numbers are a bit startling but with this contingent of caring individuals in my life, I am truly impervious to age. Conversations include everyone from eldest (that would be me) to youngest (adorable Hanna and Jessy.) We laugh, joke, eat, compliment Caitlin and Bobby on the excellent meal. From Shawn and Gilly's kitchen next door, the menu is embellished by a delicious vegetable curry. The Portlanders want the recipe.

Dishes are cleared and Shawn assigns himself washing duty. Gilly is nearby with a drying towel. Henry and I snare the girls who know a secret. We're planning to celebrate Caitlin's March birthday a bit early instead of mine. She's been fussing about the approach of thirty but more recently appears to be reconciled and even excited about its inevitability. The lovely Red Velvet Cake is adorned with a pink '3' and '0' candle. Skinnier, curvy candles in multi colors cover the outer edge of the cake. A silly centerpiece proclaims '30,' and a glossy button emphasizes '30 is Thrilling.' I hope she embraces the surprise. Gracefully, she smiles, wears a tall party hat, and celebrates her birthday fifty days early.

We three are crowded on the red couch in the TV room watching the latest episode of Downton Abbey. This spectacular series attracts aficionados across demographics. Caitlin is as devoted a fan as are we. What fun to view a show together, comment on the characters, anticipate what might happen as the weeks unfold. Actually, she already knows, having seen almost all of Season 3 at the home of dear friends in Portland. She shares nothing with us. Having DVR'd Bill Maher's most recent Real Time, we are soon engrossed in present-day politics as we watch the panel vigorously interact with their often controversial host. Each of us admires Cory Booker, Mayor of Newark, New Jersey and are especially interested in his comments as a panelist. Quite a juxtaposition of a 1920's wealthy English family and the discussions of today's most critical political and social issues. We're drawn to both dramas.

It's the last day and the temperature's rising. Shorts are perfect and serve as poignant reminders that warm weather won't favor the northwest for many months. Here, they're right almost any time. There's a previously chipped tooth with somewhat questionable mending that requires a professional review by our family dentist. Caitlin has the initial appointment of the day and is welcomed by the staff. Dr. C. examines the soda bottle injured tooth, removes some of the epoxy and gently smooths the irregular edge. Caitlin is relieved, pleased. This ritual is part of being home.

Mid-morning, Dad conducts a financial seminar for an audience of one, his daughter. The two discuss various types of investment, which plans are best, what tax implications will result based on certain choices. Caitlin is very attentive, asks pertinent questions. Her understanding of money and its uses is laudable. Later, a patio lunch of leftover vegetable curry and mounds of Greek salad provides culinary contentment for the soon-to-be traveling couple.

The airport is miles distant and possible traffic delays cannot be anticipated. A detour to In 'n' Out along the way is almost mandatory. Suitcases are stuffed. Inflatable toys, purchased earlier in the day and destined for the big birthday party in March, will be boxed and mailed in a few days. Caitlin and Bobby cheerfully endure departure photos and the red car disappears with its precious occupants. Their presence was/is/always will be perfect.

Write Now

There's a pen in my head. Sometimes it scribbles in the shower and other times I may be simply lying in bed or actually dreaming when it's most active. The words, often just fragments, tend to evaporate quickly as if they've been inscribed on bubbles. When I'm motivated, there's time to transmit. Certain words are worth keeping, perhaps even sharable.

When I review my regrets, I acknowledge that I've let too many words go. How fine it would be to ponder written thoughts from the farm years, to greet my high school friends vicariously and laugh at my once inscribed notes . Events and people long erased from my memory would suddenly reappear on pages from my past. Regrettably, the pages are mostly blank.

Like most girls in the 1950's, I kept a diary. With a key. I don't know if anybody ever read it except for me. Only a few lines were provided for each day's entry. Perhaps the rationale was that young girls had little to say and needed scant space in which to record those nascent recollections. The diaries disappeared. My mother probably tossed them in a bag filled with food debris and off they went to our family archive....the bayou. So, I can't meet that girl through her words. I'm fairly certain she had nothing substantial to say. Of course there were boys to admire. Mostly boys who never noticed me while I sometimes shadowed them. The boyfriends who peopled my high school years were described effusively. When they left me, and all of them did just that, I was inconsolable and soon wrote teary tracts about my misery. Each time I was convinced that 'he' was the last guy who'd ever pay any attention to me. I was always wrong, obviously. Teen-age girls of my era were consistently fatalistic about their love lives.

As my junior year of high school drew to a close, a member of the faculty invited me to her classroom. To my immense surprise, Miss Chance informed me of my selection as editor of the school newspaper for the ensuing year.

I accepted immediately, totally thrilled by the honor. As a sporadic guest columnist for the paper, I was somewhat familiar with the details involved in its publication. Stored in a bookcase cabinet in our house is a stack of now almost ancient copies of the Natchez-Adams High School Echoes. The final issue with my name on the masthead contains a brief editorial. Choosing lines from a famous Robert Frost poem, I extolled my fellow graduates to consider "miles to go" and "promises to keep." Simple admonitions with profound consequences.

As years and then decades descended, I wrote less. Life intervened with first college obligations and then the career chase. One of my first professional positions included the responsibility for writing book reviews to be published in the local newspaper. During that period, I recall being interviewed for an article which appeared in the City staff newsletter. The reporter asked about my routine as I crafted each review. I responded that prior to writing a word, I'd wash my hair, set it in rollers and plop myself on the floor of my guest room. Perched on the couch behind my back was a Schick hairdryer, a familiar appliance in the 1960's. I found that by the time my hair was dry, the review was written.

(Mine was pale blue.)

Thus far, all those hairdryer era reviews have escaped the bayou fate. As I read words written more than forty years ago, I'm uncomfortable with my naivete, simple sentence structure and explicit earnestness about a topic or an author. At the time, I considered myself a capable writer. Older members of the staff complimented my then twenty-something self. One colleague was so terrified of the writing assignments that she would have willingly paid me to be her 'ghost.'

Beginning in 1980, I kept a journal for each of our family vacations. Part of the fun was simply selecting the journal itself. Pages are replete with descriptions of meals, sites, people observed, hotels and rental cars. Fleeting memories are permanently captured, complete with the accompanying angst and exhilaration. This tradition has been truncated in recent years as technology supersedes the necessity of hand-written recollections. Currently, I carry a small notebook with me for extended trips. Recording impressions on a regular basis, I'm able to reduce the amount of writing required as well as the pages involved. Once home again, I use these notes to craft blogs and sprinkle them with photos from each journey.

Having survived, just barely, the middle school years with a charming daughter, the looming high school cycle filled me with apprehension. How better to preserve/persevere this epoch in our lives? I'd keep a journal and pour into it my thoughts, concerns, periods of elation. A few months into her freshman year, my dear daughter 'discovered' the initial entries. Casually asking me what I was writing, I sensed that she was interested in my words. So began a ritual in which she'd stand at the door of the room, point to the book on the table and if I nodded, she'd take the book away and read for a while. If I shook my head, she'd say, "Mom, write." Usually I would. Through all of high school, I never wavered in recording my observations. Likewise, she never stinted in telling me that I had gotten it wrong. Well, of course my words did not match her reality. They were a reflection of mine only.

A few years ago, our now adult daughter inquired about the high school journals. She asked if she could borrow them. Immediately I told her that they were hers actually. So, on one of our trips to visit her, I packed the four books in my carry-on luggage to insure their safety. Someday portions of their contents may be referenced in an original work she creates. Unquestionably, they'll remain among her treasures.

Today it is almost quaint to select and send cards other than at Christmas (even that tradition is being usurped by Pdf. files) or for certain birthdays. Very few people compose and mail hand-written letters, thank you notes, and similar messages. Being rather "old school" in many ways, I retain a sufficient supply of cards for various occasions, separated by subject. I love dropping a card in the mailbox, bound for a special address. (I'm elated to receive them myself.) Letters, though increasingly intermittent, are composed using a variety of beautiful blank cards or pretty stationary. I am faithful in writing two maternal first cousins, sisters who are in their 80's and live in Georgia. Though we only saw each other once, and I was an infant at the time, we are close in blood and I maintain my mother's practice of regular correspondence with them. She was the sisters' favorite aunt and I honor that connection.

Social media affords so many people an instant opportunity to write. True, the words are sometimes abbreviated so severely that a 21st century dictionary of sorts may be required to decipher their meaning. E-mails allow writers to gather thoughts and share them immediately. Spell check and other devices assure correctness, most of the time. Linking one's life to another, or groups of people, is almost too easy. These various outlets may not spawn the most brilliant phrases, but writing is writing, isn't it?

I remain forever humbled by the astonishing brilliance of lyrics, struck by the sagacity of stories adroitly crafted by able authors, and rendered emotional by unending lines of poetry. I gracefully yield to those who are writers, now and forever.

A Clueless Christmas

Four empty stockings line the fireplace.

The room is treeless for another year. I'm questioned repeatedly about the absence of tall greenery and asked if we ever had a tree. Yes, we did. Year after year, we moved the dining room trestle table to a north/south position and made room for Christmas near a large window. Collections of baubles, lights, handmade ornaments from early classrooms, and the truly garish multi-pointed star from the Mississippi family farm tree were assembled on the floor and tabletop to be chosen or rejected for display. Forgotten during months of storage, many ornaments cause me to pause and remember their special provenance, thus extending what should have been a rather fleet process. As I'm driving three little girls home from an elementary school choral program, the front seat passenger informs me that I can select a tree at a lot downtown and the people will bring it to my house and set it up for me. Thus, she reasons, there's no need to be tree-bereft. I appreciate her input and promise that next year, we might have a tree if the girls will be my decorating crew. They happily agree.

The origins of traditions are often difficult to recall. Just when or why did something become a habit? an expectation? So it is with gift tag clues at our house. Henry created the concept when our children were young and then continued to modify its usage as individuals joined our annual celebrations or subsequently left the family circle. Anyone arriving during the holidays was well informed (warned?) in advance to expect this curious custom. Most participants simply smiled but rarely understood any of the clues attached to their particular presents. Our son-in-law is the exception. Nearly always he is able to decipher even the most obtuse clues. I'm so inept that even if I help select the gift, wrap it and stick a note on the paper describing what is tucked inside, I'm rarely able to unravel the Cluemaster's (aka Henry) clever phrases.

In 2012, there were no clues. Gifts arrived at other residences without benefit of gift tags, festive paper or small surprises to be discovered. Because of a relatively new job assignment and a dearth of available vacation time, our most desirable holiday visitors were staying home. Not to worry, I was told by my northwest located daughter. They'll be here for Christmas 2013 and I'm instructed to mark that date using a Sharpie! My desk calendar is now boldly labeled and I'm already planning the holiday in my head.

For nearly a month, our house was awash in red and green with tinges of silver and gold. During the Thanksgiving week-end, three energetic girls gently lifted angels, reindeer, snowmen, mice, and Santas from their snoozing spaces and drifted through various rooms deciding just where each special item might best be exhibited to herald the season. Some of Maddy, Hanna and Jessy's groupings were a bit eclectic, nearly all were smushed together a little too closely. At least one decorator's helper admonishes me not to move a particular red convertible with Santa at the wheel. I left it alone. A tradition in its embryonic stage.

We're very fortunate that an array of young girls choose to spend time at our house. One day, a threesome arrives to announce that they've composed a song. Soon they're imploring Henry to let them share their music on his piano. And, could he video their performance? Maybe post it on YouTube? Yes is the answer to all those questions. Not only are they adorably cute, but the song is lovely, too. Will Tropical Pineapple Island become a hit? Does it need lyrics and a famous singer to sell it?

On a Sunday afternoon, the same threesome ring the doorbell, attired in jolly aprons. They're here for the cookie/cupcake-making activity. First, there are rules.

A trio of serious faces looks at me as I explain about clean hands and nails, how this is an all or nothing production and that if one girl wants to quit, it's over. They nod solemnly. Hands held up for inspection pass easily. I mention that cooking occasionally takes more time than expected. More nodding. Sharing is emphasized and embraced. Henry is videoing our interaction. With the camera over my shoulder focused on Hanna, Jessy and Linnea, we begin. Dough is retrieved from the fridge and flattened via rolling pin. Cookie cutters cause some sighs as favorites are selected. Wet towels keep fingers tidy for each step in the process. I'm very clear that cookies don't always turn out as well as we hope and the girls convince me that they can handle such disappointments. Eventually we move on to cupcakes and the inevitable batter sampling. It may be the best part of day. Within a couple of hours, there are enough viable cookies and cupcakes to decorate. No disagreements, no slackers, nobody wants to quit. We're baking a tradition.

Christmas morning, Santa (aka Henry) is laden with gifts for our dear next-door neighbors. He may be in disguise but Hanna and Jessy have identified him since they were about three years old. They say it's because he wears Henry's tennies. Maybe so. Each year, we ask the girls' parents if Santa should appear. The response is a resounding 'yes.' There's no age limit for Santa and we're thinking that in future years, when the girls come home from college for the holidays, he'll greet them.

Our own Christmas dinner is enjoyed at Sherman's Deli where we discover that many other people have the same idea. I'm comfortable with the no preparation/no cooking/no clean-up concept. We order hot open-faced turkey sandwiches with mashed potatoes. Perhaps not as tasty as my versions (on a day without mishaps) and there are no leftovers for future meals, but quite satisfying nevertheless. In the evening, we're next door again with cupcakes and a pecan pie to share at dessert time.

Embracing friends visiting from Vienna and near neighbors whose second home across the street rescues them from the dark cold of Washington, we accept invitations for meals at their respective homes and welcome them to ours. With 14 grown-ups and four girls gathered at the Austrian couple's condo, we feast on a Scandanavian buffet and learn about life in Vienna's Russian zone following World War II. Our dining companions include natives of England, Austria and Sweden. Languages merge and accents proclaim personal roots. We're people from around this country as well as abroad, together as family, often kin without blood.

Just a week ago, the tight threesome (Hanna, Jessy, and Linnea) tackles the dining room table with soft cloths and lemony Pledge. They pronounce the results as extra shiny. We open the buffet drawer where I store linens and select bright white place mats. Linnea spies another set, more fancy in pale blue with a lace overlay. She wonders if we can have two place mats at each setting. Why not? I locate the matching blue cotton napkins, dig out new napkin rings topped with fake pearls. More elegance for our table. A brief lesson in napkin folding ensues with each girl totally engaged in learning the technique. Of course the adults of my acquaintance realize that I need a refresher course in folding, but my pupils are amply impressed with my rudimentary knowledge. From the buffet shelf, I carefully remove eight Haviland Bergere dinner plates. Sharing the history of this china which I've owned for 47 years, I watch the girls as they are extra careful putting the plates around the table. Newly folded napkins look beautiful in the middle of each plate. Extracting beautiful silverware from the drawer, I explain that these special utensils belonged to my brother. After the girls depart, I add place cards with a small bumblebee sticker on the upper right corner. The place cards are attached to mini bottles of nail polish. Gifts for the guests.

At precisely 4:45 pm, the doorbell rings. Four beautifully dressed girls, now including Maddy, keep their dinner date. They've been invited for their first ever grown up, sit down dinner, sans parents. Henry and I are the only adults in the room. A kid friendly menu of fresh veggies and ranch dressing, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, grilled chicken and spinach salad with mandarin oranges, almonds and raspberry vinaigrette is spread across the inviting table. Each young lady demonstrates poise, converses easily on a variety of topics, and avoids any food or dish disasters. They are a pure pleasure to host. Post dinner, there's a movie to watch while the table is cleared, dishes are washed and brownie bites are ready at last for the dessert finale. I wonder if they'll insist on another such meal next Christmas. It may be their tradition already.

When not engaged in routine holiday functions, there are lazy afternoons of "Simon Says" in the backyard, time to smell the roses or magic tricks demonstrated from Henry's inexhaustible supply.

Henry conducts an Acoustic School, teaching the girls about communication via plastic cups and string.

Too soon, the last night arrives. Hugs and tears crowd our entryway as sad faces must accept that the next day, flights await. Back home in Vienna, Olympia, or Leamington Spa, England, the weather is wretched. It will remain so for months and months. Our dear friends leave us, carrying memories. I believe they're all clueless as to how their time here passed so quickly.

Standing Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing dominates the evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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