Eating Her Way Back Home

Vaya con dios, Ollie, Olivia, Grandma, 'Ami,' Mom!  After a two-month stay in our fair city, moving back and forth between the homes of her boys, my mother-in-law returned to Colorado late this afternoon.  Nervous though she was concerning the flight, flight in general, she was a trooper all the way and landed safely at good ol' DIA.  As is customary in our household, we said our goodbyes and rehashed our good times over -- what else -- food.  Though, to be fair, food has permeated just about every moment of our days and nights.  The woman baked fragrant cinnamon rolls, shaped tender tortillas, and whipped up comforting dinners in my California-trip absence.  And let's not forget the extravagant birthday surf n' turf bonanza in her honor last month.  Or the dining out for meals both large and small, in town and in a few neighboring 'burgs: Greek, Italian, seafood, Chinese, and American.  Oh, and JoZoara's Coffee House and Starbucks.  I'm getting full.  Yet again.

But the fond farewell feasting was my subject here. 

There was the last minute homemade chicken enchilada dinner that she actually prepared for us at the request of her youngest son.  With the help of her sous chefs, of course.  Lots of talk over the chopping and dicing and clinking of silverware and plates.  Think dark and flavorful red sauce draped over corn tortillas stuffed with savory shredded poultry and red onions, intermingled with melted cheddar and Monterey Jack cheeses, topped with crisp lettuce, sour cream, avocado, and fresh salsa from my garden.  My son, the budding comedian, a young man in need of constant attention and laughter, competed for top billing with his uncle.  Both were in excellent form.  Before we all retired for the evening, a quick run to the local Dairy Queen was in order for a round of chocolate-dip 'torches' (cones, but the alternative name came about within the larger family circle, and it stuck) and banana splits.  Olivia is quite fond of that crunchy outer coating over vanilla soft serve.

Breakfast involved one of our favorite special meals: whole grain crepes filled with berries set atop sweetened sour cream, rolled securely, drizzled with Mexican crema (basically a thick but not whipped cream) and dolloped with spray whipped cream.  That's a whole lotta dairy goin' on there!  For the hubby it was turkey sausage links, pork bacon, and basted eggs with buttered bakery Farmhouse White toast.  All during this preparation, Olivia was also putting together an enormous batch of potato salad to help me out with a wedding reception meal at our church tomorrow.  That woman gets down to business and gets it DONE!  The table chit-chat centered around the 4th dimension, aliens, hauntings, etc.  The grandpup and our old girl, Panda, meandered about the kitchen but never acted untoward concerning the victuals.  Outside, we could see the neighbor and his two young boys stretching atop their folding chairs to catch butterflies flitting about the top branches of my sprawling butterfly bush.  Just another Saturday morning at the Valdez house.

Through a sudden deluge of almost horizontal rain at times, and lightning which seemed to strike near the truck with each shattering display, we managed to deliver her to Southwest Airlines in plenty of time.  (And this after the half hour we spent rearranging her luggage to ensure each bag weighed no more than 50 pounds; she's bringing back an entire kitchen collection of cutlery and such in them there bags!)  It helped that her flight was delayed by an hour.  My boy fought his tears valiantly; he doesn't like goodbyes and he deeply loves and enjoys his grandma.  He said if she lived around us, he'd be fat from all of her homestyle cooking.  I imagined her reading and rereading her WE'LL MISS YOU card with its cache of pictures and spending money, alternately smiling and crying just a bit.  She had herself a great time and the collection of stories in her heart will keep her going until next she comes.  It's a good thing to make a mom happy. 

Now, all of us left behind return to our normal.  School starts with one of those infamous 2-hour days next Wednesday . . . also my husband's 44th birthday.  Whatever shall we do?  Suggestions?  Anyone?

The Road Not Taken

Recently, the question was posed to me by a pal from back-in-the-day, "Where would I be if I had stayed in my 'home town' after high school graduation and done what was expected of me, planned for me, and wanted, initially, by me?"

That's a tough one.  I simply DON'T KNOW!  What about you?  Did you stick around or ditch your original plans and adventure forth?  Making that choice doesn't necessarily guarantee an actual adventure, however.  Some of us probably are more acquainted with this idea than others.  Staying put doesn't imply that one is a bland stick-in-the-mud, either.  Both directions can seem impossible or impossibly right.

I'm not sure which choice would have been the better one for me.  Hindsight does offer a better view but 20/20?  Don't know about that.  What I recall is that what seemed most comfortable to me at that fateful juncture in the road between my childhood and impending young adulthood created a high sense of discomfort for most everyone around me.

There was no steady boyfriend.  Not in high school.  Not directly after.  There were two boys for whom I harbored a steady crush the entire year -- one in my junior year, one in my senior -- and they, being well aware of it, chose to make a move on the pretty but definitely different Sweigard girl only AFTER school let out.  Each crush swiftly deflated.  Evidently for me, the fun was in the anxious and uncertain chase.  A minor fling with my best male friend ended swiftly.  Should have never happened.  Strong feelings for a man ten years my senior yielded nothing more than an unhealthy obsession that could lead nowhere for either of us.  Hence, staying on would NOT have ended in a marriage for me.  At least not as anything planned and desired.

My brain, and the experiences of my life, were what mattered to those around me.  To teachers, to my grandma and mother, to my friends, to the kind vice-principal who worked so hard to help me gain entrance into a college.  To the decision-makers at UC Santa Cruz who read my application essay and mailed off that wonderful acceptance letter with the full-tuition offer: that which would enable me to study psychiatry in my pursuit to help others who had experienced trauma to change their worlds for the better.  To my Uncle Zan who wished to see me attend an ivy-league university.  Even to my eager, full-of-promise, but also intensely unsure and afraid self.

But after all the planning and thought and focused energy exerted in the pursuit of my academic future, I caved in to my fears.  I was a virtual Humpty-Dumpty of a mixed-up young woman.  Seemingly confident on the outside but roiling with doubts and insecurities on the inside.  Deep within was the belief that truly good things, especially the good things I wanted, were not to be mine.  So to pursue them would be vain effort.  And those around me who cared, they hoped to put me back together again as someone more like them and less like what I was raised to be.  So dogged were they in this pursuit, that they neglected to actually get to know the real me.  Instead, I felt they were intent upon creating a new me who would one day become wholly unrecognizable to me.  I feared the loss of an identity I had yet to fully grasp.

My son told me once that I should be in school because I'm too smart not be there.  God love him.  That was one of those fine moments in life that sits well on a glass shelf and reflects light back with a startling beauty each time it is enjoyed.  A moment which never would have happened if I had stayed in California and become a UCSC Banana Slug (yes, that was, and is, their mascot) in the fall of 1988.

Though I often regret, mildly mind you, my decision to ditch higher learning for marriage and babies, I don't regret my life as it unfolded on the other side.  There were intense lows and serious highs.  I gave birth to three highly colorful personalities with the potential to create their own waves of impact on the shores of their lives.  I married a man who was entranced with me upon first sight, and four years later he came back for more . . . that was twenty-one years ago.  He still makes me laugh.  I still confound and enchant him.  The people who have come into my personal space and taken up permanent residence as friends and neighbors and reconnected family are the richest tapestry of humanity possible to imagine.  I have learned.  Oh, how I have learned.

In all honesty, the only point I seriously ponder is the area of study I chose.  If I had achieved the end result and started my own practice, would my knowledge have gifted me with the insight into my own brother's mind and saved him from seventeen years of incarceration?  Would my experience have lent me the power to decipher and stop the puzzle of psychosis in my sister which led to the death of her two children?  Therein lies a cruel irony concerning the two most painful chapters in my life.

The great WHAT IF?  

A Tale of Two Brothers -- Again

I owe two blog entries to last week's question winners.  Those are not forgotten.  (I'm rather disappointed that no one has answered this week's question.  However, people have a life and my blog is not central to those lives!  Only to mine.)  The promised entries hover, circling, picking up steam, becoming less an idea and more a solid thought.  Soon, soon.  I'm sensing an essay and a poem.  But, at this very moment, aside from sensing sleep, there is another significant subject which needs tackling.  One in a series of major developments during this past stretch of days.

Again, it's a tale of two brothers.  I realize that three personable children, a husband, one senior dog, a deceptively charming cat, and my mother-in-law currently live in this house.  And, their actions spin off often humorous stories worthy of sharing here.  Fortunately for them, yet quite unfortunately for the dynamic brotherly duo, the days of their lives have been safe and somewhat commonplace.  Believe me when I state in writing that I eagerly await the day when my younger male siblings give me no cause to regale my readers with tales of their unanticipated antics!

So, Gary.  This afternoon.  He's on the phone with me.  Our conversation has gone on for roughly an hour.  We've both gone a bit daft in our tired heads and the chit-chat is humorous bordering on plain old silly.  In between our verbal riffs, he shouts out a few comments to one of his roommates concerning the difficult task of actually making contact with one's social worker on the ward.  In the background, the ward itself is rather quiet.  Suddenly, I hear Gary exclaim something in surprise and anger.  The phone clatters and continues to bounce against whatever surface from which it now dangles.  The sounds of a scuffle, fists thudding with dull meaty impact on a body, alarms jangling, footsteps, yells.  Someone picks up the phone.  The roommate.  Gary is all right, but he was attacked and they fought.  I thank him, still in the midst of calming myself, and we hang up.  Fifteen minutes later, the furious voice of my brother is informing me that Raven, a one-time trouble making roommate who threw hot water in Gary's face a few weeks back, approached and tossed a cupful of his own urine at Gary's face while he sat, unaware and relaxed, talking with me.  His anger is directed at the floor staff who promised to move this disturbed man to another ward weeks ago.  He will be penalized for beating on the guy.  I'm not so sure there are too many men in my sphere who would not throw a few punches after such an outrageous assault.  THIS is Gary's life right now.  (Yes, he immediately showered, changed clothes, and called from the other phone.)

Meanwhile, rewind to this weekend.  The eldest of my younger brothers, John, is attending his 20-year class reunion.  A wealthy and generous friend has opened his home and pool to the event.  John is playing pool basketball.  At some point, he vacates the pool in search of an errant ball.  Returning to the game, he jumps in and inadvertently crashes into another swimmer.  The forceful impact redirects the trajectory of his 5' 11" 185+ frame to the bottom of the pool -- head first.  He makes contact, opening an impressive gash on his head before floating up.  All is not well and this becomes immediately apparent.  His wife is upset, nervous, but somewhat hopeful once he moves his fingers and toes.  There is an ambulance ride to the neighboring city of Modesto.  (Our grandma lives there.  See the blog entry about my visit.)  In the midst of his shock and pain, John hears the rapid discussion between doctors and nurses regarding the extent of his injuries.  Words like 'surgery' and 'halo' are tossed out.  This scares him.  He is told that his outcome is most incredible and he is most fortunate.  Things could have been so much worse.  As it is, he is kept overnight and ordered to keep his broken second vertebrae in a neck brace for the next eight weeks.  No turns to the left.  No turns to the right.  No driving.  Drug up and rest up for the next few days or so.  Did they also tell him to send that alarming text message to his sister about his accident after she missed his call?!  Sister had to take a moment out in public to find an aisle where she could release a few tears of horror and gratitude at the news.  UGH!

And, there's not a darned thing I can do about any of it.  Besides pray.  Continue to be Sister G. to the both of them.  Send a care package of candy and other snack items to Gary courtesy of the online sites who handle such business for the psychiatric hospital there in Napa.  Send possibly annoying texts to John in an attempt to stay abreast of his situation (his wife actually has done a bang-up job of keeping me in the loop WITH pictures) . . . and hope that the impromptu trip he planned for his ENTIRE FAMILY just this past Saturday or Sunday will yet come to fruition in early October. 

This Blogger Has A Couple Of Issues

There are entirely too many subjects for blogging this week.  I've been batting them about inside my head in a wild tennis match of sorts.  Ideas and thoughts flying everywhere!  Bouncing off of every conceivable surface.  Collecting bits of grey matter as they careen and collide and crash.  Though I miss my windowed corner of writing escapism at the Napa, California Starbucks just down the road from the state hospital, I'm every bit as stimulated in my present hometown of Murfreesboro, Tennessee.  Why, my family oozes enough source material to keep this thing going for years on end.  But, the news end of things hasn't been to shabby, either.

Before going on to other matters, let me air a grievance I have toward an unknown college-aged female driver who was parked next to me at the light on Church Street just before the I-24 bridge at 10:47 this evening.  She was texting, tapping and scanning with the tip of her manicured finger, all the while holding her smoking cigarette in place further down the same finger.  Besides the obvious distraction of texting, not to mention that it's illegal (and carries what I consider a wimpy fine of $50), the double whammy of performing the maneuver while smoking with the same hand seems a bit of a risk.  A lit cigarette falls into her lap, burning through the flimsy layer of her short Saturday-night party dress, and then what?  Pain?  Startle reflex?  Reaction?  Over-correction?  A perfectly awful late-night weekend automobile accident?  The two girls never make it home?  This irritated mother never makes it to pick up her daughter from a babysitting gig at the other end of town?  PEOPLE!  Please, either pull over or put your phone out of your sight!  It's not worth the risk and possible outcome!  Asking what bar serves the strongest drinks or what party offers the hottest eye-candy: are these topics valued above human safety and life?  Enough said.

So-o, Andrew Breitbart, the blogger who posted the merest wisp of a portion of a speech given by Shirley Sherrod, a black woman who was, until Tuesday past, the Agriculture Department's director of rural development in Georgia, ought to be ashamed of himself.  If you don't know the story, in brief, he's a politically enthusiastic Tea Partyer who blogs from this perspective.  Nothing wrong there.  More power to him.  More power to us all.  Whatever.  But, as one who is putting information out there for the masses, and one who possibly holds the power to sway public beliefs and opinion, he has a responsibility to research thoroughly and present honestly.  His posting of this video snippet, which was picked up by FOX News and other media outlets, had people believing this woman was a racist toward whites and refused to help white farmers.  In reality, the full speech reveals a professional who, in a moment 20 years ago or thereabouts, realized she had a bias which kept her from helping poor people in general, a bias which was coloring her character and her ability to perform her job in its highest capacity; this realization caused her to reassess what she had carried with her as the result of painful experiences in her childhood, and she actually went above and beyond to save a specific farmer from losing his livelihood.  Her strong faith in the Lord and her deep passion for her position were also in evidence.  All of that was lost as the few seconds of a few of her words went viral and spread outward in a rather large radius before someone was able to grab the attention of the news powers-that-be and entreat them to watch the speech in its entirety.

(I'm including a video link to the speech: the REAL story behind Shirley's words.)

(To be balanced, I'm also including a link to one of Andrew Breitbart's sites: Big Government.)

Based on what I've read about him, he can't really be considered a journalist.  The way in which he conveys news, the formation of his words and ideas around the stories, reeks of sensationalism.  It's attention getting.  The pot he chooses to stir is set aside for boiling alive everything in his path, everything set in his laser sights, everything which does not run parallel to his views.  There's definitely a way to discuss different opinions and divergent philosophies.  His ain't it.  The very idea that his type of writing in ingested by so many who are desperate for change, eager for the next better thing for America, scares me.  The flames he fans are, indeed, seductive, but they also fan hatred.  When questioned by the press, Mr. Breitbart deflected any responsibility for what he chose to air over what he chose to ignore, by stating his intention was to show the racist reaction of the listening audience and had nothing to do with the words of  Ms. Sherrod.  (I'm simplifying for the sake of space.)  Wow!  Do intelligent people honestly swallow that rotten bait?  Check out the unfolding story for yourself.

I know people who are members of the Tea Party.  This entry is not political in any way.  But, I hope my affiliated friends can see that this man casts their efforts in an ugly light and detracts from their basic premises.  Though I don't doubt his intelligence, I doubt his integrity.  I realize these are strong words.  The more I write on this, the more incensed I become because this man tramples on the very moral foundation upon which this country was built.  There are good folks engaged in the political process because they love this country and they respect people even though they reject the principles embraced by certain factions within this country.  Calling individuals pricks and soiling the graves of the newly dead with verbal diarrheal rhetoric is simply uncalled for.

Question the news.  Don't believe everything you read.  Research for yourself.  Be open-minded.  Realize no side is entirely wrong or entirely right.

Enough said.    

 

  

Window To Her World

Bevy of blackbirds, not baked in a pie,
but a blight to her keen eye.
Starling, grackle, cowbird.
They swarm, an iridescent gathering.
Feasting on every valuable seed
meant for their diminutive brethren.
The shotgun crack of her knuckles
against the glass panes scatters.
As one, a dark rising, moving on.

From the five-o-clock position
near the silent floor fan,
the meadow rises green and unbroken.
Fawn and mama deer wander in search.
Hoping for every valuable seed,
She cranes her slender neck.
But the feeder is more deer-proof
then clever squirrel-proof.
They bound past the pod-laden catalpa.

Juvenile cardinals, skittish and scruffy

rub wings with their tufted cousins.

Their parents chip, chip, chip as

ruby red papa scouts for his mate.

Hankering after every valuable seed.

Each one a holiday ornament,

adorning bush and tree alike,

both in and out of  "'tis the season."
A royal family holding court.

The counted busy sparrow.

The undulating sunshine flight of the goldfinch,

upstaging the purple and house of his ilk.

Mister Indigo Bunting alights on rare occasion.

Desiring of every valuable seed.

Even with the robbery,

there is always enough for nuthatch

and tufted titmouse dining.
Even the yellow-bellied sapsucker.

Beyond the neutral sheen of curtains, 

past the army green utility box -- number 28736,

is a world of hummingbird vine

and avian houses, of heady tottering sunflowers.

Falling with every valuable seed,

the rise and fall of a living space

entices her to engage in its rhythm.

Familiar and new at each dawning.
A friendly place for the soul.

(Written for my mother.)
-gsv

Numbers Game

So, Chandler and Joey are peer pressuring Ross into drinking breast milk from a bottle . . . he's avoided the taste throughout the entire half-hour show.  It's the final minute of the episode: and he's DONE it!  Neatly washing it down with a couple of Oreo cookies.  "Friends."  Ashley's all-time favorite sitcom.  The girl owns every episode in an extensive CD collection she's gathered over the past few years.  There are a great many laughs to had with the stupendous six.  (They stray a bit too far near the edge at times for my tastes, but funny is still funny.)

Well, it's official.  Cramming one's face full of combination pizza and cherry pie, licorice and Skittles, In-and-Out burgers and nachos, donuts and cheesecake -- all during my five-hour visits with Gary, not to mention adding TWO lattes a day to one's dietary intake, Grandma Opal's chock-full-of-goodness carrot bread, and sucking down  plentiful glasses of red wine more than once or twice over eighteen days, oh, and hitting up Foster's Freeze AND that fast-food Chinese joint in one evening, will yield a net result of a six-pound weight gain.  To my credit, I did intersperse the binging with flax seed in plain yogurt and mucho veggies and fruit.  On the positive side, daily walks and keeping up with push-ups most likely kept off another six!  Doubtless, copious calories were burned by my regular blogging, texting, and Facebooking.  Thanks to all of you for those saved ounces.

While I missed my Valdez Bunch, including the animals and the home front, let it be said that never EVER did I state that I regretted leaving the humidity behind.  At 10AM, with the mercury hovering around 83 degrees Fahrenheit, I was sure I could easily handle the late morning walk after my vigorous striding around Merced and Modesto in 95+ degree weather.  Fat wet chance!  My dog barely cleared her daily mile, tongue lolling, panting unceasingly.  My shorts climbed, lodged, and stuck to me in ways most unpleasant.  What's left of my rapidly departing damaged hair was arranged in an alarming golden disarray beneath my sweaty cap.  And that was only my FIRST mile!  I'll spare you the damage done in the next two miles.  UGH. 

We had ourselves a real entertaining evening here on Marilyn Court.  A push-up contest for best form: 25 executed with chest hitting the ground and coming up into fully extended, but not locked, arms, maintaining a straight line with the body.  Zachary and I performed first.  Perfect!  Not too fast, not too slow.  Then, it was Jimmy V's turn.  We contend that he zips through his series too quickly for them to be of maximum benefit.  I laid in front of him, hand flat beneath his chest, policing the depth of his dip, encouraging him at each count with a friendly, "C'mon, Chippy!  You can do it!"  (This refers to his very cute front teeth which I find rather appealing when he grins.)  By number 19, he had collapsed in a fit of laughter.  Good times!

In keeping with my efforts to drop those pesky six pounds, I surrendered to my PMS-induced cravings for reduced-fat Original Pringles (I shared the tube with Ashley and Zachary, thereby reducing my overall intake) and 4 1/2 carefully culled selections from my hand-picked 48-count box of Ethel's Chocolates -- my splurge during my stopover at the Las Vegas Airport on Friday last.  Let's see.  Creme Brulee.  Raspberry ganache.  Tiramisu.  A rich caramel.  Cheesecake.  Peanut Butter and Jelly.  Half of a partially eaten dark chocolate truffle . . . and the final corner of a plain Peanut Butter and the wee sampling of Zachary's rum cocktail specialty chocolate.  Um-m, I'm evidently better at denial and weaker in math as the years run by; that should be 6 and 3/4 picked from my delectable stash.  Yikes!  Hey!  I'm downing a huge glass of water right before I hit the sack, okay?!

Wait.  Stop.  I peeked in on the two-layers of goodness nestled between individual plastic compartments and separated by candy-box lining.  I discovered 1/3 of the caramel and 2/3 of the cheesecake yet untouched in their spots.  Last I checked, six subtract one equals five.  Phew.  Not quite as bad as it sounded.  And I did hit 151 push-ups today with that extra contest set.  Not to mention 120 reps on the ol' thighmaster.  (Yes, Suzanne Somers is right: you can squeeze your way to firmer inner thighs in just minutes a day!) 

So there! 

  

Strangers, Than Non-Fiction

Strangers share funny things with one another. Juicy tidbits or entire meaty monologues of personal information that otherwise might remain buried deep in the middle earth of oneself, away from the familiar eyes of those who know the everyday you. Those who might look away if they were privy to portions of that private information being dispensed like Pez candy to the stranger seated at your right or left on the airplane headed to Vegas, in the subway hurtling toward uptown, at the line into the classic rock reunion concert, or side-by-side at that long-distance Walk-A-Thon to raise money for injured police dogs. Or, worse, those who might broadcast the seed of your revelations across the inquisitive fallow fields of your workplace, church, or neighborhood.

Now, I must make a disclaimer of sorts here and state that this particular oddity of human nature doesn’t necessarily apply to me. Since early adolescence, I’ve been telling my story and begging answers to the stories of others, friend and stranger alike. While I’m not inappropriate in the telling or its content, I’m aware, especially as the wisdom of the ages chooses to lightly sprinkle me with a dusting of advanced perspective every ten years or so, that some people would rather not be told anything. Nothing. At all. They do not appreciate sharing time. While those of a certain generation are generally accustomed to a practiced chit-chat which says much, but reveals little, out of social nicety, a great many more are simply uncomfortable with knowing too much about others or too much about themselves. There’s a subconscious fear that some tiny crack, unbeknownst to them, might be infiltrated by the exchange of words and thereby create a further difficulty in maintaining the status quo. I try to respect that though it is obviously not my philosophy.

It becomes easier to gauge the water temperature with each dip in the community pool of reciprocal conversation. The man who immediately inserts his earbuds, pushing each one purposefully and with great force not required for such small objects, and taps on the music library of his smart phone, has all the words and sounds he requires right at his fingertips. Thank you, very much! The woman who pulls her sweater tightly around her middle while running her bookmark down the pages of the latest summer beach-read, lips moving silently with each line, feet tucked smartly beneath her seat, is an island of silence unto herself. There’s an entire library of body language, eye contact, verbal cues, and, often, just plain old gut feelings. Ironically enough, these withdrawn ones often tell something about themselves without ever saying a single revelatory word.

For the record, I don’t discount those who simply crave a bit of solitude in the form of a nap, gossip magazines, etc. That’s an entirely separate genre of strangers. I’ve been that person on multiple occasions. But, I’d interrupt the respite in the blink of an eye if I sensed an opportunity for fascinating mutual discourse with a perfectly respectable, or maybe not so much, individual. I may never see them again. The chances are actually stacked quite against it. Therefore, it is unique in a world where much is same old, same old.

While my reasons for opening up to those not in my personal universe for very long are pretty straightforward – curiosity, friendliness, connection – the motives vary among the masses. I’m thinking the guy sitting in the aisle seat of the row in front of me needs to impress. He hopes to sound experienced and a touch worldly. He’ll be wandering the gaudy streets of the Vegas Strip in less than an hour with the two younger (mid- to late-twenties to his late-forties) attractive blondes to his left who sound as if they are co-workers along on a work-related conventions of some sort. They now know, along with me and several other in-flight strangers, that he’s probably done just about everything under the sun and then some in comparison to his less experienced vodka-sipping co-horts. Have they seen “The Hangover?” They haven’t?! Oh, well they certainly should; it’s pretty true to life. Chuckle chuckle. I imagine that up and down the aisle, from window to window, several shared scenarios are unfolding across the lap belts. Perhaps a mother whose son told her only last week that he thinks he doesn’t like girls. Maybe a husband who inadvertently discovered his wife’s ongoing infidelity via a misdirected e-mail. Even a kid unsure what to do with what he saw pass between students in the school bathroom on Monday. And, scads of information far less scintillating or scandalous. Assuredly downright boring in a majority of instances. But still . . . people who want to chat it up and people willing to listen.

______________________

Well, I’ve landed in the land of “The Hangover.” Glad I’m here long enough only to purchase Starbucks, post a blog, and hand-select 48 pieces of Ethel’s Chocolates finest offerings. There’s a charming funny man who wishes to escort me back home from the Nashville airport. My bland multi-grain bagel egg sandwich was beyond bland. I picked at it for a time before tossing it in the trash bin. For me to throw MORE than half of it away, it’s gotta be bad. Avoid the bagel shop in the Las Vegas C terminal. Save your dollars! Maybe there’s still time to buy a buttery pretzel for the 3 ½ hour flight yet ahead of me.

Ciao for now.

Envisioning

In less than twelve hours, my husband will lay eyes on his beloved bride of twenty-one years after an almost eighteen day absence. I can hardly bear it myself. As much as I love my brothers, they aren’t home for me. Neither is California. My home is in good ol’ Tennessee!

But for the night, it’s a double bed in a nice clean room in ye olde’ Quality Inn situated in Vacaville. Interestingly enough, Gary was once in a prison in this fair city. I can’t tell you how many times I penned this little cow town’s name on plain business-sized white envelopes. Evidently, though, it’s outlet malls and an historic downtown which draws the folks in. For me, it was the available room for a single adult after four earlier strike-outs . . . and the Starbucks just down the road.

One of the amenities is the box of tissues I found on the bathroom counter. A very likable green and leaf motif package design with a pleasant-sounding name: Envision. After pulling one out, I realized I was to envision actual tissue in my hand as opposed to the rough and raspy thing between my fingers. I gingerly dabbed my nose with the stuff, worried it might come in contact with my mouth and rip the healing membrane covering the annoying trio of cold sores which suddenly erupted on my lower lip yesterday. (Just in time for that wedding I’m attending as a satin-ensconced bridesmaid on Sunday!) On the bottom of the box, Georgia-Pacific brags that there is a 10% post-consumer recycled content in the fair product. What might that be?! 10% steel wool? 10% fiberglass? 10% wood chips, perhaps?!

My fatigue is evident even before I state it. Why else would I wax on about Kleenex at the end of such a momentous trip? Perhaps because, at the end of a rewarding but emotionally draining day, not to mention the extra four-plus hours of driving I did journeying into, and out of, the fair city by the bay – San Francisco – a travel-weary gal just wants a wee bit of comfort. Even if it is for her nose!

My belly is busily digesting the half a restaurant-baked cherry pie and two slices of combination pizza I munched on during my earlier adventurous commute. From time to time, over the miles and through the toll booths, I dug my fingers into the box and pulled out gooey chunks of cherry and crust, licking as I went, alternating with handfuls of lite microwave popcorn, washing it all down with pink grapefruit sparkling Perrier water. My dinner. My coping mechanism in a city where left and right turns are offered more to taxicabs and buses than cars and trucks, horns wear out for all the rude honking, and pedestrians gobble up the valuable green light time at intersections. I only hoped to check out the three-story Anthropologie store on Market Street. But the lack of parking and my lack of directional familiarity with the roads (my iPhone had the directions straight to the store, but I drove past and could NEVER get back!) thwarted my valiant attempts. I surrendered and left through the tunnel and over the bridge and past the protective foothills.

That’s all I got. I believe sleep is what the doctor would order if she knew me!

Monkey See, Monkey 'Do'

So, my astute brother has zeroed in on my dramatically lightened locks.  Specifically how it stands up in all its frizzy pale glory immediately after a swim.  You know, the water rinses off the multiple layers of carefully applied hair products giving a textural assist, and all that remains is color-stripped dried bits of collagen.  There's no body left.  And, bereft of color, the stuff has nowhere to go but up in a variety of directions.  Lake water, apparently, imparts a little extra somethin'-somethin'.  In one of his more humorous moments of observation, he began calling me "the blonde Curious George."  He lets it roll off his tongue with a playful twinkle in his pale brown (some may describe them as hazel) eyes and a slight smirk on his lips: typical teasing brother face.  This past weekend, after our cleansing dip in the cool morning waters of Lake McClure, he noted that with my relatively new look and strong personality, I was the equivalent of the "female silverback!"  As in the lead male gorilla of the troop whose hair tips turn gray with age!  'kay, thanks, brother dear . . .  Though now that I look at it, what is his fixation on primates in connection with me?  Inference comes naturally to my brain, but I'm coming up dry.

I think I'll stick with Glor.  But don't you just love brothers?  If you don't have one, rent one.  Don't buy the insurance.  Run up the free mileage.  And return him on EMPTY. 

In other news, John learned that the new HDTV DVR unit turns on . . . with the 'on' button of the new identical-to-the-old remote.  Ba-dum-bum.  Young teen Isaac fed his frisky steer a bucket of grain and a generous portion of hay before being whisked away to water polo practice.  A frantic Allison tore through the house searching for her cheer bloomers, eager to arrive at practice on time after returning home from a day of water park fun.  Miss Glamor-Puss Emma prettied herself up just in time for an extended evening outing with her tanned and handsome boyfriend.  Stemming from this latter development, mother in beck-and-call mode Dixie is presently taking an impromptu field trip to the neighboring town of Turlock to deliver her daughter to the aforementioned honorable boyfriend.

Yours truly had herself a delightful couple of hours of catch-up conversation with one of her best friends from her two years at Livingston High School.  This woman was perpetually organized and up on everything during that time.  Confident and goal-oriented.  Life has thrown her a few surprise curve balls, but I'm pleased to report that she has recovered and thrives with grace and a newfound sense of laughter and fun.  You GO, girl!

Now, here I sit, contemplating a change in toenail color -- Emma has a very cool shade of coppery gold in her purse (dang it! I forgot to get it from her!) -- and mulling over the world's water supply-and-demand situation and how our futures will all be impacted over the coming decade.  Just another day in the life.

What's going on in your neck of the woods?

The Homesick Hat

I was talking with Brother Gary and telling him how much my husband misses me.  "Well, I miss you, too!"  Aww.  He'll get one more day with me before I hop a return flight to Nashville on Friday.  Until then, it's hang time with Brother John . . . and family.

Two partial weekends with the Sweigards.  Two partial weekends of lake fun.  Lake McClure was the scene this time around.  A friend's houseboat loaned out for a free couple of days.  After dinner and trout fishing, everyone except John decided to sleep outside, with its cool breezes and lower temperatures.  (The living room was a bit of a sauna.)  Four little pallets set out on the upper deck beneath the wide open sky allowed me, Dixie, Allison, and Isaac an unobstructed view of shooting stars, the Big and Little Dippers, and the gauzy stretch of space highway known as the Milky Way.  Without the competition of city lights, the clarity and breadth of vision was breathtaking.  Such beauty made it quite difficult to nod off.  But, I enjoyed the light banter with my niece leading up to our eventual passing out.

Rarely do I float about on any body of water, be it a charming backyard oasis or a sparkling sprawl surrounded by swelling foothills, as a form of leisure activity.  Today was the exception.  I've got the perfect outline of a bikini -- sun-art in shades of red with white contrast, if you get my drift -- on my body to prove it!  My nephew and niece entertained with spectacular leaps and dives from the second story of the houseboat.  Once, and only once, I made the brave walk to the edge, trembled as I gazed into the water, and leaped off the edge.  UGH.  Me and heights, especially any type of departure requiring my body to remain suspended in air before gathering momentum for parts below, don't mix too well.

(I started this entry last night around 11PM; I jerked awake, laptop IN my lap in its OWN sleep mode, around midnight.  Decided to postpone further efforts until next day.)

On the off chance that readers out there feel I'm enjoying my time away from my core family far too much, please note that while I'm thrilled and blessed to be among my siblings and other family, and while the natural beauty of California has inspired me, my heart anticipates the reunion with my children and  husband, not to mention my home and friends and church and the great green treed landscape that is Middle Tennessee.

When John and Dixie interact with their kids, I bite my tongue as responses and instructions natural to a mother try to maneuver their was past my lips and into the situation.  This isn't my family.  These aren't my kids.  I don't believe they need my assistance or verbal donation to the cause.  It's just that internal switch that was flipped back in October of 1989 when my firstborn arrived on the scene doesn't simply move back to the OFF position when I am away from my own kids.  I want to hear my own brood snap at me, retort over a request, grump from the recesses of their morning sleep stupor, so mama can alternately calm, soothe, hug, ignore, boss, or discipline.  And, yes, snap back once in awhile her ownself!  

When Emma and Allie pull their long hair behind their heads into messy buns or atop their heads into skyscraping masses, my mind's eye sees Sarah and her impossibly tall hair piles that only add to her regal attitude and Ashley with her wavy tresses held from her face with a serious collection of brown bobby pins.  When Isaac peppers his mother with requests regarding playtime and playmates, and he annoys his high-spirited sisters with an endless stream of harmless jokes, I'm reminded of my own active son, Zachary, and his often impossible humor, endless energy, and boundless capacity for his own question assault on HIS mother.  When John rests his considerable length of leg on the more diminuitive form of his wife while relaxing on the comfy family couch which presently doubles as my bed, I yearn to snuggle in close to my husband, his arm around me, and fall into the best of sleeps, secure in the familiar comfort of twenty one years.  This morning, while rooting around in the fridge for a familiar topping to adorn my toasted Orowheat multi-grain sandwich thin, I found myself missing the contents of my own refrigerator, with its all-fruit fig spread, raspberry jam from the bakery, almond butter from Trader Joe's, and my special lite margarine without hydrogenated fats.  I'm already contemplating what I can cook and eat with my family in my first week back.  I hear I missed out on a great spaghetti and meatballs meals courtesy of my mother-in-law! 

So, there you have it.  My people.  My food.  MY life.  I like where I hang my hat.  My hat(s) like(s) it, too.  Though my hat has adapted to the spacious sprawl of the Sweigard ranch-style address, an austere dorm originally conceived for married nurses, grandma's familiar abode on Warwick Lane, a maze of a cabin nestled in the foothills, and a two-story houseboat situated on a spread-out lazy lake, it's quite eager to reclaim its hook in the utility hall just outside the guest bathroom and laundry room in my family's home. 

Illusions of Grandeur (or Visions of Grandma)

No, there is no error in the title.  I'm not deluded concerning big things.  But, I might be seeing big things in this overworked brain of mine that simply can't be translated from gray matter onto the surface of cyberspace at this time.  Two nights in a row, once from Grandma Opal's in Modesto and once from Brother John's in Merced, verbose entries replete with description and emotion ran across my mind but they fell just shy of my fingers.  Though my eyes are actually at fault, I believe, tired as they have been.  Jetting from town to town, and from place to place within each town, soaking up the images and words of each precious person, memorizing events as they unwind, deciding how to put it all into letter bites and bytes, will wear a body down.  Regardless of determination, discipline, and the drinking of 'energy.'

So, the blog ran dry.  But I'm back at Starbucks in Napa, this time trying out the Trancas Street location.  Not bad, but my corner seat in the Soscol Avenue store is a more natural fit for me.  Plus, I'm closer to Gary.  That works for this sister.

When I left the Sweigard house, all was quiet save for the Merced Irrigation District manager who was busy spiffying himself for the long work day ahead.  Last night, my spirited young niece, Allison, cried herself to sleep because her little white kitty has been missing since the 4th of July weekend.  She printed bright yellow fliers to distribute to neighbors: fortunately I had snapped a few precious shots of her with the slender slightly-damaged-at-birth feline last week . . . she planned to print and affix the best picture to her fliers this morning.  Even my generally stoic-toward-pets brother has been out of sync since kitty's disappearance.  We're all hoping a neighbor took her in because it happened once before and she doesn't have a collar or identification.  As the owner of a highly active indoor-outdoor cat, I'm well aware of the most realistic outcome in this scenario.  These are the emotional risks implicit to pet ownership.  Still, that doesn't make it any easier.  Especially on kids.  But I do believe it is a healthy way for them to learn about the very real aspects of life and death.  It is our condition.

Tuesday and Wednesday of this week were dedicated to my 90 year-old Grandma Opal.  She's a dynamo who has only recently begun to show signs of truly slowing down.  Her arthritis.  Her hip.  Her peripheral vision.  The sudden sleep into which she falls if she sits in her comfy chair at any time.  Some memory loss according to her, but that brain is still knife sharp where family history and curiosity are concerned.  And, she sent an entire loaf of moist flavorful carrot bread which she had baked with me for Gary.  I admit to consuming almost half the loaf during my visit with him today!  A close friend of hers can expect a batch of her famous homemade fudge in the next couple of weeks as a gift: Granddaughter Misty agreed to handle the heavy pan for her grandma.  Her reduced-capacity still blows many folks' full-on efforts out of the water!  Her yard and garden are yet under her attentive care -- roses, hydrangeas, Japanese maples, and geraniums to name but a few of the thriving specimens receiving hydration via the pink garden hose I sent her for her last big birthday; some days she goes for hours though probably more hours than is best as far as next-day recovery.  

I was treated to lunch at a local bakery.  Chicken-and-dumpling soup for both; a generous side salad for me.  There's no use trying to pay because grandma will win the debate.  Bend gracefully to her will.  And, as she rarely sees me, it's an act of love for her to buy me lunch.  I won't deny her that rare moment with her granddaughter -- whose platinum blonde look she truly found delightful.  "Cute, cute . . . it shows your face!" were here exact words, I recall.  More than once.  Her powers of observation, and the ability to relay them with exactitude and frankness, are known by all.  So, I expected to gain an understanding of her position on my hair.  Cute, however, was not quite what I had prepared my ears to hear.  SMILE.  She also said I was thinner than she had ever seen me.  Sorry, Miss Opal, now I know your ageing eyes have betrayed you!

An extended and gabby (per me and Cousin Misty, who lives with grandma) game of Canasta furthered my appreciation for my family's matriarch.  Did I mention knife sharp?!!  Though Misty emerged as victor, grandma's final score was closer to the winner's than to mine.  On a sidebar note, the alternating giggles and intelligent chat I shared with Misty was a true highlight.  That girl is golden!  Every time I quickly tap my way through my new Word Weaver app, cousin recommended, I'll think of the hybridized version of cousins our joint-gaming created . . . 'Glisty' and 'Mistoria.'  Grandma Opal is in affectionate and caring hands.

My senior year of high school I lived with Miss Opal (her Tennessee name, earned after she flew in for a visit years back).  Spending a night in the room which once belonged to Grandma Roxey (mother to Opal), showering in the small corner shower in the rose bathroom, perusing the photo albums and wall pictures, shuffling through the small stacks of oil paintings done by grandma's hands before an allergy sidelined her art, exploring the nooks and corners of her garden, it all brought that momentous stressful year back to me.  But my adult perspective left me feeling very grateful for the steadfast nature of that house full of gold-gilded and pink-hued curios and knick knacks.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.  But also a place for everyone.  Everyone who needed a place.  Someone feel free to correct me, but I think six of mom's eight children resided at 2713 Warwick Lane with Grandma Opal at some point in their younger pre-marriage years.

As we are guaranteed nothing but death and taxes (lots of both in the news lately), the prospect of once again being blessed with another stay at grandma's house is cloudy.  The human body becomes fairly reliable in its unreliability with the stacking of decades.  A trip next year with the husband and kids would be fantastic.  But I prepared for the 'whatever' of the human future with loads of digital images and as many stories as my memory would allow me to hold.  Countless hugs and good-byes culminated in my driving the red Toyota Camry rental down the road, headed south, with a slightly bent, bright-eyed, freshly permed white-haired gentlewoman in complementary shades of purple reflected in my rear view mirror.

Her spirit is strong.  Her faith even stronger.  The only worries I harbor concern the piles of solicitation mail which clogs her mailbox EVERY DAY.  She's ruined several shredders trying to keep up with the stuff.  Every envelope gets a once over because though she understands most of the scams out there, she worries she may miss the one sweepstakes announcement that is real.  To make matters worse, half of the calls or more she receives in a twenty-four hour period relate to the same thing.  I walked in on my first day to find her in a dueling discussion with a stranger trying to convince her she needed insurance to cover the million-dollar prize she was soon to collect.  That bothered her all day.  They need to reserve a special place in a Third-World prison cell for shysters like that.

But at least she's got Misty (and Misty's parents) to keep a close eye on her.  When I get home, my family is learning Canasta . . . according to Grandma Roxey's rules, which Grandma Opal says are the only ones she ever uses.  I believe her!   

A Little R&R

Methinks my ankles and knees, and probably that tricky spot in my right hip, will protest rather loudly tomorrow for today's fun.  But that's all right with me.  The adventure was well worth it.  Along with my brother and his wife and my fabulously fun teenage nephew, Isaac, I took a hike.  A moderate 4+ mile hike around Pinecrest Lake, which is part of a year-round nature-oriented resort nestled in the Sierra Nevadas, and only a two-hour drive from the Merced area where the lovely Sweigard Family resides.  We climbed boulders, skirted roots and protruding stones, picked our way down steep declines and trudged our way up a few inclines.  I snapped shots of flowers and trees and people and the bold blue lake itself. 

Though I should have resisted the urge, my need to take my turn at the front of the pack led to an ongoing footrace with said nephew.  Realistically, I knew of at least three good reasons why running along a multi-terrain trail might not be the best idea, but the high altitude, fresh air, and the sheer joy at being a part of this refreshing activity evidently overtook my common sense.  Sprained ankles, a cracked noggin, or a good old-fashioned tumble all come to mind.  I will I did manage to lead the way for our stalwart crew a few times, but I'm no match for a 14 year-old boy overflowing with youthful vigor.

The views were stunning, panoramic, the kind of generous visual spreads that is best done in the West.  Though the lush green beauty and rolling hills of Middle Tennessee hold a tender place in this nature-loving girl's heart, the striking stretches of landscape and magnificent vistas in places like California and Colorado, Alaska and Washington -- you get my drift -- manage to grip my heart and overtake my soul.  My camera performed admirably as it attempted to reflect back to me the splendor of the scenes I viewed on the miniature screen.  But really, one must simply BE there, in the moment, walking along the catwalk over the rushing dam, catching sight of the quick little lizards which dotted the path, hearing the telltale cry of the active osprey overhead, inhaling the mingling scents of blooming wildflowers and coniferous trees, can truly create the perfect mental snapshot.  I hadn't planned for this impromptu outing, but I sure got a great deal out of it.  

Twice I jumped into the cool but highly inviting waters of the lake.  Only a few minutes is needed to adequately numb the nerve receptors to the chill of mountain runoff waters. the temp is in the 60's, and then it's all good.  If time and circumstance would have allowed, swimming for hours might have been my very good thing (as Martha Stewart is fond of saying) for the trip.  Never have I seen water so azure in shade and clear in composition, even with the haze of tree pollen rippling along the surface of Pinecrest Lake.  Oh, how I longed for my husband to be near . . . I'd splash him a good one!

It was a glorious 24-hour period of outdoor activities, a boat ride, hanging out with my brother's family and his friends, getting to know my cousin, Randy, eating tri tip grilled to perfection, seeing a gorgeous gray fox, sipping Rose while reacquainting myself with the game of Spades, nibbling on Red Vines, falling asleep with my mouth open in the living room easy chair of the rented cabin in front of strangers and family alike, and just plain easing myself into a relaxed, totally stress-free state of being.  No technology as ATT could not penetrate the dense tree line all around us.  That meant an absence of Facebook posts, text messages, and multiple phone calls.  I'm alive and well, thank you very much!

It's midnight.  I need sleep.  Grandma Opal is expecting me later in this brand new July day.  For the next two days, I will be at her beck and call.  Oh, and on Wednesday, Miss Opal and Miss Gloria will be meeting Aunt Avis at a bakery where the best chocolate cake, EVER, is served.  It is with growing certainty that I state I will most likely fit quite well into that size 8 bridesmaid gown upon my return without any need of alteration.  But, I can say I fit in my 126 push-ups today with my hike.  I'm keeping up as best I can.

Good night to all.  I hugged my nephew many times today though he's not usually too awfully demonstrative in that sense.  I told him I missed hugs from my own son, his cousin.  Think of my blog as a hug to all of you as I sign off.    

Headed for the Hills

It's our nation's Independence Day, folks.  A happy and safe 4th of July to you all.

I've completed the backtrack trek to Merced, California from the hilly vineyard sprawl that is Napa, California.  Shifted from Brother Gary to Brother John.  Gone from sleeping in a creaky double bed in a very spare dorm room in an almost abandoned two-story building which once housed married nurses on the grounds of a sprawling state hospital facility, separated from my youngest brother by barbed-wire-topped fence and concrete buildings, to crashing on the comfy couch in the spacious ranch-style home with its airy decorative components and all the amenities once could ever desire, mere yards away from my younger brother in his own comfy sleeping quarters.  The contrast is severe.  The worlds-apart aspect of it all is an abrupt jump which takes my mind just a few sharp shakes of a lamb's tail to adjust. 

Switching gears without stripping gears.  That's a talent.  I'm fast learning how to finesse it all.  I'd like to take a moment to thank Starbuck's for it's role in assisting my transition.  Nod, wink, wink.  Long slow sip of soy caffe latte.

John's clicking ankle and knee joints behind me signal the need to hurry as we are preparing ourselves for an overnight trip to them thar' hills -- otherwise known as the Sierra Nevadas.  His wife and kids, along with a few friends and their families, are entrenched in a large cabin for the week.  It seems there is also a parade happening in a local town near there.  It's time to socialize, eat, celebrate, relax.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  My dress is ironed and my face washed.  Time to head for the shower.  Yes, the SHOWER as opposed to the rusty water of the clawfoot bath which has been the source of my physical cleanliness for the past couple of nights.  (Is it possible to feel nostalgia this early in the trip over a dirty bathtub?)

So, dear readers, I must bid you farewell for now.  As I sign off, I ponder my biggest dilemma of this late morning: Jamba Juice or Starbuck's?  Hmmm.

P.S.  I really miss Gary.  But those few pounds of pizza and snack weight I'm doubtless carrying from our visits will sustain me until next Thursday and Friday.  Here's to an endless hike in the hills at some point in today's outing . . .

Mumm's The Word

I made it to the Mumm Winery out on the Napa Highway with 30 minutes to spare.  Brut Rose stands as my favorite in the sparkling wine category, and the Mumm label puts out a decently priced and 'florally' flavorful one which I've had a few times.  When I heard the vineyard was in this region and not too far from town, I was determined to at least pull into the driveway and snap a picture since I couldn't be there in time for the final 3PM tour of the day.  The drive, winding roads, sunny afternoon skies, and gloriously gorgeous terraced hills covered and dotted with grape vines from top to bottom and every conceivable space in between, was an experience in and of itself.  I couldn't keep a tally as to the number of estates which swept by.  So many styles of architecture; various sizes; simple and spectacular landscaping; textures of stucco and wood; diverse signs urging passers-by to stop for the day's tastings.  Just what one would expect of the Napa Valley.

My single glass of pink-tinged bubbly was every bit as refreshing as I'd hoped.  With the backdrop of foothills against the foreground of endless green waves of orderly vines, the location of the estate's tasting patio was sheer perfection as an oasis of rest and observation.  The umbrella-covered tables were small islands, each with their own small population of natives in the form of tourists and locals, all existing unto themselves even as their chatter joined the larger noise of the entire place.  One gentleman behind me was a bit too loud, a tad too smooth and smarmy, blathering on with too much effusiveness about his 13 years of marriage and 2 years of therapy and his vast experience which needed to be poured over the young couple at the table with him and his lady friend.  (The wife of 13 years is gone, having left him with just his vast experience.)  He lacked depth behind his words.  His airspace was filled with flat one-dimensional words which fell like stones on my innocent ears.  In order to impart meaning to his monotonous monologue, I began to take notes on him for later use.   The moment my pen hit the paper, he became fun.

Walking from my car to the courtyard upon first arriving, I scanned the horizon as I always do, searching for clouds and birds and anything of note in the expansive above and beyond.  A red-tailed hawk rode the air currents, supremely serene, drifting in and out of the line created by the meeting of blue sky with straw-colored hilltops.  He was unhurried (I have assigned a gender for the purposes of this blog).  Effortless in his motions.  His very presence seemed appropriate to the evolving languid theme of this California Friday afternoon.  It was of him that I thought as I sat in my chair, sipping tickly wine, beneath the umbrella which shaded me from the clear rays of a strong sun which was busy imparting its mellowness to crops of chardonnay and pinot noir.  More than any one thing in this day, I longed to be that suspended raptor.  To be less a being of the concrete-and-glass world and more a citizen of the wind. 

Hours and phone calls and half a grande iced soy caffe latte have passed.  The inner spring is unwinding.  Thoughts are coalescing.  The freedom to tie it all together with a common thread is upon me, and it's flippin' fantastic!  And now, here once more in 'my' corner of Starbuck's, I feel a momentary connection to the state of the hawk. 

I life my glass to such connections as those.  Here's to moments of the supremely serene, each and every one of us.