Finding Our Way

Virginia Winter

2009-01-03T19:06:36Z

Winter in Virginia is so beautiful I had to stop before writing this to take some photos of the stark branches -- lean and tall, or gnarled and sprawled -- with bright light striping their West sides and deep sienna shadows on their East sides. They cast long shadows across pale wintergreen grass and the Short Hills mountains rise beyond them, solid and silent.

I sit on a summer white porch rocker, and without winter coat, hat or gloves, because the crisp air has been all but irresistable to me today. I walked outside at 7:00 and at 8:00 and wanted more. At 9:00 I had to have more and took walk for an hour. I have work to do, but at 3:30, here I am again. The light, the air, the dried and waiting hydrangea, sedum and mums, clematis and lilac -- they are old friends, and I keep watch with them. It will be hard to leave them to go back inside.

And yet. I am exceedingly grateful for the warmth of a secure house, the blessed weight of a quilt on my body as I lay down to sleep. Electricity to heat the air and our food. The warmth of family smiles and hugs.

There's a brightness and glory indoors then, too. And, not to worry when there are shadows. Remember the beauty of the deep sienna bark of the trees, and know that both brightness and shadow combine to make the natural, beautiful and blessed place in which we dwell. The devotion of our forefathers and -mothers stand like strong and silent mountains, a backdrop and foundation of our lives.

(c) Copyright 2009

Books I Read in 2008

2009-01-02T10:40:47Z

This is the list of books I read in 2008, from most recent. So, I finished The Wide Open Door in late December, and I read Infidel in January 2008.

I'm going to track the 2009 books too, but I didn't want to lose "the list" from 2008 so I'm putting it here on a blog page.

This was fun. I often wished, as I was reading, that I would stop and do a little book review at the end of each. Or, at least pull out one quote I loved from each one. I didn't do that (mostly because the blog page itself is not set up for that type of "go to another page to read a review" functionality). Maybe in 2009.

One of the reasons I get to read so much is that I have a 3 hour round trip commute for my job 4-5 days a week. That allows for lots of quiet time and reading.

I am also a writer, and every January, I think "I should write more." Of course. I even thought yesterday, "What if this were the Year Of Writing instead of Reading?" 3 hours of commuter writing. I even got out my little notepad this morning on the bus and wrote down some thoughts.

Then I realized, NO, IT IS NOT GOING TO WORK. Writing on the bus is horrible. There's:

The bad lighting. The lights are not always bright enough. Those that are, shine a light so that a dark shadow falls directly over the words I'm writing, so I LITERALLY CANNOT SEE A WORD I'M WRITING. Pretty infuriating.
Hand-writing. I've used a computer for 25 years. My fingers, hands and thoughts work better through a keyboard than through pushing a pen or pencil across paper.
The paper. There is no device, setup, book, pad, or whatever that can give me a comfortable way to write on the bus.
The bumps. The bumping and weaving and braking and leaning on a bus is maddening when trying to write by hand. Just ask all the people who have ever had the misfortune of getting a letter from me that I had written while on the bus.
The other people. No elbow room. Gotta have elbow room.

I could go on. But I won't. So, I will not be using my precious 3 hours a day for writing. I'm going to try to make a comment on the books I remember from the past year. The first one will be easy because it is fresh in my mind. I have no doubt that there were books I really liked, but I just don't remember any more. That doesn't say much for the book or for my retention!

The Wide Open Door - by Neeraj Bhushan, MD This was fun. Written by my personal physician. So honest, vulnerable and earnest. Lots to like about this book. I'm happy for him. And it is a comfort to know how he approaches me as a patient.

It's Your Ship: Management Techniques from the Best Damn Ship in the Navy - by Michael Abrashoff Typical management/leadership style book. I liked it. It is wonderful when you are in a position to influence people's lives for the better just by being a better human being yourself.

Italian Lessons - by Peter Pezzelli Okay

An Irish Country Village - by Patrick Taylor Okay. If you read "An Irish Country Doctor", this is the sequel. Likable characters.

A Single Thread - by Marie Bostwick Very nice! I'd recommend it. It uses quilting as a metaphor for life and does a nice job.

Where Are You Now? - by Mary Higgins Clark Good murder mystery.

The End of the Affair - by Graham Greene Very intellectual crisis-of-faith book.

The Empty Chair - by Jeffery Deaver Okay

Until Proven Innocent - by Stuart Taylor Jr and KC Johnson OMG OMG OMG. Should be required reading for American citizens to remind us of our foundational value in the justice system - that we are innocent until proven guilty. That power corrupts. That both liberals and conservatives have evil extremes.

The Blue Nowhere - by Jeffery Deaver Cool mystery!

The Ice Child - by Elizabeth McGregor Okay

Chosen by a Horse - by Susan Richards Beautiful book. Very humanizing and heart-warming. Would really recommend it. Learned a lot about horses and the animal/human connection.

Never Enough - by Joe McGinniss True crime, sad story of depraved, spoiled little rich girl.

Sit, Ubu, Sit - by Gary David Goldberg Interesting.

Sick Girl - by Amy Silverstein Depressed me to read it.

Escape - by Carolyn Jessop with Laura Palmer Really good true account of the wife of the most powerful man at the head of the fundamentalist polygamist Mormon branch of the church. Very helpful to hear from her perspective, because we don't tend to understand how women can "allow themselves" to be a part of a right-wing, polygamist church like that. Carolyn answers that question, and I think it is important for Americans to hear her, and understand her.

Final Theory - by Mark Alpert Interesting mystery.

The Christmas Promise - by Donna Van Liere Okay.

Lady Killer - by Lisa Scottoline I like Scottoline's mysteries. This was good.

Sundays at Tiffany's - by James Patterson and Gabrielle Charbonnet Yikes. Don't remember.

Dead Heat - by Dick Francis and Felix Francis Interesting murder mystery. Different approach/plotline.

Nothing but the Truth - by Avi Good reading for Americans. Understand Free Speech and what it means.

The Sugar Queen - by Sarah Addison Allen Okay

Blue Heaven - by C.J. Box Good.

The First Patient - by Michael Palmer Enjoyable mystery!

Field Notes on the Compassionate Life - by Marc Ian Barasch MY FAVORITE. STILL. READ THIS BOOK. READ THIS BOOK. READ THIS BOOK. REALLY.

Someone Knows My Name - by Lawrence Hill Wonderful. I would never have picked up this book on my own. An online friend recommended it to me. Good for Americans to read and understand the lives of those who came here in slavery. Really amazing story-telling and detail. Extremely educational.

Open Mind, Open Heart - by Thomas Keating Primer for Centering Prayer for the beginning contemplative pray-er. Will use it as a refresher, inspirer and reference for a long time.

Jesus Land - by Julia Scheeres Horrifying with very little redeeming value. 'Kept waiting for the book to resolve itself into some lesson, redemption, conclusion. It never did. Just a lot of pain.

Her Royal Spyness - by Rhys Bowen Okay

The Year of Magical Thinking - by Joan Didion I didn't love it.

The Watchman - by Robert Crais Yikes! I don't remember.

The Choice - by Nicholas Sparks Classic Sparks, but not his best.

The Ghost - by Robert Harris Good!

My Life With George, What I Learned about Joy from One Neurotic (and Very Expensive) Dog - by Judith Summers Cute.

F5, Devastation, Survival, and the Most Violent Tornado Outbreak of the Twentieth Century - by Mark Levine Amazing

My Grandfather's Son, A Memoir - by Clarence Thomas Okay

Identical Strangers - by Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein Fascinating - true story of twins raised apart.

The Blue Zone - by Andrew Gross Good!

Water for Elephants - by Sara Gruen Really wonderful. Worth reading. Loved the treatment of the elderly in the book, as well as the fascinating peek into the gritty world of the circus in the 1940's.

Iris & Ruby - by Rosie Thomas Okay

The Dance of the Dissident Daughter - by Sue Monk Kidd Very good. Interesting to read about another woman coming to realizations I had in my teens (!). It was a powerful book for many of the women in my book club.

The Long Walk Home - by Will North Okay

The Shack - by William P. Young Fun. Reflected a very natural way of looking at God for me, so it wasn't new or groundbreaking, but more like good memories. Worth reading if you've never been able to feel the human connection with God.

Bad Blood - by Linda Fairstein Yikes! I don't remember

How Starbucks Saved My Life - by Michael Gates Gill Interesting true story.

Crashing Through - by Robert Kurson Wow. Fascinating true story, worth the read.

Too Late to Say Goodbye - by Ann Rule True crime. Always interesting!

How the Irish Saved Civilization - by Thomas Cahill Long, ambitious compendium of history, anthropology, philosophy, religion, geography, and more. Educational.

An Irish Country Doctor - by Patrick Taylor Quaint.

Step on a Crack - by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge Good.

Meet Me In Venice - by Elizabeth Adler Okay

The Overlook - by Michael Connelly Okay

Elizabeth - by J. Randy Taraborrelli Biography of Elizabeth Taylor. Interesting.

Another Day in the Frontal Lobe, A Brain Surgeon Exposes Life on the Inside - by Katrina Firlik Liked it a lot!

Dancing With Rose, Finding life in the land of alzheimer's - by Lauren Kessler Very nice.

Infidel - by Ayaan Hirsi Ali I was really glad to read this book. It is so important, I think, that we understand the mind, the life, the hopes, the experience of our Islamic brothers and sisters. This goes a long way to helping.

What have we become?

2008-11-29T10:50:35Z

I almost don't know how to say what I'm feeling. There was a wretched horror and vicarious shame I felt upon reading how a 34 year old temporary employee at a Wal-Mart in Long Island, NY, was trampled and killed at 5:00 in the morning as Black Friday shoppers swarmed into the store, ripping the doors off their hinges.
view link

What the hell???

Who are these people? Where is our respect for our fellow human beings? Where is our respect for ourselves? What consumer product could possibly be worth waiting in line for hours in the dark and the cold and then risking your own life and others' to stampede in to spend your money?

This seems to be the worst example of humanity: Greed, desperation, win-at-all-costs, looking out for number 1. I ask "who are these people?" but I know very well that the answer is always, "they are us." Whether I like it or not, there is a part of me that is them and vice verse.

I chose to stay home on Black Friday, avoiding the herds, the hassles, the pain, and of course, avoiding spending money I just don't have.

But I grieve for the disgusting display, the horrific results, the shameful consumer lust that happened yesterday. I don't even know how to process the news. I grieve for Jdimytai Damour and his family. I grieve for the ugly, out-of-control, impoverished brothers and sisters who killed him. I'm angered by the insensitivity of those who reportedly got angry when police tried to temporarily close the store because of the death - their shopping was more important.

Oh my God. What have we become?

Because I know my brother and I are one, I am hurt by this violence. This callous disregard for human life in favor of coveting and acquiring is just one display of this tendency in us humans. If we examine ourselves and our lives we could probably find other displays of these same vices and sins that are not this obvious, or that might go unnoticed, or that might even be socially acceptable.

God forgive us our callousness, our greed, our mis-placed values, our coveting, our disregard for our neighbor's safety, our desperation, our sense of entitlement. Heal us of the disease of consumerism. Forgive us.

Yes We Can

2008-11-07T14:43:47Z

I had thought our country was lost to greed, to cynicism and to characterization as a nation made up of people and leaders who fit the mold of "the Ugly American." I didn't want to believe it, but I saw little evidence to the contrary.

I had thought that the lush, idealistic season in which I grew up - a season wherein it was not cool and not acceptable to hate, to categorize and despise, to disrespect people who were different from me - I thought that was a season past, and relegated to at best a footnote in some history book, if we were lucky.

Even though I love Virginia, my adopted home for the past 35 years, I have always felt disenfranchised here, where my neighbors set my political signs on fire or steal them or destroy my mailbox during election season. I had thought I was alone.

I was happily, blessedly wrong.

The NY Times struck a chord, an Amen, a Yes, with this reflection:

"And so it came to pass that on Nov. 4, 2008, shortly after 11 p.m. Eastern time, the American Civil War ended, as a black man won enough electoral votes to become president of the United States. A civil war that, in many ways, began at Bull Run, Virginia, on July 21, 1861, ended 147 years later via a ballot box in the very same state."

I was at an Obama rally in this very red state of Virginia, and I had never felt more at home here. When we started the rally with the Pledge of Allegiance, one word leapt in splashes from my eyes, "One nation, under God, INDIVISIBLE...". I looked around me as I stood shoulder to shoulder, and then sat knee to knee, with White, Black, Asian, old, young, and felt... united, and safe and happy together. I didn't know it was still possible. But, well-placed hope told us we could still be this for each other - yes we can.

What I like about Barack's declaration of "Yes We Can" is the word "We."

It's also what I like about the Lord's Prayer - that it begins with "Our."

We are not alone. We don't act alone. We are in this together. Nothing I do does not affect others. I am We. I could not be otherwise. We are in fact, One.

I am inspired by our choice of a President. I am inspired by the way we chose him.
That millions engaged. That the change has not been full of fear and violence, but rather full of dancing and singing in the streets (and, in my case, also in the halls, meeting rooms and elevators).

That he walked the high road, refusing to engage in pettiness and character attacks, where so many others, even good people, have stumbled into the low road because of fear. He wasn't afraid.

I do not imagine that the challenges ahead of us are easy. But, my heart is un-stuck now.

"... Out of many, we are one; while we breathe, we hope," Barack said. I can hope. I can admire the leader in the White House. I can trust again. That goes a long way to healing our country, and I'm so grateful for that.

The day after the election, I SANG, all day. I sang "Oh Happy Day / When Barack Won / Oh when he won / he brought a brand new day / Oh Happy Day...".

Here is more singing. We can hope. We can do better. Amen. Yes we can.

Good-bye Dear Friend

2008-07-23T19:55:58Z

We found Noah while stranded in New York in 2003.

We had just moved into our new Purcellville, Virginia home, the one with the 5+ acres of yard that was finally big enough to accommodate a dog. That’s what we had told the girls all along anyway, when they begged us for a dog when we lived in a townhouse with no yard of which to speak. We had traveled to New York State and were staying with my sister when a blizzard dropped 2 feet of snow on the Washington, DC area. New York was fine, but we couldn’t get a flight back into DC!

So, we spent some of the time on the Internet, looking at pet rescue sites and learning about dogs. That was the first time we saw Noah, a large, black-n-tan German Shepherd, posed in the photo in front of a Christmas fireplace, with a puffy long-haired cat next to him. We found some dogs we liked, and inquired. We quickly found that rescue dogs were not like “pound” dogs, where the people holding them were just glad for someone to take the dog off their hands. No, we had to apply for the dog, and go through interviews and in more than one case, the temporary owner said no to us because we worked during the day, and they felt that the dog needed “stay at home parenting.”

Finally, as we worked with the German Shepherd Rescue in Virginia, telling them about our experience (and lack thereof) with owning a dog, about our hopes, our means and resources, they said, “You need a Starter Dog. Have you seen Noah?” A “starter dog” is one who has already been trained and so would be easy on us! Noah, unlike many other rescues, was never abused, was not abandoned, was not sick. He lived with the owners who chose him from a breeder’s litter and raised him from a pup, and, because their lives had changed so much, they realized that with two children (ages two and newborn), and with Dad being gone 16 hours a day and on business travel often, Noah just wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. So, they bravely said, “IF and only if, we can find the right family, we will give him up so he can have a better life.” They, too, turned down some applicants.

We went to their house to visit Noah. We liked each other, and learned that day how much he loved to chase yellow tennis balls. Next, the owners brought Noah out to our house for a trial visit. One look at the yard and his owner said he knew was in the right place. Visiting for a couple hours, Noah seemed comfortable and we all got along, so they felt even better about us. The last test was to have Noah come stay for a weekend. I remember his happy face and how neat it was to have him. It was a match, and we adopted Noah in April of 2003.

Noah was the son of champion AKC certified dogs. He was 7 ½ years old. His dad’s name was “CH Valmy’s Nightcap Stoneway” and his mom was “Campaigner’s Glitz of Hisierra.” Noah’s full name was “Campaigner’s Noah Day-O-Data.” I kid you not.

One of the strangest things for us when he first came to live with us was the noise he created in our previously quiet house – loud slurping when he ate and drank! The clomping across the hardwood floors. My best memories of him were his joy at chasing tennis balls. He would run with those powerful legs and leap in the air to catch the ball before it hit the ground. Each time he accomplished that feat, he would do a little Vinnie Barbarino or Arthur Fonzerelli strut of pride with the ball in his mouth! He seemed to be willing to chase balls forever, but, we found that since he had been living a sedentary life at his previous home, his muscles ached after those workouts. It took him awhile to get used to the exercise, but he loved it. And it was good for him. He came to us weighing 112 pounds, which was overweight, and he trimmed down to 95 in no time. We had a cat, Hailey, when we brought Noah home. Noah used to groom his old cat roommate with his tongue till she was covered with slobber and had a cat mohawk. So he was very happy to approach Hailey in his big, goofy way. Hailey would have none of it and drew blood within days, raking her claws across his nose! It took a couple years, but they worked it out, and I actually have photos of them sleeping together on Noah’s big circle sheepskin dog bed.

We didn’t know that at 7 years old, Noah was already pretty old for a German Shepherd, because their average lifespan is only 8 or 9. Sure enough, at 9 years old, he became lame. One day, he just couldn’t walk. Of course, this happened on a national holiday, so the emergency visit to the vet was that much more dramatic. After hundreds of dollars of tests, we learned that there was arthritis, and probably some myelopathy present, which is the degeneration of the spinal cord, and the sheath that covers the nerves. We were told that this condition would deteriorate at a slow rate, but when it happened, there would be nothing we could do for him. The good news for us was that the present diagnosis was a bad disc in his back which could be corrected with surgery. I guess that’s where we could have drawn the line, but instead, we drew our check book and got him the surgery. He recovered and we had our tennis ball-chasing, joyful Noah back in about 6 weeks, although he never regained all his vigor. He was happy, though, and we were glad to have our pal back in good health.

Noah would climb the stairs and preferred to sleep in our bedroom on his dog bed in the corner. We learned to get used to his snoring and licking and other night noises. He was a guard dog; he took his responsibility seriously; so there was no way he was going to let us out of his sight at night. In the morning he would nudge Gil with his wet doggy nose and encourage him to get up and take him outside for a walk. Years later, when Noah couldn’t make it up the stairs any longer, he slept on his bed in my office and he would howl in the morning if Gil was taking too long to get up. I always thought this was a good arrangement: one old man getting another old man out for exercise every day. They’d go across the street to his favorite lanes and fields. Or they’d walk the back acres where they would “say hello” to the horses in the back yard.

Having Noah meant I could get out for exercise too. I’ll never forget how just by going outside to give him a little playtime would allow me to catch some of the most beautiful sunsets. He was patient when I’d drop everything, including his tennis ball, and run inside to get the camera. Having Noah around meant that I had a shadow. In the house, it seemed he was with me, at my knee, in front of me everywhere I walked. If I sat down, he hovered near me. He might lie down and even pretend to doze. But, if I so much as moved a butt cheek to shift in my chair, he was up and at attention. It was as if he thought I was going to produce the most glorious experiences, and he was determined to get a front row seat. I suppose that’s because I’m the main cook in the family. I handled all the meat, the juices, the trimmings, the gravy, the leftovers, the dinner dishes with yummy slime on them. In short, I was the source of the goods. So, he “loved me best.”

Beyond the obvious sell-out-for-food personality, he also seemed to have some genuine affection for us. I love to garden, and Noah would howl inside until someone let him come out and be with me. No food involved, just protecting the mistress. He’d find a shady spot when it was hot, a sunny spot when it was cold, and just keep me company. When I moved, he moved. If I collapsed in the hammock, he would tuck in underneath it. When I watered the flowers he wanted to drink from the hose. I’d get feisty and spray him with the hose and drive him crazy. If I sat reading in the green room, he would be there at my feet, in front of the fireplace. When I sat in the rocker on the front porch, just to enjoy the air, the birds and the lush scenery, he would be there, lying on the porch, with the slants of shade and light hitting his back, answering the calls of the roosters across the road with his own howling or barking in answer to a hunter's gun report in the distance.

So, our “starter dog” over the years did turn out to be just right. We knew little about raising or maintaining a dog. Noah was already raised, so he listened to commands, went to the woods to do his business, stayed, sat and lay down when we said. He even understood and obeyed, “Out of the kitchen!” which Mary swears she taught him, but I’d bet his previous mistress yelled often.

At 8 years old Noah played. At 9 he had surgery and made a good recovery. At 10 we noticed him slowing, but, so were we, so that was a good match. At 11, he was more demonstrably dragging his back legs and finally did not have enough strength to haul himself safely up and down our long stairs. He maintained a dignity and happiness, though. He just modified his routines – slept downstairs, took shorter walks. Still loved to ride in the car with me, though he needed help getting in! At 12, he slowed even more, and I confess that when we boarded him for our week’s Spring vacation, I was secretly scared we’d come back and find something awful had happened to him. In May, the symptoms from his slow deterioration became more pronounced, and when I heard Gil tell me his morning walk was walk-three-steps, sit-down, repeat; and when I noticed he would gather up all his courage just to lunge down the hallway, willing his back legs to follow, I decided I needed to “make preparations.”

It was a Friday. I had taken June 20 off of work as a personal day in anticipation of going to the National Cathedral for some training I needed in order to support our church in a program they wanted to offer this fall. Well, as the day approached, about a day or two before the 20th, I was told the training was off; there would be no program this fall. Maybe next year. Normally I would simply have gone into work but I thought, no, this would be a good time to take Noah to the vet. I called and made the appointment for the 20th. I presented Noah’s symptoms and how they had progressed. I knew there was no cure, but I wanted confirmation of the direction and ultimate resolution of it all – what should I expect over the next few weeks? Months? I couldn’t ask the hard questions without crying, so I just announced that I was going to cry now, and that’s the only way I could talk about these things. The vet was patient and kind and answered all my questions.

The vet confirmed that we were approaching “the end,” a time when most compassionate owners give their pet the last gift of kindness and that is to let them go when their quality of life is so bad. She explained to me how “it” was done, what my options were, and the receptionist gave me print-outs from a pet grieving support site and a link to the Rainbow Bridge poem, hugged me, and it made me cry.

I had to leave Noah in the examining room for several minutes before I took him back out of the office while I begged paper towels, plastic bag and cleaning spray from the office to go out to my car and clean up the huge, creamy dump that had been baking in my car in the 90 degree heat while I was in the vet’s office. Yes, after lifting him into my car, he dumped a big pile on the seat for me. This was just one of the increasingly troublesome symptoms he experienced when the signals from the head or organs could not make their way to his hind quarters, so he couldn’t control himself, since he didn’t feel it coming! We had been cleaning up like this all over the house, no matter whether we let him outside two or twenty times a day. Thank goodness, he could still sense urination, and he did that outside.

So, that was Friday. I came home from the appointment shaken, and crying. I told the family it was nearing the end. They didn’t quite believe me, because, being so close to him, seeing him day in and day out, the progression of his symptoms was hard to distinguish. It happened so slowly, they got used to it. But I knew. Saturday, he had a great day, running around, even playing with a tennis ball, which he was very pitiful trying to chase, but he still liked to try. And if I threw it just right, he might be able to catch it, at which point he looked so proud, and promptly quit the game, saying, “I’m done! I’m great. Nothing else to prove.”

Sunday was not so good. He didn’t eat much and seemed completely worn out. He didn’t get up to greet us in the morning and he lay around most of the day. Didn’t want to go outside. He urinated on the carpet for the first time.

Monday he didn’t want to move. He started throwing up. He was pooping everywhere. He wasn’t eating. We called the vet. They said this was not good, and could we bring him in? The answer was no, when we tried to lift him he was too heavy and unwieldy and he seemed to cry in pain. They said they would send vet to us then, Tuesday, if he did not improve overnight.

Tuesday came and I was due at all day training in Reston. This was nice because Reston is a lot closer to home than my usual daily 90-minute bus commute into DC. When I got up Tuesday morning, Noah did not rise to greet me. As I made “kitchen noises” with food, which always aroused him, he stayed put on his bed, panting. When Gil offered to take him for his morning walk, he was not interested.

I left for Reston. I got to the hotel early. I parked in front of a line of trees and turned off the car then set my phone alarm for 20 minutes while I centered myself in prayer. When I was finished I went into the hotel and looked for my class. And looked some more. And checked my confirmation papers. And checked with the concierge, who kindly pointed out that the confirmation was for a class on JULY 24, not JUNE 24. Oh. Okay then. Decision – drive in to work, where there was a presentation someone was filling in for in my absence? Or drive back home and telework for the day? I thought of Noah. I drove home.

On the days I telework, Noah lies on his bed behind my chair. He always just wants to be near me. So, on this day, when he wasn’t feeling well, I thought it would comfort him (and me) to have me there in my chair near him. On any normal weekday, Noah sacks out on the floor and happily sleeps half the day away. On this day, he did not put his head down. He did not close his eyes. He did not sleep. He lay tentatively, panting and wretching, unable to move. His back legs were still completely and totally lame. He had not pooped or peed for maybe 14 hours or more, but he could not move. He would not eat. I even offered to let him lick warm beef gravy from a lunch bowl. Not interested. I put his tennis ball in front of him. Nothing. I offered him water every hour and he drank.

When I finished with my work day around 4:30, I sat down next to Noah on the floor. I talked to him in soothing tones, comforting him, stroking his head and muzzle. His eyes half-closed in thanks and pleasure or anxiety. I pet him and spent time with him. I asked him to please “tell me” if this was his time to go, to “tell me” that it was okay and that he wanted to be let go. I didn’t “hear” anything. I told him what a good dog he has been and thanked him for loving me SO much, for his devotion. I thanked him for protecting me and looking out for me all the time and for keeping me company. I told him how happy I was to have him in our life and what a handsome, gentlemanly, and special dog he was.

The vet called and said he’d be out around 8:30. Over the next few hours, the family returned home – Mary around 7:00. Gil around 8:30. The vet came shortly thereafter. He took one look at Noah and knew; he saw the obvious that had come on so suddenly (or so slowly we didn’t notice it, I’m not sure which) that we didn’t completely know. This was the end. His body was shutting down. His muscle mass was depleted. He weighed 75 pounds. He wasn’t leaving before he put this dog down. It was the only right thing to do.

He gave him a sedative and went out to his truck to wait and to give us time alone to say good-bye. He said, “This is not what I ‘signed up for,’ and I never get used to it. But, I did say I would work to relieve the suffering of animals, so I can do this.” I will never forget watching Noah as the sedative took effect. This wonderful dog, who had been panting in confused desperation and discomfort all day finally, finally put his head down on his front paws and closed his big dark eyes. His face looked soft and quiet and at peace. Finally.

Then, knowing the next injection would stop his heart, I could not watch. I left the room, but heard every word, and tears flowed while I waited in the living room. I heard them confirm his heart had stopped. I heard Mary and Seattle sniff with tears. I heard the vet say he’d carry him out to the truck. I couldn’t watch that either. It was 9:15 p.m. My Noah was gone.

I’ve never gone through this before, and wasn’t sure what the appropriate protocol was. I wrote a quick announcement in a blog and sent it out to family members.

The next morning, I got dressed and got in the car to drive to my commuter bus stop in Hamilton. As I approached the lot, I was crying so hard, I thought, “I can’t do this,” and I drove right past the lot. I found a used car lot in Hamilton and turned around in it. I made a call to my boss’s cell phone at 6:00 in the morning and got her voice-mail. I left a tortured message about how I would not be able to come in today…needed a mental health day… was a mess…Then I erased it. I tried again, but it still came out pathetic, so I erased it again. I hung up. I drove back to the commuter lot. As I approached, I saw a bus arriving and once again I was crying so hard, I drove right past. Now I’m in Purcellville. Get a grip, Carrie! I made a U-Turn in the middle of Purcellville and headed back to the commuter lot. This time I turned in, parked the car, got out and waited for another bus, glad that early morning commuters are only half awake, so no one noticed or cared that I was crying.

Life at work wasn’t much better. God help those poor souls who ventured a cheerful, “How are you this morning??” and heard my honest reaction. People were kind. They had been through this before. My staff gave me a sweet card and signed it with supportive words. I checked the blog I had written the night before, and messages of comfort were coming in from complete strangers who knew exactly what I was going through and who shared intimate and beautiful stories of pain and healing with me. It was heartening, and I made it through the work day.

On the trip home I was grateful for the impersonal, isolated nature of the DC commuters, who, even though I was sitting in close proximity to several, on a full bus, did not notice that I was falling apart as tears streamed down my face for a half hour straight. I got a phone call from my son, who wanted to come by to pay his respects and comfort us. “Okay,” I said.

I had written in my blog, “He greeted me whenever I came home, and waited patiently for me on the porch, a protective sentry and guardian. … Noah, you always waited for me. Alone. Vigilant. Ready to love me. Now you've moved on to heaven. Please wait for me there.” Well when I got home and looked to the house, there at the end of the long driveway, on the porch was my son, with a bouquet of flowers in hand. “I am your sentry and guardian waiting on the porch now. I wanted you to have a memory of me, now that Noah is not here to wait for you.” He held me tight and said comforting things while I cried and made his shirt all wet. We were the only ones home. He had brought dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook. He got it ready.

People started arriving home from work, first Mary, then Lara with Seattle, finally Gil. My whole family was there and we ate the dinner he brought and sat around our big table on the patio talking and laughing as the sun set and the fireflies came out with their magical dancing. It was like a good Irish wake and made a huge difference in our being able to cope that first night, when Noah’s death was not yet 24 hours past.

A friend asked me last night, “How was it when you had to come home, entering the house, after he died?” She said that was the hardest thing for her when her dog died. She didn’t want to go in, since he would not be there to greet her…. I think Ian completely short-circuited that type of response for me by being there waiting for me on the porch that first night. He successfully replaced the memory with a new, powerful one of him and a son’s devotion. I have no problem arriving home, walking in the house. Thank you, Ian.

It’s been a week and an hour now, as I write this, since Noah departed from this very room. One night shortly after he died, I was lying in bed, still wanting to reach out and communicate with him somehow, and as I wearied of the silence, I realized there was a song playing over and over in my head, with the words, “Did you get my message?” Oh. I thought. There is a message! So, I quieted myself and listened to Noah as I re-played his last moments as he closed his eyes, and this is what I heard: “I needed to sleep, and oh, man, that was the best sleep I’ve ever had! …I miss you.”

I miss you too, Noah. Love you.

Copyright (c) 2008

Girls Just Wanna Have Fu-un

2008-06-01T14:38:06Z

So, when I drive up to my house, or pull out of the driveway, I greet my flowers. "Hi girls! How you doing?"

Yesterday evening, as I was leaving to go out to dinner, I shouted, "Bye, girls! You behave now...". It's the primrose. They're so showy, and... assertive. They're all over the place.

They're so delicate pink and innocent and all, but, I can't help thinking they're having the time of their lives, partying their way through the garden. I USED to have a walkway, but as you can see, they are reaching out from both sides, for all I know they're trying to high-five each other, as they encroach on the walkway. It was cute to see a big burly delivery guy who just came to the door - I watched him as he gingerly made his way through the path, the primrose tickling at his legs and giggling (the primrose giggling, that is. well, he may have been giggling too, for all I know. He said it was really beautiful) the whole way.

As I left that evening for dinner, I had Cyndi Lauper's song stuck in my head, courtesy of my outrageous primrose, "Girls just wanna have fu-un. Girls just wanna have fun..."

originally published a: http://www.eons.com/blogs/entry/875832-Girls-Just-Wanna-Have-Fu-un

Copyright (c) 2008

Sardine Commute

2008-05-06T21:14:16Z

I went to work early and I stayed late. Too late. Last one in line for the last-bus-of-the-day late. That means that on a bus designed to hold 56 commuters, I was number 58, and I would have to stand.

Okay. “It’s a’right. It’s all good.” After all, I felt okay. I had a happy song stuck in my head (These are a few of my fa-vo-rite things…) courtesy of the salt-n-pepper dred-locked geezer saxophone player on the street corner. I thanked God that I caught a bus. I was grateful I had my bad-ass, orthopedic-insert, open mesh weave super sneakers on. I was grooving on the different view I got from a standing position – I could see the rivers and streams better…

Since I was standing, I went ahead and stowed my purse and tote bag in the overhead shelf. Of course, by the time the bus made it through the next couple stops, there were now 66 people stuffed on and I had to move back so I was nowhere near in reach of my things. That was okay because I took my phone with me. I balanced enough to type a text message to the family to tell them I was going to be significantly late, but I had the misfortune of doing it as we passed the Langley Spy headquarters and they squashed my cell phone waves like a bug. Trying to use your cell phone near spy land is like trying to fly your plane over the White House. ‘Not going to work.

So, I settle in for the 90 minute ride. There’s 18 inches between me and the person standing in front or in back of me. This is good. But not nearly that much space between me and the people in the seats on either side. I try to position myself so I am not touching anyone, even while the bus pitches and sways.

I notice things. Like, hmm, my wrist looks chunky in this sleeve length. And, that man has square thumbs; how weird. Most people’s are oval and his are squared off as if someone horizontally cut off the thumb tips. Standing and staring at the ceiling, I learned how to get out through the emergency exit in English and in Spanish (Tire Palanca Completamente y Empuje Aqui = Pull Handle Fully and Push Here).

It is “close” in here, which is to say, hot and sticky. The man directly in front of me is sleeping. I only see the top of his head. He is bald, with a sweaty, matted “comb-over” trying in vain to cover a freckled, orangey bald scalp. As the bus sways, so does his head, right into the aisle and I have to suck in so I don’t bump into him. Eww.

I notice that as people pile on to stand one gentleman gets up and gives his seat to a woman. One more suited man gets up and gives his seat to a thin Arab woman. That’s it. Everyone else has the “sucks for you” attitude about the standees. This is okay with me. I don’t mind standing.

At least I am not tempted to fall asleep while standing. I notice several people are fast asleep. I marvel at the way they are able to keep their clasped hands quietly in their lap. Whenever I try to clasp my hands, there is just too much tension – I guess my fat arms or tummy keeps the hands from closing easily without any pulling on each other. Because whenever I fall asleep this way,I relax and, invariably the grip springs open with a sudden, sharp jerk that looks like I’m shooing birds! I have never to my knowledge injured one of my fellow commuters with this move. Frankly, my options at that point are 1) open my eyes and pretend I meant to do that. “Yeah, don’t mind me, I’m just brushing off the seat in front of me, stretching the hands…” which is patently ridiculous. So I usually go for option 2) -- after startling the bejesus out of my neighbor, I simply close my eyes again and either giggle or swear to myself. I try to find a way to place my hands where, when I fall asleep, they won’t end up on my neighbor’s leg or worse.

But, I don’t have to worry about that while I am standing. Forty-five minutes into the ride I am feeling the wear, though. That knee that I’ve been treating with BenGay is singing to me. I am more than glistening with sweat. I slyly check out the people around me. I see one woman sleeping to my left so I reach up and open the AC vent above her and point it out toward me. Yes. She didn’t notice. It only mildly helps at this point, because between the bouncing and the swaying and the watching out the window my stomach is fairly ravaged and I feel like I’m going to hurl. That would not be good. My hands are also alternately numb or painful from hanging on so tightly around curves and such, steadying my sway so I don’t end up in someone’s lap. I am grateful for the forearm weight work-outs I’ve been doing. They must help.

Just when I think I don’t have enough deep breaths or cool air to make it without an explosion, the bus comes to its first stop in Leesburg where most of the passengers get off. I am no longer smiling. I am grimacing and holding my breath. I shuffle slowly forward to my stuff and get it down from the shelf and I plop down in a seat to myself for the last 15 minutes of the journey. I have an AC vent. Fifteen minutes is enough for me to recover.

I reach my stop in Hamilton and walk to my car through an almost-empty parking lot. I turn on my radio to Sirius Satellite “Spa” music -- light, calming jazz. I back out and make my way to the rolling roads home. I open the sun roof and all the windows to inhale the heavenly deep green smell all around. My adorably coiffed hair blows every-which-way in the wind as I speed along, exulting to the hills and clouds and sunshine till I come to my redbud-lined long driveway. I pull in with a big smile, my left arm straight out of the car window, high-fiving the branches of the trees that hang low to greet me as I come by. I am home.

Of Mulch and "Weeds"

2008-04-17T10:22:22Z

Sunday was mulch day. Well, Saturday was mulch day too. At the end of mulch day, it’s the butt muscles that hurt! Yowza -- all that bending and stretching.

There are many different techniques for mulching, and I used them all. There’s the grab-as-much-as-you-can-and-spread-by-hand method. There’s the “parmesan cheese” method. This is where you hold the mulch above the ground (by hand, or from a pitchfork) and you shake-a-shake-a-shake, letting it sift down and spread lightly over the ground. There’s the-take-a-pitchforkful-and-lob-it-over-there; then, spread method. There’s the dump-to-whole bag out, and spread. Then, one of my favorites, pick up the ¾ empty bag and shake it out onto the ground (this is a variation on the parmesan cheese technique). When you are really tired, and you can’t reach, and you are too lazy or sore to get up and move, there is the grab, aim, and toss method, where you hope you hit the right spot.

The mulching task came after a lot of Saturday weeding and cleaning up. It was 77 degrees. It was the end of the day, and the family and I were tired. And hot. One after another, the family retired to the house, one from heat exhaustion, one to watch a hockey game and one cause, damn, we’ve been out here long enough, Mom. Obsessor that I am, I ignored each rational thought I had for calling it a day, including: I’m tired. We can do the rest of this tomorrow. It is way too hot and I should not be in the evening sun. Everyone else has gone in. The family will be waiting for me, because they want to watch a movie together. None of these was enough to make me call it quits. What finally did? The butt muscles. At some point, I said to myself, Hey, do you really think you can bend down one more time? And myself said, Why, no. Ow. As a matter of fact, ow, I think if I bend down right now, I will not be able to get back up. Ow. I am done. That was Saturday.

Sunday came, and with it another opportunity to mulch. It became even more important, because, although yesterday was 77 degrees, today would be 54, and Monday promised below freezing temperatures! Perhaps a toasty layer of mulch will help avoid catastrophe.

While I was at church, Gil had gone out and bought more mulch from the local hardware store. “I can help you, but I can only give you an hour, because the game is on in an hour.” So, I went and changed clothes while he got started.

We’re side by side now. He points to a tight clump of perennial Veronica sprouts and says, “Aren’t you going to pull that?” NO! Good lord. That’s not a weed! “Oh. Well, it looks like it to me. I would have pulled it.” I give him an incredulous look. “I guess I’ll stop pulling weeds,” he says.

I’ll bet you’ve already pulled some of my flowers. Sure enough. We were mulching the outer edge of the garden, which is where my bachelor buttons like to grow. Not in the middle, but out there on the edges, by themselves– all volunteers. I love bachelor buttons, not least because they are electric blue. So I am always excited to see them, no matter where they decide to grow. Who am I to tell my bachelors where to sow their seed? But I could see how the errant sprouts could look like weeds to my spouse. I look in the weed pile, and sure enough -- bachelor buttons.

You are not to pull any weeds you don’t know the names of, I tell him. Like, “dandelions,” for instance. That is clearly a weed. Otherwise, let it grow.

I think about the garden of my heart, my life. Seeds blow in from relationships with others. Sometimes the Gardener will plant something there which we have never seen before. I think it is good advice to be careful about what I pull out, especially if don't really know what it is. It may be something special that I have to get to know, like electric blue bachelor buttons.

Copyright (c) 2008

Obsess Much?

2008-04-11T15:18:05Z

Guilty as charged. My kids have said I obsess about my garden. Well, I’ve been worse. But here is the latest example. This past week it finally occurred to me that the pain I was feeling all last week was not, in fact, back strain from digging in the garden. It was, uh… kidney problems. Yeah, the throbbing pain was in an internal organ, not a back muscle. Well, dang. That means the inconvenience of doctors and tests and meds….

However. What it does NOT mean is that I have to be careful with my back, and that means I can work in my garden! When my husband came home Monday evening to find me on my hands and knees in the front garden with piles of winter garden debris around me, he said, “Your back must be feeling better, huh?” I answered, “No, not really.” And he just shook his head.

What’s kidney pain when you can be out in the garden getting it ready for Spring? “I’m saving lives here!” I said. “Look, my Daydream Tulips were all but choked by the Evening Primrose. I just hope I got to them in time!”

My garden has Evening Primrose that spreads like weeds. It’s really obnoxious. But, it is so pretty, and showy and cheerful -- like a child who a mother might characterize as “high spirited.” So, I just try to keep it from stepping all over its brothers and sisters in the garden.

Right now, the daffodils and grape hyacinth are up and cheering. Grecian windflowers are lounging around looking stunning with their startling purple against winter-weathered mulch. Tulips are pushing up and are still in tight buds. The ones at the edge of the garden have leaves that have been chewed by deer. The gladiator allium greens have sprouted, but no stalks yet. And there’s promise of a riot of color in a matter of weeks, because there’s also the 8 inch tall peony stalks, iris, lilies, delphinium and flax. I can hardly wait.

Over it all is a stately weeping cherry tree who stands there in all her early glory announcing the change of season, and taking up her place in the “order of things.” “Hello, dear garden estate,” she seems to say. “I announce that Spring is here. I want you all to know that I am here. I spread my branches and behold, my blossoms are beautiful, are they not? Don’t fret, my companions, all will be fine. Spring is here. I have ushered it into this lovely place, and I will stand here as an example to you, with my pink petals quivering in the wind. I will hold vigil here, and wait for you until you are ready to blossom as well.”

She’s so showy. And of course, as soon as the rest of the garden starts to “pop” and compete with her, she will pout, drop all her petals in a show of exasperation, and then muscularly cover her branches in a serene dense green. She will re-gain her sense of importance and duty, however, when I drag my hammock under her protection, and lie there, cool and refreshed, looking up into her branches and tell her how pretty she is, and thank her for her service. I for one won’t forget how she stood there exclaiming joy and beauty while we waited for the redbuds and dogwoods to catch up. I am especially fond of her.

Copyright (c) 2008

Oh, the Sweet Pain!

2008-03-30T19:21:09Z

God, I love my garden. People who know me know this. They would derive this from a simple visit to our home and enjoying the loose, lively and lovely spread of color, the heady scents, the overabundance of beauty.

But, it's not just the beauty that tells me I love my garden. It's the devotion, the excitement, the thrill I get when I work in it.

Yesterday, my granddaughter came over (4 years old). She and I opened a box that had come to the house a week ago. I saw that what was in it were the Green Envy coneflowers I had ordered. "Holy cow!" I said. "I gotta get these in the ground! They've been sitting in this box all week!"

Now, the place I had planned for these was in a rounded corner of my herb garden. Thing is, I had to RIP OUT 10-year-old citronella plants to make room for the coneflowers. This area was between two sage bushes and next to two fledgling Hawthorn trees. My granddaughter Maggie LOVES to garden, so, she and I grabbed shovels and gloves and went out to get started.

Ripping out spreading, old roots is HARD work. I got to it, prying patches out of the garden little by little, digging deep enough to get the roots, hauling out huge clumps and shaking off soil and worms. Just after I pointed out to Maggie the 1-inch long (no kidding!) thorns on the Hawthorn tree, and please be careful, I leaned my hand on the ground and was pierced - I swear, think crucifixion -- right in the palm of the hand. It went w-a-y in. Dang. 'Pulled it out and got back to work.

About a half hour in, with the digging, the pulling, the groaning and laughing, I am making a mental note to take Aleve as soon as possible, because this is gonna hurt later.

An hour or so after we started Maggie and I had finally cleared a spot and we were ready to plant. I planted. She watered. We hauled 3 boxes full of weeds and roots and garden debris out of the herb garden in just this one little project. We put away the shovels. We washed up, checked for ticks, and had ourselves a refreshing drink.

My muscles ached. A lot. And it felt wonderful. My daughter Mary used to take pride in the huge, colorful bruises she acquired during a hard soccer game. Badges of honor. That's how the sore muscles feel after the first gardening project of the year. It feels wonderful.

It was chilly as we worked. I found out earlier this year that I have a hiatal hernia, and that means that when I do a lot of bending, such as with gardening, it gets kind of, uh, uncomfortable. None of that mattered. The scents of the herbs surrounding me - sage, citronella, lavendar -- were heady, a benediction. The sunlight on our shoulders was glorious. The breezes made my granddaughter's almost-white blonde hair lift and swirl. The earth smelled good. We named the earthworms we found as we disturbed their homes, and gently returned them to the dark. We took the fledgling little coneflower plants, just three of them, and placed them in their new home, visions of early summer glory in my mind.

This experience is close to heaven for me. It is the hardest work I love. The only endeavors that are similar, in that they are crazy-hard, often solitary, and that they require blind enthusiasm and devotion would be: raising kids, writing a piece I "simply must write," and loving my husband and family. Hard work, to the point of exhaustion. Others see the fruit and enjoy it. "You have such great kids," or "you two are good together," or "I so enjoyed that article you wrote, or "Mom, we had the best time together this weekend." All of that is welcome and certainly one of the reasons for, and one of the rewards for, all the work.

But, I guess my point here is that, I not only love the results, I love the process. I have been known to garden for 8 hours straight without a break and not even realize what time it is. I am supposed to limit my time in the sun (one of those delightful demands that comes with getting older) so I can easily be found gardening in a steady, light rain. For hours. "Carrie, come in! You're going to catch cold!" Never happens. I have found myself gardening into twilight and had to give up because I couldn't see what I was doing. When Spring pruning of trees and bushes comes, I go into the office at work with scrapes and bruises up and down my arms. Like Mary, I look on them with affection!

Am I crazy? Obsessed? Nah. As I mentioned, this is not all that different from the devotion and hard knocks and long hours we put in on anything we love (childbirth; being up all night with a sick child; preparing a kick-ass presentation; or talking about dreams with your partner).

God, I love my garden. Welcome Spring!

Copyright (c) 2008

Orlando Vacation Diary

2009-01-05T13:00:27Z

Orlando Vacation Diary

Saturday March 15, 2008

Purcellville was blustery and chilly. Time to get the heck out. Dropped off Noah, our geriatric sweetheart of a dog at the boarding place down the street. I had to boost him into the backseat of my new car – his first ever ride in it.   I had to write on the admission forms that he had a weak left hip and leg. The rest of the boarding instructions were in the “doggy day care profile” from before. Things like – Noah can only walk on the grass; Noah loves tennis balls but only yellow ones. He arrived with three medications. I drove back with all the windows open to blow all the dog hair out of the back seat. This mostly worked as long as I didn’t inhale while any of it was floating by my face on its way out the car window.

I got home in time to finish packing a very large black duffle-bag-on-wheels that Gil and I shared. I managed to corral Gil into the room for a few minutes to contribute his clothes for the bag. It was helpful but I didn’t approve of some of it. He gave me three pairs of sport socks. I put back the pair that is mis-matched and that always fall down. He gave me one pair of boxers. I added a couple more. It wasn’t until we arrived at BWI airport, and, eating airport food in the “Air Mall” seating area that I realized I did not remember him packing his medications. “Say, Gil, did you pack your pills?” “No. I thought you did.” “Why would you think I did? I never pack your pills. I wouldn’t know what to bring. That’s your stuff.” “I pack what you tell me to pack. You should have told me to pack my pills.” Some version of this conversation went on for about twenty unproductive minutes. Oh well. I guess we get to see what happens to an old man who stops taking his blood pressure, cholesterol and kidney medicine for a week. Maybe he and I will both keel over before we get home. I just discovered a wicked tick bite on me before I left today.

So, we got to the airport with lots of time to spare. Made it through security without incident, ate gross airport food. Seattle and Mary went to the candy shop and bought about three pounds of various loose candy – sour gummy worms, caramels, cappuccino cordial balls, chocolate covered coffee beans, M&Ms, gummy root beers, super-sized gummy bears, Mr. Goodbars, Reese’s pieces, Hershey’s dark chocolate minis, cow tails, pixie sticks, Starbursts and Skittles. These were mixed together all in one big plastic bag. The Harry Potter chocolate frog and the Fundip were in their own respective packages. I hope the seat pouch in front of them on the plane has a barf bag.

Gil signed up for AirTran frequent flyer program and got a 6-in-1 game compendium which we unpacked and opened, then Seattle and I tried to play checkers on a 5x5 inch board with checkers that were approximately half the size of a pencil eraser.

Then, Seattle said, “Oh, no. I lost my boarding pass.” After the family fussed at her for being irresponsible, and after she retraced steps to restaurants and bathroom, we took her over to Aaron, a skinny, maybe 20-year-old dude at gate D5 and asked for another one, which he printed for her. The marquee at D5 showed a 7:39 departure, which meant that we were really, really early. We had about 2 hours to kill. Oh. Wait. Make that 3 hours – they changed the departure time to 8:50. Dang.
So we went back to the eating area with chai tea, water, and café mocha and played Phase 10. We weren’t the only ones playing cards. At one point Seattle got up to check on our flight – oh, now it’s 9:15 departure. Geez. Seattle remarked that she liked the fact that to our left, there was a table of Japanese, next to them, African Americans, next to them a table of whites, next to them, a table of Indians. When finally it came time to meander back to the gate, young Aaron was on the PA system urging the boarding passengers to take their seats as quickly as possible and not dawdle in the aisles getting in each other’s way. This made Gil, weary and pissed-off by the delays, say out loud to no one in particular, “You’re asking US to help save ten minutes while boarding?? How about YOU delaying us for an hour and a half?”

Finally, in flight, there was an amazing light show outside the windows. Lightning everywhere, illuminating layers of clouds. I kept thinking, wow, that’s really beautiful and unlike anything I’ve ever seen before but uh… what if the lightning hits the plane?

The flight was not uneventful. It was turbulent – so turbulent that the little kids in the seats ahead of us would shout “Whoa!” and laugh with each big bump and dip of the plane. They made me smile as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, willing myself not to get sick. I did not get sick.

We got off the plane in Orlando and could definitely tell we were in Florida – 75 degrees at midnight and humid. I had a coating of sweat on my brow and upper lip in a matter of minutes. We found a shuttle to take us to our rental car. We drove the rental car to our hotel/resort place and we were in bed by 1:30 a.m. Palm Sunday. I messed up the girls’ pull out sofa bed. I put the comforter under the fitted sheet as a pad, and then a sheet. It would have been okay except, unbeknownst to us, Mary turned the air conditioning to 62 degrees. In the middle of the night I noticed it was pretty cold. Mary came into our room and grabbed what I thought was a blanket in the closet. Turns out it was the mattress pad. But, she put it on top of her and Seattle to keep warm. So, she had the top comforter as a mattress pad and the mattress pad as a comforter.

We ripped it all off in the morning.

Sunday, March 16

Weather: Sunny, 85, humid, no breeze (throw up after the roller coaster rides hot)

We ended up sleeping about 8 hours because we planned to leave for Winter Haven which is where baseball’s Spring Training is, before noon. We hustled and readied ourselves, Gil finally getting a shower and shave. He was ready to set out to see his beloved Cleveland Indians. He had the tickets for the game which started at 1:05. He had been tracking his favorite players in Cleveland’s farm team, among whom is a 25-year-old named Wyatt with whom Mary went to grade school, middle school, high school and the same college. He knows this kid’s batting average, every great play he makes, he knows when he gets sick or pulls a muscle (I’m being literal here). He knows the kid’s competition for a major league catcher’s spot. He gives Mary weekly “Wyatt reports” which she doesn’t ask for, but he can’t help himself.

So, we take off for the ball park. We pass two or three exits that say “Winter Haven” and Gil says, “No, I don’t want to follow those signs, I want to go via route 60.”   Where’s route 60, by the way? We drove and drove. We saw groves of orange trees, with lots of oranges on them. It made us hungry and thirsty for orange juice. We saw cows. We saw some of the god-awfulest-ugly trees and flora I have ever seen in my life. This was a very, very unattractive area, not exactly "the scenic route" for all the f'ing driving. We kept going by shopping centers and asking Gil to stop because oh, yes, Seattle needed girly “supplies” she had neglected to pack, if you know what I mean. The girls and I were anxious to get them for her before we had an unfortunate accident to deal with. Gil just wanted to get to the ballpark, which he still wasn’t sure he knew how to get to. He finally stopped at a store to shut us up. Poor Gil, five years ago, he went to Spring Training on his own for a weekend. Just took off, without any of us girls! Imagine that. I know he was wishing he was solo again, but he put up with us, tampon shopping and all.

Seattle and I went into the drug store to get the supplies and some orange juice for our craving and granola bars for breakfast. Gil had said, “Don’t take long!” But, there we were, in a long line of very senior citizens, and only one check-out person. The old folks were remarking about the headlines in the trashy magazines as they flipped through. It sounded something like this: woman: “Oh my lord! Lisa Marie Presley! Is she that fat? My god, she is! Look at that!” Man: “She’s just like her daddy, she is. Too many of them peanut butter and banana sandwiches.” Woman: “Look at this picture. She really is fat!” Man: “Well, smoking marijuana. That makes you want to munch. That’s what they tell me anyway.” I have never been in a place where there are so many people my age and older. Herds and "herds of old people," Mary says.

So, got “the stuff” but Gil was too anxious to eat his “granola bar” breakfast. “I just want to get to the game.” Well, let’s drive some more, shall we? We drove “the long way around” and finally found Route 60 (which did NOT say “to Winter Haven” as all the others had), we found the town and the ball park. We were in time for the game. We beat the crowds. We missed the turn into the park. So Gil went down a back road and then cut through the grass and drove through the owner’s parking lot to get back to the entrance. We took pictures. We went to the pro shop. We bought a t-shirt for Gil and a hat for me. We walked over to the beautifully manicured field, and gee, it is about game time isn’t it? “Makes you wonder if you really even need tickets” Gil says. Um. The place is deserted. We go look at the big sign that lists the games and realize Gil had bought tickets for YESTERDAY’s game and we weren’t even here yesterday. Here is a picture of Gil and Mary enjoying our seats.

Well. We kinda just raised our eyebrows and our shoulders and said, whaddya gonna do? Gil went into the business office to tell him their sob story. They felt sorry for him but couldn’t give him tickets to another game. So they gave him four Grady Sizemore bobble head dolls. Oh boy. In the meantime, Mary and I wandered out to the nearly deserted fields – nearly deserted except for a pair of men standing in the shade in conversation. They’d been there quite a while. “I think that looks like Wyatt,” Mary says. “But I’m not sure. I can’t tell from here.” So, I mustered a furtive paparazzi pose and zoomed in on his head with my telephoto lens and took a quick picture. “Yep. That’s him!” So, Mary went over to him and said hello, and that it would make her Dad’s day if he could talk with him for awhile. And that’s what they did. Holy cow. This made the day all worthwhile. He and Wyatt jawed about baseball, injuries, who is in the pipeline behind Wyatt, what it’s going to be like playing in Bufflao where he has just been transferred, gossip about other players, how well-positioned Wyatt is in the minors (triple A in Buffalo), and how it is only a matter of time now before he gets called up to the majors. Wyatt said for Mary to contact him on Facebook and he’ll see about getting us tickets to come see him play in Richmond. The whole thing was heavenly for Gil, the consummate fan, in Florida, at Spring Training.

We had more time in the day so we went to Cypress Gardens Adventure Park. The traffic line to get in was long, but we had nowhere else we had to be. They directed us to “satellite parking” which meant wa-a-ay out in a cow pasture somewhere. Then, they picked us up in what I called aluminum “cages” and what the park called a tram. It was a rectangular platform box with metal bleacher-quality seats that bounced and rattled over the rocky cow paths, kicking up clouds of dust. Packed around us as far as we could see were all these “retirees” in their manicured, seersucker, jeweled and jaunty-hatted best. Good lord, I thought, what are all these “old people” going to do at an “adventure park?” I mean, there were roller coasters and all manner of rides and shows and lots and lots of walking here. So, I asked them. They answered in three words: “Oak Ridge Boys.” Ohhh. The concert. And they told me the Beach Boys would be here next week, yahoo!

Well, Seattle and Mary were not interested in the Oak Ridge Boys, so we went in and looked around the tourist shops and the silly shows. There was one pirate show that was one corny joke after the other, like this one of the pirate holding a discovered long lost treasure – the mirror of queen Varicose the Vain.

We sent the girls to the adventure part of the park to ride to ride the roller coasters without us. Gil and I went to see a butterfly conservatory. This is us there, taking a picture in front of a mirror.

Then we walked through a topiary garden with giant, multi-story, sculptures of greens and flowers shaped like animals. There were ducks, cardinals, a swan, a peacock, an Easter bunny, a snail, and more. There were waterfalls and flowered archways and beautiful teen girls dressed as Southern Belles in their puffy pastel dresses and frilly umbrellas walking around just looking pretty and serene (nice work if you can get it, huh?).

We had planned with the girls to meet them at Adventure Grill. We got a call from them: “I’m done. We’re at the grill.” Seattle and Mary had gone on three roller coasters in a row, and the heat had gotten to Mary, who just plopped down with some cold water and called it a day. This part was not fun. Especially for Mary. But, we tried to stabilize her and then slowly walked to another restaurant because it turns out the Adventure Grill was gross with outside picnic tables and annoying hillbilly music blaring from a nearby speaker. We had a late lunch indoors, with air conditioning, which we hoped would help Mary recover. She took a few bites and packed up her food to take back with us. The “cage ride” through the cow pastures seemed extra bumpy as the “tram” shuttled us back to our car, and while I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, Mary held on to the aluminum struts and did not hurl on anyone.

We stopped at a super market on the way back. This place was like a 7-Eleven that was trying to be a Dollar Store. We managed to get some fresh fruit and orange juice, Chex Mix for snacking, yogurt and for the girls, Pop Tarts. I also bought a six pack of Corona (heat, humidity and beer go well together) and a six pack of those fruity cooler drinks for Mary. We drove back to our small hotel suite and went to bed.

Monday March 17. St. Patrick’s Day

Weather: 66 in the morning, 82 by 5:00 and a beautiful, merciful wind the whole day

Ok, I get up and make myself some breakfast – strawberry yogurt, sliced bananas, strawberries and red grapes all in a bowl together. Trying to bring some “normal” to vacation eating. I took it outside and sat in the morning calm listening to the birds and enjoying the balmy breeze. Then, I had to laugh out loud when Gil joined me on the balcony with his breakfast: Captain Morgan Parrot Bay Pineapple Colada drink and Wild Berry Pop Tarts. Oh, what the heck, lemme have one of those Pop Tarts.

The resort we are at has a fitness center, so, I wanted to go and try to keep up some of my daily weight-training and core-strengthening routine that I do. Gil and I walked to the fitness room. It was a room with about six treadmills of differing fanciness and a behemoth weight training machine that did about 50 different things, none of which I understood. The body-builder males came in and knew how to work the damn thing and I watched, skeptically, from my treadmill.   I walked a mile. Next to me was a woman probably 10-15 years older than I, who was walking longer, and slower than I. Behind me and to the left was a little wiry tan woman, again about 10-15 years older, who was running and oh, man, I can’t do that. I had set up Gil in the outer room with our wireless laptop so he could surf the net and read sports news. When I was finished, I had worked up a good sweat, but was frustrated because with my good intentions of going to the “fitness center” I had now just reduced my Universal Studios walking stamina by 1 ½ miles, having used up my energy on a dumb treadmill as well as the walk to and from the center. 'Not doing that again! I’ll just have to let the miles and miles we walk around Universal be my exercise this week.

We drove to Universal. Parked in the E.T. lot which was w-a-a-y out there. But, woo-hoo! there were moving sidewalks the whole way between the parking ramps and the entrance to make the walk easier. I love moving sidewalks. It makes me feel like a superhero where every step equals 5 and I am so powerful as I cruise by. Unless you have dummies standing in front of you who think that the moving sidewalk is a pedestrian potato conveyor belt. Unbelievable. Why would anyone just stand on a moving sidewalk (especially if it is the beginning of the day, so you haven’t even had the chance to make your feet hurt yet)? OK, so anyone reading this blog, here is your “city education” concerning moving sidewalks and escalators: STAND TO THE RIGHT; WALK LEFT. Just remember that. Don’t clog up the whole moving apparatus and impede those of us who are trying to rudely get from point A to point B because we are already late for our appointments, or, in the case of Carrie on the Universal Studios moving walkways, don’t get in the way of a 50-year old woman who is having fun and imagining she is a superhero with super leg power trying to keep up with her girls and get to the park so she can have fun.

At the end of the walkways was Universal CityWalk, which is a haven of shops and restaurants, bars, and entertainment that is open till 2:00 a.m. We were arriving around noon, so we decided to go to Margaritaville, where we could relax with expensive margaritas and look over a tropical lagoon and pretend we were Jimmy Buffet fans. It was crowded. So I did not wait for a table but sat at a bar that faced out over the lagoon. The service was unbearably slow, but it was the beginning of our fun, so we had patience to spare. And we were just happy to be together. We carved our names and other messages into the wood at the bar, and when the food arrived it was really, really good. I had the proverbial Cheeseburger in Paradise, Gil and Mary had amazing, fresh club sandwiches, Seattle had a high quality chicken Caesar salad (it tasted like they had crushed the anchovies by hand); we added beer and water which was less expensive than the margaritas we started with. The wall next to me had a portrait of the Lost Shaker of Salt. It was great.

Properly fortified, we took off to explore. We had tickets to two parks – Universal Studios and Universal Islands of Adventure – plus CityWalk. The girls got air brush tattoos. Then we moseyed over a bridge and went through security and ended up in the Islands of Adventure park. Wait a minute. We don’t want to be here. This is all roller coasters and other rides. We just ate. We are supposed to be at Universal Studios. Oh, that’s way over there! Gil is rolling his eyes and huffing about how nobody ever listens to him ‘cause he had told us how to get to Studios, but here we went and walked to Adventures. Blah blah blah. Get used to it. We’re on vacation. We are wandering around and the brain is not necessarily engaged.

So, we exited the park we just went through all the trouble to get to. (Yes, it was trouble. We had to cross a bridge, then wait in long lines for people to check our tickets, fingerprint us and finally tell us we could get in.) We hoofed it over to Studios and the girls and I went into the Men In Black “ride.” We swirled around and had to shoot aliens. I got the highest score of the three of us. It was fun. We also saw a ridiculous and fun Beetlejuice performance – Beetlejuice, Frankenstein, Dracula (who was very hot), and night-of-the-living-dead cheerleaders danced around to rock music, changing the lyrics to be monster-like. Silly but very fun. Gil and Mary went into the Jaws ride because Seattle and I refused ‘cause we didn’t want to be scared.   They enjoyed it. Oooh, and before leaving we all went into the Disaster exhibit. Frank Kincaid is the master of disaster movies and there were movie props from several of his movies that we got to walk by and inspect. There were quotes of his hanging from the ceiling, like this one that reminded me of Ian: “Reality is overrated; fantasy is wimpy. Give me hyper-reality, life with the volume turned up.” And when we got into the exhibit itself they had this amazing holographic Frank Kincaid standing on stage talking to us. It was a holograph, but looked totally real.

It was hot. We had lotsa water and Mary got Dippin Dots, which is ice cream the consistency of small peas, and very fun to eat. We had dinner reservations at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company! We went in and sat down. About 2 minutes later, at the table next to us, a guy picks up a tall pina colada glass and it explodes in his hand! No blood, lucky for him, but glass everywhere. About 10 minutes later at another table next to us, the server drops an entire bucket (they served some food in buckets) of some sloppy goo on the floor next to us. Half an hour later, some kid at another table next to us drops his entire drink on the floor. I guess we brought the Kincaid “disasters” with us! We had no big disaster personally unless you count the waiter bringing Gil the completely wrong meal and having to go back and get the right one while the rest of us ate ours. We took that in stride, drinking some fruity alcoholic beverages out of tall plastic (not taking any chances on the exploding glass) glasses with flashing multicolored lights in the base, and mardi gras beads wrapped around. We also watched Forrest Gump, the movie, which was of course playing continuously in the background.

In addition to serving some food in buckets, Bubba Gump Shrimp Company had ping pong paddles with drink and dessert menus on them, and, one of my favorite things was a license plate sign for the table that indicated to our server how things were going at the table. One plate said, “RUN, FORREST, RUN” and the other said, “STOP FORREST, STOP.”

Gil finally got his food and we also ordered some sinful dessert to share, paid the bill and took off for the thrill of the moving sidewalks that would take us back to E.T. and our car for the short drive back to the resort.

Tuesday March 18

Weather – Windy (thank God) and overcast, 78 degrees, humid

We headed back to Universal, with enthusiasm. We parked in the Cat-in-the-Hat lot, and dashed to the moving walkways, experiencing once again the hoards of clueless "standers." That's okay. We're on vacation. We got no stinkin' schedule. We can wait.

At Universal Studios we went into the Twister attraction where we got to experience what it is like to be in the middle of a killer tornado. We went on the Mummy ride which the girls and I loved, with all its scary skeletons, roaches, gouls and Egyptian villians. We stopped at Ben & Jerry’s, then caught a fun-fun-fun Blues Brothers act. This part was a good "education" for the girls in some classic fun music.

The girls went on the roller coasters while Gil and I meandered around and feigned frailty ('can't be going on roller coasters whe Gil doesn't have his blood pressure medication!) We explored the Discovery Center at Jurassic Park. Then we ended up in a medieval-themed area of the park. We ate in the Enchanted Oak Restaurant which was basically a cave with torches on the wall, birds flying through, big ol’ turkey legs to eat and roasted corn on the cob with the husks hanging off the end of the plate. We got a kick out of it. Here is what it looked like from the outside. The inside was cave-dark.

After dinner, we hoofed it over to the Hard Rock Café for more "music education." This time it was the real George Thorogood. We waited outside in yet another security line, including people poking through our bags. "You don't have a camera in there, do you?" Why, yes I do. Then they made both me and Mary go to the office and PAY $3 each to give up our cameras so that we wouldn't take them into the concert.

The opening act was a gifted guitarist (Suhler), innovative, if undisciplined and he probably played too long. The girls were polite, but were kind of in shock when after playing for an hour, Jim Suhler & Monkey Beat announced that soon the Great George Thorogood would be coming out. They thought he was Thorogood.

Well, by now we had finished our beers and were hungry again, and so ordered pizza from our waitress Natalie. WORST PIZZA IN THE WORLD. But, we had great seats -- a table in the balcony hanging right next to the stage. There were only a handful of tables in this "exclusive" little balcony. At one point some interlopers came up there and sat down at an empty table. I said quietly to the girls, "Hey, those are interlopers. They don't have tickets to sit there." And, sure enough, the real ticket-holders showed up and the 'lopers were busted. The new people somehow didn't have to pay to check their cameras. They sat there taking video and photos all night.

From our front-row vantage point, we saw all the shenanigans going on in front of George, including crazy drunk girls who taunted the beefy bouncer/guard guys with lap dances and other stuff. One finally "took it all off" in front of Thorogood and the bouncer bounced her OUT. Others followed. The music was wonderful, though. Ian is a big Thorogood fan, so I made sure to send him a text message telling him where we were and what we were doing. Turns out, he got the message at work where he was working very late and my enthusiasm was more like taunting or torture to him. Oh well . Spring vacation, baby.

Wednesday March 19th

Weather – Breezy but oh-my-god-88 and humid.

Wednesday the resort staff were supposed to come by and replace towels, vaccum, clean up. I think I had gone out in the morning in search of coffee, and so I was not there when "the Towel guy" came to door. Mary answered. He spoke not a word of English, but grunted and made little circles with his hands. She tried to tell him No, Seattle is IN the shower... can't you come back later? He got the point. Too bad I wasn't there to try my limited Spanish on him. That would have been fun! As it was, when I came back, I had forgotten my key, and spent a half hour trying to get into the room because the girls wouldn't answer the door!

Frazzled and frustrated by being locked out in the heat, I quickly forgave them and we focused on the day ahead at Universal's Islands of Adventure! By this time we had been at Universal for two days, and because we vowed not to rush, or hassle each other, we just made notes of all the things we didn’t get to do one day and said we’d do it the next day. So, on this, day three, we knew precisely what we wanted to do.

First of all, since it was so hot, we had to really plan how to stay cool. Mary got to the park and had to sit down in the shade after about ten minutes! So, we decided to go shopping for all those cute things we noticed the past two days. They had lots of Mardi Gras stuff around too, and Seattle and Mary enjoyed dressing up. Gil got a black casual button down shirt with yellow palm trees on it. Then, the shop attendant dude tried to sell him black and gray camouflage cargo pants to go with it. GEEZ-OH-FLIP ARE YOU INSANE, MAN? Well, that’s what was going on in my head. What I really said, while pointing forcefully, was, “NO. We are not buying those to go with that shirt.”

We spent a long time trying to buy Seattle a sun dress but the only changing area was a tent contraption whose flaps did not close all the way, and which always seemed to be occupied. So, we had her try clothes on over her t-shirt and shorts. No good. Then, we finally got in the tent and I played attendant and brought Seattle one after another choices of adorable tops and skirts. She finally picked a combination she liked a lot. It was nice to get some Florida memory clothes but the important part was that we stayed out of the sun. We were all sweltering in the radiant heat and humidity but we were refreshed enough to go on.

We had rides to go on. I had studied the Hulk with Gil while we watched the girls go on it the day before. It is a remarkable, acres big, towering over the entire park, roaring, looping, amazing feat of engineering.
Accelerates from zero to 40 mph in 2 seconds flat with the force of an F-14 jet. It goes up over 150 feet and goes up to 67 mph, 7 inversions and 2 subterranean trenches. What's not to love?? So, I said I’m going on! Whoo-hoo! I was a lil’ scared, but I did it and it was great!

Later that day, inspired the thrill of the Hulk, I agreed to go on the Dueling Dragons with the girls.  Not as big as the Hulk, but you don't sit in this one so much as hang with your feet dangling. Fabulous. Here's the description and the video:

They're the world's first inverted, dueling roller-coasters. Soar 125 feet in the air and reach speeds of 55 mph on two unique rides.

During the aerial "combat" between dragons - the suspended coasters - there are three times that guests will come within 18 inches of their opponent.

Each dragon's 2-minute and 25-second flight includes several inversions, including a zero-g roll, a Cobra roll, two corkscrews, and two vertical loops.

Between those adventures, we went to "the best theme park restaurant in the country" - Mythos, on the Greek Island part of the park. Our waiter Robert had "Team Lead" on his name badge. He was great. The food was wonderful, and Robert told us we MUST go on the Spiderman ride, which was great advice. You have to see this restaurant.

This is the ceiling.

This is the kitchen. The oven mouth is beyond the chef there.

And, in honor of Loretta, who always wanted to know what the restroom was like, because it was an indication of the quality of the restaurant, here is a picture of Seattle doing her best Top Model pout and slouch pose in the restroom.

So, Greek island theme was pretty amazing. Thought my mom would have really loved it. Fountains and sculptures everywhere. We went through the Poseidon attraction which was fabulous - came out wet. Here is the beautiful rocky fountain - find the two faces.

By the time we finished Poseidon, we were really tired and it was getting dark. We were walking on blisters. But we knew this was the last day at Universal, so Mary tried her first Cinnamon Churro from one of the stands. She said it tasted like cinnamon pork rinds. We also stopped back at Margaritaville so the girls could buy t-shirts. Gil really liked the Adirondack Margaritaville chairs and wanted to buy a pair for home. (I wouldn't let him. 'Didn't think their tropical designs would exactly fit into our country garden decor!) This picture shows how tired we were, as we waited for the girls to finish shopping.

I stopped into Bubba Gump Shrimp Company to order one of their amazing smoothies. And then, dead tired, but with mischief in our eyes, we said, "How cool would it be to ride the Hulk at night???" Let's do it! It was fabulous.

As we drove home we saw Disney fireworks from the highway. It was so late we had to park a block away, cause all the spots near were taken. Each step to the condo was punctuated with "Ow." We all crashed into bed. It rained that night.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Weather, overcast, until the afternoon, and then it was sunny (everybody-got-sunburned sunny) and about 80.

We all slept in till about 9:00. We were finished with Universal and today was the day to try to see a baseball Spring Training game again. So, we drove back to Winter Haven again. Saw cows and orange trees again.

TThe ballpark was much more populated than the last time we were here. Gil went to see if the guys were working out. The girls and I went to the concessions and had “breakfast.” We bought the very first funnel cake of the day and pizza and hot dogs. We were there to see the Cleveland Indians play the Tampa Bay Rays. These were the game tickets we bought on Sunday after we arrived for a Sunday game that wasn’t. Now, the “Sunday” (really previous Saturday) tickets were nice, in the upper deck, in the shade of the overhang. These last minute tickets for today were out in the bleachers, down the first base line. Totally exposed, in the sun. So, Mary and Gil looked like lobsters by the end of the day. Seattle and I did okay. The Indians played to a tie.

Afterward, we had free tickets to go back to Cypress Gardens but we were too tired and Mary did not want to “return to the scene” of where she got so sick the first day. In addition, Mary and Seattle and I had blisters from walking Universal Studios parks for three days in a row. So, we couldn’t imagine walking any more. We looked at a tourist guide and picked out a “Black Angus Steak House.” On the way there, Gil spotted a Books-a-Million which is the store Seattle has been pining to find because it has a $10 Jonas Brothers magazine that she just had to have. She went in and found it, and came back with the biggest smile and many, many thank-you’s. We went to the restaurant then, and had dinner. We were all so tired.

Friday March 21

Weather: mostly sunny, breezy and 78 degrees

We were finally finished with Universal Studios and Adventure Park and knew that our next stop before going home would have to be Sea World. We had good intentions to get there “early” but once again, our family on vacation gets mobilized by about 11:00.

We get to the park and holy cow, the lines are so long that it takes us an hour from the time we enter the parking lot till we are finally inside the park, map in hand, planning out our day. The park closes at 10:00 pm and at prices like they charge, we are determined to wring every last bit out of the hours we had there. We spec’d out the “must see shows” – Shamu’s “Believe” at 1:30, “Shamu Rocks” at 8:15 pm, and dinner at the Shark restaurant at 9:00 pm. In between those were a host of other attractions and fun.

Of course, this was a walking park and the must-see’s were often at opposite ends. This would have been fine if I hadn’t wrecked my feet with blisters from the vigorous three-days-straight of walking at Universal. There were two redeeming things that offset the considerable agony I experienced while walking: 1) it was Good Friday, and I had my own personal “via dolorosa” going on. My catholic roots encouraged me to just “offer it up” for the sake of his sufferings and those of the world. And 2) SeaWorld and all its treasures make Mary so happy she just about walks on air. What wouldn’t any mother give to see her kids so happy? So, everyone pretended I was just slow, and I pretended I was not dying. It worked out fine that way.

Mary is a Pisces. This must be one of the reasons she has such affinity to the water, to water mammals like dolphins, killer whales, manatees and sharks. She loves them! She feels right in her element. The Shamu shows were pretty darn remarkable. The “Believe” show’s message was to share with us the awe of humans working with, playing with and caring for the greatest predator of the sea, the “top of the food chain,” the great killer whales. To think we could be so close to them without them having us for lunch is an amazing thing. But, beyond that, it speaks to our oneness on this planet, oneness not just of humanity, but unity between species. Here the message sounds a lot like Chief Seattle’s – that we are one with the Earth and all its inhabitants.

In the middle of the day, we saw an acrobatic water ballet story against an elaborate background. It was colorful and produced lots of oohs and ahhs, one favorite part of which was when they released tropical birds by the dozen to become part of the flying, swinging, diving choreography. Once, for dramatic effect they even had a condor sweep over our heads and the watery stage.

We also went to look at the tanks and watch the wonderful mammals swim right up to us. We went to a place were there were fish above us, and fish through the floor. Mary was infatuated and dreamily watched and communed with her friends.

The nigtttime Shamu Rocks show was great fun – stories-high brilliant geometric light shows pulsating to wonderful classic rock music everyone knew (like Queen!) and couldn’t help but clap and move to. A guitar virtuoso wailing away on a high platform above the water, cascading sheets of lighted waterfalls, and buff whale trainers in tight wetsuits performing gasping feats of acrobatics with humongous whales in a dark pool lit up with purple and blue lights under the watchful eye of a full moon – well, you’d think that would just top off the night. You’d be wrong. Because Mary had one more dream to fulfill. We left the Shamu rock-n-roll and went to the restaurant where Mary had already arranged reservations for 9:00 pm.

“Excuse me, but would there be any way possible for us to get a table right next to the sharks?” “Why yes,” they told her. “As a matter of fact we had a cancellation and we have a table open there.” Well. You have to picture this. The entire curving, back wall of the restaurant was glass. And behind that glass was an aquarium of very large fish – schools of them. All these photos were our table-side view.

There were saw fish, white, easily, 16 feet long, with two and a half foot noses that looked like a lumberjack’s saw. There were every kind of shark, from the sleek, handsome grays to a hump-backed Forrest Gump shark with buck teeth that was just embarrassing. There was a soft, pinkish brown 10 foot long nurse shark we named Barbie. We think she was pregnant. There were a trio of cute striped smaller fish (one foot long) who reminded us of a boy band, the way they went around together, posing and dancing in unison. They were the smallest. Most of the fish in there were several feet long, lively and altogether enthralling for Mary especially, who had a hard time concentrating on the menu to decide what to eat as she stared at the watery wonder of it all. The food was gourmet, and wonderful, of course. The wait staff were knowledgeable, and one even pointed out how to tell girl sharks from boy sharks – a piece of information which, afgter I knew I kinda wished I didn’t. Eww. We closed down the restaurant, a full half hour after the close of the park, and made our way out under the glow of the park and the moon, me limping along like Quasimoto, Mary walking on air. And that was the perfect end to the day and the vacation.