All through their lives, for both my kids, I like to tell them the story of their blessed nativity. They were both easy pregnancies for me, although I’ve never been so hungry in my life. Since I was pretty thin, I could eat just about anything and not gain too much weight. While carrying this little sprout, I developed a fascination with Sara Lee pound cake. So, I always tell Clay, he is primarily made of pound cake. Maybe, that’s why he’s kind of a health nut, trying to avoid the pitfalls of his mother.

Jim Risher was getting his master’s in economics, so he went to school in the daytime and worked at night at the Post Office in Austin. Becky was in Arlington with her grandparents. On that particular night, a full moon night, I might add, I was at home watching Jack Paar. I remember I was ironing, mostly Jim’s madras shirts. The following week, each shirt that he pulled out of the closet to wear had one of the front sides totally untouched by an iron. I suppose I was preoccupied, feeling little twinges of labor and listening to late night humor as I ironed.

Garney Griggs and Jim had a date for handball at the Y for that morning. Sadly, I had to interrupt that, because by then the twinges were going hammer and tongs. Off we went to St. David’s Hospital. It only took about three hours of labour, before our little munchkin came along. Our precious friends, Benny and Starlett Hollingsworth, were in Austin for a long weekend, so they were our first visitors. Obviously, we thought he was just the cutest little baby and were thrilled that he was very healthy and alert.

All through his life, Clay has been curious, off the charts smart, adventurous and so funny. Incredibly generous, I remember him giving away his brand-new Tony Lama boots to his little cousin. More than a little irked, when I asked him why he would do that, he said: She doesn’t have any. Well, how could I argue with that?

When we lived in Raleigh, he and his sister were going to Arlington to visit the grandparents. When I started getting all mooshy mommy at the airport, he slung his golf clubs over his shoulder and said: Don’t try to talk me out of it, Mom, I’M GOING! Well, how could I argue with that?

The thing I’m most proud of for Clay is his marriage. Rebecca Thorpe is one amazing woman. She’s just as athletic as Clay, so they love to play golf, fish, cycle…and she’s very family minded. It’s wonderful to have a daughter-in-law like Bebe. Plus, she’s a fabulous cook.

Now, Clay and I, Bebe, when she can, get together most every week, and that is beyond comforting. We always have lots to discuss. Clay has so many interests. His day job is banking, but, in his heart, he’s a writer. He’s done quite a lot of that in his life. His first big publication was in Kirkus Review, a story called The Crosses of Matamoros. Lots of journalism since then, a book called Flash Point available on Amazon and a column with REIT Magazine. Like every writer, he’s a deep reader, too. When he has time, he loves to fish, says fishing in a cool mountain stream is his cathedral. This is probably to placate his church going mother, but that’s okay. He’s a believer, and I’m so thankful for that.

So, Clay, this is my long-winded birthday card to you, Bubby. Wishing you excellent health, lots of green in your jeans and a long life to enjoy it. Oh, and did I mention how much I love you?

When I first moved to Sono Central in South Norwalk, I often walked Griz over near the Platform, another Spinnaker Building. Griz and I both liked that area, because it still had a few jonquils in the spring, and it was in its natural state. Because these apartments are non-smoking campuses, you try to avoid the smokers, but there they are puffing away.

This young fellow was quite good looking then, a man you might see in a Fellini film. Darkly handsome with soulful eyes and that stubbly beard so many men have now a la Don Johnson in Miami Vice. At first, he just had a regular smoker’s cough, then as the months wore on, honestly, he sounded like death warmed over, coughing up his lungs with each exhale. We never actually did more than exchange hellos or good mornings. Although, I liked him, because his eyes always softened when he spotted Grizzly.

For several months I never saw him at all. Truly, I thought he may have died or, hopefully, entered an addiction center to kick that filthy nicotine habit. When he did reappear, he seemed completely morose. In the summertime, often barefoot, I could see he’d painted his fingers and toenails that black goth color. Lots of men do get pedicures nowadays, but they usually seem to go with clear polish. Anyway, as this summer has gone on, his usual preppy attire disappeared altogether. At first, it was just very loose fitting and partially unbuttoned shirts and big baggy shorts or slacks. Once, he was wearing a sarong. Chastising myself for stereotyping, I thought, well, maybe he’d been swimming? Then he changed completely into women’s clothes, fairly nice ones, but still a rather precipitous change. Yesterday, his costume looked like Norman Bates’ mother in Psycho. You’d have to be a certain age to remember that movie, but it was terrifying. The mother was always shown rocking slowly and looking half-dead in dreadful old clothes.

Not too long ago, I met a very nice trans person at Ulta, so that was the first time in my life I’d actually met a transgender person. Even though, I have certainly read about it. One of my friends in Westport has a transgender grandson. Those, the only two I know of personally, seem to be going along fairly well. Lots of counselling and serious reflection about such a major shift, and, most likely, a lot of family support. This poor young man seems to me to be a soul in torment. I can’t begin to imagine the cataclysmic events he must have endured or what depths of despair. He never smiles, just sort of scuttling along probably to buy another pack of cigarettes, because he is never without one.

It makes me wonder what happened to him to make him despise his own body so much. What murky depths did he live through as a child growing up in the darkness of an unhappy home? I felt sad that I don’t have the courage to talk to him, but, by now, I know my limits, and I just wouldn’t know what to say without botching it.

Recently, I heard a podcaster discussing the qualities of just plain old water. When you send loving thoughts to it, it actually changes colors. Conversely, if you send it angry thoughts, it’s another color entirely. So, I think if we can send love to water and make it happier, I should be able to send encouraging thoughts to this young man, too. So, that’s my plan!

On the upside of yesterday, Porch Fest was a blast. Will sings with a band called Mr. Know It All, not crazy about the name, but I love these guys and their families. They always make me feel so welcome, and they really appreciate Will. They got me a lawn chair, so I could be a lazybones and sit there in a beautiful front yard and soak up the music. They had a huge crowd of people. The police put up barricades for us, because more kept on appearing, and no one seemed to want to leave. They had a girl singer yesterday named Hannah Jane, and she and Will really rocked the house. They sang as if they’d been singing together for a long time. Hopefully, they’ll be singing more in the future.

The homeowner, who so graciously offered her porch to these musicians and spectators, is a beautiful young lady named Mary. Mary and I were chatting, and I was thanking her for being so generous, when we discovered we’d both lived in San Marino, California at about the same time. Mary grew up there; we were only there for about two years. When I introduced her to my children, Becky and Mary remembered they’d been at Huntington Jr. HS at the same time. I love how, sometimes, the world seems about as big as a golf ball. Walking back to the car, Rod, my favorite son-in-law, took me by the hand and led me over ageing sidewalks with unexpected drop-offs and sometimes lumpy elevations, and I felt so grateful to have such a sweet family. We certainly have our spats and disagreements, but there’s a sturdy bond there, for which I am eternally grateful. As the old hymn goes, “May that circle be unbroken.”

Lyse Doucet is a Canadian journalist, now chief international correspondent for the BBC, so she’s certainly got her street creds, but she’s also a gifted writer. How she weaves in as much as she did without getting lost in the weeds of her own story is beyond me. The fact checking alone is kind of mind boggling.

Charlie Wilson, a Congressman from Lufkin, Texas had a deep involvement with Afghanistan, too. His first wife was a friend of mine from Arlington, Jerry Faye Carter. So, I’ve actually been reading about this country for a long time. It seems to take hold of people in a very special way. After this last book, I find myself wishing I could go!

Because I’d enjoyed the book so much, just out of the blue, I remembered that a Savannah friend of mine, Kathleen MacArthur, had written a book about living in Kabul with her first husband. Spies Behind the Pillars, Bandits at the Pass is her book. Miraculously, the independent bookseller on Amazon had a copy, only one copy! So, I ordered pronto. My big regret is that I didn’t order it while she was still alive. Abby Buckwald introduced me to them, a very interesting couple. She was a Rhodes Scholar and later a speech writer for Hubert Humphrey, which makes her sound nerdy. She wasn’t! She was hilarious and loved a good conversation. Malcolm, her second husband, worked for the State Department, a quiet sort of fellow. I think maybe they met in Kabul. In his retirement, he liked to play golf, so I put them up for the golf club in Savannah. As they say, I am digressing, but when you’re 85, Hey! it’s allowed.

Yesterday at church, I was chatting with a friend of mine, who lived in Texas for 35 years. (Notice how I gravitate toward Texans.) His wife, Eleanor, had recently told me that he lived in Karachi, when he was a little boy, so I wanted to recommend this book to him. Karachi, of course, is in Pakistan, but it’s a close neighbor of Afghanistan. Bruce told me that his dad worked for USAID when they lived there, so he was in a school with not only US ex-pat kids but kids from all over the world. “I loved it,” he grinned.

I suppose my thesis for today is that reading will take you down a lot of rabbit holes, but getting off the beaten path can lead you on extraordinary journeys, even if they’re only in your mind. Whether it’s an old-fashioned book, kindle or an audible, happy reading!

I was thinking the other day, after another brutal news drop about the erosion of civil rights and voter suppression, why don’t young people get out and demonstrate more? In the 60s, when I was still young, it was a very common occurrence, especially during the Vietnam War. Young people were so incensed, they demonstrated at the drop of a hat.

The 60s were just chock full of new ideas, like seat belts and car seats for kids. Restraints, granted they were safety restraints, and that’s a good thing-in general. Then computers came along, another kind of freedom in so many ways. The ability to connect with people and ideas all over the world, but with them came passwords and setting up accounts for every bloody thing. Customer service began to slide; the people factor lessened all along the way. Cell phones, another great invention, in touch 24-7 with people you love. On the other hand, the tyranny of telemarketing came in with the joy of keeping tabs on our kids. There is always a darker side to everything.

Nowadays, infants are swaddled immediately after they’re born. They feel safer, or so I’m told, and they can’t inadvertently scratch their skin. On the flip side of that, what about the joy of just flinging your arms wildly about as a baby sometimes does. They look so happy doing it. Frankly, I can’t imagine being confined like that for most of the day. It reminds me of Hannibal Lector in restraints while talking to Jodie Foster.

I suppose what I am trying to parse out in my own mind is why do people, in general, seem so supine? Even when they’re out walking on a beautiful, sunlit day with shoulders hunched over and peering into a cellphone. Have we just self-swaddled and locked ourselves into the prison of these damned devices. There’s a collect in the old prayer book “We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts…And there is no health in us….” As usual, the old prayer book says it far better than I ever could. Our “devices” would appear to be numbing us into some sort of slavish servitude. And yet, here I am on a beautiful Sunday afternoon trying to puzzle out unanswerable questions on my computer. Even though I know I will never be able to walk on water, I am absolutely positive that with my floatie positioned properly under my tummy, I can float almost as well as a baby duck. Happy Sunday, All!

We had been shopping for a children’s book at the Coop, because our daughter was in Arlington visiting her grandparents, so it was to be a welcome home gift. Our little boy arrived 29 days later. Wearing my hot pink maternity outfit while crossing Red River with my football player husband ten minutes before Whitman started his rampage, it later occurred to me that we would have made a pretty good target. A few minutes after leaving the bookstore, we were ensconced in a booth at White Castle waiting for our order, when ambulances began to roar past with sirens blaring. Everyone in the restaurant was riveted by what was clearly some huge emergency. The black lady behind the counter yelled out that there was someone on the Tower shooting at people. Jim and I were so stunned, we couldn’t speak. We waited there for what seemed like hours before we went home.

We later learned that the police began returning his fire immediately from the ground. Two brave officers, Ramiro Martinez and Houston McCoy, eventually made it to the top of the Tower and killed Whitman. My husband worked with the brother of Ramiro Martinez at the Post Office. Jim was taking his master’s in economics at Texas, but he worked part time while he was cranking through the two years of earning his secondary degree. At any rate, the brother said that Ramiro was severely traumatized by it. I’m sure both officers were, trying to get up there knowing they would be facing a mad man when and if they got to the top. All these years later, I still feel traumatized by it. The randomness of things, why some are spared, and some are rubbed out as carelessly as bugs splattering a windshield is the inexplicable part of life. The Biblical idea of seeing things this side of heaven “through a glass darkly,” might be the best explanation. Actually, it’s probably the only explanation.

I met them, because I’d written a story about their friend, Kay Cobb, for the Savannah Morning News. Armin came up to me in the golf shop and congratulated me on the story. “Let’s play golf this Friday?” she grinned. The four of us played many rounds of golf after that. Golf evolved into birthday luncheons at Sophisticated Palate or the Savannah Golf Club. Sometimes, we had dinner at the Oglethorpe Club or the O Club, as they called it.

The birthday luncheons usually included Nell Ezell, Carman Goldsmith, Ann McCarthy and Dana Lane, when she could. Dana was the youngest, and she was still teaching math at that point. Armin and Louise never signed a birthday card. Early proponents of recycling or just incredibly thrifty, I was never quite sure, but they had little stickers they signed and attached to the card, so it could be used again. Armin’s sticker said Clan Chisholm. Louise had one with PGA on it, Pathetic Golfers Association, she explained. I thought it was kind of odd actually, but they both agreed, cards are expensive, and they should be used again. Okey dokey, all rightey, I’m a tree hugger myself, so I just went along with it…with plain stickers.

They’d all grown up in Savannah, so the stories were a unique view into how life was in the Deep South in the dark days of segregation. Louise lived up at Combahee Plantation for all of her married life. That was truly an ante-bellum fairytale. They probably had, at least, 50 field hands and then the house servants. She had a morning cook and an evening cook. One very old servant used to curtsy to her and ask permission to go into Charleston. Louise was a doctor’s daughter, and she saw the black babies died on a regular basis. So she went into the little cabins, threw open the windows and doors to let fresh air in and showed the moms how to bathe their babies. Simple things, but infant mortality was greatly reduced.

One day, she took a friend and I up to Combahee with her. When we got there, the gate was locked. We were standing there trying to decide what our next move might be, when the mailman arrived and said gleefully, “Miz Lane, is that you?” She smiled back and greeted him warmly. He informed us that the owners were away, but that he knew the gate combination, and would we like to go up to see the house? “Yes,” we all three said immediately. It was an awesome day!

Armin and I became the best of friends. We talked on the phone most every morning for only about 15 minutes or so, but we both decided, it was a great jumpstart to our day. Armin was another great storyteller. Oh my, that gal could make me laugh, but we shared a few good cries, too. She had a wonderful way of getting me grounded. When I would tear off on a rant, she would say, very quietly, “Now, Darling….” and I knew I was on the wrong path.

Ruthie was stylish and funny. I don’t think I ever lost a golf ball playing with her. She had the most amazing eyesight, maybe from all her years as a wing shot. She could outshoot most of the men in her dove/quail shooting group.

Maybe, the high point of our friendship was a trip out West to visit our friend Julie Stimple, who had moved to Colorado Springs with her hubby, Dick. Dick was such a gent, he took off for that week, so that we could have Jules all to ourselves. Boy, did we have fun. Teeing off at Kissing Camels the first day, we ran into Hollis Stacy, who grew up in Savannah and started playing golf at the good old Savannah Golf Club. She won many tournaments as a pro and is a member of the LPGA Hall of Fame. Such a lovely surprise to get to visit with her. If laughter adds years to one’s life, I think I must have gained a decade during that one week. We got home on September 6, 2001. Five days later, the Twin Towers came down. In a season of sorrow, it’s an excellent thing to have friends with magical powers.

As he grew, we gave him every affectionate diminutive, Will, Willy, Willy Bill. He was named for his Uncle Clay and has his father’s middle name. Each of us got a new name, too. Unky, Becker and Dynamom. He was watching a cartoon with dinosaurs one Sunday morning, as we were preparing to go to church. Looking back over his shoulder, he asked very clearly, “Are we going to church, Dynamom?” Becky and I both heard him, so Becky asked, “What did you say, Will?” He asked again. She smiled a big smile and said: “Well, I guess that’s your new name.” And so it was. Gave me a lot of street cred on the playground, too.

During those years, he was so joyful, sort of wildly demented over everything. Now and then though, his eyes would grow as old as tombs and fill with tears, as did mine wanting to protect him from the sorrows of life and knowing the futility of that.

When he played, he was totally focused, pressing wheels to make things happen, hammering little balls into their chutes or just running in circles. Sometimes, he wanted to “read,” but mostly it was perpetual motion.

Years ago, I read a lot of Maria Montessori’s books. It seems to me she really had it right A child’s play is his work. They find a certain task and practice that until they’ve mastered it. Her attitude about honouring the child appeals to me, as well. His mother subscribed to that theory, too. As she got him dressed, she would tell him what they were going to do for the day, and then ask quietly, “Would that be all right with you, Will?”

Once, a dear friend of mine said, there is really no difference in your children and your grandchildren. They both have the same hold on you. I think that’s really true. When I got to hold him, just after he was born, the feel of him, even the architecture of his head, everything was exactly the same as when I held my children. Watching him grow up, everything from rolling over to crawling, standing up and then walking has been exquisite. Now, that he’s all grown up, getting to see him perform his music on stage, well, my cup runneth over.

As a Davis Scholar, a non-traditional student, going to Wellesley was, of course, quite different than living in a dorm and being immersed in campus life. By the time I got there, the stereotype of twinset cashmere sweaters and little Add-a-Pearl necklaces started by your grandmother at your birth, was gone. The student body was diverse, casual and committed to a career after graduation. If a husband appeared, that was a big plus but not, by any means, a must. The LGBTQ community was alive and well on campus, too. Gay marriage had not yet won legal status, but being gay was not a big deal. Boyfriends or girlfriends on campus for the weekend was also completely normal. I remember one hilarious professor peering over his podium on Monday mornings saying, “Welcome back from the fleshpots of Cambridge.” That was not my life. I was over in Weston rearing two very energetic kids and dealing with an impending divorce, but I was studying, too. The classroom was a level playing field. I certainly don’t remember getting any special treatment. I do remember having to do a couple of rewrites on essays. This floored me, because I’d never been asked to do a rewrite before. Definitely humbling, but a good learning curve in retrospect.

At times, I felt it was a fluke being there at all. As time has gone by, I’ve heard quite a few people say the same thing. Imposter Syndrome was alive and well. At the same time, I used to leave that campus absolutely walking on air, because I felt I had, at long last, found my tribe. The life of the mind was a daily celebration, and learning is my gig.

When we get together for lunch now, that same feeling reappears. At least three of this group are well into their 90s. One of the nonagenarians just attended her 75th class reunion. She is one of only two surviving members of that class. Although she is legally blind, she is as sharp as a tack and full of good stories. Each woman brings a different background, although mainly good old New England stock, but such a variety of experiences, work, travel, homelife. Sorrows, of course, but many successes, too. We have lots of things in common but just enough differences to make for good discussions every single time. And since there is usually, at least, one birthday among us every month, we have birthday cakes from the Pantry in Fairfield, another big bonus.

It’s been 41 years since I graduated in 1985. So many things have changed in my own life. Sunshine and shadow, the chiaroscuro of life. Sed ministrare, non ministrari is the college motto, which I have always admired. Not to be ministered unto, but to minister. In this new age of entitlement and privilege, it has never seemed more pertinent than it does today.

As time goes by, we graduate to the coach phase, teaching, encouraging and, sometimes, insisting on the pursuit of goals. At the end of childhood, we graduate to consultant. If we’re lucky, they will occasionally want advice, or, at the very least, free babysitting.

I wish I could remember the lecturer’s name, because she did such a good job explaining her theory. Of Asian descent, she said that her parents have remained in the captain phase all of her life, because that was the culture for a certain era. That line of thinking would not have been confined to the Orient. House rules, my way or the highway!

I grew up with parents who gave way fairly easily. As my brother and I grew up. I think they thought it was just a natural progression, and the way things ought to be. I never chafed at the reins. They let us grow up with a lot of latitude, and now I look back on it, a lot of grace. Not even as consultants really, mainly helpers, although, I can think of a few times calling one or the other of my parents in a perfect tizzy of anxiety, and if they didn’t know the answer, just talking to them helped me through, and I arrived at a solution on my own. Usually, though, they did have answers or in Mom’s case, recipes. Oh, how I miss that, she never wrote down recipes, she knew everything by heart.

My Grannie Amelie had a sweet saying: When they’re little, they’re on your toes. When they’re big, they’re on your heart. At any rate, though I’m long away from the parenting game, I surmised that this young woman who was instructing us might agree with me, that the hardest part has always been and ever shall be letting go.

Trips are a treasure. I can’t think of one holiday I ever took that I’d want to cancel. Vacations are the cherry on top of the Sundae, the cream in my coffee, Christmas morning and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. It’s what we long for as we struggle along with jobs or the domestic arts or the rearing of children, the pain quotidien of life. Our daily bread is surely a good thing, too, but it’s awfully nice to take breaks. I’ve read that many Americans aren’t taking vacations this year, because of the cost of gas and groceries. That is a sorrowful thought. We’re already so fractured, I can’t imagine what that will do to the daily mood index.

Nevertheless, today’s the day, I’m going to finally trot over to Chase Bank and hand over these treasures of old. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be enough to make a day trip to SoNo Mall for some retail therapy. Zara and Nordstrom’s can’t compare to the Greek Isles or Budapest, but golly gumdrops, they can surely twinkle up my day.

Actually, he hadn’t played a round of golf, but he’d been helping our neighbor unload feed. Texas had undergone a major ice storm the day before. So, the whole country was under ice warnings. It was just like Dad to be helping out, though. At the funeral, so many people told me things he had done for them over the years. That little church in Grandview was packed full of friends and relatives from far and wide. Two of my New Mexico uncles made it in, and they were so comforting to our little boy. Clay was only 11, so it was his first real experience of death. I can still picture Uncle Dab and Claude standing by the coffin with Clay between them, and Becky grieved terribly, in her own quiet way. She had prayed and prayed with us that day for the few hours that he was still hanging on.

One of Dad’s friends from Grand Prairie had come, and he told about the time when one of his parents had died in Indiana or Illinois, one of those I states, can’t remember exactly-but tires were rationed. This was during the war, and his tires were about shot. Ours were fairly new, so Dad and he changed our tires to his car, so that he could make it up north for the funeral. Then, of course, they switched back when he got home.

I don’t want to ever forget his life, though. He was one of the most joyful people I’ve ever known. There was always a laugh lurking or a good story. He loved sports especially baseball and football. He especially loved TCU and the Ft. Worth Cats. Of course, when the Cowboys franchise came along, he became as rabid as we were for America’s team. He played a mean hand of bridge and was a very good tennis player. When he won, he leapt over the net to shake hands with his opponent. Very old school! But golf was his passion. He and my Uncle Floyd, his younger brother, played all during high school, hopping on the trolley to play different courses in Ft. Worth. Of course, Ben Hogan was his idol.

When we were little, we sometimes got to go with him on a Saturday morning, if he didn’t have a game with one of his usual buddies. My father-in-law loved to play, too. So after, Jim and I got married, those two played every Saturday morning. Daddy got his only hole in one playing with Big Jim Risher. He had it mounted, and it sat on top of the TV for years.

I never saw him get really angry or say a cuss word. Once he got put out with me for badgering him about going to a little cotillion in Mansfield. Usually, he just chauffeured on demand, but it was a blinding rainstorm. I kept haranguing him till finally, he said: “I thought having kids would be fun, but, sometimes, it’s just hell.” The fact that he said the word hell just scared the poo out of me. He never said anything remotely mean. So, immediately, I cratered and said, “No, that’s okay.” Still ruffled, he said, “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your dance class.” Off we went with me slumped forward and not really very keen to dance when I got there.

His idea of a boy’s night out was the monthly Board of Stewards meeting at First Methodist in Arlington or working on some project out in the barn. He loved building a bonfire out of wood scraps and telling scary ghost stories.

Mainly, when I think of him, I think of his honour code, unspoken but always present. He had a good saying for when I got angry, “You never regret what you don’t say.” I have found that to be a solid truth. Anyway, missing my Pop today. Happy heavenly Father’s Day, Daddy.

In that stunned silence, we sat absorbing the news. In our demographic, this kind of news happens with more and more frequency. You’d think we’d get used to it, but, no, every single time it resonates. Never ask for whom the bell tolls is no longer a rhetorical question. Most definitely, it tolls for thee and me. The game clock is ticking.

Our friend continues, while we gather our wits about us. “I’m not going to tell the grandkids, because they are all in the midst of finals. I’ll tell them after they’re finished. On the other hand, Steve was ecstatic to find that we can now get a handicapped parking sticker, because of it. He downloaded the application, filled it out and presented it to me for my signature. I don’t feel badly, and I’m not tired, so I didn’t want to sign it. I don’t think it’s fair to those who need it.”

We commended her for her willingness to forego the parking advantage. His argument was that it would be so helpful when they go to Florida, because everyone in the state of Florida is old, so they all have handicap stickers. Reluctantly, she signed it, and she used it this morning to park at the library in one of their spaces.

At any rate, as is our usual mode, we got off on other tangents. Barb P. was remembering how her mom always stocked up on the basics at Best and Co., when they came to New York City every three years from Brazil, where she grew up. To keep her three little girls happy in the panties department, she bought panties with different coloured flowers on them, pink, blue and yellow. That reminded me of Bill Cosby’s skit on how he and his brother quarreled at night about, “Your pajamas are touching my pajamas.” Kids come up with the darndest reasons to argue. Anyway, Barb said the new panties always cheered her up and kept the sisters from quarreling. Jokingly, she said, “Maybe, we’ll buy you some new panties to cheer you up.” I suggested that we should buy her a thong, thinking that might cheer Steve up and take his mind off the whole handicap parking project.

In Norman Cousins Book, Anatomy of an Illness, I remember that he spoke of the value of humour and comedy in fighting any illness especially cancer, which has such dark and sombre notes in its language and, sometimes, in its outcome. A friend in Savannah, undergoing chemo for breast cancer, used to say she was going to the beauty parlor. A playful way of undercutting the inevitable fear of what was clearly going to be a miserable experience. So, we made our friend laugh a little bit in the face of this devastating news. As I drove away on my way to Trader Joe’s, I thought that’s the value of the group. I can’t imagine the despair of people who live completely alone. Lynne Allen Carreker used to say, “How do you put the Devil to shame? You laugh at him.” It’s hard to find any laughs in a devil named cancer, but that’s the goal.

Did I mention that Trader Joe’s has the best snacks? Today, I bought three giant bags of cheese doodles. The dog likes them, too. :) We have to remember to stop and smell the roses, because life is so precious and so fragile.

Quiet Maria, the blonde, doesn’t speak very good English, so I hardly do anything but nod and smile at her. But last Friday, she was at the end of the hall on her phone and very clearly upset and weeping. Not wanting to intrude on her grief, I went along to my errands. The next day I asked her how she was in my Tex-Mex version of Spanish. She looked so sad and broken pulling out her phone to the translation app, I thought, but then she showed me a picture of a young man lying in a hospital bed looking as if he were asleep.

Phrases like “limpiez los banos” or “planchez las camisas” were not going to be helpful in the face of such grief, so I just mainly listened as she told me that he’d suffered a terrible head injury. They were going to take him off life support on Monday, which is today. So, I gave her a big hug and stood with her, both of us crying for a little while, then walked on to my apartment to have a good cry on my own.

My own children mean so much to me, I cannot imagine not being there to hold his hand and give him one last kiss before he leaves this earth. Clearly, she doesn’t have the money to get on a plane to Ecuador to be with him. The courage of someone like her just really floors me. I cannot imagine the reverse trip. If Ecuador were a wealthy country, and I, a poor American girl, fleeing there for a job and a chance at doing better in life would be like planning to climb Mt. Everest. Daunting and impossible are two words that come to mind.

I have read that God pays attention to the tears of women and children both in the Talmud and in the Bible and probably the Koran, too. So, today as Maria’s hijo takes off for that heavenly plane, I’m standing on that ancient promise and counting on the Lord to shower her with grace.

Psalm 56:8 Thou tellest my wanderings: Put thou my tears into a bottle: Are they not in thy book?

When I first moved back home, I was really spending way too much time alone with all my usual monkeys rattling around in my head. My brother was quite ill. The whole political scene was very scary to a middle of the roader like me. Friends I’d known all my life, really smart and good friends, were going further and further toward the right. At any rate, I took the book’s thesis to heart and started joining stuff again. I’ve always been a joiner from when I was a little kid. I grew up in a family where Sunday dinner was not optional. We visited both grandmothers every Sunday of my early childhood until they died. So family was my first security blanket, even though my aunts could really get into some unbelievable squabbles over not much of a much. Then my own friends as I got older became my security blanket. I remember Mr. Wimbish, our principal at Maxie Speer, called us into his office over the cruelty of cliquishness. Not a proud moment, but I think we did make more of an effort because of that little chat. That’s the downside of getting too comfy with one’s own circle. Inclusiveness should always be a part of any great group. Otherwise, it just becomes a weapon of exclusion.

As a young corporate wife, I certainly felt that at times. Not being a part of things is no fun at all. Tennis was a good way to meet people. The Junior League was another great volunteer group. Church is, of course, the very best way to meet new people, in my opinion.

When I moved to Norwalk, my kids were such a great security blanket, but I always knew that I had to make an effort to find my own demographic. Not wanting to be one of those needy moms or grandmoms, I started with church, as per usual. Boy, did I ever strike pay dirt there. So many nice new friends and our great priest, who is not only a deeply committed Christian but brilliant and hilarious. Then I joined the Westport Senior Centre, where I found a fantastic French conversational group. Oh my, do we ever have fun. Lately, I’ve joined the Westport Women’s Club, and I can already tell that’s going to be a treasure, too. Luncheons, walking groups, hiking if I get in better shape, bridge, Mah Jong. So much to do and so little time! And my alum group is such a joy. Smart women, stylish and funny, that luncheon is probably the highlight of the month to me, every month. All these little dots on my calendar are my points of sanity in a world which seems, at times, to have gone completely mad.

So, Robert D. Putnam, thank you for writing Bowling Alone. The title is a not-so-subtle nod to the preposterous theory that one can bowl alone. Theoretically, I suppose one could bowl alone, but where’s the fun in that? Bowling is a team sport, and we need our teams. We stitch our crazy quilt of life with care by fitting the torn pieces into a pattern of our very own design, and that is a warming thought.

At any rate, Norwalk or South Norwalk, where I live have quite a history. Chief Mahackemo of the Norwalke Indians, a small subset of the Siwanoy tribe, sold this land to Roger Ludlow in 1640, so as New England towns go, we have got the street creds. The land purchase was described as being between the Saugatuck and the Norwalk Rivers, so it included Westport, too. The Y Camp in Westport is named Camp Mahackeno, a variation on the spelling of the chief who sold the land.

By 1651, the town had evolved from an agricultural and espionage hub during the Revolutionary War to a bustling oyster farming capital and a major railroad center. In 1776, Nathan Hale set off from Norwalk on his ill-fated intelligence gathering mission to New York. We all know that story did not end well. Poor Nate!

In 1779, during the Battle of Norwalk, British troops under General William Tryon attacked and burned nearly the entire town. Eighty of its eighty-six buildings were destroyed. In the late 1800s, oysters became the region’s dominant industry, with Norwalk boasting the largest fleet of steam powered oyster boats in the world.

In the early 1900s, Norwalk and South Norwalk, which is where I live, incorporated and became the modern city of Norwalk. Modern day Norwalk is culturally diverse and thriving with lots of new people moving in every day. The proximity to New York City is probably the biggest pull, but Calf Pasture Beach is a beautiful beach. Washington Street is a foodie destination for many. Lazy Sister, Tablao, SoNo Himalayan, The Spread, Washington Prime and EcoRevolution Coffee Shop, too many to name really. Bars and nightlife are abundant. Although, my night life usually ends at about 10 or so. Sic transit gloria! Copps Island still has an oyster distributor. There’s a small dog park over there, which my little dog and I adore. Benches to sit on, shade trees looking out over the Sound, it’s a very peaceful place and reminds me a lot of Tybee Island, where I used to live in Georgia.

Haviland Street in South Norwalk is actually my favourite place to just meander. One side of the street is the back of the parking area for Washington Street, but the other side is filled with little Victorian cottages. That reminds me of Savannah so much so, that the first time I walked down there, I got all misty-eyed. Anyway, on this rainy Sunday morning, which is also the birthday of my adorable grandson, Will Morton aka Bravo Wilson, I am filled with gratitude for all the blessings of my life. Living in Norwalk is definitely one of the biggest.

Pretty soon, the kids were riveted to it, too. A fairy tale unfolding right in front of our eyes. They showed baby pictures, school days, balls she had attended, fellows she had dated before she met Mark Phillips. Suddenly, there was a segue to the barn where she kept her horses and rode. Clay screwed up his little face and said: “Eeew, she’s ugly without her princess suit on.” I am ashamed to say I laughed out loud with his sister. I tried to explain that you can’t ride a horse without getting your hair windblown and building up a sweat. He looked pretty unconvinced. Becky was still mesmerized by the whole idea of royalty. Very seriously, she looked at me and asked: “How do you get elected a princess?” I explained to her that she wouldn’t need to get elected, since she was born a princess. She looked unconvinced, too. Kids are a hard sell sometimes. Still, one soldiers on.

I first heard of Ted from Butch Martin, a high school buddy of mine who went to the McCallie School. Butch started there the year after Ted had gotten expelled, but he said the stories about his antics were legendary. Herb Guerry, a Savannah friend, sailed with him when they were young and was also a classmate at McCallie. Ted dated a Savannah gal for a while before she married Tim, Polly Wylly Cooper. Polly was pretty famous in her own right. A founding member of the Crabettes, they performed all over Chatham County and also in the Clint Eastwood film, Midnight in the Garden. In the beginning, they performed with live crabs crawling around their straw hats. This was an accordion band, mostly ladies and extremely popular especially at beach parties. Well, I digress. That’s the great thing about having your own blob, oops, I meant blog, you can digress at will.

Anyway, the first night I was in Savannah, we were staying at the DeSoto on Madison Square. Having a drink at the bar in the hotel was a fairly boisterous crew. I had no idea who they were, but my friend asked the bartender. With a smile the barkeep said, “That’s Ted Turner and his pals.” We were properly impressed.

His father owned Brindon Plantation, which Ted sold, but he owned several others in South Carolina. Avalon Plantation in Florida was probably the biggest and most famous. As I recall, it wasn’t a working plantation, but a place for agricultural experimentation and with all his vast holdings of property all over the country, the main goal was conservation.

Later, when he started CNN, we were delighted to hear that he’d hired our friend Tom Johnson, who was managing editor of the LA Times when we lived in San Marino. Edwina, his wife, was part of our runner’s group. We met every morning at the high school. Tom was born in Georgia but had spent a lot of time in Texas as managing editor of the Dallas Times Herald, so we were very happy for them. I just wish Ted had bought CBS. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such a free press pickle now.

Ted had the great good sense to hire Judy Woodruff at CNN. Actually, I think it was Tom Johnson’s idea to hire her, but Ted used his considerable influence to persuade her to leave the News Hour. Without Judy, I’m not sure I would have made it through Covid. She was so steady, so relentlessly stalwart in her reporting. It was something to hang onto. We are going to see her speak at the Herb Block Foundation event in DC the end of this month, but that’s another story.

Well, this post has ranged far and wide today, but I mean what an epic life Ted Turner lived, so many lives affected. It’s kind of staggering to think what this kid who started out as a trust fund brat has accomplished. I can think of a few other trust fund brats who just stayed that way. No progress at all on the soul level. It makes me wonder what redirected him from youthful foolishness to such a sense of stewardship. Whatever or whomever it was, we can all be thankful. The other, deeper thought I had was how much words matter. That his suggestion to pick up three pieces of trash a day stuck in my head for lo, these many years, is kind of remarkable. A good reminder to be more tender with words, to couch our words in softer language, we never know what nerve we might strike for good or ill, and it is always, always better to err on the side of kindness.

So, fare thee well, Captain of the Courageous, wishing you fair winds and following seas on your voyage home.

At the Dallas house, things were much fancier. She had beautiful Limoges and her crystal was called June Pink, a Fostoria pattern, which I loved, because if you pinged it gently with your finger, it made a little musical note. They didn’t have any children, so long before she died, she gave her tableware to me including the crystal. Over the years, my mom added to the Limoges through a company called Replacements, Ltd. All these years later, they are still treasured possessions.

The farm was, of course, much more casual. We spent lots of happy days picking mustang grapes. Jelly making days were such fun. The kitchen would be clouded with steam from the boiling pots on the stove. The jelly was strained through cheese cloth into sterilized mason jars. The beauty of the finished product was something to behold and so delicious. It is a wild grape, so there’s a tartness to it. They also liked to make watermelon rind preserves, which I love, too. We loved shucking corn in the barn or poking at the poor pigs. When they “honked” at us, as my little brother, David, described it, we ran in terror.

Sunday dinner was a big deal, but sort of terrifying at the same time. Aunt Jake couldn’t bear chopping a chicken’s head off, so she shot them with her shotgun. I think that’s why I’m still not a fan of chicken. That ordeal of sacrifice and then the smell of singeing pinfeathers over the open burner of the stove left a painful mark.

They also had guinea fowl who hung upside down in the trees when night fell. Lots of cattle and horses, too. Since it was just a weekend getaway place for them, they obviously couldn’t run it. They had an older black couple who were their tenants. Aunt Lou had white hair and kept their little cabin spotlessly clean. It just had a dirt floor, but every time we visited, it was neat and tidy as could be. I can’t remember her husband’s name, but he was called Uncle, too. Nowadays, I suppose that would be wildly inappropriate, but I truly thought it was a sign of respect.

Long before women worked outside the home, she had what was a kind of precursor to the Katie Gibbs schools in downtown Dallas. I remember it had dark paneling and a tiered effect for the typist desks like a football stadium. The clack of those typewriters was kind of a cheerful thing. She got me my first job after high school in Dallas, where I made $40 bucks a week typing and filing for the Big Brothers Association. I can’t remember what Uncle Jack did, but he was so handsome, and, clearly, they did very well. Sort of like a young Ernest Hemingway, they made a very handsome couple.

When my children were little, she sent them a little golden book every week through the mail. By then, we’d moved to Houston. As a surprise, she would stick a dollar bill somewhere in the pages. Savvy kids that they were, they quickly learned to look for that dollar bill first. Once, she forgot it and Clay looked up in horror at me saying, “There’s no billar doll.” I had to think for a minute, but I finally got it.

The week before Aunt Jake died, she’d broken her hip and developed pneumonia. Since she didn’t respond to any of the antibiotics, it was inevitable that she would slip away. And slip away she did on May 4, 1979. My cousin, Lorraine, was with her, so I was greatly relieved that she didn’t have to die alone. She’d been ill so many times before, I thought she might pull through, but that was not to be. She’s buried down at Southland Cemetery in Grand Prairie with all the rest of my tribe on the paternal side.

What I remember most about her was how much she enjoyed life and how funny she was, so it surprised me that she liked to read the obituaries every morning. When you’re in your twenties, you just don’t think of reading the obits. So, I said, “Aunt Jake, why do you want to read them? That is so depressing.” With her puckish smile and a lifted eyebrow, she retorted, “Because I want to make sure that I’m not in them this morning.”

Rereading this, I see I’ve focused mostly on things she gave me, but, honestly, the biggest thing she gave me was a sort of pattern for living. My parents gave me a great way of looking at life, too, but parents are always the serious side of life. She was my version of Auntie Mame. Remembering that your crystal holds music in it as well as champagne is a life lesson to treasure all your days.

Third grade is where I remember really catching on fire with the joys of learning. My little hand was in the air constantly. Ruth Ditto, my saintly and gifted teacher, probably caught on early that I loved participating. So, I got called on but skipped over, too, always with a gentle smile. She knew that I knew the answer, but so did others, and a classroom is all about teamwork. A good teacher is also a good coach.

For kids now, I can’t even imagine what they bring to the classroom in terms of extra baggage. Not only do they have to learn about live shooter drills and lockdown protocols, but the whole thing of knowing everything about sex before the age of eight. Childhood poverty is rampant, most parents don’t even bother to get married anymore, nor do they stick together. Clearly, there are exceptions to prove the rule, and kudos to them for being there for their children. The conflict over vaccinations must be extremely confusing. We didn’t know any better than to just stick our little arms out for the jab. Truly, there are times when I think ignorance really is bliss.

We’re confronted with too many choices on a daily basis, and all these cell phones and iPads just add to the confusion. I read recently that Norway is ditching electronics and going back to good old books for the classroom. My big wish for these kids is that one day we get back to the simpler pleasures of having done your homework, holding your hand up because you KNOW the answer, and then marching up to the blackboard to defend your thesis with bullet points, if necessary. Yes, there is a pun intended lurking in there somewhere on the bullet points. Gun safety would be an excellent starting point for lowering the anxiety level for parents, teachers and children, but that’s another subject for another day.

As we grew up, life got busier of course, so we hardly ever got to see each other, but we wrote letters now and then. Nancy was, by far, the funniest of the three of us. I remember her telling me how much she enjoyed her son’s baseball games. In fact, she enjoyed them so much that Jimmy Dale suggested it might be best if she watched the games inside her car with the windows rolled up. Nancy was a soccer mom before soccer got popular. And she drove like a bat out of hell. Those big old New Mexico highways with no one on them are hard to resist for speed demons like her. Driving me to Lubbock to the airport after one of those funerals was THE most hair-raising ride I’ve ever had. We still missed my flight, even though we were there an hour early, because we were visiting like magpies. We also forgot there’s an hour’s time difference starting at the Texas-New Mexico border. Oh well, it all worked out.

In the 90s, when the aunts and uncles began to die off, I got there as often as I could. They called me the “funeral cousin,” because that was usually the reason for my visit. Only the McDowells could make funerals that much fun. When Uncle Bill died, we were at the little cemetery in Kenna, where so many of my mom’s family are buried. I was sitting by Aunt Thelma, who was Jeannie’s mom and always very stylish. Cousin Crosby was officiating and about to lower his dad’s urn into the red dirt. He asked Aunt Thelma if he could use her scarf to lower it. Without a word, she handed him her beautiful scarf. Crosby forgot to give back the scarf, so the remnants of it still rest with Uncle Bill’s ashes, I suppose. We sang a rousing version of Marty Robbins big hit, The Strawberry Roan to send Uncle Bill on his heavenly way. As we were leaving the cemetery, Aunt Thelma whispered to me, “Uncle Bill rests in splendor.” That scarf must have cost her a fortune. Never mind, it was a sacrifice for a good cause.

At any rate, I surprised myself with how much grief I felt when these two died. Like a huge iceberg falling off the Arctic tundra, it’s all those aunts and uncles, other cousins, too, who are long gone. Witnesses to one’s own personal history get fewer and father apart as we go along. So, I suppose I was weeping for all of them and for myself, too, when I got the news. Till we meet again, happy trails, Sweet Cousins.