Thank you, kind Reader

As is the way, I forgot a few individuals in this post that I would really like to mention personally. So I'm going to add this amendment, and take the opportunity to thank Ms. Linda B-C, brother Dave, Uncle Kip, Grandpa and Grandma, sister Natalie, Aunt Marsha and my dear friends Camille, Ignacia, Kendra and Sarah for their support of my blog simply in reading it and letting me know that they read it.

Thank you, too, to lladybugg of A Little Bit Growed Up for her recent comments here.

Also, to Nate and Annie, thanks for all the adventures growing up.

Finally, to all who have loved Tetanus Shots (including you, Uncle Nick), well, God bless you for laughing.

Today I wish to express my gratitude to all of you who read No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. I am a writer, therefore I write and I write to be read. So to you, whether you are new and come only this once, or whether you are a friend of my creative endeavors and have been for a while, I say thank you.

It is my one year anniversary here on blogger (I'm small fry, I know, but I am determined to celebrate it, because I did not give up in despair and delete the whole shebang). Before I had this arena in which to write, I wrote (and later rewrote, revised and reworked countless times) a novella that I flogged around to publishers. Then followed some unsuccessful attempts to write fictional short stories.

Several years later, I began writing a newsletter for my tiny Mom's Group. I sent it out from my home and everything, and not by e-mail - with stamps. In each of those newsletters I included an original story based on events in my childhood. Fortunately, my friends were not annoyed by having my work thrust on them, and I gladly admit that writing those newsletters improved my writing technique, promoted brevity in words and allowed me to share for the first time with an audience some stories that I always wished to tell, such as Dad Steps on One, and Mom Beheads Another . (At first I was nervous about sharing that one, I'll confess, because it involved describing my Mom shooting a rifle into the garden. In the end, however, the chance to tell that story, like so many others, was irresistible to me.)

When one of my friends suggested I start a blog, there was not doubt in my mind what I would call it. The suggestion for the title of this blog came both directly and indirectly from my dad. Indirectly, because what you read at the top of this page is true, and more directly, because Dad suggested that I should write a little collection of stories and publish them under the title, No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors - If This Is What It Means to Be an Adult, I Want My Childhood Back.

And that brings me around to the more specific thank yous I wish to express. Yes, I realize that today I am celebrating a little thing and few will note it, but to me...well, it is bigger than just slopping some words onto the "blogosphere". I am building up a collection of stories that I have always wanted to tell or have recently discovered in my life with my beautiful children and husband. I'm glad that my children can read these stories someday, a little legacy of which I'm proud.

So let's proceed with my expressions of gratitude, shall we?

For always supporting me in my writing, for talking to me for hours about it at times, for mentoring me in my creativity, and for commenting regularly on my early pieces here, a big thank you to my dad.


For being one of my first and, until recently, a regular commenter, thank you to my big sister Vinca.


For encouraging me often on Facebook by letting me know how much she likes my stories, especially those about my childhood, thank you to my Aunt Cheryl.


For being my second follower and a most unexpected and gratifying one, thank you to my cousin Jared.


For promoting this blog and reading it even though we are not blood relatives :-), thank you to my brother-in-law Roberto.


Thanks to Blogger for this public space in which to air my writing.


For advising me to start this blog in the first place, thanks to my friend Dana.


For designing the header of this blog, thank you to my friend Holly.


To Domesticated Bohemian , thank you for being the first big blogger to follow me. It really gave me a thrill, no matter how naive that was of me.


To Mr London Street , thank you for adding me to your blog roll, and for the few regular readers you've sent my way by doing so.


To all my 21 followers, thanks for having faith.


To Shopgirl  from A Blessing a Day , Jayne from Suburban Soliloquy , and Sharon from Resistant but Persistent, thanks for all your kind comments lately. Truly, they're appreciated.


And thanks again to my dad, Daniel Hylton, because he wrote three wonderfully entertaining guest posts for this blog and consequently brought in some fresh traffic.


To my kids for creating stories around me every day, for having conversations with me that fire up ideas and make me laugh, your mama humbly expresses her gratitude. Also, Mama is grateful that you listen to my interminable stories about growing up "in the country".


And most importantly, thanks to my handsome Man for putting up with all the blog drama. Sadly, I'm not sure I'll be able to pay for the kids' college with my writing. Keep up the good work at the day job, my love. And I want you to know that I'll never forget how, when we had yet even to meet, I sent you that novella of mine, very dear to me, and you said my writing ability impressed you. I'm sure you thought it'd get me somewhere by now, more than ten years later, and I regret that I have yet to make you proud in that way.



And so I raise a glass to all of you and to myself and conclude with the classic strains of,


Should auld blog posts be forgot, and never brought to mind

Should auld blog posts be forgot

in days of auld land syne....


Now sit back, relax, and enjoy this slideshow of my favorite images from No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors whilst you wipe away those tears:

In Tennessee (I'm the chubby legged girl on the right)



The Red Rocks of Sedona



Headframe at the Little Daisy Mine in Jerome, Arizona



Tumbleweed Tree





Chaco Canyon ruins in New Mexico




Casa Grande ruins

 

Casa Grande ruins of the Hohokam people in Arizona

Jerome, Arizona

Tonto Cliff Dwellings in Arizona



Best picture of the Painted Desert (Arizona) ever!





Petrified wood and the American Flag



My Man driving through the Painted Desert

My beautiful mother on the Pont Neuf



Dad on the Pont Alexandre III



Family



Beautiful Behemoth



Beautiful Behemoth

I've fallen in love with a mountain. Do you suppose that's normal? Is there a cure for it, do you think?

Obviously, this has never happened to me before, though I've heard rumors of others' infatuations. For the life of me, I don't know why it's happened to me now. The mountain I love is an old acquaintance; I've seen it every time I've driven west for the past nine years. But one day, I looked up casually over my dashboard, and for the first time I saw it, really saw it, my Beautiful Behemoth.

Now I head west on purpose just to make eyes at it. I catch my breath a little when the trees and buildings recede some, and I can get a fuller view of its expansive charms - its chisled face, broad shoulders, its bulk. It is at once mammoth yet handsome, its wide face highlighted in purple shadow. When I drive east, I glance repeatedly in my rearview mirror at its silhouette, pondering how its form morphs with each mile.

It is so bad that once Matthew, My Man, said to me sharply, "Keep your eyes on the road, Woman!"

But I could not help it. Even in the dim late evening light, it was fetching.

Last week, I took a little day trip to a dear friend's house across the Phoenix valley. I had to travel home on four different highways which always constitutes an adventure in my book. But you know, I didn't even mind, because first, I love my friend and see her too little, and second, I got to view my Beautiful Behemoth from the west and see how it swept majestically across miles of this valley floor. I practically swooned right there behind the wheel seeing it in all its afternoon glory.

Yes, it's bad. Bad, indeed. For wherever I go in town, I seek a glimpse of it. I disdain to travel farther east than home, because I am heading away from it. I want to be nearer it, to actually buy a house close to it, so that I can build a relationship with it. Not right at its feet, mind you. I don't want it to lose its mystique, become too familiar if I'm able to step out my back door right onto its heels. No, but I do long to see it from my home and not have its face obscured by all the city clutter between it and I. I want to see its shoulders slowly illuminated with the sunrise as I raise my coffee cup in cheerful greeting.

Oh, we could become glad friends, Beautiful Behemoth and I.

As my gentle reader can guess, this southwestern town, like so many western towns, is rimmed on every side by mountains of varying height and breadth. But I am faithful to my one and only. I cannot be swayed by the iconic shape of Cambelback Mountain. I cannot even be called astray by the rugged mystery of the folklore-laden Superstitions. And the rest? Well, I don't even know their names, nor do I care to. Some of them have the most ridiculous lumps and spikes as they heave in an abrupt hiccup from the desert clay. They are nothing to the graceful lines of my Beautiful Behemoth.

My husband Matthew is an extraordinary man, because, eschewing all jealous feelings, he has promised to take me hiking up Beautiful Behemoth's trails come fall when the weather cools. I cannot wait. I only hope that when I examine it that closely, when I'm able to see up close all the fissures and scrub on its face, I shall not love my mountain any less for its personality.

Roundabout England (guest post by Dad)

This post cracked me up! I'll admit my dad is a better writer than me, but I'm not jealous when I can have this much fun reading what he's written. Please enjoy, and also be sure to check out Dad's earlier guest post She Went to Paris...and I Went, too... .


Beulah? Be-yu-lee? Beyo-le-yeeugh.....? What the heck – This is the King's English?

It all sounds French to me. I'd better explain.

The word I'm talking about here is Beaulieu. It's the name of a beautiful palace house in County Hampshire, U.K., near where my son, Nate and his wife, Natalie, live. Interestingly, the man and woman living there are not French but English, the Baron and Baroness of Montagu (come to think of it, Montagu sounds French, too).

In fact, the locals pronounce it “byu-lee”. But I'm not buying it; I think they're fudging and calling it good. My contention is that anytime you have an eight-letter word of which six are vowels, well then it's French, and therefore unpronounceable.

Yes, I know, William the Conqueror was Norman (read, French – I HAVE read a history book, or two), and gave castles and grants to his lieutenants; as a consequence one finds many grand houses and castles with French names all over England. The fact is that Beaulieu House (SEE, you can't pronounce it either) is an extraordinarily beautiful structure, inside and out. Also, there is a rather astonishing museum filled with hundreds of antique cars on the grounds because one of the house's former occupants, Sir John Montagu, was closely associated with the original Rolls Royce automobile. So if you ever get to England, be sure and see Beyo-ule-uyu, uh, Be-eo-oleu-uli-uie...go see the house pictured below. Trust me, it's worth it.

Recently, Nate and Natalie brought us to the U.K. for a visit. They picked us up at Heathrow Airport and whisked us southward on the M3, the British version of an interstate highway. We rolled through the lush green countryside past villages with pleasantly English names like Camberley, Basingstoke, Eastleigh, Ringwood, and Ferndown. It was a very lovely respite after nine hours on a 777. Very lovely, indeed.

But then we left the M3.

Have you ever driven in the English countryside? No? Don't.

First, as everyone else knows, they drive on the wrong side. They say that the English did this because they wanted to be different from France and America, or perhaps it was because everyone on the board that wrote the original statute was left-handed. For my part, I think the board members were all seriously drunk. Or maybe, by some strangely bad stroke of luck, the board members were all Irish or Scottish and they thought, “Hey, here's a way we can screw these bloody English...”

Once off the M3, none of the side roads is wide enough for one car, let alone two of them hurtling towards each other at ridiculous speeds. And then there are the round-abouts.

What? You've never heard of them? Really? Get down on your knees right now and thank the Good Lord – and while you're there, pray that you are forever spared the experience.

Round-abouts are everywhere. Evidently, the British government didn't discover the stoplight until sometime in the last couple of years. In lieu (pronounced “loo”, like the British toilet) of such sensible methods of controlling traffic, they constructed these merry-go-rounds from hell. Drivers come at these things from all directions – that driver wants to get around and go off in that direction, that other guy wants to get around and go that way, and this poor, unlucky stiff just wants to go straight through. Yeah, well, good luck with that, buddy. You'll probably die, but give it a go!

I'm convinced that the round-about was originally designed as a cure for incontinence, or maybe it was to facilitate the sale of underwear. I don't know. I will say this – proudly and gratefully – my son negotiated these death-traps admirably and with remarkable aplomb. Apparently, he's gone native.

Bournemouth is a lovely seaside town, right on the Channel. Nate and Natalie have done well for themselves and they live in a pretty house in a really nice neighborhood. (It's a neighborhood filled with nice people, too, but that's for later in the story.)

Our second day there, they took us to a genuine British pub for lunch and Nate treated me to a pint of the pub's own brand of beer – Piddle, it's called. Now, I'm not a connoisseur of beer, like Nate, or like my sons-in-law, David and Matthew, but I think it tasted exactly like its name. They should really try and put it back into whatever, or whoever, piddled it out in the first place.....

Nate, discerning fellow that he is, saw the look on my face and decided to rescue me. Sliding my mug over in front of him, he replaced it with something called “Fortyniner”. And that was genuinely good stuff. So, for the rest of our stay, it was Fortyniner for me. We sat in the discreet English sunshine, surrounded by lots and lots of pots of flowers – flowers grow like mad over there – and got reacquainted with our fine son and his lovely wife. What a good and pleasant day that was! And the food wasn't bad either – not great, like in France, but not bad.

After lunch at the pub, we went to Christchurch. I will say this about the British – if their relationship with the Maker is as solid and as beautiful as their cathedrals, then they're all on St. Peter's list and a solid lock for eternity. We could have stood and gazed at the stained glass for hours. Actually, I think we did. Christchurch was started in the eleventh century and finished down through years. It's all so wonderfully and solemnly ancient. Over the centuries, very important people were buried in the churchyard – but REALLY important people were buried beneath the floor, thus:

If any of my people ever lived and died thereabouts, they aren't found in or near the church. They were undoubtedly tossed into the Channel and fed to the fish. Or maybe they were ground up and used to make Piddle.

The next day we went to Beaulieu Palace House. After touring the museum, where Karen found several Jaguar and Rolls Royce automobiles that she would love to possess (first, she needs to re-marry, and this time, go for the money) we wandered through the lovely house and grounds. What did I enjoy the most? The temperature. It was mid-seventies. In San Antonio, on the day of our departure, it was 102. (It would be 104 when we returned.)

After a three day stint in Paris (Nate's and Natalie's birthday present to Karen), we came back for a few more days in England. The following afternoon we went down to the beach. And it was another perfect day, weather-wise. Plenty of sun and a cool breeze coming in off the Channel. It is said that Julius Caesar came ashore near here, but I didn't see him. Either he had taken his legions inland, or he had already seen and conquered all that he desired and had loaded up and gone back over to France. (Paris is over there – who can blame him?)

There is a lovely nineteenth century seaside mansion there in Bournemouth called the Russell Cotes house. It has many verandas and sitting rooms with breathtaking views of the sea and contains one of the prettiest parlors I have ever seen. There are also two rooms dedicated to Mr. Cotes collection of artwork. As we entered these galleries, we were asked not to take photos and the reason for this stricture became immediately apparent.

Russell evidently liked him a bevy of bare-naked ladies. There are paintings of very naked women washing their undies, hanging their undies on the line, taking their undies off, putting their undies on, but none of ladies actually wearing their undies. There are also busts of naked ladies, and busts of naked ladies' busts, if you get my drift. I don't know what Mrs. Cotes thought of all this, but in the few pictures there were of her, she was fully clothed and I, for one, thought that her smile was tight and a bit forced.

Now, I am an admirer of the female form as much as any man, but my sweet wife prefers that I limit the scope of my admiration to one female form in particular. I happen to agree with this sentiment, so we took our admiration outside and expended it on the grounds, where I took a photo of the particular female form mentioned in the preceding sentence.

That evening we went to The New Queen for supper; where I opted for the classic fish and chips which, besides being authentic, was very good. On the wall by our table there was inscribed an old saying, “The church is near, but the road is icy. The pub is far, but I will walk carefully.” I chuckled but was careful not to laugh outright – I could just see St. Peter frowning, looking for my name on the list, and reaching for his eraser. (Actually, he probably keeps his thumb on the sheet containing my name, with his eraser close at hand, in any event.)

Saturday morning, Nate says, “Dad, I need to get things ready for the 4th of July barbecue.”

I stared at him. “We're going to celebrate the fourth? Here? - in England?”

“Of course.”

I met his eyes for a long moment, and then nodded gravely and reached for my musket.

He laughed. “No, Dad, it's okay. The neighbors are going to join in. The British aren't really all that fussed about it anymore.”

And they aren't. At least those British folk that are his neighbors aren't. Some might think that they're an exceptional, “forgive and forget” group of folk, but I think it's a testament to my son's charisma and easy nature and that of his clever and charming wife. They are easily two of the most likeable people on the planet. They enter a room full of strangers and the strangers become friends; they enter a room full of friends and immediately the mood brightens. I'm pretty sure that every single inhabitant of the street showed up. So there we were, surrounded by pleasant, friendly English folk wearing Stars-and-Stripes hats and Union Jack t-shirts. And it seemed right.

Later, Mike, Nate's accommodating neighbor who hosted the barbecue, took the liberty of informing me that America didn't really win its independence; no, they let us go, only fighting a bit so that we would appreciate what we'd been given, like a recalcitrant child. By that time, I had consumed four or five of Mike's “Fortyniners” and the idea seemed reasonable and even made a fair amount of sense.

The next day, we boarded the 777 for the ten-hour return trip to Texas. Now, I am not easily made sad, but leaving our son and daughter – and, strangely, Europe – made me blink my eyes repeatedly against an unfamiliar, watery discharge.

One last thing – if beau is pronounced “bo” and lieu is pronounced “loo”, how come the name of Beaulieu House isn't pronounced “Bo-loo”? Just asking.



To read excerpts from Dad's Kelven's Riddle fantasy series, please follow the link at left.

Tet Shots and Other Horror Stories, the Reprisal

I've never fully understood why people liked this post so much, but it continues even now to get pageviews. I whipped it out so quickly, too, that I'm surprised it turned out. At any rate, I'm afraid to edit it, for fear I'll ruin it. So here it is, a week before my 1st blogger anniversary - my most popular post.

One day I told my kids not to do something. I said in a stern voice, "Don't play that way, because if you do one of you will slip and fall and hit your head. Then you'll pass out, and you'll be bleeding profusely. I'll have to take you to the hospital, and we'll be waiting three hours. No money for the vending machine, and a strange old man with an unpleasant odor will be sitting by us trying to give you candy. But you won't get it, because you never know! And that's why Mama always checks your candy on Halloween!"

At the end of this speech, Matthew, my husband, is shaking his head and giving me the familiar look that says, where did I get you - Mars?, and my children are staring at me in a daze, terrified of they don't know what, because they've forgotten what I've told them not to do in the first place.

They do have one question, though.

"What's passing out?" asks Ana.

"Well..." I begin, but Matthew practically burns me with a look that reminds me I've already done my motherly duty. So I just smile at them and say, "Never mind. Now run along and play, you little monkeys!"

Then I turn to Matthew and shrug as I tell him, "I know, I know. I always say too much."

But maybe that's because I think too much. For instance, if I find a pair of scissors on the floor, I don't just think, Ooooh, that's not safe. Better put those away. No, a whole scene of the tragedy that might occur if my preschooler got a hold of those plays out in my mind. I can see her discovering them while I'm, say, in the bathroom reading the newspaper or something. "What nice sharp blades you have, scissors!" she might say before she runs around with them, laughing maniacally, opening and closing the blades with gusto like some midget Edward Scissorhands.

No pens, pencils, knives or scissors, I think as I pick up the scissors, passing my hand before my eyes, and put them away with a shudder.

Matthew, of course, is the one who left them on the floor in the first place. There are no mini-tragedies playing in his head. And he can simply say to the kids when necessary, "No, you're not doing that." or "No, you can't play with that. It's dangerous!" If they ask him why, he simply responds with the classic, "Because I told you so!"

But I don't know where to stop. And if they ask me why, I'm likely to give them a gruesome, full-bodied answer, and this doesn't just apply to questions concerning their own safety.

Not long ago, Berto brought me my book on ancient Egypt and pointed to a picture of a mummy.

"How did they make mummies?' he asked.

I stared at the picture. I understand his fascination. But what to say, what to say? It never occurs to me to lie and say, "I really don't know son. I believe it was a complicated and mysterious process - which nobody does nowadays, so don't you worry!"

"You really don't want to know," I say instead, feeding his appetite.

"Oh, come on. Tell me, Mama. Come on!"

"Well...alright then." I laugh and make room for him on the couch so we can enjoy a long cozy chat about mummification. "Okay, first they took a long metal hook which they inserted into the nose of the dearly departed, and then......"

The other day I saw the kids playing with a splintery old board. They had it propped on their playset, using it as a see-saw. Then they leaned it on the slide, so they could scamper up to the fort.

I walked outside. "Hey, hey, hey!" I yelled. "You get that board off there right now!"

"Why?" said Berto. "It doesn't have any nails."

"Yes, it does," I answered. "And they're old and rusty, too. Do you want a tetanus shot?"

"What's a tetanus shot?" he asked nervously.

"It's a shot, and it hurts," I said in brilliant explanation. "You have to get it when a rusty old nail goes through your foot, and the needle they give it with is, like, a quarter inch thick. Last time I got one, I passed out. Then I went home, and I passed out again. My arm hurt for days. I ran a fever, too."

Berto looked at the board, finally spotted the nails, and pitched it over the slide as if it were on fire.

I nodded my head in approval and went back inside. Another successful warning given, another tragedy averted. But next time I should think about cautioning them with a story that doesn't involve passing out in excruciating pain. I should tell them about stitches, perhaps.

Just Trees and a Treehugger

These two towering eucalyptus trees are those that I spoke of in my post about the monumental dust storm that passed through the Phoenix valley a couple weeks ago. Every year during the summer, at least once, I sit awake at night and listen to the wind lashing them and wonder if they will give up the ghost and end up on the house.

But they are beautiful. And exotic. They call to mind visions of Australia, and that land, I think, is not so unlike this area in terms of scorching heat and desert vistas. Oh, some people say no; eucalyptus trees are a pain, not beautiful at all, because they make a great mess out of one's yard; the bark and twigs shred so easily in the wind.

"So, are you going to cut down those trees?" our next door neighbor asked the first time we met her. The demand came after several minutes friendly conversation when I suppose she felt she'd buttered us up.

Never mind that it would cost us hundreds of dollars to do so, or that our air conditioning bills would soar without the massive shade of those giant eucalyptus; they made a mess of her carefully manicured lawn, and she wanted them gone. So I've spent plenty of time in our years at this house walking about the front of our home collecting strips of red-brown bark from the gravel in the morning or evening after any good wind. Heck, I've often collected the trees' debris from my neighbor's yard, but I don't hold the exercise against the towering beauties. I even feel a certain pride that we have the tallest trees on our street.

Lately, I've killed two birds with one stone - taking my kids out before 7am many mornings to ride their bikes, pulling my toddler in the Radio Flyer wagon, so he can have some wheels, too. He clutches his Elmo doll and smiles as I off-road the wagon across the gravel of our semi-xeriscaped yard, scooping up nature's castoffs as we go.  

Come December I'll be stepping out with a pair of pliers, picking out supple new branches to clip off in order to roll up a Christmas wreath or two. I like the feel of the satiny leaves between my fingers, the gorgeous rosy tinge at the tips of the new growth like an exotic flower. As I roll the branches in my hands, mourning every splinter when I must begin anew, I enjoy remembering those days in Tennessee when my parents rolled grapevine wreaths for a living. Matthew won't let me bring the wreaths inside, though - won't let me fill vases with freshly hewn eucalyptus branches, because the smell, to him, is overpowering. I think it's lovely, but no matter, I can at least hang my creation outside on the front door, a small tribute to the unique qualities of the eucalyptus. 

Toothbrush Poltergeist

There's a certain amount of maintenance that goes into any strong union. For instance, after 10 years of marriage, I still won't let my husband see me brush my teeth. I'd take him out with the door, lay him flat out on the other side of it after slamming it on his face, in a frantic attempt to bar entry and forestall embarrassing questions.

It still hasn't prevented him from catching glimpses now and then of the horrific spectacle. He knows all too well that when I'm brushing my teeth, toothpaste flies at the mirror, sprays my glasses, dribbles in frothy rivers down my chin, and gets up my nostrils. It's an uncomfortable thing to watch - a poltergeist movie where the ghost is only interested in making me appear the fool while performing basic hygienic tasks. Or a monster tale in which I'm transformed into the Frankenstein creature who points with sad eyes and inarticulate gurglings at the mess I've made of my shirt.

Tragically, many shirts have lost their lives in just such a way, permanently bearing the marks left behind by gobs of garment-killing toothpaste.

During my pregnancies I had a most difficult time, for paste that should have splattered on the floor instead splatted across my belly. I used to grab tissue or hand towels and dab frantically at the mess only to find sooner the tell-tale white stain that was destined to haunt my maternity wardrobe ever more, because nothing can eradicate a toothpaste stain. I'm sure most people have no experience of attempting to do so on a regular basis, but I have and I can testify to the veracity of above statement.

"Why don't you just put your clothes on when you're done?" Matthew said in irritation once when I emerged from the bathroom in distress, drooling toothpaste and gesturing with a plaintive, "ooh, oohhh..." at the carnage of another shirt.

I stared at him in wide-eyed revelation. Of course! - the perfect way to thwart my self-destructive tendencies.

In theory, I do know it is possible to brush one's teeth and only have the faintest white rim about the lips like the smile of a hygiene-happy clown, just as I know it is possible to wash one's face over the bathroom sink without flooding the counter and dripping puddles onto the bathroom floor. However, the science of such methods eludes me.

Therefore when I'm standing before the mirror with a joker's grin on my face - just scrubbing away in my Neanderthal fashion - and I suddenly hear my spouse enter our bedroom, you can bet I slam the bathroom door and bolt it before he can turn the corner. If he saw my face with its wolfish flecks of white paste about it, all foam and no dignity, he might begin to ponder the fact that he could have had a prim little creature who never got spots of toothpaste on her glasses or her shirts, and that, you know, would just break my heart.

A Dad and His Dog....and Mandy (anniversary repost)

I am really proud of this post, especially the part titled Reuben and Mandy. It comprises some of my favorite words in this blog, because they were completely heartfelt, and they do homage to very beloved friends of the family.

Having written of my friend Freddy yesterday, I was set to thinking about these other posts. Also with my dad's guest post out this month, it seemed a perfect time to reintroduce a piece about one of his best friends. I only wish I could have done Reuben more justice in describing him, but I cannot convey his bold spirit in mere words.

A Dad and His Dog

Reuben was a hunter. He was a pedigreed Labrador Retriever, bred to be a hunter's companion - a dog who would watch to see where the dead fowl landed by the lake or the river and then, using his excellent sense of smell, retrieve it for his master. I'm telling you this because the human being he loved most in the world was not a hunter. That person was my dad, and they got along famously.

Dad had given up hunting by the time he got Reuben. True, he had once taken part in the sport, but, as he tells it, he shot a small bear once and felt such remorse over it, he never looked back.

Still, Dad knew Reuben was the dog for him when he first saw him as a small, weeks-old pup. Mom was getting him his Christmas gift, and they went to the breeder's to examine the litter. All the puppies ran away when Dad came close - save one, and he began gnawing on Dad's boot and growling.

"That's the one," said Dad decisively.

"Oh, I've already promised him to someone else," responded the breeder apologetically.

Dad persuaded him to give them the puppy. I don't know how; bribed him with a little extra cash probably. Maybe the man sensed the two belonged together when Dad picked Reuben up, but that faceless "someone else" was destined never to know what a fine dog Reuben would become, because Dad brought him home.

My first memory of Reuben is of the uproar he caused when he ate Annie's bath gels from her stocking Christmas morning. I couldn't have been more than three, but I remember the mass confusion. My dad was roaring because he was afraid Reuben would be sick. But I recall Reuben's little black body zipping across the carpet unfazed.

That was in Utah, I believe. After the powerline construction company Dad was working for went under, Reuben made the pilgrimage with the family to Tennessee.

He loved it there, and it was there that Dad found a substitute for his dog's desire to hunt and retrieve. He threw rocks to fetch in the field and in the creek. When Dad threw a rock into the creek from the culvert, Reuben sat at Dad's side, muscles taut, and watched it arc between the trees. As soon as he saw it splash, he sprang into the water and buried his head beneath the clear surface, burrowing around with his nose to sniff out the precise rock. Once he had the rock locked in his jaws, he'd bring it back to Dad.

There were times when I was frightened watching Reuben fetch those rocks, because despite the fact that the creek bed was comprised of thousands of stones of every shape and color, he never failed in recovering the exact rock you threw. So if you threw a large rock into the creek, Reuben would stay under that water for what seemed like forever, wrestling with it. Sometimes he'd almost have it, and he'd raise his blocky head, and it'd roll back along the stones at the bottom. Down Reuben would go again, wrangling the rock with his paws toward the bank of the creek, his nose beneath water until he could finally haul it up in his teeth. Never did he give up and grab another rock just because it was easier. He lived for the moment of triumph when he dropped the stone at Dad's feet, then sat with quivering anticipation of the next throw.

It was an exciting thing to watch, and Reuben took it very seriously. Once my Grandpa visited from Idaho and thought he would tease the fierce Lab. He found a decent rock to throw in the cornfield and showed it to Reuben.

"You ready, Reuben?" Grandpa asked with a smile.

Dad must have seen the twinkle in his eye, because he said, "You'd better throw it, Dad. He'll watch for it before he goes."

But he couldn't do much more than warn Grandpa, so he was silent as Grandpa drew his arm back and then brought it forward forcefully. Reuben watched the sky and gazed fiercely across the field. Not spotting the rock's landing, he turned his head sideways to look at Grandpa and saw the rock there, still in his hand. Grandpa was still laughing when suddenly Reuben leapt up and bit him in the stomach. Instantly, Dad rebuked Reuben who sat at his command. Luckily Grandpa was okay, even saying good-naturedly, "You warned me, Bud!"

Reuben had other sports he relished such as racing around the mailman's car when he came to the end of the lane. He'd race around it barking in his deep guttural voice even as the mailman tried to drive away. That postal worker hated our lane and lived in fear of the large Labrador at the end of it, which is unfortunate. He wasn't the only one, though. On the very rare occasion that a package would be delivered to our house, the delivery men would often refuse to exit their vehicles, honking their horns and calling to us to come get our package before our dog attacked them. I don't think Reuben really would have done it, however. And as he got older and got the Labrador's beard on his chin, all grizzled and gray fur, Dad used to laugh and show people that Reuben had lost a few teeth and his bark was really the only threat.

I'd like to say Reuben was our family dog, and in a sense he was, because he would have done anything to keep Mom and us kids safe. And he never turned down the opportunity of a back-rubbing when we kids would line up on the couch, our feet in the air for him to run under. Still, I am convinced that although he had a begrudging affection for us it is only because we belonged to the person he loved best in the world. When Dad walked in the door at evening time, Reuben went crazy with excitement at seeing his best bud come home. Then that ninety pound dog jumped up on his lap until Dad, groaning and laughing and rubbing Reuben's ears, begged him to get off. We kids had to wait our turn until Reuben settled at his feet, because that's just the way it was with our Dad and his dog.

Reuben and Mandy

On the car ride home this afternoon, Analisa, my daughter, told me that today in school she touched a corn snake. She told her brother Berto she put hand sanitizer on her hands and the front of her jumper in hopes that the snake did not leave any poison on her. I assured her that corn snakes aren't poisonous. And, anyway, a poisonous snake has to bite you, not just touch you.

"That's exciting, Ana!" I said. Then I promptly began to reminisce, "Your Uncle Natie and I used to love to chase snakes near the creek and in the garden in order to touch them."

"Why?" asked Berto.

"Because they felt weird. We thought it was cool."

"Did they ever bite you, Mama?" asked Ana.

"No, no. These were garden snakes mostly. We didn't go after poisonous ones like copperheads."

"But you did get bitten..."said Ana uncertainly.

"No, that was Paca (that's what the kids call my dad). Paca got bitten by a copperhead. And Reuben our dog did, too - a couple of times."

They knew about Paca getting bitten in the foot by a copperhead one day in the woods. I hadn't told them about what happened to Reuben, our Labrador.

Reuben was one of my dad's greatest friends. Because he sunk his teeth into my dad's boot at their first meeting, Dad chose him from a litter of purebred Labrador pups, those usually destined to be loyal to an avid hunter for their retrieving skills. Dad was not a hunter, and Reuben, a blocky ninety-pound dog of black whose limbs quivered in anticipation of retrieving even just a rock thrown into the creek bed, loved him.

I foolishly glided into the conversation just as easily as I slipped through the next traffic light.

"Reuben got bitten twice in the neck by snakes. He developed a tumor because of it," and I pointed to my neck, "here." The kids' faces were open, their eyes wide. This was a fresh story, and they cared about it already. "He couldn't eat because of the tumor. The cancer had spread, too. So he had to be put to sleep. And he was Paca's dog. Paca was heartbroken. He still doesn't like talking about it."

And there I can see my dad's face again, as he stands where the driveway meets the lane, telling us kids, just home from school, that Reuben was dead, that he had buried Reuben by the creek that afternoon. He couldn't bear the resurgence of sorrow he saw in our faces. His face was soft, malleable as he told us he couldn't talk about it anymore and turned away. It was a shock for us to see the fire usually so evident in his features replaced by this strange forlorn texture of sadness.

"So how long did he go to sleep for?" asked Berto.

"Berto," I said, looking intently into the rearview mirror at my son's sweet face. "When they put an animal to sleep, they put them to sleep forever. It was very sad. Very sad. Don't ask Paca about it. He and Reuben were buddies. Paca loved Reuben. I mean, he was a fierce dog, but when Paca came home from work, he'd jump up into his lap and lick his face. He'd try to get his whole body on Dad's lap until Paca told him to get down. And he was a big dog, too."

I was speaking the words, but still did not know I was affected.

"How'd it happen?" asked Berto.

"Well, Reuben wasn't afraid. He just wasn't afraid of anything. He'd chase the cows in Mr. Spann's field, the bulls, too - nipping at their legs and running circles around them until they charged him."

"Did they get him?"

"No, he was too fast. So, you see, when he found these rattlesnakes or copperheads, he'd bark and leap at them. Then he'd get too close, and they would strike. Paca buried him down by the creek," I said sadly, seeing the very spot with my mind's eye. "And Mandy's there, too."

Our Mandy, the multi-colored mutt who adored Reuben, leaping about his shoulders and yapping at him until, fed up, he growled and snapped at her. Mandy, who would follow you on a walk across the field to the woods. But unlike Reuben who was always ready to exercise and to guard you on your adventures, she would linger on the logging road, tilting her head at your inclination to explore before turning tail and deserting you, trotting back across the field to the house porch. Mandy who was so deaf and blind at the end, she'd bark aggressively at us coming home until she at last recognized us and hung her head and tail in embarrassment.

"How did he die? Mandy?"

"Mandy was a girl," I said a little defensively, as if my children should remember these pets that shared my childhood years, animals they had never had the great pleasure of meeting. "She was hit by the school bus as it came down the hill to pick us up for school. She loved to chase cars, and we couldn't stop her quick enough. Paca told us to go on to school, and he'd take care of her. He buried her next to Reuben by the creek. It was so sad..."

With those words I broke off, sobbing. "I'm sorry, kids. I'm sorry," I muttered, a little embarrassed by the tears that I hadn't seen coming, because I had not known I would be telling my children these memories of Reuben today. Hadn't known I'd be seeing Mandy lying in the road these many years later, hearing my dad's voice telling us to go on - it'd be okay, seeing the deep regret in the face of our bus driver, Mr. Owen.

The thing I did not tell my kids about that terrible morning was that as I sat crying on the school bus those many years ago over our beloved mutt Mandy, Reuben's little buddy, a stupid boy a few seats ahead of mine was loudly making jokes about dog guts being plastered on the tires of the bus and laughing. I listened in disbelief until I couldn't bear it anymore and cried, "Be quiet! That was our dog Mandy!" And he laughed again.

I'm crying again as I write this post. Isn't it strange that I have yet to get over that? A foolish boy making cruel jokes about something that so deeply saddened and shocked my siblings and I. Unfortunately, it is a permanent part of my vivid recollections of that day.

"Mama, are you okay?" my sweet Ana asked. "Are you really crying?"

"Yes, Ana."

"I bet Paca put something by their graves," said Berto. "So everyone can know they're there."

I searched the landscape of the creek with my mind, searched near the fallen tree trunks where we sat to have our wiener roasts in summer, and I could see the stone fire pit my dad had created by the bog and the spring. Reuben and Mandy are buried there, I know, but I can't recall any other landmark except the pit and the fallen logs.

"I don't know," I responded. "I don't know whether Paca did or not."

Somehow it's better not, though. No one else could understand the immense love we had for them, how much a part of our lives Reuben and Mandy were. We know they're there - Dad, Mama, Vinca, Annie, Nate and I. I can still see the patch of rich dirt where they lay. And that's enough. That's enough.

Go pray in the field, and be persistent

I am currently reading Anne of Green Gables to my two oldest, and in the book Anne confesses to her new adoptive mother that she does not say nightly prayers, essentially because God gave her red hair "on purpose", and she resents it. But Anne also points out that if she were to pray, she would go into a field alone or a forest somewhere and look up, up, up....and let the prayer come to her.

This brought back a childhood memory, or, rather, a string of them. I told my children that in Tennessee, I did use to go into the cornfield or near the edge of the woods to pray in the evening before bedtime. It was usually summer and during twilight when the whippoorwills' calls pierced the fog about the hills and woods. As I stood in the uneven soil of the field or dropped to my knees and began Our Father, I felt closer to God than I would have if shut up inside.

There were also evenings when I'd sit in an old lawn chair by Freddy's grave just below my bedroom window, the light spilling across my lap. Freddy, you see, was a big floppy-eared black rabbit whom I loved very much. He died too young - even for a rabbit, but I sat by his grave often, twirling my favorite walking stick in my hands. And in sitting by Freddy's grave in prayer, I felt closer to the One who had made my dear little friend.

After sharing this with them, we were led into a discussion of the importance of persistent prayer - not only as a means of asking and receiving, but as a way of seeking your Creator often and being humble before him.

"And it's very important to thank God for your blessings," I added. "Because in doing so, you'll become more aware of just how truly blessed you are. Do you know what I say in many of my prayers?"

"Amen?"

"Well, yes...but, no, I say 'thank you, Father, for all we are blessed and provided with'."

I didn't add that I always thanked Him for their Papa and for each of them, too.

"I know; I know," said Berto, his eyes growing wide and lighting up. "I've heard you say that at dinner."

"Mama, do I pray enough?" asked Ana, her eyes growing misty.

Well, dang, I wasn't trying to make it a chore, a burden or a schooling in guilt. I was trying to convey the strength you get when consistently seeking your Father.

"Yes, Ana. We pray together at church, don't we? And during the school year, we say Our Father on the way to school each morning. Look, God simply wants to hear from you, so it can be as simple as saying at bedtime, "Father, I love you and thank you for my friends and family and toys and home. Amen.' Just remember to talk to Him often, and to ask for His guidance when you're older."


Proverbs 8:17 I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me

Psalms 27: 8 When you said, Seek you my face; my heart said unto you, Thy face, Lord, will I seek.

Western? No harmonica, please!

 "Let's watch Once Upon a Time in the West."

If I still had the heart to utter those words, they would strike dread into the heart of my husband. If you have ever seen the film, you remember there's a lot of harmonica playing, spitting in the dirt, hard stares, and men posturing in filthy dusters and low slung gun belts - oh, and one solitary, beautiful woman with coal black eyeliner scraped around her eyes. My husband has never made it pass the first twenty minutes of the opening scene at the railway station where I believe the fly was given the biggest part. Anyway, Charles Bronson's persistent harmonica playing, though vital to the story, drives him crazy, and the story unravels like a fishing line being reeled in 'bout an inch an hour across a broad polluted lake.

We were transferring all our movies from an old entertainment center to our new one when I discovered that operatic Western. I was a little shocked; I thought it was long gone, that I had given it to some hard core Western lover or another. I would have given it to my dad or brother, of course, if they didn't already own it. They are the reason I tried to introduce my husband to it, for they have always lauded Sergio Leone's masterpiece as a great man's movie. I used to watch it with them out of deference to their sensibilities, and I mean, truly - Henry Fonda is superb in it as the evil bastard, and Charles Bronson's character is subtle, patient, and silent mostly, but his revenge, when it comes, is sweet indeed.

So the story is great; doesn't matter. It's the getting there that done My Man in. While watching it that first time, he struggled between a strong desire to fall asleep and an irrational urge to scream for someone to annihilate the harmonica playing fool so central to the story.

I tried to fast forward to something interesting Matthew might latch onto, but every time there was a hint of harmonica keening, his eyes glazed over, and his head lolled to the side, his brain temporarily stupefied.

So that was that, and why should I even care? I'm no man. Pshaw!

Still, you can imagine what a risk it was for me to come home from the library with another Western film in my hand, expecting to be blessed with My Man's company for the viewing of it. This time I had Open Range with Kevin Costner and Robert Duvall. Again, it came with my dad's strong recommendation, and I had wanted to see it for years because of that.

When My Man graciously consented to watch it with me, it became quickly apparent that Open Range is a quiet Western. I wasn't sure this boded well as I kept glancing round at my husband. Each time he gave me a bland smile I couldn't tell if it was a display of boredom or an approval of the absent harmonica. The movie uses no music whatsoever, in fact, to manipulate the viewer (the new Pride and Prejudice is one of the worst movies ever for that kind of heavy-handedness), so there's a lot of awkward silence as if you're watching real lives unfolding. Sure, there's a good amount of violence, but the laconic characters don't feel the need to communicate much before they spring into action, and, honestly, that feels true to those characters. When they do start revealing secrets, thinking death is becoming likely, the audience (me) almost feels as if we're invading their privacy.

The love story? Old-fashioned. Oh, that's not an insult. Personally, I find it refreshing in the current entertainment climate which seems to promote fast and loose relations between men and women as well as advocating pornography as a healthy pastime and adhering to the general idea that bearing children willy-nilly into the world without any kind of commitment between the man and woman involved is the normal and correct evolution of society.

I prefer heroes who are honorable, and heroines who are intelligent and feminine. Obviously, they are more interesting if they are imperfect, haunted by past decisions even, but they must have some standards. Also, it helps if they don't think marriage is for idiots.

The romance between Sue (Annette Bening) and Charley (Kevin Costner) develops gradually and subtly. Again, there is very little conversation, though there are many significant looks. She is not a weak woman; he is not a completely whole man. The scene where he bends down in her home and picks clods of mud off her rug and deposits them in his hat is both funny and moving.

Robert Duvall's Boss and Kevin Costner's Charley mesh very well together - especially as they're sitting eating expensive chocolate and smoking expensive cigars before the big gun fight, discussing how they two alone, with the help of a town sympathizer, will attempt to outmaneuver the gang of a rich rancher's hired guns.

That scene lives up to every great Western shootout scene, and I am not impervious to the lure of epic gun battles on screen. But what happens between Charley and Sue at the end of the movie, the redemption for both of them and especially Charley, is what gives the viewer, at least this one, the most satisfaction. And that's where I thought most of my Dad, and why he would so like this film - when Charley, looking out for the woman he loves, says one of the last lines of the movie to Sue. In those last few words I was reminded of my parent's relationship, and it made me smile.

When the credits rolled, I was pleased to see Matthew was still awake, and I was gratified when he said to me, "That was a really good movie."

"It was a little slow," I said, playing devil's advocate. "And there was very little dialogue."

"Yeah, but that felt right," he pointed out.

I agreed wholeheartedly and smiled approvingly. Thanking all that is good in big sky country - the Western is not dead!

She Went to Paris, part deux

When Dad told me what happened on the Paris trip right before he and Mom had to catch their plane...well, I knew I wanted this story for my blog. Happily, he complied by writing it. I enjoyed reading this second part even more than the first, and I'm sure you will, too. To read the first installment of the story click She Went to Paris...and I Went, too.

There are those who say that the Eiffel Tower is no big deal. Those people are idiots. Or, they have never seen it in person and are insanely envious of those who have. Then there are those who have seen it and say that the experience is ruined by the hordes of tourists thronging about. You may safely ignore such cretinous assertions.

Of course, people come from all over the world to see the Tour Eiffel. It is a construct of magnificence. Gustave Eiffel was a genius and his tower is unquestionably a wonder of the modern world. I would advise people to go see the Eiffel Tower from wherever they are in Europe. Visiting London? Get on a plane, go see the Eiffel. Vacationing in Berlin or Rome? Go to Paris, see the tower.

Massively impressive in scope, and yet constructed with such beautiful and eloquently sensuous lines, it is a masterpiece of design and execution. In truth, it is not in and of itself what makes Paris the marvelous place that it is, yet the tower is the perfect emblem for the city – beauty for beauty's sake.

Rome may be the seat of ancient power, Athens the seat of Western philosophy, New York, London, Berlin, Tokyo, and Shanghai the forums of modern commerce – Paris is for those who love beauty; indeed, Paris, as the old saying goes, is for lovers. The Eiffel Tower embodies the truth of it. Take the one you love, and go there, if you can.

As Karen and I walked westward along the Right Bank of the Seine, the tower rose on our left – our destination for the afternoon. First, though, we came to the most beautiful bridge in the world, the Pont Alexandre III. Built in honor of Tsar Alexander the Third of Russia, who signed the armistice ending the Franco-Prussian War, it astonishes the eye. Constructed of one single, incredibly long, low arch, it seems to hover magically above the water. Gilded statues guard its four corners, two on the Right Bank and two on the Left, marking France's “four eras”. There is an enormous lion on the northeast corner and, with my testosterone raised by about 50% by my surroundings, I had to pose.

This is Paris' heart, and perhaps its most beautiful sector. Declaring such a thing however, is a bit like insisting that a fine bottle of wine's second glass is somehow better than the third – or the first or the fourth. Every building, whether it be a bank, a municipal office, a row of residences or luxury apartments above shops and restaurants, is of an older, finer world, and is a marvel of architecture. Only one word works here. Stunning.

We reached the Eiffel and crossed over the Seine to stand beneath it and gaze upward in awe. The lines to go up were formidable, the hour was late and we'd grown tired, so we sat and enjoyed the spectacular view, and then Karen bought souvenirs. And, of course, we kissed – for the camera, and, actually, not so much for the camera. We men are generally not fervent kissers, I know, but I promise you; take a beautiful woman to Paris and you will do a fair amount of it. I did, and more.

While there, I was treated to the novel experience of having a young French couple from out of town ask me for directions to the Champs Elysees. I knew where it was (just across the river and four or five blocks further on) and my French had improved to the point that I could send them in the right direction.

Once again, we went away from the crowd. After a brief discussion we decided to leave the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe for the morrow. The sun was declining toward evening and anyway the headquarters of Napoleon's Grand Armee (which I've always wanted to see) was at the other end of the mall by the Metro station that would take us home. There was also a grand long view of the tower from there – so, more pictures.

That evening was a reprise of our first – wine, cheese, pastries, and fresh fruit, enjoyed with an amazing view of the city as the evening faded to twilight. At one point, Karen turned to me and declared that the day just ending was, “the best day of my life thus far.” She got no argument from me. Besides, she looked lovely in the last fading glow of the sunset, and there was a bedroom just up the stairs.....

Karen loves to shop, but due to our circumstances, shopping is something she gets to enjoy very little and very seldom. On our last morning, consequently, I suggested that we save the Arc de Triomphe for our next trip (God willing, there will be one) and that she go shopping at the various markets in the neighborhood. 

 “What will you do?” She asked. “Go from cafe to cafe,” was my answer. She agreed gladly. “But what about money?” I pulled the two hundred euros that our son had given me for emergencies out of my pocket. “I'll pay Nate back somehow,” I said.

 I sat on benches or in cafes, enjoying what turned out to be a perfect day weather-wise, intending to let her shop for the three hours or so until time to go to the airport.

And then I made my big mistake. Oh, boy.

Having found a sidewalk cafe with the perfect mixture of sun and shade and wine and coffee, I decided to stay put while she shopped up and down the street. Sometime later, she came back and asked if she could just cross over one street a block or so down Rue de Pyranees and go to a shop she

could see a bit further on.

Perhaps it was the wine. I agreed to let her go.

Now, before all you feminists get your knickers in a knot, let me explain two things about the woman I love.

First, she means much more to me than my own life. Secondly, despite her intelligence and many talents (she is provably one of the foremost diamond salespersons in the United States) she has two shortcomings that can become dangerous in unknown places. She possesses very little in the way of a sense of direction – she gets turned around quite easily – and she has no concept of the passage of time. Over the years I have come to believe that she is convinced that if she's not looking at her watch, it doesn't move. So, fifteen minutes, or an hour and fifteen minutes; it's all the same to her.

After an hour or so of enjoying my wine and suffering my own lapse in the area of the concept of time's passage, it dawned upon me that she had been gone too long. I very quickly settled my bill and went in search of her. She was nowhere along the street, in none of the shops between my cafe and the Metro station at the plaza. Concern setting in quickly and rather deeply, I repeated the search in the opposite direction. No Karen. Concern became panic.

Paris – so I had read in one magazine in preparation for this trip – is a city where attractive women tend to disappear, though mostly at the airport, and mostly young college women, but from other parts of the city as well – their destination being the ports of the ongoing slave trade. Damn that magazine! Reason told me that she had spied another shop down some side street and had gone there on impulse. But reason failed utterly in the presence of panic. More time passed, I searched along the street, I couldn't find her. Stupidly, I had turned off both cell phones and stored them in the luggage. There was no means of contact. There I stood, wide-eyed with terror in a strange city, the light of my life nowhere in sight.

Then, there she was, blithely and happily clicking along the street toward me in her high heels, looking every bit at home – the elegant Parisien woman. She had indeed crossed the avenue to a shop on the other side. I had searched that side, too, but at that moment she had evidently been in the back, trying something on. Thanking God profusely, I gripped her hand tightly, ignored her raised and questioning eyebrows, and headed for the Metro.

The train going out through the northern suburbs toward CDG Airport was overcrowded. After a few stops, I claimed a seat for Karen, but I continued to stand in the crush of people going home from work.

At one particularly busy stop, I heard a woman ask in English with a French accent, “Does this belong to someone?” I looked out onto the platform and felt for my belt at the same time, finding an empty place where my camera had been. She was holding it! Like an idiot I had left it clipped to my belt and it had gotten knocked off in the melee.

Behind her, a group of young men lounged on the platform. One of them, taller than the rest, reached over her, snatched the camera and headed off down the track. And the train was about to leave.

Now, if it had been just the camera, I might have kissed the $150 goodbye. But stupidly, I had failed to change the memory card – all of our memories of Paris were in that camera. I went after him. He tried to get away but the crowded conditions hindered him and aided me. I caught him and spun him around and grabbed the camera. “Mine,” I said. Now, he was younger than me, a bit taller, probably stronger. But when our eyes locked, he must have seen what I was willing to do to regain our precious memories. After a moment, he let go, shrugged, and walked away with a pretty decent swagger. I dashed back to the train. The others held the door for me.

I had the chance to thank the young woman, who'd gotten on the train. If she hadn't picked it up, I wouldn't have missed it until too late. “Merci, mademoiselle, merci!” I repeated until she blushed. God bless her!

A little while later, our plane hove northward and Paris slipped over the horizon. My one thought? We will return.

Au revoir, fair city.



Click on the link at left to read excerpts from Kelven's Riddle, an excellent epic fantasy series authored by my dad, Daniel Hylton.