Joy, plans gone awry, contentment lost, and hope regained

Three weeks ago when my family returned from Idaho I was very content. I was feeling very homey, too. Inspired my Aunt Cheryl's welcoming and cozy home, and my Aunt Stephanie's beautiful framed prints - all garage and estate sale finds - I had plans to improve this little house for my family by bending my mind to something that doesn't come naturally: decorating.

The main way I planned to make our house more a home was by putting up pictures of grandparents. We have none on these walls. I arrived home, and I couldn't believe that I have neglected to put up photos of my beloved Grandmama, of Matthew's grandparents who have all passed on now, and of all our grandparents and parents. This is a serious lack. Matthew and I have never been great about taking or displaying pictures, but there is no excuse. I thank my Aunt Cheryl again for inspiration, for she took me around her home and showed me the history of our family in many photos set in myriad frames.

I had such plans a few weeks ago for being a "homemaker" in the best sense by lovingly improving my family's comfort, peace, joy and sense of connection to one another through simple but thoughtful means. I was going to labor in the yard, too, planting a lush winter lawn.

And I was going to write about the joy of our Idaho visit. Of how my children were amazed by how many relatives they have on their Paca's and their Grandmama's side. How Berto said the parade of relatives was like an "endless pit" (he meant it in the best way); how my kids asked from time to time in awe, "Mama, how many relatives do you have? They just keep coming!"; how I felt immense pride that I could claim all these great and interesting people as part of my extended family.

I was going to make you hungry by recounting the wonderful meals prepared for us by Uncle Kip and Aunt Cheryl on one side and my Uncle Bryan on the other and even confess how we went to a wonky Asian-Western inspired and golf-themed restaurant called Little Orphan Annie's with my cousins and aunt.

I was going to share that my kids rode four-wheelers for the first time with my cool uncles and talked about nearly nothing else the day after, so thrilled were they by that grand small-town experience.

And there were tremendous surprises during our trip. We missed our flight going to Idaho. That was nerve-wracking, but when we got there my kids saw Paca and Grandmama (my parents) at their great-grandparents place (on my dad's side), a big surprise for them that I almost ruined at least a dozen times. When we went to my Grandpa's the next day, my Uncle Jim was there and I had no clue he would be in town! He tried to teach me to play pinochle once when I was in high school. I reminded him of my inability to learn and my parents frustration and how all the while he was patient. We were blessed to visit with every one of my mama's surviving siblings that Sunday. On the next day I saw my Uncle Ruben whom I have not seen since my wedding 15 years ago when he filmed the ceremony. He used to drive to Tennessee often to visit our family when I was a kid, and he would let my siblings and I raid his cooler full of drinks and snacks and bring his video camera so we could make goofy movies. One even had a Star Trek theme, and Uncle Ruben was Spock!

It was such an amazing trip, the best we have had yet. It was overflowing with family and adventure, better than the excursions we used to make to San Diego to visit the beach.

Then my joy was suddenly stolen because I woke up Tuesday morning of last week with vertigo. It hasn't plagued me in years, but it was just as bad as I remembered.

All my plans as a wife, mother and writer for that week were utterly destroyed. I won't bore you. Instead "let me sum up". I barely touched my husband for several days. I couldn't work or accomplish my simple goals. I was prey to my own caprices.

And I lost my gratitude. I knew I should thank God for my overall health, that it was just a bad case of persisting dizziness. I knew I should remember, "this, too shall pass". Instead I became very depressed, felt disconnected from my spouse and children, and by the end of the week began to have some very unsettling thoughts as I battled depression.

Shudder. I don't really want to dwell on it more. Until yesterday morning I was still battling the after-effects, being blown about by my own mood.

But today? Today I saw a rainbow. Today I caught up on a good amount of work and even sorted my email and hopped on Facebook. Today I am writing.

My thoughts are tame and friendly once more. Thank, thank God.

And I am remembering that trip to Idaho and all the faces of my loved ones.

And feeling grateful and content.

A Post in Pictures: the cliffs of Britain and a river in Idaho

When I traveled to England with my friend Holly in April 2015, one of the last excursions we took was to the White Cliffs of Dover. There we hiked from a near sea level visitor's center and gift shop up the cliff trail past many sheep to a bright little tea room in a charming old lighthouse. On the way to and from that lighthouse my knee-high boots picked up a thick layer of the white dust from the cliffs and rested in it for some time, too, as we chatted with friendly Britons and watched some wild ponies in a hollow. Months after we returned home, I pulled out those boots to wear again as the fall weather grew cooler in Arizona and, lo and behold, the dust of Britain was still on them.

My shoes knew where I had been, and they carried crystalline memories. I almost didn't brush off those boots, but I figured I'd just be tracking Dover everywhere.

Recently, new suede Puma tennis shoes of mine picked up memories as my family and I hiked and climbed a little way along the Payette River in Idaho.

We went to Idaho to see family and saw more family in that state than my children even knew we had - the appearance of some of those dear relatives completely unexpected. 

Then, on a day when we didn't have much planned and I was begging my husband to be serendipitous, we drove up past Black Canyon Dam, searching for a place to experience some Idaho country. We pulled off the road at a spot where we practically slid down a slope of dry pine needles to river rocks, and there my kids and I scrambled all over the place, watching the intermittent white water and listening to its rhythm. On a huge sloped boulder, I laid down on my belly in the sunshine, slowly sliding down toward the white sand at its base, that same light sand that is now embedded in my shoes.

I may not brush off these shoes. Sometimes you have to go home again to realize it's home. I lived in Idaho for most of my teenage years - camping, fishing, spending holidays and ordinary days with relatives - but I don't believe I really appreciated it til I brought my own little family back with me.

With these dusty sneakers, I can carry home with me wherever I go.

And I believe my tall brown boots still have a bit of Dover on them, too.

The Longest Week of My Life

Since I am still recuperating and could literally burst into hysterical tears at any moment, my dad, author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series, agreed to share this story with my readers. It is about the year I was born, and he told it to me the other day to bring me out of my depression. It worked, because I suddenly realized there are worse trials than my broken ribs.

 

 

Dad way, way above the earth...on a power line pole

In 1979, after a prolonged fiduciary illness, the economy of my home state of Idaho finally died, and in its dying throes it thrashed my own means of making a living completely out of existence.  At the time, my wife Karen and I had three small children, and she was expecting our fourth.

We lost our house in the spring and our fairly new Chevy pick-up by summer.  By fall, Karen and the kids were staying with her parents and I was bunking with my older brother in Boise, where both of us were trying to scrounge what work we could.

Do you know what desperation feels like?  It feels like this: you know yourself to be utterly useless, for you have no way to house and feed your young family - and if you could, you would just shoot yourself, but that would only make things worse for those you love.  So, you're stuck.  Miserable and without hope, you stumble on.

Karen gave birth to our youngest on October 4.  By then, opportunities for work had disappeared entirely, and I was back with my wife and children, living in a three-room house provided for us - to my shame - by my very kind father-in-law.

I couldn't afford a daily paper, so I took to walking across the street every morning to an elderly friend's house.  John would make a pot of coffee, pour me a cup, and then go about his business of being discreet while allowing me to peruse his paper for job listings.

And one morning, there it was: a construction company needed people.

In Nebraska.

Nebraska!  Hundreds of miles away, across the continental divide - which by this time was piling up snow in prodigious amounts.  Nonetheless, after but a moment's hesitation, I called.  Was I experienced in EHV power line construction? the voice on the other end of the line asked of me.  Yes, I am, I lied.  Well then, could I be in Ogallala, Nebraska by the following Monday?  (This was Tuesday)  Certainly, I stated, hoping I wasn't telling yet another whopper.  Alright then, the voice said; come on - and when you get here, come to the office, ask for Richard.

Now, understand this: had there been a ray of hope coming from any quarter of the local map, I would never have considered trying to move my family across four states in winter.  But I was desperate; my attempt at husband-hood and fatherhood was on the verge of abject failure.  The horizon of our future was bleak and black.

We had no car, no money.

Karen suggested we sell everything we had that was sellable, which of course was nearly nothing. We managed to raise about thirty dollars.  My older brother gave me a 1958 dodge which, he declared, would run if we could find a battery.  My Dad found a battery, and lo!, the car did in fact, run.  He also gave us another ten dollars, and my father-in-law, after failing to persuade Karen to remain behind while I went on alone, pitched in another twenty.  So, we had sixty dollars.

I know that doesn't sound like much, but gas was much cheaper then, as was everything else. Relatives parted with what non-perishable and easily consumed foods they could spare, and we filled bottles with water.  On a cold, blustery day, we loaded our three children, aged 1, 3, and 5, and our new baby into the ancient car and headed east.  As a parting gift, my retired friend, John, bought us a tank of gas.

We slept that first night in a rest area south of Kemmerer, Wyoming.  In the morning, after bathroom duties and a cold breakfast, we went on toward the continental divide as the sky lowered and snow began to fall.  Just beyond Laramie, a flashing sign said: Interstate Closed.  I went on anyway.  Two miles further on, there was a gate across the road and a state trooper who informed me in tones that brooked no argument that I had to return to Laramie.

There, I parted with twenty precious dollars to buy a room to house my family for the night.  The next day dawn cold and overcast, but without snowfall.  The road opened mid-morning and I drove like a bat released from the nether regions to get across the mountain before the sky changed its mind.

Three days after leaving Idaho, we drove into Ogallala, Nebraska late in the afternoon.  I checked my wallet.  I had exactly fifteen dollars.  We found a motel with efficiency kitchenettes and I went in to talk to the proprietor.  "Twenty-five dollars a week," she said.

I drew a deep breath.  "Do you know about the company building a power line here-abouts?"

"Yes, some of the workers stay with us."

"I have a job with them," I said.  "I start in the morning - is there any way -?"

She cut me off rather sharply.  "Is that your family in the car?"

"Yes."

She grabbed a coat and headed out the door.  "I'll talk with your wife."

I blinked.  "Yes, ma'am."

When she returned, her attitude had softened.  "You can stay two weeks," she informed me.  "If you have a job, you can catch me up from your first payday.  If not, at the end of two weeks, you'll have to go."

"Thank you - God bless you!"

She watched me for a moment and then smiled slightly.  "God bless you, too."

The next morning, I headed for the company's HQ on the outskirts of town.  Upon entering the office, I found a slim, blond-haired man putting personal effects into a cardboard box.  "I need to see Richard," I said.

"I'm Richard."

"Oh, good.  I'm Dan Hylton from Idaho - you hired me last week."

He shrugged.  "Well, I just got fired, so I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

I stared.  Then, without realizing what I was doing, I crossed the room and grabbed him by his collar. "I just drove my family through a snowstorm to get here.  You have to give me a job!"

He twisted loose.  "Look - go out to the show-up, ask for Nevin, see if he's got a spot open.  That's all I can do."

He gave me directions and I drove to the show-up yard. There were clumps of men standing around loading tools and equipment into trucks, getting ready to start their day.  One man nearby had a dark braid hanging down his back.  "Where can I find Nevin?"  I asked.

He glanced around and then pointed.  "That red truck over there."

Nevin turned out to be a small, weaselly-eyed man with thinning hair.

"Excuse me, sir, but I need a job."

He turned and examined me.  I must have been a sight.  Corduroy pants, simple, worn-out boots, shivering in my flannel shirt and light jacket.  "Go to hell," he said.

My eyes widened.  "What?"

He didn't answer, just closed the door and drove away, leaving me gaping after him.  (Later, I became his boss, and he was forced to become accustomed to dealing with difficult assignments.  I don't know if he remembered that first meeting, but I did.)

I stood there, my heart and mind as cold and numb as my fingers and toes.  Desperation rose up out of the frozen earth and swallowed me whole.  All this way to fail again!   I was utterly hopeless. How could I face Karen?

There was a tap on my shoulder.  "Hey, Buddy."

I turned.  It was the slim man with the dark braid.  He looked as tough as the icy ground we stood upon but his eyes were kind.  "Need a job?"

I nodded.  "Oh, yes."

He pointed.  "See that blue truck over there.  Go talk to that guy - his name is Chris."

With my heart in my boots, I stumbled over to the blue truck.  Inside, talking on his radio, was the largest man I have ever seen or met.  Seriously, were I a grizzly bear, I would avoid this guy's section of woods.  He finished his conversation and turned to study me, looking me up and down.

"What are you?"   He asked in a gruff voice that matched his behemoth-like looks.

I decided to answer in the same vein.  "I'm an unemployed father of four - and I really need a job. Please.  I'll do anything."

He grinned at my ragged appearance and the desperate tone in my voice.  "You certainly look unemployed," he said.  Then he pointed with a sausage-like finger.  "See that guy with the braid?  Go and tell him that you're on his crew.  I'll come around later to do the paperwork."

"Thank you, sir!"

His grin faded.  "Don't snivel - just get to work."

"Yes, sir."

The days were long and bitterly cold, but I took to the work as if I did indeed have experience.  My first paycheck only covered a few days, but it was enough to bring the rent current, fill the cupboards with groceries, and buy me some serviceable work clothes.  One week later, I cashed my second check and Karen and I just sat and stared at $440 spread out on the table.  It was almost equal to what I had earned in a whole month at my last job.

I looked up and met my wife's lovely brown eyes.  "Thank God," I said.

She smiled.  "Yes, thank God."

A few years later, I was making a thousand dollars a week as a project engineer for that same company, and times were as good - financially - as they could be.

But I still can't think of that week, or indeed of the whole of 1979, without a cold shiver working its way up the length of my spine.  Removed from the dark desperation of those times, I simply cannot imagine taking the risks that I took with my young wife and small children.

Thank God, indeed.  It's true what my grandfather once told me about the Good Lord - He does, in fact, look after fools.

"Souvenir Rocks"

When I was in high school, I had a friend tell me, "Hillary, you're kind of smart, and kind of dumb."

I took no offense. I knew exactly what she meant. As I never make a habit of arguing with the truth, I didn't deny it.

I think the best example of my special view of this world is demonstrated by what I said on a trip into the Idaho countryside with my parents when I was about 17. I believe we were on the way to Cascade or Council, and we were passing lush fields of mint and grain. Mountains provided a magnificent backdrop for lonely farms and ranches where huge irrigation sprinklers, big as hay bales, oscillated their enormous jets of water across the crops. Miles of fence abutted the road. I was watching the passing cows, crops, horses, and barbed wire as I sat cross-legged in the back seat of the car, and I began to notice something exciting every dozen feet or so along the fence line.

I saw and interpreted what I saw, and then my heart swelled with the knowledge of these lonely ranchers' hospitality for the traveler, for regularly along the fence posts were barbed wire buckets filled to the brim with rocks of every size and color.

"Mom, Dad - look!" I said. They turned their heads, and I pointed excitedly. "Isn't that nice of them? Souvenir rocks!"

Immediately, the laughter broke forth in a cacophony that washed over me without mercy. I had been greeted with such phenomenon before, so I sat it out with little protest even when my parents jabbed each other in the ribs and pointed at me, shaking their heads. My mistake, I doubted not, would be revealed to me when the mirth subsided.

Finally: "Hillary, those are to keep the fence posts grounded!" bellowed still-laughing Dad. "In case of a storm!"

And I was hoping we could stop and pick out a couple to take home. Those are the disappointments in life waiting for someone who doesn't quite understand reality.

But disappointments are also waiting for those who have to live with me. A few years ago my kindergartner came home on a late fall day and presented me with his plain red sweatshirt.

"The teacher says we have to put our initials on our jackets and sweatshirts," he said.

"Oh, alright," I answered and went off to find a Sharpie. When I had my black permanent in hand, I spread the sweatshirt across my lap and carefully wrote my son's initials in big broad letters on the left breast pocket.

I handed it to my son, and he stared at his initials dumbstruck for several moments before looking up at me.

"Mama," he said, mortified. "On the tag..."

Oh sure, now you tell me.

"Wear it anyway," I advised him.

He didn't like that advice, so he showed the shirt to his Papa when he came home.

"Babe, what'd you do?" demanded my Man.

"I initialed it, so it couldn't get lost."

"You're supposed to put it on the tag!"

"I know that (now), but I wasn't thinking."

"No kidding! He can't wear this. I wouldn't wear it," he added, seeing the look in my eyes. "Kids will make fun of him. We'll have to buy him a new one."

Sigh.  Kids made fun of me. I survived.

For instance, there was that occasion in high school when even I wanted to kick myself royally for my stupidity, because it cost me a pretty penny.

Having stayed after school to work on the school newspaper one late afternoon, I was getting a snack of peanut M&Ms from the vending machine to fuel my brain for whatever column I was writing. With hungry eyes I watched my healthy snack move to the edge of the metal precipice, shift, pause...and stop. I tried everything to convince that yellow bag to surrender to gravity and the pull of my own voracious appetite for it, but no; it insisted on playing hard to get even when I kicked and punched the machine. In wild-eyed desperation, I waved a dollar bill high above my head and turned to face the small crowd watching my spectacle.

"I'll give a dollar to anyone who can rescue my M&Ms from this machine!" I hollered.

Immediately, a young man emerged from the crowd. He approached quite calmly, and I eyed him narrowly, wandering what his tactic might be - karate chops, the headbutt, or the oft employed shake and rattle? I was genuinely surprised to see him reach into his pocket, but when he drew out his own dollar bill and slid it into the machine, I began looking around for my fool's cap and a convenient corner to stand in.

One small delicious bag submitted to the monetary command, and the second soon followed. Completely lacking in chivalry, with no mercy for the ravenous, dim-witted damsel in distress, the little bastard held out his hand for his reward. I smacked my money into his palm with a grunt of disgust, only to see out of the corner of my eye that his friend was attempting to make off with my own costly bag of junk food. Two bucks shot with nothing to show for it? Simply was not going to happen.

"Those are mine!" I cried desperately as I dashed after him. The smug smirk on his face as I wrested the bag from his hand said plainly that I might have saved my M&Ms, but my dignity was lost, and I'd always be kind of dumb.

Well, my friends and readers, I argue that that is simply a risk of the human condition. I, at least, get the satisfaction of writing about it. That's one of the things that makes me kinda of smart. So there, haha, and neener, neener, neener.

Short, mostly unedited post #3 - Chicken Noodle

I walked into my kitchen early Saturday evening, and I smelled home. It was emanating from a large blue crock pot on the stove. I breathed in deeply and sighed. My tiny little kitchen smelled and therefore felt like home, and I had warm feelings for it despite its diminutive size.

The smell was a whole cut-up chicken simmering in broth and a potpourri of onion, celery, bay leaf, carrot and thyme. The soup was a Mama's love offering for my eldest boy who was running a fever. Thankfully, it wasn't interfering with his appetite, for every time he passed the kitchen, he exclaimed, "Ummm! That smells good."

Of course it did. Fresh chicken, fresh veggies. Old memories. Homemade chicken noodle soup has been a part of my life since childhood. My mom used to make it with handmade noodles - not those fancy kind that pass through the pasta press a few dozen times, but rough, country style ones - thick, doughy and delicious. My dad was very particular about how long the soup should cook after the noodles were folded in and spread thickening flour ribbons through the pot. Off from the burner the soup must come after the last noodle entered the heat. Then it rested for only a couple minutes before my mom presented a steaming bowl to her husband.

Though Mom's chicken noodle soup nurtured me as I grew, it betrayed me when one cool autumn evening in Idaho, I hovered at the edge of the counter and asked self-consciously, "How do you make it, Mama? Can you show me?"

My mom practically giggled over the implications of my request, and I saw her grin and wink at my dad. I had never asked to be shown how to make anything. Of course she guessed what I myself barely knew: I was becoming serious about Matthew.

But not all memories can be satisfying, no matter how sweet the conjured smell. After a few years of marriage I made the soup for My Man's family, hand-rolled noodles and everything. He has four brothers, and some of them have wives and children, so I had to double the recipe, but I neglected to double the seasonings. After my unaccustomed labor, I heard low voices saying, "It's a little bland."  Missing something...."  "Does anyone else want the salt?"

I tried it and got a familiar sinking feeling. It was indeed bland and pathetic, like my every other attempt to impress my husband's family with my kitchen skills. Thwarted again! A curse!

But never mind. Let by-gone bland soup be by-gone. On Saturday evening I heard the noise which always signifies a happy family at dinnertime - the eager click-clack of spoons on bowls.

Grandmama

When I was in Idaho a couple weeks ago, I was mourning my beautiful Grandmama, my mother's precious Mama.

We were going to go and visit this week on the kids' fall break, our whole little family. I had called her because of it, and I thank God for that. I had meant to call for months, kept thinking about her but, yet, never did what I had the feeling I should do. When Matthew came home a few weeks ago with the news that he could take this week off work, I finally called to tell her we were coming to visit.

I remember one thing in particular she said to me during our conversation. We were talking about my babies growing up, and she said, "Someday, Hilwry (I was always Hilwry to Grandmama), your arms will feel empty."

Her words struck me at the time. I knew without doubt they would be true for me. My babies spend a good majority of their infancy in my arms. Once my little Daniel is a preschooler, my arms will suddenly be a whole lot freer. I'm afraid they will feel painfully empty and idle, too.

After she passed, however, the words felt different, of course. My arms were empty in a different way. For Grandmama.

Many relatives gathered around Grandmama. Many more would have liked to. And we all broke down. We all wept in our own moments. The day of the vigil was a particularly hard day for my parents. Dad finally fell into grief; it overwhelmed him. And I cried for my mother that day more than for my own loss; I was almost frightened to see the level of Mama's pain as she broke down every few moments. But then that evening the family got up and spoke in turn about Grandmama at the Vigil-first Uncle Artie, then all Grandmama's children-Mama, Uncle Jim, Uncle Brian got up and lightened things up a little, and Uncle John and Aunt Stephie spoke, too. The grandchildren and friends followed. We still cried, but when we each took our turn to talk about her, some of us repeating her famous, "Oh, Gene!" that she always said to Grandpa after one of his jokes, our grief became less desperate or, in some cases, less stifled. We began to heal. And Grandpa was surrounded by his children (those by marriage, too) and grandchildren. Many of us laid our hands on his shoulders after one of us spoke of Grandmama's true love for this man, and the remarkable and consistent every day ways she found to care for him. At the last my sister Vinca got up to sing a beautiful Irish song. I was outside the chapel walking my restless baby son. I hadn't heard my sister sing in years, and her clear, sweet voice elicited new tears from me, but it made me feel better, too.

And there is a blessing that comes from gathering to mourn someone you all love so dearly. I saw relatives I had not been privileged to see in years, some whom I had not spent time with since childhood. And Vinca figured out that our mom and her siblings had not been all together for forty years. Granted, it was hard under those circumstances, but by the evening after the funeral, Grandpa and Grandmama's children were laughing and joking together. And even Grandpa joined in as we took a huge family portrait.

Grandmama would have been happy to see that.

The Art of The Zinger

Last week I accused my new cousin-in-law of being a reverse pimp.

You're thinking, How the heck does that come up in polite conversation?

Well, it doesn't really.

I can only thank heaven Mom (The Lady) was asleep at the time and so could not give me a long lingering look of disappointment.

You see, I was spending time with my Dad's family when it occurred, and you must understand that these multi-talented people have perfected the Art of the Zinger. Definition of zinger? A verbal firecracker that whizzes past your brain two seconds before you can catch up to it (but you're already laughing your pants off, because it's a good bet you will be anyway).

It's not safe to be around my Dad's family for more than a short evening-that is, if there are three or more of them together. Chances are high under such conditions-yes, very high indeed-that you will laugh so hard all oxygen will desert your brain, and you will keel over suddenly with a stupid joker's grin on your face, your muscles painfully frozen in place. And if that desperate situation occurs, you better have someone along who's willing to administer a good hard slap-someone who you've recently offended in a big way perhaps.  For instance, a cousin's wife whom you just met and then labeled a reverse pimp.

The odd thing is, though, I don't even remember what led up to my comment. It's a complete blank; I was SUIZ-Speaking Under the Influence of the Zingers. I do remember the scarlett flooding my face immediately afterwards when I asked, bemused, "Oh, did I just say that out loud?" followed by the raucous laughter of my relatives while I tried to hide behind my infant.

My Dad was raised in a family of Zingers, but he gets out of practice when he's been too long away from them. It took him a while to warm back up to his heritage. No mistake, though, it did eventually happen.

We did a lot of driving between Emmett and New Plymouth, Idaho-Mom, Dad, Vinca, my baby Daniel and me. It was on one of these commutes that Dad finally let one fly.

There's a canal on the way, you see, and a pull-out next to the canal.

"There," said Dad, pointing one evening as we passed it. "That's where I proposed to your mom. The first time."

He has to add that, because it took two proposals before she would accept his offer. The first time happened on their third date and went something like this:

     Dad: "I love you, Karen, and I want to marry you. Will you marry me?"

     An awkward pause.

     Then Mom: "I really like you a lot, too, but..."

She told him things were moving too fast, whereupon he took her straight home, determining that it was all over between them. They got back together because of Uncle Artie's interference on behalf of his little sister, and a second proposal successfully made it through-on the 5th date, I believe.

There is a point to me telling you this, I promise. You see, Dad must have noticed Vinca and I were staring at that canal as we passed it, looking for the special beauty that would suggest it as the perfect spot to propose.

"I know," he said, looking in the rearview. "It's not much to look at. But it was late at night."

I set him up by asking in mock disapproval, "What were you and Mama doing here late at night, huh, Papa?"

"Putting our clothes back on."

Zing!

We all started laughing, except for Mama who began shaking her head like a fine filly with good manners.

Then Vinca said, still laughing, "Maybe that's why Mama thought it was moving too fast!"

Our laughter exploded (and we needed it, I can tell you, under the sad cicumstances), but Mama, our lady and The Lady, continued shaking her beautiful head at her family all the way to New Plymouth.