Home for the holidays

Snow on the Sandia Mountains

This time of year makes me think of Albuquerque, of the road trip from Phoenix through Flagstaff, Arizona and Gallup, New Mexico  to this mountain town dominated by its peaks in the east, tinged an unusual shade of pink at sunset (hence their name, meaning watermelon in Spanish).

It reminds me of struggling to find presents for nieces and parents-in-law; of sewing felt ornaments in the form of stockings with stitched names during the car ride, scissors, glitter thread, and scraps of felt scattered at my feet; of favorite road trip music (country stations, Allison Krauss and Union Station, Gordon Lightfoot, Bryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond, Journey and more) and holiday tunes by Jewel, Michael Buble and Nat King Cole; of a crowded, packed car and fast food lunches; of taking the same route through town to my in-laws house each time we came.

But here we are.  In Albuquerque.  Now.

No Christmas road trip necessary.  We can see family easily, scant preparation and only a few minutes of travel required.

I like road trips.  I'll miss taking the one between these southwestern sister states.

But, if pressed, I must confess that I like living here more than driving hours to be here.

It is a very good sign, I think - an indication of openness and happiness - when you move to a place that reminds you of every other place you've held dear.  While walking or driving around in Albuquerque, I have been reminded of the expansive park near my grandparents home in Idaho and of the many small towns in that state where my relatives yet reside.  I have recalled Tennessee, because I finished the first book about my childhood here, and I am again in an environment where the leaves on broad, beautiful trees hail the seasons. Of course, Arizona is present in my thoughts: the culture, history and landscape of both states are similar in several regards, and Arizona and all the loved ones there are just a reverse trip across state borders.

So this is Advent, and here we are already, in what could be characterized as our Christmas town.  The first snow has already come; snowmen were promptly built by my snow-starved children.

Gifts for relatives this year will be delivered on Christmas Day with smiles after traveling but a few miles from our own home, taking a fresh and already oft-traveled route.  Over the hills if not through the woods, to my in-laws house we'll go.

A post in pictures: Gorgeous Bath

Pulteney Bridge in Bath, UK - one of the grandest bridges in the world

I was watching Persuasion the other day while folding laundry, and as Anne and the Admiral strolled through Bath, I suddenly recognized a fine old landmark.

"Hey, I've been next to that tree," I thought. "I took its picture!"

Then, suddenly, I was back in beautiful Bath with my good friend Holly, posing for a picture on Pulteney Bridge over the River Avon, delighting again in the graceful curve of the Royal Crescent, relishing the incredible buns in the oldest house there, Sally Lunn's Historic Eating House, getting chills of excitement as I walked above ancient water systems at the Roman Baths, and shopping near the gorgeous Bath Abbey constructed of that most famous limestone, Bath stone.

Holly and I visited Bath in April 2015, enjoying fine weather the entire time in a town where one of our favorite authors, Jane Austen, set two of her novels and where Austen herself lived for about five years.

I remember my brother saying. "All women are like, 'Ooooooh, Bath!', and men are like, 'Phflut, Bath.'"

What does my brother know? After all, does not Bath have the Jane Austen Centre? - a lovely place in which I wrote a love letter to my man with an old fashioned quill and blotter? (He didn't even appreciate the thought and effort; my note wasn't amorous enough!)

My nose looks enormous in the picture, but I don't even mind. I'm in Bath!

Is it not a charming place where my friend and I enjoyed a scrumptious tea at The Regency Tea Room (upstairs at the Jane Austen Centre) before posing elegantly with Mr Darcy?

How about the Roman Baths, constructed in 70 A.D. and smelling of and draining history?

(Though I wasn't tempted to plunge into that water as the Romans routinely did, I thrilled to walk across ancient stones upon which they trod, to view rooms, drains and ancient artifacts that they utilized, and to learn of the temple they once erected there to the goddess Sulis Minerva.

I must say, however, that the mineral water, such as Jane Austen and her friends would have enjoyed in the Pump Room, tasted terrible.)

Is Bath not the only place to boast the gorgeous Royal Crescent, completed in 1775 and designed by John Wood the Younger to give the growing Georgian middle class elegant town living in terraced houses?

And that fine old establishment that serves the most heavenly buns, Sally Lunn's?

Indeed, I defy my big brother. Bath is one of most beautiful places in the world with some of the lovliest architecture, and I - lucky girl! - got to experience it firsthand

As I strolled along the Royal Crescent two Aprils ago, intoxicated by its romance and history, I imagined taking my handsome husband to the luxury hotel that now occupies numbers 15 and 16 on a romantic vacation someday.

It would be just like a Jane Austen novel.

Maybe a little more amorous.

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.

Entertainers

COVENT GARDEN STREET MUSICIAN

Is it too late to become a street performer at 36 years of age?

I have a soft spot for every human being I meet plucking an instrument, singing, dancing, or doing all three on some street corner or in some public square. In short, I have a soft spot for anyone trying to make a living - a supplemental one - in an impractical, creative way.

Many years ago when leaving my senior prom, there was a gentleman playing the violin outside the party venue in downtown Boise. My date was a talented guitarist. Though I viewed him as a friend, there was something romantic in the fact that he paused and dropped cash into a fellow artist's case.

When my family strolled the fashionable section of Honolulu a few summers ago, there were many street performers, painted to look like and standing as still as silver statues with whom you could pose (not forgetting to tip, of course). We have pictures of our children on the busy streets of Hawaii's capital, standing by a shiny, smiling stranger.

Some of my favorite memories of meeting street performers happened during my trip to England in April 2015. There was a casually but well-dressed man in his fifties with close-cropped hair playing one of my favorite songs, "Mr. Bojangles", in Convent Garden. That was the day my friend Holly and I chose to souvenir shop for family and ate Coronation Chicken at a little cafe nearby called Charles Dickens Coffee House. Though this middle-aged entertainer had an ordinary appearance, he played and sang extraordinarily well, and I was surprised more people weren't gathered around to listen. Holly loaned me money to contribute because I was fresh out of change. (Change meaning good money - for quite some time we didn't realize some of the coins were actually worth one to two pounds; we just threw them around like they were humble pennies!)

Later, when we went to beautiful Bath, we heard "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera soaring as we entered the courtyard of Bath Abbey. A young man was playing the arresting melody on his violin beneath a bright blue sky elegantly adorned in small, wispy clouds, creating a haunting contrast. I regretted that I had no easy cash to show my appreciation, but I would not importune my friend again.

MAGNIFICENT BATH ABBEY

Even my dusty corner of the world is adorned with street performers. I have a friend at church who sings in the company of her faithful dog around sports and entertainment arenas. She confided in me that an old friend of hers thinks she really shouldn't be singing for cash. People either like or hate my voice, she said, but she still performs in front of strangers.

And every so often I see a young black man sitting on the sidewalk outside my local grocery store, a violin case open by his feet, the violin cradled beneath his chin. He seems wholly engaged in illuminating a melody with his bow, indifferent to passersby. I've only ever had cash on me once, retrieved from my car, but I am always pleased to see this talented young man, privileged to hear his gift, and I would contribute to his dream every time if I had the wherewithal.

Lately, I have thought very illogically to myself, Why, I can sing okay...play the guitar a little....maybe I could take flamenco dancing lessons!

Wouldn't it be lovely to make your dough doing something so perfectly free-spirited and defiant?

But whether I ever joined this strange band of lively, brave people or no, I am so glad they have their open yet intimate stages all over the world.

Family Reunion

We took a trip to Dallas in March, because my brother Nate was coming from England. I had yet to meet his twin baby boys, so I told my husband how strongly I felt about our family spending time with Nate's family, my sister Annie's family and my parents. I wanted Matthew to get to know Natie better, and I wanted my children to finally meet some of their cousins and to get to know cousins whom they had not seen in years.

Any time we travel to see family, I come home and mean to write about it, but then I don't. I feel incapable of writing down these memories well, and so the weeks go by.

Well, that was more than a month ago, and I want to capture a portion of what our reunion meant to me, so I'm letting go of the pressure to be perfect and elegant while reminiscing.

Though we spent practically the whole time in my parents' small apartment - our whole big family packed in, drinking and eating together - very special moments happened.

* I heard Mom telling my sister-in-law Natalie about her childhood, sharing stories of time on her grandmother's farm peeling potatoes and feeding chickens, and Natalie was sitting by my mother's chair, wine glass in hand, listening intently.

* I got to change poopy diapers, rock babies to sleep, and feed them cereal for the first time in years. My brother Nate's twin boys Daniel and Antony were magnetic, sources of pretty much constant joy, entertainment, and challenges. Daniel seemed like the calmer one, but my kids swear that he stole toys and flayed his limbs just to rile his brother. Antony was a passionate and energetic little fellar who made us feel important when he begged for exercise, entertainment or consolation. My children volunteered eagerly to hold their cousins, passing them around with pride, kissing and smelling their heads (fountains of youth, Berto said). My mom soothed her grandbabies to sleep several times with a magic touch.

* My sister Annie spoiled everyone with bagels each morning like a bagel Santa Claus in scrubs, dropping boxes of exotic flavors off before beginning her busy days as an in-home-care nurse. Then most evenings ended with Annie, her husband Keith, Matthew and me sitting on her patio, laughing and sharing stories and exchanging advice.

* My brother Nate played soccer with my husband and kids on the apartment complex's tennis court. Needless to say, there were bloody injuries, and I wasn't allowed to play in my heels though I wanted to, but it was a joy to watch my husband and kids playing a competitive game with my big brother, laughing and talking smack. (Did I mention Nate lives in England? I don't get to see these games just any old year. It was like the World Cup)

* My nephew Andy and my daughter Gabriella hung out for the first time since they were babies, playing video games and eating regular meals on the patio.

* My nephew James, who has autism, sat down with and hugged my son Berto.

* My little golden-haired niece Nina played for the very first time with my own children: giggling, running and crawling on their backs, especially Berto's, and speaking with her absolutely charming British accent that my children tried in vain to imitate. Even simple phrases were special when Nina pronounced them with posh delivery!

* The grownups took turns making big family meals: delectable roast chicken, spicy, satisfying gumbo, spaghetti with meat sauce. My brother Natie was the chef more than anyone, including providing the last breakfast together before my family had to catch our flight. The prawns he sauteed one afternoon are something I won't soon forget.

* My son Berto went golfing with his dad and Uncle Nate. The pride on his face while listening to Matthew and Nate tell of how well he did as a first-time golfer, and his excitement while telling his own stories of the green, warmed my mother's heart. I saw him stow away the scorecard for a souvenir.

* Dad, aka Paca, cheered on his grandchildren as they played polar bear bowling on his computer. I'm not a fan of video games, but I was a fan of the time, guidance and regular encouragement my dad gave to his grandkids as he watched them play, showering accolades on them for guiding a chubby polar bear on an inner tube into pins. It was awesome.

* Dad gave me a few chapters of his new fantasy book to read ( send me more, please!) and discussed ideas for my own book. He also invited me with him to the store, and on the way there we had a conversation about some challenges I've been facing recently. It was a good conversation, and I have a sneaking suspicion Dad invited me to come with him just so we could have it.

* On our last day Dad played tennis with Daniel and Gabriella even though he wasn't feeling well, and the cousins blew bubbles on the court - even Berto - while Annie, Natalie and I talked one last time.

At the Dallas airport waiting for our flight later that afternoon, my oldest daughter Ana and I were bereft. I missed my brother and sisters, Mom, Dad, niece and all my nephews, but I really, really wanted more time with the babies. When we get to see my brother's twin boys again, they will probably be far from babyhood.

So Ana and I wandered around arm in arm, talking about "da Babies" as we called them. Ana said she missed her "fussy Antony". I had no favorites; I just wanted to hold each of them again!

Men can easily get over the absence of babies' company, apparently. Even though Matthew and especially Berto had held them a lot, they seemed to be alright after being torn from their presence. But our hearts were broken.

A couple of women heard Ana and I talking about the twins and caught Ana saying, "Mama, it's time to ask Papa to adopt a baby."

"Get a puppy," one of the women, dressed nicely in business attire, said to us.

"We have one!" I replied, laughing.

Much later my littlest, Daniel, told me he was praying for me to have another baby. He also had been delighted by the company of his baby cousins.

But another little one in our family? "It would be a miracle," I told him.

Our serendipitous October morning

Serendipity, I'm all about it.

This morning I took my kids to a gas station after my oldest daughter's orthodontist's appointment. We went to a brand spanking new gas station. I know it doesn't sound all that exciting, but it was something else, believe me.

I felt like going for a Starbucks coffee. It often happens with me in the fall; I have to be careful not to let money pour out of my ears. There's a Starbucks by the gas station I normally partonize, but the kids wanted to go to the new gas station by the orthodontist's. I pulled in, and everything was so lovely and new, bright and sleek. No gang signs carved into the touchscreens. No faded signs advertising donuts and cheap coffee and huge sodas. Even the pavement seemed to shine in all its freshly-poured splendor, untested yet by the Phoenix heat still oppressing us in the afternoons. And as I filled up the tank, I thought, I can get a coffee here much cheaper, and they have donuts for the kids, too. We can go in.

I don't take my kids into gas stations unless we're on a trip and have to use the potty or their Papa is agreeing to a quick snack or fast food lunch. Going into a gas station instead of doing a drive-by is therefore exotic, associated as it is with road trip adventures and alluring towns like El Paso, Texas and Gallup, New Mexico. There was that one time in Wakiki, too, when we stopped at the gas station for breakfast, because it was the only place with available parking.

So gas station = adventure in our books.

And I'm telling you, this station was sleek inside as well. Even I was ridiculously attracted to the donut and muffin display cases, the coffee bar, and the wide, non-sticky aisles. My kids ran around in a fit of excitement as I valiantly tried to corral them, and an older gentleman laughingly said to me, "You would think it's a theme park!"

I got a big cup of pumpkin spice coffee and snagged an accompanying pumpkin spice creamer. The kids joyfully scanned the pastries and picked out large, filled ones. We topped off a huge cup with coma levels of a sugary drink combo for Berto, my teenager, who had decided to stay home and play video games, missing all the fun.

When I paid, the attendant commented, too, on how much fun my kids had had, and I laughed and said, "I never bring them into the gas station. It's like Disneyland!"

It wasn't yet nine in the morning when we left clutching our pastry bags and syrupy drinks, happily walking out into the still cool October air, and I thought, It's going to be a great day!

Serendipity.

You gotta love it.

Wupatki and the Grand Canyon

I feel badly for my city kids sometimes....often, actually.

During the Tennessee summers of my childhood, I swam in a creek down our dirt lane, explored acres of woods, picked wildflowers, ran through buzzing fields with dogs, picked plump blackberries in Mr. Spann's field while his cows stared, and laid on top of hay bales with my siblings, slowly toasting in the heat while the smell of fresh, green things permeated my hair.

Ah, the life! En mi corazon...I am a country girl. (That's part grammatically-incorrect Spanish/part English, but that's how I think it in my head.)

Don't feel too sorry for my kids, though. They've seen nice city parks and crop islands in the suburbs. They get together with friends far more often than I ever did. We have taken memorable family trips to California, New Mexico, Idaho, Virginia and Hawaii. They have splashed in the Pacific Ocean, surveyed the Sandia Mountains, waded in the Payette River, seen the battlefield of Gettysburg and, incredibly, have shared the sand with sea turtles on a North Shore beach thanks to their Uncle Steve.

You can't take them with you.

But Nature is not their habitat. The concrete jungle with its token, manipulated plants is. And we do not have a cabin "up North". We cannot ship our kids to a relative's farm in the country for a few weeks every year. We have no - I repeat - zero camping equipment. Yet this summer with nary a family trip on the horizon, we had to do something for our city kids who do not know what they are habitually missing.

For days I searched the web with bloodshot eyes, scouring locations and cabins and National Parks' websites, looking for a deal at the ideal spot, and then it hit me as I laid in bed one night: the Grand Canyon.

Only one hitch. My husband has a traveling philosophy: been there, done that. If you have ever been there and done that then you are exempt from ever having to see or do it again. We have a collection of magnets on our fridge, a proud list of our "have beens". We had been to the Grand Canyon with my sister Vinca's family nine years ago, but Berto and Ana were too young to remember, and Ella and Daniel were not born yet. Native Arizonans all, they had not truly been there and done that. Plus, we forgot the magnet. My husband kindly agreed to go for the kids' sake.

And for mine.

Because not too far from the Canyon is another place, one that has been on my list of "to see" for years: Wupatki National Monument. Not only is it fun to say, but it has remnants of several Native American pueblos. I requested we go, and Matthew obliged.

I then exclaimed, "I forgot this yearning I have deep inside of me to see Native American ruins!"

To which statement Berto retorted while rolling his eyes, "Mama, not even Native Americans go see Native American ruins!"

On Matthew's suggestion we invited dear friends, some of my favorite people in the world, to join us. We packed a picnic lunch bursting with fresh fruit that always tastes glorious after a hot hike, and we caravaned north to see Sunset Crater and Wupatki before our family ventured on to the Canyon the next day.

Cool breezes, persistent smell of pine, tall fire-red and yellow wildflowers and gray volcanic rock welcomed us as we began our first hike at Sunset Crater, a volcano that erupted 900 years ago. Per my habit, I hugged a pine and got army ants on my arms. Ah, nature's varied gifts!

I've never liked gray as a color, but Mother Nature wears it well.

The Native Americans viewed that ancient volcanic eruption as a cleansing, renewal. "Now that," I said to my friend Geraldine, "is optimism!"

Wupatki is on the same scenic loop as Sunset Crater, and scenic is an understatement. The high desert is gorgeous, its many and subtle shades of green in stark contrast with the red earth and sandstone. It will knock you out.

Wukoki Pueblo

Geraldine and I were in awe, but I was pulled back down to earth by the need to tell my kids to stay off the walls and not risk their lives on tiny ledges.

We drove on to Wupatki Pueblo, the largest with a community gathering space, a ball court and numerous rooms.

Wupatki

I found a lavender flower growing in a room there.

Berto found preserved tarantulas in the visitor's center. I've always hoped to see one in the wild.

But the greatest thing I discovered was the blow hole near the enormous ball court. It had a grate bolted over it, but it blew cool air up into your face and hair from very deep underground. The Native Americans believed it was the breath of the Great Spirit. To me it was the true scent of Mother Nature without the perfume of vegetation. It was dank, but I loved it. It reminded me of deep, lonely caverns.

After exploring Wupatki we went on to the box canyon ruins and Lomaki Pueblo. When Adolfo, Geraldine's husband, suggested we could all live in these dwellings by a gorge, they taking one ruin and we another, I agreed. It's nice to dream about existing in such a lovely, lonely landscape, completely dependent on our own will to survive and vulnerable to the whims of Mother Nature.

Box Canyon Ruins

Box Canyon

Lomaki Pueblo in the distance

But such a life doesn't exist here anymore. It's a national monument, preserved for us and future generations, and thank God for that.

And thank God for my darling husband who is always willing to take a hike among Native American ruins just to please his wife.

As for the Grand Canyon? It is what it is, an incomprehensibly huge and beautiful hole in the ground crowded with people. You wish you could free fall and then rise up from its depths on beating wings like an eagle, going off to explore secluded, mysterious places. We walked away from the crowds on the paved path, venturing to stand near the edge several times, clasping Ella and Daniel's hands as we peered across this great divide. Berto, Ana and I did a little rock climbing there, descending onto a big finger ledge. While we scrambled up boulders, an enormous orange butterfly alighted first on Ana and then on me. People pay to go to butterfly wonderlands for just such an experience, and we found it amid the surreal scenery of the Grand Canyon.

Truly, amazing things happen when you get out in nature.

Lady Jane of Devizes

She was a small, older woman in simple clothes. She had short, grey hair and unwavering eyes behind glasses. I startled her only momentarily when I yelled for her help on a deserted Devizes street after dark, and she invited my friend Holly and me in immediately, trying to prevent her two cats from getting out, one who wanted to storm our laps and one who observed us nervously from a good distance.

As we sat in her warm cottage, grateful for the help and rest, Jane told us of her travels to Kentucky, Canada and Italy and of how her amorous, temperamental cat was one she had rescued from an Italian street. Maybe that was why she wasn't put off by two strange American women who accosted her on her own neighborhood street. She was used to rescuing foreigners, and as Mark Twain said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness..."

When we explained how we couldn't figure out the lock box to our vacation rental, she graciously offered us her phone and lap top to contact the cottage owner. When at first we couldn't get a hold of her, Jane offered coffee with cream and sugar.

On the way to get the coffee, she paused, "Do you want wine instead?"

She knew we had had a frustrating night. What hospitality!

Finally, we found out what we had been doing wrong, and we thanked her repeatedly and continually asked what she wanted us to send her from Arizona as a thank you, but she wouldn't accept the offer.

Before we left, I said, "I don't know what we would have done without your help, Jane!"

Holly added, "Yeah, we would have been sleeping on the street!"

And Jane replied, "I have an extra room. I would have just put you up in there."

My friend Holly and I would later refer to her as Lady Jane, and we, who are so keen on English literature, could not think of a more auspicious name than Jane (except for maybe Anne, Elizabeth or Margaret).

I tell the humorous side of our ordeal here: Left to our own devices in Devizes.

Despite the fact that we were temporarily out of our wits, Lady Jane will always have a fond place in our memory, and it's about time we sent her something from Arizona, even if it's just a simple thank you.

England Anthology: Of All the Trees I've Known Before...

My friend Holly wanted to have her picture taken in art havens and historical spots while in England. I loved those, too, but I also wanted to pose with trees.

I went all over England hugging trees. It wasn't planned really, but I fell in love - not with one but with several of them. Being a bonafide tree hugger and whisperer, I haven't really noticed that my whispering or hugging makes a difference to them, but perhaps that's because, except for a few special trees in my life, I tend to love and leave them.

I couldn't really get my arms around this burly guy, but immune as I am to most forms of self-inflicted embarrassment, I tried. He was on the beautiful grounds at Leed's Castle. I had a terrible virus that day. I feel sorry for any human who came along after me to hug him. I'm sure there were several.

These trees seemed a bit delicate, like elven trees. I didn't embrace them. But this picture? I'm no photographer, but I am in love with this image for some reason, technically good or not. There were a fair amount of people touring the castle grounds that day, but this memory takes me to the English countryside all by myself, soaking in the peaceful sounds of nature, possibly taking a nap in the sunshine, and waking up to play with wild rabbits.

There were other trees that had a superb sense of place in a different sense, city dwellers. They were a little bit like Londoners, though: aloof.

 

Big Ben artfully obscured - by the tree, not the photographer

 

The three guardians of Westminster Abbey

The below tree was in Bath. That alone was reason enough to hug it under its towering canopy. I was ebullient that day, savoring the passing moments, fully cognizant of my good fortune, appreciative of my glorious surroundings.

 

It was perhaps the friendliest-looking tree in arguably the loveliest spot, Royal Victoria Park with views of the majestic Royal Crescent. I would live there if at all possible.

 

 

And speaking of the Royal Crescent in Bath, Somerset, there was a very old magnolia tree adorning the front of the Royal Crescent Hotel and Spa.

 

 

I could not afford to stay there, but I could admire the tree.

 

Another tree of Bath, simultaneously down to earth and majestic

 

Ah, the simple and priceless joys of nature.

 

 



Rare Family Meals and A Cooking Brother

When my siblings and I gathered in San Antonio more than three years ago, I had the opportunity to eat some breaded trout my brother Nate had pan-fried. It was so delicious that I moved past my comfort zone of poaching or baking, and I tried to replicate it in my own kitchen. My experiment didn't turn out nearly as well.

When I got home in April from visiting my brother's family in the UK, I told my husband all about the dishes Nate had conjured up for my friend Holly and me, how he had spoiled us rotten. I can still recall the aroma and taste of the huge bowl of shrimp fried rice, the golden potatoes and bright onions, the stir-fried vegetables, and the banana bread. Ah, that banana bread! It had cranberries and walnuts and I'm pretty sure a fair amount of liquor, too. Every morning I went to carve myself a thick slice off the fragrant, moist loaf. I didn't need anything else for breakfast, though of course I couldn't say no to Natie's hash browns and sausage.

The first night at my brother's house, I helped Nate prepare supper, showering chunks of salt and spices that I have since forgotten onto the skin of some lovely little fish. Later that week we went to Borough Market in London, and Nate dashed around gleefully, collecting several of the bountiful culinary delicacies we encountered there. Another night he introduced me to prawns. I've never seen such ugly little buggers before. I tried my best to allow the least amount of skin from my fingers to touch them as I attempted to peel apart their hideous, whiskered bodies. The others laughed at me and shook their heads at my hesitation in clawing for culinary heaven. Then they caved and helped me peel a couple creatures, so they wouldn't have to watch the unattractive contortions of my face while enjoying a fine meal. Nate didn't have the prawns. He asked us how they were. When Holly and I began to gush, he laughingly halted us with, "Not you! I know you'll just tell me they're good. Her!" And he swiveled his pointed finger from us to Natalie who confessed, "They're a little dry but still very good." Nate cried, "Ah!"

Great chefs are always seeking perfection, I guess.

When I told Matthew about all the dishes Natie created, I may have been a bit heavy-handed in my hints that men can cook, too, and love it. Though Matthew gobbles up cooking competition shows, he has no passion for attempting their products, and I have always wondered, why watch them then? I love neither the reality cooking shows nor the reality of cooking, so we are a forlorn pair, eating steamed broccoli, canned beans, grilled chicken, and spaghetti more than is decent. However, gallant as my man is and eager to pacify my pleas (or demands) for him to cook sometimes, he did promise to prepare a few of Nate's recipes if I procured them.

His delectable food isn't all I remember about my time with Nate, but not being an accomplished and merry chef myself, I appreciate that gift in others, especially my big sisters and brother. They all claim to have learned at Mom's side growing up. I wonder how they learned, and I didn't. Where the heck did I, the baby of the family, wonder off to when the cooking started? A weird child, I probably spent those minutes telling myself and my stuffed animals stories in the bathroom mirror. At least I have taught myself to bake tolerably well as an adult, but one cannot survive on cake and scones alone. I wish I could! Instead, I think I'll ask my big brother for some recipes.

Just not the prawns.

England Anthology: Everywhere Home, and the Westminsters

Westminster Abbey

 

Wandering around the eclectic foodie's paradise of Borough Market (at which I consumed the most heavenly doughnut) in London with my friend Holly and brother Nate, I was impressed by a magnificent church across the street to my left. I asked the gentleman at the nearest stall, "What building is that over there?"

"A church."

"Yes, but what church?"

"I don't know."

I was saddened by his indifference to and ignorance of such a gorgeous edifice. What was in fact Southwark Cathedral deserved to be referred to by name. I walked over to it shortly afterward and gazed on it from just outside its gate, reading the welcome posted on the bulletin there. The Anglican cathedral was by the River Thames, and I could see an enormous ship docked in the distance. It begged for some artist to sketch it in charcoal.

The whole of England, from what I could tell in my short visit, was home to hundreds of magnificent churches, and each one had for me a powerful magnetic pull. I never grew weary of seeing or being in them. Each was home. Though I confess that I had the ungracious thought once or twice, This used to belong to Catholics, I was soon corrected: No, these all belong to Christ.

And that was why I loved them.

Visiting the Tower of London on Thursday, we had the good fortune to sit within St. Peter-ad-Vincula's Church and hear the history of some of the executed prisoners buried beneath its floors and how they were all given a Christian burial by Queen Victoria. The Yeoman Warder, who lives at the Tower, explained his own good fortune in having the use of that church for the baptism and weddings of his children. I did not take any pictures, because it was forbidden, but it had quite a beautiful organ in it, a simple altar, a raised tomb in its midst, and a tricky step just outside the door before one ascended the narrow stairs. It was less ornate than expected. The Norman St. John's Chapel within the White Tower, over 1000 years old, held greater attraction for me. Though simpler still, its stone glowed like solid sunshine; its rudimentary pews invited; and its bold arches inspired.

Holly, a true friend, accompanied me without complaint or protest to Mass at Westminster Cathedral on Sunday morning even though she isn't Catholic. Within that church far more intricate than any I had worshipped in, the feeling of being home was more complete, for Mass is the same wherever you go in the world. Every parish reads the same readings all over the world on any given Sunday. The Our Father is prayed by all. The "peace be with you" is always proffered to our fellow Christians. We always have communion. Even if half the Mass is in Latin or all in a foreign language, you feel that you are a part of an enormous, culturally rich, global family.



The Byzantine-inspired Westminster Cathedral

On the way in to Mass, a gentleman tried to forestall me.

 

"Stop!" he cried, waving a pamphlet, perhaps one that had a few points against Catholicism. "Just give me a moment to speak with you. Jesus saved me!"

 

I smiled, shook my head and walked on, but I wanted to reply, "Doesn't He save us all?"

 

After Mass as Holly and I wandered around the various chapels, she said, "I've never been in a church where so much was going on before."

 

The cathedral was lined with chapels to either side of the sanctuary: the Blessed Sacrament chapel to its left with its sign begging quiet for those praying, a chapel of St. George, one of St. Paul, another for Divine Mercy. There were also lines of people waiting to enter the ornate, traditional confessionals before the next Mass. An enormous baptismal font with a statue of John the Baptist near the front of the church greeted those who entered.

 

 

Holly loved the architecture. I, too admired the structural elements, lighting and colors. The crucifix reminded me of the San Damiano one before which St. Francis of Assisi prayed when he heard Christ tell him to rebuild his church. The altar was ethereal, and the architecture in general surprised me, for I was sure that such a relatively new church, built in the 1800s, would not compare to that other Westminster, much older. In fact, I had never heard of the Catholic Cathedral before my parish priest told me about it.

 

 

I may never know how the interiors of the two compare, for when Holly and I went to Westminster Abbey later that day, it was closed to tourists. I was more pleased than disappointed, despite not being able to see the names and tombs of the many famous English buried within. It was Sunday, and the Abbey belonged to those who worship, those for whom it was home.

 

 

 And we could at least take pictures.

 

Holly, always the artist, poses beautifully. Perfecto!