Just "Bill"

He walked into the café with his neighbor, who was using a walker as a balance-assist. The café was packed (and we don't take reservations). He was a local so he knew he'd probably have to wait, but he also knew that he had cache, if he'd wanted to use it. He didn't. He arranged for a seat for his neighbor while he stood nearby.

I think it was a Friday night, this particular visit, but no matter, he was – in fact – a "regular". What I remember was that we were down a server, that our host was new to the gig, and that we were fairly well slammed. Even so, I couldn't help but notice that the place got a little softer … a little more well-mannered … when he walked in.

In a town full of multi-millionaires, the famous, the notorious, the sports legends, the computer geeks, the singers/songwriters, the snotty and big headed, the old money, the BIG NAMES, and the child stars, no one classed up the joint like he did. He was not comfortable with having a big deal made over him, which was unfortunate, considering. Funny when an entire room full of people tries to NOT stare and gasp at a person. I've never seen so many people look at NOTHING so intently before.

Typically he was a breakfast regular, and he'd wipe the bakery counter clean of the twists and hand-pies, buying anywhere from 6 of each to 3 dozen of each. We'd know if he was heading to work or back home by what he was buying. He was usually part of the 5:30am gang, 'tho I can't say that he was a morning person … he functioned well-enough. Mostly, I think he liked coming that early to just be a regular guy. That's when we would talk about fishing, or our mutual admiration for classic cars (he'd met Jake, and approved), or he'd question my sanity about having a gig at a Fortune 50 company and working on the weekends "for fun". (I would typically come back with a shot at his still being in college at his age. He had a great smile, and his eyes would almost shut when he laughed.)

Anyway, I sat he and his guest in a corner table, to try to keep them from being bothered too much. I assigned our most seasoned server, Katie, to the table because I knew she'd handle it well. And she did, even though she later told me that she was a huge fan and was shaking so badly she'd nearly dumped their dinner plates. At the end of the meal, I gave him some bread. I'd remembered from his last visit that he liked feeding the ducks "on campus".

In my years at the café, I've met the multi-millionaires, the famous, the notorious, the sports legends, the computer geeks, the singers/songwriters, the snotty and big headed, the old money , the BIG NAMES, and the child stars.

I will MISS Bill Walsh. In fact, I already do.

"Coffee is for closers" & other sales phrases I miss.

The company I work for has a sales calendar that runs 1 month off from ACTUAL calendar. Actually, it runs 13 months off … so for instance, at the end of this month, we'll be wrapping up Q2 Fiscal Year 2008. I'm sure that when the company began more than 20 years ago, it made sense but it's always fun to try to explain this system to new employees.

This will be the first quarter close that I haven't been a part of the sales team, that I haven't had to call various teammates to see how they were doing and ask if they needed help, that I haven't had to arrange last-minute conferences or visits and … OH HOW I MISS IT. I miss the pressure, I miss the chaos, I miss the craziness, I miss the victories and the defeats, I miss staying in the office until 9pm on the last day of the quarter … ok, no, that's not true. But the rest is. I even love the phrasing that comes with it. I mean – I used to make sure to call each and every one of "my boys" to ask them how their bags felt. (Every time I would say that, a troll in our HR group would jump to his death. So I made sure to use the phrase as much as I could.)

Now I'm on the other side of the money. I'm helping the company figure out how to support neighborhoods, communities, organizations, not-for-profit programs, etc. Rather than selling manufacturing companies on the benefits of 3D software that will virtually show them how their engines and gears will fit, or demonstrating to a city planning board how their skyline will be changed if they allow that new high rise to be constructed, or dragging a draftsperson (kicking and screaming) into the 21st century by showing them the wonder that is computer-created plans vs. print outs, I'm reminding OUR company that by that manufacturer NOT casting several thousand molds of that engine, by that city planning board meeting virtually, and by that draftsperson NOT printing out page after page of plans, we really ARE making a difference to the environment, but we can do so much more.

I was reminded of how far we've come yesterday morning, as I accepted an award on behalf of my company for being named in a group of the most generous companies in my local area. It was a pretty great group of companies, truth be told. I won't name them here, but I can tell you that you can feel GOOD about that Triple Venti Latte you get everyday because the company behind it is VERY generous. I can tell you that the World-Wide Phone/Cable Conglomerate whose initials are NOT "BU&U" is INCREDIBLY giving, too. And that bank with the horses and the Western theme? Well, if you bank there, good on you for partnering with them. They're good folk.

Anyway, I have no cute, clever way to wrap this up. Except to say that in this non-sales job, I actually report structurally INTO the HR group … but if you think that's gonna stop me from calling "my boys" to ask them if their bags are light or heavy, well hell - then you just don't know me at all.

Wagons Ho!

I stopped drinking about a year ago. I didn't make a big deal about it, and truth be told, I still enjoy the occasional glass of champagne, but all hard alcohol stopped in 2006 after waking up one morning after a "lunch" with a friend that started at 11:30am and wrapped up at 9pmish. I woke up the next morning feeling … perfectly fine. TOO good, in fact. I should have felt awful, but I didn't, and I vividly remember thinking "uh oh. THIS can't be a good sign."

There is a long alcoholic bloodline that pulses through these Irish/Yugoslav veins of mine. I've always been hyper-sensitive to the potential booze-hound that lurks in my genetic makeup, but the good news is that I don't impose my limits, bans, habits, or avoidances on those around me. Just because I don't partake doesn't mean I can't be around alcohol and doesn't mean I can't be around those that imbibe. In fact, I was with Andy and Scott in Las Vegas last November and it took them a few days to realize that I wasn't ordering my usual Cape Cods, premium tequila shots, and martinis.

But, if you'll excuse the pun, the sobering part of this entry is realizing how MUCH I've been able to drink in the 18 legal partaking years I've had. There are certain alcohols that I've never developed a taste for (Scotch), and some that I've poisoned myself on (various flavors of Schnapps). Ahhhhh but there ARE some that I miss, and I speak of Vodka. I clued into exactly how much I've "learned" in personal experiences with Vodka when banging out a list off the top of my head of ones that I've had - and without thinking on it, I managed to list about a dozen brand names. And, if I'd spent a few moments in reflection, I'm sure I could have doubled that without too much hesitation.

The thing is that I don't know how long my "wagon" trip will last, and I'm not saying that I'll fall off it even. If I do, I at least know that I'll have enough strength and intelligence to figure it out. I just don't want to ever hear myself say that I NEED a drink – and actually mean it.

Nothing you can say could tear me away from …

Sometimes something comes into your life with very little planning or expectation, and it just kinda … somehow … makes sense. It just fits, ya' know? Everything about it just feels right. And while you look for reasons and answers for questions like "Why this?" and "Why now?", the truth of the matter is that these aren't questions we NEED answers to. We may need to ask them, but sometimes just asking is enough. Knowing wouldn't change anything.

Oh, and you will, at some point, figure that failure is JUST around the corner but, even when presented with the opportunity to do so, it doesn't. Again, it's the nature of finding what's right and what's true and what was missing … it always works. No matter the challenges and changes.

No big surprise here what I'm talking about, I guess. I really love my guy. He never lets me down, surprises me with his grace, strength, and stability … he just fits. We're a match.

Oh, plus he helps me look great when I lower his top.

What?

You Only Get What You Give

Yesterday was a bumpy day. And I have to say that I'm glad it was, I guess, because I didn't doubt myself and I didn't doubt those around me.

After a little bit of ranting, I listened, I asked questions, I restated my feelings and my positions, and - well, outwardly it was all very adult. Inside the little girl in me was scared as all heck, don't get me wrong. But this last lyric spoke to me just now. I'm kinda proud that I bent, and I didn't break.

" ...but when the night is falling and you cannot find the light,
If you feel your dream is dying - hold tight.
You've got the music in you. Don't let go.
You've got the music in you. One dance left.
This world is gonna pull through. Don't give up.
You've got a reason to live. Can't forget we only get what we give
.......
This whole damn world can fall apart. You'll be ok - follow your heart.
You're in harms way, I'm right behind. Now say you're mine
.......
But when the night is falling, and you cannot find a friend.
You feel your tree is breaking - just bend.

This doesn’t count as a carpool, does it?

Late start today, but I decided to blame the weather instead of my health. It was SUCH a lovely morning, so I remembered to take my camera with me as I headed out the door for my hour-long commute to headquarters.

When you see the same things over and over through sleepy eyes, it's easy to take them for granted. Many years ago, when I was working as an editor, I would literally gasp at the beauty laid out before me as I crested the hill before entering the freeway … the Northern California mountains that I'd seen all my life would literally take my breath away as the sun hit them. Better still was the idea that just beyond that was the Pacific Ocean, probably fogged in – making the workday seem even LESS tempting. I love being at the beach in fog or rain, when no one else is there, and typically bring a book and a thermos of hot chocolate with a blanket and settle in on the sand. I also LOVE the idea of having to drive through the forest to get to the water … there's something very balancing about that to me.

As I dropped down into the city proper, I turned on my camera. I will preface the rest of this entry by stating that one should NOT take photos while one is driving. It is dangerous. It is testing fate. It will make one look like a tourist. It is also a lot of fun. Play along, won't you?

I've written already about my "Big City Office"
being in a prime location just beyond the Bay Bridge
and now I can prove it to you. As you can see, it is a small brick building with windows that actually OPEN (which is practically unheard of in this day and age) and is directly across from the Ferry Building,
which is … well, it's "Foodie Heaven". There are other landmarks that I hardly ever look twice at, like Coit Tower

and the Palace of Fine Arts
… all of which lead up to the MOST famous of landmarks in this part of the woods, the Golden Gate Bridge … aka GGB.
Again, I don't recommend you take photos while crossing it. OH, and do not try taking photos after you enter the Rainbow Tunnel, either.
From there, after a little case of car envy,
and getting a front-row seat of Mt. Tam in mid-morning sunlight,
I drive around the back of the building designed by Frank Lloyd Wright,
and I pull into my destination.
So yeah, today was a travelogue. Truth be told, I will probably experiment with this kind of thing a few more times before I head to Biloxi in mid-August, because I want to get this whole "blogging/photo" process down ahead of time. Plus it was an excuse to play tourist … and to freak out that guy in front of me in his Ferrari, who probably thought I was a P.I. hired by his wife to tail him.

The thing about home is it is *not* a thing.

The last time I felt at home when I wasn't there was at a little coffee joint in the French Quarter (no, not Café Du Monde). I had traveled to New Orleans in the early 90s on a whim. I picked a city I knew very little about, one where I had no contacts or friends, and decided NOT to research anything in advance. Aside from choosing to stay at a VERY NICE hotel off the "main drag", I had no plans, no reservations, and no real agenda, other than to just let things happen. I found a small coffee joint on my first morning, and must have looked like I was hurting a bit (*ahem* - I should point out I was still drinking at that point). This waitress, who'd probably been doing the gig for more than 40 years, strolled over slowly and, in a great Cajun drawl said "you need some coffee hunny?" I was home.

I guess that's the last time I really have allowed that kind of freedom in my life – to travel randomly like that, I mean. I'm not totally a structure-freak … ok, a little bit yeah … but life takes over, jobs and family move in, and suddenly you realize that the last real free time you had was when you were sick in bed for several days.

The bummer of being a planner, by nature, is that even if I were to toss a dart at a map to pick my next "go-to" place, I'll still plan what the map shows, and I know myself well enough to know that I'd probably still aim at a certain country, region, landmass, island chain, etc. Being a planner also means that I'm tough to surprise, by others and by myself. I'm surprised, for instance, at the whole Biloxi thing with me … shocked, really, as are friends that have known me for years and years. However, I guess if I sat down and realized my love of most things Southern – the people, the food, the rhythms and energies – maybe I'd allow that it was always in my character to do this sort of thing, but it just took a major force of nature to hit close enough to home to make me know that I HAD to act.

Which isn't at all where I was going with this when I started writing a few minutes ago.

Where I was going was "home". Currently, as I write this, I can correctly say both that I am home and that I am not. And it's not a "structural" thing, and it's not a "location" thing. It's not a "knowing your surroundings" thing. It's an "energy" thing. It is more like feeling a rhythm or experiencing a level of comfort and safety that make you want to exhale a little longer than normal, that makes you carry yourself a little more relaxed, that allows you to stretch your boundaries because you somehow sense that you can, and that you should … that you owe it to yourself and to those that care about you.

It's like being a satellite, traveling to be near to – anything - because you just like the energy and the light that shines back at you.

Don’t count your chickens. Ever. Seriously.

So I arrived at my folks house yesterday afternoon, fed the dogs and decided that I'd go peak at "your father's 20 damn chickens", as my mother already calls them. (She is an animal lover, honest – but chickens are NOT her favorite critters and I can't say that I blame her.)

Before my dad left on this trip, he told me "you won't need to do anything for them, honest" and then spent the next 15 minutes instructing me on how to refill the water bottles without getting the water on the floor of the coop, how to adjust the lighting, where the chick feed was, and gave VERY specific direction on how to close the door of the coop. The door is warped on the bottom, and these guys … er, "gals" … are so small that they could easily squeeze through and get stuck, or get loose and, at this stage, that'd pretty much mean death.

I walked down the path and approached the hen house. Now these gals spent 21 days as eggs and they've only been out for about 2 weeks at this point, so I knew that they were going to be VERY skittish, that they would travel in a group, and that, because of their size, it would sound as though their "peeps" were coming from every corner once I entered. I looked down at the base of the door, and couldn't help but notice Chick 1 – just sitting there. Outside. I reached down to get her, figuring she was a goner, but she was quite alive and ran from me into a woodpile that would take me about 3 hours to dig through and by the time I got to her, she'd be toast. Ok so note to self – we're at 19 chicks now.

I moved the brick at the base of the door (it was there, just not tight enough, which I guess is how Chick 1 got out), untied the lock, and slowly entered. There was Chick 2 waiting to escape RIGHT at the door, but I moved my hand towards her and she ran like fire, so quickly that she actually threw herself onto her back. And then she got stuck that way – peeping bloody murder, flapping like mad, and so hysterical that she spent a full minute that way before she let me flip her back over. She then went running, full-tilt, into the side wall of the coop, which made her slow down a bit.

You have to know that chickens, especially chicks, are … well, they're kind like a drunken frat boy at his first party with the slutty-sorority house girls - all gut-reaction and NO brain.

So I checked the water, adjusted the light, and spent a moment just checking out the flock. They were pretty cute – some are all black, some have brown heads, and they were all pretty much the same tiny size. In 5 months, they'll be providing eggs to my folks but, for now, their entire job is to just be cute. As I looked them over, I realized that I was doing a count. It took me a minute to move them around and have them far enough apart to get an accurate count - 18.

Which was an odd number for me to get, because I was expecting to get to 19, right? So I again separated the clot of chicks (which caused more anxiety and much peeping) and recounted … 17. Huh. I decided that the sound was prohibiting my ability to count, so I walked back outside to start again, and Chick 1 was sitting by the door. I scooped her up and tossed her inside with very little reaction from her. I think she realized that she'd made a big error in running in the first place.

As I was standing outside, I heard furious peeping … distressed peeping … and I thought that maybe Chick 1, who I just tossed inside, wasn't Chick 1 at all, but maybe Chick 3 and it sounded like Chick 1 was stuck somewhere – on the other side of the coop, outside in the non-chicken world. I walked around the coop, stopping to notice how my dad's grape vines were doing (pretty well, actually), and took a look for Chick 1. No dice. (A reminder that the animal I'm looking for here is about the 2/3rds the size of my fist, and when they're really in trouble, chicks tend to freeze, so this wasn't going be easy.) More distressed peeping, and I wondered if perhaps she hadn't crawled under the coop, which would be a bummer because there really is no way for me to check that, but I walked into the outdoor part of the coop, just in case and again, no chick.

I decided to walk back to the inside part of the coop for a new count. I went inside, and the peeping was overwhelming, and really seemed to be coming from a particular corner. I looked closely and saw that Chick 1 – or maybe Chick 4, I really don't know – was stuck in a small space between the wall and the floor. It would have been a horrible way to die, but there was no good way for me to grab her – her wings were trapped at her sides and her body was pretty stuck, but I carefully pulled at her little head, and the rest of her popped out and she ran to tell the others about how I had just tried to kill her. I went outside, found a good rock, and used it to block up the hole. I turned to the flock and had a firm discussion about how "this wasn't a good place to play", and that I wouldn't be rescuing anyone else so maybe they should stay away from the rock, and everyone seemed to agree that'd be a good move. I separated the flock a bit, and counted, noting that I should be at 19, or maybe even 20 – but I was at 18. Still. I recounted … 18. And I looked over and everyone had forgotten my "don't play by the rock" warning and they were all on top of the rock, or standing right beside the rock, getting ready to be crushed. I put another rock alongside the first, to continue to try to prevent anyone from falling into the hole, after I rescued two more chicks that had fallen into it already.

I did a chick count … 20! Hot damn and halleluiah! I didn't know if it was right or not, but I knew I was not going test fate. I closed up the coop and walked away, shaking my head about my "father's 20 damned chickens".

I guess the phrase we all learned as kids was wrong. It shouldn't be "don't count your chickens before they hatch". It should be … well … see the title of this entry.

This porridge is just right.

My father leaves for an out-of-state fishing trip tomorrow and won't be returning until later next week. My mom will be heading up to my sisters' home to spend time with the two "MPG"s ("Most Precious Granddaughters") over the weekend so I'll be spending the weekend at my folks house, to keep the dogs company and take care of the new 24 baby chicks that my dad just got.

I haven't lived there since … uh … wait, let me take off my shoes so I can count on my fingers and my toes. Somehow, no matter how much time has passed, there's something warm and welcoming about returning "home". I live one city away from my folks, and can see them anytime I want, but life gets in the way and I have my own "to do" list and sometimes a few weekends pass before it occurs to me that … hey dammit, they still owe me a birthday present!!

They've changed a few things since I've lived there. They removed the hot tub from the back deck, since I was pretty much the only one who used it – typically when I should have been in 5th and 6th period classes at high school. They re-organized the kitchen and the breakfast room – which means it takes me longer to find "my favorite" utensil or pan. And my mom totally re-decorated her bedroom in shades of lavender that bring her peace and comfort, something that I'm sure she didn't have when her two daughters were there tearing up the joint.

And , as I've said, they now have two dogs - Hershel, aka "HersheyDog" and Belle, aka "BelleDammit". From the names, you can gather that one instigates trouble and the other just goes along for the ride. Animals have ALWAYS been a part of my life – even now, I have *only* two pets. The last round of critters at my folks place when I was still there were my two outdoor farm cats, my father's beloved dog and my three birds. I've always had a soft spot for birds – from roller canaries to parrots of all sizes and colors. (OK – maybe not those damned African Senegals that we had for a couple of years, 'tho - those things were DESTRUCTIVE as heck.) Someday, probably when I'm retired and can spend the kind of time they require, I'd like to get a Moluccan- or Sulphur-crested Cockatoo.

As an adult, the place doesn't seem as large as it did when I was a kid – and there are parts of the structure that I'll never be comfortable with – but still, looking around in the silence, it's easy to see the extra-huge Christmas tree we had next to the living room windows, and the banners we'd throw over the ceiling fan in the dining room for parties, etc. Yeah, it's not too big, not too small – it's just right.

Plus I'll have the whole weekend to look for wherever they may have hid my birthday present.

Memories - like the ... uh ... something something of my uhhh ...?

Yesterday, I was in the process of moving my working space in my "crowded city" remote office. Same floor, just different space. After working for a company of this size for more than 2 years, you kind of expect to move every now and again … just for facilities sake, I think. I've been at this same spot for more than 3 years now, so I'm overdue to move. It provided me a chance to purge my desk a little.

I am no good at throwing stuff out. Considering my past job tasks, this has been a very good thing indeed, as I've been able to get information on meetings from 3 years prior and not lose anytime in moving forward with planning a return to that same venue. However, it has also been a very bad thing because I also am no good at filing things. My desk was … trying to find the right adjectives … well, it made sense to me anyway.

I had holiday cards from folks I have no intention of ever contacting again, and holiday cards from sales guys who I will haunt for the rest of their days. I have my red Swingline stapler (hey - that's MY stapler, got it??) I have one Silver Oak wine glass waiting for the day I decide to start drinking again, and interestingly two bottles of equally nice red wine under my desk (which I keep there for emergency purposes - like an earthquake or a difficult Thursday afternoon). I have a thank you note from Olga at Tiffany & Co., who sold me a silver baby gift (that Scott and I sent to Andy in celebration of the arrival of his second daughter), and a newspaper clipping telling me that Jonathan Wright is no longer the executive chef at the Windsor Court Hotel in New Orleans (a GREAT and wickedly expensive hotel. Take my word for it – if *I'm* describing it as "expensive", it is – but VERY worth it.) My gut tells me that much of this stuff should be thrown out, or boxed and stored in my garage until some random weekend when I decide the boxes have aged properly and *then* throw them out. There's only so much space and I've learned in the past couple of years that I NEED very few "things" in my life.

Speaking of "only so much space", I've been TRYING to remember the name of my Great Aunt Ynez's husband since I posted about my July 4th memories. She was already a widow when I was born, so it's not like I have any imprint to reference. However, after deciding NOT to think about it, it came to me in a flash last night as I was making dinner. Don. His name was Don. And I'm sure that I lost some other small piece of information when I came up with that.

Now where was I? Oh yeah - back away from my emergency wine or I'll hit you with my stapler...

This evening, on Entertainment Tonight, we’ll talk about … nothing.

It's always fun to speculate about people. Wait – no – what I meant to say was that it's always fun to speculate about OTHER people. Recently, I've become a small focal point of some tiny amount of speculation. As someone who values her private life with "great anger and furious vengeance", this focus in any amount is unwarranted, unnecessary, unrequested, uncomfortable, unneeded and – honestly – it's pissing me off.

As humans, we tend to like talking about ourselves. What do we know the most about – have the most information on, know the most details involving, have the innermost thoughts of if not ourselves? Let's get real – "myspace" wouldn't exist if this weren't true and reality TV would be dead air. (I'm not gonna debate what it is now – I have my opinions, but they're mine.) Don't get me wrong – there are things about me I like talking about – the cheesecake-making, volunteer-working self – but there are things that, no apologies, are no one's damned business but my own. (No, I'm not gonna list them here, dumba$$ - haven't you been paying attention???)

There's a celebrity chef currently who may, or may not, be going through a rough patch in their personal life. Man – you should hear what they're saying about … oh, wait – you probably HAVE heard. I don't watch this person's shows. I don't own any of their cookbooks. I have never met this person or any members of their family. I DO know that there are lots of folks that could also say these same things but boy – they all have their two cents to add in, don't they? Ya' know what? It's my two cents, thank you – I'm keeping it.

Imagine what Mary Hart would have to say …

The gift that keeps on giving

I knew that I'd be receiving a birthday gift package from Scott because he told me he'd sent one. I don't think he realized the depth of his gift … and, even though I'm good with words, I don't think I'll ever be able to tell him.

The gift included a copy of the July/August edition of This Old House magazine. On Page 21 is a photo of a mom with 6 kids in front of what looks to be a house that's still got some work to have done on it, which makes sense because that's exactly what it is. The article talks about the work that Architecture for Humanity is doing throughout the Gulf Coast region.

When I look at the picture they've used though, I see a photo of Karen Parker and her six AMAZING children, including Natalie, her second oldest daughter, in front of their new home (not a "house" – a "home"). I know that Natalie is really looking forward to having a room to share with just one sister, instead of two, in an actual HOME, instead of a FEMA trailer. I know this because I helped build that home, and because I met and worked with Natalie, Karen, and the rest of the Parker family.

The article is brief, concise and includes a quote from Kate Stohr, a friend of mine for two years now. We met when I approached her and her husband, Cameron, on behalf of the company I work for, asking if they could please find a project for a bunch of unskilled but eager volunteers in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I vividly remember Cameron's response – "How many and when?" It was *so* totally different from what I'd heard up until that point – which was "we're not ready in New Orleans". After hearing that a couple of dozen times, I wanted to scream "but this was a big fricken' storm and I can walk across New Orleans in half a day. Isn't there anybody who wants help?"

I don't take "no" easily – and that's even more true when I know the person telling me "no" has no authority to represent more than three states worth of people. I was watching the TV after Katrina hit just like everyone else – you can't tell me that the government had a clue as to how to help, even 7 months afterwards. That I ignored so many "no"s until I was told "yes" is just the Irish in me. The difference is that, this time, I was right to continue to push for a "yes".

Someday I'll be calm enough to write Scott a proper thank you for the rest of the things in his package to me – a journal because he knows that each time I go to Biloxi, I write each day for the sake of my company and for the sake of my soul, and a story/cookbook from Matt and Ted Lee, the guys behind the Lee Brothers Boiled Peanuts Catalogue. I'll figure out something clever and charming to say and it will probably come easy to me. If I'm feeling especially talented, I may order something from the Lee catalogue to arrive with my thank you note to him.

But the magazine? It's been in my hands now for more than 4 hours, and I can't look at the Parkers without welling up – knowing that they're home.

How do you thank a friend for a $5.00 magazine that is actually a priceless gift?

Driving through my memories

Yesterday, while I stood in my kitchen for more than 8 hours performing the (now-expected) ritual that IS July 4th jam making, my mind wandered to the July 4ths of my youth …

My folks have a lovely home in a lovely neighborhood that is now considered to be where the old-money Republicans live. My dad is what I'd call the unofficial "Mayor" of the neighborhood. (There's one on every block. Typically a geezer that's been living there the longest that knows where the water lines are, which home Old Miss Jaton kept her 40 cats in, that kind of thing.)

Growing up here was an experience I wouldn't trade for the world. We had oak trees to climb, snakes to play with, frogs to capture, a creek to cool off in during the one or two heat waves that seemed to happen each summer, poison oak to catch when we got careless, and a LARGE blackberry gulch that you could carry your bowl of morning cereal to and pick the ripest berries straight from the bush and head back up to the house for your cold milk. There were downsides, 'tho … we had wild critters that we DIDN'T want (skunks, coyotes, the occasional mountain cat, tarantulas), and we were on a septic system until I was in the 7th or 8th grade. It was only after the county allowed us to get onto a sewer system that building began. After that started, the dirt road was paved (not by the county, but by my folks and another couple of neighbors that wanted to control the dust) and, while the road doesn't have an actual sidewalk and still gets random potholes, it's no longer the same to me.

July 4th would start in the early morning hours. Assuming my dad wasn't working at the firehouse, he'd be up first and would sometimes make pancakes or bacon and eggs or, if he REALLY wanted my sister and I to wake up, liver and onions. We had an eccentric neighbor that lived several blocks across the valley that would blast the Star Spangled Banner through speakers aimed to echo throughout the various homes, so come 8:00am, we were up and moving about. We stopped going to the city parade when I was young because I showed very little interest in watching other folks being watched (it's only interesting if YOU get to be in it, too). We could spend the day with any kind of animal - our dogs, Daisy and Buster; Puff, our cat; any of our 26 or so chickens that were always fun; Copper, my sister's horse; Comet, the horse we leased property to; Charlie our pony; or Cookie and Chuck, our goats.

Around Noon, Dad would take Fred, his Chevy pickup truck, and drive it to the school parking lot, just around the corner at the end of the street. He'd back it into a prime space, the idea being that the family would get chairs and watch the fireworks from the back of the truck. WHY he felt he needed to block off space was a mystery to me. My sister and I were the only kids for blocks and no one really would be up there with us later on. We'd eventually have dinner, and then my Great-Aunt Ynez would walk over from her house and she and my mom would spend an hour or so popping corn and melting butter and filling a grocery bag with it.

We'd trek up to Fred in our bare feet (in the summertime, I can't ever remember wearing shoes as a kid), and complain about how the dirt road hurt to walk on, and "are we there yet" and the other various annoying things that children do. But when we finally settled in and the fireworks began, that's when it really felt like a holiday. Because of the lack of surrounding homes, the view was clear and you could easily imagine that all this was just for you.

After the finale, my sister and I (newly energized from knocking in an entire bag of popcorn), would race each other down the street and to home. Because of the lack of streetlamps and ANY surrounding homes, more often than not one of us … ok, ME … would stub a toe in the process and the other sister would stop, turn, and with utter concern in her eyes and sincerity in her voice, she'd yell out a big "HA-HA. Ya' klutz!" and continue on her way.

In time, the road would be paved, my Great Aunt Ynez would join her beloved husband in Heaven, the crazy neighbor with the speaker system would cease and desist, Charlie would be given to a family with a young child and lots of land to roam on (a lie I'd uncover ONLY as an adult) and the properties would suddenly bloom in oversized houses filled with children to make their own memories.

After running errands this morning, I drove to these various locations, to visit the ghosts of my memory. My sister now has two young girls of her own and lives on a dirt road (only one dog so far). My folks are still in the home of our youth, and the school and Ynez's place remain intact and in use, if not extensively remodeled.

I'm fortunate that I can return here at any time. While it is VERY comforting for me to see these places, it also serves as a reminder to me that I'll be returning to Biloxi, MS a little over a month from now to help in the process of hurricane recovery so that new buildings can be created – not to replace any memories for those that remain, but to be filled with new stories and new families and new traditions.

I guess I celebrate my independence by being dependent upon touchstones because they're available to me. And that those things are there at all is something I am thankful for.

You’re Gonna Miss Me

I have a friend who has the same name as someone who could be considered, in some circles, famous. Not "Bill Clinton" or "Brad Pitt" famous … more like "Stephan Pastis" famous. Some folks will immediately know that name, some will look it up. THAT kind of "famous".
The "famous" person died – last year, apparently.

It was VERY strange to write to my friend and tell him that Scott Goddard was no longer alive.

It got me to thinking (always a dangerous thing) about … well, not necessarily "death" but more of the process of recognizing death when you're among the living. For instance, I've had certain parts of my funeral/service/whatever you want to call it planned since I was 19 years old. I know that sounds overly-dramatic, but I had practical reasons for it. I know that I want the day to be similar to a typical Creole/Cajun event. 'Tho I'm *very* conservative on a lot of things (yeah, that's an understatement, I know), when it comes to death, I really believe that you're on this Earth for the amount of time you're supposed to be on this Earth and those that remain behind should celebrate the time they've had with you. The Cajuns got this right, in my book. The only downbeat part of a typical Creole/Cajun funeral is the procession itself and even then, the music? How can you not smile when a squeeze-box is playin'??

In fact, I know the music that I want played (various upbeat Beach Boys tunes, and the only specific tune would be the Mama's and the Papa's "Dream A Little Dream"). I also know that I want it to be a very casual picnic kind of a thing. I want there to be kids and dogs and frisbee and maybe it could be at the beach if the weather cooperates. If a glass of champagne was raised in my name, I wouldn't object.

Oh, and if my sister is there, it'd be ok by me for her to tell the story of how she broke my wedding-band fingernail (forever screwing it up) when we were kids, or that time when I put my hand through the glass of our bedroom door when she and Suzie were smoking "basil" and wouldn't share with me. I think my nieces would really get a kick outta knowing about their aunt and their mom as kids.

I think that, too often, the "dearly departed" become almost saintly in their demise, and that's a shame because people are so much more interesting in their flawed state than in their PERFECT one.

So I should be pretty damned fascinating.

Farewell Scott – never knew ya', but thanks for my cover-music. (Scott Goddard's "You Break It, You Bought It" music CD can be purchased on Amazon.com)

My Will

The ONLY reason I came in to work today was to go to lunch with my dear friend Tim. We are the real life version of Will and Grace, without the past relationship stuff. He (and another very sweet friend) sent me flowers on my bday but he didn't feel right about them being "late" (can't see how they could be late, since they were totally unexpected, actually but I digress) so off we go to lunch.

Tim and I … we talk in couples-shorthand just because … well, we just do. I can't explain the depth of our friendship. Suffice to say that there really isn't anything I wouldn't do for him. We've argued, we've laughed, we've cried, we've confided, we've critiqued, we've supported, we've torn down, and we've, at times, stood by knowing that we'd be needed after the rest of the world had let us down. I tell him when his fly is down. He tells me when I have crap in my teeth. When we go to coffee, we remark on other people and play the "there's your next relationship" game. (Awful, I know, but it's THAT kind of friendship.) There isn't ever a reason for me to edit myself around him which I thank God for everyday because my "edit" button just doesn't always work. Ok, that's not accurate. My "edit" button NEVER works. I think it's stuck on "mute".

So Tim and I sat outdoors at a café near my "big city" office and had lunch. We haven't spent much time together since his job moved to a different part of the company, but we picked up right where we left off … making "Friends" references ("ya' know – hitting your head like that is only fun when it's a headboard"), people-watching, "how's life treatin' ya?" and just generally hanging out. Especially lately, I've been quiet and even more reserved than usual, something which would push some folks away … but not Tim. He just tossed it all aside and called me on a BS response and … he shined. He cheered me on towards the unknown, telling me to go boldly into whatever the future has in store ... to toss in my heart and my soul because, after all, that's what friends are supposed to encourage each other to do.

I love being Tim's Grace.