Minutia

6:30 am on a Sunday!

The only day in 7 that I'm able to sleep in and inexplicably my eyes pop open at 6:30 am.  I feel anger & annoyance begin to rise.  Shifting and arranging pillows and blankets I attempt slumber inducing comfort.  No luck.  Maybe I'm too warm.  As I throw off the bedspread I hear the distinctive yawn and stretch and the click of too long toenails of the old beagle on hardwood floors.  The return to sleep for me is no longer an option.  I fly out of bed and down the stairs before the impatient and unreliable beagle's bladder puddles in the dining room.  He greets me with his goofy whole body wag and smile and quickly trots to the back door.  How can I remain irritated?  No one else ever says good morning that happily.  I open the door to release the hound and feel the chill that has returned after our week of January thaw.  I was going to run down the hall and relieve nature's call as well but that old dog is quick  in cold weather and he'll be scratching for reentry before long.  I'll wait and watch the morning skies open and brighten. 

The squirrels scatter as the dog nears.  I look over to the picnic table to survey what remains of the treat I left for them last Sunday.  As the Christmas tree was being untrimmed and sparkle and spirit were packed away baring the house in that odd echo-y post holiday way I remembered the gingerbread house on the breakfast counter.  A few weeks ago my daughter and her friend spent an afternoon happily assembling and decorating. (From a kit mind you, not brave enough to try the real deal!)  Now dust encrusted and hard as a rock I decided to don the outdoors with the remnants of yet another holiday quickly gone.  Boo sniffed it out immediately but soon lost interest since his picnic table-climbing days are over.  For two days the sugary mini abode remained untouched.  On the third day the roof pieces were pried off and strewn as if a tiny twister had touched down in my backyard.  By Thursday huge hunks of gingerbread had gone missing and curiously enough squirrel behavior was faster, more frantic and frenzied, reminiscent of old silent Keystone Cops movies.  A week later there are a few petrified purple and orange gumdrops on the ground and some stupored sugar-crashing squirrels that are noticeably less arboreal. Heppin' up the neighborhood rodents on gingerbread, now there's a new tradition to begin!  Maybe that's the solution for the ubiquitous and dreaded re-gifted fruitcake that plagues the multitudes every December!

I hear the competing clocks ticking throughout the house.  Where is that dog?  It's cold and he should be done by now. (Me too!)  He's on border patrol.  Sniffing out the perimeter for potential danger.  (Squatting and sprinkling at strategic spots - leg lifting rarely happens now.)  He has these moments, although brief and unpredictable, of Snoopy-like puppydom.  Charles Schultz captured the infectious beagle mystique perfectly.  Finally, Boo makes his slow ascent up the deck stairs.  He stands at the wrong side of the door as I open it.  Looking up confused he corrects himself and enters.  Without even stopping at the pantry for his usual dog cookie mooch, he heads for his bed.

After taking care of my long overdo business... I grab a pen and paper and sit beside him to record these soon to be memories, glad to have the quiet opportunity.  Just as begin put pen and paper away, he's suddenly awake and leading me back to the pantry.  It seems the hound is commencing the harangue, he finally remembered the cookie mooch.

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Thoughts written on New Year's Day 2008

Last night the skies were clear and vast, the stars innumerable.  How apropos that on the final eve of Anno Domini 2007 to be given such a broad and bright view of infinite space when mortals contemplate the promise of a new year.  As each passing year seems to move quicker than the last, I felt caught and unprepared as I gazed upward.  Regardless to the absence of my resolution, the ball dropped.  In my little corner of the world the New Year slipped in quietly without fanfare yet with plenty of retrospect on my part.  Upon rising this morning I picked up a book and of all things began reading about the constellation Gemini.  Being an uneducated stargazer I read on to learn the lore of the twins Castor and Pollux who ceaselessly light the night skies.

The story of this celestial collection of stars, like many others, is rooted in Greek mythology.  Twins united in youth, Pollux the immortal and Castor the immortal became separated and miserable through time and its course of events.  Eventually Zeus relented, granting immortality to Castor and thus allowing the reunited eternal heavenly embrace of the brothers.  Great, ancient and mythic stories have provided insight to humankind throughout the ages.  Did the last moments of 2007 have an eternal truth shining in the skies for me?

Interpretation by some has held that the twins represent our separate selves, Castor symbolizing the earthbound and sensible and Pollux as divine or inspired.  The practicality of life calls us to separate these two halves ourselves, proceeding for the greater part of our lives in a "Castor-like" way.  Midway through the human journey there seems to be in most a yearning for something different.  This theory holds that this is the longing for our otherworldly "Pollux-like" selves. 

Did the heavenly skies deliver a mission for me to pursue in this New Year? Am I to discover and illuminate an otherworldly self, my unlived life?

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Sparkling Holiday Conversations

Finally I've managed to shame myself enough to write a blog again.  I couldn't be a quitter like my 4^th grade teacher Mrs. Snyder once accused me of being after only learning 2 ½ songs on the flute before I left my musical education behind.  (In retrospect a huge regret.) Well my one-year blogging anniversary is fast on my heels and like any good Italian/Irish/Catholic - guilt has taken hold.  I can't just leave all my previous thoughts hanging out there looking silly and foolish and lonely.  They need the company of all the new silly and foolish thoughts that have been crowding my head in an alarmingly distracting way.  The time has come to lighten my load. My many thoughts on the little things in life will now burden all of you instead!

Tis' the season of Holiday parties.  I was going for a record this year - RSVPing in the affirmative to five invites.   Number three party was canceled due to the recent Thursday snowstorm.  I just attended the last of the bashes the other night - total only 4.  Will I comment on the obvious?  The food - barely edible or tantalizing and tempting?  Music - good but deafening or embarrassingly non-existent.  Ambience - seasonal and serene or so over the top and overcrowded that you can't help smashing decorations just reaching for the cheeseball.  And don't forget the way too friendly egg-nogged Santa.   No, I won't mention these.  The sparkling conversation and the engaging repartee captured my cataloging ways.  Though I definitely do not have specific Dewey Decimal-like designations for all party-goers that I've encountered, I made an attempt at some. 
Disclaimer: If the party of the first part (me) offends the party of the second part (a party goer) the party of the second part (the party goer) may not take offense.  Furthermore if the party of the third part (someone who wasn't even invited to the party) takes offense toward the party of the first part (me) well tough holiday cookies to you!  Lighten up Scrooge!

My top 5 are:  (on a scale of 1 to 5 with 5 being my favorite)

1. The Vacant Stare Hmm...ing Nodder
2. The Unintentional Interrupter
3. Up the Ante Annie
4. The Thought Completer
5. The Simul-Talk Sentence Finisher

Ok, we know all of them.  In fact, we've all been #1 and will be again on many future occasions.  It's unavoidable - the person you're talking to could be extremely boring and mustering the thoughtful hmmm is really a cover-up for the sleepy nodding off.  There are of course other reasons for the vacant nodding besides the please-poke-me-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil conversation.  Perhaps the person speaking has the biggest bit of spinach lodged in his or her teeth and you're trying not to stare at the monstrosity but a tactful hint on your part is eluding you.  Or my favorite reason is entrapment.  Yup, this person blabbing away is standing in front of the mini pigs in the blanket and mistook your single-minded pursuit of nosh for social engagement.  My advice if you run into a Vacant Stare Hmm...ing Nodder is to immediately pull the wad of green from your own pearly whites (it's not festive!), shut your boring yap and move your big butt away from the food table!

Onto #2, The Unintentional Interrupter.  You both speak at the same time.  So the first time this happens it's charming, even cute.  It could be compared to that awkward first kiss where you bump noses.  You laugh and you try again.  Well whether we're talking about talking or kissing, it becomes an ugly car wreck all too soon.  No one cant get word or kiss in edgewise.  The timing between the two conversants (or kissers) is just plain wrong and needs to end.  The frustration of never being able to say something or having a big red swollen nose is frankly beyond frustrating.

Number 3 is actually now a frequent skit on SNL.  I don't know what this character's name is but I'll use Up the Ante Annie.  Everyone loves to tell an amusing anecdote about an accomplishment or crazy mishap and admittedly there can be a little tweak from fact.  Annie is beyond embellishment.  Her story is always bigger or sadder or faster and somehow there was confetti involved and impossibly dancing tutu-ed Chihuahuas in her tale.  She is dangerous.  She incites the type of holiday-I'm gonna stuff an elf down her throat type of violence that will get you on the 11 o'clock news.  (Or a grainy video clip on utube.)

The last two are interesting because they could almost tie.  The Thought Completer (#4) is very rare.  This is the person you swear you've met before or knew each other in a past life.  The two of you will end up being the party stragglers that the hosts, already in their pajamas, toothbrushes in one hand and your coats in the other will be dragging you to the front door.  This is the person you hope to meet and rarely do.  Sappy?  Yes.  Hopefully the friendship will last into the New Year & beyond and your deep connection wasn't just the champagne in the poinsettia punch.

And finally (‘cause this is really way too long) we arrive at #5, my favorite - The Simul-Talk Sentence Finisher.  This is an amazing unrecognized skill.  Either I'm completely predictable in everything I say or these people are highly intelligent, intuitive, or simply psychic.  I've tried tripping these people up by laying complicated verbal obstacle courses riddled with conversational mines like unexpected pauses or ridiculous phony expressions.  It's like they are Olympic decathlon champions in the art of conversation and I am merely a helpless pawn in their omniscient game of speech.  I applaud and marvel at their unparalleled skill and finesse!

So as the holiday party season continues through the New Year celebrations, take a slightly slanted new look at your fellow merrymakers or one good long look in the mirror and ask, "Sparkling conversationalist or...?"

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Born to beachcomb

Every time I pick up an ordinary box of 32 count wooden kitchen matches I think about my most treasured possession as a kid. 

My older brother used to collect hockey cards and arrowheads and for the longest time I couldn't figure out what to collect.  Every kid in our neighborhood collected something. The girl next door had shelves of horses.  All the boys seemed to have boxes of valuable rocks and stacks of baseball cards.  I tried wheat pennies.  It was convenient because pennies were the discarded, unloved coins in my house.  My brother used to toss them into my room yelling "pennies from heaven."  Non-wheat pennies were saved and spent at Andy's Variety Store where I'd stand on tiptoe to choose bulls-eyes, root beer barrels, squirrel nuts and Maryjanes from the wooden Coke bottle box that sat on the countertop.  Today the remaining unloved wheat pennies are buried somewhere in my son's room.

Now the red, gold and blue "strike on box" matchbox has another story.  No one I knew had a collection as small or unique as mine.  My entire collection was contained in that one little box.

I am convinced I was born to beachcomb.  While other kids dug and built in the sand I would crouch for hours along the curved lines of the receding waves' footprints, eyes scanning for little shells.  I remember that I was eight and it was my first summer in Maine when I made my first find.  Sifting through, I typically found mussels, clams, limpets, slipper and periwinkle shells, all no bigger than a fingertip.  I loved to bring them home and glue them to small pieces of driftwood to give as gifts and decorate my bureau.  One day stooped, wind-tangled hair, shoulders browning, I found an intact tiny sand dollar!  How could something so small and delicate survive the immense power of the ocean?  A sand dollar smaller than a penny!

If I found one, I could certainly find others.  It became my quest, my passion.   Before the summer's end the cardboard matchbox my mother emptied and gave me was filled with nineteen mini sand dollars.  All my friends were fascinated and frequently asked to see them.  I displayed them for a while until a friend accidentally broke one.  Back in the box and tucked into my sock drawer for safekeeping. 

Throughout high school and college I kept them.  My kids have even had the pleasure of seeing them some years ago, numbers diminished to eleven through the hustle and bustle of life.  The last time I saw them was the summer of 2001 as we packed and prepared our house for the addition of a second floor.  A renovation that nearly left us homeless because of poor timing and a wicked mother nature, I certainly could not let a matchbox full of some old shells upset me.

This past Saturday night I was on my Maine beach alone, walking and drinking it all in.  I had long given up searching for replacement tiny treasures, as it only seemed to result in a stiff neck.  Just as the sun was setting and I was racing to the creeks to get some good pictures I decided to look one more time amid the familiar sands.  One quick and fervent upward heavenly plea, "oh please, just one" I looked down and what did I find?  Myself.  Again.  

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My Irish is up and I'm feeling cheeky

I've been on Blog Hiatus and it still may end up being The Summer of Bloglessness.  Living in a summer resort area and having the kids on summer vacation (although I'm not) it's hard not to follow the academic calendar and fall into the laid-back mode.  It seems because it's summer I'm incapable writing or thinking much beyond a grocery list. (and if you see me wandering aimlessly in S & S then you know I can't even accomplish that!)  Besides attempting to avoid puddles of perspiration by wearing shorts and eating way too much ice cream, I've yet to do the ultimate summer thing!  A Day at the Beach!  Finally on Saturday I dug out the bathing suit purchased last summer on sale and still never worn, packed the canvas bag with The Sun Also Rises, towel & sunscreen; cooler with sandwich, fruit, water and Double Stuff Oreos, grabbed a chair and headed for "the reason we all live on the Cape."

It was a great day, saw some friends and gabbed a bit, nice breezes, relaxed, finished my book and did some crosswords with a tattered book found in the bottom of my bag.  All was well until the end of the day.  Home from the sea & sand, outdoor-showered, dressed and ready to grill supper, I just needed to do that, I'm-40-now-and-my-face-needs-moisturizer-after-the-beach-thing.  Being my first day on the beach, naturally I checked for color in the mirror and I saw my own jaw drop in disbelief.

(A little personal history/info is necessary here.  I am ½ Italian and the other ½ is mostly Irish & some mongrel mix of pale European & who knows?  My older sister and brother took after my Dad and look undeniably Italian with black hair and dark eyes.  When I was born, Mom let out a cheer - blond & blue-eyed - a nod to the Old Sod.  Despite Irish features, my complexion has favored my Mediterranean heritage.  I've always tanned, even before any of us ever used sunscreen.)

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest (-skinned) of them all?  The visage staring back at me had my Mother's Irish freckles on my cheeks!  But wait, not quite right - some small parts of my face were tanned.  It's like my ethnic background was impossibly duking it out on my face in imagined match between Rocky Marciano and Jack Dempsey.  Irish and Italian expletives (that I will not write) began streaming from my mouth.  What does this mean?  This is disturbing, is my life half over?  So I spent the first 40 years of my life with Irish features and an Italian complexion.  Will there be some sudden transformation and I'll wake up some morning looking completely different?   Or will there be a gradual change - some peculiar melanin metamorphosis?  If I sit in the sun without using Super Mega SPF 1000+ Sunblock, do I risk the spread of freckles to other parts?  There's nothing wrong with freckles, I just wasn't expecting a sudden sprouting - this will take some getting used to.

Of course when I called my Mom and told of my "new look" fits of giggles filled my ear.  I got off the phone and immediately cooked something Italian for supper.  Funny, a few years back I gave my folks a bumper sticker that read, Irish Temper, Italian Attitude.  It seems I should have bought one for myself.

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Wave & roll

 Yippee! Guess what struck me at 1 in the a.m.? A gastro-intestinal event of epic proportions (ok, maybe novella...or short story...ok, just blog proportions).  Guilt now forces me to ask forgiveness for my lack of empathy toward friends and fam who have been felled by this foe in recent times - fear and the preservation of physical well-being & integrity prevail over any kinship.  Yuck, my stomach does not like to quiver and quake!  The next time I read somewhere the use of the phrase, "a gut-wrenching experience" I sincerely hope my body does not harken the wave and roll.  I couldn't even listen to the radio on my way into work this morning since I knew I'd be bombarded restaurant jingles and talk of the Cape Cod _______ Fest at the Melody Tent yesterday.  (That's right, I can't even write the word!) Though I already knew the result, since my son came home from work last night to tell us the Lobster Boat won. I wouldn't dare risk hearing any culinary descriptors in my current and hopefully soon leaving condition of stomach of discord.  Tonight when I drop my son off at work,  there will be no door-to-door service as usual - he'll get be lucky to get a slow-down-and-leap-out on Rt. 28.   Wave and roll!

I certainly hope you all appreciate my sharing this stomach saga with you as it was not easy to even write under the header of Blog _______.

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A collision of great(?) ideas

Whether or not this collision could be an actual success story that perhaps the jaws of life (represented by the community at large) may need to rescue, remains to be seen... or heard.

• Enter the summer season and tourists seeking out the ideal cheesy Cape Cod (but made in China) souvenir.
• Enter my own trip to a tourist hot spot and the unrelenting need to get "something" to remember it by and having the aforementioned dilemma of the genuine article.
• Enter a recent amusing conversation I had about Cape Cod businesses and their catchy cheesy jingles heard on local radio past & present.  You know!  Like Thompson's Clam Bar, The Glass Rap and Capeway Cleaners!
• And the final ingredient in this mish-mash recipe for the greatest "Cape thing" since cranberries and the Cape Cod Tunnel Permit is my own secret desire that has never been divulged.  Yes, it's true.  I am dying to be a singer in a cheesy Cape Cod jingle.  I can really do a mean Thompson's Clam Bar!

Ok this is where everyone who has ever lived on or near or visited Cape Cod and has listened to the radio and has a much better memory than me can help!  Oh, and all you radio stations and businesses too!  Please, please help compile the best of the best and the best of the worst Cape business radio jingles and advertisements from past and present.  These need to be preserved on a CD for the  BEST AND MOST GENUINE CAPE COD SOUVENIR EVER!!!  Who wouldn't buy it!  The perfect gift for the kid going off to college!  The perfect party background music!  Stocking stuffer!  My proposal if this ever comes together is that it would be done not for profit, but for the exclusive benefit of something completely Cape Cod. (open to suggestions!) 

PLEASE ANSWER THIS PLEA!

P.S.  All I want out of this deal is to maybe have the opportunity to do a karaoke version of Thompson's at a local establishment once they get their own most excellent karaoke version of the BEST AND MOST GENUINE CAPE COD SOUVENIR EVER!!! 

"Hey, where ya'going?"

Click here, scroll down the page and click on the headphones link to play the Thompson's Clam Bar jingle in MP3 format. 

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Pardon me, my subconscious slip is showing

Yesterday's parallel universe

Do you ever feel like you exist in some semi-alternate somewhat parallel universe?  You know, physically you're where you're supposed to be and to the collective whole you function as you always do.  But something's askew and you're the only one sort of noticing and unfortunately it's usually not until after a long day of odd looks and perhaps undocumented damage.  Without a doubt many know what I'm talking about.

Like that look I got from the cashier at Shaw's after he/she bid me the ever present quasi-sincere, "Have a nice day!"  I was aware of my corporal self smiling and nodding and I believe I responded in kind.  In fact after I opened the car's trunk, loaded the bags in and turned the key in the ignition, for a second I wondered why the cashier had such a bewildered expression.  No worries, off to the bank and the gas station (which should have preceded the perishables in the car but apparently my cognitive powers are being affected by misfiring synapses). 

"Of course I'm only imagining this dialogue, being Oblivious Me I couldn't retain all of that but I'm sure it was that bad ...or worse." As I pulled into the gas station and pulled that little lever to pop the trunk I got this strange feeling something was amiss.  Delayed realization from the grocery store has me wondering aloud, "What did I say?" and further contributes to my out-of-sync-ness and diminishing power of speech and/or command of the English language in the following manner.

Gas Station Attendant:  "Regular or premium?"

Oblivious Me:  "Nice day too, sorry."

GSA:  "Regular or premium?"

OM:  Finally managing to turn off the radio and the car but accidentally closing my window save one inch, " $20 please."

GSA:  "Regular or premium?"

OM:  Briefly turning on the ignition to open the window again and worrying the whole time about those posted warning signs and being engulfed by a potential fireball I ask, "Did I open the trunk?  Would you mind closing it?  That's all I need - my food all over Rt. 28!  Haha!  Oh and umm, oh yeah, could you fill it with regular."

GSA:  "Could you open the gas tank?" as he emphatically points and taps on that little door on the side of my car.

OM:  I pull the other little lever nod at him and wonder what Eastern European nation he's from.  Bulgaria maybe?"

GSA:  "Cash or credit?"

OM:  "Sofia?"

GSA:  "Cash or credit?"

OM:  "Debit?"

GSA:  Rather impatiently, "Sign here, yellow copy is yours."

OM:  "Here you go yellow copy is yours, right?  Oh and I think that's my pen and don't forget my $20 cash back."

GSA:  Taking the white slip and pen, "We don't do that here, good-bye."

OM:  Talking to myself driving away, "Strange.  Well, the language barrier.  I guess I'll have to go to the bank after all."

Painful exchange, huh?  Kind of feel like punching me, don't you?  Of course I'm only imagining this dialogue, being Oblivious Me I couldn't retain all of that but I'm sure it was that bad ...or worse.

Last night after watching the uncharacteristically well acted Will Ferrell in the movie, Stranger than Fiction, I realize the very thing that was absolutely driving his character, Harold Crick mad could quite possibly be the very thing to save me from madness, a third person omniscient narrator.  To have someone narrate accurately my word, action and even thought as it happens would be an eye opening experience.  To have the opportunity to amend things or even just attempt to pull my size 7 foot out of my mouth would be refreshing.  Too bad Cary Grant is gone, his suave voice and comic timing would be rather nice to listen to.  Nat King Cole probably would have been better, smooth, jazzy and maybe even dotted with a song here and there.

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Yesterday was a Beaver Cleaver kind of day

In fact the last few days have been.  I know Leave it to Beaver was black & white but in my remembered imaginings it was vivid idyllic Technicolor.  Americana personified.  This Memorial Day weekend Cape Cod was brimming with kid's roadside lemonade stands, parades, waving American flags, bikes, baby carriages and even barking dogs donning patriotism.  The bluest skies, the puffiest, whitest clouds and trees in their verdant fullness - the surrounding setting - 1950's & 1960's TV sitcom perfect! 

That is, outside of the yellow film encrusting everything and the swaying green inchworms munching and dropping.  There's a general chunkiness to the air.  Foreboding perhaps?  I half expect to fall into a giant steaming teacup or get my head stuck between iron fencing rails with the ubiquitous Larry Mondello standing nearby digging for an apple or peanut butter sandwich from his dungaree pockets to chew on.  Or better yet having my discoverer being none other than the ever "polite" Eddie Haskell tossing snide remarks under his evil snigger and grin.

As far as impending doom & gloom I wouldn't mind either of those scenarios.  It sure beats the real stuff like the war in Iraq, global warming/melting polar ice caps, school shootings, astronomical gas prices and the all-important ....who will replace Rosie O'Donnell on the View!  Ok the last one was just for a chuckle and a gentle reminder that all things reported by the news really aren't news. 

Reminder to self: take the bad with the good ‘cause you can't have one without t'other!

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Hot Fudge Sundaes for supper - does it get much better than that?

A resounding YES is my reply! 

That's right, last night my family dined summer style - ice cream on the beach.  After picking up the kids from their various activities I said it was a definite ice cream night.  They were pleased and were probably thinking after a healthy meal we'd get cones out rather than usual self-scooped single flavor dish from the freezer at home.  They then asked their usual nightly question, "What's for supper?"  To which I happily replied in a very atypical, non-nutritional, what-the-hell-life-is-too-short-kind-of-way "I said it was an ice cream kind of night!"  "REALLY? Like whatever we want? Sundaes even?"  It is very satisfying to be the recipient of the expressions of thrilled disbelief.  Unknowingly, in that impulsive, unthinking moment I set the stage for the best moments with my children since the first moment I met them 14 ½ and 15 ½ years ago. 

My daughter and son are at that particular stage in life where there is more independence on their part and more letting go on the part of the parent - ready or not!  There's now more opportunity to step back and wonder at the people, the adults they are becoming.  You hope and pray that all the important stuff you've been trying to cram into them (before they get to the age where they tune you out) has stuck.  As a parent I often cringe at the pressures and stress the teenage years bring.  Will they be able to balance it all?  Do I as their mother, set good example? 

Toes in the sand, ice cream dishes licked clean and tossed in the trash, the night didn't seem to hold any particular promise for something spectacular.  After a playful semi-game of tag the kids began to wander their separate ways down the coastline, beachcombing and splashing.  As my head ping-ponged observing them I began to giggle.  Here they are on the cusp of adulthood and I see them, unaware of each other and yet almost simultaneously, they are skipping, spinning, cart-wheeling and running with wild abandon.  It was if they were asked to act out the first few lines of my blog, Carpe Cartwheelem that I wrote back in February about myself.  Before long they returned and without consulting each other asked if they could jump in the water clothes and all.  Why the hell not!  They were infectious!  I don't remember seeing them happier and in each other's company!  The incongruity of seeing them behave as the best pals they were when they were 3 & 4 but now in adult-sized bodies was indescribable.

To paraphrase slightly the lyrics to the song Cool Change ,

Well they were born in the sight of water
And it's there that they feel their best

I've always known of my children's love of the beach but not until last night did I realize the depth and breadth of that love.  Growing up should never mean the loss of Joie de Vivre.  Tonight on Seagull Beach I received the beautiful gift of reassurance.

I've been replaying the evening to trace an indelible memory in my heart.  Impossible to recapture moments so rare, these words will have to suffice in the years to come.

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