As I look out on the distant high Sierra Mt. Alamos, foreground framed by masses of hot pink bougainvillea, bright blue swimming pool a trap for drifting blossoms, I wonder how a wintery thought could possibly bubble up in my head. It’s climbing to 100f degrees out there. After lapping up gulps at the fountain, our dogs have listlessly flopped in the shade. Local birds flutter and blither at the outrage. It’s their watering spa, and they do not like to share with those oafish beasts.
Seeing that mountain, I’m reminded of thickly frosted forests cascading downslope to a beckoning airport. There’s a town over there…at a distance, a grid of streets stands out against a few white traces of winter. We’re flying south from winter to a Texas visit, touring as we go.
“Know what?” said my attentive navigator. “The Luray Caverns are just over that ridge. Not far from the town.” He had been paging through the AOPA airport guide, a handy compendium of airports and good nearby stuff.
Luray Caverns? Notations were that those were the eastern US’s beauty challenge to the west’s Carlsbad Caverns. Here too were vast caves dripping with spires of stalactites and stalagmites. Okay then… That would certainly be a good take for our boys, now huddled for warmth in the back seat. The heater in our little Cessna didn’t have great output. They were bunched up under a pile of thick blankets, peeking out of hooded polar jackets. And making breath ice pictures on the windows, scraping out lines of tic-tac-toe.
Reducing power to drift down into the valley, I dropped to just above treetop level and slowly swept towards the airport, admiring the white frozen forest below. Although it was south and Virginia, the weather could be harsh. A quickly passing snow squall had happened overnight at the higher altitudes… the ice line dramatically melted to pine tree green when the outside temperature rose. Frosty outlines of trees evenly etched against a fresh blue sky glittered in the sunlight.
They say it’s just not true that southerners are nicer, but I can swear that south of that Mason-Dixon line, people are indeed nicer. Full of warmth and honey. At least at first impact. Nicer than the cold suspicious Yankee. We were greeted with warmth and helpfulness when we touched down and rolled out at the Luray Caverns airport.
“Well, hello there; where you all comin’ in from?” And then, “How long y’all gonna be with us?” And “Will you be needin’ fuel?” Our line guy arranged a ride to the Caverns.
Those words – and a big crinkly southern hospitality smile – made us welcome. The line man was right there to help with whatever we needed. And it wasn’t because we were fancy. Our plane was a weathered old Cessna 172, in the years before we repainted her.
“Put your money into new radios… you don’t need to get her a new dress.” Practical advice from our local airport manager/CFI. So we did that – a nav/com and a Loran, the day’s state-of-the-art navigation system (now passé and replaced by the GPS, global positioning system). Howard Cadwell, mentor of my glider towing and commercial pilot rating, the man who after 17,000 hours of flying would grin and say, “Aren’t we lucky?… Look at those miserable ground-huggers down there. They’ve no idea how beautiful it is up here.”
Of course when we flew to any new place, we would hide our bedraggled bird on the back line. Yeah, we were proud. One day, the new paint would make her into a beauty. But Howie was aviation through and through. He knew what was truly important. R.I.P. old friend.
The Caverns. Besides the eons agreeably outfitting the underground vault with arresting mineral formations of gleaming spindles and spires – someone had ingeniously rigged little hammers to tap out melodies on them, ones such as the hauntingly beautiful “Shenandoah.” (Historic Luray is in the Shenandoah Valley.) As that reverberated through the high cavern, we hummed along with “Oh Shenandoah, far across the wide Missouri.”
The boys were intrigued with it all. It was a good stop. Luray could be a bucket list destination. Who knew?
D-Day plus 10 years
I’m sixteen again, in France. My father has been transferred to Paris. But he has war on his mind from his years in the Pacific theater, issues to set free. He needs to see where it all began to end.
So. We’ve taken our little Fiat to Normandy, map in hand, searching out Omaha beach, rolling through the small village of Saint Laurent-Sur-Mer… a quiet little village that gave no hint of what lay down the road.
We now are standing by an appalling German bunker. It’s truly evil, truly ugly, a massive teutonic beast. Ten years after the end of the War, I’m there with my parents, almost shivering from disturbing feelings. Oh yes, sunny day notwithstanding, there was something… bad. It’s clearly a haunted place. We move along to a vantage point looking down a sweeping beach, out across bright noontime seas. Eyes shaded, I squint to penetrate the misty miles, and I imagine I can see across to England. But of course I cannot. The beguiling blue skies that were once dark with allied war planes are clear and benign… the waters that were so thick with attack boats they say you could walk across them all the way to England – are free of all but a carefree white sail here and there. The graveyard, tended carefully by the French, is a sad final home to all those wasted men.
It’s eerie. I turn around, feeling the unrestful presence of invisible thousands. But no one else is there – just us. There are no monuments, memorials hadn’t been constructed back then – it’s only ten years after D Day; Europe has barely begun its giant cleanup.
The beach reaches out on both sides, the waves lap gently. There’s not a hint of the horror that took place here. Yet it’s there, hanging in the atmosphere. We do not disturb the silence with conversation. My parents hold hands, my father’s face more serious than ever I’d seen it before. My mother is praying – she spent a lot of time doing that.
Maybe it helped.
A FAVORITE MEMORY
1946 – The war was over. We were going to see our own soldier again – far across the globe in a distant land.
Behind a giant Vee-spray of water our MATS transport ship had muscled the Pacific Ocean out of its way, till three weeks out of San Francisco – spouting whales, rocking storms and all – we were at last hauling into Manila harbor. We passed Corregidor’s familiar profile, General Macarthur’s famous battle post, and settled into a rumbling drift towards the dock.
Slogging to a slow stop, the ship was practically listing to port, anxious dependents cramming the railing to spot fathers and husbands. Below, a band played a poignant “Kiss Me Once, Kiss me Twice” in the center of a shifting mass of olive drab, men whose grinning faces and waving arms eagerly welcomed us. We spotted who we belonged to, shrieked and waved, then pushed down the gangplank. There were fierce whirling hugs and requisite “Oh how you’ve grown” stuff – then the agonizing wait to be processed. You ever notice wherever there’s government, there’s processing?
Cargo unloaded and distributed, a waiting government issue sedan picked us up and hauled us away to Clark Field. It was full dark by the time we got there; the road had been full of bumps and mysterious shadows, headlights briefly illuminating… something. I could see nothing outside. We entered through the gates of what I later learned was the erstwhile Fort Stotsenburg, now Clark Field – Ft. Stotsenburg was a prewar post my mother had murmured about in reverential tones. She and Daddy had been there a decade before the war. (Daddy? Yep – he’ll always be Daddy.)
Finally slowing, our headlights passed over a structure I thought was a hotel. But no – we were there… We had rolled up to the commander’s quarters, a large plantation-style home with two floors, deep screened balconies and wide porches. We would spend a few days there before traveling on to my father’s post, Floridablanca at Tarlac. (The war there, turned out, wasn’t exactly over. We spent many nights dodging Huks attacks, guerilla filippino communists.)
Inside, floors gleamed with overlapping circular patterns of wax. Early next morning, transfixed, I watched barefoot house boys, feet gripping coconut halves, skate in sweeping circles to bring back the shine, mucked up by footfalls of the previous day. A primitive buffing machine. Intrigued, my eyes followed graceful dancing moves, sometimes with a candle stub grinding under the coconut against the floor.
“Missy do?” They grinned and offered me the chance to try. “Oweeee” I whimpered… the hard coconut hurt my feet. Total failure. I toppled off, giggling. As I walked around barefoot, I picked up a stiff layer of wax on the bottoms of my feet. Shoe soles did the same. But never mind – the floors gleamed richly, enhancing the huge plantation-like homestead.
It’s been seventy years, yet I can still feel and see that gray wax coating my barefoot soles. And see my father’s face in the crowd on the dock.
THE DALHART INCIDENT
Flying the wide span of west Texas plains can shake your confidence. Not from the endless empty square miles of land (embellished only by the odd cattle tank and small shed – where are people?) but from the fast, frightening growth of towering cumulonimbus storm clouds, popping up like colossal cauliflowers. Their energy plainly threatens your future. One can tear you apart. The horrendous updraft draws you in, sucks you up, breaks you up and spits parts out the top. We remember iconic test pilot Scott Crossfield, pilot of the X-15, and his shocking demise in a ripping thunderstorm over Georgia. When the storm passed, parts were found scattered over a ten mile area.
Clammy palms come with visions of torn wings and spiraling fuselage, images that ooze into your mind as you reroute yourself to dodge them. FSS had said, “Possibility of scattered showers.” Right. Weave between? They’re well-spaced. Rule of thumb: “Give a 20-mile berth.” Well, they’re probably forty miles apart. But swiftly expanding.
Dalhart is now nearby. We flight-planned for it, we’ll make it. We had called FSS to extend our flight plan. Unplanned off-track wandering had added time.
We touched down in the scruffy terrain of a yet mostly unimproved west Texas desert community. One runway was weedy and unused. Thing is, pilots generally take the strip facing into the wind. The other, not favoring the prevailing wind, was neglected and overgrown.
Dalhart’s surrounding landscape since has filled with queer-looking platters of green… see those? The result of circular irrigation. We are bemused. Back in the day of our adventure when flying west for a niece’s San Diego wedding, it was still very rough country. Only a few of those whimsical round fields.
We had a welcoming committee. The airport manager and a curious side-kick came out with raised eyebrows and scolding words.
“Flight Service has called looking for you – you are an hour and a half overdue!” Typical Flight Service. A lazy government worker had taken his time passing along my flight plan extension. The service was so infamously inefficient that pilots rarely used it. They didn’t get much traffic at Dalhart – the odd rancher and whatnot. We stirred them up, brightening their day. Only a few other planes, bleaching on the periphery.
So – dinner and an overnight. We’d be off before dawn with much distance yet to cover. Eschewing iffy enchiladas, we had steak. Why not? It was Texas. Should be safe. But later in bed, I felt my gorge rise, and I miserably off-loaded it. So much for strange places. Hal battled his back. Not smart.
Next morning in the dark predawn, we taxied cautiously towards a possible runway – the weedy one, it turned out, our taxi light giving faint guidance. In rolling for takeoff the propeller mowed a path, hurtling bits of loco weed or whatever past our windows. Putting on flaps for a quick boost up into ground effect, we left the weeds and climbed into the pale dawn, heading towards the Sangre de Cristo mountains. They were a glorious sunrise red. Hal felt lousy and didn’t care.
As we passed westward over more dry flat lands, the sun came up. He made use of a de facto H.E.R.E. bag – the pilot’s cockpit Human Element Range Extender – in this instance, a ziplock bag lined with a paper towel. That helped a little. It went out the window onto a rattlesnake-infested land. Probably wasn’t the first. Maybe it’s still there, decomposing in the tumbleweeds. Maybe scorpions like plastic.
Soon we were looking for the nearest airstrip for the rumbling bowels. Turned out Sandia was right there, off the nose. “Sandia,” to me, meant mysterious Air Force activities, hearkening back to my A.F. brat youth. Deferential comments like, “He’s off to Sandia.”
Never mind that. We landed, rolled onto a taxiway – and found a fly-in community. A woman came out onto her porch and called offering help. It was still very early, before most people were up and about. I bellowed my husband’s problem, she swept wide the door, and he trotted over. The “trots.” So embarrassing.
However, the issue wasn’t there resolved. Poor guy cowered in bed for all the wedding festivities. He got “atta boys” and kudos for the try, though. That, and for the wedding check.
Did you know that sandia means watermelon? Sniff.
So much for the cryptic reference to secret Air Force R and D activities.
BEAUTY GOES UP IN SMOKE
And a way of life is gone.
Our home for ten years, a crazy white elephant purchase on a hill looking at Boston fifty miles in the distance, is gone. The flames reached into the overcast, illuminating the township for miles around. Mother Nature whanged it with a bolt of lightning, as if saying “Time’s Up.” What a calamity for the town, the current inhabitants, and all who remember. She was a three-story play house, kitchens and bedrooms on all floors, with wide open skies and sweeping views – and trilling birdsong. A place to gather for meteor showers, toast birthdays, and have wine-tastings.
For us, Worcester industrialist Charles Washburn’s erstwhile summer house was a fabulous venue for playing party host to friends and family, the locus for elegant soirees and giant sleepovers. Once we had twenty-six at thanksgiving, complete with six lolling dogs. The carcass of the deep-fried turkey, cooked by family friend Elliot, a New York restaurant reviewer, saw itself being hoisted through the hallway at a trot in the jaws of one victorious dog, making us roll with hilarity. It was a place to love, enjoy, and cherish.
Much has been said of its chapters in Princeton history – but our chapter is the one we hold dear. It was full of magic, the old house, and we renovated her to reignite that magic. We reinstalled the curved staircase, torn out to comply with building codes for her chapter as an inn. While the carpenter was working his own kind of architectural magic, the intercoms came alive with a husky voice rasping out:
“I really like the staircase.”
Oh, didn’t I tell you? She had ghosts. Oh yes. The carpenter grabbed his tools, announced loudly to whatever in the air around him, “Well I’m going home now,” and scampered away as fast as his legs could take him.
Winter came, and the Christmas season.
Ah, let’s have a concert! But how to decorate. No problem – Jess Hart, our house guest, turned out to be a display expert. (We had ample room to host three cycles of young families, while they renovated their own homes). She and husband Terry festooned the rooms with evergreen swags and fairy lights, helped by their pretty young daughters. And outside? Fat snowflakes lightly fell, veiling the landscape with glistening white, putting lace on mini-light wrapped trees. When soprano Maria Ferrante swished down those stairs in her diva dress, joining the crowd of sixty-four in the staged living room – her performance cast even more magic. How can I tell you how mystical it was?
The ghosts know. I’m sure they too, wail into the abyss, bemoaning their loss. There’s nothing more final than fire. It was a good run we’ll never, ever, forget.
La Belle Ann, La Belle Carine
In the little picturesque town of Princeton, MA, live a delightful pot pourri of citizens, a cross section of the globe, even. The town sits high on the hip of a monadnock in central Massachusetts. We lived there for many years, raising children and enjoying the winters in the way youth can. We were a post-hippie group, enjoying our co-ed spas and summertime skinny dipping. I cross-country skied and hauled my offspring to the mountain where they zoomed their downhill stuff. In January we listened for the hooty-owls preparing to nest. In the springtime, I lay abed as the sun came up, listening to the too-whee call of the chickadee and the gurgle of the purple finch as they nested outside my window.
My neighbors were the best. Next door were the Smiths, God rest their souls. When a lightning strike took out their water pump and blew the paneling off their inside walls (yes, our houses stuck up into the storm ceilings) they were more than welcome to haul a hose across the driveway from our outdoor spigot to their house till the pump guy fixed it. (We all had wells, and ours went down over 400 feet). The next storm took out our pump, and they repaid the favor in kind. That sent my visiting mother flying back to Texas. She was not into the pioneering thing. We used a cast-iron antique stove to cook on when the power went out – she yipped “I can’t even make myself a cup of coffee” and went hurtling to the airport.
And the Flatts, who lived just beyond the Smiths. Dr. “JP” (Jean Pierre) Flatt, a Swiss-born medical researcher, was responsible for the pinning down of the correct IV mixtures for recovering patients. Ann, his wife, a beautiful leggy blonde, was a teacher of French in local schools, a member of a French speaking group I loved. And, she was the mother of wonderful children. The oldest one made the memory I share now – lovely Carine’s wedding in the country church at the corner. Carine shares her mother prettiness and the brains of both parents, she is one who has always been loving and loved in return. These days she has had to leave her children’s and handsome husband’s side from time to time to care for her mother. Ann is fighting cancer. Talk about life being dreary and unfair.
But my happy memory must come first – the bucolic setting of the Congregational church’s white spire towering into sunny skies over the town green, the sight of Carine and her attendants walking up the little road from home, under the allee of spreading maples European village style, gentlest of breezes touching her blonde hair. Her cheeks glowed pink, smiles ringed all faces. Our son grabbed his camera and filmed it for a gift to them. In the Church, family friend Ruth played the flute and set the spell for the holy rite. It was enchanting, it was romantic, it was so perfectly Carine.
Well, remember that town ski slope? From the church a joyful congregation rollicked up to the ski-lift, seats now enchantingly beribboned and flower-strewn, following the wedded pair to the mountain top. There, the couple disappeared… where’d they go? The magic continued. They hopped off and fled to honeymoon, the crowd riding the swinging seats up and back to the feasting reception down at the lodge. It was the best country wedding ever. So perfectly Carine – as cleverly orchestrated by showman mama Ann.
One of the finest memories ever, for me. Viva Ann! Viva Carine! You can do it. Love conquers.
Mexico – a complex culture of family, friends, and connections.
Its warm and charming people gather happily to chat and share, most times in the plazas. One such locus, Alamos’ Plaza de la Alameda, is a bustling center complete with bandstand for music. In its early days, this plaza was shaded by gloriously huge cottonwoods (cottonwood tree = alamo). In time they died, leaving giant, leafless, branchless trunks – grotesque, lumpy, ancient, upright corpses. Nobody wanted to remove them – they were history. After all, the Alamo tree is the cottonwood, for which the town was named. But there were many and they were right ugly, unfitting for a town designated a Pueblo Magico, one of Mexico’s picturesque antique colonial towns.
Finally a presidente (mayor) took them out and had new saplings planted. This was a good thing. Nobody complained. As the welcoming entry to the town, the run-down Alameda needed to be prettified. Many stands selling tacos and fruit ices ring the Alameda, as well as shady tents with tables and chairs where you can eat birria (spicy stew) and caldos (steaming soups). Aromas of simmering chiles and meats waft alluringly as you pass, stirring appetites. Mariscos, fish platters, vie for your palate. Shrimp tacos are exquisito. And oh my, there are crispy churros, the sugary fried dough drooling goodness on your fingers. There are on the Alameda as well, little ma and pa businesses – sales tables for colorful handicrafts.
And there is Bobby.
He’s an impressively rotund man on our Alamos’ Alameda, one who sings like an angel. Bolero Bobby, the shoeshine man, can polish up your shoes and boots till they gleam like mirrors. He proudly flaunts his handiwork by peering into the shine to catch his reflection – and he can serenade at your parties, punching out the standards and favorites of Old Mexico. His is a melodious, enthusiastic baritone. Powerful and pure. When we had a fund-raiser casino night/auction chez Cabot, Bobby came to robustly belt out those classics to the spending crowd. It was lively, it was joyful. He had people applauding and hollering requests.
We used to haul our leather downtown regularly, but then we had to go back north for a while, and he missed our custom. So enterprising Bobby started appearing at our house to exercise his trade. If we wouldn’t come to him, never mind. He would come to us. The muchachas would see him coming and scamper to the closets for anything leather to polish. It became a welcome routine.
The advent of “tenis” (sneakers) as footwear of choice hit his business hard – and we felt for him. Bobby attends his stand on the sidewalk edge of the busy plaza, a seat on the raised plaza for his shoe-shine customers, a shady spot usually surrounded by joking, kibitzing friends. We see fewer and fewer clientele in that chair… those darned sneakers now festoon too many feet. Can’t be helped – comfort will win out over style. Except for the august Mexican male tradition of business shoes and nice trousers; those men always wear leather downtown and to the office. Along with the customary white sombrero. As long as that custom endures, there will always be a place for Bobby. I can’t see it changing.
But you know, we don’t hear him sing out there anymore. Maybe times are changing after all?
Bah. We’ll fix that. I feel a party coming on.
Coincidences, Strange and Wonderful
Several years ago, our flying adventures propelled us to the artsy, picturesque Mexican town of San Miguel de Allende. In those days it was still quite authentically, culturally Mexican, with all of the country’s flavor and charm intact. Since those days it has been fully discovered by norteamericanos who have delightedly taken it over in droves. But it’s still a dynamic place to visit, even though the best of the best have cornered the market there, jacking up some of the picturesque to high-cost twee. With good humor I refer to San Miguel as the Beverly Hills of the high plains of Mexico.
We were booked at a bed and breakfast, Casa Murphy, the owner a refugee from Washington D.C. It was charming. We had landed at Leon and rented a car to access San Miguel, having been advised by Mrs. Murphy that San Miguel’s old dirt airstrip was defunct and unusable. That was ok with us – the long drive was scenic and safe. Leon in those days was a medium-size city with a gemutlich airport and control tower. Today that has been replaced with a huge facility for biz jets and their ilk, the controllers puffed up with importance and NOT gemutlich. So it goes.
Anyway, we drove to and happily ensconced ourselves in Casa Murphy, settling in to enjoy our B&B mates. They were a pair from Baltimore, a recently retired Ob-Gyn doctor and his wife. Turned out that they originally hailed from a town near ours in Massachusetts. It’s always fun to find a link with strangers.
Hal and I decided to prowl the countryside and take a look-see at the maligned dirt airstrip. We asked our new friends, Lije and Benair, if they’d like to go poking around with us. They would.
Following Sra Murphy’s dubiously given instructions, we wended our way out of town to a dirt road to the airport. On it, we found a cheese factory run by a handsome green-eyed Italian transplant – one who emphatically had no use for the airstrip. We bought some cheese, thanked him for his enlightenment on our project at hand, and went our way. We ignored his diatribe of course. But it was interesting to see such antipathy. I think he didn’t care for the American woman who owned and kept her plane there. She was a blonde feisty type, recently divorced from a successful Mexican businessman. I knew her – she was a Ninety-Nine as was I, a member of the women pilots organization started by Amelia Earhart.
As our rental car rumbled down the rocky runway, we shrank from the cactus edged periphery. We judged its possibilities, and knew it would not do to screw up a landing. Out of context, a striking figure stood off to one side. A tall anglo type fellow stood there, his white hair blowing in the breeze. He appeared to be fiddling with a small radio controlled aircraft.
Hal queried me, “You want to chat him up?” I’m a bit more outgoing than he. I allowed as how I could do that. We stopped where he was. I hopped out of the car with a clever “Do you speak English?”
Blue eyes peered down at me from under beetling gray brows. “Well rah-ther” he snorted.
Ah, an expat. A Brit. And so we proceeded, exchanging names and data. And smiles.
Then something wonderful, extraordinary happened.
It came out that before getting into the doctor business, Lije had been a wartime Army Air Corps Air Traffic Controller, and in 1942-43 he had worked out of Massachusetts airport control towers at both Squantum and Quonset.
Looking quizzically at him the ex-pat announced: “In 1942-43, I ferried military aircraft for the British Air Arm of the RAF out of Squantum and Quonset.”
The air quivered, the men stared at each other. There on the high plains of Mexico, fifty-two years after the fact, the pilot and controller met each other face to face.
Years later, by chance I opened a newspaper in San Antonio, Texas. An item caught my eye. “Woman Pilot from San Miguel de Allende Dies in crash in the Sierra Madres.” Yes, it was my 99s friend.
Rattling the paper, I sighed.
How odd that I would pick up that paper, that day, so far from my then New England home. Another coincidence – but sadly not so wonderful.
It goes like this.
The Devil has a garage sale. The crowd is interested but not big. He isn’t, after all, too popular. I stop in, against my better judgement. Curiosity nudging me along, I peer and poke over the collection of old tools – a trowel, a broken car part declared repairable, a stack of folded work rags. And so on, items in a tempting scramble. Then I spy a peculiar tool, a prettily shaped item. It draws me.
“What can it be? What’s this for?” I asked the attendant. I pick it up, and stroke it. Suddenly I feel odd, unhappy.
“Oh, that,” replies the attendant (a demon? Satan has millions of helpers). “That’s been old Nick’s favorite tool of all – he’s used it so much he’s about worn it out and is dumping it for a new one.”
“So… what is it?” I ask.
“That particular tool is, well, Depression,” he replies. “He finds it most useful.”
As I hold it, a pall of hopelessness settles on my shoulders, slowing my movements. Like an invisible cape, it covers my head, almost hanging over my eyes. My mind slumps into a moist, sad quagmire of tears, I’m assaulted by everything I ever did wrong, hateful thoughts dive-bombing me with every slight I ever suffered, every pain and disappointment I ever suffered. Who am I, to think I can do anything? I’m worthless.
Horrified I throw the object at the floor, but it doesn’t fall.
Despair overwhelms me. The demon titters.
A person next to me starts to reach for it – I grab her arm to defeat the motion.
Surprised, she looks at me, then smiles kindly. My depression lifts like a soft feather and vanishes.
“Wow. How can that be?” I wonder, puzzled. “Such a gripping mood gone like mist. A mere smile from a stranger… and I’m back.”
“Let’s get out of here!” She touches my arm and leads me away.
The power of that smile, the power of kindness. In a blink despair is gone.
“Who are you?” I ask.
Her eyes twinkle. “My name is Hope.”
The woman who once staffed our Princeton post office, the pivotal citizen in the gathering place of our country town, is gone. Anne Mason, postmistress to a generation, was days ago struck down by an ugly, fast attack of cancer. Annie was a woman of her times, a subtle force for feminism and power-point for motherhood. She more than earned her keep, guiding her children through twentieth century vicissitudes to productive adult lives, her strong husband at her side. And in the Yankee tradition of summer getaways, she took them all yearly to an island place offshore to learn more about the joys of a simple life. There’s a fading snapshot in my mind of sighting her across Cuttyhunk yards. She’s shaking out laundry and spinning around excitedly to respond to my call across lots. We were a surprise drop-in from MVY across the sound. Time for iced tea and a good catch-up.
The family dogs adored her. There is a memory chain of large handsome German Shepherds flopping and panting exuberantly about her feet on the antique floor of their home.
Our children were schoolmates, in a time gone by long ago. This summer we were in New England visiting family. Something kept nudging me to call her. Life being what it is, I never did. Now I have to live with that omission. God that makes me sad.
Annie enjoyed my writings. This one is for her, with hugs.