Kodi, by Allison Mansell

I have been trying all week to write my thoughts about Kodi. I even thought about posting them on this blog, but I couldn't get much further than my title, "How can this hurt so much?" Today Allison posted a story on Downey Daily Photos. I am reposting it here because she has captured my ache and written the words that I could not. This is the first time I have published something on this blog without permission from the author, but I trust she will forgive me.  ~ Bonnie

A week ago, an amazing dog was taken away from this world tragically, prematurely, and terribly. He was hit by a speeding car and died forty minutes later in the hospital, licking his human's faces and wagging his tail, still loving them to the end.

Heart broken doesn't begin to cover the feeling of loss. Kodi won the heart of anyone close enough to see his tail wag. His face was always smiling, even during his tantrums when we wouldn't throw the ball for him. His fur was the perfect place to nuzzle your face after a long day of being with people.

All he wanted in life was to be with his humans. Playing, sleeping, running, barking, he lived to love them. He loved without conditions.

He was a good dog.

He went with them everywhere. Stores, parties, in-law's houses, vacations, etc.

I mourn. Not in a way of a human death of course, but in a way that I have never felt before. Never again will I see his sweet face cocked to the side like he is trying to understand me. Never again will I hear his bark as I'm walking through the door. Never again will his tail wag ceaselessly for those he loved.

"One last word of farewell, dear master and mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "Here lies one who loves us and whom we loved." No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail."

Eugene O'Neill

 

To read Allison's blog, with more stories and photos from Allison, Joan, and Pam, please see: Downey Daily Photos

MY BAT-MITZVAH, by DORA SILVERS, 83

A couple of weeks ago we had the very special privilege of participating in this milestone in Dora's life. Did you know that one can be Bar or Bat Mitzvahed at 83? Because David says in the Psalms that the average life span is around 70 years old, you are more or less "starting over" at 70, so 83 is the equivalent of 13 -- the second time around! Thank you, Dora, for letting us share in this event! 

My 3 brohers attended Hebrew School, they were all Bar-Mitzvahed. At that time Girls were not permitted  to be Bat-Mitzvahed.  My Brother Jay taught me to sing "Ein Kal La Heinu.  I was 8 years old.

When I was 10, I was sewing buttons on a blouse on a Saturday morning.  My father said "Dora, you had all week to sew, today is Sabath.'  Papa went to the bookcase and gave me the 5 Books of Moses to read, that was my introduction to the Torah.

Today, I reflect on the past and live in the present.  On Friday night services, when the names of the sick are read, it gives me the opportunity to make phone calls, to chat and cheer them up.  When the names on the Yarzeit list are read, I remember those that are gone.  When I lost my son Mitchell and my Husband, I had a very heavy heart.  Now, I have a lighter heart. through my Jewish faith, God does make your heart lighter.

I love my Religious Faith and being Jewish.  I learned many things from my studies with my Rabbi and Cantor.  "Thank You"  Rabbi Warshaw and Cantor Ken for all your help to prepare me for my Bat-Mitzvah.

I am grateful to have my Family:  My Brother Jay, 4 children, 3 Grandchildren and 3 Great-Grandsons.  I am blessed and life is good. 

                                L'CHAYIM    ---    TO LIFE.

Remembering My Mom, by Charlotte Boquist

Here is a short sweet memory, appropriate for the month of May, when we remember our mothers. ~ Bonnie

“Hi mom,” I said softly, rousing her from a nap. She was sitting in the recliner in her room at the Good Shepherd nursing home, where she was spending her last years. “How are you this morning?”

She smiled, “Oh hello honey, have you been here long?”

“Just got here,” I assured her, “The weather is gorgeous this morning the sun is out and not a cloud in the sky.” I sat down in the other chair and felt a pang of sadness, looking at her once robust body now so shrunken and fragile.

Mom replied that she already knew it was a lovely day, the nurse had described it for her earlier. My mother has lost her sight to glaucoma and now must rely on others to describe the delights that lay outside the big window of her room. She had been an artist, creating beautiful paintings of landscapes and the animals that populate the Wyoming mountains and prairies.

“There is a robin hopping around on the lawn this morning”, I said.

“He is probably looking for a worm for his breakfast”, she said with the authority of an avid bird watcher.

“I’ve brought the paper, should I read to you for a while?” She smiled and I unfolded the newspaper and began to read the news of the day.



________________________________________

Two by Randy

V is for “A Valued Class of Vintage Memoirists”

By Randy Brandemihl

My senior memoir class is a very special group of people. The variety of their vivid backgrounds is one of the very things that make them valuable. Their vintage years and vivacious friendship is the very thing that binds us all together.

In the very beginning, we all came here seeking a variety of pleasurable pastimes, such as humor, knowledge, companionship and, of course, memoir writing.

Of that goal I feel, without a doubt, that we have all vanquished a darkness and found a very fine and victorious bright day.

Viva la Vida!!!

What Makes this Group Special?

By Randy Brandemihl

I would like to say thanks to this special group of memoir writers and explain what makes you more special than any group I’ve ever known.

The groups I’ve known in the past, beginning with my youth in grade school and going forward into my high school years and then my military service, all provided me with great memories. We were young then and shared such good things as movies, birthdays and first kisses. The groups in the military were different from the school groups. We were no longer children; we were men and women. My military friends and I shared good memories, but we also shared our fears and losses. My memories of those years are some of the worst and some of the best.

As we grow older we make all these great memories as we move down the long epic road of life. I’ve come to this group, here in one bright cheery room in Norwalk, all these years later and a million miles from where I was born. I’ve found a place where I could tell all my stories that I’ve collected over these years; not only that, but I’ve found great people that will listen and even enjoy my stories as I enjoy theirs.

Unlike the stories we told in school that revealed our youth and inexperience, the stories in this room are stories that reflect, collectively, over a thousand years of lifetime experiences. To tell them and to tell them well, we have become poets, storytellers and playwrights. Each one of you has touched my heart.

Thank you and our great group leader, Bonnie.

L is for “Love, ” By Margaret Takacs

“L” is the beginning letter of the most powerful world of our dictionary. It covers a multitude of emotions, which can trigger a multitude of events from history and from individual lives.

“Love is a Many Splendored Thing;” so says a lovely old song I have heard my daughter Kathy sing so many times. It can take many forms: love of family, friends, cherished pets, plants, favorite possessions, and foods – all the colorful mosaics of our lives. It surely has taken me to the pinnacle of happiness and to the depth of despair in my lifetime.

Throughout the years, as my daughters heard (maybe too often) the stories of my life, they always encouraged me to put those stories down on paper. I don’t know what held me back: maybe procrastination, laziness or reluctance, not knowing how to reveal the tumult of my life.

Then in my retirement, when my physical disabilities started to affect the vitality of my life, came an unexpected pleasure I greatly value and enjoy today. Before that, one of my daughters, Judith, gave me a book to read and record the important events of my life.

It touched my cord of resistance, and I thought it would be a lot easier this way. And then my other daughter, Kathleen, met by chance with Bonnie Mansell, and she sort of enlisted me in Bonnie’s memoir writing class, leaving me no more excuses.

Joining Bonnie’s memory writing class brought many pleasures into my life. Her sunny-spirited guidance overrides my occasional glum and my resistance to writing. We have a wonderful company of classmates who become friends while sharing each others stories ~ sometimes with tears of sorrow, sometimes with joy, sometimes with great humor and laughter. We value and enjoy the stories of each other’s lives.

In my writing class I find companionship sharing each other’s joys or sorrows or burdens, and in the process we rediscover that love is a many splendored thing, which can teach even my ninety-year-old heart to sing. Yes, love is truly a “many splendored thing.”

MY ONE-ARMED FAIRY by Peggy Knorr

I had purchased a little fairy figurine just a few days before Joe, my husband, became ill. I had bought her even though one of her arms was broken off because she was so especially beautiful, and I had planned to place her on a shelf in a way so the missing arm would not be noticed. As the time went by during my tending to Joe, I began to realize how she was symbolic of that which he and I were going through at that time.

Poised in dance-like abandon on my dining room table, she was my comfort and guiding light when I would sit down for a needed break, while Joe, lying in the hospital bed in the living room, was slowly and gradually slipping away each day.

My fairy would give me of her delicate strength that assured me that this situation was in divine order, totally in God's control and playing out in the way it was supposed to be doing. This little soul had suffered the loss of her arm and yet was intrepidly giving forth of her beautiful spirit in ecstasy and rapture. Her severed limb spoke of the coming loss which I was about to go through, the separation of a vital part of me, my right arm, that which Joe was to me, even during the time his torn mind had hidden itself into obscurity. But my fairy reminded me that at his death I could continue in elegance and faith, still looking upwards to my highest good, soaring with Joe's spirit into acceptance of what was yet to come.

I will continue to dance, despite my loss, like my inspired little fairy, a fractured but triumphant spirit, who was still poised and able to hold her head high in acceptance of God's wondrous ways. My companion and husband, my right arm.... gone.... torn asunder by the reality of the order of life; but because of the fortitude of this luminous little being my exultant spirit is joining with him in higher realms of faith and hope and courage.

photo by Mary Ramirez

Valentine's Day Memories, by Bonnie Mansell

On Valentine’s Day Steve and I drove down to Balboa to have dinner at BJ’s. We parked on Park Avenue, next to the alley that runs behind the old Island Rooms Motel, where I used to stay as a child with my mom, her sisters, and Grandma & Grandpa, along with all the cousins.

Steve and I walked down that well-lit alley and I showed him the tiny house in the back that we used to rent. Tiny as it was, we only rented half of it. I can hardly believe how many people we got into that little space.

We walked down to the ferry and rode it across the bay to the peninsula. We were the only pedestrians on the ferry on this calm cold night - a contrast to the bustling crowds drawn to this spot in the long, warm evenings of spring and summer.

The quiet atmosphere and clear sky encouraged both romance and nostalgia. We reminisced about crossing on the ferry with our children when they were little, about my own childhood memories of that same crossing, and about my parents as they enjoyed grandparenting our children.

The ferris wheel was turning, but only a few brave souls were riding it on this windy night. We were not even tempted. As we walked through the fun zone, we remembered my mom riding the merry-go-round and ferris wheel with our kids, while my dad watched. We passed the bakery and I remembered the doughnut holes that Grandpa used to buy for us.

When we got to BJ’s we found to our relief that it wasn’t crowded. This was the BJ’s where we took the kids to celebrate their birthdays, so our memories were filled with the chaotic joy of those days. We used to sit in a booth, crowding in as many people as possible and putting high chairs at the end.

It was here that my mom showed the kids how to tear off one end of a straw wrapper, blow through the straw, and “shoot” the wrapper across the table at each other. She also showed them how to scrunch the wrapper, accordion style, into a teeny ball, drop small amounts of water on it from the straw, and watch it “grow” and wriggle like a worm.

After dinner, we took the ferry back to the island. We walked around the island before going back to the car, another tradition full of memories. I could see that Steve’s hip was hurting, but this is part of the way he gives himself to me. He knows how much I love walking, so he walks with me, even though it hurts.

As we walked, we talked of simple pleasures – Balboa Bars, kids walking on the retaining wall, the changes that time brings. I am grateful for places like this in my life – places I couldn’t afford to live, yet completely accessible for pleasant evening walks, places of beauty and wonder, where the memories are free.

Reflections on 2010, by Gail Earl

For the first time, I felt something different after Christmas. Every year ends with Christmas and I'm usually exhausted but not emotionally wiped out. This year I feel that abundance is dictating our everyday lives. There is just too much of everything. I'm feeling very compelled to make a clear and decisive change. I want to be conscious on a daily basis, of all the excess around me. I feel a nagging urge to be more present in an authentic life. I'm feeling a need that I'm not exactly sure of just how to fill.

I want to be more aware of the time spent on the "quest," rather than the prize. I think I need to step out of my body and my mind and look at my life, and the time that I've been given on this earth. I want to make a daily effort to step back and slow life down.I want to be more aware of the life I've been given and how I spend those days, hours and minutes.
I absolutely love my life, but at the end of this year, I feel I have been selfish with it. I want to do more.

The Christmas Treasure, by Annette Skarin

I stood in the middle of the second floor of the mall known as the Galleria. I was overflowing with joy as I clutched my purse with the sixty dollar Christmas bonus we had quite unexpectedly been blessed with that year. I was a single mother once again, but this time with three children instead of one.

The shoppers swarmed around me – many of them with lemony looks on their faces and empty glazed eyes. Occasionally someone would smile and say “Merry Christmas”, which would brighten my spirit and charge me with the energy of the season as I cheerily returned the greeting. Christmas tunes were dancing in the air and all the shop windows were dressed up and alluring.

I had been so poor in the previous years that I hadn’t been able to afford presents for Christmas. I already knew in my heart the special gift I wanted to purchase each one of my children. A special VHS tape (remember those) that had just been released showing shots of whales and dolphins underwater for my son. A pair of pretty earrings with turquoise stones for my oldest daughter. And last, but not least, a photo album for my youngest daughter.

I was pleased with my selection and had a little money left over, so I stopped at the candy store to get a few of my favorite jelly-belly jelly beans (my favorite was popcorn). I set my purchases down next to me and weighed out and purchased my treats and then quickly left the crowded store.

It only took a few minutes before I realized my bags were no longer with me. I hurried back to the candy store and saw the now empty spot glaring at me. I asked the person behind the counter if they had seen a bag or if anyone had turned one in. She said, “No, I’m sorry.”

I left the store in a panic and backtracked to every store I had been to. Every answer was, “No, I’m sorry” until someone suggested I report it to mall security. Numbly I found my way to the security booth; by then tears were beginning to form. I told my story between sobs and garbled speech. They tried to keep me calm while they called security personnel on their walkie-talkies but they all came back with the same answer. Sorry!

My heart sank and I wanted to scream out, why? I finally went home and lay there bawling uncontrollably. Our Christmas was ruined.

My children had been at school but when they arrived home they asked me, “What’s wrong Mom?” I told them what had happened and all of them said almost in chorus, “It doesn’t matter Mom, as long as we have each other.”

I have never forgotten that lesson. I am blessed to have such loving children.

* * * * * 

For more stories from Annette, please check her blog:  Annette's Blog

Country Road, by Noemi S. Rabina

I am a country road stretching from town to a remote village. I am being traveled by all people from all walks of life. Employees from town will walk in groups to the end of the road where they work in a Power Plant. People from the village will also walk to town for different purposes; like selling their goods, or buying commodities they need at home.

Being in a rural place, I am not as attractive as those in the metropolitan areas. I look rugged especially where I have lots of turns. Wild trees have grown on both sides, their leaves as big as elephant ears.  As the wind blows, it gives a whispering sound. Who would dare walk alone on this lonely road?

However, I always look forward on Sunday mornings when five sisters will come out and joyfully walk together on my humble path. It is a joy for me to listen to their laughter, their songs of hymns, and their words of inspiration. I bet they are going to church, rain or shine. They will take off their shoes and walk bare foot to feel the cool earth on my side and the running stream of rain water. 

One will describe the beauty of the wild flowers unnoticed by other passersby, the dancing leaves of the wild trees, and the song of birds, big and small. Showers come and they were drawn closely together under a big black umbrella. Three heads drawn sided by side; one small head in front and another small head at the back. They move slowly as one, to my delight, as they scream with laughter that echo all the way.

Before sunset, they are on their way back home to where they call their paradise hill.  They started as five going to town and returned with gentlemen escorts from their church. The air is filled with brotherly/sisterly love. I am not a lonely country road after all. 

My Thanksgiving Flower, by Margaret (Peggy) Knorr

Today my husband brought me in a single flower from the profusely blooming camellia bush in our garden. Let me explain why that to me was such a momentous experience.

Joe, at almost 95, is in the netherworld of dementia. He pretty much lives wrapped up in himself and his own immediate needs and affairs, most of which are off balance with what we perceive as reality. His idea of thankfulness has never been very present in his psychological makeup, and at present he seems to have little or no awareness of the extent of the loving care and attention he is receiving. He is angry in moments when he realizes his entrapment and then his moods usually turn to helpless and hopelessness, but in between times his underlying sweetness often comes into play changing his behavior for a little while into child-like living.

Today, while he was wandering around the garden, he must have been awestruck when he came upon this glorious bush, covered with brilliant pink flowers. I would have loved to have heard his inner conversation. Was he drawn to the innocence of the blossoms, something like he himself, blooming for no apparent reason, or did he just have a sudden urge to pick one and bring it in to give to me? I wonder what tickled the remnants of his mind that prompted him to break a single branch and come inside the house, saying simply "I have brought you a flower. It's for you."

This may not be so full of wonder had he ever given me flowers before! He never had! He was just not that sort of a person. This was the first flower he had ever given me in all the 64 years of our marriage! My treasured thanksgiving flower speaks testaments of love and faith and thankfulness.

I wonder if he had caught the Thanksgiving energy that is circulating in our hearts at this season. Had it automatically seeped into his psyche? It sometimes seems to me that demented minds have keener sensibilities in different dimensions than those we ordinarily have. To me, that calls for us to dwell on lofty ideals. To do that has awesome power to work for good.

A post script, added at a later date:

Since writing about this happening, which lit Joe's mind with thankfulness and lifted my spirits so much, his recall of it became engulfed into the dark caverns of his unconsciousness to become yet another forever lost memory. It is now locked inside Joe's ever diminishing capacity of remembering....a sweet thing living where all the other orphaned memories reside. They call to me fervently to recreate them once again. My answer is that thankful deeds of kindness can never be forgotten. I tell them that my pen is the sacred instrument through which they shall live again.

Thanksgiving with God, By Yolanda Adele

It was 1991. Getting together with the family for Thanksgiving Dinner was not something that I was looking forward to, having lost my father, whom we called Popi, just two months earlier. Yet I felt an obligation to my mother and the rest of the family to be there to help alleviate the obvious void that was left in my parent’s home.

On holidays before my dad died the house and neighborhood had been filled with the sounds of Mexican music blasting from dad’s reel-to-reel tape-recorder. That tape recorder could play non-stop for 24 hours and sometimes did, often times to the annoyance of the neighbors, and always to the frustration of my mother, who was hard of hearing. I could hear it the minute that I turned on to their block in Huntington Park, though their house was almost at the end of the street.

Popi enjoyed having lots of activity around him, especially since my eldest daughter Yvette made him a great-grandfather, first with Jaime, born in 1986, then with Brandon who was born in 1990.

It amazed me to watch Popi interact with his great-grandchildren in a way that he never could with his own children. I came to realize that both grandparenting and great-grandparenting were God’s way of giving parents another chance to get the bonding thing right if they didn’t fare well the first time.

Jaime loved her Popi. The last time that she saw him alive she was five years old. She came with her parents to visit with Popi in his bedroom where he lay on a hospital bed. My mom called us to the kitchen to eat. I told Popi to rest and that we’d return in a bit.

After a while Jaime left the table. I got up to look for her. I went to the living room where her toys were spread out on the floor; she was not there. I checked in the bathroom; she was not there either.

I walked down the hall to my father’s bedroom. There I saw the sweetest sight. Jaime had somehow managed to squeeze through or climb over the hospital bed’s metal side guard and was lying on her side facing her Popi. They were both smiling at each other as Jaime gently stroked the top of his head.

Now the family gathered without any lively Mexican or any other kind of music playing. In fact the only sounds beside our voices were the harsh clattering of the dishes, and silverware. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this strained family gathering.

We held hands around the table and said grace. Then, with a voice like an angel, Jaime proclaimed, “Popi is so lucky. This is his first Thanksgiving with God.” Suddenly I felt all the bent up tension leave my body. A smoothing peace washed over me. Someone turned on the radio, filling the house with a joyful noise… then I knew Jaime was right.

More Thoughts on Games, by Margaret (Peggy) Knorr

From Bonnie -- This started out as a comment on my "games" story, but, as you can see, Peggy had a story of her own to share. We agreed that this deserves a post of its own.

Dear Bonnie,

I love your description of games providing "the setting for many of those ordinary moments that shimmer in the fabric of our memories." To me, games and play and child-likeness are the very attitudes which we need so we can experience the sparkling shimmerings which our memories have for us; and not only for our recollections but also for the enjoyment of the present moments in our living. Carolyn, this frail woman, so close to death, must have had a child like heart which allowed her to revel in the enjoyment of those game players whom she was watching. 

It brings to mind a recent observance I had regarding my 94 year old demented husband, Joe.  His normal bearing is one of dissatisfaction with his physical, mental and emotional state.... a grumpy old man!  For the most part his face and body have a dejected, depressed and often angry look, but one day I was incredulously surprised and absolutely fascinated to see his boyish glee and excitement return for a little while when three of our male friends sat down at our table and joined me in a game of dominoes.

Joe sat with us but could not participate because of degenerated eyesight and his faulty cognition did not allow him understanding of the game, but his actions and the obvious delight he was getting from watching us and hearing our bantering and loud explosive laughter, must have touched a playful shimmering spark from his memories. Not only was his face transformed into enjoyment but his whole bearing was rejuvenated.

The treat he gave us with his verbalizations of his reactions was to me, astounding. Joe was loving listening and observing and was allowing himself to enjoy an "ordinary" moment in the little reprieve he had been given that day and it was indeed a joyful spiritual moment for all of us.

Yes Bonnie, as with your homey and comforting feelings while listening to your family playing, which you describe so well, we do not have to look far to be drawn into the depths of the spiritual life.  Like the laughing Buddha's reverence, it is all importantly spiritual...   

Games -- for Carolyn, by Bonnie J. Mansell

Just a few hours before Carolyn passed away on Wednesday evening, I learned that she had gone to a Bunko game on Tuesday. It was hard to imagine that only 24 hours ago this precious woman, so frail and worn, had been helped into a wheelchair and taken by car from La Habra to Chino Hills to be at a Bunko game, where she couldn’t even play. Tim assured me that Carolyn had been well enough to go, though she had very little energy.

After I got past the shock, I started thinking about it. If I knew that I was dying, would I want to spend my last evening watching friends play a card game? Of course, Carolyn did not know that her death was only a day away, but she was well-aware that it was imminent.

Honestly, my first reaction was, “Are you kidding?” It seemed, I don’t know, frivolous or something. It’s just that -- if I knew that I was dying, wouldn’t I want to be at home, savoring every minute left with my family? Wouldn’t I want to do something, ahem, spiritual?

Then, as I thought more about this on the way home, I realized something. Yes, I would want to spend every minute with my family and those who mean the most to me; and yes, of course, games are a bit frivolous. But, truthfully, game playing has created some of the best memories I have.

I love playing peanuts or scrabble with Steve and the kids. And I’ve laughed so hard while playing Celebrities, Telephone Pictionary, and SCUM that I’m sure I’ve worked off some holiday calories (or “played” them off, I guess).

Games are certainly not the context in which you would expect to have a deeply spiritual epiphany, yet games provide the setting for many of those ordinary moments that shimmer in the fabric of our memories. And isn’t it, after all, the ordinary moments that add width and depth to our lives? Wouldn't we choose to savor those moments if we remembered how short our time really is?

As I reflected on all this, I began to appreciate Carolyn’s decision. Even now, while I am in good health and death is not often in my thoughts, I love to listen to my family sitting around the table playing games. I like to sit on my bed working a crossword puzzle as I hear them in the kitchen: playing, laughing, staying up later than I have any desire to do.

It gives me confidence that they are fine – that they enjoy being together, choosing, as adults, this healthy, interactive community, whether I’m a part of it or not. So, if I knew that I had only days to live, I can imagine that I would love to be in the room as my friends and family enjoyed games I could no longer play. Frivolous? Maybe. Spiritual? Absolutely.

Sister Week, by Gail Earl

My younger sister Jan, and I are best friends. We have always shared a special bond. We know what the other is thinking and always finish each other’s sentences. We are very lucky that we share every Saturday together. We just always have.

My older sister, Sharon, moved to Idaho a few years back with her husband. We miss her terribly but stay in touch via email and Facebook daily. When she moved we started a tradition called "Sister Week.” She comes down and stays with me. My sister Jan also takes a week off work and comes and stays with me. We plan every day ahead of time; the entire week is filled with laughter and adventure. It's a week long slumber party. We are all pretty goofy, love to laugh and be silly.

My husband, kids and Grandkids all know that they fend for themselves the entire sister week. My poor husband even sleeps downstairs and the girls get the upstairs (to be honest it's not really a sacrifice). I think the giggling gets old with him. He loves us all and is happy to give us our space. Sister week is the middle of October. So far we've planned a train trip downtown L.A. We like to go to the fashion district, the jewelry district, China town and the museum.

We have one day where we'll drive to Oxnard to see our brother. He is an eye doctor so he'll examine all our eyes and then we'll have dinner on the beach. One day we will be antiquing in the circle of Orange. One day will be spent cruising three different marinas and beaches (Hermosa, Redondo and Newport). One day we'll be at Farmers Market, the Beverly Center and Santa Monica. We'll visit our old haunts from when we lived there.

One day is our mani/pedi and spa day. One day will be a family dinner with the kids and grandkids. We do this family dinner every Saturday night, but Sharon is never here for all our chaos. We like to make each day a marathon day and pack in as much as possible.

As much as we love all the running around, I think what we like most is at the end of a busy day, all getting jammied up and jumping into my bed and laughing and giggling 1/2 the night away. It reminds us of when we were children and shared a room. Our father would have to yell at us to stop the giggling and go to sleep. After we laugh for as much as we can take, we all go to separate rooms to actually sleep.

I know we're silly together, but it even amazes me how utterly ridiculous we can get. Our conversations range from uncontrollable laughter to free tears. Nothing is off limits.

I know how lucky we are to have this time together, but I think the real luck is that we all know how valuable it is!

Many Blessings, By Yolanda Adele

While on a road trip with our 25-foot travel trailer in tow between Utah and Idaho, my husband Vic (“Honey”) and I stopped at Bear Lake to camp for a couple of days. The campground was a private resort with many amenities, such as a pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, tennis court, golfing greens, showers, recreation, dining room, paddle boats, and more. (I enjoy “roughing it,” smoothly. I’m a city gal, after all). However, we were told by the camp manager that only the Jacuzzi and showers were available due to the off season. I could barely hide my disappointment, while Vic whistled a happy tune.

Honey expertly parked our trailer on a top level campsite, affording us a stunning view of meandering paths abundant with Queen Anne’s lace growing in wild profusion, and across from the resorts entrance we could see farmlands that backed up to the lake. Peace was in the air so heavy that I could almost smell it, along with the sweet scent of clover. I absorbed the peace; it entered my heart and grew until the quiet was pierced only by the high-pitched song of orioles flying overhead; their bright orange bodies were a bold splash of color across the clear blue sky.

That sight gave me pause for appreciation of the beauty I was witnessing. I felt like I was looking at a living painting. The scale of this enormous canvas that displayed nature’s art under a flawless azure sky immediately filled me with peace that comes from knowing that there is a grace more powerful than any mortal tribulation.

“Wow, Honey, this is a spectacular vista! Sadly though, when night falls our eyes will be denied feasting on such beautiful landscape.” I said mellow- dramatically.

“Let’s wait and see what the night will bring us.” He said.

“It’s going to bring darkness! Haven’t you noticed there aren’t any street lights around here?” I pouted.

There were few R.V. rigs in the camp resort, and no signs of people out and about the grounds. At midnight Honey and I put on our swimsuits and climbed to the highest knoll with the light from our flashlight to where a Jacuzzi was located. I turned on the switch that started the waves of bubbles percolating before we submerged ourselves into the warm comforting water.

Darkness seemed to blanket the earth around us and over us like a canopy of black velvet. The stars were like diamond clustered broaches in the midnight sky; they rivaled the moon in their brightness. If that were not enough, we were entertained by fireflies capriciously flitting about like miniature stars.

“Honey doesn’t this place, this night, make you feel as if we are the only people in nature?”

“Yes, it does. He said with a boyish smile, because we are.”

I felt privileged and humbled for the divine experience we had been gifted with. Midnight darkness brought out the galaxies to illuminate our many blessings.