Venice, Italy is a city on the water, within the canals and surrounded by water. Its history is ancient and beautiful beyond words, beyond cultures and back so far in time it’s already into memories of trillions of generations.
We had, as I wrote already, a quaint Italian hotel which was an early mansion from the 1600’s yet modernized and updated yet still hanging around the past.
My gorgeous room with intricate bed headboard.
Bath with lovely tile.
Venice—
There are many little narrow streets like this that seem to close you into their arms then suddenly open into a spacious square with old churches, shops, sidewalk cafes with maybe just a few tables spilling out onto the cobblestones or a restaurant with many tables inviting people to stop for a pizza, pasta, wine or spritz.
Food and drink are everywhere and it all tastes better than you imagined.
My tour group splintered off as our tour director told us when to return to a meeting location in Venice and we went to get a bite to eat seeing this loyal dog sleeping with his leash ready outside a high end store. We all took pictures of this sweet dog. He touched our hearts.
This is just half our group saying bye to Venice and on the next day to Florence. I’m third on the left.
Figures at my first hotel in Venice. They didn’t say much.
Ciao. I left recently from San Jose at 6:20 am to fly to Minneapolis for a 4 hour layover, then to Paris, France then to Venice, Italy. It was a solo adventure. A vacation. It was challenging. It was tiring. It was exhilarating. It was exciting. Friends urged me to go after the loss of my husband of 53 years.
Landing in Minneapolis, Minnesota was pretty with lakes dotting the landscape. The airport is well done, not like a steak, but like well organized and laid out, with gates and your plane easy to find and security moving swiftly. It’s simple to put your stuff into a plastic box and walk through those magic frisking machines. One officer made me go through the process 4 times. I guess he liked me.
I had notified a Murdo friend who has lived there for years. I had planned on meeting him at the airport but I texted him off and on thinking that maybe I didn’t need to bother him especially on a Sunday. Things went back and forth for a while, but it did work out so we planned a meet up downstairs at ground level by a coffee shop in the airport to chat, however I would have to go through security again.
We talked about old times, how our families were doing, and how we had met our spouses. I hadn’t realized Rafe had lived with my cousin Jeff H. For a while after he got a job long ago in Minneapolis.
That’s not my friend’s real name but every time I’m out walking my dog, Nincompoop, and listening to music, my AirPods guy says: “You have a message from Rafe- read it?”
Rafe used to be “some guy named Ralph.”
After a three hour chat, then a delayed flight (with a recommendation from Rafe to look for famous tile flooring by Gate 1) I sat waiting and never did see the special tile. But here’s a picture:
That tile is pretty exciting.
I had a long flight from Minneapolis to Paris, and tried to sleep but with no luck. They served drinks a lot, even red and white wine. I had a lasagna dinner like a frozen copy imitating dinner plus veggies and a lemon dessert that resembled a lemon bar. After hours of fits of near sleep and twisting and turning in my seat, we made it to Charles De Gaulle Airport way out on some distant runway as they hauled us away in buses to the real airport and I was instantly lost. This airport is a modern, glassy, glossy, winding, up and down gooey mess.
Photo below is from MN airport.
The piano player at Minneapolis Airport there. That’s a big Steinway baby grand piano.
I had fun chatting with him. He gives lessons, if you’re interested. He told me I could start to learn from where he gives lessons. I told him Minneapolis was a bit too far to go from California where I live for piano lessons.
Then I finally landed in Paris and luck would have it I asked a worker there where my gate was and she knew. It was mobbed at the CDG airport. Crazy security gates there with up escalators then down to find my gate, but I got on board and flew to Venice, Italy. Pretty short flight then found my tour lady with her sign on a pole. After meeting three other ladies in my group, it was pure fun, adventure and amazement.
I had made it to Italy. I was enraptured.
Water taxi to Venice.
We four ladies on the tour were remarking at how fast our water taxi zipped, bounced and splashed across the bay to the island. This driver smoked his cigarette the entire trip out. He was calm. We were worried. We did make it.
I was in Venice, Italy after 24 hours, including an overnight flight, a visit with a fellow Murdoite and four airports and a speeding boat ride out to my hotel. I walked with my lady travelers down the street after hopping off the boat as the tour guide… well…guided us to the quaint, lovely old mansion from the 1600’s currently a hotel/inn.
First night out for snacks with new friends in Venice.
Part 2: Trippin’ in Canada- A New Food Frontier for Me
“I wanna try veggies!” My Granddaughter is reaching for food at my birthday dinner that I had requested. She couldn’t wait. It was the best birthday dinner ever.
I flew to eastern Canada recently. It felt like I was in another country. Right. It is another country – a beautiful, green, clean country. In Canada they eat poutine. It makes your arteries cry out, it tastes delicious but looks like three ingredients that met on a blind date, drunk and forgot one of them had made two dates at the same time.
French fries, gravy with cheese curds. It’s affectionately called “poutine” a national dish.
I had it twice and barely recovered. It looked pretty ugly yet comforting. It was gooey, floating with guiltless gravy smothered French fries, but daring a person to get to the crunchy brown and crispy fries at the bottom. Oh, and then we haven’t added enough fat and heart challenging delights, say Poutine creators. We will add – drum roll – cheese curds! I resisted, I fought it, I ate it. Poutine was delicious.
My birthday takeout dinner: four cheese raviolis, lasagna, canolini and a big salad with Italian dressing.
I requested we do takeout and eat it at home because it’s so much better and easier when you have kids, ages 22 months and 4 years. Gimmy knows. (That’s what my grandkids call me.)
Gimmy enjoying her bday dinner ordered from Little Italy in Ottawa, Ontario. So happy.
Four desserts: mini lemon meringue pie, tarramasu, raspberry cheesecake and chocolate mousse with hazel nuts. Sinfully delicious. Even the bakery logo was a square of dark chocolate.
We also went to special coffee shops which were recommended to us by family.
This one had cocktails also.
Mocha for the retired teacher.
Coffee shop way out in the woods with tree growing up through the roof and fabulous croissants.
A half eaten French croissant because someone couldn’t wait.
Layers of golden delectable thin pastry.
Once in awhile we would stop eating and drinking to ooh and awww at the fall leaves.
Then there were the better than restaurant dishes my daughter and husband prepared.
Homemade nachos. Mmm.
Veggie salad.
Polish sausage from Farmers Market.
Pierogis- just add sour cream.
This coffee shop had an old juke box and a laundromat in back so you could wash clothes and eat pastries and drink coffee at the same time.
Quinoa with veggies that my daughter made.
My son in law made mashed turnip with butter and bread crumbs with Parmesan cheese on top. It took hours to peel and mash the turnips. It was so delicious.
Aunt Gayle brought falafel with two flavors humus and pickled onions and peppers and pita bread- whole wheat or white from a local restaurant.
Grilled cheese was all right with Amelia especially with Dad serving.
Then we went one evening over to the Mexican restaurant across the lake with great views from upstairs and boats moored down below. One big boat was named “Doin’ Nothin’” which fit because it never did a thing the whole 11 days I was visiting Ottawa.
The food was awful but the service and location were amazing. Here’s what Everett ordered even before we got our drinks:
Mac and cheese is called KD in Ottawa. The refried beans were right from the can and Spanish Rice was almost as good as Rice a Roni from a box mix. Everett ordered some of it and a side of sour cream.
Nachos
Pretty presentation.
My daughter and I both ordered this enchiladas with rice and beans.
To save us from this Mexican food from a box that tasted like… uh, I don’t know, we got big margaritas. Sam, my son-in-law, had two just to help ease the food situation.
Margarita #1.
Thanks, family and Canada for a unique and fun food experience!
Breakfast kid style.
Donut machine making apple cider donuts when we were at the Apple orchard. We bought 2 bags.
I started my family trip on a recent Friday waking up at 2:00 am. Hey, when I got up that early, I thought, why not just stay up, since the Uber was coming at 3:40 am?
I was packed, dressed, and had my neighbors coming later that day to pick up my little dog, Nincompoop. I had prepped them about her and she knew them from other times when they had dog sat. She would really miss me but they loved her.
Ninny the Pomo poo being left with neighbors while I traveled out of the country to visit my daughter and family in Canada.
Me: Good dawg.
Ninny: You expect me to be loyal when all I get is a lousy cup of water?
I was excited to be flying to Ottawa, Ontario Canada to visit my daughter, her husband and my two grandchildren. My daughter and husband had just sold their house and everything they owned in the states to relocate to another country. Her husband had relatives there and things were calmer and less crowded there. It was a major change for them and they had been through a lot in these past two months. On top of that, they speak French in Ottawa and use metrics. They eat poutine and love Hockey. It’s a challenge just reading their signs. Mac and cheese is called KD.
I got dropped off by an Uber driver who talked my ear off. Then at the San Jose airport, I tried to check in but had not paid the extra $75 yet from when I had changed my flights.
At 4:15 am. I strode up to the desk to ask for help from the airline representative. The two ladies I approached were more than helpful. They walked me slowly through what I needed to do. I hadn’t even put a name tag on my bag so one gal gave me one and told me what to do kinda like a kindergarten teacher helping a 5 year old, me being the 5 year old.
The other sweet airline agent helped me with the app on my smart phone, since I wasn’t as smart as my phone and she knew it. I paid the $75 and was in their computer system and soon could go to my gate, if these two sweetheart women gave me the go ahead. I was patient, I was obedient and I needed them.
The one older lady must’ve felt sorry for me when she discovered my birthday would be in six days and I was definitely 70ish. I told her I was going to celebrate with my daughter and family. She said I could check my tiny bag for free as a complementary treat. I jumped up and down. I clapped. I yelled, “Awesome!” So that way now I only had to carry my purse and my bag would meet me in Ottawa at the end of this long day. Holy moly – I liked her! She asked me to show my passport even though I had it on file and told me where to go, nicely and patiently and what to expect. I was super relieved! I thought she’d give me a sticker but she didn’t have time.
I skipped away and up the escalator like a little kid. I was happy go lucky, even happy unlucky, to know that there are still helpful, kind people to assist 70 year olds who are more mentally like 5 year olds and act like clueless teenagers, and aren’t used to airports nor travel to another country. It warmed my heart to get help since I was…well…helpless. I was also well behaved and used eye contact as I smiled. I expected a gold star but sometimes just getting attention counts.
I got upstairs at the airport and walked around. I went through some magical area called Security and through X-ray machines. I bought a few snacks for the first leg of my flight to Chicago. I put them in my purse. Now I waited. I behaved and did not fuss. I sat quietly.
Next came the cattle call. You sit at the airport by your airlines gate with your boarding pass or have one on your phone app. You are quiet. You don’t talk to strangers. I was in Group 3 so I waited til I was called. A young guy and I let Group 1 and 2 people go ahead of us. As they walked by, I yelled snootily, “Prove it! We don’t believe you.” He was the only one out of about 100 who chuckled. It was a small chuckle. Then we walked by Group 4 with our noses in the air and boarded the plane feeling pretty special.
This was better than having a sticker or even a gold star.
I could even feel more prissy because I’d paid a bit extra for a bulkhead seat. The foot and half of legroom was to die for which I probably shouldn’t say since I would soon be 25,000 feet straight up kept aloft by jet engines in a tube with wings, piloted by people I’d never met but was asked to trust with my life and luggage.
I had to sit between two guys each about 30 years younger than me. They looked disappointed when I crawled over into my seat trying not to touch elbows. My purse was kicked in front under this bulkhead thing. I tried not to bother them. I read my book and ordered ice water and got a bag of about one tablespoon of pretzel mix as a snack. As I reached for my ice water from this kind flight attendant, I spilled half of it down the pant leg of my fellow passenger.
I apologized and he laughed saying his pants would dry. I also saw them pop out these cute little trays from out of nowhere! I asked both guys how they did that and they showed me these secret compartments hidden in the armrests. Ingenious.
After reading my book and using the restroom which was as big as half a small closet, and getting a second drink, we were landing in Chicago.
I waited by my gate and used my phone to contact people I hadn’t seen nor heard from in decades just to pass the time. I watched silly videos on Instagram and passed the time until I could board a smaller plane and found my seat which was in the very last row in back. I chatted with a lady across the aisle, looked out the window at no view whatsoever and watched people. A young guy came and sat next to me. I read my book. He just smiled and opened his giant four gallon water bottle after we got in the air.
His water bottle spurted water everywhere all at once…on me, on the seat on him, on the seat back in front of us. He apologized about 5 times and I gave him napkins from my purse and helped wipe up water. I blotted my pants. He kept apologizing. I told him he had apologized enough.
He said, “I can’t help it. I’m Canadian.”
I found out that most Canadians are super polite.
When I landed in Ottawa I had to go through customs, but it was easy using a machine that prompted me to enter my US passport for a closeup photo and answer a few questions like what my business was in Canada and how long I was staying and did I bring drugs or any guns or Pokémon cards or designer jeans into the country and at the end it said: Please don’t expect to learn French in the 11 days you plan on staying. Pick up after yourself and be kind to all peoples.
Meeting my 4 year old grandson after getting through customs in Ottawa Canada.
He wanted to see the waterfall inside the airport. He said he liked my shoes because he likes pink. I told him I liked his green ones.
My sweet daughter and her son met me after I went through customs at the Air Canada exit. I found my checked bag thanks to a kind Canadian customs officer who treated me like I was 5 years old like the US airlines lady had treated me back in San Jose.
I was so happy to be in Canada. They actually let me in. I had to shape up plus I was a grandmother visiting my two adorable grandkids aged 4 and 22 months. They would keep me on my toes. Plus I didn’t want to embarrass my grandkids nor my dog Ninny back home.
Merci.
Me trying to read the French signs and being kind to all people. I know. I should keep my mouth shut.
It feels strange to me that my Uncle Wayne’s house, which was at the end of Main Street in Murdo is no longer there.
I remember the dark gray color and the big front porch. Uncle Wayne and Aunt Emily lived there for years and raised their son, Terry there.
Terry Sanderson and Billy FrancisCousin Terry with Grandma Sanderson
I remember their dog, Smokey. He was all black and I think he was mostly cocker spaniel. One time Grandma Sanderson who lived next door fed Smokey some of Uncle Sandy’s homemade caramels. She gave him one a day out the back door of her house until Smokey got sick. It was a while before they figured out that Grandma was the culprit.
Aunt Emily was a great cook. She made the best oatmeal cookies. “Do you know who the best cook is?” Grandpa Sanderson asked my mom once when he was eating noon dinner at our house. Mom smiled all big until Grandpa said, “Emily.”
I remember Uncle Wayne parked his big dirt mover between his house and the little park to the south of it. He built many a road in his day.
The cousin’s at Uncle Wayne’s house
Yes, it feels strange to me that that house is now gone and in its place is a new house. Someone else will make new fond memories there.
The new house just put up on our Uncle Wayne’s old house lot.
Delicious cookie recipe by our Aunt Emily Sanderson. Aunt Emily was a hard worker, my Mother, Ella Sanderson (Leckey) used to say.
Part 2- Corny But True by Valerie Halla
I remember getting to go inside Uncle Wayne’s house when my family visited Murdo from Pennsylvania almost every summer as a kid. It felt like a sanctuary to me being allowed to go inside their cool, dark, mysterious old house. Uncle Wayne adored my Mom since she was the next oldest of six Sanderson kids, with him being the oldest. I often thought it was interesting that the two oldest kids each only had one child. Was it because of the tough times they knew living on the prairie being raised in poor, almost poverty level circumstances on the farm on Horse Creek during the Dirty 30’s ? WWI was raging across the Atlantic when Wayne and my Mother were born and farm goods were in demand for the troops. The two oldest Sanderson kids knew life was a battle and not like the battles of WWI but at home with little cash and less food a different kind of battle. Some nights my Mom related to me that dinner would be boiled beets. That’s all. That was dinner. They knew the meaning of “dirt poor”. Wayne must have felt good to start his own family as a young man, and buy such a solid comfortable house when he finally broke free from hard farm life to start out on his own.
The brick trimmed house at the end of Main Street in Murdo must’ve seemed like a mansion to Uncle Wayne and Aunt Emily. So much nicer than the log cabin at Horse Creek. It seemed sadly nostalgic and tragic when I heard it was being torn down to make way for a new specially constructed home by the state of South Dakota to accommodate low income families. It is a refreshing new chapter though in Murdo life and changes in life move us all forward. Progress can be positive.
Aunt Emily getting ready for a Sanderson Christmas gathering.
Grandma and Grandpa Sanderson opening gifts with Aunt Elnaat their house which was next door to Uncle Wayne’s.
On the other hand, I’m having deep, dark, dusty spiderweb like thoughts between the house I remember and the new one just recently built. Can I please just believe that the old comfy, cozy, warm home that we thought of as Uncle Wayne’s House is still standing? Too many fuzzy, foggy memories there for me to give up and sling aside like an old lint filled hokey, hole infested sock.
Also some people in my wonderful Sanderson side of the family might not feel the same way about the feelings I have regarding the past with Uncle Wayne and Aunt Emily. Plus their old house isn’t equivalent to them. It’s just a shelter for humans. To me it was a part of my Aunt, Uncle and cousin all rolled into one with the house as the symbol to my childhood.
As a young kid visiting in the 1950’s and 1960’s then living there in Murdo for two years in junior high, I was naive about who this uncle was. To me he was loved by my mother and her four siblings. Aunt Elna said Wayne literally kept the family alive during tough times growing up down on Horse Creek as a young boy and one who felt responsible for seven other family members, a young boy being a man before his time.
When a relative to my Uncle Bill Francis visited from Southern California in the early 1960’s, we cousins looked at her like she had two heads. She wore her hair styled and ironed her Bermuda shorts and lightweight blouses every day when she stayed at Aunt Loretta and Uncle Bill’s house. She had big expressive eyes. She was petite. Nadine was like a magnet to young girls like us. She talked kind of loud and told entertaining stories. She seemed carefree. No job, no working in her world was crazy yet seemed normal. We were mesmerized. She also started riding around town with Wayne’s son, Terry Sanderson, in his new VW bug- a car which we had never seen before. It clearly was not a Ford nor a Chevy. We were astounded by it all. To us she was like a TV celebrity, new and different. Murdo seemed too small and confining for Nadine. We thought it so romantic that she was hanging out with our oldest cousin.
In the early 1960’s the Bug was new and unique.Our oldest cousin dared to have one and drove it all over. Terry was suddenly cool.
Now the house we knew is gone but it’s around somewhere yet. It’s in old photographs of Christmases spent there, in pictures of the family visiting there, with Grandma and Grandpa living right next door to Uncle Wayne and Aunt Irma and Uncle Jeff two doors away. It will stay with the folks who are now the “Old Folks”- namely all of my family, with my dear cousins. It will stay in our memories, no matter if the house is gone or just a ghost from the past. It held a lot which will never be replaced.
I’m ready to learn line dancing even though I don’t own a cowboy hat nor boots.
Howdy. I’m getting out of my comfort zone tonight to go to line dancing lessons with a friend. I’m not sure what to expect and I do not even know what to wear but I decided to just wear gym clothes and comfy shoes for my first time. I’m ready. I’m practicing saying, “Yee haw!”
Later:
Line dancing is fun and challenging especially for people in their ‘70’s. Heck, it’s challenging for people any age. We first had an hour lesson with a pretty, middle aged gal wearing jeans, surprise surprise, a white sleeveless billowy top, boots – hiking style not cowboy ones – and a cowboy hat with a shiny medal on the front like a medal for bravery maybe because she had the courage to teach about 40 older people how to dance together, without bumping into one another, hitting posts, chairs, tables and anything in our way.
Then my friend,who brought me there, and I danced up front right by the baby grand piano which we skillfully avoided. It was covered with a waterproof – maybe even bullet proof – black cover. There was a giant sign on top of the baby grand piano that said, “Don’t put anything on the piano.” About halfway through doing toe taps, Lindy steps and grapevine steps, both left and right directions, and the k step forward and then back diagonally I actually was tempted to crawl on top of that giant, solid piece of furniture called a baby grand to take a nap. So which is it? Is it a baby sized piano or a grand humongous one? And can a piano even be baby like?
Cover that sucker up!
The dance instructor had a sweet little microphone that bellowed out her instructions and line dance terminology from anywhere on the tiled dance floor. She mostly stuck to the front of the room right below the raised stage where the live band would perform later. She demonstrated each step and had us mimic her moves. She was strict, smart and wasn’t putting up with any wisecracks or crap. She got down to business promptly at 6:00 pm. She had a lilting kinda cool accent that threaded its way throughout her speech. Her dark brown eyes simmered at everyone as she viewed the crowd, calling to some experienced expert line dancers she knew to come forward and show their skills off, the dirty little so and sos and teachers pets. Uhh, I’m getting distracted. Couple deep breaths and I’m good. Here we go.
We had to stay in four straight lines she said or rather commanded. I was getting the hang of things (barely bumping into posts or walls or people) when the line style became a circle. I was not ready for that command. I followed the cattle into a big big circle or corral. Now I must do the steps I’d learned in a curve not in a line. One guy was actually trying not to get irritated as I kept grapevining into a line and not curving around. Clearly the experienced dancers were getting miffed at a newby like me. I was just concentrating on the instructors boots and her graceful moves, but when you must turn around she wasn’t there to watch so I kept an eye out for my friend or the smarty pants dancers to copy. The sweat was building up on my forehead.
Next we had an hour of dancing with the band. The teacher called for music and directed which songs we would hear and which steps we would do. The count was always 1/2/3/4 then the step would change. I could feel perspiration dripping into my bra and other places I cannot mention. I kept dancing- kinda.
She looks like she has it together out in the backyard but how’s she on the dance floor?
I liked the band. They all had gray hair but it didn’t seem to dull their musical abilities nor blur their voices or mess with their guitar playing talent. One song was about a Cattle Drive, which I could identify with and many were about lovey dovey romance stuff between dance partners. In line dancing you don’t have someone to hold onto. I had no time to sing along since I didn’t know the songs and my brain was concentrating on the next step. One lady next to me told me to, “Just copy what your friend does!”
Sure lady, easy for you to say. How did she know it was my first time? Right! True. I should have said: “This is my first time and you’re not the boss of me”but I was too nice and just swallowed my pride along with sweat from my lip.
The music helped as did the instructors crisp fast directing. Now more than my forehead was sweating.
My friend said she usually leaves the dance at 8:00 pm when everyone takes a break so she kept looking at her old timey watch and let me know when our two hours was almost up. When the time came, I skipped or rather side stepped and sashayed outa there.
Thank goodness for signs, pardner.
Then I drank about a gallon of water and my good friend drove me to my car. I thanked her, got in my car and stepped on the gas. I couldn’t wait to get home to rest. Maybe I would even practice the line dance steps. Naw.
It was fun line dancing and also great exercise. I will definitely go again. Maybe I will even take in a rodeo beforehand. Of course it won’t be my first rodeo. Might be my second. Yeehaw!
When You Honor Your Lover and Best Friend by Valerie Halla
Ken in happy times several years ago.
The summer July day this year dawned sunny and warm. Perfect. My kids and I planned to take Ken’s ashes -accompanied by some friends and family – with us up to the top of a nearby mountain peak. We have lived nearby for 39 years. Ken had always liked the place and often came up to the top of the peak which exuded peace and tranquility.
It would be a memorial and a final goodbye. Nine of us drove in three cars about 30 minutes outside town up to a well know campground, famous peak and short hike up to a 360 degree view of the Pacific Ocean, Salinas, San Juan Bautista and Hollister and the nearby mountain range. Everyone slathered themselves with sunscreen, grabbed their water bottles and visited the outhouses then started the hike up through, oak, maple and madrone trees, thick chaparral and even thicker poison oak.
At Fremont Peak last Saturday.
A beautiful group of people.
When you get to the first part, almost to the top of the peak with less vegetation, you breathe in deeply and your eyes adjust to the intensity of the view, in all directions a wide all-encompassing view that makes you feel on top of life’s beauty in that moment, in that place, in this godly place, in that experience while taking it all in. “Incredible” doesn’t capture it but comes close.
Ken’s brother, his wife and oldest daughter came from San Jose. Our oldest son and his friend had driven up from LA and our other son had come from San Francisco after teaching the day before, and our daughter flew in from Portland, OR and rented a car to drive here. She did it all in one day, leaving their two little kids with her husband. Our friend of many years arrived from Santa Cruz loaded down with bags of food, a cocktail shaker and booze and fresh lemons. I was delighted this group had assembled to honor and celebrate Ken, my husband of 53 years, but also my long ago ignored high school acquaintance, occasional meetup in college and someone whom falling in love with in my early 20’s had been divine, a gift, a joyous memory in life.
We all chatted then left for the mountain top. We found a place to gather and admire the views near the top. We took many pictures and I stayed away from the highest part on a rocky narrow trail while the others hiked to the top. The trail skirted immense slides and steep slopes. One poorly taken step would kill you in the fall. We were up high to say the least; we were at the edge of a 3,169 foot tall mountain in the Gabilan Range. The group left a couple of us to rest as they ascended to the summit. They were on their own communing with nature, the mountain and Ken’s spirit. They returned to where we two were and we nine descended together
We left feeling fulfilled and filled full of emotion and love.
We came home and ate some Polish dishes Ken used to fix. Our one son prepared traditional food, my sister in law made grilled asparagus and set up snacks while we waited for Polish sausage to boil, also we had pierogis and everyone contributed a dish. Our daughter made sour cream cucumbers with dill and our son had made Pierogis, our good friend, (whose Dad was Ken’s good friend), made salad. After we had eaten and had my pies for dessert, and all had relayed old stories and memories of Ken, our friend made some margaritas with fresh squeezed juice, tequila, Grand Marnier and coarse salt. Then we toasted our shared love, our father, our brother and brother- in-law, our uncle, our friend, and my husband.
Two sons boiling fresh Polish sausage and pierogis for our family dinner.
Lotsa sausage!
Good food shared by all.
Fresh fruit and an apple and a blueberry pie.
You would’ve liked today, my angel. Thank you, pal. Thank you for all you gave me. The day had gone as needed, your day. It was a perfect day, with the perfect ending.
Paying homage to Ken. Enjoy the view always.
Love to you and to your memory.
Our three best creations by far at the mountaintop.
Pam my high school friend forever, and I sunbathing on the beach in Southern CA back in the day.
When I drove to LA, my plan for the third part was to visit my High School friends in Orange County which is further south in Mission Viejo and San Juan Capistrano. More driving on my agenda but it was worth it. “Old friends improve with age.” Uh, no that’s not the right saying. “Old friends are good at any age?”
Wine improves with age or is it “Good wine is good with any friends who age with enough good wine?” I think that’s it.
Anyhow, I got the GPS warmed up in my car, after making a reservation at a hotel, and headed out to meet my good friend of 60 years that I had met in junior high. It’s incredible that I made it without getting lost with thousands of freeway signs, traffic , and exits and driving past all the Disneyland turnoffs and attractions I had recognized from my teen years living there. Driving the Southern California freeways is kind of like the rides at Disneyland, exciting and interesting and imaginative while at the same time as unreal as Peter Pan, Snow White or Cruella de Ville
I got to the hotel and my high school friend, Pam, picked me and my dog up to go for dinner – which we had arranged with our other old high school friend, Jerry, and his wife, Pam. My friend, also a Pam, came and we hugged and chatted for a while then left for the restaurant. We ordered Cadillac margaritas while we waited. Pam said drinking alcohol makes you relax more when you’re socializing especially with some high school friend you had not seen in 50 years. After waiting for about 15 minutes, in walks Jerry with his wife. They were obviously in their 70’s walking bent over, stiff and wobbly. Jerry looked like his handsome self except with more gray, as I had remembered him being a close friend with my deceased husband, Ken. In fact Ken had been best man for Jerry at his second marriage at which I had attended. The wedding had been on a small yacht in the harbor at Newport Beach, so we as young newlyweds felt privileged to be there. Ken wore this cream colored tux with ruffles on the peach colored shirt. That by itself was shocking to me because Ken – the ex hippie – disliked dressing up like that but he did it for his buddy, Jerry.
Jerry visiting us in the mid 1970’s at the remote school where we taught k-8th grade.
High school buddy Jerry, now 70ish but still with the same smile and shy demeanor.
We hugged Jerry and Pam as my friend met Jerry and wife since she didn’t really recall much about Jerry at our huge high school. We had about 300 in our graduating class in the late 1960’s. It took a while for Pam to warm up to Jerry. He mentioned that maybe she knew his first wife from high school, also a Pam. This was getting more interesting every moment. We talked about Ken’s passing and how much Ken and Jerry were alike: both were quiet, did not like crowds nor people and rebellious, also super good looking, which I noted.
His wife mentioned their two grandsons and their divorced daughter living with them. They were busy with responsibilities and the graduation party and the ceremony that week for their oldest grandson. Pictures were shared. The contrast with high school now compared with our high school years was apparent.
All the old days came swooping over us as we talked and ordered our dinners. The years since the Vietnam War, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, The Beach Boys and hanging out on Huntington, Balboa, and Redondo Beaches. Our yearbook which no one could find now, packed away in some cardboard box to be forgotten. The years melted away like the ice cubes in our margaritas. We connected. We joined our teen years again and lamented losing classmate and pal, Ken.
All in all it had been a sweet reunion. Later Jerry texted that he had a tough time holding it together and that he had cried later. He had lost a good friend, his best friend in high school. We swore we would get together again and search for the old high school yearbook from 1967, but would we try, would it matter? Maybe it would matter to a few of us old folks.
Maybe I’ll go buy a bottle of wine to see if I can find the memories, the good friends, and the good times in the bottle, with each glass, each aging sip, each memory.
I won the jackpot. Bingo can make you wealthy…in your dreams.
The last thing I got to do on my recent trip to LA, was attend a picnic at Deukmsjisn Wilderness Park. (And compared to Los Angeles city, this was in a wilderness as Angelinos would describe it.) The picnic was to celebrate my cousin’s wife on her 80th birthday. I felt honored to be invited. There were family members from back East, parts of northern CA and Mary flew out from Texas plus Uncle Gus from Ontario, CA was there, he’s the one who has us all beat in most cases at age 94. We all enjoyed the gathering.
We played “Liz bingo” thanks to Liz’s sister who created a challenging Bingo Board with a $2 bill prize for winners plus a pen and a snack treat. How cool is that?
Gus, Bill, Valerie and Mary. Geeze, Mary can truly concentrate. Life isn’t always a picnic, but on this day it was!
We had delicious Mediterranean food and pound cake. We heard Bill and Liz’s daughter sing in a recording with her brother. We talked, told stories and got our picture taken numerous times. We were in a Los Angeles wilderness area but it felt like home.
Have you ever thought you could not possibly accomplish something difficult? You doubted your own ability. It’s too tough, it’s monumental, like climbing Mount Everest, swimming across the river , without a life vest, a tweed vest, any vest.
I’m here to tell you, text you, email you, call you, shout it out: You can do more than you fathom is possible.
You are capable.
You are stronger than you think.
You should challenge yourself.
Life’s not going to throw fun opportunities at you. You have to go get them.
I checked into my hotel and got settled. I texted my son and decided on a time to meet for lunch the next day and said I would be bringing my cousin Mary and Uncle Gus who had chosen a restaurant right next to their hotel. They didn’t have a car and they didn’t know what Uber was. They could barely spell it and a taxi was too much. I was their chauffeur. It was coming together or so we thought.
I didn’t think I could drive the CA freeways taking 6 hours to see my family in LA. But I packed up my new car, got gas and grabbed the dog, dog food and took off. I did it. I drove to Los Angeles to see Aunt Loretta’s husband Gus- Uncle Gus – for his 94th birthday and Cousin Billy’s wife turning 80. As a bonus, Cousin Mary flew in for the celebration and she had one free window of time on a Saturday. She was attending a special luncheon, semi formal dinner and a picnic so she could barely fit me into her weekend party schedule. She was invited as a chief member of the family- (Gus is her stepdad) – and she seemed very busy, but I think she was just playing hard to get. I persisted.
Take the 5 to the 110 and get off when you see the next Starbux
If you have ever seen The Californians on the SNL comedy series, that’s exactly how they drive and think of themselves in LA. “You take the 5 to the 210 to the 134, head south on the 5, then transition to the 110, take the right exit off 6th street, pass the In-n-Out…”
Which way is Highway 16?
I have to admit that I would never have gotten to LA without GPS. It was like a cacophony of vehicle noise and overpowering freeway signs when you enter the explosive multitude of lanes and people in The City of Angels. They must have a large group of employees just behind the creation of signs displayed above the 8 or 9 lanes and exits on I 5, south, north and the 405, the 110 and you name it. You must stay alert because your lane can lull you into thinking you’re safe and then it disappears and poof, you’re snapped into action finding another lane praying it’s taking you the right direction and then the correct exit. You can get sucked into the freeway vortex. The GPS lady tries her best to keep up and help you. If you panic, she will suggest a special California therapist for you. Even they know the stress of freeway travel. They have experience to ease your troubled mind.
I found the hotel in Glendale and went up to their room. There was no one to help me in the lobby, just some robot screen that wouldn’t talk to me. I relied on my own brain and feeble memory and texting. Welcome to the future. I got into the elevator and pressed 2. Luckily there weren’t any more choices.
Uncle Gus saw me walking down the hall and said hello and I gave him a hug. Mary was in the bathroom. I had my dog so Gus petted her and talked about how they took the train from Ontario to LA. I sat in a chair and gave Gus his birthday gift. He liked it and my dog liked the comfy bed. Mary emerged and we had a great reunion. We hadn’t seen each other since a Jones County Reunion a couple years ago but the years melted away. She looked almost the same.
I just dyed my hair gray. How’s my hair look in back?
She curled her hair as she walked me through what had happened in the two days she had been in LA. Like Sandersons do, we talked about other people who weren’t there and therefore had no way of defending themselves. We covered cousin Bill- her brother- and some of their family members. There had been a dinner cancellation for that night at a fancy restaurant so I was invited after all! Ninny,my dog, was not invited, so I had to graciously turn it down. Besides I didn’t have any fancy clothes. Mary showed me what she would be wearing. I was impressed. It was all black and red stuff, a red top and flimsy flowery flowing jacket to match with basic black pants. She had strappy shoes. She talked a lot about her hair and how short it was in the back. I told her it was way shorter in back. She said to never get your hair done right before a trip to meet relatives. I agreed with her.
Turns out the restaurant right next door to their hotel wasn’t open until dinner so I texted my son to find us another place fast! I also mentioned I had my 8 pound dog, but we could hide her in the soft sided kennel. I said that my cousin and Gus didn’t care what they ate, just so we could talk and slap our knees when we laughed at the stories we were telling.
My son texted where to meet and after getting Gus settled in the backseat of my SUV with Ninny, Mary in the passenger seat acting as my navigator, we tried leaving to go to lunch except my car kept buzzing at me, another pesky robot or computer. I found the icon on the screen, jumped out and fixed Gus’s car door as he chatted on his cellphone like a 94 year old teenager…94 is the new 14.
We got to the restaurant with Mary’s expert directions from her GPS avoiding freeways thankfully. There were Matt and friend Jeanne waiting at a table out on the sidewalk at a cute little cafe. We made it.
Southern California charm is overflowing from this family photo: Gus, Val, Jeanne with Ninny, son Matt and Cuz Mary.
Those 70ish Girls 