A November Sunday at Treasure Island

This year's Treasure Island sand sculpture competition, called "Sanding Ovations," was entertaining, with the usual food and craft vendors and a jazz band.  We took a look on the final day, Sunday, November 20.  

Roy, a trombonist, is seated onstage in the center of the above picture, just in front of the standing trumpet holder.  Look for the jazzy tan hat and requisite shades.

Although the sand sculptures suffered a bit from heavy winds on Saturday night, they were still impressive.  Some examples:

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sand was white, and the day was perfect . . .

 We had a good day!

Entertaining Birds

Birds can be so entertaining.  For a time here at our townhome on the west coast of Florida, I'd been regularly awakened at about 5 am each day by a show-off mockingbird in the tree just outside our bedroom window.  It's a good thing that I'm a morning person, and that I wake in good humor, and that Greg can sleep through the racket of the trash truck in the neighborhood across from us, lifting a dumpster, emptying it, and crashing it to the pavement.   A few birds wouldn't even register on his noise tolerance gizmo. 


I get the litany of song snippets as if the fellow is saying "If you think that was a good one, just wait till you hear this!"  Then follows song-hopping with chirping, cooing, peeping, warbling, trilling, with two- and three-part melodies (maybe a calliope song slipping in there). 


A hedge borders the drive along the front of our building;  when the lawn service trims the greenery so that it becomes a compact shelf, often a Great White Egret stands atop it, with his long thin neck stick-straight like a vertical swiveling periscope, watching for the movement of the disturbed insects.  Then in a very slow forward movement, his head pivots down so that his outstretched neck is about ten o'clock to the hedge, and in a ballet movement, he lifts one skinny knobby backward-bending leg ever so slooooowly and steps forward, in a comical slow-motion creeping.  

Great White Egret
Picture taken from our (2nd floor) living room window

Up above the hedge, we've spotted an osprey sitting on a decorative 15-foot streetlight, skulking, full of menace (my perception), eyes-darting, looking for mammalian side-dishes to his usual saltwater meals. Feels kind of creepy knowing I'm being watched, so if I'm out there, I just keep moving.  Ospreys aren't as big as eagles, but they're very aggressive hunters and the local ones have effectively contained out of the ospreys' hunting area our resident American Bald Eagle couple that lives a few minutes' walk right down our road.  Our friends Roy and Sue aren't so entertained by "their" osprey who enjoys perching on their sailboat's mast -- doing what birds do, plus eating fish and making all kinds of a mess.   


Back on the subject of mockingbirds, on our sailing trip to Ocracoke Island off the coast of North Carolina,  Captain Roy, wife Sue, Greg and I, while there, went on an island walk to the lighthouse;  our attention was snagged by some squawking and rustling.  We looked above a large full-leafed tree and discovered the antics of a male mockingbird in some kind of pre-mating performance.  The object of his desire remained hidden from us, but she must have been some kind of wonderful for the effort he was making -- shooting straight up from the top of the tree about ten feet, shrieking, wings flapping, body flipping and twisting in an aerial show, back to the leafy branches, and then up again, over and over.  It was almost as if he had a tiny trampoline hidden from our view, that was launching him above the treetop.  We watched throughout his performance;   I'm not sure what good he would be as a suitor after all the energy he expended to impress the object of his ardor. 


I've got far more funny bird stories -- (ask me sometime about the Hilton Head seagull that pooped in Greg's soup) -- but I suppose I'd better pace myself.  Wouldn't want you to think that I've gone all birdbrained.    

Inner Parent

Studies of the "inner child" are ubiquitous. And I know that in particularly challenging times in my life, my becoming aware of previously unrecognized fears and needs has reawakened a part of me;  and that now this "rebirth" is contributing enormously to my peace and happiness.  I remember that shortly before my first marriage (and well before psychologists had popularized their research about it), I had written a farewell letter to the childlike part of myself, saying that now I would be entering a new dimension of my life that had no time or place for her.  Some years later, in the counseling that was helping me cope with the loss of my marriage, I suddenly recalled having written something;  I found it in a box of papers from my "premarriage" life, read it and was taken aback by the unconscious knowing, for at the end of my farewell to my former self, I admitted my fear that I was giving up a part of me that was important and that I feared I might never get back.

When I took this letter to my next session and read it to Tina, my therapist, she visibly shuddered, and I remember her soft eyes of compassion.  We worked hard to restore the part of me that I so totally needed to get back.

In writing this, I am setting out to record, not accounts of my "inner child," a subject so overwritten as to cause immediate eye-rolling, but to talk instead about my "inner parent," the pesky do-gooder, hyper-vigilant, task-organizer, safety-ensurer, priority-organizer.  I'm tired just thinking about her.  And the most irritating time that she starts scurrying around inside of my head is when I am meditating.  There I sit, fully intentioned to release myself into a peace, a calm, envisioning a circle of light-infused love, feeling my breath, my heart, opening for a spirit-blessing, when "bam!" the door to my room crashes into the wall, as this frenzied overlord barges in and starts rummaging in the drawers for pressing to do, looking at dusty tabletops for grocery lists, in the hamper for dirty laundry, and in my desk for appointment calendars.  No matter that I try to ignore the rude intrusion, that I take a deep breath and slowly release, and return once more to the edge of peace, she chides, demands, finger-wags in my face, and yells: "This is important!  You must do this, this, this!"

So far I've patiently out-waited her, but, my goodness, she can be such a bother.  I can hear her even now --that I need to go to the grocery store, Christmas is coming and I'm not ready, and oh yes, when in the world am I going to plan the Christmas dinner?  If I have been able to awaken my inner child, how might I find the lullaby to settle into a sweet nap that pesky and intrusive parent?

Snapshot 2: Convertibles

Lately, I've had visions of myself in a convertible.  I had one 36 years ago, when I bought a brand new burgundy MGB.  I couldn't drive a stick, but I saw myself in the "B" anyway, with its tiny windshield, three wipers, and a picnic basket strapped on the little trunk's luggage rack as I sped through the British countryside for a rendezvous.  Didn't seem to matter much to me that I had no idea how to drive a standard, that I was living in northern West Virginia at the time, and had no boyfriend with whom to picnic.

It was after earning my masters degree and taking off for a new life in Wheeling (is there some irony in the name?) that the romantic images started coming.  So a friend's husband drove my new car off the lot and out onto farmland back roads where there was very little traffic, and proceeded to give me driving lessons.   I learned quickly and soon had the top down and the wind whipping my hair.  I was free.  This relationship with my little car lasted approximately two years, until I had moved for a new job, and my new husband decided the car wasn't practical, so we sold it.  Big mistake.  I feel now that I had given up something beyond the car -- I had also lost my sense of entitlement to the freedom and excitement that it had provided me.

So flash forward these many years and now, once again, I want a convertible.  Since we live a great part of the year on the west coast of Florida, with some back lanes following the contours of the  Gulf of Mexico and island hopping along the Intracoastal Waterway, and the rest of the year back in West Virginia with curving roads and mountain vistas, what better time in my life for a convertible, the wind, and the freedom?

My husband, the car nut, needed little encouragement to begin a determined  search, exhausting to me, for every deal to be had, perusing newspaper ads, car lots, and online sites.  Our neighbor, Herb, was of a mind that I belonged in a Mustang, a notion that agreed with Greg, my friend, Cindy, and my Uncle Clayton in Tampa who insisted that I "buy American!"  But Greg also was hoping a BMW would be in my future.   We even test drove one that had so many bells and whistles that I couldn't for the life of me feel anything but overwhelmed, and perhaps a bit undeserving, a sentiment that my friend, Roy, vehemently refuted.  Nevertheless, I told Greg that I'd know my car when I saw it, just as I had immediately identified and bonded with my last car, a glossy black Bonneville.  The man is a sweetheart, but he was having a hard time being patient for me to come around.

Another complication was that a previously nagging sporadic shimmy had us believing that, at over 160,000 miles, the old Pontiac couldn't hold on much longer, so we were thinking we'd be forced into a new car (to us) anyway.  Lo and behold, a local mechanic Greg has great confidence in came through for us, finding and correcting a fairly simple spark plug problem, and now the old Bonne drives like a top.  So no rush, right?  Another thing is that Greg and I have owned several Bonnevilles, and we love the look and feel of them.  Well, this next part is a tad bit peculiar . . .   (Then, again, I am certain that my dates with serendipity haven't expired:  see an earlier post of that notion.)

A couple of Mondays ago, after delivering a table to Mrs. Bartholomew, Cindy and I had lunch on the deck of Sloppy Joes on Treasure Island.  Afterwards, driving onto St. Pete Beach, Cindy exclaimed "There's your car!"  I turned to look at a sweet silver-blue Pontiac G6 convertible with a "for sale" sign on its door.  The peculiar part is this:  just as Cindy yelled, and whipped her SUV around the corner to backtrack to the car, I was listening to a cell phone message from Greg telling me that if we're nearby, we should stop to look at a Pontiac convertible an individual was displaying for sale at St. Pete Beach.  Yep.  I was getting a double serving of "buy me."

Long story short:  Greg and I met the owner that same afternoon, when we discovered the car had a hardtop, a feature we love but had felt was out of our price range.  This one was stylishly low and it slipped easily into the trunk;  we took a test drive, shook hands afterwards, and drove her home.  The owner, Tom, followed us, received a check in good faith, and waved 'bye.  There we stood in front of our garage with my convertible, and an oddly calm certainty that this is the one I was meant to have.

This one suits me.

Watching kite-boarders from my "new" Pontiac G 6

Snapshot 1: Mrs. Bartholomew

As evidenced by most of my posts, I'm striving to live in the moment, to not delay enjoying life until some cloudy future;  I am instead determined to make time for family, friends, music, art, sightseeing, yes, the obvious things, but also those details, perhaps surprises, of life that previously I might otherwise have overlooked.

This past Monday, my bud, Cindy, and I carried a blond round table with bamboo legs from Cindy's sister's shop into the home of Mrs. Bartholomew.  A petite widow --her head haloed in pink plastic haircurlers-- she gently moved about her small second-floor flat which was bulging with knicknacks and the clutter of life:  lotion bottles, stacks of mail, odds and ends spilling across the kitchen counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the dining area.  Her lit Christmas tree was standing at the living room window, and strings of lights, tacked two feet from the ceiling, circled the whole room of flower-wallpapered walls.  Cotton "snow" adorned sideboards with angels and a manger.  As she watched us scan the space, she smiled and admitted, "I've been decorating."

The table we delivered was to replace her mahogany stained rectangular dining table that was a bit large and overpowering for her small living/dining room.  Once we carried our table through the front door, past the kitchen and sat it in its place, she softly entoned, "Oh dear, it is quite low, isn't it?"  Cindy offered that it would be no problem to cancel the sale.  But, pulling up a dining chair, Mrs. Bartholomew sat down, laid her hands on the table top, thought a moment, and then suggested, somewhat tentatively, that, despite being lower than a traditional dining table, it might indeed work.  I could see uncertainty behind her eyes, and so I offered that it looked sweet in her space, perhaps suggesting a proper height for teatime or coffee.  She responded, barely above a British whisper, "I do like my tea."

It was as we said goodbye, and were headed back down the hallway to the elevator, I looked back, smiled and waved to her as she stood at her open door, that I noticed her bright pink polished toenails peaking out from her slippers.

October Weekend

Nature's gifts are simple pleasures, meditations, and if we are open to them, they allow us to enjoy all of the senses, returning us to a time not dominated by television, cell phones, and computers.  On an autumn weekend with our friends, Billy and Shari, we were attuned to each other and happily sharing this time, enjoying the mountain splendor along our drive from our homes in Fayetteville, eastward into Pocahontas and Greenbrier counties in West Virginia, and the rolling countryside that borders Virginia.



This weekend was almost a full month after our visit with our Florida friends, and the mountains were ablaze with color.  Along the way, the views took our collective breath -- with riotous russet, ruby, rose, gold, mustard, orange, salmon, and rich dark evergreen, brilliance that was laughing and rolling across the mountains and the valley bowls.  We leaned out of the windows madly snapping pictures in the October sunlight of colors that could never really be captured.


An extra perk is that where we were headed had no cell or Internet service, and at our cabin, the television sat quietly, its only purpose appearing to be a vehicle for dvds, which we didn't bring and weren't interested in watching.



Billy and Shari, both National Park Rangers, have lived in some of the most beautiful country in the United States, from the wilds of Alaska to the wilds of Key West, and were eager to see more of West Virginia.

Billy and Shari at Watoga's lake

Our first stop was at Lewisburg for TOOT (not a drug, but it oughta be illegal!).  Taste of Our Town is a yearly fall downtown event where main shopping streets are open only to foot traffic, and folks are seen surrendering to the sights and aromas of wonderful cuisine of the local restaurants and caterers:  and even I, a vegetarian, found at one table, plump and tender spinach ravioli in a tomato/cream sauce, and further down the street at another table, a soft tortilla wrap, bulging with avocado, cucumber, and lettuce, smothered in wasabi mayonnaise-- the experience was crunchy and freshly delicious with a bite.

While Greg, Billy, and Shari tested locally-produced beers at the outdoor biergarten, I headed across the street, bypassed tables from two West Virginia wineries (can you believe it?), to enter a favorite pub/restaurant of mine, Del Sol, for their signature Bloody Mary.  And while there, I sat at the crowded bar to watch WVU's first score, a field goal, against the University of Connecticut.  Back outside, beside the biergarten, we stood near a flatbed trailer which was parked at the sidewalk bordering the parklike grounds surrounding Carnegie Hall (the Carnegie family built this one, too).  The trailer served as the town event's stage for musical performances, including one by a Fayetteville friend.

When we had been sated, on we traveled to the cabin that another Fayetteville friend had graciously loaned us for the weekend;  it sits in the woods near the Greenbrier River and the tiny village of Seebert, itself just outside the entrance to my favorite West Virginia state park, Watoga.  The cabin was very comfortable with two bedrooms, a living/dining room dominated by an 8-foot wide river rock fireplace, hardwood floors, a tiled modern kitchen and bath.  The rustic decor included interior wood doors constructed with Z-bracing and black metal latches.  The cabin sat on a large piece of land, I'd guess well over an acre;  and at the back was a storage garage;  behind it, we found a rack with canoes and kayaks.  The land was ringed by forest, and a narrow gravel drive lead to other cabins on their own acreage.

After we unloaded our bikes and carried in our supplies and clothes, Greg disappeared.  I walked outside onto the wrap-around porch and down into the back yard to find him overseeing the slow progress of a  5-1/2 foot black snake which had been sunning himself in the yard.  Greg was guiding him, by encroaching on his space slowly and kindly, holding aloft a 6-foot long branch, watching him slide through the grass to the edge of the property.  I watched it curl around a tree and slip from sight into the undergrowth. I was surprisingly calm, merely curious.  This is a new experience for me in that I would normally have shrieked and run.  Further evidence of my transition occurred later.  That night, while we were sipping beverages seated at the fire pit, an 8-inch garter snake slithered from under my camp chair and away from us.  I watched with quiet interest.  Perhaps nature has finally calmed me into becoming one with it?

But let's back up a few hours, for between our arrival and our nighttime chat, we had driven to Marlinton, stood in line for an hour at the Marlinton Opera House (built in 1910)  to nab tickets to a Leon Redbone concert for that same evening.  We discovered when we entered that the seats weren't assigned, so we walked straight to the front, and found four seats one row from the stage.   What luck!  And the concert was a hoot, with only Mr. Redbone, his guitar, and a terrific player on an antique upright piano.  We felt as if we'd magically whisked back in time to Vaudeville, the house completely full with what we figured was about 500 happy attendees.

The next morning we celebrated with mimosas, gratefully cuddled in the living room in front of the fire which was chasing away the chill of the previous night.  But the sun was climbing, the chill was lifting and we were ready to be out to enjoy the day (no jackets required), biking on the Greenbrier River Rail Trail, where we passed occasional cabins with porches and decks overlooking the lazy river.

Riding on the Greenbrier Rail Trail

It was a good day!

Cheese and crackers were extra tasty shared on a great boulder at the river's edge;  breathing deeply of the forest and river, we watched fish swim at our feet with the trees' reflection of gold and russet in the sparkling water.  Our weekend was much too short.

Greenbrier River

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A Fall Visit

Our home in West Virginia affords us opportunities, within a very short drive, to experience intense and earthy beauty, much of it the natural kind, but also much of it crafted by the hands of artisans.

Early fall color

I so enjoy seeing West Virginia from the eyes of others, and when our friends, Jim and Cindy, came for a visit, their first to the state, Greg and I determined to show them as much as possible without overwhelming or tiring them, in the few days they were with us.  It was in mid-September when they landed at Huntington's Tri-State airport following a flight of just under two hours from their home in St. Petersburg, Florida.  (Huntington sits at the western border of our state, moments away from Ohio and Kentucky, and just under a two-hour drive from our home in Fayetteville.) They were looking forward to seeing us, but they were also hoping to find fall in its glory, but, unfortunately, the mountains had barely begun their transformation, except for just a hint of gold and rose at some of the higher elevations.

Still, we were determined to introduce them to beautiful things, starting in Huntington.  After a nod to the lovely campus of Marshall, and poking our noses into a couple of downtown shops, we shoved open the door to enter Huntington Prime, our son's restaurant which occupies the first floor of the historic West Virginia Building on Fourth Avenue. This is also the tallest building in Huntington, and Michael showed Jim and Cindy his soon-to-open dining space on the top, penthouse, floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing an eagle's view of much of the city, campus and the Ohio River.  Next was an early dinner, supremely delicious, accompanied by Michael's eagerness to please, and by his attentive staff.

Then on to our home -- from Huntington, leaving the Ohio River, next to the Kanawha, and then up the curving mountains to the plateau where humidity is at bay and the temperatures are usually about five degrees cooler than in the valley below.  Our drive began in Cabell County, and then through the counties of Putnam and Kanawha, before arriving at our destination, the county seat of Fayette.

Along the way, we pointed in the direction of a world-famous glass plant, Blenko;  further, into South Charleston, we indicated the once busy chemical plants that had earned the area (in my lifetime) of having been the chemical center of the world;  and then, finally, past the gold dome of the state capitol.

From Charleston, we enjoyed the great Kanawha River, with its breathtaking falls at Glen Ferris, passing the photogenic stately old stage coach inn that is still in business.  Then on to the mouth of the Kanawha, where the Gauley River meets the New; we passed the grand Cathedral Falls, and then we began the climb up the mountain.

Side note:  Our state was born of the Civil War, separating from Virginia in 1863 with the signature of Abraham Lincoln.  Fayetteville had seen much action in battles;  there are soldiers in unmarked graves, an earthen foundation of a fort, still many relics to be found, such as belt buckles, buttons, mini balls, and the like.  Even our own home sits where once was a gun emplacement, and if you look out at the road that passes by our front yard, you just might see through the mists of time, the horses, cannons, infantry, and supply wagons trundle up and settle into position here beside the house.

In no particular order, here are some of the things we shared:

We took our friends on a local tour -- including the upward view, as well as the crossing of, the western hemisphere's longest steel arch bridge, the site of our yearly "Bridge Day," the state's largest single-day
festival.  Crazy people from all over the world congregate on the New River Gorge Bridge to throw themselves off and fall almost 900 feet to the sandy bar at the edge of the New River.  I don't care if they are wearing parachutes and it's perfectly legal that one day of the year.  They're nuts.

New River Gorge Bridge

Close to home, we kept Jim and Cindy busy:  they enjoyed seeing the most photographed grist mill in the country at our Babcock State Park.

Babcock State Park Grist Mill

And, from the deck of a whitewater rafting company's restaurant, we looked through the pale early evening  into the New River Gorge, where only a few brave souls were still testing themselves in the rapids below.

Touring Beckley's Exhibition Coal Mine

One of our breakfasts was provided by some of the Greenbrier Resort's trained chefs at Tamarack (the state's showpiece visitor center).   We saw the "islands in the sky" from the top of the slopes at Snowshoe Ski Resort Village, and marveled at the mega-dishes at Greenbank's National Radio Observatory.  On this trip, Jim and Cindy went from the heights of the ski resort to the depths of a coal mine . . .




But one of their favorite things was relaxing in our living room, looking through the bay window, and taking pictures of our chipmunks with their bulging jowls.  These little guys were on a mission to store every last morsel of our birdseed, an activity which has earned them all names of vacuum cleaners.

Kirby, or his cousin, Hoover (can't tell them apart)

For such a short visit, we, like the chipmunks, crammed in as much as possible in a short time.  Guess our friends had to rest up quite a bit after this.

Serendipity All Over the Place

My posts have described the values of travel, and one of my favorite discoveries is that all I need to do to receive some wonderful gifts is keep my eyes open.  Of course, discoveries are everywhere and I don't need to travel to foreign lands in order to make them.  And often, I can enjoy discoveries vicariously, through the eyes of my family and friends.  When I travel, I am more focused in the moment and not preoccupied with bills to pay or errands to run, so, the signals are clearer, not jumbled up against daily living.  Traveling, whether far from home or near, then, becomes a form of meditation.

Earlier I related a wonderful trip that included a visit to Siena, Italy, and the moving ceremony in the square, celebrating the return from Lebanon of Tuscan paratroopers.  Well, from Siena, Greg and I traveled by train to a much smaller Tuscan hill town.  The train deposited us at the station down below in Camucia, a small town about two miles from our destination.  We waited there for a local bus to take us the rest of the way.  At the train station we had met a lovely Michigan couple, John and Pat,  retired educators who joined us for coffee at a shop near the bus stop.   We continued getting acquainted while the bus climbed the hill through the gate and into the old town where it deposited us at a small square.  From there we separated to walk to our hotel, an old monastery (again with the church hotels!).  Because it was early evening, the reception office was closed, but on the door, someone had left a note telling us and another family which rooms we had been assigned.  

As in Siena, the hotel was very old;  although our room was chilly and spartan, it was clean, with twin beds and crucifixes.  We were satisfied with our accommodations once again, especially when we saw the killer view from our arched window.  Our hotel was perched at the edge of the hill and the valley stretched out below us, facing away from the town, and into the countryside.  I've seen paintings with such views!

Our window

View from our hotel window

The next day was actually cold, but it didn't chill our enthusiasm.  We were in Cortona!  Under the Tuscan Sun!  (although, not a very warm one)  While exploring the tight streets and finding so many hidden passageways, steps, tiny shops and cafes, we ran into fellow travelers, John and Pat.  Yes, we were all having quite a lovely day, and yes, we were cold!

Then, wait, what is that sound?  Trumpets were sounding a fanfare, drums were beating . . . no, it couldn't be another parade of Sienese paratroopers!  Were they following us?  Then, the pedestrians in our little street stepped back and revealed young people in costume blowing long-necked horns;  we saw drummers, flag-bearers, dignitaries in costume.





Something really cool was happening!  Next, burly men appeared, carrying old heavy crossbows (ballesteros) on their shoulder.  The parade gathered in a square, this one named Piazza Signorelli - once again, dignitaries at chairs, flag bearers, musicians, all gathered, and the ensuing crossbow competition began.  Just as I felt with the Sienese celebration, I was so grateful that the town had provided me (ME!) this wonderful entertainment.  How did they know that I'd just arrived?

The targets are in the background -hope nobody comes out of the door!

After we watched the contest for some time, I needed to get warm, so I left Greg, who was too enthralled with it all, and stepped into a little bar-cafe that faced the square.   Just inside, hanging on the wall to the immediate right-hand side of the door was a small poster of Uga, the George bulldog.  Found out the bartender's son is studying engineering there.  Small world.  Go Dogs.

A Writer's Prayer

(Here's something I've been working on;  I hope that you like it!)



Spirit within, embrace all that I am.
Direct my thoughts, speak to me in this space
that I may have the words to enter the heart,
delight, inspire, or open the world,
and feel the grace.

Hear me, oh my soul.
Let the drums beat the heartsong for me to say.
Give me wings to fly above the clouds to look,
where I may gaze back, in night or light of day,
down to the rolling sea, swelling and pulsing,
and to the slow-flowing river and the singing brook.

Find my way upstream to the bank where the wise one sits
watching his thoughts skim in and out.
Or I'll slide down sunbeams, point my pony for the sunset,
then turn my attention about.

With the eagle, I'll swoop and soar,
feel the sunlight on my face, the breath of life in my hair,
and then sky-dance in the moonlight.
I'll back-kick through thunder, twist and roll in your wind.
Then return again to where the mighty oaks bend.

Let me bask in no limits, no fear of the storm.
If you'll let me stretch back,
find the sunlight once more.
That I may breathe in sweet pine, languid fields of soft grass,
and watch bees buzzing as I secretly pass.

Make me an earth explorer:
I'll shrink to a child's secret fairy
to wriggle into the warm soil, find seeds with promise,
and hidden gems I'll carry.
I'll wink and swirl among creatures at play
in lucent white sand or claret red clay.

I'll travel where few have thought to go,
and calling forth songs of my heart,
up to the tops of mountains to start
to join my voice with heaven that sings.
If you'd give me fins, feathers, or wings,
to birth in this life more magical things.

Aunt Anna's Transition

This is September 21, 2011, approaching the one-month passing of my dear aunt.  So, now I'd like to celebrate transitions, to recognize that closing doors are indeed doors, portals to new experiences.  Aunt Anna passed away on Tuesday, August 23, at 5:05 pm, and Friday, August 26, the family began the formal process of saying farewell, remembering her life well-lived, as she touched ours so profoundly.

The funeral home's "visiting" room where we gathered was far larger than was needed, for most of those attending were family.  My aunt has outlived most of her friends from the garden club, church, and community.   It's been many years since Uncle Clayton sold his last boat and withdrew their membership from the yacht club.  During the visitation, the grown children of Aunt Anna, of her sisters and brother, my dad, were busily catching up since many of us live several states apart, and as usual, have busy lives with new retirement for some, grown children, and for many, a wallet full of pictures and stories of grandchildren.  We could hear around the room, "We have let so much time go by" and "It's so good to see you."

And, of course, we fondly reminisced.  One of my memories brought smiles:  Auntie Anna's mobility challenges of the most recent years had her spending most of her time whizzing around her house's first floor in a wheelchair.  Greg and I enjoyed watching her in her kitchen, sometimes from a vantage point in the tv room looking back through the door to see her busily foot-pulling her chair back and forth.  Greg and I agreed she brought to mind a carnival duck-shoot, and she was the duck, only she would be singing as she came in and out of view of the kitchen door on her way to the kitchen sink or back across to the laundry room.

As one of my dad's four sisters, she carried "the gene" as do I:  we love to eat out.  We look forward to it and we plan our day around it.   And for meals at home, she had enough of her old world shopping attitude from her parents to feel the need to visit Publix daily where the staff all knew her by name.  It was serious business to sniff the canteloupe, and closely eye the pork chops.  Once or twice she told me how to select eggplant by whether its bottom had a recessed dimple, indicating the female, or a flat end, the male (if I remember correctly, I believe the better one has the flat end because the eggplant has fewer seeds, and is therefore less bitter.  Although, it seems to me, that equating bitterness with being female is counterproductive.  So, let's just forget that for now . . .).  

Saturday at 2 pm we gathered once again, this time at Tampa's Christ the King Catholic Church in its sleekly modern chapel, where the early afternoon sunlight streamed through turquoise, blue, and green stained glass windows, and onto the pale blond pews.  Following the brief service, including Mass, we were led, with three police-car escorts, to the graveyard several miles away for our final farewell before Anna was interred in a third floor crypt.  At age 92, Uncle Clayton held up splendidly and joined us at his home for a traditional Lebanese feast provided by Byblos, a local restaurant.  The rest of the afternoon, into the early evening, we stayed together, holding each other in the combined love of family and funny stories, until exhaustion set us on our way.

Now I can feel Aunt Anna's warming presence, as I have often felt that of my two wonderful parents.  And even though I can't call her on the phone or visit with her in her kitchen, I know that her spirit is near, alive and well.

I Love Birthdays!

I love my birthdays!  I've given up getting bent out of shape over just how many I've celebrated.  That's a threshold I've crossed that has freed me.  On my birthdays, now, instead of moaning about my age, I say what I want to do and where I want to go.  And doing so ALWAYS involves restaurants.

I also use my birthday for all it's worth.  Most of my life I've chosen to yield to others' comfort and choices.  Not on my birthday, baby.  Nooo. I proclaim this day (September 9) to be mine mine mine.

But the best part is that I get phone calls and cards.  And sometimes they even start before the big day.  My friend, Sue, presented me with a beautiful card and a spoon rest that she saw perfectly matched the colors in our Florida kitchen. How thoughtful!  My next card was waiting on the kitchen bar when I went downstairs this morning.  Sweet professions of LOVE.  Yessiree.

The first call this morning came from my buddy, Mary Ida, at the university where I taught.  She took time from her hectic morning at her desk to tell me how much she's been thinking about me and gosh, we need to get together.

Not long after that call, my cell phone rang again:  this was my stepson, Chris, and daughter-in-law, Tisha, calling from Rwanda to sing across the ocean and two continents!  Holy cow!

Later, while Greg and I were out getting a haircut, my friend, Cindy, called from Florida to wish me a great day and weekend.  Best yet, she and her husband, Jim, are, in three days, flying in for a visit, their first time to West Virginia.  By the way, my hairdresser's birthday is today, too, and she is exactly half my age.  We won't go there right now.

I'm on a roll!  So, I says to Greg, "Let's head on down to the post office to get my cards."  On the way, my brother, Karl called to check in and to tell me he misses me  (He actually forgot it was my birthday, but something inspired him to call today --first time in a couple of weeks.  So there you go).    

At the post office, I picked up my cards from my other brother, Ronald, my local friends, Jack and Weezie, and a sweet friend named Stephanie and her son, Willie.  THEN, before you know it, my phone rang and Ronald, from his Pittsburgh-area office, cleared his throat and sang the opening bars of "Happy Birthday" very badly.  But beautifully.  If he only knew I had put him on "speaker."  While I was standing in Ben Franklin's parking lot listening to my song, a local friend stopped by with baby party gear -- pink balloon, plates, napkins, and streamers.  Seems it's her daughter's first birthday today.  It's ok, I'll share.  I'm just like that.

Then back home and Weezie called.  A bit later, my son, Nathan, called from the road, heading out for a weekend of hiking with his buddy, Ben.  Nathan sounded so good as he wished me happy birthday and told me he loves me!  Yessss!  We talked until he drove into a dead zone, but Mama's happy.

Early this evening, my stepson, Kevin, presented me with a beautiful card decorated with lavender and sentiments of sweet spiritual knowing.

While writing this I received yet another call -- this from my nephew, Jonathan, and his mother, my sister, Karen, and another horrible rendition of "Happy Birthday" -- our family has never been accused of having singing talent.

It's eight pm and I'm holding out for a call from my son, Michael.  He likes to keep me waiting.

Now, about the restaurant.  I've relaxed and enjoyed the attention so much, that I forgot to plan where to go for my birthday dinner!  And since it is eight pm, I suppose the best thing to do is to proclaim tomorrow to be Birthday, PART 2.  I'm thinking Olive Garden.

*At ten pm, I'm returning to this post, to let you know that I heard from another friend, Debbie, and then, lo and behold, Michael!  I never lost hope!

Thanks to all my wonderful family and friends, I know that I'm loved.  And it didn't take my birthday to show me.  But I sure do like it anyway.  My next birthday will be here before I know it.
Love and kisses to each and every one of you.
(OK, already, I'm 62.  Sheesh.)

Where it Started

Most of my blog covers travel reminiscences.  Here, I'm reaching way back to the beginning of my independent adventures . . .

Among the first, not with my family, is a trip to Europe with two college friends; actually, my adventures had started early in that I had been in college away from home for extended periods of time.  Although I had very little money--ok, no money--still I dreamed of the big world outside my dorm walls and schoolbooks.  Following my graduation, I was going to be a dedicated teacher, but before that I craved adventure!  Not too long into my college life, I felt wings, the tug of flying away to imagine myself into the great places I'd read about.  

Where does this wanderlust come from?  I don't know -- maybe from my father's, the Lebanese, side:  as a very young man, my grandfather came to America, by way of Ellis Island, to join his brother;  my grandmother's arrival from Beirut was as a child, as circumstance of a chronically ill mother, my great-grandmother, brought her across the ocean to live with an older brother.   On my mother's side were Scottish-Irish settlers to America: in 1770,  my great-great-great-great-grandparents died on the ship and were buried at sea somewhere between Dublin and New York.  Their son, my great-great-great-grandfather, who was taken in at the age of 12 by the ship's captain, left New York at 18 to eventually find a new home in the frontier of western Virginia after his service with a Pennsylvania detachment in the Revolutionary War.  Perhaps my wanderlust is honest, born of the genes.

It wasn't ever enough for me to view distant lands as an outsider.  I wanted much more than to simply observe.  I wanted to feel a part of the people, to become them,  to thrust myself into their place, their time, their history, to push my hand into the indentations of the worn tracks of cobbled roads and detect the vibrations of the wheels that put them there;  to sniff the cooking fires, and from the hearths, to see the houses, to feel the lives of those who lived far before me.  So, I approach travel this way.  I am the dreamer, and the adventure seeker.

I guess I have a fairly good imagination, enough to  cancel out the hum of power lines, the rumble of traffic, the cacophany of modern chatter, to listen for the echoes.  My first trip was not disappointing on that count because my companions, my college girlfriends, Carol and Becky, were just as enthusiastic, and they, therefore, tolerated, as well as encouraged, my excitement.  Carol, with her political science degree and her love of history, Becky with her art education degree and her artistic talent, and I with my love of literature, their tales, and all things exotic, received special dispensation from our dean at West Virginia University to miss our graduation ceremony to catch our flight.  So there I was,  four months before my 22nd birthday, plunging headlong into cultures so unlike that of my Appalachian roots.

In order to get the best deal possible, we had purchased the excursion fare with Icelandic Airlines which required an early May flight and our stay of 21 to 45 days before our return.  Imagine!  Requiring us to stay a minimum of 21 days!  Lucky for me, Becky and Carol were as happy as I to be abroad for the whole 45 days allowed.  And while we were there, Carol's sister, then living in Germany, booked our return flight for us.  On the 45th day we presented ourselves to the ticket counter in Luxemburg to return to America, and discovered an error had been made-- the flight wasn't available that day!  We were provided vouchers for a hotel room, cab fare and dinner, so, thanks to Icelandic, we had 46 days.

To finance my trip, I had gathered money from the bit of cash I received as graduation gifts;  the remainder I borrowed from a local bank in my small home town, with my father as co-signer.  By the end of the trip, I had spent somewhere near the astounding figure of 900 dollars, including my airfare and bus fares to and from New York City, as well as train fares, hotels, meals, and museum admissions in about seven countries.  People, we're talking quite a few years ago.  Frommer's book, Europe on $5 a Day, was our guide, and with it we traveled as the Europeans, locating family-run hotels down quiet residential streets and multi-floored walkups along busy thoroughfares.  In cities, we took subways and buses, or we walked.  And in the villages, of course, we strolled.  Our cost-savings were points of pride:  I remember one dinner in Rome, when I had spaghetti, salad, bread, and a glass of wine for the equivalent of $1.27.  Even in 1971 that was quite a deal.

One memorable room was in Paris, on the fifth floor -- with no elevator.  But we had an en suite bathroom and a window that opened onto a psuedo-balcony from which we could see the Pantheon, if we leaned out and craned our heads to the right.  An added bonus was that a police precinct was next door and each evening young officers in uniform congregated on the sidewalk below our window, waiting to receive prisoners from surrounding smaller stations unloading from police vans.  The officers would look up to our window and meow.  "Hellooo, beautiful! (meow) Hellooo, Pretty! (meow)."  We really liked that room.

Traveling can enrich us, entertain us, and educate us in any number of ways, including creative problem-solving.  Companions who must spend every minute together, as we did for so many weeks, eventually tested our ability to get along.  Not for me, however, as I had always been the peacemaker.  Toward the end of our trip while we were staying in a chilly London hotel, Becky was certain that Carol was wearing her pantihose, a claim which Carol stubbornly refused to consider.  When Carol finally relinquished the pantihose, I washed them so that Becky would see that they were completely restored to her.  In my enthusiastic efforts, I said, "See, Becky -- no problem.  They're washed."  At which point I hung them on a chair back near the gas-fired heater.  Except that I pushed the chair too close, and the legs of the pantihose melted together.  My horror at what I'd done to fix the problem was met with gleeful whoops from both Carol and Becky.  Thank goodness, peace was restored.  And it only took one pair of fused pantihose.  Whew.

Boxes

Her back nearly broken under the weight of the lessons of her mothers
an iron box big enough to hold the family balanced there.
Shifting her shoulders under the load, feeling the pinch and the blister,
adjusting and fitting against the pull of time and anguished prayer.

Loaded with values, shoulds, and the repeated "you must remember who you are."
Mother shifted it onto my shoulders, left me with this and to proclaim
"Remember where you come from,
and the fragile value in your name."

I saw in her eyes the strain of that box, and took it on, knowing it was my time.
Until I set it down to see what would happen.
No headlines appeared in the newspaper,
and no whispers reported my crime.

Before, it had threatened to topple and take me and the family to hell,
for every transgression and temptation I pondered.
It was something of which I'd been warned --
more times than I could tell.

She's gone now, and with her, the lost years of bowed head and pitiful care.
Now there's no need to tell her that the box, once opened,
released the rules
to float away in the air.

She speaks to me in whispers and shows me my path is clear,
and that the box was full of nothing
but expectations and shadows
of those things once counted so dear.

Anna and Clayton

Dear Family and Friends,

Today, August 15, marks five years since my mother's passing;  I'm departing from my travel accounts here to talk about my aunt and uncle whose full lives are also nearing their end.  Aunt Anna is my late father's only remaining sibling, our family's link to the last generation.  My brother's in-laws are also struggling against the ravages of age in two separate nursing facilities in West Virginia. 

This past Saturday, Greg and I visited Aunt Anna in Northside Hospital here in St. Petersburg, Florida, where she is in the cardiac intensive care unit.  She's 92 years old, and this past Thursday, she had a heart attack and her heart is getting tired.  She's had a series of health issues and has recently fallen in her home, where she has insisted on living, despite having her husband, my Uncle Clayton, in a nursing home for well over a year.  They have been dedicated to each other for over 65 years, and through his time in the nursing home, despite her limitations, Aunt Anna has missed very few days of visiting him there, a feat made possible by the faithful attention of their daughter, Susan.  

The family has been informed that her condition is weakening and that now is the time for Uncle Clayton to see her one last time.  Saturday, he was transported from the nursing home and wheeled in his chair to her room.  While seated beside her there, his head slumped forward and he was rushed to the emergency room where it was first thought that he was in the midst of a stroke, but later determined other conditions including low sodium and potassium were to blame.  With treatment, he has rallied and by Sunday was once again alert and articulate from his hospital bed;  Aunt Anna, however, is continuing to slip away.     

Living is all about changing.  We've never before been the age we are now, so we are witnessing our lives always for the first time.  For me, my siblings, and our spouses, as we move into the role of the "last generation," we know more vividly the reality of change.   This is not yet the time to be the reality of our children's lives, for they have the sense of forever stretching out in front of them. 

Now I am thinking not only about my dear mother, but also Aunt Anna, Uncle Clayton, and about an entire era transitioning. 

Aunt Anna's 92nd birthday, May 2011
Visiting Uncle Clayton on nursing home patio

More from Siena

Back to Lessons from Siena

My last post covered our first day in Siena, our encounter with a certain Scotsman on a balcony overlooking the Piazza del Campo, and our dinner experience with Mr. DeNiro.  The next day found us, after a pleasant morning, seated once again on the balcony stools, overlooking the square, anticipating some kind of celebration.  Since the air was a bit chilly, and we were exposed high on the balcony, we had decided to splurge on a mug of Italian hot chocolate.  If you've never experienced true Italian cocoa, well . . . you ought to, unless you're one of those who don't like chocolate (I've heard that there are a few people like that -- not sure what they look like, how to recognize them.  Maybe they have a lean, gaunt, pitiful, hungry, hollow-eyed appearance.)  Anyhow, drinking Italian hot cocoa is almost impossible.  That's why you're often served these sweet fingers of dipping pastry with the cocoa (sort of like donut sticks) and a spoon.  The cocoa is thick, dark, and creamy;  it feels and tastes as if you're drinking the richest hot dark chocolate pudding.
Oh dear me.

Back to the point.  We could tell something special was up, for the square was buzzing with more folks than we saw the previous day.  Chairs and a speaker's podium were set up directly in front of the old town hall, facing us.   Soon, obvious dignitaries congregated, standing at the chairs, shoulder to shoulder, in a couple of rows, facing outward toward the square and the gathered crowds below us.  Some facing us were military, with medals and ribbons;  some were in business attire.  One looked to be a bishop in frock;  and several were in medieval attire of leggings and tunics.  The area was festooned with flags -- we assumed of the city, the country, and the Tuscan paratrooper base.

We had an incredible view of all of this, perched on our shallow little balcony;  I felt sort of like the queen up there and I started waving to my subjects in a stiff-wrist, twisting, queenly way.  Eleven o'clock arrived and we heard something.  Recall that the walled city has very narrow roads, enclosed by continuous stone and brick buildings.  So the sounds coming from the roads leading into the piazza were amplified, bouncing and sweeping from the openings into our square:  men's voices singing, accompanying brass and wind instruments, drums beating, and boots hammering the brick streets.

Here they come!

Then they poured in, resuming precise lines once freed from the tubes of roads, in fatigues, maroon berets, and armed:  seven abreast and seven deep -- one group, another, another, until five groups of fifty men, each with its leader, and then the band;  they  stood at attention facing the gathered dignitaries, all the while their proud deep voices singing, drums beating, horns playing.

I wished we understood the words, but we absolutely felt them.  I knew that Greg felt the same when we shared looks from moist eyes.  The love of country was so evident and strong, that for that time, we were Italian too.  The paratroopers fell into parade rest, and stood silently through the ceremonial inspection by a medal-encrusted general, and next, the speeches, and the bishop's blessing.  Thank you, Will, you lovely Scotsman.

Lessons from Siena

Hello all.  It has been a few days since my last post and I am eager to reconnect.  I hope this finds you all well and happy.  And on that note:

I encourage you to travel, to open yourselves to opportunities for adventure, to dive into cultures so unlike your own, to meet new people, to stretch and grow, noble motivations all.

At times, also, you might learn that some of those new people can act like little poop-heads, and even that's ok, because meeting them might be an opportunity for the both of you to grow.  I certainly hope that a certain Scotsman named Will has found his path to enlightenment, because his lovely petite Irish wife, a bubbly brunette named Kate, was entirely charming and sweet, and she really doesn't deserve a poop-head husband.  What she saw in Will, however, left my husband, Greg, and me both wondering.  However, simply describing our brief encounter with him feels to me as if I'm giving it far more significance than it deserves for a couple of reasons:  one,  our encounter with Will hadn't dampened our enthusiasm of the place and our time spent there; and two, on further reflection, I realize that I can't always predict what lovely outcomes that seemingly random occurrences might bring (even those with aforementioned poop-heads). So, to be fair, Will did tell us about a public celebration taking place the next day which we would likely have otherwise missed, and he gave us a right-on restaurant recommendation.    But I'm getting way ahead of myself because I haven't even told you where in the world we were!   So, let's back up and set the stage:

Our hotel's walls date from the 1300s

It was in mid-October of 2008, and Greg and I were exploring Siena, Italy, a beautiful walled hill town in Tuscany.  We had followed advice from our travel guide, and taken a room in a deceptively large hotel, Hotel Alma Domus, part of a complex of historical buildings associated with and including the home of Siena's Saint Catherine who lived there from 1347 to 1380.  In the early 1300s, her father ran a very successful wool factory and the five-story hotel where we had our reservation is actually the previous drying rooms where the treated wool was stretched on racks.   
Even though the exterior structure is mostly unchanged, with lovely ancient soft-colored and weathered brick, and some interior beams are still visible, the building has been brought into the modern era and is quite comfortable.

(I'll eventually get back to Will, but I'm enjoying my recollections of the hotel, nearby cathedral, and the town, so hang in with me . . .)

Hotel courtyard

The size of the hotel is obscured due to the hilly terrain and approach:  we arrived at the hotel from its side which we reached by walking down a medieval narrow stone-stepped road.   Then, entering a gated small brick courtyard, we moved down more steps past potted red geraniums to the door leading into a spare lobby.

Behind the facing reception counter sat Sister in her habit, at her desk, no-nonsense and straightfaced, peering at us through wire-rimmed glasses.   She gave us a simple and clean room, twin beds with matching crucifixes above our head.  The incongruous white tiled bathroom was  outfitted with modern fixtures, including a pristine white porcelain bidet.  Our one window provided a view of red tiled rooftops and the magnificent dome of the Cathedral of Siena (Duomo di Siena) which was built in the 1200s, and in which we later found heart-stopping masterpieces in paint and marble.

Cathedral San Domenico

Just a few steps up the street past the hotel is the Cathedral San Domenico, built in 1125, where visitors can see, on display, in the area called Chapel of St. Catherine, her head and thumb.  She had been born a twin, one of her parents' 25 children, and after refusing to follow their wishes to accept a planned marriage, she devoted her life to God, a calling she had heard in early childhood;  one of her accomplishments occurred when she traveled to Avignon in 1376 to encourage Pope Gregory XI to return the papacy to Rome, which he did in 1377.

Siena was at one time, before Italy was Italy, a city state that competed with Florence as a military, artistic, religious, and societal power.  In about 1350, it was Florence that eventually succeeded, however, having withstood the Plague with fewer casualties than did Siena.  Remember that Siena has no river, and the Arno River of Florence was a significant advantage in washing the streets of the Black Death.

Piazzo del Campo

Typical narrow "streets"

Our first day we explored the narrow streets and followed signs to the very large Piazza del Campo, one of the most beautiful squares in Europe.  It is distinguished by eight sections of brick laid in a herringbone pattern and banded by travertine, the area sloping gently downward toward the old town hall, (Palazzo Pubblico) and tower (Torre del Mangia).  Their construction began about 1297,  and the neighboring hospital which dates from the 1500s, had been a sort of welfare provider to the poor.  All of these are now open to the public to be enjoyed for their historic significance, including the fact that almost all squares in Italy had been centered around a church or cathedral;  but in Siena, the government buildings took the place of prominence, the Sienese believing that good government, not the church, provided the best foundation of society.  At our vantage point, opposite city hall, we looked down on the Fountain of Joy (Fonte Gaia), which still collects rainwater that once was an important water source for this town with no river. Twice a year, the traditional (and very treacherous) bareback horse race, the Palio, is held in this broad space which is bounded by stout buildings -- where injuries to both horse and rider are not uncommon, despite the padding applied to the buildings' walls.

But there was no race the sunny fall day we were there.  Instead, we peered from a rugby restaurant's narrow balcony across the square humming with pedestrians, tourists, and cafe crowds.  It was on this third-floor balcony that we met Will and, later, Kate.  We were enjoying a sandwich and a glass of wine at the counter attached to the balcony railing;  the seating was just enough for six customers, perched on stools, facing the square.  Will was seated at my left, Greg on my right, and another couple to his right.  I greeted Will, exchanging the usual pleasantries, during which he revealed that he was Scottish, and his wife, Irish, and that two years prior on a vacation to Siena, they loved the place so much that he accepted the job as Siena's rugby coach. At the moment, Kate was showing some company from back home a few sites, and would be joining him there soon.

Will took our picture on the balcony overlooking the square

Ok, so far, so good.  Then the bomb dropped.  He looked at me and said, "You sound like Forrest Gump."  I barely contained myself as I explained that I am not from the deep south as is the fictional character, Forrest -- that I am from the mountains of West Virginia, and we have learned that much of our dialect is actually derived from Elizabethan English.  To which he responded, "Well, we've moved on from that."  How terribly clever of him.  Then, after he'd fully digested that we were American, he proceeded to tell us how fond he was of President Bush (the younger), even telling us a joke that painted a portrait of W visiting Rome, with his left arm draped over the mayor's shoulder and his right arm sweeping out toward the ruins of the Roman Forum, and drawling "Don't ya worry -- we'll git the ones who did this!"  That did it.  I turned toward the square and derived so much more interest in staring out into space, and since Greg had heard all of this, he, too, swiveled on his stool and happily chatted with the young couple to his right.

I don't recall how long this went on before Kate arrived, and introductions revealed a sweet demeanor -- thus our befuddlement.  Then, as a salve, when Will learned that I am part Lebanese, he told us that we should return to the square the next day because, he said, that at 11:00, Siena would be honoring its paratroopers who have just returned from Lebanon.  To further redeem himself, before we left, he and Kate recommended that we try a restaurant that sits just back of the square.  Always interested in locals' suggestions, even this newbie, we made sure to remember the place, though the name has now escaped me.  Fortunately, at the time, we had no trouble finding it.

So, that evening, after resting only a bit after our day of exploring, we set off for the square, to circle around, and walk down some steps to its back to find our dinner.  The restaurant took up the lower floor of a stone-walled building and included outdoor seating under a canopy.  It was a bit early yet, but the tables out front were already covered with white tablecloths, and while we were checking over the posted menu at the road, a black-aproned and highly accented gentleman called for us to come on in.   He ushered us inside saying "no problem" when we saw that we were first, and showed us into the dining room off to the left.  He left us briefly and we took it all in:  it was an Italian painting of white-plastered walls, dark beams at the low ceilings, clustered tablecloth-covered tables and comfortably padded wooden chairs.

Soft-lighted niches and wall sconces washed the walls and accented the architecture, creating a warm glow through the room and revealing rich tones of wood-paneled wainscoting.





We were already happy.  We figured the gentleman to be the owner since he brought us in early and seemed generally to be running the show.  When he returned, he had a basket of bread and a saucer, placing both in front of us;  then, he grabbed a bottle of olive oil from our table, poured a pool into the saucer, and sweeping his arm theatrically, over the oil, sprinkled salt from our shaker.  Greg looked up at him and said, "You know -- you look like Robert DeNiro!"  I think he actually swelled up right in front of us.

"Robert DeNiro" and me

We ordered a bottle of Chianti, he bounced away, and we dug in to the bread basket, while checking over the menu.  In the middle of our meal,  we had already finished off the last of our wine, and he swept back toward our table, and without stopping, or even looking at us, he sort of back-handed a half-bottle to the table top.  I think Robert was a very good sport (and most likely a proud one when it comes to Italian-American actors).  Before we left, he returned for pictures . .

Chianti!

Our first day in Siena was a busy one, and, typically, we ended it full, tired, and happy, and yes, feeling glad to have met Will and Kate.  I think that, if you are a traveler, you learn to value the whole experience, and that going with an open mind and heart, when you come home again, you feel that somehow, you've come full circle, finding yourself, only a self that is a little bit better.

After dinner, returning to our convent-run hotel and our little twin beds, and looking up at our own little crucifix, Greg and I were also looking ahead to tomorrow.

(to be continued)