Out About The Hood

Three sisters
Why did the turkeys cross the road?
Can you guess where?

Hot Peppers and Hot Sauce

Lightening streaked across the sky at dusk. Under the amphitheater muted notes from instruments being tuned for the night’s performance answered the thunder’s roll. Between the sources of the sounds an audience anxiously stirred anticipating both the rain and the music of Tchaikovsky. A night at Saratoga Springs Performing Arts Center, SPAC.

Catered dinner included a spicy hot asparagus pasta salad. Delicious. Served with a Napa wine called FreakOut. Jennifer gave me the recipe. I used all the crushed red peppers and hot sauce as called for. If I were to make it again, I’d use about ½ the olive oil and maybe add some pine nuts.

Desert was a cheesecake tart with homemade black raspberry sauce topped with fresh berries. I made that too. But dessert was 16 cannons during the SolemnOverture, 1812. Followed by fireworks.

318147 Miles

It was 59 degrees this morning. A perfect temperature to scrub down the RV. I had cleaned out the inside removing rat poison and chipmunk droppings yesterday. After a couple hours, it was warmer and time to wash dad’s car after running down to Duncan Donuts for a decaf hazelnut ice coffee with cream and four Splendas. Heck while we were at it might as well wash the old Jeep...inside and out. I’m exhausted. I’m going to need a vacation soon.
Black-eyed Susans

As Predicted

Four days before my high school reunion and I broke a nail. I knew it. I knew it . I knew it. Well, at least it is not a zit!

Photo Log: Forest Floor

Blow this one up!

Running, Not Writing

Okay, I am not getting up at the crack of dawn. Today it was raining. I went back to sleep and had a retro dream, which I think is unusual because dreams are always in the present, at least that is my theory. Think about it. This one was too, but I went back to a place of twenty years or so ago, to TRW and a corporate life. Big job, big income, big promising future up the corporate ladder. No telling where I would be if I stayed. Well, probably in jail, but that is a whole ‘nother story.

Last night, I visited those people who influenced my career. Decisions about line verses staff positions. Later, manufacturing verses human resources and finally stay or leave the company. But in this dream, I reminisced about leaving the corporate world and writing. Ohhhh. A nightmare by the time I woke up, fretting about not making any money and considering working part-time for UPS as a package handler for $8.50 an hour. It was a mistake to leave the track to the corner office. Everyone said so. Now look at me working for minimum wage and at 53 no chance in hell to get back on that track. Opportunities passed me by. Who cares if you enjoy what you are doing, if you don’t have the means to enjoy it.

I could see their faces plain as mine in the bathroom mirror when I finally got fed up with Diablo jumping on my head in an annoying attempt to get me up to feed her. Phoenix lets her do the dirty work.

A good run around the big block (four miles), including running half way up Gailor Road (it is a hill and then some) helped shake the dream out of my head. Then dad and I tackled the dead pine tree and hauled it off into the woods, after stacking the trunk on the elm we took down last week. Yup, a real lumber jack in the making here. While Dad ran into town to get a new chain after an incident (always an incident when a chain saw is involved), I flushed out the water system in the RV. It is not a difficult task, but time consuming. In between projects I did a load of laundry. Working on the RV stirred up a few memories of last year’s road trip. There were some lonely times on the road, lost without Mom.

The Trinity United Methodist Church of Wilton put a plaque on their organ in memory of Mom.

Dad showed me the rotten tree trunk in the woods by the RV and I discovered these mushrooms. Got my elbows chewed up by mosquitoes and still didn’t the snap I wanted.

The School Teachers are here.

At The Track

Offer the public a free place to sit and they will come. By the thousands.

Under shady hardwoods and tall pines surrrounding the clubhouse, a sea of red chairs dotted the terrain, appearing near picnic tables, circling the simulcast TV's, standing hotdog stands, camping under the clubhouse eves, and lining the fence at the turn to home stretch.

The spinners were out in full force to get their share of 70,000 camp style chairs. China Red. Made there too. My pick of the day, Namaste's Wish (it is Nepalese, not Chinese) finished out of the money. In fact I finished out of the money all day long. I'm in a dry spell. There have been times when all I had to do was look at a horse and the pony won. Think I am looking too hard. And Dad and I worked too hard to get seven chairs, but for three dollars a chair, one can't complain. Before we got home from the track these things were fo sale on Ebay.

I'm taking mine to the beach!

Photo Log

There is a frog in one of these snaps. Enlarge and find. All photos were taken in Dr. Orra Phelps perserve.

Yesterday

After WWII, Dad went to Mexico with his friend, Tony. With them came Tony’s family and Carmen, dad’s mom. It had been over 60 years since dad has seen Tony, who served onboard a ship in the Pacific as a plane spotter, covering 26000 miles without touching land. (Oh my head spins when I think about this.)

Here’s a snap of Lupe, Abundio, Maria (who gave me this photo), and Mathilda de la Torre and Carmen, my grandmother sitting along the roadside, having a picnic in 1946.

I have never seen this photo. Dad (Manuel Luna Perez) is nineteen, standing in the middle. Ralph is 10 and on the right is Joseph (Pep). My grandmother Carmen is 40 and my grandfather Bonifacio, a zinc miner who came to the US in the early 1920’s, is 48. Cool photo, as this is the family in my book.

Now, has anyone got the photo of Mom with Grandma Perez and I think Grandpa on her wedding day. They are standing in front of the Bridge Street house? I can't find it in the house.

Andrew

The other day we got an unexpected call from my brother Mike. He called to see if Dad was home and was surprised to find me in Saratoga. (Mike, you are not reading the blog!) Anyway, Andrew was headed down the Northway, and wanted to stop in, but did not have his grandfather’s phone number. So he called his dad. Mike was in Colorado and gave us a call so Andrew would not be driving and talking on the cell at the same time. Remember, in NY that is a no-no, unless you are doing it hands free-talking, not driving.

Man has my nephew matured over the summer.

Traveling about in his Honda before his last year in school at SUNY Brockport, he has been all over the northeast, supplementing his bank account with farm work--working hard on a cheese farm in Corinth, Vermont. He helped bring in the hay, tossing forty pound bales twenty feet high (oh to be young and strong), cleared fields, delivered calves and had fun with his friends and meeting girls from Ireland and Sweden and other cool places. He did balk at inseminating the cows, but did get as far as getting the “goo” all over his hand. He dined in Boston, did hand stands on the sand dunes of Colorado and carried his nephew Nolan over rocky mountains. The homeboy found his wings, but he still thinks the Empire State is the best. Next stop, Europe.

Cream-cicles

The scent of pines collected in the ditches that paralleled the dirt road which cut over the mountain to Corinth and the Hudson River. It was cooler here, and faint scent of the trees blew into the back seat of the 54 Chevy where Robiin and I sat on towels. The towels were to keep our wet bottoms from soaking the bench seat, but it also protected our thighs from the prickly woolen weave.

Dad had come home from the Saratogian where he worked as a printer in the composing room. On a hot July day, a swim in the Hudson in the late afternoon before dinner was a treat. But the cool dip at the beach in Cornith was lost in the back seat after the Chevy sat on the street windows rolled up while we swam.

Today, I went to the beach, a dirt pit strip along the shore. (Once you’ve seen and felt real sandy beaches, you never can go back to dirt.) I learned to swim here, from dog paddle to a modified free-style stroke that I never improved until a Master Swimmer got tired of watching my awkward kick in the Kona pool a couple of years ago. I taught myself to dive off the dock and raft that sat in the middle of the river, beyond the swimming area ropes. To go beyond the ropes meant I could swim. To swim out to the raft meant you were a big kid. Robin use to dive off the raft and disappear into the dark water. She would not surface right away, making everyone nervous. Eventually she’d surface from the deep having gone to the bottom. Dad taught her to flatten out her hands once she hit the water so she wouldn’t keep going straight down like a rock.

I use to race down the slope, crash into the shallow water, dive head first, hit the river bottom with my outstretched hands, grab a handful of dirt and surface with two globs of muck, flinging material if the life guard wasn’t watching. More likely, after a close examination for gold, pennies or common stones and soda bottle caps, the guck washed away in the current to sink back to the bottom.

Unlike Robin, I never went to the bottom of the river from the raft. Both the dock and the raft are gone, but the ropes are still in the water, making the swimming area not much more than a place to splash and play the insane and irritating game of Marco Polo. That game should be outlawed.

On hot summer weekends Mom came with us. We’d spend so much time in the water we literally turned blue. Mom would make us stand in front of her and if we shivered, we had to come out. Hard as I tried not to shake, eventually the natural reflex got the best of me and I’d start to tremble. Half an hour on the blanket to recover to a normal skin color seemed like an eternity.

There was an independent grocery store across the street. Hot sidewalks and street surfaces made walking barefoot across the street a quick challenge. How did they walk on fire? Mom would buy each of us a cream-cicle. The white and orange treat melted faster than I could eat it. If nothing fell on the sidewalk, life was good.

I sat on the beach and listened to the kids play. I watched a young boy lay on the sand, dig a hole and plow a dump truck through the water. Little girls in cheap one piece suits with saggy bottoms after weeks of wear giggled in the shallow water and played Marco Polo. Gone were teenagers. No teen boys eyeing girls. No girls looking too cool to notice. What do teens do these days? Mothers sat in lawn chairs at the water’s edge.

It was long ago I swam here. Life was good. Still is.

A Bit Behind

Had a long weekend in NJ and got back late. Will make some observations soon. Until then enjoy some family photos.

Cousin Eric David and Chris.


Dad with his great nephew Dakota Perez, son of Eric David. My Uncle Ralph reminded me that Dad is the Perez family patriarch.





Eric David, with his wife Angie, son Dakotah and cat Gideon.

Orra Phelps, MD

Dr. Orra A. Phelps (1895-1986) took the young neighborhood girls – the two Greys, two Stroups, and two Perezs – to the woods to teach and inspire. As a botanist, she intimately knew the flowers, the grasses, the trees, the fungi and as well as the rocks, the animals and many more living things found in the forests around Wilton, NY and the Adirondack Mountains. She could identify the plants whether they bloomed in spring, thrived in summer, seeded in fall or laid dormant in winter. From a discarded seed pod, or broken twig using sight, smell, touch she could tell what plant it came from, whether the plant was edible or not and if its stem, or leaf, berry or root had any medicinal purpose.

Read more about Orra Phelps

Leslie Dames has been portraying Orra Phelps for a little over a year in a one-woman show. When she walked into the Wilton Historical Society tonight, Dr. Phelps came through the door with her. In several vignettes she depicted Dr. Phelps' life as a naturalist, educator, mountain climber, historian. In a funny and engaging presentation Leslie brought an old friend to life. Good memories.

This extraordinary woman impacted my life and it was a privilege to walk in the woods with her.

Bird Head

After I arrived in Florida, I wrote about my skull collection, in particular the buffalo skull that I picked up in New Mexico. The worms, the stink, the solution. I have not met too many people who also collect skulls. A young man named Ben, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer did.

When darn near everything I own has been in storage for four years, I am careful not to collect too many things, which end up in storage with the rest of my worldly possessions the next time I drive through Tennessee on my way to a new adventure, a new place to live or back to Dad’s house in New York. So far, it has not been for a new job.

I arrived home yesterday and took the tour around the house with Dad. Yep, I saw the 75 year old elm tree stump Robin and Dad dissected for me. It’s a beaut. The two tomato plants with marble size green tomatoes. It will be a race to see which comes first-the frost or ripe fruit. The rose bush Mrs. Smith gave the family when mom passed way. The new tar patches in the driveway (no that does not involve mastodons sinking in black goo). And the dead trees targeted for removal by me and dad. Oh boy.

As the inspection was finishing up, I passed by the garage, noting the variegated ground cover below the windows. When I took a closer look, I found the remains of a finch. Apparently, a casualty of a midair collision with the window.

Fascinated by the tiny pieces of what was once a bird, I carefully picked through the dull yellow feathers. I found a foot, and the cranium. Then the beak, the upper bone with the nasal passage and lower jaw. What a find. So fragile. If I had a pair of tweezers I could recover more, but I was just after the skull and with luck, the bill.

I need a tiny jewelry box, a piece of cotton and another trip to Tennessee.

Road Notes

It was 8:37 am Sunday morning and I was headed up I-81 north of Morristown, Tennessee. Sunday morning means Camping in the Zone Time on The Big Talker 100.3 FM with Raymond Brody. If you have not been a regular reader since day one ( I think only Dad has been), Raymond Brody, the host of the show, featured my RV adventures down the East Coast last summer.

He and his father have two RV dealerships in Knoxville and Nashville called Campers Corner. Every couple of weeks Raymond would have me on his show via the phone. I updated him and his listeners on where I was and what I was doing. We talked about RV experiences and mishaps, cool people in RV camp grounds and family. All this from the inexperienced solo female RV perceptive. Of course I got an opportunity to plug my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

When Mom passed away we still did the show, talking about real life stuff – how precious life is, not wasting time, seizing the moment, no guarantees and family. He helped keep me up beat, reflective and moving forward despite the tremendous loss. I’ve never met Raymond. I admired his enthusiasm for RVing. I appreciated his professionalism and compassion when mom died. And he was a security blanket for this rookie RVer. I always knew I could have called for advice if I got into a predicament.

The show is available on the internet, but since installing security systems on my laptop, I have not been able to figure out how to get it on line. So I was pretty happy to tune in as I tooled up the road still 800 miles from New York.

Raymond’s dad does a spot called Buzz Time. (Buzz and his wife came to my book signing at Barnes and Noble in Knoxville last fall.) Today, Buzz asked how Raymond’s wife was doing. I was shocked to learn she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Tears came to my eyes.

I waited until the show was over. I called him.

I thanked God for letting me pass through Knoxville this morning, for hearing the show and for being able to get a hold of Raymond. It doesn’t seem like much, but I don’t think any of that was coincidental. I have thought about her, Raymond and the family all day.

Keep Beth in your prayers.

Weather

I didn't eat all those chips and threw most of them away after I discovered the ants liked them too. I was going to say they liked them more than me, but I confess, the warm greasy and salty potato was pretty darn good. But the ants reminded me too much of the ants in my french toast served up by my host mom in Micronesia. A taste I just can't bring home.

Anyway, I am packing up for the trip home to NY. Looking at traveling route options. The DC area and I95 corridor is not an option. Anyway I cut it, it is a three day trip.

Phoenix and Diablo know that something is up. Phoenix has found a new home in a Cold Creek box that my high school reunion dress came in. Dress is now hanging in closet, Phoenix is sleeping in the box. Diablo is trying to eat my Brazil nuts.

Photo taken from Howard Park the other day. Lots of thunderstorms in the area, but little rain in Tarpon Springs. Don't forget you can click on any photo to enlarge.

Potato Chips

Don't ask me why I was overcome with this urge to make a better potato chip. Maybe because I grew up in the town where the chip originated, but I doubt that was the inspiration. Maybe because I recently saw a chip factory featured on "How Do They Make That?" and me, with my manufacturing acumen, took a shot at it. But most likely, I had a few potatoes, some oil, it was raining and the Trans Fat Police were down at the local donut shop.

The Scar

See the scar? Appendectomy. Three years ago, next week.

I remember being scared. Eight thousand miles away from home, I waited in a hospital ward with no sheets on the bed until my Peace Corps host Mother brought some from home. Cat roaming down the halls. No air conditioning. An orange M&M under the adjacent bed. Hard to believe that much time has passed. That day, I wanted to tell Mom and Dad, but couldn’t— fourteen time zones and urgency of getting me into the operating room. If it happened today, I couldn’t tell Mom.

Today, as I stared at the scar I reflected on the past three years. These thoughts came to me.

What was the most significant event? I had been in the Peace Corps, I sailed across the Pacific in the Cosmic Muffin, fell in love, wrote a book titled The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and got it published. Had my heart broke. I remodeled a kitchen, fixed a roof, painted a porch, all alone. I went on the road in my parents’ RV to promote my book, had a radio spot on Camping in the Zone,an RV program, moved to Tarpon Springs, Florida. None of that. It was the death of my mother. A year ago, just last year was the last time I saw her, heard her voice.

Thought some more about this. I asked what about my closer relationship with God? I dismissed that. Because that is like saying breathing is the most significant event. It is an essential part of living. Truly, my relationship has enriched the life. His gift to me, my life. My gift to Him, what I became.

I am grateful for his blessing and mercy. More than I deserve. His acknowledged presence in my life is recent. I have had many milestones with Him during the last three years. Mom’s death is one. Like a blanket, my Lord has covered me, secured me and comforted me through these events.

I asked if I would have done anything different if I had known three years ago that my mother would not be here today. Only one thing. I would have picked her a bouquet of wild flowers last July.

Cold Front

Not in Florida. Not in July, when air comes from the south. The water temperatures in the gulf are 90 plus degrees. The heat indexes reach the three digit mark.

Weather originating from the shores of West Africa. It arrives either as a tropical depression or a category 5 hurricane. Fortunately, not this the first of June.

Usually we get rocking thunderstorms. During the last three weeks, Pinellas County has missed out on most of the afternoon thunderstorms. They have popped up in the north by mid-morning, to the west in the late afternoon. In the south and east towering columns of clouds have pushed skyward, like mounds of termite nests growing out of the African Serengeti. Pinellas County has avoided the massive storms, their torrential rain and ramparts accompanied by thunder. Whatever the cause, I hope it keeps the tropical storms away.

The heat has caused me to crack. I broke down. I have turned on the air in the evening taking the heat and humidity out of the condo before going to bed. Helps hot flashes be a little more bearable. The condo, without a full southern exposure and being on the first floor, has temperatures 15-20 degrees cooler than the outside. Eighty-four feels okay with ceiling fans. But, I mean I really broke down and I am going to blame the cats.

I’m New York bound for August. Traveling north with Phoenix and Diablo (Gee, I just realized how hot those names are!). The Jeep’s air conditioning hasn’t worked since 1993. I drove across Tennessee in August for a job interview in Knoxville. Windows open sweating all the way, wind blowing trucker dirt into my teeth. I unexpectedly ran in to Al Pirie, the company’s HR Manager who had been assigned to check me out. I wasn’t able to get to my room to clean up because there was a room reservation mishap. First impressions are every lasting. I didn’t get that job. Instead, I got another job with the same company and became Al’s boss. That is how I got to Florida, the first time.

The first time and five years in the state without air. Each week, my job put me on the road about 25 miles, but in the air for 3000. So I tolerated the heat. Hated the flying. Although I had the money in those days, I rebelled when the dealer estimated, “About $1000.” After all, it had OLD refrigerant in it. It had to be converted. And I must have looked like a sucker.

This week, fretting about frying my feline brains out, I decided to look into the cost of fixing the system. I figured $1000, about the same worth of the 1989 Jeep with 316,000 miles. But first thing was to get an evaluation. A good investment of $35. Then a final decision.

Imagine my pleasure when I was told that back in the old days of the last century the Jeep’s air system, all of the systems in fact, were well made. To fix the air con and retro fit it for the NEW Freon – which is now old Freon, much like Class Coke is just Coke to everyone born after 1985. (Or was that 1984?)—would cost $309.30. I didn’t want to appear overly relieved with the price, so I frowned and hesitated, as if I had to make some great financial sacrifice—a new dress for my 35th high school reunion or cooling my cats.

So I am headed north next weekend. My faithful Jeep, topped off with a bright yellow kayak, my mountain bike, two cats, a litter box and a new dress for the reunion. I feel a cold front moving in.

International Toad Day

Today is International Toad Day. Also known as Toaday, not to be confused with Toady.

To mark this occasion which is particularly celebrated in Santa Cruz, California for no apparent reason, go kiss one. Or better yet, barbeque one. With beer. Delicious.

The past few of mornings, while running in the predawn around the bayou, I almost stepped on a couple of toads. That would be a good idea too, except they make such a squishy mess. Envision the double X’d eyes and the little pink tongue extending from the grimaced lips. Do toads have lips? Dead, dead, dead.

This message was not environmental approved by Live Earth, Al Gore or Robert Kennedy Jr. To anyone who gets the joke, CHEERS. And if you took it personally, TOAD on U.

Greeks

I got my hair cut today and almost lost an ear when the stylist told me a little secret about Greeks. When Greeks do business with Greeks (and she is Greek) neither are happy until they give each other a headache. Since I just wrote a story about my encounter with a Greek and I called the story Bad Commerce, I couldn't help but bust out laughing. If you want to read the story, email me and I'll send it to you.

It’s Not Again, It is Always.

A year in reflection. The first half of 2007. The resolutions.

The Not’s

1. Snickering about global warming. I never think of it when I have the ignition switch on my Jeep between my forefinger and thumb and I smell burnt flesh.
   
2. Over throw the government of some small country – mainly Micronesia - and declare myself queen. Haven’t left the country this year.
   
3. Declare a Christian-crusade on Muslims every time they declare Jihad on a Christian. Ooooh, this one has been sooo hard.
   
4. Adopt another cat. Just Phoenix and Diablo
   
5. Either buy more than ten new t-shirts, or a sailboat. One T-Shirt to proclaim the Tennessee Women’s Basketball Team champs. I have subscribed to Sail and drooled over the ads in the back of the magazine.

The Do’s

1. Pitch The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin to Oprah. Nope
   
2. Sell 700 more books. More like 18
   
3. Write the first draft of Beyond the Sail (Working title).Working on the Great Mexican Novel called The Kayak
   
4. Learn to sail. Am I crazy?
5. Drink more milk. Doing Soy.

Under Consideration but Waffling on the Commitment

1. Get a job…Considered applying as a weekend dock hand. And thank God for the stock market...13861!!

How are you doing on yours? Can you even remember them?

The blog: Started a year ago as a marketing means for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. I have six devoted fans…A friend in Hawaii, Dad, my aunt and uncle, my two sisters and a childhood friend in Alaska. Thanks.

Return of the Critter

There was another critter in the condo. In the wall. Scratching away, trying to get out. Phoenix and Diablo have been sitting, staring at the closet wall. At first, I thought there was a bug in the nap of the rug, but I saw nothing. Then I heard the scratching. It sounded like desperate attempts to climb up the interior wall between two by fours and electrical wires.

What to do? Cut a small hole into the wall inside the closet. Position the cat carrier in front of the hole with water and cat food to lure the critter inside. Wait. Nothing. Critter disappeared or died.

I don’t smell anything and now I have a hole in the wall to fix.

I'm going to name the unknown critter Paris Hilton.

Truth Never Changes

We’ve seen the shot. Earth from space, a place few have seen or experienced first hand. It's one thing I’ll never be able to check off my “To Do List”.

The astronauts’ perspective of our home, planet earth, seen from space, is something we can try to imagine. I imagine it with two thoughts—one with God and one without. My choice is with. We can debate the points of method or means of creation, if you think it is important. I don’t, but agree I am fascinated by it. My focus is on the Maker and why. I trust in God and I know the answer.

This week, before the space shuttle safely returned to California, my friend Nancy received an email. It was from Danny Olivas onboard the shuttle. He is the astronaut who fixed the torn blanket on the shuttle last week. She knows him from Houston(We all wait to hear who she will meet in her new life in New Orleans.). The idea of getting an email from space is incredible. It is one thing to know an astronaut and quite another to get an email FROM SPACE.

Most American don’t know who this guy is. Honestly, I would not have either if it hadn’t been for Nancy. This got me thinking. Remember the days when the principle herded us elementary kids into the cafeteria to watch the space capsule come back to earth? (Okay, you whippersnapper. This was in the 60’s and I’m showing my age.) The tiny funnel-shaped craft, half the size of VW and with as much space inside as a glovebox, plummeted into the ocean often miles away from the recovery ship. For what seemed like hours we sat there watching the black and white television as Walter Cronkite walked us through the recovery. We all prayed (yup, prayed in school, God help us.) that the mission would be successful and completed before we had to climb onboard the yellow school bus to head for home where in my family there wasn't a TV.

In the days of the early missions, great attention and national importance was given to a program that launched monkeys, dogs and chimps into space. They had names and we knew the names of the Chimps—Ham and Enos. Wrote children books about them. And 40 plus years later we don’t know who is up there, what they did and when they came back. (They do howeer carry the landings live in Florida on the local stations.)

A lot has changed in our world. But from space, incredibly our planet still looks pretty much the same and the Maker hasn’t changed. And we still debate the means, but the truth never changes.

Tax Dollars

Here is an interesting website to play around with. It doesn’t involve flying helicopters into brick walls, nor does it test your skill at Suduko, nor will you get the latest up date on Paris Hilton, nor a preview into Hillary Clinton's (surprised no one has made a song about those two since their names rhyme) latest UTube video. Instead, the interactive website allows you to track your food consumption and daily activities. Over the course of time it provides charts and graphs about your nutritional intake in details that will make you ask “Selenium. What is that?” There are loads of information about the basic food groups and number of daily servings you've eaten and how your diet is stacking up. If you pay taxes, be sure to check it out as it is brought to you by the United States Department of Agriculture Center for Nutrition Policy and Promotion.

It doesn’t take much to set up outside of an ID and password. While it asks for an email address, it is optional so spam is not going to be a problem and Big Brother isn't tracking you gluttony. You can however find out all the nutritional drawbacks to Spam. (Oh yeah, check out this website. Take the time to watch the characters get bored with posing just for you. Roll your mouse over the page and each character comes alive. But be warned, the music is dorky and so is the homepage.)

You didn't think I would really give you links to Paris and Hillary did you? And you thought I was writing a book.

Healing

It was time to reboot the running program. After four weeks of laying in bed at 5:55 am, using the excuse that I was resting my ailing shin, I got up to test that shin and prove to myself that part of my sciatic problem was due to my inactivity as much as my attempt to prefect flips on the end of my swimming laps (I flounder like the fish). The shin felt good, but I ran about as slow as Hershey syrup pours after being stored in the freezer-- so the ants can’t get it although I have found some of the tiny raiders in the rubber gasket of the freezer door.

By late afternoon, the shin wasn’t sore and the sciatic nerve while not 100% continued to improve as I stretch three times a day. I tried a couple of flips in the pool, but since others were swimming and I didn’t want to endanger them or cause them concern with my possible drowning, I curtailed improving my technique.

Soy Nuts

An interesting little buds of flavor with a dry scale resembling insect wings have the same crunch of a piece of toast found in the bottom of a toaster, the salty flavor of a French fry and the light nutty hint of a wild pine cone. Here are some soy nut nutrition facts:1/2 cup as in 86gm roasted soynuts contains Calories: 387, Protein: 34g, Carbohydrate: 28g, Total Fat: 18.6g and Fiber: 7.0g.

Same negative results as soy milk. The question is how many soy nuts can a cat eat before they get sick?

Minor Leak

One of those split-the-sky-open-and-let-the-dogs-and cats-pour-out thunderstorms rolled through Tarpon Springs this morning. I headed home just ahead of the ominous clouds and slammed the windows shut in what turned out to be a fruitless effort to keep the elements out of the condo. I’m sure this is not the first winodw leak (remembered it rained during Tropical Storm Barry).

I set up a little brigade of sponges and rags along the window sill and kept working my way up and down the line wringing and wringing until my hands were as raw as Cinderella’s after she finished scrubbing the stairway to her evil stepmother’s root cellar. I filled a 20 pound cat litter bucket with water. Despite my best effort the carpet still got wet. At times, the rain actually fell on my head. Check that, I’m inside and the window is closed. The track for the pane filled with water and flowed across the faux marble sill and cascaded down the wall. An interior designer could not have designed the effect any better. Except I had no time to admire the watefall.

Definitely need to replace that window as I suspect this is not the first leak and the “crack” around the casing has to let rain into the wall itself. (This is the same area where the ants invade the condo.)

It rained harder than Barry. The condo maintenance guy is out in the parking lot trying to unplug the storm drains. Cars are up to their value stems in water. Looks kind of cool.

Raccoon

I love it when the ingredients of a story come together. The kayak story has been sitting on the back burner for a couple of months, as I struggled with four short stories and a budding idea for a novel. Finally, I figured out how to write it and who is telling the story. It took going back to the basics – paper and pencil. Actually, it took three different colored pens and a new setting—sitting at a table in Panera Bread and drinking a mango raspberry ice drink. The icy drink was delicious, so I am sure it was loaded with calories. I burned them off with an eight mile kayak this afternoon. Fighting a strong headwind and then not messing around too much on the way back with the tailwind worked up a sweat. By the way, saw a raccoon swimming across the river. This little guy was swimming as hard as he could to keep away from the three kayaks. After he made a mad dash into the mangroves, I heard some birds squawking their heads off. Nest raid?

After scribbling away on several pieces of paper, making notes about the main character and brainstorming ideas about the other characters and their desires, dreams and lives, I struck on an idea to have the story told by several individuals – their perspective, to clarify the misconceptions about how the kayak was acquired. The story is told by me to my sister, Jennifer. Very complex and I’ll probably get raked by the writers group for point-of-view issues, but what the heck. It is my story.

Now I have to re-write the twenty pages I have.

Here is a soy update: It is impossible to consume 7 grams soy protein without exploding, if you know what I mean. I’d rather deal with hot flashes.

Air Con

I finally broke down and turned on the air. Geesh it has been hot, but I had a splitting head ache, getting knocked down by hot flashes and needed a good night’s sleep. I cranked the temperature down to 79°. Aaah, relief.

I still had a headache. Actually, it was a migraine. I have not had one in months. The onset came from the other night when I went to see Headless Ax at Got Wine in Dunedin. The performance was outside, under tents to escape the thundershower that swept across the state. Lots of cigarette smoke. The small group of friends of the Headless Ax guitarist, Robert Sutherland, who I sat with went through two packs of Camels in an hour. By 10 PM I was as cured as a Virginia ham. Rode home with the windows wide open hanging my head out of the car like any happy dog.

53 Yesterday

My last experience with the drink had not been pleasant. In an attempt to find a suitable substitute on an island that had no milk except what came in a box from Australia, I bought a couple boxes of soy milk. I found the liquid had a flat taste that squashed a chalky sweetness to the roof of my mouth that lingered long after I swallowed the last gulp over three years ago. In search for another cure for hot flashes (the black cohosh is not making the grade any longer), I found myself debating about the brand and flavor of soy milk.

After my morning bike ride to Dunedin (about 23 miles round trip) thirst and hunger propelled me to stand in front of the refrigerator. After swigging back the blue drink from Powerade (I love that stuff)right from the bottle (hey, I live alone) I was about to go for yogurt and cereal when I remembered the box of soy milk I bought at Publix a few days ago. How bad can this be? After all it is chocolate flavored.

The worst that could happen, the funky chalky fluid would ruin my desire for chocolate (it could happen). I confess I liked it. I checked the label to see if I was about to indulge in another bad habit—like eating what I call second hand slow churned ice cream with Hershey’s Syrup (no need to explain that it is chocolate, which I figured could be added to the soy milk along with Splenda if it totally sucked.

No, I haven’t tied flowers in my hair and took up wearing long tattered skirts. Nor have I tried to feng shui my living room or replaced all my light bulbs with pig tails. I’m just fifty three and trying new things. Some new things anyway.

Signature

He signed the card, “Love Mom and Dad.” Mom is no longer here, but I just realized her love never died. Thanks Dad.

Gordon Stone Band

Back in May, I went to the Tulip Festival in Albany. The Gordon Stone Band was playing. Jon McCartan, the cutest bass guitar player in the world was waiting to go on stage. I introduced myself by reminding him that I misidentified his photo on my blog last summer after I saw the band play in Bourne, MA. The band sounded as good as ever, but the larger crowd and stage made the event less intimate than that rain-filled night near the Cape Cod Canal. It seems like a lifetime ago.

All the best to Gordon, Jimmy and Jon—the boys from Burlington, Vermont. This is one good reason why Vermont should not be allowed to secede from the United States.

Take Note: The Boys come to my hometown, Saratoga Springs, New York on July 1st. Where? No better place than Caffe Lena. Of course.

High Tide

There have been milestones I skipped right over. Others, I have stumbled on, but none have I clung to in a desperate attempt to find an anchor.

This morning, I waited out my first tropical storm of 2007, the second of this young, two-day old season. (The first storm zoomed up the east coast of Florida while I was in New York last month.)

Now I am watching the high tide and westerly winds combine forces to push a surge beyond what yesterday's full moon could do. I believe it just peaked, as I have been observing the debris of nature(twigs and flower blossoms) and man (plastic grocery bags, mainly) float out of the canal. Across the brown waters, the tell-tale sign of the high water mark stains the concrete barrier wall like ring-around-the-collar. (Do wives ever fret about that embarrassment?)

The bayou seeped over its embankments and stranded seawater on the road beyond the canal’s bridge. A few drivers challenged the standing waters, but I did a U-turn in my Jeep and went out the back way to Winn-Dixie in search of a can of tuna, a lunchtime craving.

On the dock watching the water rise under a clearing sky (totally different than this morning when the skies dumped up to five inches on a parched ground—last rain was 25 days ago and I don’t remember it.), I realized my birthday is this Friday. However, that isn’t the significant milestone. I am the last of five to have their first birthday since Mom passed way. I suddenly felt washed over with emptiness and some guilt by just noting my siblings’ birthdays during the past nine months. God, a birthday without the mother of my life.

I have managed to get past every twenty-eighth day of the month without thinking of Mom’s death. I might have thought about it the day before or a few days afterwards, but I never caught myself lingering in thought on that day. That was until last month. Nine months have past, the time it takes to create a new life. I guess I am still grieving. I lost a few tears in the outgoing tide.

Women on Mountain

James

Flames have torched Georgia and Florida for more than a month. Dry conditions and stupid teenagers are to blame. Directly in the line of fire, are contingencies of trained men and women who battle the blazes, tend to the hot spots and douse the perimeter to protect life and property.

The smoke from these fires has drifted south to Tarpon Springs sending those with respiratory conditions inside.

I have a friend, Mike, whose son is working the crews in the Jacksonville area. Shout outs to James Braham and the other fine men and women who are tirelessly working to contain the fires. Be safe and hope you all make it home soon.

Photo: James Braham in South Florida.

To Mom,

I miss sharing those special moments in my life with you.

Dad brought the pansies and the geraniums in for the night. Frost warnings were issued for as far south as Glens Falls. He did not want to risk the cold weather killing the new plants he had potted this week. Dad gathered them from the railing on the front walkway and put them in the garage for the night. The temperatures never dipped as low as forecasted and by sunrise a clear blue sky promised a gorgeous Mother’s Day. You would have said the day was perfect.

The lilacs did not make full bloom, but their effort did not go unnoticed. Earlier in the week, the tiny buds showed no signs of blossoming by Mother’s Day, but warm sunny days enticed the flowers to come forth. By this time last year the branches bowed under the weight of the heavy bouquet. The daffodils and violets were out, so Dad and I picked a large vase full of your favorite yellow flower from the beds near the woods between the house and the old schoolhouse.

Robin, Cindi and I went for a morning walk. On Earnst Road, I spotted a Baltimore Oriel. It has been years since I seen this brilliant orange and black bird in upstate New York. I remembered the sack-like nests that once hung in the elms in front of Grey’s house. The trees, the nests and birds have been gone for years.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Eileen came up for the day. Chris came too. Mark expressed it well for all of us. It was good to see Cousin Chris and we were glad to be able to share the day with him. I enjoyed hearing him call Dad, Uncle Manuel.

We were all here, except Mike, who stayed home with Margie. John, her father, passed away on Friday. He must have been torn not to be here, but you would have given him hell if he came.

I am not sure what I expected when we went to scatter your ashes. At Moreau we mixed your ashes with Rusty’s and Holly’s, your two Shelties. We walked around the lake, letting our moods swing from light and cheery to somber and tearful, as Dad let the ashes trickle to the ground. As we walked I imagined Hansel and Gretel leaving bread crumbs in the woods. If we needed to find our way home, we could have followed the faint trail of gray ash that dusted the path around the lake.

This was the place you came with Holly and Rusty. Dad reminisced about the walks, the places you rested, and where the dogs chased the squirrels. We enjoyed the quiet sounds of the wind whispering in the maples, the birches and pines. Near the lake shore, we saw fish—perch, pickerel, bass and trout. Chris brought his fishing gear with him and cast along the shore. And several dogs—a Silky Terrier, an English Springer Spaniel and a couple retrievers—greeted us as if paying respect to Holly and Rusty.

At the bridge, each of us took a bit of ash and let the wind carry the dust over the lake. Co hugged Dad. We each shed a tear. And we said good-bye.

Back at the picnic area, we blew bubbles, because you had two bottles sitting on the hutch for some reason and this was good as occasion. And because you had two bottles of sparkling grape juice—one white and one red—we filled our Dunkin Donut coffee cups and I toasted you and all other moms on this day.

I thought of the last time I was at the lake with you. It was just last July when Dad and I brought you here. We sat under the pines and ate Subways...over there Mom, by that table.

And then the day was over. There is still that feeling that sits deep inside me. The painful recognition that you are gone, forever and ever. Like that new 41 cent stamp.

Photos: by Darryl Conte, Jennifer Perez and the waiter at Longfellows

Mom's Birthday

This morning Dad and I took a bouquet of daffodil to the Saratoga National Cemetery. We picked them from the back yard near the old school house. They were for Mom. Today would have been her 79th birthday.

RotoRooter

12:45 PM
Outpost: Central Command, we have a problem.

12:50PM
Me: This is Central Command calling emergency plumber. Do you copy?

Image: Well no, Chuck the plumber is not responding. The poor weekend on-call guy must be wading through knee-high slop caused by backed up drain pipe in some God forsaken basement that never sees the light of day expect in late November around Thanksgiving when someone retrieves the outdoor Christmas light and fake tree, and again in mid-January when the stuff is crammed back in the wet, spider infested cellar. Of course he can’t get to the phone.

12:55 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling Outpost. Do you copy?

Outpost: Copy.

Me: Waiting for response from emergency plumber. Tell occupants to cease showering and flushing, or you will be cleaning up sewage.

Image: Four unhappy tenants waiting to go to the bathroom and rents are due on Tuesday. Well, maybe not?

Outpost: Roger, sewage.

1:45 PM
Me: Central command calling emergency plumber. This is an Emergency. Water is coming into first floor bathrooms. Drain needs to be unclogged. Do you copy?

Image: Chuck is now up to his waist. Cellar rats have evacuated. Cave Crickets clinging to the rafters.

3:20 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling outpost. Update?

Outpost: Situation is desperate.

Me: How much longer can you hang on?

Outpost: We are doing everything we can. We could really use some back up. Sorry, we have a back up, that’s the problem.

Me: Waiting on response from emergency plumber. Will attempt to get a response from competitor.

Image: HUGE DOLLAR SIGNS. There goes this month’s rent. Scan the yellow pages on the internet. Sunday afternoon. This out to be good.

3:55 PM
Me: Central Command calling RotoRooter.

RR: We’ll have a man out there within the hour.

Me: Unbelievable!

RR: How would you like to pay?

Image: Firstborn.
Image: Emergency Plumber eating Doritos on over stuffed couch. Looks at ringing cell phone. Recongizes number. Flicks on TV, adjusts rabbut ears. Ignores call.

Me: Credit Card.

Image: Dave Ramsey having a heart attack. Check's in the mail, check's in the mail.

4:23 PM
RR: Hey, we are here. Where’s the Outpost?

Me: He’ll be there in five minutes.

Image: Auto wreck on Broadway.

4:26 PM
Me: Command Central calling Outpost.

Outpost: Shit. I am on my way.

4:45 PM
RR: Roots. $295 to clean the pipes. $1350 to repair.

Image: Another month of rice and beans. Got any good recipes?

6:20 PM
Outpost: Command Central, we just finished. Guess what, now the washer doesn't work.

Me: Sigh.

Emergency Plumber: Just got your message...

Image: Explosion

Cold

Some snowbird returned to the north and took the unsecured wireless connection to the internet with him. I got lazy logging onto the internet with one click. I returned to using my Verizon Access, which is easy and convenient but I have to turn it on. The difference is like unlocking the car door with a remote, or actually placing the key into the lock, which I have to do to get into the Jeep. My life is soooo difficult!

I read a story about a barbershop experience at the Tarpon Springs Writers Group. While the descriptions were solid, the story was “buried"-- not much story to the 1800 words. It is the end of summer when the main character, who turns out to be a little girl, goes to the barbershop with her dad. Summer should never end, but she sees a cute little boy in the shop and suddenly the start of school doesn’t seem so bad.

Afterwards, I sat in Danny’s, a local restaurant across the street from the Public Library. I looked at the art work hanging on the walls and wondered if artists meet with samples of their work for fellow artist to critique.

"Today, this is an acrylic about a toad."

"Looks like a dead toad in the middle of the road."

"I like how you used the red. Dramatic."

"I'm sorry, I got completely lost in the use of brown near the end. Made no sense to me. Maybe if it was a watercolor."

"Where do you expect to sell that?"

The ideas for the Peace Corps book and the RV book are beginning to float into my head. I like this, but find it too scary to begin. Regardless of when I get started, both will be much better because of the feedback I get from my fellow writers. Florida has been a good move because of them.

But boy oh boy, it is still too cold for my blood. Went to Howard Park last night to watch the sunset, something I don't do very often since coming here. (In Hawaii, it was a daily ritual.) I sat on beach in a sweatshirt with a beach towel wrapped around my legs. I hunkered down waiting for the sunset figuring smoke from the fires in Georgia would make a beautiful sky. Nope, it fizzled out.

Rest in Peace

Last year Jeremy helped his grandfather plant twenty-five apple trees. He promised to return this summer to build a fence around the trees and stake them up so they would grow straight and strong, bearing delicious fruit. Jeremy won’t be able to keep his promise. He and thirty one other men and women are no longer with us, robbed of their hopes and dreams. No one promises tomorrow, but never do we expect it to be stolen by such evil.

Jeremy never got a chance to walk among the mature trees on an October afternoon and taste the fruit from his trees he planted with his grandfather. His family grieves and asks why. No one will ever be able to explain.

Photo: Andrew Undercoffer, a freshman, reads inscriptions on one of the many boards set up in the Drillfield on the Virginia Tech campus. (AP Photo/Mary Altaffer)

War at Dawn

I don't know why I write this stuff.

An early morning gust howled like an urban coyote trapped inside a dumpster sending the empty sound through the bedroom window. The blast violently rattled the metal frame. Scouting parties had earlier reported back to the waiting soldiers using a sophisticated communication system of touch and pheromones. The transmitted messages went undetected by the enemy. The coast was clear and the invasion plan was a go. Cloaked in the darkness of the predawn sky that promised to capture the rising sun before it broke the horizon, the invaders slipped silently into position.

Dressed in protective armor the invaders route tunneled through a labyrinth of wood, concrete, plasterboard and construction debris before they emerged to cluster around the electrical outlet. Once given the signal to proceed, the mass swarmed through the entry way and assembled on the sill. Others staked out higher posts on the wall near the opened window. Another gust played the Venetian blind like a harmonica, and when the last stale note slipped away, the window dressing crashed against the glass. Undeterred by the foul weather, the invasion continued ahead of the coming rain.

I laid in the dark since 3 am listening to the storm’s prelude. At 6:30, the alarm went off. I snapped on the light. My blurry vision caught their dark silhouettes pressed against the wall. “What the hell is that?” I asked, fumbling for my glasses without taking my eyes of the shadow that remained beyond my depth of field. My two sentries, a chunky tabby and a scrawny calico, hunkered down at the foot of the bed warily listening to the rustling palms and hibiscus on the other side of window didn’t bother to respond. “Cats,” I whispered. No response. I flung back the floral sheets draped over my legs and went to investigate.

The lungless creatures with black exoskeletons poured into the room, unfazed by my presence towering over them. I shivered in disgust at the tiny creatures relentlessly overrunning the room. Their trails reached out from the electrical outlet like the tentacles of the giant squid from 2000 leagues below the sea.

“Crap,” I said knowing I had no defense or weapons to wage a counter attack against the siege. I needed the lethal mixture of deca-hydrate and sodium tetra-borate and the nearest arsenal was a mile away. Winds chased me across the parking lot; drops of rain spattered at my heels like bullets. I ducked into Walgreens where my quick entrance startled the lone clerk manning the front register.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Without losing my stride I asked, “Bug spray.”

“Aisle five.”

I marched onward and found stockpiles of gas canisters sitting in pretty rows of red, orange, blue and yellow. My choice had a new and improved scent of citrus. $4.49 plus tax—the cost of war.

I raced back to the battlefield, envisioning the worst—a carpet of invaders spreading beyond the bedroom to the bathroom floor, down the hallway and onto the sacred realm of the kitchen cabinets where caches of sugar, honey and chocolate syrup waited for plunder. Instead, I found the troops mobilized across the faux marble window sill. Easy targets, like shooting pigeons off the eaves of the county courthouse.

“Directions. Directions. Read the directions,” I warned as I fumbled with the safety tab that prevented accidental release by foolish consumers before purchase. The innocent needed evacuation. I tempted the felines with food. Once the refugees safely escaped to the kitchen to gorge themselves on rabbit and peas, I barricaded them from the war zone.

I crossed the room shaking the pressurized can to assure a proper mixture of noxious chemicals with the propellant laced with the aromatic scent of Florida fruit trees. The counter attack began with only a plan to ready, aim and fire. A forceful spray spent across the wall and doused the invaders with a sweet, sickly dew. The slaughter was quick and seemed too easy until a gust of wind from the opened window blew the toxic vapor back from the enemy’s line. The scent of orange filled my nostrils. I hacked and exhaled in disgust as I lunged for the open window, slamming the glass pane shut.

I held my fire and surveyed the carnage. The march had ceased. Satisfied the poison reeked havoc on the gathered masses, I took cover in the hallway. In hasty retreated I tripped over the refugees whose curiosity planted them just beyond the war zone—the other side of the door. They scattered like leaves blown in the storm’s wind as I collapsed.

Rain drove through the gray morning and pelted the window. Drops merged together and formed a stream which snaked its way down the streaked glass. The barrage continued as I huddled in the hallway with the refugees. Their uprooting left them without a place to stretch and cleanse themselves after their morning meals. “Cats,” I whispered. Diablo, the tabby, blinked at me while Phoenix, the calico, lifted her nose as if detecting the light drift of citrus. I waited for the gas to dissipate with the same patience of a cat stalking a sparrow as it scratched in the dead leaves under the hibiscus looking for insects.

I felt violated and angered. My morning routine disrupted. The trespassers had crossed the eight inch wide barrier that separated my internal space from the external places I’d relinquished. As I waited in the hallway, my annoyance grew spurring me to punish the enemy. I planned to foil the retreat of any deserters who might escape.

The deluge made me hesitate at the front door. “I can do this later,” I thought. But mission had begun. The downpour pelted my back as I inched my way between the exterior wall and soaked hedges that grew inches away from the building. Water dripped from my elbows and I wondered if I could keep a tight grip on the nozzle. By the time I reached my destination, I spit rain from my lips. Crouched beneath the sill, I inspected the ground for clues of a retreat, yet saw nothing but a pooled puddle of water soaking my feet. I flushed the cracks and crevasses between the vinyl siding and the window casing to assure no enemy left unharmed.

I held the damp towel to my face as I surveyed the killing field. Their armored bodies were stuck to every surface. The saturation instantaneously killed the warriors freezing them in place. The wall looked like a miniature replica of a battle scene staged with storm troopers from Star Wars. I collected the carnage by sweeping the shriveled bodies into a dust pan and disposed the remains by tossing them to the wind out the back door.

The next morning my alarm clock went off at 6:30. First light would soon seep through the Venetian blinds. Phoenix and Diablo curled their warm bodies against my legs content in the morning calm. I peeked over at electrical outlet. “Damn, ants.”

Wipe Out

Last Saturday I latched onto an idea for a short story. By Sunday, I had set the scene, and decided the twist. I wrote about half the story and on Monday morning I revised what I wrote, expanded on the last half and felt confident that by Friday I’d read the story to the writers group. Except on Tuesday when I opened my computer and the document I found a significant chunk of text missing. The title from page one sat at the top of the page, followed by a quote from one of my characters on page six. Where the rest of the document disappeared to? I had no idea. I searched a few possible places, but the work was mysteriously gone. It felt like an appropriate time to spew a few choice words, but with the help of the Lord, I resigned to the sad fact I would have to start over.

The prior week my wrists hurt, so I stopped riding my bike and kayaking. I slept in wrist braces to keep from waking with my wrists tucked beneath me like chicken wings. And I bought a wrist rest and a computer gloved filled with magical beans (kidding) to type in an ergonomically correct position. It rained so my recuperation seemed perfectly timed and these days were productive until I lost the data.

I went to Block Busters and rented two movies—Happy Feet (stupid environmental message, but beautifully done.) and Babel (way too long and the story’s connection to the Japanese family focused on the daughter when it should have been the father. Critical reviews cost no extra.).

By Wednesday, after running in the morning, I recreated about a third of the story and prayed that I lost it only to make it better. Thursday found me patiently waiting for an unexpected turn and I found it, when my six year old protagonist decided to hit a little boy in a barbershop. I wrapped the story up, but wasn’t confident that story could hold up to the Friday morning review, so I held back. Four authors read and for some reason each received picky critique from the other thirteen writers. I made a few mental notes about my story, and worked it again Friday night. I’m done until I read and get some feedback from the group next week.

Now the blog.

Easter

I thought of His pain and suffering as I stood on the lawn of the Church on the Bayou. A sliver of light cut across the horizon. The below normal temperatures caused me to shiver and I jammed by hands deeper in my jean pockets. Relax.

I hate the cold. I suffered with the pain of cold. What a wimp! It was nothing compared to His agony. Suddenly, my regret melted. The half mile walk along the bayou in the darkness to stand in the new light of day with fellow worshippers didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Sure I was still cold and I missed my warm bed.

As I waited I thought of my aunt and uncle in Hawaii. Still asleep, but they will wake to hike up the mountain to Fagan's Cross near Hana to witness the sun break on this glorious day. It is a good day to be a Christian.

Rainbow River Race

It was a cold morning for April - in Florida. I couldn't see my breath, and we didn't have to crack the ice on the river, but it was cold. I wore three shirts!

Don't forget. You can click on any photo to enlarge it.













Bob, race chair, and his brother Chuck. I kayak with these guys every Sunday afternoon. Except this Easter weekend because we are eating Easter ham at Chuck's.

The Committee: Camile, Bob, me and Chuck. I need a hair cut.
The park would not allow us to put our boats into the water. We did however have permission to take our boats out in th park. Go figure! So we carried the boats to the other side of the road, ducked under the bridge and hit the water.
A North Carolina entry, Nancy. She and her husband Jack won their class.

Honestly, every one won. What a beautiful day.