The Dance

The sounds of an old fashioned Texas thunderstorm woke me one morning. Drowsily, I crept out of bed and cracked open my bedroom balcony door, so I could better see, hear and smell nature’s extravaganza. Then I slid back under my comfortable, warm covers to enjoy the show. The tiny Christmas lights I had hung on my balcony twinkled through the opening, casting a marvelous Technicolor spectrum on my ceiling. As I stared out into the early morning darkness, peacefully reveling in the beautiful multi-sensory experience, suddenly I was jolted into reminiscences of another storm, long ago and far away.

There was nothing beautiful about that storm. It was a frightening test of endurance for me, on an otherwise delightful camping trip with my fiancé. Before that Thanksgiving trip through Arkansas, I was pretty much a virgin when it came to outdoor activities, especially camping. On the other hand, I was anything but virginal when it came to my favorite indoor sport of dancing, being known for tripping the light fantastic at nightclubs around town. As I hovered between dreamland and consciousness in the rainy morning dampness, memories of both twirled around, like well choreographed lovers on the dance floor of my mind.

We were hunting for a place to camp near Ft. Smith, when looming, ominous thunderclouds overtook us late in the afternoon. Abruptly, the worst storm I had ever seen struck with a pillaging, gnashing fury. Ping pong ball hail and sheets of rain were so intense we could not see the cars in front of us. Earth quaking thunder roared and lightning swords slashed open the countryside. The car radio reported roads closed due to widespread flooding. There was no let up in sight. I begged him to pull over, to seek shelter, at which point my Prince Charming rabidly morphed into the Prince of Darkness.

He yelled and cursed at me, insisting that pulling over would be more dangerous. Frightened out of my mind, I cried and begged some more. I could see other cars pulling over along both sides of the highway. But no, inexplicably, he seemed compelled to drive on through that Hell. Finally, furiously, he pulled over under the protection of an overpass. At that point I was not sure if I was more afraid of the storm outside or him, because he was boiling over with hatred, seemingly directed at me.

In the few minutes of respite under that pass, I pled my case for finding a motel for the night. Surely he could not expect to find a place to camp in weather like that, I reasoned. But camping was all he could think about. When he finally did relent, it was with bitter malice spit at me through his clenched teeth. We managed to find a cheap, no-tell-motel just off the highway. He sulked and complained all evening at the motel. He tried his best to make me feel guilty for expecting such an extravagance, insinuating I was less than the ideal companion because I could not tough it out. He completely forgot that I had already successfully and cheerfully camped out several nights on this winter escapade in the rain, wind and cold. Even when we were the only people around who were stupid enough to do so. Even when we had to put up tarps to block the biting wind so that we could light the Coleman stove to cook a meal. Even when I could barely stand because I had horrible menstrual cramps. Yes, I remember that storm.

Later, on the home stretch of that fateful camping trip, my trickster companion shape-shifted back into Prince Charming. That was how our relationship went. One day was horror and the next day was bliss. Heck, sometimes one hour was horror, the next was bliss. It was a constant, vacillating dichotomy of emotions, a roller coaster ride. Yet, when I reflect back and try to remember why I loved him and how much I loved him, and wonder, “Did he ever really love me?” I cannot help but recall another night on that same trip, one of the most romantic evenings we ever spent and how much love we did share, once upon a time.

On that evening, we found ourselves dancing the night away, in spite of the fact that I was not in a dancing mood and probably never felt or looked uglier in my life. Sometimes there is no defining love. It just is. Where it is, when it is, with whom it is. If only we can hold onto, remember those moments.

We had survived Hell Night in the Arkansas storm and were headed south, thankful to be homeward bound. When it was time to stop for the day, we located a place to set up our tent at a Corps of Engineers lakeside park, closed for the season. There was no one else around to object. We finished our spaghetti dinner behind the flapping blue tarp, secured to nearby tree trunks, somewhat protected from the howling winter winds and rain - again. Though it was already pitch dark, it was still early evening, and somehow several hours of playing tiddlywinks in the tent did not sound very appealing. So we opted to venture into town, such as it was, in hopes of finding another way to pass the shank of the evening. There is not much to do in Durant, Oklahoma, but there was a small neighborhood tavern whose winking neon sign beckoned us.

By that time, I was not feeling very well or very pretty, thanks to another bout of menstrual cramps, being bone-tired, stone-cold and road-weary. But for the sake of peace, I was still trying to be a good sport. My hair had not been washed in days. It was plastered to my head, pulled back in a pitiful excuse for a ponytail. My face was also unwashed and had not seen makeup in over twenty-four hours. I was wearing all the clothes I could pile on, plus my clunky, lace-up hiking boots. For a Southern gal who never even goes to the grocery store without her full makeup regalia, this was a definite departure for me. The only way I was able to pull off walking inside that place, was by thinking to myself that those people would never see me again.

Like most establishments of its sort, this one was dingy and smoke-filled. There were only a few folks inside, mostly seated at the bar. Feeling like the wayfarers we were, we sought refuge at a rickety table off to the side in no man’s land, where a tired waitress appeared to take our order. Before we finished our first drinks, we were joined by the establishment’s owner and his faithful dog, Larry, a large, crippled and shaggy, Golden Retriever whose coat had grayed to a mottled blond. His owner, Dwight, was similarly crippled and wheezed from emphysema while he confessed to us he was slowly dying of cancer as well. Nevertheless, daring Death to come get him, Dwight defiantly puffed on his cigarettes the entire evening. Both owner and dog seemed genuinely delighted to have some new folks to hear their stories. Larry instantly fell in love with me and possessively lay himself down on top of my feet under the table. A little bourbon and Coke helped warm me so I could quit worrying about my limp hairdo and lack of makeup. The evening wore on as we all chatted amiably.

Somebody put a quarter in the corner jukebox and a familiar country western tune started to play. Lover Boy looked over at me with a characteristically mischievous twinkle in his eye and asked if I wanted to dance. Reluctant, because I was not wearing my usual high-heeled dancing shoes, I nevertheless demurely acquiesced like Scarlett to Rhett at the Confederate Ball. Of course we were the only ones dancing on that bare concrete floor. But while we were out there, he cajoled me by telling me how sexy he thought I was in those damned hiking boots. And how he loved my chocolate eyes. Shamelessly, I swooned in his big, warm, safe arms as we swayed a simple two-step. And when I looked up into his azure blue eyes that night, I believed everything was possible. I saw nothing but love coming back at me. And we danced. Oh, how we danced.

Eric the Great

My oldest grandson, Eric Miguel, has begun shaving.

He’s only fourteen, but he’s already several inches taller than my daughter, his mom. And there is definitely a little stubble on his upper lip and sideburn area - as I personally inspected. After enduring his grandmother’s scrutiny of his new facial hair, he proudly pointed to his muscular chest which also sports a few nubile hairs and then to his matching tummy fuzz. His voice began changing last year and has finally evened out to a nice baritone. He barely squeaks anymore.

This fall, because of her busy schedule, a couple of times, my daughter asked me to pick Eric up from football practice, which I did gladly to have some alone time with him. Knowing he’d come off the practice field all sweaty and dirty, I was armed with a protective covering for my front passenger seat. As I waited in the parking lot, hoping not to embarrass him in any way with his friends, I witnessed a phenomenon. As he and his buddies click-clacked past me with their football-player cleated feet, there was an ephemeral haze or halo surrounding the boy cluster. I recognized it as a fog of testosterone.

When Eric was born, I was right there in the room, watching the whole wondrous event as he slipped out into the world. Of course it was love at first sight, and I’ve always felt a special bond with him because he was the first grandchild. I have relished watching him grow from a curious, tow-headed toddler busily inspecting the contents of my suitcase, to this budding young man whose vocabulary now includes words I’ve never heard.

At dinner recently, he was telling me about acing a quiz in his Logics class, explaining the finer points of logistical thinking when the light bulb of understanding went off in his own head. Syllogism was the word of the day, meaning “a logical argument involving three propositions: a formal deductive argument made up of a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion.” Truthfully, it was the first time I had ever heard that particular word. Ergo, a vocabulary lesson from my eighth-grader grandson.

Logics is one of the mandatory classes at his Ivy League private, preparatory school. Every high school graduate is required to give a senior thesis, subject yet-to-be-determined, which they will have to present verbally in front of a large audience of teachers, parents and the general public. They are then expected to answer questions in support of their own theses. Quite a lofty undertaking. A lot of people expect great things from these kids. No doubt his class will produce some doctors, lawyers, professors and maybe a senator or two. So what does it matter if a few words are foreign to his ol’ Nana?

Eric’s younger brothers, whom I love equally, both came by their affectionate “Nana Nicknames” easily. For some reason they just rolled out of my head in the process of being around them. Ethan Ricardo, my middle grandson, became “Ethan Ricardo Montalban,” much to everyone’s amusement. Baby Eli became “Elias Augustus” and holds court at every opportunity, living up to Caesar’s standards. But for some reason, I just could never hit on a catchey nickname for Eric - until now.

There is no disputing that Eric is no longer a baby. He’s much closer to a man now than a baby. Witnessing his maturation has finally unveiled an appropriate nickname for him in my mind. He will be “Eric the Great” for the rest of his life - whether he likes it or not.

-30-

Returning to My Roots

My latest sojourn took me to my roots in the Texas Hill Country, a place where my paternal grandmother’s folks, the Bergmann family, originally set down theirs, in Boerne. The Bergmann Lumber Company building is still the most prominent on Main Street.

The new writers group I’ve joined, Texas Non-Fiction Writers, held its first conference there at the Cibolo Nature Center, and as soon as I learned about it, I signed myself up. The price was right, and the place was certainly right - I’ve always enjoyed Boerne with its quaint shops and overall relaxed, pastoral atmosphere, plus I was intrigued by an opportunity to see the Cibolo preserve.

Shopping online for a place to stay for the weekend was fairly painless, quick and easy. I chose what I thought to be a quaint, inexpensive old, circa 1950’s hotel downtown called the Vistro and made my reservation. Apparently there were several things going on in town that weekend which caused a shortage of hotel or B&B space - usually my favorite way to go, but there were none of those left. There was a huge antique show which draws dozens of dealers from all over, a couple of large weddings and the writers conference. So I was lucky to get a room of any kind.

Or so I thought.

As soon as I hit town, I stopped by the hotel to check in and freshen up; the conference started after lunch which I had eaten on the road. Right away, I became worried because there didn’t seem to be anyone to check me in…at the adjoining restaurant which doubled as a reservation desk. Finally a woman came around to do the honors and give me a room key, though she said the room was not ready yet. I said OK, fine, I’ll come back later, took the key and left for my conference - a bit hurried by then and un-freshened.

Boerne is a fairly small town so it didn’t take ten minutes to get to the Nature Center, which was a feast for the senses, yet peaceful and serene. The education room was filled with interesting folks, both attendees and speakers. Being a self-proclaimed ignoramus, embarrassingly enough, I knew little to nothing about the presenters before the show began. But they were all illustrious in their own rights and I was impressed with the credentials of each one. They all brought their own books to sell and sign at the breaks between speakers.

One of my favorites was James Haley, who authored One Ranger Returns, a sequel biography for Joaquin Jackson, the retired Texas Ranger who had been a speaker at my conference in Waco, and whom I truly admire. Haley was entertaining and enthusiastic as well as a Texas history expert, in particular, with regard to Sam Houston.

My next favorite speaker was Andrew Sansom, who is definitely the subject expert on water in Texas, and who has written several books of environmental importance. He had in fact been a former director of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department. The fact that Mr. Sansom was not only knowledgeable about his chosen topic, but had an ease of speaking, engaging the audience in a non-assuming way, which combined with the most touching personal stories, made him the best speaker of the whole lot, in my opinion.

Not to be outdone, were two women speakers who brought humor and entertainment into the program, along with their various areas of expertise. Jan Wrede is the Director of Education at the Cibolo Nature Center and has written and self-published a field guide of the native plants there. She could also do stand up comedy - had a natural sense of comedic timing with kind of a ditzy twist.

Dr. Kathleen Hudson, professor of English at Schreiner University in Kerrville, presented in the form of her alter ego, Belle Star, and dressed to fit the character. Her writing subject, her passion (a common thread with all the presenters was writing about your passion) is Texas Music, so I knew right away that she and I were soul sisters. Her other passion is horses and that sealed the deal for me. Her most recent book, Women in Texas Music, features one of my favorite singers, Carolyn Wonderland, on its cover. I asked for and received some private time to visit with her later in the afternoon, about our many synchronistic paths.

The common threads with all the writer presenters were: (1) not to expect to get rich as a writer; (2) write about your passion; (3) for dedicated writers, writing is a compulsion, something that just must be done; (4) self-publishing and self-promotion is highly encouraged. While in the company of these great minds and experts in various fields, I felt totally inept and unworthy, yet I found all of these points to be validating.

During one of the many breaks, where refreshments were served on the wonderful wrap around porch, I realized one of my fellow attendees was Carmen Goldthwaite, with whom I share a mutual friend, my dinner buddy, Kathi. It was a pleasant surprise and we agreed to meet for dinner that evening in town.

After the sessions were over, I returned to my as-yet-unseen hotel room to finally freshen up so I could meet Carmen and her friend for dinner. The room was wide open to the world when I got there with its antique air conditioner running full blast. Hmmm. It didn’t take long to figure out why that was the case…the carpet was soaking wet, recently “cleaned.” Oh, well, it would dry soon, surely, I hoped, plus I had to meet the ladies, so I didn’t take time to complain.

We had to hunt for a new dinner place - derailed by one of the weddings taking over the whole restaurant. I happened to know about another good restaurant from a previous trip, so we enjoyed a lovely dinner on the porch at the Kendall Inn, an historic spot. It got a little chilly later, but the hotel had a wonderful outdoor fireplace which we enjoyed as we strolled around the grounds of the hotel.

That night back in my hotel room was the worst night I can remember…miserable. The room stank of moldy, wet carpet, not unlike a wet dog. Even after finally complaining to the management about the carpet, there was nothing to be done about it, because there were no other rooms available.

So the staff put an armload of bath towels down from the bed to the bathroom for me, in an attempt to make my walking path more comfortable. But it was so wet, I was literally slogging through water all night on my trips to potty. By morning those towels were soaked with no dry carpet in sight. The only safe, dry place was in the bed and I wasn’t all that sure about the sheets. I had vowed to check out the next morning whether I was able to find another hotel or not - assuming I didn’t wake up dead of Legionnaire’s Disease. I promised myself that I’d call a couple of the other hotels and if they could take me, fine. But if not, I’d just drive home and not stay over as planned.

By 7am the next morning, I was phoning. One hotel never answered the phone; only had a machine doing the job. But then I tried the Kendall Inn where we had dinner the night before. That young man was very helpful but the reservation computer was down. So I had to continue calling back at each break until finally, he got me a room because of a cancellation. Eureka!

The Wet Dog No-Tell Motel was very apologetic and refunded me one half of the night and released me from my reservation. I left the conference during lunch to switch hotels and was gleefully surprised with a gorgeous, clean and comfortable room at the Kendall with beautiful, dry hardwood floors. I was in heaven. And much relieved.

There was a nice little welcome basket of goodies in my room. From a gilded letter inside, I learned its intended recipient had been a guest of the wedding party which was obviously supposed to be staying there too. Their cancellation, my salvation.

After the conference, I did a little obligatory shopping and drove around town looking at real estate and searching for the cemetery where I knew several of my relatives must be buried, but I never found it. Later I treated myself to a gourmet dinner at yet another restaurant before retiring to my decadent little nest for the evening. I was looking forward to lounging and reading and relaxing the night away, and fell asleep, book in hand, because I had had virtually no sleep at the Wet Dog Motel the night before.

Wrong!

Around 8pm, I was practically knocked out of bed with sounds of a very loud, big band. And I do mean LOUD. They were playing on the patio between my cabin and the main hotel area. Dancing, drinking and partying were obviously going on.

OK. I can deal with this, I thought to myself. Surely it can’t go on all night. Don’t be a stick in the mud, Gail. It’s a wedding reception. They’re having fun. So I decided to just read and hope it was over soon. The silver lining was that this band was the absolute best party band I’ve ever heard. Bar none. And I’ve heard some bands in my time.

The Jokers Wild, they are called, out of San Antonio, I later learned from the young man at the front desk. This band reeled off every single best, top 40 song you could think of, every genre from country to blues and even rap, and did not even take a break for over 2 hours. They rocked the house. Hell, they rocked the whole dang town. I thoroughly enjoyed it! Even thought of getting dressed again and going out to join in the dancing. Hey, I’m not so old and jaded that I’ve forgotten how! I figured the party goers wouldn’t know the difference anyway. They’d probably just figure I was somebody’s crazy old Aunt Maude or something. But I didn’t.

Finally, gratefully, they did quit playing around 10pm, the town curfew. Unfortunately, however, that was not the end of the partying. Oh, no. They were just getting ginned up! And I do mean ginned up! I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next couple of hours as the whooping and laughing and joking and squealing continued right outside my door. At 2am, I said to myself that was enough and called the front desk. Shortly after, there was peace in the valley again. And sleep. Blissful sleep.

I slept in Sunday morning a bit, took a leisurely shower and had a wonderful breakfast, again on the veranda...remnants from the partying still laying around the hotel grounds. Slowly, a few hungover-looking individuals began creeping about by the time I checked out. All that pain after all that fun. Another dichotomy of life.

My drive home was another. I chose to go the back roads, a favorite scenic route from Blanco through Wimberley. Trouble was, so did a pack of hundreds of Lance Armstrong bicyclers out on a Sunday benefit ride. Weaving in and around those bikers on a hilly, narrow country road did not lend itself to fondly observing the flora and fauna as I had hoped. But maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

All of my adventures seem fraught with dichotomies - extremes of good and bad, nasty wet carpet and gleaming hardwood floors, rain storms and sunshine. This one was no different.

The conference was better than expected, the location was comfortable and comforting despite my experience at the Wet Dog Hotel. My roots are still there - the Bergmann’s chiseled limestone building still standing even though I didn’t find the cemetery. It’s all still there. I can go back anytime I want. Or not.

No matter what I do or don’t do, write or don’t write, publish or don’t publish, bikers will always ride, bands will always play, birds will always chirp, and there will always be another starry-eyed young couple getting married whether I dance at their wedding or not.

-30-

Blank Page

There it is. A fresh, blank page.

Another new day…sunup to sundown.

Sometimes we don’t know what we will do to fill up that day. The day just sort of evolves on its own, or maybe it drags by, while other days kind of zip past us because we’ve got a full schedule all mapped out before we even get up that morning. We may have some grand purpose or project to complete that day…a family to feed, a job to do, a contribution to make.

So it is with writing.

Sometimes I have a set of thoughts that just scream to get out of my head and onto the page, in total, from intro to close. Those thoughts may not have any particular audience in mind, other than my own self.

Other times, all I may have is a nugget of an idea and don’t know how it will manifest until I begin writing. On those occasions the words may take all kinds of twists and turns. I seem to ramble all over the place until I finally edit myself into a direction or purpose.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But if I let it “cook” for awhile, a few hours, minutes, days or even years, when I return to that piece, I’ll edit it again, and find more meat on the bones. After more slicing and dicing, it might actually, eventually become something worth sharing. Maybe not.

Some days…and some thoughts are just better kept to ourselves.

-30-

Up, Up and Away!

My vacation to New Mexico was all I had hoped for and more. The only problem was one which I had anticipated - and that was simply - that I did not want to come home.

Not only did I see some of the most spectacular scenery in our country, I met some very nice, interesting people - from the Native Americans of the area to fellow travelers from Canada, Houston, Amarillo, Tennessee, California and Colorado - I visited some wonderful galleries and museums, took an unbelievably adventurous hot air balloon ride, ate at one of Rachael Ray’s recommended restaurants, The Shed, drove a couple of hundred miles into the mountains and back, got a massage at a luxurious Santa Fe Spa, walked and shopped until I nearly dropped, and visited a couple of historic, picturesque old churches.

And, as if all that wasn’t enough, I nearly ran head on into movie actor Steven Seagal, who was in town to begin shooting his next movie, “The Keeper,” as I was crossing the square in Santa Fe. Then I was filmed talking to the gallery owner in Chimayo, after she was interviewed for a television news spot about how the fire that destroyed their famous restaurant Rancho de Chimayo, has affected the economy of the whole village. My portion of the piece did not make the 6 o’clock news, however. Hollywood will just have to wait a little longer.

The first day in Albuquerque was spent getting my bearings and trying to get a handle on a good dose of altitude fever, unfortunately a problem for me. The altitude there is 5,325 ft. or thereabouts - alot more than my sea level hometown.

My hot air balloon ride was scheduled for very early the next morning. The Rainbow Ryder crew picked me up at my B&B for a nominal fee and we met up with the rest of the group at the ‘field’ which was next to a bank parking lot. It was a full gondola, i.e. a super large wicker basket, into which all twelve of us climbed and stood for the duration of the ride. After the balloon was inflated it was a feat of sheer strength for our ground crew to keep it on the ground long enough for all of us fat old ladies to climb aboard. And then we were up - very quickly. Amazing! The feeling was surreal, magical and peaceful. A couple of times, we were literally suspended in air, totally immobile, while we waited for the wind to catch us again and move us along.

We were in the air about one hour and soared to a little over 1,000 feet, drifted south along the Rio Grand River and ultimately landed, spot-on where the ground crew waited for us to reverse the process, folding and loading the balloon and basket into its trailer. The landing was a bit strange and not my favorite part, but not bad at all considering. There was a slight bump, slide along the ground for about ten feet and then the basket tipped over some before we finally settled. But I’d go again anytime…except for the expense. It was definitely an extravagance.

The rest of the second day was spent at the Natural History and Science Museum and The Indian Pueblo Museum and Market where I also ate lunch.

The third day I drove to Santa Fe, located my B&B and discovered they had a Spa to which I promptly made myself an appointment for a massage at the end of the day. I figured after another day of strenuous walking and shopping, I would probably need it.

That day included an unexpected surprise encounter with actor Steven Seagal, as he and his entourage crossed the town square at the same time I did. I fumbled for my cell phone camera and tried to capture the moment…but succeeded only in getting a shot of his backside. Me and everyone else in the square.

The evening was spent on the patio at the B&B, complete with a kiva burning fragrant Pinon wood, wine and cheese and a fun group of folks from Houston.

After some last minute shopping on the square the next morning, purchasing authentic trinkets and visiting with the Indian women and men from various Pueblos, I hit the road for yet higher ground. Santa Fe’s elevation is higher than Albuquerque, but my next destination at Chimayo is even higher - about 6,200 ft. By then, however, I had my altitude fever under control.

Chimayo was a delight and the perfect way to end my trip. It’s a tiny village, with not much going on…the main attraction there is a historic church to which a reported 300,000 people make the pilgrimage every year. I spent a lovely afternoon on the church grounds, enjoying the stream running behind the church, the trees and local eatery, reflecting and genuflecting. I’m not a Catholic by trade, but figured it couldn’t hurt me. The Chimayo Inn, where I stayed, was a pleasant, peaceful, low-key, informal place where I felt instantly at home.

That afternoon I went to the only store and gallery available in town where I encountered the television camera man from Santa Fe, interviewing the locals about the fire and its effect on their economy. The charitable owner of the restaurant has been trying to find other jobs for her employees until the restaurant can be rebuilt - sometime next year - and that ended up the rightful focus of the newspot on the 6 o'clock news.

Because of this tragedy, there was no place in town to eat, so the innkeeper lady, retired from the New Mexico Transportation Department, took pity on me and made me a sandwich that evening. We had a very congenial visit as she shared the history of her birth family, Martinez, their Spanish lineage and that of the town/village.

After one last wonderful night’s rest in the mountain air, I hit the road early the next morning after having my breakfast brought to me in my room. Boy, I could get used to that. It was a long, uneventful drive back to the Albuquerque airport, and a smooth trip home except for a delayed takeoff from our stopover in Lubbock…not the ideal place to get stuck.

So long, Land of Enchantment. Hello reality in Texas.

-30-

Sitting Pretty

It was an interesting day at Lake Woebegone, aka, downtown Austin, my home town.

I returned from lunch, buffeted by a pretty strong wind, which consequently reeked havoc with the hairdo, so I swung into the ladies room to fix my coif.

However, I never got a chance to beautify myself, because I was rudely surprised by - and surprised - a dark-skinned gentleman sitting there on the ceramic throne, pants around his ankles and in all his glory with the stall door wide open. In the ladies room. Upon my entry, the interloper jumped up, presumably to close the door, thereby exhibiting all his wares. Bad move.

I shrieked, "What are you doing in here!!?!?!?!!?" At which time, he figured out he was in trouble and immediately put himself back together to exit the place.

In the meantime, I rather excitedly advised the security guard about the fact that a man was helping himself to the ladies room, and inquired if he was asleep at the switch, or just sitting there on his duff, letting it happen. This office does not have a public restroom.

His reply, “Errr, ah, errr, oh.”

Oh, indeed.

To heck with the Aquanet, where is that Lysol when you need it?

-30-

My 9-11 Odyssey

After two weeks in a tiny medieval village in Southern France, fulfilling one of my life-long dreams - attending a real French art school - I was finally headed back home to Texas. Saying goodbye to my new friends was difficult, but eased by the fact that I had managed to get addresses and a few phone numbers. This fortuitous move proved to be my saving grace in the days to come.

On September 10, our art teacher drove me and another student to Toulouse - her to the airport and me to my hotel. My original plan was to have a day in Toulouse for decompression and maybe a little sight seeing before returning home. That didn’t happen because I was more tired than I realized and ended up resting in my room, reading my book. On emotional overload by then - anything else just seemed too much.

The next morning, right on schedule, the hotel shuttle took me to Toulouse airport where I had enough time to enjoy my last cup of French coffee and buy a bottle of my favourite perfume (L’Heure Bleue) at an airport shop. I boarded my plane and took off - again, right on schedule. The flight to London’s Heathrow was perfect - until it landed.

Heathrow airport is a huge place and because I was unfamiliar with it, I was nervous about finding my way to the Continental Airlines desk to get checked in properly for my connecting flight. My bags - two pieces of brocade luggage and a briefcase full of artwork and supplies - had been checked all the way through from Toulouse to Texas. In an effort to ensure all my souvenirs made it home with me, I had packed them into the basket purchased from the Gypsy man at the village market. That was my new “carry-on” luggage.

When I finally found the Continental desk, there were hundreds of people milling around. It wasn’t long until a tall young man stepped out from behind the desk to make an announcement. He said that there had been a terrible tragedy in the United States and it appeared to be a terrorist attack - that two planes had been flown into the World Trade Center and one into the Pentagon. He continued, saying that ALL FLIGHTS TO AND FROM the United States had been cancelled until further notice. One of the planes had originated from the Newark airport, which was my next connection destination. He instructed us to get our bags from baggage claim immediately and wait for further information, but said that we probably needed to get accommodations.

OH, MY GOD!!! My kids would think I was dead! That could have been my plane! So many thoughts were swirling around in my head. What was I going to do!?!?? I had no money left. I had spent down to my last few francs and a little money in American Travelers’ Checks. Money would have to wait. I had to get my luggage. I had to try to think clearly. Oh, my God. Then the tears started.

It was about this time that the first of three two-legged British angels showed up to help me on this part my journey.

A sweet young man who worked in the baggage area was the first angel of mercy. I was so discombobulated that I was having trouble finding my cosmetic bag. Thank goodness my luggage was very distinctive - brown and gold brocade. The young man was able to locate my bag in a minute; I had already gotten my larger bag and briefcase from the carrousel. So now I had four pieces of luggage and my purse to deal with. I stacked them together the best I could and rolled to find a kiosk to get some money.

While I was standing at the baggage claim carrousel in tears, I ran over periodically to the phone and tried several times using my credit card to call my office - the only number I could remember - my phone book being packed away in my luggage. I was having no luck and was becoming more and more afraid as the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

Another kind young man, my second angel, was standing with me at baggage claim and offered me his cell phone. What a blessing. I was able to get through immediately to Leah, who was sitting in for me at my office in Austin. She confirmed the awful news in the U.S. I asked her to please phone my kids and tell them I was not dead and that I would be back in touch as soon as I knew where I’d be. My oldest daughter later told me that she had in fact made a mad dash home to double-check my itinerary for flight numbers, afraid that I had indeed been on one of those planes.

Finding the kiosk to get some money was not a problem, but suddenly I realized that I did not know a pence from a pound. During my time in France, I had gotten pretty good at francs, but had no reason to learn English currency until then. I threw what money I had at the girl in the cage and asked her to change it for me. She was an oriental gal and we had a definite language barrier, so my hopes of getting an emergency lesson in currency exchange were lost.

Next, I got in a very long line or “cue” as Europeans call it, for a hotel reservation. Everyone in that line was in a state of upset and confusion. One young man had a wife, baby in a stroller and little boy about 4. They had a stack of luggage nearly as tall as the man and were returning home to Newark, but were obviously not going anytime soon. At least I only had me to worry about. No babies.

The first room offered to me at the airport’s reservation desk cost 200 pounds, or about $300 American per night. Too many of those nights would bankrupt me, so I begged for something cheaper and was glad to take a room for 130 pounds. Then I made my way to the shuttle stop, again, wrangling my four wobbly bags. I stood with hundreds of other frantic people waiting for the shuttles to take us to freedom. It was all I could do to get my bags to the curb. I had no idea how I was going to get off that curb and onto that bus with those unwieldy bags, while fighting for my life with all those other panicked people.

Then my third angel showed up. Another gorgeous young man appeared with a single bag slung over his muscular shoulder and offered to help me onto the bus. When the shuttle stopped at my hotel, he also helped me off the bus. I never saw him again, but I thanked him and God profusely for his help.

The hotel was very nice and my room small but elegant. I didn’t really care about the elegance at that point. All I cared about was that there was a private, clean toilet and television with CNN. I promptly glued myself to that tube and began phoning everyone I could - damn the expense. I called the art school back in France to tell them what had happened in case anyone called there looking for me. I called my daughter in Texas. Then I called one of my art school classmates. That nice woman insisted on coming to get me the next day. At the time I didn’t realize Oxford, where she lived, was two hours away, but I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. She took me home with her where she lovingly tended me for the next two days and nights. Another angel.

Unfortunately, as beautiful as Oxford is, I was not able to relax and enjoy it because I was too obsessed with getting home. The immensity of the event began to imbed itself into my thoughts - ‘stinking’ thinking took over. I was actually afraid we might go to war before I could get back across the Atlantic and I'd be stranded for years. My hostess tried to distract me the best she could by taking me to a local, picturesque pub, The Trout Inn on the Thames River, and then on a drive through the Oxford campuses. It was during my stay in Oxford that my Gypsy basket, carry-on bag, became a war casualty. It was simply too bulky and I needed to lighten my load before attempting another airport. So, as a thank-you gift for putting me up, I gave my English friend the bountiful basket and it’s souvenir contents. The rest of my souvenirs were stuffed into my remaining luggage.

A travel agent in Oxford helped me purchase another airline ticket on a planned charter flight to Orlando, Florida. This meant I had to ride a bus back into London, but this time to Gatwick airport. Everyone was to be at the airport three hours prior to take off because of all the new, extra security measures. So my friend and hostess got up at 4 a.m. in order to get me to a bus stop by 5 a.m., so I could arrive at Gatwick by 7 a.m. for my flight at 10:30 a.m. It was a long shot, but I was willing to try anything to get back stateside.

Unfortunately, that plane never got off the ground. More fear and depression set in. The rest of that day was spent going from carrier to carrier in a feverish attempt to find anyone who would take me home. I was on standby with Continental even though I had a solid reservation the following week; I was leaving nothing to chance, hedging all my bets. On one of my multiple visits to Continental’s desk, the entire country held a scheduled three-minute silence for the victims of the U.S. tragedy. The staff was standing at attention in a teary-eyed formation. They offered me Kleenex and comforting words. There was not much else they could do.

It was beginning to look like I might have to live at the airport forever - or at least a whole week. I was exhausted and forlorn. It was then that I decided to lighten my load even more. During my continuous circling the airport, I discovered a post office storefront where I decided to avail myself of its services. I purchased a large mailing box and placed my whole briefcase filled with art paraphernalia inside, along with all the non-breakable souvenirs I had stuffed in my suitcases, repacking yet again. At least my kids might get the souvenirs and see my artwork if something terrible happened and I was killed before I could get home, which felt like a real possibility to me. That box was so heavy that it cost 69 English pounds to mail, but it was worth it because I had downsized to two of my original four pieces of luggage. I felt like I could manage that.

Finding the airport’s Internet Café saved my tentative sanity that day. I spent several hours there communicating via email with my kids and friends stateside about the ongoing situation. My emotions ran the gamut from abject fear to total numbness. But no matter how badly I felt, I was constantly cognizant of the horrors suffered by the people in those planes, the towers, the Pentagon, and all their families on the ground. Knowing that nothing I felt could possibly compare, I was ashamed of myself for having such self-pitying thought.

At 4 p.m. that afternoon, the announcement was made by Continental airlines that they still had no plane to fly. It would be the next day before they knew anything more. There was no way I was venturing very far from that airport; I was going to be standing at that desk when they called for standby passengers. It would be the folks who were physically present who would get on the plane bound for Glory and I intended to be one of those folks. But I was so beat, I knew I had to give up for the day, so I located the hotel reservation desk again, and asked for a B&B near the airport this time.

A dark Turkish man in a rattletrap red van came to get me and took me to his family-run “B&B.” He was very kind as was his sweet English wife, but their place left a lot to be desired. Smokers ran rampant and the walls were paper-thin at best. In short, it was a “flea bag” hotel, but I did not care, I was so tired and desperate. One bright spot was that there was another Texas woman staying there who was apparently an old friend of the host family, making me feel a tad bit safer. That evening, she took me to a neighborhood grocery store where we bought our supper. It was comforting to hear someone speaking in a familiar dialect.

After breakfast the next day, my Turkish host took me safely back to the airport where I rushed to the Continental desk - again. To my surprise and relief, within 30 minutes I was on my way. We all stood in long lines for another couple of hours as every passenger was body-searched twice and our bags hand-searched thoroughly. But none of us cared. We were actually grateful for the extra security. Prior to September 11th, we would have been incensed at the thought of being searched.

The flight home was uneventful, thank goodness. We were due to arrive in Houston around 5:00 p.m. Texas Time. I waited until around 3:00 p.m. to call my kids from the plane phone and tell them I was actually on my way home, thinking I did not want them to be over-worried for the entire flight time. They were so excited and relieved all three wanted to drive to Houston to pick me up when I landed. Ordinarily I would not have asked them to drive all that way, and I did have another connecting flight to Austin, but I was not interested in flying one more mile than necessary.

When the plane landed, there was a rousing round of applause from a plane full of grateful passengers. And when I deboarded that plane, I was tempted to get on my knees and kiss the ground. That Houston, Texas skyline never looked so good. Houston, Dallas, Dime Box or Austin, I did not care. I was home.

-30-

Times Have Changed

I’m a 60 year old grandmother with a featherweight cell phone that takes great pictures whenever the mood strikes me. As a matter of fact, I’ve gone almost totally wireless these days.

In the olden days my parents took pictures with a Brownie Box camera for vacations or special occasions, and talked on heavy black phone with cords which they had to dial. Their parents had portraits done once or twice in their lifetimes by a traveling photographer with a cumbersome tripod and tent over his head. They talked on wall-hung contraptions which had to be cranked by hand, and utilized one-party line for the whole county. It was one step up from a string and two tin cans. Times have changed.

Here I sit composing this article on my new wiz-bang laptop, with which I am also having a love affair, but that is a whole other story. The fact is, I had never even laid hands on a computer until I was in my thirties, and that was only for part of my job which required uploading and downloading data once a week. Before that I typed on electric typewriters at work and on my manual Smith Carona typewriter at home and used carbon paper if I wanted copies.

Now, at least 90% of my job is accomplished on the computer and we “Xerox” or simply print multiples when we need copies; carbon paper has gone the way of the dinosaur. Personally, I now own and use both a PC and laptop computer. My grandmother was a very smart lady, but she never laid eyes on a computer, and could not type a word on any sort of typewriter. My mother, also very intelligent, could type, but never owned or used a computer. Yes, times have changed a great deal.

Traveling is one of my passions and I do it as often as I can, flying and/or driving, horseback, wagons, boats and ferries too. My father used to say I wasn’t happy unless I was going somewhere and he was right. Yet, again, I had never even stepped foot on a plane until I was in my thirties. Since that maiden voyage, however, it’s been “Katy Bar the Door.”

My grandmother, on the other hand, never flew anywhere and never drove a car in her whole life. She never learned how. On the other hand, I’ve had my driver’s license since I was sixteen, and learned how to drive Grandpa’s old truck when I was twelve. I think the farthest Grandma ever ventured from home in the Texas Hill Country was to a Mexican border town once. She certainly never flew to France or lived in Alaska like me. Grandpa farmed cotton in Texas using a horse and plow when he was a young man. He never cared to get off the farm until the Model T came along. They didn’t “travel” though. Unlike my ancestors, I can’t wait for my next trip. Times have definitely changed.

My father was a World War II veteran; he joined the Marines when he was seventeen years old and never graduated from high school. He killed people in that war - in hand to hand combat and came home with a Purple Heart. He worked hard all his life and earned a decent living, but was never a wealthy man. People from my generation protested the Vietnam War - a move that was considered treasonous by my father.

Today our country is still at war (Isn’t it a perpetual state of the human condition? To be constantly at war?), but I hope by the time my young grandsons are of age, those days will be over. If they do go to war someday, however, it’s possible that the use of modern robotics or droids may prevent them from having to actually murder enemy combatants with their bare hands. It is more likely however, that unlike their Purple-hearted great-grandfather, my grandsons will not only graduate from high school, they will attend Ivy League colleges. My father would have scoffed at that. They may never be war veterans like him, but they will probably be millionaires. Yes, times change.

More than fifty years ago, my paternal grandparents owned one of the first television sets and routinely watched their favorite programs - mostly the local weather and one soap opera, As the World Turns. It was only a black and white appliance powered by mysterious tubes, but it was a TV. There was only one channel to choose from then. Nowadays, if I happen to miss my favorite show, I can replay it on my new wireless laptop, ergo, the love affair. Television has become my best friend and companion. Oh, I have lots of human friends too, but TV is definitely my most reliable companion, aside from my laptop.

My grandparents were married over 50 years to each other. I’ve been married and divorced three times. That was certainly never part of my Cinderella plan, but it’s the way my life has unfolded. Divorce was pretty rare in my grandparents’ day - people tended to just stick it out, come Hell or high water - whether they hated each other or not. They also didn’t tend to dwell on their feelings because they were busy trying to make a living and just get by. Self-actualization for my grandmother would have been finally buying that sinful pair of red pumps she’d been ogling in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I’ve got at least two pairs of sexy red shoes and/or boots in my closet at all times. But then, times have changed.

When Grandma was alive, my family spent almost every Sunday at her house for dinner and visiting. In fact, I would have happily spent every available moment at my grandmother’s. We didn’t have cell phones or computers in those days, but we communicated just fine. My grandmother had nine brothers and sisters and they all talked to each other and met up for important holidays and reunions, bringing along their entire broods. Such reunions were a way of life for us. Now, I don’t even remember when I went to a family reunion last.

These days, I’m lucky if I see my grandsons once a month…and then it has to be at their place, because mine is not “kid friendly.” What the heck is that? Kid friendly!?!? Plus I have to make a date with them for quality time, and invent ways to stay connected to them. This family dynamic of estrangement is devastating but I feel powerless to change the course of events; I am only one person in this evolving family drama. We may never have been a picture perfect family, but we were a family. Though I never would have imagined it, and did not set out to, I have lost track of many relatives.

As a matter of fact, I know this type of dysfunction has happened in many other families as well. It seems to be rampant in our society today. Knowing that doesn’t make it any better though. While technology continues to zoom ahead with more and more toys and tools, cell phones and computers, our families are disintegrating right under our noses.

Times have definitely changed - and not necessarily for the better. It will do us no good to long for the Good Ol’ Days, however. While technology is a wonderful thing, perhaps it is not the answer. It sure seems like all the tools in the world - all the washing machines, televisions, microwaves, laptops and cell phones with cameras, cannot fix the things we value most. Only we can.

Canned

After a couple of years of agonizing over if and when my job was finally going to run out, fretting over the possibility of losing my livelihood, when it finally did happen, I felt like I had been set free. Even strangely peaceful about it.

For reasons known only to him, the man who had been my boss for seven years and my friend for many more, seemed to be killing off his own business, client by client. The consulting business he nurtured for twenty-plus years, had been dying a slow and painful death, mainly due to inattention on his part, and all I could do was watch in agony and try to hang on as long as possible. Because of my “maturity,” finding a new job was sure to prove difficult, and quite frankly, I had had enough of major changes in my life, and was hoping I would not have to make any more, thank you very much.

Inevitably, however, that day came. According to him the money was running out. Painstakingly, we arrived at a drop-dead date to end my employment and agreed that I would apply for unemployment benefits. While our agreement was that technically I would still be employed until the following month, I persuaded him to allow me to leave early, and promised I would be available on an as-needed basis. OK, probably not at all. Dragging out the pain of separation was not fun for either of us. And being a firm believer that when a door closes, a window opens, I needed to embrace the situation and move on to something new.

As might be expected, I woke early that first morning of my reluctant unemployment, with much on my mind. Wanting to get busy with my list for the day, I went to turn on my computer so I could get started when I heard loud fluttering, like the wings of a trapped bird. I quickly turned on the bedroom lamp and looked up with my bleary, sleep-filled eyes to see something on the wall above my head. Since I did not have on my glasses yet, at first glance it appeared to be a bat, no a bird, no.....

Suddenly I realized it was a huge, golden moth - variety as yet unknown - flapping away, clinging tenaciously to the wall near the ceiling - much like I had been clinging to my dead-end job. It had to have measured more than six or eight inches across its spectacular wings! Startled, I jumped backwards and my mind raced. What to do, what to do....

I sprinted to the bathroom and grabbed the small trash container from under the sink and rushed back to the bedroom. Stealthily, I crept up onto the bed and gingerly placed the can over the bird-sized moth, not wanting to cause it any injury, muttering to the giant insect and myself. Next, I reached down with my other hand and picked up one of the decorative pillows scattered beneath me and slipped it over the top of the can. Voila! Canned moth.

It struggled to get out as I stepped down from the bed and took the imprisoned moth to the balcony, lifted the pillow and watched as it immediately took flight to the waiting branches of the crepe myrtle tree. Then I closed the door.

How did this handsome oversized creature make its way into my house?

That's not hard to imagine because I frequently leave my bedroom’s balcony door open to enjoy the breeze and to hear my wind chimes hung there. The moth probably flew in whilst I slept.
But why that day of all days? Over thinking the situation as I am wont to do, I wondered if it was a metaphor for what was going on in my life. Or if it was prophetic or symbolic.

Regardless of any real or imagined philosophical significance, it was a heck of a way to start the day. And of course, I still ponder the event. One thing was immediately clear. A door had closed for me, but like the moth, after the struggle, I realized I was free.

Saturday Night Live

So, let me get this right...if we got rid of all those nasty, anti-abortion, gun-toting Evangelicals we'd be in good shape, huh?

My take is the same as it's always been. Middle of the road. Not too far left, and not too far right. There's less snakes there than in the grass.

And I thank God - whoever or whatever that power might be...He, She, It, Whatever that is - something greater than me, myself and I - that I live in a DEMOCRATIC [and that does not mean the Democratic Party] country where everyone gets one vote and the MAJORITY rules. At least that is supposed to be how it works. I thought we were supposed to be a nation that allows and encourages differences. What happened to that?

Unfortunately, I believe respect for those basic principals has been destroyed in the last 8 years by all the Bush-hating rhetoric, and that we have become a nation of self-serving whiners who refuse to play by the rules or believe that balance is best. Now you have to be all Blue or all Red? All right or all wrong? What the Hell is that?

I long for the innocence and ignorance of the good ol' Kennedy/LBJ Democratic days. Ha! Now there's a joke. I was a big Kennedy fan...when I was young and stupid. But we all know now what a womanizer he was, and how his crime boss daddy bought the election and that LBJ was a politician from the inside out - probably one of the most crooked ever known. But they got some good stuff done, didn't they? So go figure.

I want universal health care too! And not to be prosecuted retroactively for the two abortions I've had, which were no fun, by the way. And to have enough money to buy gas for my car so I can drive wherever and whenever I want. And a good education for my grandsons. And trees to hug.

But somebody's got to pay for all that. Guess who that is.

We all need to learn from history. Rome fell because it rotted inside. So give me something better than pretty speeches, or Saturday Night Live jokes, is what I say.