"Wait! I can explain!!"

You may have read in earlier blog entries how I've praised and respect the work ethic of my folks, Patricia and Wallace.  Here, in their early days at Cleveland Place, they worked long and hard to bring it to what it is today.  One of the many chores and labours that Dad frequently describes is about the original brass and lead antique light fixtures that he at first thought were wooden. How he stripped them of at least 6 coats of paint, buffed them back to a good patina and lustre, and finally shellacked them so they glow as warmly as they did many years ago.  Together, he and my mum transformed this historic village home into a gorgeous five-room Bed and Breakfast.  Dad replaced the heavy, dark solid-paneled doors between the parlour, the dining room, and the den with cheery, beveled-glass French doors that he made himself, then stained to match the wood throughout the house, opening it up to daylight.  I've recounted before on The Jugular Vein blog how they brought the pantry back to its original wood counter tops, and buffed and waxed wood and floors to show and shine.

Back in the summer of 1926, Judson Cleveland had his portable sawmill down at the village wharf when it threw a fatal spark. The ensuing wind-fed conflagration caught and reduced most of the homes in Alma to ashes, including the Clevelands’ original home.  Only the fireplace mantle and hearth were saved, taken down to the water’s edge as the house and the village burned. The following year, Judson rebuilt this house, barn, and garage, and put back the original mantle and hearth.

So Dad fixed and repaired and my mother picked out wallpaper, stripping each room down to the bare walls from the five or six layers of vintage papers in various conditions. Then they spackled, sanded, and pasted quality, tasteful wallpapers, replacing the garish flocked medallions, cracked plaster, and dated 1947 pinks, 1956 aquas, 1962 yellows, and 1973 avocados.

The antique furnishings and family pieces – whether collected over the years, inherited by my folks, or purchased after settling into Cleveland Place – each have a fitting place. Wiring, plumbing, siding, roofing, window sash and pane replacement, wool oriental rugs, new bathroom porcelain to match and complement the original clawfoot tub, were all painstakingly appointed, repaired, improved, cleaned, and maintained during their nearly twenty-five years here together.

When mum died, the obvious woman's touch was lost, and Dad eventually started over with Anna, making a new and happy home at WallyAnna Farm.  There his work ethic has merely changed direction: with Anna at his side, they've made the hundred and twenty-five-year-old farmhouse a comfortable hobby-farm and harvest bakery, where Anna bakes over a hundred loaves of bread and European pastries each week for market sale.

Stephen and I fast-forwarded our goal to settle in New Brunswick, and for several years we timed our work to spend our summers at Cleveland Place running the B&B and bookshop, always following the high standards my folks set.  But two years ago, we finally settled here permanently –fully involved in continuing the business, being members of the community, and making new and keeping old friendships in the area.

Most recently, we've re-established The Artisan Shop (the former barn for Judson Cleveland's horse, Kit) as a quality gift shop carrying only fine Maritime artists and crafts people's work.  That`s how my folks ran it until the late 1990s, when they leased the space for several years to another entrepreneur, who filled the shelves to capacity with mass-produced tourist novelties.  We're delighted to once again represent the abundant artistic talent of the Atlantic Provinces.  The Bookshop has been vastly improved from its humble beginnings as a wood shed, and now holds an eclectic collection of new and lightly used books of every kind.  The B&B continues to host families from all over the world as we open our home and our part of the world -- the wonder of Fundy.

So, this short blog entry is really to pay homage to the hard work, heroic efforts, long hours, great expense, and exacting attention to quality and detail that my folks expended over the years together, allowing us to comfortably step into their shoes and continue in their tradition.  As I find my days filled with work that I enjoy, I invariably feel Mum or Dad sitting on one or the other shoulder, keeping an eye and judging my efforts and standards.

Stephen has quickly brought Cleveland Place into the modern world of technology.  The three businesses are completely represented on spreadsheets of daily activity, income, expenses, and so forth.

At one point in time, Cleveland Place was the telephone junction between the neighboring counties, and the switchboard was in Judson’s office.  Hearing the telltale buzz, he would go into his office, put on his headset, and pull out the wire to connect the calls.

But these days, of course, we've got the internet.  Stephen created an extensive website that tells visitors what Cleveland Place is all about, including the neighboring Fundy tourist destinations.  He's installed Wi-Fi for the use of our guests, and established a QR code on our signage for passers-by.  And, although his carpentry skills aren't yet at the level he’d like, he's been keen and competent to fix or improve the inevitable problems that arise with a house and property of this age.

So, following Mum and Dad's example, we find we're working hard, enjoying what we do, feeling satisfaction at the end of the day, and sleeping well after a full day's effort.  Yet, somehow, I feel I'll never live up the standards they set, or ever be worthy of the luxury their efforts have afforded me.  I sometimes think that I appear entitled, and sometimes feel like I have to convince people that I actually do work hard (sometimes) too! 

Early in the season this year —high tourist season in this area is from June to late August – a local business announced the date for National Lobster Day, and living just down the lane from one of the three village lobster shops, we were eager to participate.

We spent the first part of National Lobster Day in a morning-long business meeting so we didn't open the Artisan's Shop or the Book Shop.  After the meeting adjourned, we made our way home and decided to get two good-sized lobsters and take photos for the latest update on the Cleveland Place website.  While Stephen went to the lobster shop, I set the table for a photographic opportunity, featuring the finest seafood supper that Fundy and Cleveland Place have to offer. 

I unfurled a freshly ironed white linen tablecloth, and set out cloth napkins surrounded by the sterling silver flatware we use for our B&B guests.  Wine was poured into tall crystal goblets, and lemon slices floated in steaming water finger bowls.  The proper tools, lobster crackers, picks, and cloth bibs were set aside a small dish of complementary black and red caviar, near chilled glasses of iced sparkling water.  The scene was set and ready for two large red lobsters on platters with the liquid gold of melted dipping butter, in individual candle-heated stands. 

Since we'd left for our early morning meeting, we still hadn't lifted the window shades, and decided to leave them drawn for the lighting for the photos.  After we'd taken several satisfactory shots of the fully set table with the sharp contrasts of white linen, red and black caviar, bright yellow lemon, and red-hot lobster, we sat down to enjoy our National Lobster Day lobster.  Our first of the season.

We quickly cracked shells and devoured the flesh, enjoying the wine and sopping up the hot butter and caviar, eager to open up the shops for more business; it's a short season and every operating hour counts.  As we often do when we have the rare occasion to indulge, we did a haughty laughter imitation of Thurston Howell III, and pondered out loud, "I wonder what the poor people are doing, today?" with a full mouth of fresh-from-the-bay lobster meat and butter dripping down our chins.

And then, suddenly, they appeared again on my shoulder.  Dad on one side, Mum on the other, and my laughter changed to a shriek!

I choked, laughed, and said to Stephen, "Watch Dad and Anna pull into the driveway, right now.  Curtains pulled in the middle of a busy work day in high season, and here we sit, glistening with butter, mouths full, gulping wine, surrounded by the luxuries of expensive fine dining.  They'll NEVER believe why we’re doing this!"

You can see it all at www.cleveland-place.com

Lost and Found Department

I know I'm not the only one who has experienced overwhelming loss -- the crushing grief of sadness that confounds the mind to comprehend how deeply an emotion can render oneself completely incapacitated.

Dear reader, you might need to reach for a tissue box as I recount some of my losses.

On second thought, actually I won't. Those are things too difficult for me to express, and require meaningful words and literary skills that I don't possess to thoughtfully compose, so I'll tell you about a few less gut-wrenching things I've lost (or found!) instead.

In our early days of home ownership we belonged to the Spring Lake Neighborhood Association.  It was a suburb of Omaha that was 'in transition'.  Senior homeowners were the majority, but as the changing economy of the nearby stockyards waned, smaller local businesses failed and the middle class neighborhood was at the tipping point of failure and depression.  We were part of the new generation of families moving in, with renewed energy and enthusiasm sparking entrepreneurship and neighborhood pride.  Thus we went to regular meetings with like-minded neighbors and community leaders.  After one evening meeting, I was on my way home after dark, riding my 49cc Honda Hobbit moped. A stuttering start, too quick an acceleration, and poor handling landed me face-first onto the dark roadway.  Stunned, hurt, and bleeding, I pushed the moped off me and saw half of my front tooth glistening on the pavement.  I could feel the warmth of blood running down my face, and a jabbing pain in my leg, so I flagged down the next passing car which took me home.  I left the moped (and a few layers of skin) in the middle of the road.

My injuries didn't require medical attention (until later when wound infection took hold), but I was hurting.  I know that people lose limbs, eyes, and best friends to war, so I can't complain or compare to those who have suffered grave injuries for far more heroic reasons, but for me this was just so devastating: I'd lost a tooth!

An early morning visit to the dentist revealed that he couldn't save the tooth, and would have to perform a root canal and later cap it.  It'd be good as new.  He did the root canal, and told me to return in a month when all my other injuries healed to finish the job.  Meanwhile, for cosmetics, he'd glue the broken-off fragment to what remained rooted so I wouldn't be gap-smiling and snaggle-toothed.

But I never returned.  My overwhelming phobia of dental procedures prevented me from making that follow-up visit. Predictably, the short-term fix didn't last.  Months later when we were out to supper with our good friends, Barb and Dave Henney, the tooth broke off again.  But Barb is a good friend (the kind who holds your hair when you drink too much and have to vomit into a shrub late at night in a bad part of town) and will cheerfully and willingly interrupt a rare adult night out to stop and buy you a tube of Crazy Glue so you can put your tooth back in place.  That's the kind of friendship I hope to never lose.

Eventually, I forced myself to revisit the dentist, whose X-ray revealed damage to the underlying bone, requiring oral surgery and a complete loss of the tooth.  My smile, though now changed, is not lost; my fear of dental procedures, though, will never fade.


 
Another time when a loss left me crushed was when I looked down to see an empty setting on my engagement ring.  At a time in our lives when we certainly couldn't afford a replacement diamond, we scanned the floors of the house and emptied the vacuum cleaner bag searching, but found nothing.  Stephen promised me that at some point he'd put one back on my finger.  Then he left for work.

He was still in the US Air Force at this time, and on this particular day instead of going to his office, he found himself assigned to a clean-up detail for litter patrol around the Air Force base -- an annual chore that everyone eventually had to do.  He spent the day outdoors on the side of the road, around parking lots, and behind buildings, stooping and picking up spent cigarettes, wrappers, and general debris, growing hot and tired as the day wore on.  A particular annoyance was a pebble that had worked its way into his boot, and he found himself repeatedly kicking the ground to keep it at the toe of his boot, rather than taking the time in the hot sun to stop, unlace his boot, shake it out, and lace it all back up again.

When he came home at the end of his long day, he finally and with relief took off his boots, describing how cross he'd become over that irritation added to his already menial work day.  As he dumped his boot out, a small white diamond fell out.



Something we all lose from time to time is a memory.  Years ago when we were first getting acquainted with Karin Bach and Tim Isaac, we visited them several times as they were building their home.  Our pop-ins were usually unannounced, and they would willingly interrupt their work for a short while as we visited. Karin is a hard worker, and we always left them feeling unworthy and exhausted.  In between her work creating fantastic sculpture and art for sale in her studio, she would be pegging beams for the construction of their house, pouring cement floors, nursing exquisite plants and flowers in her garden beds, all while being savagely attacked by the unrelenting black flies and mosquitoes of the summer season.  She never seemed to stop.

But something small and out-of-the-way caught my eye on one of these visits, and it drove me to complete distraction. It was a small, thin, black cast-iron ashtray in the shape of a fish. Seeing it stirred some vaguely familiar image in my mind that I couldn't quite identify.  Was it from my dreams, or a vintage household item? I just couldn't place it.  Finally I interrupted our conversation to ask about it.  "Get a load of that fish!" I said.  Karin stubbed out her cigarette into it, looked up at me, and asked smiling, "Do you want it back?"

AH HA!  It was from the deep recesses of my memory; it was from my home years ago.  It all came back to me.  We had two of those ashtrays while I was growing up; they were from Mrs. Prouty's estate back in the 1950s, and my grandfather gave them to my mother, who smoked in those days.  Decades later when my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer (and immediately quit smoking), all the ashtrays were stored away.  Many years later, Dad gave them to Karin as a keepsake. Much of her pottery and sculpture work features elaborate fish designs, so the fish-shaped item seemed apt. I'd rather she used it for a candy dish.



One memory I'd lost completely was brought back to me when our son, Andrew, recounted a most loving maternal memory he had stored away.  He remembers from when he was very young:

"We were at one of Daddy's company picnics (we call them 'forced fun events')  Justin and I were playing on the playground equipment and Justin had a crush on a girl there. He pointed her out on a slide and told me to watch out, because if she looked at you twice, you'd turn into the Devil. I was young enough to believe anything my older brother said and I was very concerned. I needed to know if it was twice over the course of the day or if a double take would do me in, or just twice overall, ever.  I hid behind a tree for a while until the coast was clear and lost some quality playground time.

"When the devil-inducing girl was finally gone I found you guys eating in the indoor area. Sobbing, I told you about the incident and with motherly concern you grabbed my skull and began examining it. I was eagerly awaiting the "all clear", but instead you parted my hair and gasped, saying that you were pretty sure that you saw horns growing.

I hate that I didn't remember that story.  I'm sure with four children there are countless things they recall that I have no recollection -- no doubt, a series of lost memories.



Our longtime family friend and Maritime artist Rod MacKay first met my folks in Sussex at least thirty-five years ago; we have a lot of his art hanging at Cleveland Place.  One in pride of place in the living room is titled "Huginn and Muninn."

They are two ravens that were taught speech by the Norse god Odin.  The legend tells that Odin would send Huginn (the Norse word for "thought") and Muninn ("memory") all over the world, and each day they would return to his shoulder and tell him what they learned and saw.  Concerned that one day they might not return, for being lost or harmed, Odin declared that he wouldn't mind losing Thought, but he'd hate to lose Memory. 



But really, not much is forever lost; there are only four things that will never come back: the spoken word, the spent arrow, neglected opportunity, and time past.

Wanna see our vacation slides?

In the summer of 2000 the largest massed band of bagpipers in the world to date would be gathering in Edinburgh, Scotland. 

Of course we had to go. 

Three of our four children were members of a bagpipe band when we were living in New Jersey; Andrew as a snare drummer and Kathryn and Olivia were Highland dancers.  The opportunity came for us to go as a family to this huge event, and we invited Mum and Dad to join us.

Arrangements began nearly a year in advance of the excursion.  The band was working with an efficient travel agent who came to the weekly practices to give status reports, deadlines, cost breakdowns and rooming assignments.  At EVERY single meeting, she stressed the importance for everyone to check their passports and make SURE there was a six-month window between our travel dates and the expiration date.  We had just applied for our 6 passports (our first overseas trip as a family!) and eagerly anticipated their arrival with photos and official seal. We were all set. For those who already had passports, a quick check with this much-repeated and far-in-advance notice gave everyone ample time to make sure everything would be in order.

Mom and Dad traveled from Canada to our home, and caught their breath for a day before we headed to the airport, just a 25 minute drive away.  Stephen had reserved a stretch limo for the eight of us, and it was an impressive sight as it arrived to collect all of us. Feeling like celebrities, everyone giddily toyed with all its luxury features during the drive to the airport.  There we unloaded, gathered our bags and approached the ticket counter where over a dozen of our band members were also assembling. Ahead of us in line was a piper, who set his luggage for check-in, carried his bagpipe tote for carry-on, and presented his passport and ticket.  The agent opened it, looked at the photo, and handed it back with a disappointed look.  "I'm sorry, sir, " she said.  "Your passport has expired, I can't process you through." 

Our band-mate stood taller, opened his wallet and pushed it and the passport back to her. With classic New Jersey attitude and bluster, he pulled out his policeman’s badge, jabbed at it with his finger repeatedly, and exclaimed, "But I'm a COP!!"

With professionalism and a stoic expression she delicately pushed the badge and the passport back towards him and said, "I don't care. Your passport has expired.  NEXT!" 

Those waiting behind him in line – who of course had months ago followed the stern advice of the travel agent and had current passports – watched as he left the airport, with his suitcase in hand and his travel anticipation, like his bagpipes, completely deflated.

Our processing went flawlessly and we were off to security at our boarding gate.  This was long before 9/11, and the agents were quick and friendly, and sent our items through an X-ray machine, while asking a few questions about unrecognizable items that were scanned.  "I'll take your bag,” the large, authoritative man in uniform gently told my mother.  She sent through her recent purchases at the airport novelty shop, and stood nervously.  Again, the agent asked for all her carry-on belongings, and gestured with a nod of his head to her pocketbook, which was strapped over her shoulder and held by a death-grip under her arm. 

She shook her head and nodded back to the sack that was now passing on the conveyor belt, indicating that was her bag.  The patient agent then directly pointed to her pocketbook, and said, "Ma'am, your PURSE bag."  My mother laughed out loud.  She was so concerned about airport bandits robbing unwary travelers that her pocketbook had become one with her person.  She realized her uptight but unconscious grip, and visibly relaxed her arm, and exclaimed to the officer, "OH THAT! I wasn't even thinking about that bag, I call it a pocketbook!" She continued to hastily explain as he nodded his head and peered inside for anything unauthorized.  While he looked she continued to explain her concern for thievery, and cheerfully dismissed the idea that there were any incendiary devices inside saying, "It's not like I was trying to hide a bomb or anything!" 

We all immediately hushed her.  She turned to us wide-eyed, and loudly exclaimed, "Well, I don't have a bomb!"  The forgiving fellow smiled with understanding, and sent her through. 

After a long flight, and several cocktails, we approached the first leg of our trip at Heathrow airport.  The captain's reassuring voice came over the loudspeaker, and in its typical crackle of intermittent transmission, described how we were circling above the airport and made a few more unintelligible remarks.  The flight attendants continued with their familiar routine, advising passengers and guiding them through the procedures of tray tables, drink disposal, etc., while the captain again came on the loudspeaker saying something to the crew that we couldn’t quite catch. I understood there was an undercurrent and we were prevented from landing immediately, but the flight would continue to circle the control tower until they gave the go-ahead for a safe landing. 

The hubbub in the cabin became increasingly louder. People sat upright, became alert and attentive, gathered their belongings, started speaking to each other urgently, and several asked to speak to an attendant.  I couldn't feel turbulence from any undercurrents and so I pretty much shrugged my shoulders and sat back with closed eyes until we began our descent.  I didn't know why everyone else was so agitated, it was just a minor delay -- people just need to relax!  After about twenty minutes, and several trips around the control tower, the captain again addressed the people.  We were approved for landing!

It wasn't until after we disembarked that I learned that the captain had been advising that the UNDERCARRIAGE ENGAGED light had not displayed, so the pilots didn’t know if it had deployed for landing.  The reason for circling the control tower was to get a visual confirmation from the people in the tower that the wheels were actually down and the plane could land!  I'd misheard undercarriage for undercurrent and we were actually being advised that we might need to make an emergency landing....without wheels.  I'm glad I was completely unaware.

Once safely in Scotland we avoided the tourist tour-bus packages and rented the largest car that would fit 8 people.  There isn't one in all of Europe.  We were able to obtain a 6-passenger 'van', and since the girls were still young, they shared a very tight seatbelt with Mum and me in the back. Dad sat in front with Stephen, who was driving for the first time on "the wrong side of the road".  Dad was white-knuckled every ride we took.

During our stay, we took a few day trips, but one of the most memorable was to Castle Campbell, near Dollar. Secluded and set far away on a winding country dirt road, we parked the car, and saw no other car or person anywhere about.  Mum and I stayed back and sat on a wide grassy knoll while everyone else went to explore.  It was a lovely afternoon, and Mum's stamina faded fast, so we sat quietly and enjoyed watching the sheep grazing on the far hillocks in the bright warm sunshine.  I had an orange I'd saved in my pocket from breakfast and a flask of whiskey.  Since we were both hungry and thirsty, we were all set, and shared both equally.  After quite a while, to our surprise, a couple appeared from behind us on a small footpath.  Until that moment, it felt like we were the only two people on earth in our secluded idyll, sent back in time among the castle ruins.  We greeted each other, mum asked if they were locals, and we visited for a few moments.  When she asked if they had advice for a place for our large family to enjoy supper, they gave an enthusiastic recommendation for the Tormaukin Inn, and described a route for us to find it.  Delighted by this serendipitous encounter, Mum was eager to share her new knowledge, and when everyone else gathered we were off to supper under her direction and renewed energy.

The Tormaukin Inn

The day's menu featured venison haggis and rabbit stew.

That culinary experience was novel, delightful, and delicious.  

On another day when we were visiting Edinburgh, we sought a quick lunch stop and all piled into a fish and chips shop.  It wouldn't be proper to have visited Scotland, my ancestral homeland, without tasting authentic fish and chips wrapped in paper, generously salted and doused with real malt vinegar.  Taking the rare opportunity to visit a bathroom in the chip joint, my mother and I descended the precarious stairway to its dark recesses and opened the door to find 'the worst toilet in Scotland'.

When the fry-cook came down the stairs in his filthy chef's jacket with a filthier plunger in hand, we surmised that the sanitary conditions in the kitchen might be just as sub-standard, and decided to seek another fine eating establishment.  We suddenly weren't quite so hungry or our bladders too full.

On the day of the great massed bands, the crowds were fantastic.  We'd all decided to split up and meet at a designated spot and time in the Princess Street Gardens.  Keen to be prompt, I was the first to arrive, but didn't recognized the distinguished older gentleman sitting in the spot where I'd expected to meet my family.  After a second and still third look, it took a moment for me to realize it was DAD!  He'd been to the shops on Princess Street and completely outfitted himself in full kilted regalia, right down to the flashes on his knee socks.

As the crowds swelled even more, and we noticed an unusual number of security personnel, we asked one of them what was going on.  Prince Charles was expected quite soon, and he showed us a cordoned-off area where the prince would be meeting the public.

Eager for a brush with royalty, I hurried the kids over to the line-up explaining we might meet the Prince. I maneuvered Kathryn and Olivia to be just behind the ropes and in full view of the Prince of Wales, the future King of England.  As he approached, I got giddy with excitement and Stephen captured one photograph after another on the new digital camera he'd purchased just for the trip.  As Charles's entourage cleared the way for his passage, I realized he'd soon be stopping right in front of us, and eagerly poked at Kathryn standing next to me, telling her to wave and capture his attention, gently pushing her forward, nudging and prodding as he came closer and closer. 

Kathryn quickly grew frustrated and irritated with me as she scanned the royal parade of people, seeking the sight of her soon-to-be husband prince.  It was now or never, so I pointed and called out "THERE!! He's right THERE!" and exuberantly waved and nodded and confirmed he’d seen us.  Kathryn followed my pointing finger and was crestfallen once she saw Prince Charles.  "Oh!" she tsk'd disappointingly, "That's the OLD one." and immediately lost all interest.  She was anticipating meeting Prince Harry or William, not their DAD.

Olivia, next in line to be married, was my next target.  She extended her hand just as Prince Charles was passing us, and he took it and they shook.  She told him she was from America, and he welcomed her to Scotland.  He did not propose.  But Stephen captured many photos of the two, hands clasped and engaged in conversation before Charles was urged to continue on.

As the crowd dispersed we all gathered to recount what just happened with Mum and Dad, and Stephen set the camera to review all the digital shots he'd just taken.  There were none.  Regrettably, the camera chose that exact moment in our picture-taking history to encounter a glitch in its programming, and the entire vacation’s photos were suddenly “no longer on file.”*

Later that day, Prince Charles met with Andrew's bagpipe band, the Atlantic Watch.  A few band members, including Andrew, had a short chat with him in a small group in the park.  That scene – and the back of Andrew's head – was captured on the front page of the newspaper.  The Prince was scolded by the press for not dressing appropriately!  

Prince Charles visits with the Atlantic Watch (including Andrew).

We watched the massed bands converge and parade down the Royal Mile and Princess Street.  Quite a spectacular event. Dad yelled out his traditional "ATTA BOY, ANDREW!" as they passed, and mum and I wiped a tear as we were both filled with pride and love. It was a big day – it was a big trip. 

Thanx for watching.  

Oh!  You`re still here?  Then you'll enjoy this part, too:

Many years later, Dad had started another chapter in his life after my mother died. He moved out to WallyAnna Farm, where he and Anna now have a happy quiet life together.  A few years ago, renovations were being made to the 125-year old farmhouse. Stephen and I took some of Anna's son George’s artwork from a room being redone, and took them to a shop to be professionally framed while the walls were being repaired.  One watercolor was a castle scene, and Dad frequently remarked that it reminded him of Castle Campbell, from that summer day years before. When George was visiting the farm Dad asked him about it, and George confirmed that it was, indeed, Castle Campbell.  He'd seen a photo in a book about castles of Scotland, and liked the scene so much that he rendered it with his own paints – years before Dad had even met Anna.

 *Casio quickly sent us a huge apology – and their newest, most advanced camera, as a consolation – when we told them of this unbelievably frustrating loss.

It's what you learn after you think you know it all that counts.

Some people learned everything they need to know in Kindergarten.  It has taken me a lot longer. 

When I was eleven, my sister and brother were already grown and out of the house, off on their own. I was the last one at home to join my folks when they took their annual holidays or weekend getaways.  With the precision, efficiency, and ranking of a military bivouac my folks had a familiar routine to prepare the camping equipment, chuck box, boat, tent equipment, and the one allotted piece of luggage per person.  For an upcoming trip, I knew that Dad would be home early from work, and we'd be leaving promptly at 3 p.m.  Somehow, I'd lost track of time, and before I knew it, I heard the garage door open, announcing his arrival.  I grabbed my suitcase and hustled it out to the car, and came back into the house where my mother gave me a few last-minute tasks.  Right on schedule Dad announced, "Let's GO!" and went out to the idling car with trailer in tow.  With my mum sitting shotgun, the dog panting and full of anticipation in the back seat, they began to pull away. Wishing I had just one more minute to put on my sneakers, but without time to even find them, I knew it was now or never, and ran after them down the street.  Dad slowed a little for me to jump in the moving car and we were off.  My entire vacation, I had just a pair of bedroom slippers to wear on the shores and campgrounds of northern Michigan.

Lesson learned: Promptness.


When I was very young, I was with my mother driving home during a cold steady rain in downtown Detroit at rush hour.  At a gridlocked intersection, we sat through several cycles of red/green lights while people stood at a corner bus stop just a few feet from our car.  As we waited our turn to get through the traffic light, an older woman rapped on my window, startling me.  Not knowing what to do, my mother calmly told me to open my window and see what she wanted.  Dripping, the woman stood looking at us, then leaned in slightly and asked for a ride.  Wide-eyed, I quickly looked at my mother and again back to the woman, while my mother cheerfully asked where she was going and then told me to unlock the back door so she could get in and sit in the back seat.  During the long ride, this elderly, soft-spoken black woman described how she took the bus daily, for two hours, to an affluent Detroit suburb to do housecleaning.  That day, with the traffic issues, she'd missed one of her bus connections.  My mother listened, drove her to the neighborhood, which was well out of our way, and then we went home, arriving too late for supper and long after my bedtime.  I sat silently during the long detour, while my mother and the gray-haired woman chatted. After we'd left the woman off, I asked my mother why she'd done that.  She simply remarked, "To be nice."

Lesson learned:  Kindness 


In high school in central rural Massachusetts, I worked two jobs.  One was as a respite provider for a large family who had a teen daughter with autistic-like developmental disabilities.  My job was to provide companionship to Michelle so other members of the family could be relieved from those demands, which often required constant attention.  Michelle and I usually found ourselves in the bustling kitchen, coloring, piecing jigsaw puzzles, painting fingernails, working clay, or helping with simple tasks for the family's meal preparation (It was at that table that I learned how to peel and chop an onion, and to this day EVERY time I cut into an onion, my memory takes me back to the Leroux family kitchen. Lesson learned: onion chopping).  For two or three hours, several days each week, she and I would keep company and I'd guide her through the job of setting the supper table for this large family -- routine was an important aspect for her in our afternoon activities.  For dinner, the family would gather, sometimes as many as ten of them.  I would often join them as they shared the events of their day, ate the meal, and worked as a family for clean-up, while including both Michelle and me in conversation, laughter, and routine.  The contrast to my quiet home (just my Mum, Dad and me those years) was glaring as this busy household of ten interacted with each other every single night.

Lesson learned: Family loyalty and devotion.


When Stephen and I lived in Omaha Nebraska in our early years together, he was soon to be transferred to Illinois to attend meteorology school for his job as a weather forecaster.  At the time, we were young, active members of the Unitarian Church, and enjoyed many opportunities for friendship and social outlets.  In the congregation we had several friendships, some still lasting to today.   At potlucks, meetings, and various church events we had become friendly with a couple who learned about our impending (though temporary) move; we would be gone for six months before returning to Omaha.  They took us aside, and sincerely offered their home to us for a few days when we came back and would need to get settled again.  It was a huge relief to us, and we kept in touch with the couple while we were away in Illinois.  Shortly after our arrival back in Omaha, exactly as anticipated, we sought out this couple and inquired about when we could take them up on their offer.  She was a doctor, and he was a lawyer, so we hoped to coordinate with their busy schedules.  To our surprise and disappointment, they decisively rescinded their offer, giving thin excuses.  We were left standing gap-jawed with few immediate options.  It all worked out for us, but it left an indelible impression.

Lesson learned: Integrity


Another member of our church called me shortly after we'd bought our home in Omaha saying we were practically neighbors, and invited me to visit with the kids anytime.  I was needy and eager for friendship and a companion, and so Hilma Lathrop immediately became our surrogate grandmother.  Welcoming our pop-in visits for tea, spontaneous shopping trips, and captivating us with her life stories and practical home-making skills, she embraced our children, and found humour in all things.  With me, she shared her recipes, wisdom, and heart.  One important recipe she shared was her long-time family soap recipe.  When I was washing my hands at her kitchen sink, I remarked at how wonderful the bar of soap felt, and she dismissively waved her hand and said, "Oh, that's just plain soap I make."  Astounded, I asked for the story, and she explained how it was made, and offered me a lesson.  For the following month, I collected bacon fat and beef drippings in a five-pound coffee can, and had the basic necessary ingredients to make a batch of soap for our every cleaning need.  From that first lesson, I've been making our own soap ever since.

Lesson learned: resourcefulness helps frugality.


My mother was smart funny.  Not practical funny.  She never played practical jokes, though she was often the victim of them in our household. She never insulted to be amusing, but had a clever, sharp sense of humour.

When my folks moved to Cleveland Place, there were several renovations and improvements to be made, most needing a lot of elbow grease and a fierce work ethic.  She thrived on both.  At some point in years past, the pantry's wooden counter tops had been covered with Formica and glued down  with black mastic.  It was a mean chore to remove and strip, but worth it as it revealed a warm chestnut-colored wood surface.  They eventually used this area to make bread and pastries for the Bed and Breakfast. Over time, excess flour filled the small cracks between the old boards.  When our cousin Max, who had lived in Cleveland Place for several years before my folks, was in the pantry he noticed the improvements and admired their work, appreciating the effort to return the counter and cabinet underneath to the original wood.  My mother called him over, opened the wide cabinet door, and showed the interior of the cupboard where large tubs of flour and staples were stored.  She then guided him to look closely at the wood surface that had been hidden beneath the Formica for so long.  As Max bent over and peered closely at the countertop, my mother quickly and purposefully slammed the cupboard door, sending a cloud of flour dust up into Max's face.  My mother took her work and cleaning very seriously, but she also very easily found humour.

Lesson learned: Look for humour and enjoy the laughter.


When Stephen and I were exploring the endless opportunities that New York City offered when we first moved to the area, we were dazzled by the lights, activities, street shows, spontaneity and random encounters each trip unveiled.  One crowd that attracted my attention was surrounding a quick-paced three-card monty game set up on a cardboard box.  As the dealer flipped and tossed cards, he asked spectators to point out where the hidden Queen had landed.  One man bet $10 and found her, and was awarded $10 more.  Many placed bets, and they usually won.  The lively game and crowd activity was a distraction, but I was amazed that I knew EVERY single time where the Queen was, no matter who in the crowd was betting.  I could have been winning money all that time! Before I knew it, the dealer pointed right to me and asked me where I thought that elusive Queen card was.  I knew, pointed to the card, and he exclaimed that I was RIGHT! He turned over the card to reveal the Queen, and, chagrined, told me I'd just won TWENTY dollars!!   I was immediately overcome with giddy excitement, and extended my hand to accept his $20 bill, but he held it up and cautioned that I had to prove that I had my own twenty to make it a legitimate bet.  No problem -- I was a winner! I quickly reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a twenty dollar bill -- the ONLY money we had that day -- and presented it.  As the dealer pinched my bill between his finger and thumb, Stephen leaned into my ear, and firmly and seriously said, "Do. not. let. go. of. that. money." so I pulled it back out of his firm pinch and said, "Thank you very much" as Stephen pulled me out of the crowd.

Lesson learned: Don't let excitement surpass common sense.


Last year we were visiting and working with Stephen's siblings in Massachusetts while settling their deceased mother's estate.  When we'd done all that we could we left their company and headed back to Canada, but just 10 miles away I realized I'd left behind a black leather glove.  Not just any glove, but a buttery Italian leather with a cashmere lining, of special sentimental value; our cousin Peter had given it to me as an elegant accessory.  It was a lovely gift, and typical of Peter's generosity toward me and our family.  Since Peter had died just earlier that year, the gloves were quite dear to me.  We immediately called back to the others to ask about it and explained why they were special.  Stephen's older sister, Anne, found it and to my relief said she'd mail it to us in Canada, saving us from turning back.

After several weeks with nothing in the post box from Anne, I asked about it, assuming with many things on her mind during that sad time, she'd simply forgotten about it.  But Anne again assured me that she'd send it that month.   Yet, now it's spring, and we've heard nothing back from her, no mail, no call back, no explanation, no glove....nothing.  Naturally, that leaves me entirely bewildered since it's really a keepsake more than a winter accessory -- one whose special value I had made very clear.
   
Lesson Learned: Keep your promises.


We like family games.  Board games, dice games, trivia, general knowledge, strategy, word games.  For Christmas one year, Olivia gave us a fun group party game she simply made out of wide rolls of cash register tape.  The premise is that everyone who has a paper roll starts by writing a short descriptive sentence at the top edge of the paper and passes it to the person seated next to them.  That person is then given one minute to draw a picture depicting the sentence.  When time is up, the initial sentence is folded down to be hidden, and the paper roll revealing only the drawing is passed to the next person, who looks at the drawing and composes a sentence describing what they see.  After one minute, the roll is passed on to the next person so at anytime there is only one drawing or one sentence showing.....and so on until all the rolls have been passed all around the entire group of four or more.  Then the tape is unrolled and hilarity ensues as all the drawings and sentences are revealed and the unavoidable misinterpretations are shared.

We played this game on Boxing Day with my dad, Wallace, who, once the rules were explained, demanded, "How do you WIN?"  Also joining the game was Dad's wife, Anna, Anna's adult son George, and his girlfriend Evita. Anna got an egg timer from the kitchen, and full of anticipation we started.  Olivia wrote a sentence, the hourglass was turned -- a minute goes by FAST!-- next in the circle, Anna took the paper and pencil and drew the picture -- this is becoming a fast-paced game -- "TIME!"  Next was Dad, who interpreted Anna's sketch and wrote down his sentence and passed the paper roll to George.  As the timer began dropping a minute's worth of sand, George carefully read what Dad wrote, and extended his hand to receive the pencil.  Time is of the essence, but Dad slowly looked at the pencil, and with raised eyebrows he slipped it into his shirt pocket, and quietly said, with a mischievous smirk "This is my pencil."

Lesson learned: Keep competition fair.



I've learned a lesson about learning lessons: you often learn them when you least expect them.

"Take two and see me in three days"

My folks were tough.  When the three of us children were growing up, we weren't allowed to complain.  Illness and injury received scant sympathy, unless we were in agonizing pain or on our death bed with a serious ailment -- for which eggnog was the typical prescribed remedy.  Injuries were met with "tape it up" and illnesses "just wait 'til the fever subsides." Everything had three-day waiting period before actual medical attention was considered.  Until she was in treatment for lung cancer, my mother never spent a day in bed with a complaint, and no affliction ever kept Dad from his duties until a case of shingles in his seventies.

As parents, Stephen and I tried to be more reasonable; we listened to our children's health concerns, tried to validate and reassure them, and treated them with whatever attention the condition required, whether minor or life threatening.

Our daughter Kathryn has her own special family medical file, however.  An often silent observer and companion to Olivia's frequent hospitalizations, ambulance trips, emergency room visits, and complicated procedures, she became knowledgeable about medical protocol and diagnosis. She developed a kind of hypochondria, announcing the onset of a terminal case of a variety of diseases, requiring immediate attention by a specialist.  We'd insist on the family "three day waiting period," during which a recovery would miraculously occur.

When she left home and took one of her first apartments in the big city, she showed she had a flair for decorating and furnishing tastefully on a limited budget.  When we first visited, we saw her bookshelves neatly filled with both classic and contemporary authors, and DVD sleeves tidily set to one side. Handmade pottery and artwork was displayed with throw pillows, adding a cozy touch to the couch along one wall.  We took note of a neatly arranged fan of colorful printed materials on the living room floor, just as one would arrange a pile of magazines on a coffee table.

It was a pleasure for us to see our daughter so self-assured and happy in her new home, beginning her venture into independent adulthood. We imagined her lying on her floor perusing her magazines full of fashion, home decor, celebrity gossip, and so on. But when we looked closer, we realized they weren’t even magazines at all. Each one was a booklet or glossy pamphlet that represented a different disease:  Diabetes and YOU; Understanding your Pituitary; Advances in Glaucoma Treatment; Handling your Headaches; Carpal Tunnel Syndrome: CTS; Controlling Irritable Bowel Symptoms; How to deal with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome at Work, and more. Free from our dismissive health care approach, she was finally able to explore her many dormant but deadly conditions.


Several years ago, Stephen experienced an acute case of hiccups.  It was during a long road trip from New England to Nebraska, on a side trip to Niagara Falls.  We'd been driving for most of the day and arrived at the parking area at nearly midnight.  We'd hoped to see the dramatic falls at night, since our only previous visit years earlier had been during the day.  Unfortunately, the nighttime fog was especially thick, and thoroughly obliterated any view of the waterfalls.  Disappointed, we crept along a side road hoping to catch a glimpse of any lights on the water, but the fog was as unrelenting as Stephen's frustrating case of hiccups, which after two hours was making him nauseated.

The fog was so thick we couldn’t see any road signs or even the lines on the road. Stephen inched forward, craning over the steering wheel trying to see anything at all, while hiccuping painfully and noisily. Eager to relieve him from his distress, I suddenly burst out shrieking, "STOP!!!!"

And he did!  He slammed on the brakes in complete panic, we lurched forward against our seat belts.  The tires screeched as he desperately scanned the foggy road for whatever danger we had just avoided, certain we'd narrowly escaped cascading over the actual waterway, running over an unseen tourist, or worse.

"Jesus Christ, WHAT?  What was it??" Stephen asked, intensely alarmed. I brightly replied, "Oh nothing, I just wanted to help you stop hiccuping! And look, it worked!"

It did work.  But he was mad for three days.

O Tannenbaum

For me, the holidays are times for creating happy memories, maintaining family traditions, and gathering loved ones around the hearth and table, often sharing good food, music, and exchanging special gifts. Since we've settled into Cleveland Place, I've enjoyed decking the halls – stringing up delicate heirloom Christmas ornaments, arranging centerpieces for the big meals, and setting candles on the windowsills to create a warm welcoming light for visitors or passersby.  Nearly every bedizening ornament has some kind of sentiment, keepsake value, or story.  I treat each one with care, and when I’m standing high on a ladder to reach the eaves to hang one, I think of the person or event that connects it to our family tree.

Sadly, this year starts with the loss of a family member by a fall from a ladder.  Given the time of year, I assume she was taking down her own special holiday decorations. She too may have been remembering loved ones, happy times, and special people.  I’d like to think she was full of happy thoughts of her own extended family; but now a sadly broken branch on a family tree.

For many years, our growing family lived far away from our origins, so we created some new traditions. If you’ve read in other blog entries about our Solstice events and not-so-traditional American Thanksgiving, then you know that gathering, eating, and laughing are integral elements to me for a successful get-together no matter the occasion.

A particular Christmastime in Alma Village with a group of friends and family remains a vivid memory of happy chaos.  It started out as a casual gathering for dinner, holiday glühwein, and some festive merrymaking with friends and family, featuring (among others):

• Wolfgang:  While vacationing from his home country of Germany to the Fundy area, Wolfie fell in love with our small fishing village and its rural lifestyle, and soon after moved to Alma.  Retired as concertmaster from the German Army, he sought out fellow musicians in our small community and quickly found a circle of friends who, like him, were “from away.”  He became acquainted with my dad, Wallace (alone after my mother's sudden and unexpected death after almost fifty years together), who welcomed the distraction of friends and activities to keep him busy.  When at Cleveland Place, Wolfgang would sit at our parlor grand piano and practice his exercises, running complicated scales up and down the antique keyboard.  The piano, made in Berlin many years ago, has a rich bass and beautiful tone.  A true musician, Wolfie enjoyed playing it to its full capacity.  After thirty minutes of warm-up, he would stand, stretch (a large, tall, imposing man), prop up the piano’s lid, and then really play music.  We’d open our front door facing Main Street, and as summertime tourists strolled the village streets, they'd slow down or stop to listen, and admire the grand music flowing from our home. 

• Kirstin:  Our hostess at this gathering and long-time true family friend. Originally from Germany, she relocated in Alma via Ontario many years ago.  Amber Brook, her B&B, was Wolfgang's respite “weir spreken deutch” when he was touring the Fundy area.  Fluently bilingual, she also helped Wolfie adjust to the provincial and village culture. A leader in every capacity, Kirstin is assertive but friendly, often taking firm but polite command of situations.

• Linda:  Kirstin's housemate, and another good family friend.  A retired librarian, Linda is mild-mannered, soft spoken, well-read, and unfailingly gracious as co-hostess, keeping conversation flowing with her extensive knowledge of current topics and historical or literary references.

•  Gerry:  Readers of The Jugular Vein blog have already met Gerry, a talented musician and friend, in “Share it If You Got It.”  Always eager for the company of friends and holiday socializing, Gerry rarely missed an invitation to share food, song, or companionship. He lived alone in a remote farmhouse outside the village limits, where unrelenting Fundy fog often compounded loneliness.  An expert jack of all trades, Gerry always made do for entertainment, fun, and practicality, and – like my mother – wore Dollarama brand readers to save the expense of optometrist and prescription glasses.

•  Dad (Wallace): Happy to have someone else hosting the evening, and keen to relax with the company of friends, he always enjoys a gathering. Usually an active participant or initiator of an evening’s entertainment, Dad was more an observer on this night.

After we finished our meal, the lively conversation around the table quieted as the dishes were cleared away and the cleanup began.  Since it was the holidays, someone suggested we sing traditional Christmas carols.  Regrettably, Gerry didn't have his guitar and there were no musical instruments at Kirstin's house – except for one.

A small children's electronic keyboard toy with one octave of keys, and dead batteries.  Kirstin quickly found and installed new batteries while we half-heartedly hummed and vaguely tried to recall lyrics from familiar carols.  Once the keyboard had power, Wolfgang stood and suddenly took command of the toy, running his large fingers over the keys to assess the sound.  One key wasn't working, which sorely disappointed him.  I was highly amused at the sight of this respected conductor’s serious efforts to generate music from a cheap toy, dwarfed by his big hands that were more accustomed to producing grand classical works from our parlour.

Gerry reached up and took it from him, and used a small pocket knife to unscrew the back and reveal the electronic chips and connectors.  He found a loose component and tried to bend it back into place, but it snapped and completely lost its connection. Kirstin, who’d been hovering over his shoulder, gave a “tsk!” at the realization that Gerry had ruined the evening's opportunity for music.  

Undaunted, Gerry took out his second pair of Dollarama readers, and put them on over the first pair he was already wearing. He exclaimed, “Well, now I can see the problem!” and asked Kirstin to get a soldering iron.  

Impatient to begin the music, Wolfgang stood up and raised is arms in full orchestra conductor mode, commanding attention by announcing in his strong German accent, “I vill make ze tone!” and started humming a mid-scale note for us all to follow.

I looked at Dad who sat back in his chair with a contented smile, enjoying the scenario as Kirstin repeatedly spanked Gerry's hand away from the electronics to prevent him from causing any more damage.  With each spank Gerry shrank back and resumed fiddling with the parts, both reassuring and teasing Kirstin that he could repair it.  The scene would have been the same had they been 10 and 12 year old brother and sister competing for the fix.

Kirstin eventually came up with a wood burning tool, and plugged it in. Gerry, wearing his two pairs of glasses, bent over the small panel to melt and fuse the broken connection, while Wolfie tried to organize a small chorus of dinner guests to give a rousing rendition of the German-English favourite “O Christmas Tree.” 

Though distracted by Kirstin and Gerry's activities at the head of the table, Linda, Dad, a few other guests and I vainly tried to attend to Wolfgang's directions, as he sternly insisted we follow his lead.  But with the noise of Linda clearing the dinner dishes, the smell of melting plastic and metal from the soldering project, the increasing tempo of the scolding/slapping/teasing between Gerry and Kirstin, and Wolfgang’s voice rising over all, demanding the attention and performance of reluctant carolers, repeating sternly, “Listen!  Follow! I vill make ze tone!” the scene was one of complete and uproarious chaos. When Gerry finally presented the repaired toy to a relieved Wolfgang, we managed a warbled rendition of “O Christmas Tree” in English and German. But when he found the formerly silent key now made a low crackling buzz instead, he set it down again with disgust, to our great amusement.

By now dessert was ready, and we'd fulfilled the promise of music, the camaraderie of an evening, a memorable holiday celebration.  Though I have no delicate ornament to serve as a memento of that evening, I have a genuinely happy memory of friends who have become family; extensions of my small family tree. 

How lovely are thy branches.

Share it if you got it

I'll be the first to admit it.  In most ways, I'm pretty square.

My wardrobe is simple. My drawers and closet have a neatly organized selection of beige chinos, polo shirts and white Keds.  My winter wardrobe is similarly practical, featuring my trademark white turtleneck and cardigan wool sweater.  My pocketbook is plain leather, no designer logo, containing a simple wallet, a tube of red lipstick, and several important necessities -- most importantly, my Swiss Army knife, a Sharpie ™ permanent marker, a flint and steel, a one-time-use toothbrush, and at least one crisp, fresh, linen handkerchief.

My creativity is pretty square and simple, too. When I weave, I design utilitarian blankets and cloth out of wool.  Nothing artistic that you'd hang on a wall or use for household decor.  When I knit, I make practical wool socks and durable, long lasting sweaters out of good home-spun sheep fleece.

My music: square, dated, and corny -- and I suffer a crippling case of lyricosis for anything recorded after 1972, often singing along with entirely incorrect lyrics.

To that end so far, I've led a pretty responsible life, taking few risks, usually drinking in moderation (oh, yes, we've all had our moments), and following the advice my father gave me when I was 12, I watched out for the Good-Time-Charlies. Overall, I think I've been a fairly good example, either by word or deed for our four children, as they've all made us proud.

But one summer several years ago, after a difficult lonely few weeks, I'd been invited away and it was then that I strayed.  I left the path that was good and narrow and I ran away.  For about eight solid hours.  It was wonderful.

It was all Gerry's influence.

Gerry Couture is a good friend who became well acquainted with our family when he helped my Dad, Wallace, build The Gazebo at Waterside, New Brunswick.  My folks had purchased an eight-acre piece of waterfront land about 20 years ago, and Dad designed a secluded eight-sided cottage that faces The Bay of Fundy with a 180 degree window exposure to the water.  It was meant to be a primitive getaway from the hustle and bustle of Alma Village (population 298) where they lived.  Gerry helped Dad fine-tune the design, adding a sleeping loft.  During the two-month spring-time construction they spent many long days together, joined by Gerry's constant companion, Byron, the goat.

Since Gerry lived close by The Gazebo, he and Dad would often return to his house for a break at lunch time and a much needed respite from the unrelenting mosquito population at Waterside.  It wasn't long before Gerry became a good friend in fun or in need.  Besides being adept with hammer and nail, Gerry was an excellent guitar player, though he played only by ear. He'd perfected almost every Beatles song, but could also play just about anything requested.  We all enjoyed many late nights joined in song.

Gerry didn't ever seem to have many serious obligations.  His children were grown, and he was on his own.  He worked at several odd jobs in the area to earn his living, and seemed talented in getting the work done well.  He enjoyed his music, his friends, a bit of whiskey, and any whim.
 
One night, Gerry called, telling me his good friend was having a bonfire, and they wanted friends to come out and sing under the moon.  There was a bright round moon on a clear summer night, the B&B was empty and Stephen was away so I said I'd come along!  We met and I drove us both to the camp where his friends and son and daughter would also be joining the fun.  But first, we stopped at the liquor store to pick up a church pint of Crown Royal.

The bonfire was lit in a huge dedicated fire ring at least 6 feet across, and the wood supply was ample.  Gerry invited me to join him down at the water's edge, as this part of the Fundy shoreline was quite different than that in our neck of the woods.  The water was calm, warm, the beach soft and sandy, and the twinkling town lights were pretty and fun from the land just across the inlet. Funny how a change of scenery can refresh.

After we admired the view, we re-joined Gerry's family and friends around the fire ring and out came the guitars and harmonica and Crown Royal.  Gerry played, we all sang, the bottle was passed around.  Early on the songs were lively, loud, the camaraderie around the fire grew as the moon rose.  No one had a care in the world.  Except for me.

I'd  forgotten to take a low-dose allergy pill before I'd left, and being outdoors on a summer night I began to feel my nasal passages constrict and eyes water.  It was also getting pretty late, so I went inside the camp cottage to wash my face, and blow out my nose, and when I returned saw that the six remaining around the fire ring had all drawn their chairs and benches up close and the music had mellowed.  Gerry played some quiet instrumental riffs and then a few French tunes known to his family and they quietly shared a few songs among themselves.  It was quite touching; a special memory.

But my histamines were really taking hold, and my nose was dripping and I couldn't ignore it anymore.  I didn't want to break the mood with a loud honking snort, so I silently slid back in my chair and extended my legs out in front of me so I could reach deep down into the pocket of my blue jeans.

The music abruptly stopped and everyone looked at me.

As I dug deeper down into my pocket someone in the circle loudly exclaimed:

"You got WEED??!!"

and everyone watched me hopefully, anticipating the withdrawal of a small baggie.  Apparently, I had just demonstrated the universal late-night bodily gesture for retrieving weed from the depths of one's pocket.

Instead, I sat up and burst out laughing.  What a night! A perfect getaway; a carefree, moonlit night, filled with music and surrounded by friends.  But it wasn't that kind of night.

As I withdrew my hand from my pocket, I presented a white linen handkerchief with dainty yellow-lace tatting all around the edge.  No, dear friends, I'm just that square. I don't have weed; I have a hankie, freshly starched and pressed.  I waved it delicately, laughing harder as they all joined me -- Gerry strumming a fanfare.

But now I have a memory.  A time I frequently recall, that includes music, friendship, and laughter.

That, I can share.