La Belle Époque

The past is always judged by the present. ~ Neith Boyce


When I was a young girl, I was completely enamored of the past. I wanted nothing more than to move back to a simple time of simple pleasures. This interest was mainly kindled into a fire when I read the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder in second grade. Using couch pillows and a sheet, I created a covered wagon and tried to enlist our German Shepherd and Border Collie into being my pretend team of horses to pull it. I daydreamed about log cabins, spinning wheels and calico dresses. As I continued to read, I fell in love with Colonial Virginia, when reading a biography of Martha Washington, Ancient Egypt from"The Cat in the Mirror" by Mary Stoltz and Victorian England following my lust for Jane Austen novels. I daydreamed about Ancient Greece and Rome, through books of mythology. I imagined life in Scandinavia as I mentally sailed along with Viking raiders around the North sea. I went on a spirit journey, reading about southwestern Native American rites of passage...envisioning my life amongst the Anasazi. The current age of my childhood seemed ugly, bitter, filled with anger and too fast a pace. I longed for a more quiet life, an uncomplicated life. I imagined restraint, gentility and honor in all the times past. 


My new favorite film is "Midnight in Paris", which was written and directed  by Woody Allen. "Annie Hall" this is not. It's one man's daydreaming past into 1920's Paris...the time of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Pablo Picasso. It was the era of the great Left Bank artists, poets, writers, musicians, designers...the time of post World War I ex-patriot "Lost Generation" great thinkers and creators. The film is brilliantly created. Each night, at precisely the same spot on a side side in Paris, at Midnight, Owen Wilson's character is picked up in a vintage car and driven into the past, where he meets all of his idols. He experiences the era with which he identifies so closely. He is desperate to be a part of this time in history, when, in his mind, life was ever so much sweeter and so much more imaginative. "Gil", Wilson's protagonist, falls in love with the beautiful Adriana...a muse to the 1920's artists. As they stroll through the Paris streets each night, Gil finds the evenings to be both sublime and transcendent. He's actually living in his dream time and can't fathom anyone else not being outrageously happy.  The pace of life, for Gil, is slower, more meaningful and far more beautiful. Adriana, on the other hand, ruminates on her own 'castle in the sky' period of history, La Belle Époque, the late 19th century until World War I. It's no wonder..."The Great War"  devastated the globe. As Gil and Adriana travel back in time to the 1880's, they come upon the famous artists of the day who dream about the Renaissance. Gil and Adriana have to decide; should each one remain in his, or her, own daydream, or return to their own present times?


The lesson of the film is quite simple: it's one thing to fantasize about the romance of the past. It is wonderful to appreciate those superlative individuals who help define an era, and help to create something completely new and original. It's quite another to run away from one's problems, one's dissatisfaction and one's melancholy by vanishing into a previous time...even if that disappearing is completely metaphorical. Each generation looks to the previous ones for inspiration and with longing. Every period in history has magically beautiful aspects to it. Yet, we forget, in our reveries, that each period in history has its own share of complications and horrors. No time has ever been perfect. Yet no time has ever been without hope. We exist, as human beings, somewhere between each of these states in our hearts and minds whenever we find ourselves living.


I continue to imagine life in past decades, in other places and spending my time in deep contrast to my present. I love to read, I adore movies and I treasure works of art and pieces of music...often from times and places different than Maine in 2012. However, the lessons I learn here and now are the ones that will create my happiness. I can take advice and admonishment from the past. But, I need to bring those into my everyday life. I find that I want to assimilate those past areas of simplicity, beauty, creativity and joie de vivre into my today, while still having a deep appreciation for the exceptional time I have the privilege of experiencing.  As romantic as Elizabethan England might seem, it's awfully nice to have running water, excellent medical care and relative safety. 


Daydreams are fun. They're a diversion from the mundane. They're a way to escape, even for a few minutes, from the stresses we are plagued with. The present, no matter how complicated and rushed, has the potential to be infinitely more wonderful than any daydream. Why? Because it's happening this very second. We can breathe the air, taste the food and hear the music. We can feel the snowflakes on our cheeks and smell tang of the ocean. As delightful as the past might seem, right now is what we're blessed with...and right now is pretty extraordinary.

Idea boards....

The way to get good ideas is to get lots of ideas, and throw the bad ones away.  ~Linus Pauling


When I was growing up, my mother maintained a studio in every house in which we lived. If something struck her as inspiring, she'd pin it up onto one of her idea boards. Her idea boards overflowed, and she also maintained files to hold bits of thoughts. Some of these were fabulous quotes that she found intriguing. Others were cartoons from the New Yorker, or even whole articles. Most often, however, these were bits of fabric, photos or sketches to do with design. Mom was the art director for her family's paper goods company, and it was her job to coordinate between what was happening out in the world with her artists, and balancing that with her own sense of the creative process. As she moved into the hotel business with my father, she wore two hats; one was her continued vision for the paper goods company, but she was then also responsible for designing the spaces at my parents' Santa Barbara resort, both inside and out. My grandmother was the same way. She had ideas in design neatly organized in her sewing room...which doubled as her drawing room, sculpting room, painting room and craft space. Grandma was the most talented dressmaker and landscape artist I've ever known. And yet, she did these as hobbies for fun. I used to look at the idea boards of both my mother and grandmother and wonder how many of these bits of illumination would come to fruition. I loved how they looked...mismatched, yet compelling. They were a deluge of creativity, an avalanche of suggestions.I wanted to frame the boards themselves to keep in my room.


Even though these boards were created to inspire art, they themselves, in my humble opinion were the art. The random gathering of home fashion pulled from magazines, postcards from extraordinary places, fabric swatches, old photographs, handwritten notes from friends and any number of surprising bits of vision. Some of these pinned pieces were to decipher; the gorgeous bedroom, done up in green and ivory, was obviously translated to mean a room to reinterpret...at least in feeling or individual pieces. The scrap with just a few words, the piece of frayed, worn out gingham  or the restaurant menu were a bit harder to understand. I did know, however, that the creative process ran deeply, and that the tired piece of gingham might not be 'about' the tired piece of gingham. Rather, it could be a reminder of an event, whose memory would trigger a design different that the ratty fabric. Significance, I learned, in idea boards, often had less to do with what was up on the board exactly, than it did for what each piece signified. So, in many ways, the pin boards belonging to the most important women in my life were actually a view into the way their minds worked creatively. The items they pinned were archetypal. 


I wish I possessed the gene for creativity and style that my Mama and Grandma have. Grandma could see any couture dress in a store, look at it for a moment, and then go home and make it. Only better. Mama could gather up the most disjointed, unlikely group of furniture and textiles and create exceptional, eclectic and harmonious spaces. Me? I have no sense in either of these abilities. Both women could look at a blank canvas, and could pull forth a painting that seemed to have always existed from within. I can't even draw a stick figure. I have the utmost admiration for this potentiality. I lack depth perception, so I always pick out furniture of the utterly wrong proportion for any room. I can barely hem pants, let alone sew a dress. I can walk into a room I think is dreadful, but have no idea how to change it. Conversely, I can experience a breathtaking space, that just drips style and comfort, and yet be utterly flummoxed as to how to recreate it.

Therefore, when my friends told me about a fun website, called Pinterest, I was certain I'd be unable to do use it. After all, I'm neither creative nor inspired. I don't wake up dreaming about green velvet sofas or styling an outfit around black flats. I wake up hoping for coffee and sunny skies under which to walk my dogs.  Who knew that I'd become a "Pinaddict" within 24 hours of my first pin? My friend, Debbie, was teasing that she's turned so many people onto the site that she might as well call herself a Pin-pusher, "Hey little girl....wanna pin?".


Joking aside, it really is a fun site. You can create virtual pin boards online, maintained by the site...no glue, no cutting, no scrunched up napkins and no running out of thumb tacks. You can find ideas for everything from fashion to Fettuccine recipes and from puppies to painting. The boards begin with a few standard ones...'For the home', 'Food', 'Books worth reason'. The possibilities to create your own, however, are endless. You can borrow ("repin") ideas from other people. This isn't considered stealing, but is the basis of Pinterest! It's the sharing of those things that inspire us and is meant to be a public endeavor. You can also upload photos of whatever takes your fancy...using the handy "Pin It" tool...and thereby, share them with the Pinterest community. I've created a dozen boards so far...and none of them are even close to compete. It's an ongoing process for everyone...we keep virtually "pinning" as long as we choose to.


Pinning is great fun. Pinning does make the "pinner" feel much more creative. Pinning creates a new community. But, pinning is addictive. Don't say I didn't warn you!


But, please excuse me. I have an idea about an all black and white board. I must pin...

Broken

Broken: Adjective: reduced to fragments; fragmented, ruptured; torn; fractured,not functioning properly; out of working order.

When my son, Josh, was a toddler, Cheerios's came out with a new twist on their oat cereal. Instead of just having the famous and signature "O", they also came out with "X's". It was cute. It was clever. It tasted the same and had all the same healthy reasons for putting the new gimmick on my shopping list. Josh, however, was duly horrified, as only an 18 month old can be. I thought it was so charming to put the X's and O's on the tray of his high chair. Josh looked at the cereal, looked at me, and then began precisely picking up the X's, tossing them off the tray to the waiting vultures (masquerading as dogs). With each flick of his chubby baby wrist, he'd say "Broken!". Nothing I could do would persuade him to even taste one. In his one year frame of reference, his beloved "O-eee-o's" were not supposed to look like that.

This was a parenting annoyance at the time. But, now, 19 years later, I can understand completely how Josh felt. There was a way that his neatly ordered world was supposed to be. He was accustomed to his snack looking a particular way. It gave Josh stability knowing what he should expect. His passionate rejection of the 'different' was not unlike how an adult might feel when her world is turned upside down. What Josh experienced as baby, on a much smaller scale, many of us discover, to our horror, as grown ups. "Broken" can mean a wide variety of things to us. It might be that a marriage fails. Or a family member dies. Or a debilitating, scary illness is diagnosed. It may be being downsized from a career. It could mean that our belief system is shattered, our hearts are crushed, our friendships aren't steady and our mind can't grasp the changes. Broken can mean that the worlds we work so hard to create for ourselves are in nothing more than a gossamer scarf, holding together the fragile pieces that fit together within the delicate folds. 

Over the past year, I've been exploring the concept of brokenness, as it applies to body, mind and spirit. This wasn't intentional. I had no choice in the matter of my body. Cancer is an all powerful, indiscriminate leveler, particularly when one has had the disease more than once. My strength through yoga failed me. I was physically broken, emotionally drained and intellectually flummoxed. How does a non-smoking, organic eating yogini get a rare form of cancer more than once? I was angry. I wanted to power through, to be the little engine that could", to deny that this disease would have any long term effects on me. I refused to allow myself to be broken. I wouldn't stand for it. How very wrong I was! How naive, and how foolish. I wish I could back in time. I wish I could take myself by the hand and say, "You will be broken. You will be challenged. Nothing will be easy. With every step forward, there will be two steps back and to the side. You will not reemerge the same woman. You will be different. You will be changed. You will be splintered. But, you will survive and create something new from the pieces."

After yet another setback last week, I wanted to cry out to the heavens, "Seriously?" But, I realize that there is still more for me to learn. There is always more for me to learn. Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this; no matter how well I think I've put the pieces back together, they seem to twirl out of my hands, crashing to the floor and creating even more fragments for me to contemplate. It's not the breaking that matters. Regardless of how I feel about it, I'm beginning to realize that the brokenness itself may very well be the lesson. It may be that I need to continuously learn humility; that I must deliberately look at each fragment and wonder what it has to teach me. It may also just be a crappy deal that I'm stuck with, and if I don't want to end up as a bitter, hate-filled old biddy, I'd better learn how to dwell with what is, rather than focusing on what is not.

Like a mosaic work of art, made from bits of shattered glass, I need to learn how to see the beauty in brokenness. I need to appreciate what is broken. Why? Because it's healthier than the alternative. One never knows: something exquisite may yet be created. I just have the humbling task of trying to discern what 'it' will be.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day...

"Birds flying high 
You know how I feel 
Sun in the sky 
You know how I feel 
Reeds drifting on by 
You know how I feel 
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, its a new life 
For me 
And I'm feeling good"   ~ Written by Anthony Newley, performed by Nina Simone


I've begun this blog piece three times before today. Each time I've sat down to write, I've been overwhelmed with emotion. It's silly, but I truly love the idea that each of us are given a chance to start our lives fresh every January.  While I may be an eternal Party Pooper on New Year's Eve (who can stay up that late any longer?), I happen to adore New Year's Day. I'll take Beginnings over Endings with gladness. I know that this is mainly because I'm a bounding Labrador of Joy when it comes to starting new chapters. I love new books! I love new places! I love learning a new hobby! I love making new friends! I'm an ebullient starter of the au courant. I love being the first to try something unusual or dynamic. 


Unfortunately, the flip side of this positive attribute is that I get bored easily and tend to say "The heck with it", if something becomes too inconvenient, too difficult, too repetitive or just plain too boring. I tried to learn how to knit. I was terrible. I've tried serious, elegant cooking classes. I burned whatever I touched. I have mangled multiple gardens. From herbs to flowers, I have come to realize that I simply have neither the gift, nor the patience.  I have skis, a Pilates mat, a bicycle and water color paints. All are collecting dust in my garage. And yet, I began each undertaking with a jubilant bounce. What is it about trying something new that, when I hit a bump in the road, turns the novelty into irritation? Do I truly grow to dislike this endeavors or do I just quit too soon? Am I fickle or bungling? 


This year, instead of jumping to the head of the "I want to lose ten---okay, fifteen-- pounds" parade, I'm refraining from even entertaining the concept of a diet. In the place of taking kick boxing (which I am oddly drawn towards), I'm going to stick with my walking and yoga exercise pattern. Rather than sign up for classes in Russian, tap dancing or wine tasting, I'm going to take a realistic  look at what I'm already doing to see which areas could use improvement. The "bright and shiny" has always had a Siren call to me. What I see as my goal for 2012 is to walk away from the new and towards improving the old. An expression my mother likes to use is that we're like monkeys: we're drawn towards the lustrous allure of unique and untested treetops. I'm the worst in our family in this way. I will drop down my 'nets and follow' what catches my attention. If it seems complicated, intricate and all-encompassing? All the better. It will be even more delicious to contemplate. 


Therefore, my resolution this year is simple: nothing new. This concept alone is novel enough to me to get me out of the starting gate. A few years ago, I would have whined "But, that's so BOOOOOOORING.....". Now? I understand that if I'm going to be a grown up (and I think it's about time to start down that road), I'm going to have to behave like one. No more spontaneous trips to Hobby Lobby. No more daydreaming about learning how to snowshoe (this would be fine for another person...but I really don't like being cold. I just like the shoes.) I will leave all the brightly illustrated flyers my fingers itch to pick up right where they are. Since I'm a virtual Tasmanian Devil when I'm in the throws of a newfangled love with learning to go Vegan or weave willow baskets, I'm going to have to keep the barn door on any new interest closed. And locked. With armed guards ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. If not, I'll take a month's worth of Water Ballet classes only to remember that, despite my pretty new swimsuit, I dislike being wet and lack any sense of rhythm.


The new start for me this year is staying away from new starts. I am, instead, going to turn my energy towards my old starts and reevaluate them. I'll ask myself which ideas, from home maintenance to outside activities, really were successful, and which were a collossal waste of time and money. I'll meditate on being content with where I am, with what I have, with what I am able to do and who I want to spend my time with. Rather than race ahead, crazy legs, to a finish line I can't even begin to see, I hope to take this journey slowly, mindfully, intentionally and  with deliberation. As a woman who acts first and thinks after, this is going to be a profound difference.


Just writing this blog piece makes me want to pull my hair out. I'm afraid that I'll be desperate to radically change my style, my house and my interests. I'm terrified that February will come around, and I'll immediately decide that I need to begin wearing 4 inch heels or have a hankering to learn how to smoke meat.  The "shiny things" beckon. They call me to me, reel me in and then eventually lose my attention when the next shiny thing appears on the horizon. I know this isn't going to be an easy journey. I may whine. I might look wistfully at a golf course, wondering if I could learn to play. Yet, I'm determined that this is going to be my year of reflection and completion. I need to figure out what works for me, and what doesn't, if I have a chance at a balanced approach in the future.


The new dawn of the new day rises beautifully every morning. We're given a chance to begin fresh and, for most people, to start with a clean slate. My slate this year just won't be a clean one. It will be a messy one. My job will be to turns my eyes away from the glittering, untried slates and to refocus on finishing the many tasks on my well used slate instead. 


Maybe next year I'll get a clean one. 

Putting away childish things...

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. St. Paul,  I Corinthians 13:11

In many places one of the biggest holiday events, particularly for charitable foundations, is the "Festival of Trees". At these gatherings donated Christmas trees are auctioned off to help raise money for new cancer wings to a hospital, an addition to the animal shelter or to help a terminally ill's child's 'wish' come true. Each tree has a theme. I've seen "The Nutcracker Suite", with mice, ballerinas, snowflakes, flowers and a Nutcracker tree topper. I've adored the "Baker's Dozen"..a tree completely decorated with miniature baking implements; roller pins, tins, tiny tubs of flour aprons and recipe books. I thought, given that I live at the ocean, the always stunning "Beach Lovers Delight", embellished with shells in every shape and size, was magical. Each tree had another unique, carefully planned symphony. When I got home from attending these beautiful parties, I'd look over at my funny, goofy, random tree and see a cacophony of mismatched ornaments and cringe.

As tempting as it was for me to chuck my ridiculous, mismatched collection of Christmas decorations, I could never seem to part with them. I have a few stunning crystal ornaments that catch the light and reflect it throughout the room. I have the little gold colored church bauble, that my husband and I gave to our wedding attendants, as party favors. Mixed are the reminders of our children's births, a cable car from San Francisco, a Saguaro cactus from Arizona, a glass blown Eiffel tower, little hockey skates, tiny skis, ballet shoes and trains. We have a Darth Vader that, when plugged into a Christmas light bulb, says, in that raspy James Earl Jones voice, "The Force is with you young Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet". That expression has greeted me each time I've turned the tree on for the past 15 years...because my oldest was a Star Wars fanatic when he was very young. There is the elegant Tiffany engraved ornament hanging next to my schlocky German Shepherd angel. A carefully glittered snowflake shimmers like diamonds, just above the incredibly tacky snowman bell. 

If I were to continue to peruse my tree, mixed in with all of these tokens of my married life are the ornaments of my childhood. When I first got married, and moved to Germany, my mother gave me the box of these ornaments as a way to bring my past along with me. Knowing I wouldn't be home for the first Christmas of my life, she wanted me to have "home" wherever I was. So our moves to Wildflecken and  Idar-Obersten, Germany, Lawton, OK and then back to Camden, Maine, all brought my treasures along for the ride. None of these are valuable in the monetary sense. But each one reminds me of being a little girl. I have bells with my parents and my names on them. and somewhat tasteless 70's ideas for Three Kings crowns. I have some 'once adorable' mementos of buying my 'yearly ornament' at Gervasoni's on State Street in Santa Barbara, following our annual trek to go see "The Nutcracker Suite". Going to Gervasoni's was a tradition my best friends, our mothers and I had. Figuring out which ornament to pick was nearly impossible, as the usual flower shop was transformed into a winter wonderland. And yet, each year we managed to find the perfect one. And I still have all of them hanging on my tree.

The most raggedy of all of ornaments (and that's saying something) is a half bald, woe begotten duck, made out of puff balls and wearing a ski hat. This is the oldest ornament I have, and it made the long journey of my childhood from San Francisco to New York to Santa Barbara and then on to Maine. It wouldn't even suffice as a decent dog toy. Still, it's my favorite. For reasons I can't fathom, when I was tiny I named him "The Chickie" and the Chickie he's remained to this day. I still pull him out from the boxes each year and greet him as I would an old friend who has been on this long journey with me. He's seen it all: the year I turned 5 and had chicken pox and ended up lying in bed wearing my new ice skates and trying to hug my sled. He was present in the afterglow of my seeing my first Broadway show, my becoming a horse crazy tween, my cousins and I sleeping under the tree to "catch Santa", my falling in and out of crushes, and my first true heartbreak. When my then new husband was away for months at a time, and I'd get the ornaments out by myself, the Chickie would remind me that I could connect my Christmases of years past with my present. 

Today I'll begin the process of de-Christmasing my house. I'll bring out the boxes in which to place the garland, fold up my burgundy tablecloth and remove the holiday paraphernalia. I will begin to take the ornaments off my tree, one by one. I will carefully look over each piece and decide if it's time has come to meet the rubbish bin. It's not an easy call. Some do actually break. With two exuberant, immense dogs, for whom the tree is nothing more than a fun object into which to crash, I've lost my share of glass balls. Others just looked worn and tired. I know that it's time for them to go...and in doing so, to make room for new pieces of new memories. Yet, it's tough to say goodbye even to the worst of the lot. By saying to them, "You look just awful. I can't have you on my tree any longer", it's as if I'm losing a part of my own Christmas memories. I'm the furthest thing from a pack rat. If anything, I tend to purge our house prematurely. When it comes to Christmas ornaments I've had for 40 years, however, I'm a hopeless nostalgia keeper.

I've resolved to let go of many of these ratty bits of fabric. The plaid covered bell, with places that are so bald Styrofoam can seen underneath is going to the trash. The assortment of Santa looking ornaments, that have always seemed a creepy to my daughter, will be donated, since they're in good repair. The snowman that I myself think looks a little demonic can bite the dust. The others, who resemble nothing in particular but just seem boring, dated and devoid of sentimentality, are out of here. Harder to release are the dodgy ones that evoke childhood memories. I know it's time. I know they don't add any character to our tree. But I think of my late father, whom I adored, when I put up the now shabby lobster boat. I remember my Grandma when I see the falling apart little doll she once sewed for me. And then there is The Chickie. My friend. My amigo. My traveling companion. I realize that I'm an adult and, to paraphrase St. Paul, it is time to put away childish things. 

I'm just not quite ready yet.

Rolling with the Homies

Life is too short for traffic.  ~Dan Bellack

What a difference a year makes! I can only look back and reflect now, because enough time has passed for me to take the full measure of all that has happened. I count my blessings every day. I take nothing for granted. I am immeasurably appreciative for the people who have been so good to me. I am deeply indebted to my family, who have been courageous in the face of my fears. I am thankful for the chance to recreate my life anew.


Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my major cancer surgery. One year has passed since I was uncertain about what fate would have in store for me. Would my tumor touch major organs? Would it have metastasized? Knowing that my form of cancer doesn't respond to chemotherapy or radiation, surgery was my only hope to keep it from spreading further. Where would it have insinuated itself? I went into surgery with my mom, my husband and my daughter, Caroline, as my support system with me. Caroline was amazing. She got a kick out of my joking around with my pre-op team and surgeons. She was there for me when I swore like a sailor getting that darn Heparin shot...which by the way, hurts like hell, but prevents blood clots. We held hands, we thought positive thoughts, we laughed, we cried a little and we just spent that hour before my operation together...in the pre-op 'stall' at Maine Medical Center in Portland. Hers was the last face I saw before I was wheeled away. Hers was also the first face I saw when I woke up and was wheeled into my hospital room after the procedure. That beautiful face, with those adorable dimples, was my touchstone that day.


It's only fitting that Caroline and I will share another adventure tomorrow. I'm picking her up from prep school for her last Christmas break before she graduates. We will have another "cruising" experience; albeit a much more positive one this time. Instead of rolling into surgery, we'll be rolling  home to Maine. I can't wait. Caroline and I have established a tradition during the 4 1/2 hour trip to and from her school in western Massachusetts. We sing as loudly as we can. Since I tend to flub up words, and can't carry a tune to save my life (pun fully intended), I am a constant source of amusement to my daughter. I insist that my lyrics are correct, and if my tone is a bit 'pitchy', well, it's all part of the fun. We belt out show tunes (I have passed on my passion for Broadway musicals), pop songs and, this time of year, Christmas carols. I once had Caroline nearly rolling on the floor laughing when I insisted I could speak Hindi, when I went through my Bollywood phase, thanks to the "Slumdog Millionaire" soundtrack. She made me realize how tame my generation's music was compared to today's rap lyrics. We laugh, we sing, we tell stories, we catch up, we think positive thoughts, we share and we just enjoy being in each other's company once again. 


In some ways, December 15, 2010 and December 15, 2011 won't be all that different. I'll be with my daughter. We'll be talking, day dreaming, venting and just basking in the gratitude of having each other. However, we will be much more lighthearted this year. We still have our worries. We still have issues we're concerned about. But, we have many wonderful memories that are ahead of us. A year ago, we were so entrenched in the present it was hard to see the future. Today, we're happy that some mysteries still await us. I'm glad to be sharing it with Caroline. Not only is she my daughter, but she's my 'homie'. There's no one I'd rather "roll with".

Happy Holidays from our family

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