Zion

They talked about reaching Zion as a condition of the heart. Something to strive for our whole lives. The state of the world during the millennium after all the wars are over when people will dwell together in love and peace. I could have told them that yes, zion is a condition, and it is a the state of the world, but we don't have to wait for it or for the Savior to come. Zion is close by. I know because I lived there. It was right around the corner.

To Bonnie, Raedene, Marilyn, Linda, and Susan

From You I Learned

That fresh pressed cider tastes like heaven
dogs should be spayed or neutered
copying copyrighted music is wrong
and following the prophet is right
From you I learned
that it's a good thing
to make someone a birthday cake
get your other friends together
and sing happy birthday while holding the cake
and standing on the birthday girl's porch
From you I learned
that hard work makes good things happen
staying faithful to covenants is essential
elberta peaches have the best flavor
and zucchini can be canned
to become a substitute
for crushed pineapple
From you I learned
that no husband is perfect
and neither am I
but sisterhood is close
From you I learned
that raspberries need picking
or they stop bearing fruit
consistency is key
and neighbors appreciate
a regularly mowed lawn
From you I learned
that each day is a new start
no matter what happened yesterday
and God hears our prayers
even the ones we just think about saying
From you I learned
that it's ok to say no
the spirit speaks all the time
but it's we who decide
if we're listening
or not
From you I learned
that our children can bring us happiness
and squished dandelions
wet kisses
exasperation
and frustration
no matter how cute they are
even in families
that look perfect on Sundays
From you I learned
to plant a tree in the front yard
leave home once in awhile
even if it's just long enough
to go get some curly fries
exercising to music is fun
but forgiveness is vital
From you I learned
that potato bugs are a nuisance
teenagers don't always mind
direction is important
the veil is thin
and sometimes we just have to believe
From you I learned
that I could give a talk
plant a garden
teach a lesson
bottle home-made chili
and feel the promptings of the Holy Ghost
From you I learned
that I could
be a neighbor
a friend
a mother
and myself
all at the same time
From you I learned
to get up early
do it right
keep going
family is everything
and finding joy in the journey
is the goal
From you I learned
that time changes appearance
circumstances alter our course
and distance separates
but love among sisters remains in force
forever

A Favorite Quote

It isn't enough to talk about it or dream about it. Even the best plans lie stagnant until one takes action. In my work to establish Head Injury Hope, a non-profit organization, amazing things have taken place which the following quote explains better than I can.

"Concerning all acts of initiative and creativity, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.

I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets: 'Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic and power in it.' "

W.H. Murray
The Scottish Himalayan Expedition
J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1951

Perfection

T

Insomnia

I have the weirdest sleep experiences. I'll sleep well for a night or two, but more often than not, I wake up repeatedly--anywhere from every 30 minutes to two hours, and I'll do that until around 4 or 5 AM when I finally give up and get out of bed. Sometimes things come to me then--answer to a prayer, a heightened spiritual awareness, words to a poem--and then I don't mind. But other nights don't make sense, like tonight (this morning):

I need to compile 30 years of on and off again genealogy research into a history of the Bruchs, which will entail another trip to Memphis--something I look forward to.
Is there such a thing as a cat that doesn't shed?
Should I get a cat of my own?
You're the cream cheese, I'm the crunch, we're the celery in our lunch...ok, now it really is time to give up on sleep...

I'll tell you

what my writers' group members said about this piece if you tell me what you think first. And no vague responses like "I liked it" "I hated it," or "I didn't get it." Be specific. Ask questions. Tell me where it makes you wonder, if a passage made you feel confused, and what's implied. Who are these people and what is the relationship? Remember, this is FICTION so there are no wrong answers.

Let's Dance

He is standing between two empty bar stools in crisply ironed slacks and a maroon button-down shirt, leaning on his elbows, both hands wrapped around a tall glass. I can see the honey brown skin of his forearms where the cuffs of his sleeves have been rolled back, revealing sinew and hard muscle, work-worn hands. I touch his shoulder lightly and slide onto a stool next to him, placing my black beaded bag on the bar in front of us. He turns to kiss my check but avoids eye contact, the chain from his silver dog tags hanging inside his shirt. He's ashamed to talk to me now, having been caught in yet another lie, but it doesn't matter anymore. A second broken heart would kill me. El dolor me mataria, and anyway, I like it here, the anonymity of vague features, music that's too loud for talking, the darkness-smudged ambiance. While he orders me a Shirley Temple with extra cherry juice, I read the labels on the bottles standing in silent mockery on the open shelf behind the bar: Jose Quervo, Sauza, Quita Penas: Stop Suffering.

"Let's dance," I say, sliding off the stool and pulling on his arm. It's a popular place and the floor is filling up with people.

"No," he says, sittings down on a one of the empty stools, his back to the bar.

"Oh, come on! You know you want to!" I say, moving my hips to the music. I can't help it. I love the Latin rhythms.

"No!" he says again jerking his arm free. He's staring at me now but he doesn't see me. I know the look. I sigh and step toward the dance floor.

"That's why I leave my ol' man at home!" A middle aged woman says as she sashays past us flicking her long red nails once in his direction.

I dance alone, bailo solo, one hand on my hip, the other on my belly. The music carries me somewhere else. I close my eyes and already I'm forgetting the reason I came here.

"Feel the music! Feel the music!" he'd screamed at me in order to be heard above the din. My first dance instructor. Sweet, passionate, and a perfectionist with a horrible comb-over, but he could dance like no other and he was an excellent teacher. Puerta Vallarta. A tiny beach-side cafe. After the place closed we walked for hours on the beach awash in moonlight and talked about President Bush, President Fox, the issues with illegals coming into the US, our mutual love of languages . We passed other couples holding hands, teenagers building sand sculptures, a young mother walking with her barefoot toddler in the warm water, even in the middle of the night. I smile at the memories. Maybe I'll head south again when this is all over.

When the song ends I return to my seat. The bartender fills another tall glass; neon lights from behind the bar shine through it, illuminating the dark, heavy beer the color of Brazilian coffee. The other stool is empty now and I search the crowd as a new song begins. It's a merengue and he is dancing with a beautiful young red-head almost as tall as he is. One, two, one two. He seems content to dance the entire night staring at his hands resting on her slender hips, his thumbs almost touching the diamond stud flashing from her navel. There was a time when I would have been jealous, but not anymore. He looks up to see me watching. I smile and he grins back--the first look of enjoyment I've seen on his face all night.

"Her name's Brenda, or, I don't know, maybe she said Brandy," he says after the song ends and she returns to her friends at another table.

"Brandy, huh? Did you get permission from her parents?"

"Ouch, Woman! That hurts--she's not that young!"

"Compared to what?"

"Compared to--compared--well--she does sort of remind me of this one chick I knew after I got back. Man, that was a crazy time. I was pretty messed up, you know? I guess I was about 26 then and this one night--"

"Let's dance," I say again. "You owe me one." This time he follows me onto the dance floor leaving the end of his story behind in the foam of his beer. The crowd opens and we swirl a wide space, his beige Dockers and my black silk. We don't talk. And we don't have to think. The movement is automatic, flowing, a perfect fit. We move effortlessly for a long time, one song melding into the next.

Stopping to catch our breaths, I feel the heat from my body against the cool of the white stucco wall as he presses against me gentle, but strong, his arms arms still tight around me. There's beer on his breath and urgency raging inside him, conflict I couldn't fix. I put my palms flat against his chest and look into his pliant face. Alcohol always does this to him and I welcome the honesty even while I resent it. His body feels good beneath my hands, solid and warm.

He looks down into my face. "En que piensas?" he says softly. What are you thinking? Without waiting for a reply, he lowers his face toward mine, his lips parted, his breathing elevated, but not from dancing. Oh, how I want to, but I turn my head.

"About my husband" I reply. It's still a legal description.

He hesitates and I feel his arm twitch. He loosens his hold on me but doesn't let go. His eyes remain fixed on my face and I feel his heart pounding against his ribs beneath his shirt. The music stops and for a long minute, neither of us move.

"Do you hate him?" he asks quietly.

The energy from dancing has left a vacuum in the open space, filling quickly now with new dancers who ignore us and focus instead on their partners. I reach up and touch his smooth jaw line, warm against my fingertips. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face and wets the tip of my finger. I want to take him home, cover his body with a cool sheet, sit in the rocker and watch him sleep through the night like I used to watch over my babies when they were sick and moonlight shone through the lace curtains bathing the house in serenity.

"No." I answer. "I--" I stare into his brown eyes boring into mine now, serious and intense. A tear slips down my face and I quickly brush it away.

"I love you--I always will."

A shadow crosses his face momentarily. He steps back, releasing me, then reaches for my hand instead. This time it is he who says, "Let's dance." As I follow him quickly back into the crowd, he grips my hand hard, the ring on my third finger pinching my skin, but the pain feels good. A reminder. The crowd makes room for us again and for awhile, we forget.

To Nancy

I don't need to touch it to know
it's just a picture
of a painting
of him and yet
through my blur of tears
something shifts
his tender gaze
like a caress
a glance
a softening around the mouth
as though he can indeed,
speak from the page
I dare not look away
the compassion!
the understanding!
the knowledge!
that in the aftermath's anguish
while I lament the 3000 miles between me
and my friend know
with hopeless certainty
that I can do nothing
I understand
suddenly
that He
has already done
everything was at her side
from the first moment
fog rising up from the tulles like angels
to wrap her in the arms of love
binding the wounds of her broken heart
Balm of Gilead
Beautiful Savior
Healer
of us all

Blowing Out the Candles

Posing with the birthday boy.

Strawberry shortcake, one of his favorites.

Make a wish!

Happy Birthday, Owen

Just what he wanted.

What's this?

I think he liked it!!

Buzz, buzz, buzz

Once upon a time, again

my hair began to shed
just like cats in summertime
the mess I made, oh dread!
I flew that week from East to West
to Mama's house I went
No brush or comb I used at all
and silk scarves was I lent

When I got home I couldn't wait
to have the mess removed.
My daughter turned the clippers on;
my sanity improved.

Owen helped; his little face
it bore such concentration.
When he stopped Chantel resumed.
His look of consternation
disappeared, he laughed and shrieked,

"You look like Uncle Clayton!"

I thought I did, and maybe do
look like my youngest child,

But John and I look so alike,
as he would say, "That's wild!"
(I love ya, Bo!)
And family, thanks for the buzz party!

I Stand Corrected

My friend, Clytie, sent me a note with more accurate information about the history of the Pottawattamie plums than what I wrote. I made the corrections and reposted. I spent another 20 minutes trying to figure out why the link to that post doesn't work. So you'll have to scroll down to find it if you want to read the truth!! Thanks, Clytie.

Christmas Time

This year I vowed that I would involve myself in as many holiday events as possible. Last year I was moving and missed almost everything. This year was a different story. I attended numerous musical events at the D.C. Visitors Center, including several choir concerts Chantel was involved in. I took my friend Kathy to see the lights. I went with the Calders to see the lights again and enjoy a barbershop quartet, and I attended two different ward Christmas parties. In addition, I made goodies for my neighbors, most of whom I barely know, but had fun leaving goodies at their doors. Christmas eve was spent at the Calders. I woke up to hear Owen, "Grammy! Wake up! It's time for stockings!" I love stocking time and always have. Once again, Chantel filled mine without my knowing it. She is an angel daughter. After breakfast we opened gifts. Later in the day, we picked up my friend Kathy and she, along with us and another family, enjoyed a ham feast complete with tablecloths and candlelight. A wonderful, lovely, Christmas day.

Pottawattamie Jelly

My friends, Clytie and Spence, have a long-standing tradition: During the summer when wild pottawattamie plums are ripe, they pick enough to make a hundred or more 1/2 pints of beautiful, clear, red jelly. During their annual performance of the Nutcracker in December, the jellies are sold as a fund-raiser to help replace the cost of costumes. Well, Madelyn and I were lucky enough to be recipients of this incredible treat. We ate it drizzled over home-made bread pudding and Clytie sent us on our way with our own jars and one for Mom.

Spence told us the Pottawattamie Indians showed the early saints where the shrubs grew wild in Iowa when the saints stopped in Winter Quarters on their trek west. In the spring they took dried root stock with them to the Salt Lake Valley and planted them along the irrigation ditch banks. Over the years as the Salt Lake Valley and beyond has expanded, the bushes are becoming harder and harder to find. In fact, I didn't find much of anything on the internet that was recent either. But in 1922 U.P. Hedrick wrote the Cyclopedia of Hardy Fruits, Macmillan Co. (En must have come later). The horticultural name is P. Munsoniana and Hedrick said, "This variety is possibly of greater cultural value than any other of its species. The fruit is of high quality, the texture is especially pleasing in eating...and it keeps and ships very well...munsoniana plums grow without danger of winter injury to tree or bud as far north as the forty-fourth parallel." Hmmm. Suddenly I'm back in Idaho perusing our encyclopedias of gardening and planning the next year's garden... Anyway, I had never heard of Pottawattamie plums until recently. They don't appear to be cultivated as a crop commercially, but maybe one of the newer organic farms might take an interest. I hope the saplings can be ordered from certain plant nurseries but I've had no luck in finding them yet. But press on I will! The jelly tastes divine--tart and sweet at the same time, and the finished product is the most beautiful jewel red color, almost too lovely to eat.

Special People

Last week I flew non-stop to Salt Lake City; Madelyn flew in from Friday Harbor and we met at the airport. Our destination was our mom's house in White Rocks, but that evening we stayed with Clytie and Spence in Kaysville.

The Adams served a mission to California in 2005 and we became instant good friends. They showed up at my condo when my hair was in a ponytail and I was painting in preparation for a house-warming party. An eternal friendship was born.

I will long remember the other evening, the fire in the fireplace, the delicious meal, (the pottawattamie jelly!) the wonderful conversation. The four of us talked for hours and could have talked longer if we hadn't been so tired. I was proud to show my sister off to my friends and vice-versa! Before we left on Tuesday morning, Clytie gave me this picture of Brandon that was in her album. It was from their farewell party right before they returned home to Utah. Thank you so much. This picture brings back warm memories of Brandon and that time in our lives.

I Found it!

When we went through Brandon's things in October, I found some odds and ends that had been missing. For instance--I had the mixer while he had the beaters! Go figure. Anyway, amidst all the clothing, books and dishes, I found a stack of recipes that I've had for years. Some of you will be too young to remember, but women's magazines such as Women's Day and Family Circle, used to include recipe booklets that could be pulled out and either filed or put in a binder. I love the ratty old booklet in these pictures. I've had it for over 30 years. How do I know? Because the inside pages say "Women's Day December 1975"! Wow. That means I had been married only about a year when I started making this recipe for pound cake.

The cake travels well and slices nicely if you want to include some on a cookie plate; or make a whole one and sweeten up that persnickety neighbor. Whatever you decide, the cake is delicious! I've had a request for the recipe, so here it is:

Pound Cake
In medium bowl stir together 2 & 2/3 cup flour, 1/4 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp nutmeg (optional) and 1/4 tsp salt; set aside.

In large bowl cream 1 & 1/2 cups butter and 2 & 1/4 cups sugar until light and fluffly. Add 2 tsps grated lemon peel, 2 tsps vanilla, and 8 eggs, two at a time, mixing well between. Mixture will look a bit curdly but that's ok.

Add flour mixture to wet mixture all at once and mix at low speed until smooth and well blended. (Do not use a high speed as you'll whip air into the mixture and your pound cake will come out tough). Bake in 10 inch bundt pan at 325* for an hour and ten minutes. Cool for 5 minutes then transfer to cake plate. Store airtight in a container or wrap in plastic wrap. Do not refrigerate.

Infusion

I wore fur and diamonds today
took extra care with my makeup my hair
practiced my lines in the mirror
then marched in
and sat in the big chair
the same one I always sit in
by the window so I can
see my reflection
in the glass
only to discover
that everyone
was cheering and clapping for the silent
hairless man with the IV
sitting just across from me
in total
peaceful
surrender

Thank you, Cancer

for showing me how precious time is

a commodity of this world

wasted often

on petty worries and frustrations

owning too many things

bickering

planning way ahead for tomorrows over which I have no control

robbing myself of todays

but no more

wiggling my feet and toes every morning

stretching this 50+ frame

jumping out of bed each day or imagining

that I still can

to see who gets there first

me

or the sun

Thank you

for giving me a love of this body

that never cared about stretch marks

or fat

looking in the mirror

how often I berated her, and for what?

when I should have been saying

Thank you! You’re amazing! I love you!

that astonishing journey of carrying another soul

within mine

three times was I granted the privilege, three!

now I see a miracle every day

would never trade perkiness for the wisdom

these sagging breasts hold

or a dancer’s dreams

for discovering the abstract beauty

of varicose veins and stretch marks

triumphant scars of motherhood

and being female

and alive!

Thank you

for helping me open my mouth

that short span when I could neither breathe

nor sing

a gentle reminder

of how much I have to say

finding new notes I’m sure weren’t there before

were they?

speaking up more easily

and I’m still practicing and you are patient

but this I know

that stuffing it,

hurts

and for that

I am sorry

adjusting the direction I was headed

why did I care what they all thought?

or worry that my truths might

be different from theirs?

Thank you

for expanding my vision

I see them now

the ones I’ve passed so often as though they were invisible

what a little fool

when I thought it was all about me

perhaps I didn’t want to see because

I would have to learn how to get

out of my own way

acknowledge my own mortality

looming

like a vacant marquee sign

when all this time

you were just waiting for me

to fill in the blanks

Diversity

Last month while I was in California, Rachel and I did something we've only talked about doing for years--we went to a singing-clapping-rockinout kind of church in San Francisco--Glide Memorial, a non-profit started 40 years ago in the tenderloin district. What a fabulous experience. Glide resides in a large, old building on a corner. It isn't fancy. Someone pointed out that children who live there have never seen the Golden Gate bridge. So many experiences in life we take for granted! Two services are held in the chapel each Sunday to accommodate everyone, but don't imagine pristine and ceremonial. It was anything but. The chapel is old, the floors and benches are worn and the whole building needs a face lift, but never mind. The spirit of the people who attended more than made up for any physical deficiencies in our surroundings. Rachel and I attended the early service and sat in the middle just a few rows from the front. The band warmed up (yes, they have a 7 member band including brass!) and then the famous Glide Memorial Choir filed onto the stage. No robes, no costumes of any kind, just people in all their diversity. They didn't have any sheet music either, just voices and heart. When they began to sing, and boy, howdy, can they ever, the crowd stood up and sang with them. Honestly, I've never seen so many different ways to shake a booty, or had so much fun!

"I'm gonna do when the spirit say do!"

"Do when the spirit say do!"

"I'm gonna do, Oh Lord, when the spirit say do!"

"Do when the spirit say do!"

"I'm gonna laugh when the spirit say laugh...

"I'm gonna sing...dance..."

I taught this song to Soren after I came back to Maryland and he laughed out loud the minute I began to sing. Of course, I was clapping with the song the way I learned it--on the down and third beats; later we added our own extra verses...I'm gonna jump...hop...pray...eat...clap...He still grins from ear to ear whenever we sing it.

The meeting lasted 1 and 1/2 hours and was about 2/3 music and 1/3 talk. It's not the kind of Sunday I could do every week--I need my quiet, reflective time, but the experience was unique and joyful. I'm glad to have been a part of it. I loved the pastor's interpretation of the prodigal son, because it was all about hope and never giving up. I sat there looking around at the people from all walks of life from the wealthy to the homeless, listening to different languages being spoken around me, and I thought to myself that this is probably the purest San Francisco kind of experience anyone could have.

Glide feeds the homeless (as well as anyone else who wants to eat) three hot meals a day, 365 days a year. I hope the city of SF is subsidizing them in some way for all the work they do. In addition to serving approximately 70,000 meals per month, they have a youth program to help young people finish high school and find work, a day-care program, an after-school program, a drug and alcohol education program, and they just finished construction of a high-rise in SF that will provide permanent homes to 81 low-income families. What a great example of vision and how much love and determination can accomplish. If I ever live in the Bay Area again, I would love to do some volunteer work there.

The Party

First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Birthday Night

Look at this face! Do you think she knows something that I didn't? She did! I was told what time to be ready, and that's about it. Rachel picked me up at Clayton's house around 5 0'clock. Oh, no! A woman off the street! Naomi was walking down Howe Road in Martinez and said she just happened to be bringing me a birthday gift. She climbed in the truck with us and off we went.
Rachel insisted I wear the birthday hat and wrap, complete with fashionable (!@@!) sunglasses.
We went first to Va de Vi in Walnut Creek where every item is served elegantly in a small portion. Everyone at the table shares. Dinner was the most exquisite combination of flavors I've ever experienced, and our waiter was superb. Below are pictures of just two of the nine items we enjoyed.
After dinner we walked several blocks to the Performing Arts Center in Walnut Creek to see the opening night of "42nd St"--relevant because about ten years ago, Rachel and Naomi and I got to see "42nd St." on 42nd St in New York City! What memories! The significance of the night was not lost on me. A wonderful birthday celebration. Thank you, Rachel and Naomi!