Here’s an autobiographical story that Carol sent to me two days ago.
There’s a place on the north coast, up high on the forest clad cliffs above the aqueous blue – your beloved Mediterranean. Its early morning in autumn, and I know I will find you there. It’s my gateway to memories.
As I leave the valley floor,and climb the twisting road, I’m watched by thousands of tortured olive trees wearing their leaves of grey and silver. The only bright color is falling from the roadside elms, in tones of orange and yellow skittering on the tarmac. Continue reading “There’s a Place”
Here’s a newsletter I just received from an Arizona realtor. Given the difficulties and heartbreak of this year, and the challenges we’ve had to face with our personal losses, I found it an interesting read.
Allí, metidos en el bolsillo de la bata de Patrick que colgaba del armario de Ivonne en el casco antiguo de Palma de Mallorca, la isla que tanto amaba, estaban sus tirantes.
Me asaltaron los recuerdos: su pulcritud, la dignidad y la elegancia con que llevaba su edad.
Surgieron otros recuerdos: empaquetar, distribuir lo que sus amigos y familia querían, las cosas que había que donar; mandar zapatos a una hermana, camisas a la otra, jerséis a ambas; entregarle a Ivonne la bata que contenía aquellos tirantes.
Alojado en casa de Ivonne, me puse la bata un momento y en el bolsillo descubrí unos pañuelos viejos y… aquellos tirantes de una elegancia imperecedera.
Ayer éramos ocho los que nos reunimos en el restaurante Basmati para almorzar. Shahin, el dueño, se unió a nosotros para honrar a mi padre con tristeza y alegría, y con una comida espléndida. Éramos ocho: Carl y Antoinette, Suzy, Ivonne, Hannah, Carol, Nicole y yo.
There, wadded up in the pocket of Patrick’s bathrobe, hanging in Ivonne’s closet, in the Old Town, on the island he so loved, were his suspenders.
Memories surfaced: His dapper look, bearing his age with dignity and class.
New memories emerged: Packing the boxes, sorting out the things people wanted, the things to donate; sending shoes to one sister, shirts to another, sweaters to both; delivering to Ivonne the robe and that set of braces. Continue reading “Yesterday We Were Eight”
Thought you’d find this memory amusing. Perhaps you can work it into one of your next stories.
Donna and I went up to Buttonwillow one weekend and stayed at what was then called Motel 6 South.
There were tons of bugs everywhere, probably from the nearby fields, and the door was absolutely crawling with little flying critters. Inside there were hundreds of these little pests all over the walls. Continue reading “Bug Whacking”
Here was a link to my sister’s book, but since she is actively defying my father’s wishes and trying to exclude Stephanie’s family from their rightful share of his meager estate, I have removed the link.