A few years ago, we were recruiting at Vanderbilt for a new member of the small faculty group in my department. A sort of dating game was scheduled in Miami to match prospective employers with new faculty hires. I agreed to go, and discovered to my delight that Miami was warm enough for swimming in January.
     “Can you believe this?” I asked my husband.
     Norm shrugged, knowing he’d always insisted the Gulf waters were warmer than the ocean. I typically swam in the Gulf—Orange Beach or Gulf Shores—up into November, but January was too chilly even for me.
    Since then, we’ve stayed in Ft. Lauderdale a few times. The hotel I typically choose, Sun Tower, boasts a limited number of room and a superior location right on the beach rather than across the street. The first time we booked a vacation there I’d chosen the cheapest rental car I could find. Our flight arrived after 5 pm, and we waited for a shuttle to the rental car establishment for over an hour. We called more than once, and the last time no one answered.
     “Let’s just get a taxi,” I said.
     “Or an Uber.”
     We did, and soon realized Sun Tower was a short, inexpensive Uber trip to a host of excellent restaurants.
    Over the years we’ve visited historical gardens and houses and booked a terrific trip to the Everglades (Wild Lime Adventures) led by a National Park naturalist. Not long after returning to our hotel from the Everglades tour, I realized I’d left my prescription sunglasses on the bus. “Dang!” I said. “I loved those glasses. They were my favorite.” Convinced I’d never see them again, I called the company anyway.
     They agreed to ship them to me. They further endeared themselves to me when the sunglasses arrived, as promised, a few days later. (The tour itself was fun and educational, and we saw a ton of birds and alligators.)
    A few months ago, I stumbled upon a website listing the best beaches (by someone’s ranking) in the U.S. Beach lover that I am, I’d been to quite a few…but not number one. The top-ranking beach was Siesta Key. We booked a week for November.
     The hotel contacted us a few weeks before our stay. “We have to cancel due to the damage from the hurricane. We will issue a full refund,” the message read.
  “I was afraid of that,” I said, disappointed, and sad for the hotel, but not surprised.  “Let’s check Sun Towers.”
     We did. Unavailable on our dates.
    And that’s how we ended up here. At B Ocean Resort. Much larger than Sun Tower, this resort shares the advantage of being right on the beach rather than across the street.
   Before I share the unfortunate first few hours spent here, let me hasten to acknowledge that the rest of the week more than compensated for our initial poor impressions, and I’d gladly stay here again.
     We’d paid extra to get an ocean view, and I point this out as we check in.
     “Ocean view. Right?”
     “Right.”
     “We also have breakfast included,” I add.
     “Do you?” The receptionist sounds surprised.
     Norm shows him the reservation on his phone.
     “You’ll need coupons for that,” he says. “I’ll get them for you.”
     We make our way to the room, which is larger than I expected—on the top floor of the South Tower. No bathtub (my preference) but a nice shower (my husband’s). Large corner floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked another shorter building, with an ocean view in the distance. I busy myself for some time unpacking my suitcase, positioning my toiletries, cream, pills, etc. for my bedtime regimen, hanging the clothes most likely to wrinkle, and arranging my shoes. I always travel with multiple pairs; otherwise, I find myself shopping for shoes on trips.
     “What’s that odor?” I ask abruptly.
     “I don’t know. Smells like sewage.”
     “I feel a migraine coming on.” Odors often trigger a migraine for me.
    I locate some matches in my suitcase and light several. No help. “I think we’re going to have to move. I can’t handle this.”
     I pick up the phone. No dial tone. “Phone’s dead,” I say.
     I push the talk button and try again. I check to see if it was plugged in. I try a third time.
     “We’re going to have to go back to reception.”
     “Call on your cell,” my husband suggests.
    I do. The woman who answers, Marie, is very nice. “We’ll call you when the new room is ready,” she says after a long hold.
    “The phone in the room doesn’t work,” I tell her. I give her my cell number.
    “Do you need someone to help you move?”
     “No, but a luggage cart would be nice.”
     “I’ll send someone up when the room is ready.”
     Quickly I repack everything I’ve unpacked. There is a surprising amount to do, but I’m fast when motivated.
     I drop into a chair to wait. And wait.
   After an hour, I call again. “They are having to change the lock on the sliding door,” Marie says. “We’ll call you when it’s done. It will be the exact same room you’re in. Only one floor lower.”
    Hmm, this room doesn’t have a sliding door, but … oh, well.
     Another hour passes. I call again.
     “Marie has left for the day,” I’m told. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”
     I explain the situation.
    Again we wait. “I’m going to that room on the 7th floor to see if anyone’s there,” I say. The elevator doesn’t seem to be working properly, but finally I’m able to descend one floor.
    I tap on the door. No response. I return to the 8th floor. “I think we’re going to have to go to reception,” I say again.
     When we get there, the new receptionist asks how I am.
    “Not well. We’ve been waiting over two hours.” I explain the situation again, and she disappears for a bit.
     “They tried to call you,” she tells me when she returns.
     “The phone in that room doesn’t work,” I say. “I left a cell number.”
     She apologizes, and finally produces a key.
     The new room is not directly below the other one, nor does it have a sliding door. It’s dark now, and I cannot tell whether we have an ocean view or not. At this point I don’t really care, and the following day we’ll realize it has an even better view than the first one.
           We unpack again.
            When I use the toilet, I notice the same smell. “I can’t believe this,” I say.
            “At least the room doesn’t smell,” my husband says. “Only the bathroom.”
            We decide to stay.
        The smell comes and goes. One day Norm suggests to maintenance that someone clean out the drain in the sink. This seems to help, and a day later the odor vanishes.
      The rest of the stay is spectacular—for the most part. I’m happy with the breakfast buffet, which includes fresh fruit and Irish oatmeal, along with eggs, bacon, country potatoes, pancakes, and pastries.
            There are two pools. One has an ocean view and a bar, and the other is heated to the point of feeling cozy. The attendants are generous with the blue striped towels.
            Three comfy sofas with equally comfortable chairs line one wall of the heated pool area, and there are always plenty of loungers too. The other pool, nearer the beach and more popular apparently, runs short on loungers from time to time.
            When it’s full, we make our way to the ocean. Another towel guy offers us chairs for free, and umbrellas for a fee. “Do you know where I can buy a boogie board?” I ask.
            “I’ve got them here.” He points to a shed. “Do you want one or two?”
            “None right now. But I’ll be back. How much do they cost?”
            “No charge.”
            I’m delighted, and ever more so when I discover how fast the waves here are. Every day the waves are a bit different, but every day they yield lovely rides. I’m accustomed to waiting for a good wave at the Gulf, but here—on most days—every wave delivers. As my knees and hips age, I cannot catch as many as I want to. But I’m deliriously happy nonetheless. The hardest part on the knees is standing up after you ride a wave all the way up onto the shore.
            I learn to spare my knees and my back a bit by pushing up with both hands, distributing my weight equally across the board before heading back to catch the next wave.
         “Just one more,” I tell myself, knowing I’ll pay later with knee pain but longing to live in the moment. I have a poem on my wall at home, “I’d pick more daisies.” I chose this because I sometimes need the reminder. If you aren’t familiar with the poem, the gist is that if you had your life to live over, you’d be sillier and crazier, less hygienic…climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets…eat more ice cream and less beans…have more active troubles and fewer imaginary ones.
       After a long, sweet ride, I think, “A good one to end on.” But I suspect that a wave like that one will be followed by another, just as good or almost as good. “Maybe one more.”
      The restaurants we select include one Mexican, one American, one Italian, one Chinese, a boathouse, and a sports bar. On Sunday night, we return to an old favorite, Cocina Tequileria. Always delicious, this meal seems even better than I remember I order the lobster quesadilla; Norm goes for the shrimp and crab enchiladas. Both are excellent, but I almost taste that quesadilla in my mind’s memory buds and it’s the best. The chips are crisp, the salsa tangy, and the ambience fun. It’s a big place, and we choose to eat outside this time. I can remember cozy nooks inside from prior visits.
       On Monday night, we select Doc B’s, classified as American and one we’ve not tried before. I order the kale salad, and my husband has a filet mignon. Both are delicious. He offers me a generous portion of his steak, rare and very tender.
        “Not quite as blue as it could be,” he says. “But pretty good.”
       My salad is huge, but I’m hungry and I eat every bite. I eat much more slowly than he does, but we’re accustomed to that and he doesn’t rush me.
      “Dessert?” the waiter asks. He’s the one I stumped with questions about tart cocktails and fish of the day (see previous blog on “too many questions” and Yellowstone).
       “No way,” I say, patting my full belly. “But you go ahead.”
      Norm orders Oreo ice cream, with chocolate sauce and two spoons. I can’t resist.           Later I will wish I had.
      Stomach cramps and severe diarrhea set in as soon as we return to the resort. I’ve been plagued much of my life with IBS, but seemed to get it under control for a time. Unfortunately, I’m reminded of a disastrous trip to California to visit our son and his family, where I indulged in a delicious take-out meal with unfamiliar spices on the first night and spent the rest of the trip running between the bedroom and the bathroom. On that occasion, I could not keep a thing on my stomach, not even water.
       I fear a repeat. But, after one uncomfortable night, I feel better the next morning. I eat cautiously at the breakfast buffet—toast and oatmeal. Delighted, I’m able to put the incident behind me and enjoy the amenities. For at least a couple of days.
      By evening, I’m hungry, but determined to eat light. The Boathouse at Riverside proves perfect. We share a feta dip and a grilled fish sandwich. Mahi and so good, enhanced perhaps by my intense hunger. The waiter is great, not the sort to act offended by our inexpensive choices or wish to share. We’re amazed by how much wealth must be invested in huge, fancy boats in this community. We watch as one couple pulls their yacht up to the dock and climbs out for a snack.
      Perhaps our favorite meal of all takes place on Wednesday evening at Del Cantino. We have dinner reservations; but, as we read reviews about the fantastic happy hour deals and prices, we inform the host on arrival. “We have reservations, but thought we’d just sit at the bar for Happy Hour is that’s okay.”
       He is totally agreeable, and the servers are all friendly and chatty. It is a slow time before the evening rush, and one server asks, “Have you ever had mushroom coffee?”
      I watch her take a slurp, and shake my head. “No, but I love mushrooms. Is it good?”
      “Not really.” She makes a face and laughs.
      We order bruschetta, meat balls, grilled calamari, roasted artichokes, and ciabatta with olive oil, balsamic, and fresh parmesan. Every flavor is exquisite. I long to try the pasta with pear and gorgonzola sauce, which I’ve had twice before, and which happens to be on the Happy Hour menu. “Should I?”
            Norm shakes his head, and I know he’s right. I’m comfortably full, and the dish is very rich. We leave for a movie at a nearby theater.
       I should qualify my food reviews with a confession. We learned to look for the less expensive but still delicious options when we were younger and poorer. Old habits are hard to break. So, I have no doubt there are plenty of amazing restaurants in the Ft. Lauderdale area that we do not frequent. Perhaps our tastes aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate the difference, but the ones I’m telling you about are among the more affordable options. Still, it’s hard for me to imagine we’d enjoy the fancier stuff more than these.
       Another restaurant we’ve enjoyed on multiple occasions comes next, followed by the next misfortune. The Rainbow Palace shares the strip mall with Del Cantino. In fact, a few years ago, we were exiting Del Cantino when we encountered a middle-aged couple coming out of the Rainbow Palace. “Best Chinese food in Ft. Lauderdale,” the woman said.
       “Really?” My ears perked up. “We’ll have to try it.” And we did, more than once.
     As usual, I order the roast duck, this time with portabella mushrooms and an amazing sauce. Norm and I always share our dishes, but he instructs the server, “Give her the larger portion of the duck.”
       Although I intend to save some of my duck for him, I scarf it down, along with a fair amount of spicy Chef’s Choice fried rice. By the time we return to the resort, my stomach churns so noisily I suspect what lies ahead.
       Armed with anti-diarrhea pills and Pepto Bismol, I manage a decent night’s sleep. Once again, I feel much better the following morning, optimistic that the day might not be a complete loss. I am right.
    Friday is our last full day at the resort. I’d noticed a restaurant called the Quarterdeck from our Uber the day before, so I looked it up. Quarterdeck is a local chain, with one location less than a mile from our resort. We decide to try it.
      Traffic has exacerbated significantly from the prior week-day trips. As we sit stock still, the driver suggests, “You might walk the rest of the way. It’s just ahead.”
​      We could have walked the entire way, had I worn more comfortable shoes. The restaurant boasts only a few diners at this hour, as we are late for lunch and early for dinner. I had arrived prepared to order the Mahi Francais, as I’d read excellent reviews of the dish. “It’s battered, isn’t it?” I ask the waitress.
       “It is.”
      “Better not then.” I ask her about a few other dishes, and she proves helpful.
      “The lobster roll is good, but it’s a lot of bread,” she says.
I nod, appreciating the detail. “How about the shrimp and scallop linguini?”
      “Really good.”
     So, I order that, and Norm the blackened shrimp tacos. Both are good, and I wisely refrain from finishing my plate. The portions are more than generous. I ask for a carry-out box and nibble a bit more on the dish that evening.
      “Strong smell,” Norm comments.
      “I don’t suppose I should take it on the Southwest flight.”
      “Definitely not.”
     I take one last dip in the heated pool the morning of our departure before heading to check out. The hotel buzzes with weekenders plus a conference of some sort.
     All in all, I’d stay here again. But keep in mind, I’m all about the amenities—the pools and the nearness of the beach, and I’m fairly tolerant of rude or even incompetent staff. At least in hindsight.
     Plus, the servers in the buffet restaurant were great, as were the housekeeping staff.

      “Do you have any questions?” asked the waiter yesterday at Doc B’s in Ft. Lauderdale.
            “Oh, I always have questions,” I say.
      We’ve arrived during Happy Hour; and, although I rarely drink anything alcoholic, I’m considering taking advantage of the four-dollar price reduction in cocktails. “Which one would be the least sweet?” I ask. “I prefer something on the tart side.”
    He seeks assistance. The other server suggests the berry fizz. A great recommendation… it was delicious, although I paid for it later when the dreaded migraine surfaced.
        I also stumped him with my second question. “What kind of fish is on the fish sandwich?”
     When he leaves for the second time, my husband laughs. “Another waiter stumped by your questions.”
       I’m even worse when I go to a doctor’s office. Determined to squeeze out every ounce of the expert’s knowledge on the subject, I come prepared with a list of questions. Sometimes my husband warns the doctor, “She’s been known to block the doorway.”
       This is an exaggeration. I don’t think I’ve ever physically blocked the door. But the doctor must have believed him. He may have left a note in my file, reminding me of an episode of Seinfeld where Elaine fears she’s on a list.
        On two recent occasions, I’ve had two different physicians tell me, “I can answer only one more question. That’s all the time I have.”
      Really? I’m nothing if not fast with my questions. It’s their answers that are sometimes lengthy. I think I’ll put those two doctors on my list.
     As we approach the New Year, I’m considering sharing some of my travel adventures in the upcoming months. I typically handwrite my reflections, and type them up later. Our latest excursion was, of course, to Ft. Lauderdale, but I haven’t typed those notes yet. So, in the meantime, I return to a trip to Yellowstone in late summer of 2022, still in the heart of the pandemic.
Yellowstone, July-August 2022
            Given recent news of flight cancellations and our own history, I was concerned that we had not booked an extra night before our bus tour started. However, things went smoothly, and we arrived in Rapid City, South Dakota, on July 31, as planned. Since the pandemic, most airlines have cut way back on meals on flights, and this was no exception.
            We were hungry when we arrived at the Rushmore, and went to the bar for a snack. We ordered truffle flat bread and some lettuce wraps, which were pretty good. We had a meeting with our tour guide, Matt. This was his first tour since the pandemic. He’s fifty-nine, blushes easily, has a crooked, shy grin, reminds me of an aging Mark Stahr (a kid I used to play tennis with when we were teens).
            I’m glad masks were being required on the bus, since I knew we’d be traveling with the same people (forty-two in all, including the driver and the tour guide) for hours on end. Matt said he wouldn’t be acting as the mask police, but most people obliged. I’m sure this would not have been the case if masks had been recommended rather than required.
            Since we were spending two nights at The Rushmore, we did not have to pack and put our luggage out on the morning of day two. This was a great day, as we visited both the Crazy Horse Memorial and Mt. Rushmore. I enjoyed learning about Crazy Horse and the family devoted to sculpting the memorial, Korczak Ziolkowski. He started the project over seventy years ago, devoted his life to it, and his wife and children carried on after his death. The face has been carved and the finger started, but the horse remains to be done. It’s much, much larger than the presidents sculpted at Mt. Rushmore. We saw the log cabin, now a museum with art and antiques, where Korczak lived. Inside are a model of his vision for Crazy Horse, bronze bust of Wild Bill Hickock and much more. A brief movie introduced us to the story. Because there were no photos of Crazy Horse, the memorial is not a lineal likeness but a tribute to the spirit of his people.
            Mt. Rushmore was interesting too, and we were able to observe the faces from various angles. Apparently, the sculptor originally intended to go farther down their bodies but ultimately settled for faces. In the museum, we saw a host of individuals involved in photographing, carving, figuring out how to create which people would immediately identify as Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Jefferson. Jefferson was intended to appear to the left of Washington (who was carved first), but the rock crumbled and he was, instead, placed to the right of Washington and appears to be looking in a slightly different direction from the others, consistent with Jefferson being somewhat more of a dreamer. On our walk, we stopped to listen to an Indian (Lakota, I think) who explained that Sioux is an improper label given by a French bastardization of their name). He played drums and sang songs in his language, then translated them for us. All of them focused on peace.
            The town of Rapid City contains life-size statues of many American presidents. John F. Kennedy and his son, John Jr. as a child, are right outside our hotel. On the second afternoon, I found an upscale restaurant, Tally’s Silver Spoon, that was serving small plates and 2 for 1 drinks from 4 to 6 pm. We were told that all their tables were reserved for dinner, but we could have one so long as we could finish by 6:30. We ordered two beers (I took a couple sips), a shrimp scampi, brie with berries, tuna (seared), and a delicious kale salad with a lemony dressing.
            On the 3rd day of our tour (Tuesday, August 2), we drove into Wyoming and headed west across the high plains. We had a picnic lunch in Sheridan. It was sprinkling rain but we found a sheltered picnic table. We had roast beef sandwich, ham sandwich, big chocolate chunk cookie, and an apple. Next we drove into Montana, where we stopped at the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument in the Crow Nation. The battle, though triumphant for Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, led to harsh repercussions from the white men later. We spent the night in Billings. We went to dinner at Jake’s, sat in the bar area, and enjoyed a tuna dish and some Asian tacos. I swam in the indoor pool and hot tub at the Billings Hilton Garden Inn, very refreshing.
            On August 3, 2022, we visited the Buffalo Bill center of the West, and learned the story of Bill Cody and his showmanship, friends (Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane, among others), and troubled marriage. “Know the power that is peace.” Black Elk
            We drove into Yellowstone National Park on August 3. We stopped at the lodge at Yellowstone Lake for photos. The lodge was painted yellow, and an old-fashioned yellow bus was parked out front. Tour guide Matt was confused, dropping us off at the Old Faithful Inn, only to discover we were actually booked at the Old Faithful Snow Lodge. Once we sorted this, we were in time to walk over to Old Faithful Geyser for an eruption. Then we walked around the Old Faithful Inn, took some photos, and plopped down in some comfy rockers on the second floor overlooking the lobby. Matt had warned us the rooms were old and squeaky, but the lobby was lovely. Norm and I went to a Grizzly Grill near our hotel and ate goat cheese-pepper soup and shared a double cheeseburger. Very tasty, but did not sit well later. My legs felt tight from the drive and the elevation (about 7300 feet).
            On day 5 (August 4), we drove all over Yellowstone. We visited hot pots, fumerols, springs, geysers, and travertine terraces. The theme of Yellowstone is to leave things to nature. I was amazed by the number of fallen trees and branches, lying there and waiting to be reclaimed by nature. We saw bison dung before we saw bison, but by the end of the day we’d seen plenty of bison and followed one down the street waiting for him to cross. The first one saw up close was injured, limping and holding up one foot.
            “They’ll be getting lots of calls about an injured bison,” Matt told us. “But they’ll do nothing unless it was hit by a car. If so, they put him out of his misery. Otherwise they let nature take its course, and he’ll become food for a wolf. Circle of life.”
            We’d already seen a few prong-horned antelope, which aren’t really antelope despite the song “…where the deer and the antelope roam.” Apparently, antelope are only found in Africa. These are more closely related to giraffes, though they look more like deer. We saw more today, as well as several waterfalls. We stopped at Yellowstone Falls, both upper and lower, not in elevation, but position along the river.
            We stopped at Canyon Village for lunch and bought wraps in the General Store, which was very crowded. Norm had beer and chips, and I had carrot cake, sparkling water, and a diet coke. The second bison we saw up close led us through traffic before making his way off the highway. We got some great photos. We were lucky because the seat rotation on the bus had placed us at the front today, right behind Matt.
            Matt loves to ask trivial pursuit type questions about everything from historical events to sports to famous people from the various states we enter. Norm answers more than everyone else on the bus combined. “I think you’re looking them up on your phone,” Matt says, and later, “You’re really good with that phone.”
            “I’m not that quick with the phone,” Norm protests.
            Matt cautions us never to approach wildlife, especially bears or bison, and to stay on the paths. “The pools are very acidic so don’t touch the water.” He tells us of a family with a dog. The dog supposedly jumped into the pool, the man followed and died. His last words were, “I guess that wasn’t a very good idea.”
            I think back to Hot Water Beach in Coromandel, New Zealand, where we can safely sit in the hot waters if we time it properly. We’re also reminded of the pools at Taupo and Rotorua, as well as Hanmer Springs on the south island of New Zealand. The colors there are amazing, and there are a number of thermal spas safe to bathe in. Not so at Yellowstone.
            On the drive, people are chiming, “We need to see a bear.”
            Just as we’re about to despair of finding one, we do. A grizzly with two cubs. They are pretty far from the bus, but we stop and take a lot of photos. Unfortunately, we did not bring our camera with a zoom lens, so our phones do a poor job at this distance.
            We’re also wanting to see elk. No one else does, but I’m pretty sure I spot one of this drive. We’re in a quiet period (Matt does not stay silent for long), and I’m staring out the window. I see movement, something emerging from the ground. A head begins to pop up. For a moment I think it’s something small crawling up from a hole in the ground. Then the head emerges fully into view, and it’s quite large. She stretches her neck but we’re moving fast. “Look!” I say.
            “What is it?” Matt asks.
            “It was a head. I think it was an elk.”
            We’re far past by now. “What color was it?” he asks.
            “Brown.”
            “Probably she was taking an afternoon rest, lying down,” Norm says.
            “And just lifted her head,” I say. This makes sense. I wish someone else had seen, but I know what I saw. I look at faces of elk on my phone, and I’m pretty sure. Her coloring was more uniform than that of the prong-horned antelope. Plus, Matt said this area attracted elk.
            Perhaps my favorite part of all was Mammoth Hot Springs in the northern part of the park. The travertine terraces are constantly changing. On this day, there are tiers of brilliant white, with nearby shades of copper and golden brown, some black and charcoal layers. The spring are running, so some sections glisten with water while others appear completely dry.
            This evening we go back to the Old Faithful Geyser in time for another show.This one seems to go on longer and shoot even higher than on the previous night. The wait is longer. We’re sitting beside a friendly man whose teenage kids sit in front of us.
            The geyser shoots a little and gurgles in anticipation. “That’s not all there is, is it?” the man asks.
            “No,” I say. “Much more yesterday anyway.”
            “My fourteen-year-old is disappointed,” he says, and she turns around enough to grin at us.
            “If you’re not disappointed at fourteen, what does that say about your life?” Norm jokes.
            Afterward, he asks her, “Was it worth the wait?” She grins again, doesn’t answer, but I catch a barely perceptible nod.
            For dinner we stay in our room and eat the leftover wrap from lunch. We’re pretty tired. The elevation and long drive may be getting to us.
            On August 5, we check out of the Yellowstone Old Faithful Snow Lodge and enter Grand Teton National Park. At the Continental Divide, the elevation is 8391 feet. I’m wearing my compression stockings today and my Grand Canyon tee-shirt. Should have worn it the day we saw the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. I’m off a day or so, as is Norm, who’ll wear his matching tee-shirt the day after I do.
            It’s raining today, so I get out my pink collapsible hat. I’m a hodgepodge of color: turquoise sweatshirt, copper tee-shirt, pale green dotted jeans, and pink hat. Oh, well. Norm and I have rain jackets, which isn’t true of most people on the bus.
            We do not see the Teton Range, with peaks over 12,000 feet clearly, because of the rain and clouds. Still pretty. We stop at Jenny Lake, where the movie “Shane” was filmed. We take photos.
            We continue on to Jackson, Wyoming. A lot of women on the bus have been asking about shopping, and Matt wants us to have plenty of time here. Jackson has restaurants and bars and shops aplenty. An arch (actually, two) made of antlers marks the entrance to the town square. Norm takes a photo for a family with six kids, and the man takes ours.
            “Probably Mormons,” I say.
            “Or Catholic,” Norm says. “But probably Mormons.”
            They seem very happy and clean-cut, at least on the surface, and I’m reminded of my colleague Mike at Vanderbilt. Mike was always upbeat, even when he was ultimately denied tenure. “The Mormon applicants are so nice,” Paul Chaney said. He was in charge of recruiting. “From now on, I’m only hiring Mormons,” he’d say, only half joking.
            We found a coffee shop, where I ate a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin and drank a smoothie. We did a little shopping, and ended our stay in Jackson in the Silver Dollar Bar & Grill at the Wort Hotel. Norm had beer, of course, and I drank his water and mine, and ate a cup of asparagus cream soup. Tasty but woody.
            Apparently, I drank too much liquid because I’d only been on the bus a short time when I needed to use the bathroom. “How much longer till we stop?” Norm asked Matt.
            “Another hour or more.”
            It was the only time I used the toilet on the bus. Not clean, so I guess I wasn’t the only one. Relief, though.
            Rainy all day, as we traversed farm country on our way to Pocatello, Idaho. It was late when we arrived. Matt likes to get us to our hotels by five or 5:30pm. This time it was after seven, due in part to a couple of wrong turns. We made our way to a nearby Italian (Tuscano) restaurant and took seats at the bar.
            Despite my compression stockings, I began to feel ill while we waited for our food. “I’m going to walk in the parking lot,” I told Norm.
            “Do you need the restroom?” someone asked me, as I undoubtedly looked lost.
            “No, just some fresh air.”
            I felt better for a few minutes, but then the nausea returned. I made my way back to the bar.
            “See if you can catch the waiter’s eye and ask for some crackers or something,” I suggested to Norm.
            I caught her eye. “Could I get some crackers, or bread perhaps?”
            She returned with some bread and butter. I scarfed it down. It was delicious, but I still felt ill.
            “Maybe some orange soda,” I told her.
            “We don’t have that. We have juice.”
            “Okay.”
            The juice made me feel better. She brought some more. I sucked it down too. But, later, after we returned to our hotel, the juice came back up.
            The salads we ordered were very slow coming—admittedly, they were busy—but delicious. I ate what I could, picking the parmesan crust off the salmon.
            I went to the indoor pool, hoping the cool water might revive me, but the man on our tour (a minister) who had been coughing all day was there. Nervous about the coronavirus, I was reluctant to get in the hot tub with him, unmasked, even though his wife said it was bronchitis. I felt bad for him, as he’d been too sick to enjoy much of the tour at all. He had a pacemaker as well, and was sensitive to the high altitudes.
            I’d hear Matt ask him one day, “How are you feeling today?”
            “Awful,” he said.
            Hard not to wonder if he has COVID-19. One day, when he was coughing constantly, he and his wife sat across the aisle directly from us. Perhaps, I was a bit paranoid due to having caught the virus the first time on a tour of Bordeaux, France.
            On August 6, it’s raining again. We go to the Fort Hall Trading Post, popular for travelers on the Old Oregon Trail. Norm and I stay inside, where there’s plenty to see, rather than braving the rain. I’m reminded of old country stores from Meme’s era, where they sold a little of everything, something I try to describe in the first book in my trilogy, Bell City Bottom. These stores served as a gathering and communication center for the community. Farmers could discuss crops and exchange gossip, and sometimes play checkers. Store owners would often accept items in trade instead of cash. Many stores boasted a phone, at a time before phones were in most homes.
            Here there are myriad tools on display, a miniature doll house, and more.
            Next, we head to Salt Lake City, Utah. We stop at the Great Salt Lake, and we enter the Utah State Capitol Building. It’s raining hard by the time we get to Temple Square. We learn about the Mormons a bit on the bus, and more at their History Museum. Because of the rain, most of the tour participants opts to go back to the hotel and bypass the temple area.
            Norm and I stay, enter the Assembly and the Tabernacle, and spend some time in the History Museum. I realize that Brigham Young replaced Joseph Smith upon his death, and we watch a film on a huge circular screen of the revelation that inspired Smith. The film moves in a way that makes me dizzy, then nauseated, but I recover. By the time we leave to catch our bus, I’m feeling better and the sun has popped out.
            This evening is our farewell dinner at the Salt Lake Hilton. Norm and I have salmon, salad, rice, and vegetables, with New York style cheesecake for dessert. We sit with a table of southerners and swap stories about travel. A couple from South Carolina recommend Vantage for Alaska, and I tell them about New Zealand and Fiji. I’ll definitely share some of those stories in upcoming blogs, as they are among my favorite places to visit. I’m scheduled to return to New Zealand in 2025 for the first time since the pandemic struck in 2020 while I was still there.

Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania
River Cruise, November 2021
             
     Our first dilemma strikes when we try to check in for our flight in Nashville. We present our vaccination cards, and evidence of a negative COVID test. The flight attendant glances at the phone screen and asks for a printed copy. We hand her one.       She stares at it for a moment, then at her computer screen, and finally speaks.
“They don’t accept vaccinations from the U.S. in Hungary, only from a few countries near them. Also, your COVID test isn’t one they accept, I think. I’m going to make a phone call to be sure.”
      She returns a few moments later. “I have some bad news, sort of. They don’t accept your vaccination card or COVID test. But there’s a clinic about fifteen minutes from here that does the test they want—it’s a non-rapid test, but they do it quickly.”
       We take this in. A rapid non-rapid test?
     We had been given a ride to the airport by a friend, who had dropped us off and left for work. I called her. She was about halfway there, she said, and would turn around and come back. She did.
     With the exception of one COVID test we took in France, most of the others we’d taken previously had been free to us. This one cost $298.00. We paid it, crossing our fingers we’d get results in time for our flight. We did, barely. They were negative.
      Our seats were near the rear of the plane on all three flights: one to Atlanta, one from Atlanta to Paris, and one from Paris to Budapest. Things went smoothly, though the customs process in Paris was so slow many people were cutting the line for fear of missing connections. We did not, though we wondered if we should. An overhead sign several aisles in front of us flashed wait times, varying from fifteen to thirty minutes in what seemed a random fashion.
     Arriving in Budapest, we located our driver and made our way to the Rum Hotel, small but nice. We were exhausted by then. Our room wasn’t ready as it was only around 11:30 AM, and check-in was 3:00 PM. We stowed our luggage and walked to the Market. From the outside it resembled a train station. The weather was cold and rainy, so we spent a fair amount of time inside the Nagy Vasarcsarnok (Central Market Hall). The first couple of booths were already decorated for Christmas. We bought a paprika gift for my cousin Rebecca, and some foi gras for our son and foi gras with truffle for me.
      I was feeling hungry at this point, but Norm was not. We tried to find a Hungarian restaurant; they all seemed full, so I settled for a Hummus Café. Inside was warm and dry, and I ate all the hummus I could hold. Returning to the hotel, we fell into bed and set the alarm to wake us in 1.5 hours. Then we managed to stay awake until around 8 PM. We slept until nearly 9 AM. A restaurant on the rooftop of our hotel (7th floor) was owned separately. Although we had failed to make breakfast reservations, they served us: cappuccino for Norm and a soft-boiled egg salad for me, which was a bit underdone but quite tasty. Great views too.
     Then we checked out and headed to the port. We had booked the cheapest cabin for this river cruise, figuring we wouldn’t spend much time in the cabin except to sleep. They had upgraded us to #226, which has a balcony with sliding door and ceiling to floor windows. All this glass makes it a bit chilly this time of year, but our cleaning person tidies up after us a couple of times a day. Makes me want to take her home with us, and the masseuse as well. Beautiful lights as we left Budapest!
     Our cabin, however, is very cold, and I’ve become convinced the heat is not working properly. We have it turned to nearly 30 degrees C, and I’m wearing five layers of clothes on top and three below my waist and still chilly.
      Our first stop was in Monaco, where we took a bus to Pecs, originally established as a Roman wine-producing colony named Sopianae. Pes was an early Christian enter. We took a guided walk through the old town, visiting the Christian Necropolis, St. Peter’s Basilica with underground burial chambers, Szechenyl Square, and Dom Square.
     Monday afternoon I swam in the heated pool on the sundeck, which was very nice. Monday evening a violinist and Hungarian dancers entertained us after dinner. I thought they were great.
     On Tuesday, our morning tour was in Vukovar, Croatia. Our tour guide was excellent. He told us a lot about the internal fighting in Yugoslavia once Tito died. People either loved or hated Tito, he said, but he kept the area unified. After he died in 1980, things fell apart. Our guide led us to some locales of massacres of Croatians by Serbs. Croatians were killed in their homes after the war, but also nearly a thousand rounded up, transported, and shot. Croatians are predominantly Catholic, Serbs Orthodox Catholic, and Bosnia Muslim.
​      Our tour guide, who is Croatian, says he doesn’t hate the Serbs and admits Croatians have done “bad things” too. “I just hate stupid people, wherever they are from,” he said.
      I had a massage on the boat in the early afternoon, which was really intense and may have led to a migraine later in the day. I also reserved the gym and walked on the treadmill for about 12.5 minutes—not much, I know, but some is better than none, I always tell myself. Next, we crossed to Novi Sad, Serbia, where we took an afternoon walking tour of the Athens of Serbia. Since the sun sets around 4 PM, we were late enough to see the Christmas lights coming to life. They were quite spectacular.
      The Captain’s dinner on the boat consisted of prime rib, perch, eggplant caviar, and key lime pie. We were going to take an evening fortress walk after dinner, but I had a migraine by then; so. we decided not to go. Instead, we went to the lounge and listened for a while to a classical concert. Too much opera, really, for our taste, and too loud for my migraine. I took some abortive migraine pills and finally went to sleep.
      We were all tested (rapid COVID-19 test) before entering Serbia. Our temperature is checked each morning. We wear our masks in the halls and outside the boat but remove them in the dining room and lounge. Staff wears masks at all times. Precautions are a bit more rigid than our previous cruise on Avalon, south of France. No buffets here, and they serve our coffee from the self-service machines.
      On Wednesday, my head was better. Our cruise took us to the confluence of two rivers: the Danube and Sava. We toured Belgrade, Serbia, capital city. The fortress is considered the highpoint of the historic city. In the afternoon we went to the Tesla Museum and enjoyed an exhibition of some of Tesla’s inventions, then to the Bohemian part of the city, where we sampled local cuisine at a lovely old restaurant said to be Tito’s favorite. I avoided alcohol altogether, but then had trouble sleeping. We went to the lounge for a bit to watch some Serbian dancers and listen to music by a clarinetist and accordion player. Dinner on top of the “tasting” was probably too much food.
      On Thursday, we cruised through the widest part of the Danube, so wide it looks like a lake. We toured a huge fortress of unknown origin, Golubac, that’s never been penetrated and has been around since (at least) the 13th century, controlled by Turks/Ottomans for a long time, claimed by Hungary. Back on the boat, we moved to the cabin next door since the engineer indicated it would take about a full day to fix the AC/heat/blower. The new cabin is a bit smaller, but, I’m hoping, will be warmer.       The staff were very helpful in moving our things, and it went quickly.
This afternoon was a cruising day. Though the weather was foggy in the morning, the fog lifted and visibility was great by afternoon. As we cruised into Romania, we passed a monastery, standing at the water’s edge, which has about three guest rooms and stays booked far in advance. Romanian flags were flying. Next, we saw a gigantic sculpture of a king’s face carved into the rock, which took ten years to finish.
      On the opposite side of the river, to commemorate a Roman road, a tablet was carved into the stone, later moved as the water rose—about two thousand years old. The river is quite wide at this point. Steep mountains rise around us. As the sun sinks, the peaks are backlit and rosy, gold tones above in the clouds. Some autumn color in the trees, but also a lot of evergreens. Very little wind this afternoon.
      I stayed in the lounge, while a number of people, including Norm, stepped outside or up to the sundeck to snap photos. One lady, white cape billowing about her (so there must be some wind) smoked at the bow of the boat. Plenty of glass in the lounge allows great viewing from inside. I’m warm in my puffy maroon jacket. Yawning badly, though, as I slept poorly last night.
      We had leg of lamb for dinner, and I had crepe suzettes for dessert, ice cream for Norm.
     On Friday morning, November 19, we took a bus to Belogradchik in Bulgaria. Huge sandstone and limestone rock formations resembled elephants, monkeys, rabbits, etc. Then, in the city center, we took a quick bus tour and walked around a well-preserved medieval fortress, Baba Vida. I had red fish for lunch, as did Norm, and coffee ice cream. Then I took a quick dip in the heated pool on the sundeck. It was sunny today, pretty blue skies with white clouds, coppery trees, some golds, a few reds remaining. Bulgaria suffered economically after communism was overturned, largely due to lost industry with communist countries. We saw lots of buildings with broken windows, shabby and abandoned.
     Beef wellington for dinner was quite delicious. I was very tired though. My cell phone died, and Norm became very frustrated trying to revive it. Each evening the lady cleaning our cabin leaves a chocolate of increasing cocoa content, beginning in the 50% range, moving to 70%, 71%, 72%, and 75% tonight. I’ve always thought 72% is optimal, but 75% is very nice also. My mom called at 2 AM (Bulgarian time) to wish Norm a happy birthday, thinking it was the 19th rather than the 24th.  
     On November 20, our boat anchored in Rousse, Bulgaria. We chose the full day excursion to Veliko Tarnova. Our tour guide for the day was English, though he had lived in Bulgaria for eighteen years. His commentary was concise, informative, and entertaining. Bulgaria, population 7 million, was founded in 681 AD, the first of two golden periods in its history. Bulgaria invaded Constantinople repeatedly, losing each time, finally being told if they tried again, the Bizantines would take control of Bulgaria. They tried again and failed. Bizantines remained in control until the 11th century when four teenagers got lucky and managed to overtake the Royal Fortress while the Bizantines were away and the fortress was poorly guarded. Then the Bulgarians rallied behind the young new King Peter and held them off. Peter died a few years later in a duel. The next king’s sons couldn’t agree, and they fell to the Ottomans, a dark period for Bulgaria for about 500 years, from the 13th to the 18th century.
     We visited a lovely church, which was built during the Ottoman rule. Ottomans, though Muslim, allowed the Christians to build seven simple churches for a fee. Beautiful frescoes divide the Nativity Church into section for women, for men, and for socializing after the service. A choir of four elderly men sang acapello for us.
     Bulgarian lunch at a local restaurant consisted of salad (cucumber, tomatoes, white cheese), vegetable soup, a bread similar to naan or pita, a chicken and mushroom dish, and yogurt with honey and nuts for dessert. The town is nestled on three hills overlooking the Yantra River.
     After lunch, we decided to stick with our tour guide and go shopping for souvenirs in the town center rather than climb the steps at the fortress. The street is called Samovorska Chershia. Norm bought a bottle of local wine, a sauvignon blanc after a tasting of two reds and one white. Then, back to the boat. Osso bucco for Norm and white grouper for me for dinner. Then they surprised us by bringing Norm a delicious chocolate cake for his birthday (a couple of days early), with dark chocolate shavings on top, chocolate pudding between the layers. He still got his ice cream afterward (pistachio) and I had tiramisu. Then we packed for departure on Sunday.
We cruised into Romania but realized that, since we opted for the excursion to Veliko Tarnovo rather than Bucharest, we would really see much of Romania beyond the airport.
     Our tour arrived at the airport at 9 AM though our flight to Amsterdam from Bucharest wasn’t until 1:55 PM. Our taxi driver stopped at a church, got out of the taxi, and knelt in front of the gate to pray. We were too early to check in at the airport. The drive was about an hour and a half. I bought a forest berry smoothie, and we both had yummy chocolate croissants, and finally they posted our check-in location so we could check our luggage, etc. Everyone was wearing masks in the airport, and on the planes. Also, they were checking for both vaccination cards and negative COVID-19 tests. We were tested twice on the ship, once to get into Serbia and once to return to the U.S.
      No luck getting my phone to work.
     We flew from Bucharest to Amsterdam, where we hit our biggest delay. We knew our layover was less than an hour in Amsterdam, so we rushed to our gate, which was not nearby. When we got there, we got into line, not overly concerned because Norm had scanned vaccination records and we’d had our negative COVID tests. When we reached the front of the line, a lady handed us papers to complete. The papers simply required us to check a box that we’d been vaccinated and tested, sign, date, and hand it back. However, when we handed our papers back and showed our boarding passes, we were pulled out of line and sent to another line. This line was not moving at all. At first, we thought they were simply doing random checks of vaccination records, etc.
     Then, a young man at the front of the line spoke shrilly. “Who says I have to be vaccinated to go back to the U.S.?”
     I could not hear the reply given, but his voice continued to rise. “I want to see the rules, section and verse.”
     Murmured replies.
     “I want to speak to a manager.”
     More murmured replies.
     “What are you going to do with me?”
     This went on for some time. Another person, not far in front of us, was an older woman travelling with her daughter. “I’ve been vaccinated. I’ve been tested,” she protested.
     Apparently, her vaccination was too recent to be considered “fully vaccinated.” She wasn’t going to be separated from her daughter.
     When our turn finally arrived, Norm asked why we’d been singled out. “Because the standards in Bucharest,” we are told, “are not up to U.S. requirements.”
     By the time we stumbled into our seats, near the back of the plane (presumably because I’d bought really cheap tickets), I was dropping papers, boarding passes, and more. Where was my passport?
     “I’ve lost my passport,” I told the young man in the aisle seat next to us. “We’ll have to get back out.”
     He got up, and I located my passport on the floor near my seat. “Never mind,” I told him. “Sorry.”
     We kept an eye out for the individuals who had been in front of us in line, but we never saw them. The young man from our row found another seat. I didn’t blame him. And there were plenty of empty seats, as it was far from a full flight to Atlanta.
     Now, thee years later, I can still see in my mind’s eye the images of the young man and the older woman traveling with her daughter. I hope they resolved their issues without too much added stress. Travel always offers its share of stress, no matter how much you—if you’re like me—enjoy it. Next blog will probably be my 2022 trip to Yellowstone.

       On the beach, my husband and I drop our bag and shoes in preparation of walking into the water for a quick swim. A woman approaches, frowning. Her umbrella and chairs are a few yards behind our stuff. “We need that path for our kids.”
       “Sorry,” I say. “We’ll move.”
       The beach at Gulf Shores stretches endlessly in both directions. It is not crowded on this lovely windless morning.
      I think of Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes. “Face it, girls, I’m older, and I have more insurance,” she says, refusing to move her car.
       My father-in-law once told me, “My wife and I never had a single quarrel.”
       “Never?” My mouth dropped open.
       “Not a one.”
      I found this hard to believe. My parents quarreled about anything and everything
every day of my life. They still do. Where do they find the energy, I wonder sometimes.
       I realize I’ve developed the unfortunate habit of apologizing for things that aren’t my fault. If my husband knocks over a glass of tea, I say, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have put it there,” or “Sorry. I shouldn’t have placed the glasses so close together.”
           Worse yet, he may trip, or nearly trip, over a pair of my shoes left carelessly in his path. Or I may loiter in a doorway, blocking his entrance or exit. Oh, I can find a way to blame myself for just about anything. To keep the peace.
       He’s never abusive. But his jaw tightens, and he mumbles a few words I can’t catch. He may slam a door.
       “What?” I say.
       “Nothing.”
       “Sorry,” I say.
     If a driver pulls out in front of us and he has to brake, he lets out a stream of colorful language. His grip tightens on the steering wheel. The gray-haired man in the other car looks older than us. “Maybe his eyesight isn’t what it once was.” I make excuses for the driver.
       “Then he shouldn’t be driving.”
       If a young driver cuts in and out of traffic, I say, “Maybe she’s in labor.”
      “Why is every light in this house on?” my husband often says.
      “Sorry.”
      Later, he’ll ask, “Why are you reading in the dark?”
      “Sorry,” I say again. How pathetic am I, I ask myself.
       I resolve to stop this pattern, but habits are hard to break. Over the years I’ve had a history of migraines and irritable bowel syndrome. Keeping the peace has its price.
My husband has neither. Perhaps his approach to stress is better. Or my mother’s. Rarely does she hold back with a criticism or a scathing remark. Still she’s had nervous breakdowns. I have not.
       From time to time, I resolve to be more outspoken. Sometimes I follow through, but often I feel worse afterward. I do not like confrontation. I do not like to hurt anyone’s feelings. My scalp tingles. My blood pressure rises. This too has its price.
       When my husband does something minor to annoy me, I may mumble a few unintelligible words.
       “What?” he says.
       “Nothing.”
     As always, life and its choices remain a mystery. And who doesn’t like a good mystery?

    My parents have little appreciation for cartoons. My kids and I, however, enjoy them. My mother tells me her father called all cartoons Cats. “That’s just Cats, he’d say.”
    “Why?” I ask.
    “You know, because of the old Tom and Jerry, and Sylvester and Tweety Bird.”
    “Oh, I adore Tweety Bird,” I say.
   Recently we were looking for something appropriate on television for our five-year-old granddaughter Frankie. We clicked on Tom and Jerry.
    I know some people may complain those old cartoons are too violent. But, within moments, Frankie was laughing so hard we let her rip through the entire series over the next few days. When it ended, she said, “Let’s go back to the first one.”
    So, we did.
    I loved my grandfather, Pa, but I have to challenge his taste in some matters. Not, of course, in whom he chose to love—myself, in particular. Has anyone else ever loved me quite so unconditionally?
    I’ve always loved dogs, as well as cats. My most recent pets have been cats, largely because they are easier to tend if you travel a lot. Over the years, my husband and I have had three cats. They were all gray rescues, but each was unique in temperament. Each was special.
    Buster was the most loving around humans, though she could be mean to our other cat, who was growing old.
    “That’s totally natural,” my husband, a veterinarian, said.
    When Buster died, we did not get another cat. We were travelling more by then. “It’s really not fair to them,” my husband said. “We have to leave them so often.”
    As different as they were in temperament, one thing they had in common. They all hated to travel.
    My son-in-law loves cats too, so he, my daughter, and their two kids adopted a pair. Honey and Sunny do not like me, which both surprised and saddened me, especially now that our cats have passed. This does not prevent me from enjoying their antics.
     I suppose cats are like people. Not everyone is going to love us, even in our own families. This should not keep us from loving them.
    As a writer, I realize not everyone will appreciate my books. That should not prevent me, or anyone so inclined, from continuing to write and seek an audience for their work.
     I also love theater, including musicals, and I enjoy the poems of T. S. Eliot. So, I was astonished when I saw Cats in New York and failed to appreciate it. I admire Andrew Lloyd Weber’s body of work, and Memory is one of my favorite songs of all time. Still, it did not suffice to sustain me through over two hours of cavorting humans pretending to be cats. Perhaps I was jet lagged. I remember being tired.
    In one of my novels (Scorned, unpublished as yet), I resorted to having my least likable character kick a cat. I’ve always considered rescuing a kitten or kicking a cat a cheap device to make the reader like or dislike a character. But, at the time, it felt like something he would do. Actually, he felt so real to me I believed he did kick that cat in a moment of frustration.
    Later, when he cheated on his wife and she left him, I felt little or no sympathy for the man. After all, he’s also a cat kicker.

June 2024
A Moment in Time
 
      Two things grabbed my attention yesterday in the space of a moment. We had just landed in Las Vegas from Maui en route to Los Angeles, and turned on our phones. A text came through from our daughter-in-law, Sarah Hagan. The image of our son holding an Emmy popped into view on my husband’s phone. He showed it to me, and I squealed in delight. I knew he’d been nominated as best director for a documentary, but I’d barely dared to hope.
      I glanced at Facebook on my own phone, and another image appeared. My first boyfriend—I’d rarely thought of him as such until this moment—had died. David Boaz had teased me mercilessly from the time we moved from Lone Oak to Mayfield when I was eight. It was my Uncle Prentice (he too died recently, only a few weeks before David) who said, “Mark my words. They will end up dating.”
      I hated David, or so I thought. We were often the last two left in a spelling bee, and invariably I was the one who messed up first. When we graduated from high school, his GPA was a smidgen of a fraction higher than mine. Hence, he made the valedictory speech; mine, as salutatorian, was far less brilliant, less intellectual, less impressive.
      We also rivalled each other in our ineptitude for sports. It did not occur to me at the time that this lacking might have been more humiliating for him than for me. Always he seemed so confident, so self-assured, so cocky.
      In fourth grade, I discovered my passion for theater. The two sections of fourth grade at Longfellow were jointly performing “Snow White and the Seven Basic Food Groups.” Yes, there were seven back then. Snow White was cast from the other section, the wicked step-mother (a witch) from ours. The final decision came down to me and Sarah Pierce.
     “She should get it.” David pointed to me. “She won’t need to wear a mask. Or a fake nose.”
      He remarked on the length of my nose so often, I spent hours staring at it in the mirror, pushing the tip upward. I resolved to get it fixed as soon as I moved away from home.
          “Do you know the longest word in the dictionary?” he asked me once.
           “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” I ventured.
  He roared with laughter. “That’s not a real word. It’s antidisestablishmentarianism.”
           Oh, I hated to be bested.
        He tried to run over me on his bike. Certain he’d swerve at the last minute, I held my ground. But his lack of athleticism prevailed, and he narrowly missed when I darted out of range. Or, perhaps once more, I’d been bested.
       “Pretend the ball is David Boaz’s head,” the team captain would tell me in kick ball. Yes, our animosity was well known.
      Looking back, I believe he liked me all along. He had not figured out his sexuality yet. Despite his advanced vocabulary, he likely did not understand what it entailed, any more than I did at the time. He relished our rivalry. Perhaps, despite my protests, I did as well. How thrilled I was on the rare occasions when I beat him in a spelling bee, or in a blackboard race to finish a math problem!
      When we finally began to date, it was David who made the overture. Despite Uncle Prentice’s prediction, I was shocked. “What??”
      “I said, would you like to go out sometime?” David mumbled, his face red, his voice uncharacteristically low and muffled.
       “No way!”
        But he persisted, and eventually I agreed.
      We talked, we debated, we argued, we laughed. Oh, we were still rivals, but we had fun. One night I expressed a craving for Boston cream pie, and he managed to locate one. I think of him whenever I see Boston cream pie on a menu, not so often anymore. Tiramisu reminds me of Boston cream pie somehow, and hence of David.
      Another night, after watching a movie, he remarked, “That actress reminds me of Camille King.”
     “Really?” I lifted my eyebrows as the green bubble of envy exploded in my veins. “I don’t think so…I thought she was really pretty.”
      “So?”
    David was right, of course. Camille was pretty, and I knew she and David were friends. 
     When the rumors began that David was queer, I refused to believe them. Back then, no one I knew ever admitted to homosexual inclinations. There were “sissies,” of course, but I saw this attribute as having nothing to do with sexuality. David was not a sissy, however. He was handsome, if a bit preppy for my taste, well built, and carried himself with excellent posture, even pizzazz.
      When he never attempted to kiss me, even on prom night, I regarded this as a failing on my part. Undoubtedly, I lacked sex appeal to such a degree the one person who “liked” me could not bring himself to make a pass. I was, once more, humiliated.
      How he must have suffered, I realize now. We lost touch after graduation. He went to Vanderbilt, while I settled for the nearby state university. I started dating Norm my freshman year, and we had a date scheduled the last time I remember talking to David.
      We were on break from classes, both of us home for the summer. “David Boaz is downstairs to see you,” my mother called. She always regarded David as the perfect prospect.
      I groaned loudly enough for David to hear.
    Reluctantly, I came down the carpeted steps into the living room. “Why are you here?” I demanded.
     “No reason, apparently,” David snapped. “I guess I’ll be going.” He spun on the heel of his well-polished shoe.
      “Wait,” I said. “How are you? How’s Vanderbilt?”
      “Fine. And you?” His tone was clipped.
     “Fine.” I let him leave shortly after that, without ever learning what he’d intended to say or ask.
    For some bizarre reason, I realize I’d taken David’s homosexual leanings as a personal insult. How ignorant I was.
    Another opportunity arose when my husband and I attended a high school reunion several years later. Once again, I blew it.
      I did not speak to David. Why not? How I wish I had. He was surrounded by our former classmates, and I try to tell myself that he was too busy for me. But I know better. More than once, I caught him glancing in our direction.
    I went to a few reunions after that one, but David did not. He had achieved national fame by then. Still, I should have reached out. I wish I had.
     In his obituary, I read that he had a partner for the last thirty years. I hope he found happiness. I believe he did. He had such a zeal for ideas, for interaction… for life.

Standing in line at the library in Gulf Shores, Alabama, a few years ago, I fell into conversation with the man in front of me. He was researching medical facilities in the area—and medical errors in particular—with somewhat alarming findings. “Where would you go if you had a medical emergency around here?” I asked.

“Gulf Breeze, Florida,” he said.

I made a note of this in my journal, though I’d never heard of the place at the time. That was back before I started having trouble with my right knee and left hip. Recently, I’ve made several trips to Gulf Breeze to see specialists in sports medicine.

I think back to my long-ago decision to switch majors from pre-medicine to business. I was convinced I wouldn’t be a good physician, and I didn’t want to be responsible for any failings in that department. Now, having experienced medical errors up close and personal for several family members, I no longer believe I’d have been the worst physician ever. I would have done my best, and perhaps that’s all any of them can do. No one’s perfect, and they are often over-worked. Still…

When my mom became unable to keep any food in her stomach, the doctor performing the colonoscopy said, “I couldn’t get all the way. She’s got a really long colon. But what I saw looked fine.”

When I kept calling his office, I was told, “There’s nothing more we can do for her.”

My mom is as stubborn as they come, and she has long held to a philosophy that doctors are more likely to kill you than help you. Finally, though, she agreed to being taken to the Emergency Room at Vanderbilt. After several hours of waiting and testing, a doctor told us, “We’ve found the problem. There’s a total blockage in her colon where it attaches to the small intestine. We need to operate right away.”

After the surgery, the surgeon told me, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

I nearly passed out, so fearful was I of the bad news. “The tumor was malignant,” he said, “but I got it all.”

Oh, the relief! It had not spread.

A few years earlier, my dad started having chest pains. The attacks—or spells, as we called them—were so violent he’d turn pale and stagger.  Often, he’d wake up in the night to one of these attacks. We took him to numerous doctors, including cardiologists, all of whom assured us the problem was not his heart. “If it were his heart, he’d be dead by now,” one cardiologist said.

A catheterization was not warranted, they insisted, as the risks were too great. But the spells continued…and worsened. Finally, without an appointment, I took him to the Mayo Clinic to get to the bottom of the problem. We spent over a week seeing various doctors, sitting in waiting room, and listening to medical jargon.

They sent us to the psychiatric department in case he had imagined the problem. In the urology department, a young resident found a cancer cell in his prostate and recommended surgery. “Side effects are extremely rare,” he said.

We left the Mayo with my dad suffering virtually every side effect and the mystery of the spells unresolved. By this time, he’d had several stress tests, all of which he managed to pass… hence, no heart cath.

Eventually, after several years of suffering, he would fail a stress test. The heart cath would reveal that he’d had at least one major heart attack, resulting in damage to about one-third of his heart tissue, and urgently needed a quadruple bypass.

Whereas both of my parents’ misdiagnoses ended happily, my grandfather was less fortunate. The state of medicine at the time—and even now—was such that pancreatic cancer was extremely difficult to diagnose and treat. My grandfather knew something was seriously wrong but kept hoping he was mistaken. When doctor after doctor failed to find any source for his stomach pains, he’d feel blessed relief. For a time. But, of course, the pain persisted, and an exploratory surgery finally revealed the cause…after it had spread throughout his system.

I could go on. I experienced a botched D and C following a miscarriage that I’ll never forget. My grandmother had a rare illness that, treated too long with steroids, led to a hunched back. But that’s enough for now. Of these maladies, I’ve only addressed one thus far in my books in any depth (The Bell City Bottom, Parts I and II, forthcoming).
​
We all know life is brief, sorrow is unavoidable, and we count ourselves blessed to partake of the glories of existence on earth as long as we do.

When I was in high school, Mrs. Ford, my favorite teacher, stopped me in the hall one day. “There’s a great summer job,” she said, “and they asked me for a recommendation. I thought of you at once.”
 
Because Mrs. Ford taught English, my hopes soared. Editing a book? Writing for a newspaper? I waited for her to explain.
 
“It’s working for Dr. Bennett as a dental hygienist’s assistant. It might even lead to a career as a hygienist yourself.”
 
Ooohh! Putting my hands into stranger’s mouths, smelling their bad breath! Although I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, I was pretty sure that wasn’t it.
 
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Mrs. Ford said. “Think it over, and talk to your parents. You can tell me tomorrow.”
 
Although I wanted to tell her right then, I agreed to wait. Maybe I wouldn’t even tell my parents. Before I could decide, Mrs. Ford called my mother herself.
 
“That’s a great opportunity,” my mother said to me. “You should definitely go for the interview.”
 
My dad agreed, so I went. My reticence must have shone though my pretense at being interested, so—to my relief—I did not hand the job. Years later I feared the same thing might happen when I interviewed for accounting positions, having chosen that major for two main reasons: (1) I wanted to help put my fiancé through veterinary school, and (2) You could be fairly assured of landing a job after only four years (4.5 in my case, since I’d switched majors) of college.
 
I was not wrong. My reticence did seep through, or I was found otherwise lacking, and several CPA firms rejected me before I landed a job. When I finally put my acting skills, such as they were, to use, I got a job. Nonetheless, I approached my first day with a lot of nervous fear of failure. I liked my colleagues though, and they soon taught me what I needed to survive.
 
Often, after someone on a plane asked what I did for a living, they’d remark, “Oh, I hate math,” or “Oh, I’m terrible at math,” or “I’m no good with numbers.”
 
My usual reply was “Me too,” or “Same here.” This always served to draw inquisitive looks. If I happened to be in the mood for conversation, it worked as an ice breaker.
 
“Accounting really isn’t so much about numbers,” I’d say. “It’s about people.”
 
“How so?”
​
“Your clients need help getting their business off the ground, or getting out of the red (loss) zone and into the black. The numbers are just one of the tools to help get them there. And you meet a lot of nice people, and some really needy ones too.”
 
My mood would darken when I remembered one client in particular. He and his brother had inherited their business from their dad. Every month my firm would generate a P and L (profit and loss) statement for them. “If it’s bad news,” he’d say, “I’m going to relocate to a Caribbean island.”
 
On bad days, he’d say worse. I heard, a few years, after I left the firm, that he shot himself. I wish he’d gone to an island.
 
Thankfully, there were more success stories than failures at our firm. When I did tax returns for clients making ten times my income, they’d whine, “I can’t believe what you’re telling me I owe. Are you sure you can’t find a few more deductions?”
 
I’d vow silently, If I’m ever in a position to make that kind of money, I must remember not to whine about taxes.
 
I would sympathize with the client, employing my acting skills once more to hide my lack of real sympathy. “I’ll try.”
 
Occasionally, I’d find a client who, though losing money this year, was able to get a nice refund by carrying the loss back a few years. This put a smile on both our faces.
 
“What do you do for a living?” I’d ask the stranger on the airplane, and we’d launch into a discussion. Odds were that I’d know a bit about their industry, having encountered such a variety as an accountant.  

We all know people who seem to know from a very early age what they want to do with their lives. I envy that. I really do.
 
For example, one of my daughter’s friends from church knew she wanted to be a doctor. She did not get accepted the first time she applied to medical school, or the second. But she persisted, and now she’s a doctor. My daughter, my son, and I were all blessed with a talent for being good at school stuff. We enjoyed learning, we made good grades, and we were evenly balanced between the analytical subjects like math and science and the creative disciplines like literature and art.
 
Unfortunately, none of us knew what we wanted to be when we grew up. I used to tell the students in my graduate classes at Vanderbilt, “Don’t worry if you don’t know exactly what kind of job you want. I’m still trying to figure it out for myself.”
 
They always laughed. They didn’t know I was not joking.
 
Is it ever too late to find your passion? True, it may come earlier, easier, and more clearly to some than others. But I’ve always refused to quit looking. Am I destined to be a writer, an actress, or a teacher? Should my son be an engineer or a filmmaker? Should my daughter be a professional student or a stay-at-home mom?
 
I think back, back, back to my graduation from high school.
 
My parents and I are having a rare serious conversation about my future. It’s already been determined that I will attend the state university that’s only twenty miles from our hometown and much cheaper than any of the alternatives I’ve pushed for. I will be the first college student in our family, and none of us knows a thing about schools’ reputations or how they might impact one’s future.
 
“What are you going to study?” my dad says, spearing his last bite of pork chop. He’s usually the last one to finish a meal. My mother hasn’t leapt up to clear the table before we stop eating as she often does.
 
“I don’t know,” I say. “A little of this, a little of that, I guess.”
 
“No. What I mean is… what are you going to study to be?”
 
“Oh. Like my major,” I say. “I don’t know. Maybe theater.”
 
“Theater?” Mama’s eyebrows lift in astonishment. “What in the world would you do with theater?”
 
They both know I love to be in school plays. I always have, and often got a good part. I think they appreciate my talent. “I could be an actress… or something.”
 
“Maybe.” Daddy frowns.
 
“You have to have lots of connections to make it in that industry.” Mama says this as though she’s done thorough research on the subject. Did Mama, who looks like Vivien Leigh and sings like Doris Day, once entertain dreams of her own? Even if she did, she has no right to quash mine.
 
“Not everybody’s connected,” I protest. Don’t they believe in me?
 
They wear matching frowns now. Maybe I’m not that talented after all.
 
“English literature then,” I say, thinking of the other times, when I didn’t get the role I wanted—even in our little community.
 
“What would you do with that?” This time it’s Daddy who asks.
 
“I don’t know. Write, or teach.” I slump in my chair.
 
My mother picks a piece of lint off my shoulder. “For God’s sake, straighten your shoulders. How many times do I have to tell you how important your posture is?”
 
For what? My mother has excellent posture (which is kind of sad because she develops osteoporosis, arthritis, and a crooked spine later, and will eventually walk as though one leg is longer than the other).
 
“May I be excused?” I push my chair back.
 
“You may not,” Mama says. Her nose twitches just a little, which happens when she’s stressed. But I can’t think about that now.
 
“What do you two want me to be?” I demand.
 
Mama says nothing. Daddy clears his throat.
 
“Whatever you want to be,” Daddy says at last. “You could be anything, do anything.”
 
Except an actor or a writer, apparently. I wait.
 
“Well, now, you could be a doctor, for instance,” Daddy says.
 
A doctor? “What kind of a doctor?” For I know there are other kinds of doctors besides medical ones. There are doctors of philosophy, and occasionally there would be a teacher in our high school said to have a doctorate. And I suppose all the professors in colleges probably have doctorates. Is it possible I might become that kind of doctor?
 
“A regular doctor. Like Dr. Jones.” Dr. Jones was our family doctor for a long time. I think he delivered me. Daddy has eaten everything on his plate, and finished what was on Mama’s. Still he picks up his fork and mashes the remnants of beans with it, which tells me he’s nervous about this conversation too.
 
“I don’t think they offer that at Murray State.” There’s a note of triumph in my voice.
 
“Pre-medicine then,” Daddy says.
 
“Why?” This whole conversation is pretty astounding. I remember when Mama wanted me to take a summer job as a dental hygienist’s assistant. Cleaning people’s teeth seemed to be the height of their ambition for me.
 
“Because you’re so smart,” Daddy says.
 
“If you were going to be a writer or an actress, why would you even need to go to college?” Mama chimes in.
 
“Fine! So now you don’t want me to go to college!”
 
“Of course, we do. You realize you’d be the first college graduate in our family. Ever.” Daddy rubs his temple. “We want that to mean something.”
 
 “So do I, Daddy. But what would I do with pre-med?”
 
“Medical school, obviously.”
 
Does he really think they could afford to send me however many years it takes to finish medical school, internships, and whatever else goes with that career path? Apparently so. “But that would take, like, a thousand years,” I protest.
 
Daddy leans forward in his chair, his eyes intent on my face. “And you could help people.”
 
Now it clicks. Being a doctor has often been voiced in my family as the highest ambition. Doctors are, like, next to God. If we’d had one in the family, maybe my grandfathers wouldn’t have died so young. That’s what he thinks. I’m a little flattered, but I can’t honestly imagine myself as a medical doctor.
 
It is only now, all these years later, that I fully realize what a tremendous gift their assumptions were. That I could and should attend college at all, that I would earn a degree, that I might even attend and complete graduate school once or twice. All these things that they had never done and which I, eventually, did. Along the way, regardless of my major, I would be free to study art and theater and literature, as well as science and mathematics and history. Nor did they force a major upon me. They never protested when I switched majors to business, and I doubt they would have withdrawn support if I’d switched instead to art or theater or literature. They were merely offering their opinions. I was free to choose, even if it didn’t feel that way at the time.
 
My mom rises then and begins to scrape the plates. I’m not sure what she thinks about my dad’s ambition for me.
 
I start out as an “Undecided” major. But when I need to choose a major, I do, in fact—for lack of conviction in another direction—declare it as pre-med. It takes me two and a half years to acknowledge, as I’ve suspected all along, I really don’t want to be a medical doctor. I get squeamish around blood, even on a filmstrip, and the thought of medical school terrifies me.
 
By then, I’ve met Norm, who is studying wildlife biology.
 
Junior year, we’re taking Comparative Anatomy. Our professor, Dr. Smith, has a crippled right arm. The rumor is that he was headed for a career as a surgeon before the accident. Maybe he’s a little bitter, or maybe he just wants us to be prepared. Comparative Anatomy is, quite simply, the most challenging course I’ve ever taken, up that point. We spend countless hours in the lab, dissecting animals soaked in formaldehyde until the odor lingers in my hair and my clothes. Some of the students eat sandwiches in the lab, but the smell nauseates me.
 
Norm and I make time one evening to go to a restaurant, something that used to be fun. We choose the Palace, one of our old favorites, and order the usual: a Palace special burger and a baked potato with butter and sour cream with chives.
 
I take a bite of my burger and almost gag. “I can’t eat this,” I say.
 
“Why not?” Norm’s burger is half gone already. He’s a fast, efficient eater.
 
“It tastes like that dogfish shark.”
 
The next week I begin to think of changing majors. But, to what?
 
Norm has switched himself from wildlife biology to pre-vet, and I realize my parents were probably right. I’d have a hard time earning enough money as either an actor or a writer to support him through veterinary school. Plus, Norm’s attitude toward theater or literature as a realistic major mimics those of my parents. My passion for subjects I love isn’t great enough to override my doubts about my talent.
 
I work in an education lab on campus with a friend of mine, Darleen. Sometimes our schedules intersect, as on this day. We are free of students at the moment, just returning some folders to the filing cabinet. We often have free time to study when we’re here. 

I know she’s majoring in accounting. “What is accounting?” I ask her.
 
Darleen tries to explain it to me. She sighs at my bored expression and pushes a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.
 
I do not understand her explanation, except for one thing. When she graduates in another year, she’ll be able to find a job with a good, steady salary. Enough to put a husband—with the help of a few student loans—through vet school at Ohio State. I make the change.
 
After studying organic chemistry and comparative anatomy, business school is relatively easy for me. I don’t love it exactly, but I don’t hate it either.
 
When I go for my first interview, though, I’m afraid I will hate doing it in the real world. I don’t get the job. Or the next. I’m reminded of my interview for a summer job as a dental hygienist’s assistant. I didn’t get an offer then either.
 
After a few rejections, I decide to be an actor after all. I will act as if being an accountant is exciting… is my dream job, my dream future. Finally, I get a job.
 
A few years later, as an accounting professor, I will apply my acting skills once more, to convince my students that I find the subject matter more stimulating than I actually do. This works for a couple of decades, until I begin to tire of the role. As always, the blame is ultimately mine.
 
As it turns out, I don’t hate being an accountant. And I’m pretty good at it. I’m moving up the ladder in my firm. Granted, much of the time I feel like a fake, likely to be discovered at any moment. But, along the way, I do eventually learn a fair amount.
 
In writing a novel, it’s easy to engage the reader when the protagonist knows exactly what she wants and will do just about anything to achieve the goal. In real life, our motivations aren’t always that straightforward. Yes, we want love and happiness and health. But the trajectory may take a lot of unexpected twists and misdirected efforts. This is also true of the characters in my novels.
 
Acadia, in Song of Sugar Sands, wants Peter to love her, but she does not want to be a preacher’s wife. Sometimes it takes us a while to sort it all out. Sometimes it may take a lifetime.