Posted on by cheryloreglia · 37 Comments

It Always Comes Back to the Shoes

Photo by Sam on Pexels.com

Last week I was all about Ice Cream Theology, living in the moment, enjoying the sweetness of life.

Well, that melted.

This week I’m fretting (occasionally) over the footprint I’ll be leaving on my children’s mental health after they’re forced to sift through my clutter when I’ve lost the race and I’m six feet under.

I blame my Mom.

I realize this is extremely cliche and irrational. Here’s the deal, my Mom’s house was so organized, even her bras were folded, socks matched, glassware arranged by size and usage, her shoes were lined up in the closet as if a marching band, the sheets in her linen closet were color coded for goodness sake. There was not a single piece of paper laying around that wasn’t filed, tagged, paper clipped, or neatly stacked in a basket.

Okay, there were some taxes she forgot to pay, but she was going through some intense treatmentst at the time, and we were able to rectify that issue quite easily.

It turns out the government is a bureaucracy and will always take your money.

Much like my closet, a ruthless establishment, which takes everything I confer to it’s cavernous structure, and double taxes me with guilt and shame.

I kid you not.

How is it possible that I thought a see through butter-yellow blouse would suit me? Or that polka dot dress which barely covers my ass? The tube tops, the short shorts, the pencil skirts that will never be worn again. I cringe at the row of oversized blouses, it was a stage, thankfully one I was booed off.

The shoes are problematic. They are hard to get around. You can’t see but I assume you can use your imagination. I walked the trails of Yosemite in this pair of worn hiking boots, danced at my daughter’s wedding in these delicate gold heels, and you’ll have to trust me, but I look pretty damn stylish in my prized leopard pumps. There are scratched-up cowboy boots from my Urban Cowboy phase, sandals that carry sand from beaches afar, and tennis shoes in various stages of disrepair. The thing about shoes is the memories are so poignant I can slip into them and actually travel back in time.

My children will inherit these shoes without the stories as if Cinderella with one glass slipper and no prince charming to carry her off to her happily ever after, away from the ashes of life, and a cheeseparing stepmother. As Victoria Van Tiem says, just like Cinderella, it always comes back to the shoes.

I stifle a laugh.

Why is it so hard for me to let things go? I should call Kelley, she’s a Kondo kick-ass, I could pay for her to come out? It wouldn’t take more than six months and besides Tim knows how to cook. He’ll be fine.

Touching the silky material of the dresses I wore to the girls’ weddings, enshrined in plastic covers, along with my own wedding dress stuffed on the shelf in a large white box. I have wedding albums that go back three generations stacked in the back of the closet. What in the world will the kids do with them?

It’s daunting. Do I squeeze the memories out of them as if lemons and then toss them in the Goodwill pile, the compost barrel of life?

The problem is there are bits and pieces of myself hiding all over this house.

Glancing around the room I notice the small paintings stashed in the bookshelf from sidewalk artists depicting the places we’ve traveled, or that ceramic vase we picked up in Duruta during a rainstorm, the porcelain lady from Madrid where we celebrated Martica’s twenty-first birthday with Marta and Ken, and the little red gelato dishes I purchased from a local antique shop while shopping with Vicky and Nancy. These are the memories I silently hope will not vanish as I age.

Walking back to my computer with a fresh cup of coffee I pick up my grandfather’s pipe that sits on a shelf in the hall. If I close my eyes and smell the residue of tobacco, I’m actually transported to the parlor of their home on Sixth Street, in San Jose, across from the elementary school. It was the only place grandpa was allowed to smoke. I’d sit with him, me on the floor, he on the settee, and I’d watch the way the smoke swirled in the air with each exhalation. He wasn’t a talker, we’d just sit together, in silence.

I hope everyone has a memory as sweet as this.

There are stacks of letters my students wrote to themselves that I send back to them in five-year increments that live on the shelves next to my bed.

The kids will think I’m crazy and what a stretch that will be?

The truth is I’ve found my home to be a holier place than Church, it’s the intimacy of our routines, as if a form of prayer. The ritual of breaking bread with family and friends. The blessing of creating a life from the embers of our love. Within these very walls, we learned how to be grateful, kind, and compassionate, but most importantly we learned how to forgive. We don’t give up on each other, we’ve mastered resilience, and from the moors of home, we go out into the world securely attached to who and what we are.

Family.

Interestingly enough, well of interest to me, as I’m writing this essay a notice comes in on my phone. It’s from the family Slack Channel where we engage in private communication (you have to be born an Oreglia or married to one of my children to get access to the password) about what we’re doing, what we’re reading, Coronavirus information, upcoming family dinners, investments, subscriptions, politics (a popular channel), random, Tony’s next visit, images of the grandchildren, and a few travel albums.

It’s a great way to stay connected when we’re spread out all over the world or across the street as in Julie’s case.

So Julie posted an article in the “General” file and she introduces the article by asking “Is Mom hampering our independence?” Well, that got my attention. The attached article explores how tracking devices parents use to keep tabs on their children’s safety can hamper young adult’s ability to mature.

Really?

I’ve never heard of this Life360 but I can find all my children (except Tony who refuses to use an iPhone) at any given time night or day by using the friend finder on their iPhones. One time I noticed Dante was located at a jail in Orange County. I panicked and starting calling, texting, face timing him until he responded. It’s the least I can do. He was installing solar panels at the jail. He was working. It’s his job. Sorry, not sorry.

Am I hampering their independence? Absolutely not, they stalk me just as much. “Hey Mom, I notice you’re driving by the Safeway, can you pick up some…” Or Kelley texts me and complains, “you’ve been with Julie all day.”

And here I sit trying to think of ways in which I can make my passing easier on them? Well hell, no one will be tracking them any longer, it’ll be more like a haunting, similar but not the same.

I’m just going to delight in the pieces of me I find hiding all over the house, because it’s too daunting to consider dismantling all the props I spent years putting into place, knowing wherever my eye lands the image “sparks joy.”

As Selena Gomez warns, never look back. If Cinderella had looked back and picked up the shoe she would have never found her prince.

It seems ingenuous but I don’t want to spend the remainder of my time ridding my home of evidence of me. I’m not a white board you can wipe clean at the end of the day, the marks of living are indelible, permanent, never to be erased.

So lets’s stick with the epithet that they’ll be “charmed” to find my fashion faux pas, teaching tasks, family memorabilia, and all my disordered clutter will make them appreciate their well-ordered lives and that will be my last gift to them. Gratitude.

I love it.

It is destructive to live in the future, to bypass the present moment, to lose track of your kids, or fail to notice the smoke currently swirling in the air. The utter silence of being at peace with where you are sitting, cross-legged on the settee, leopard pumps dangling from your polished toes.

I’m Living in the Gap, thinking of way to hamper my children’s independence, care to join me?

Additionally (means it didn’t make the cut):

I was listening to a podcast on the way up to the lake a few weeks ago on how the military trains the brains of their commanders to work under duress. I sort of wish Larry were here to fill in the details on the program but he’s biking this morning which affords me the time to write. So the details will remain sketchy.

I even made a small notation in my “things to write about” notebook but so like me, I only captured the big picture, and left out the details.

The woman being interviewed was some high-ranking person in the military, not sure about her title, but she was in charge of a mission. Her mission was slightly more dangerous than my mission to declutter the house but there are similarities.

Try and keep your smirking to a minimum. Thank you.

The military prepares its people to perform sort of like we prepare our students for a fire, earthquake, or shooter on campus. It’s a very methodical way to form muscle or brain memory. The idea is that you can teach the brain to calm down and think even when you are physically in pain, sleep-deprived, and under attack. They kept this poor girl awake for like a week with lights and loud noises, she had to perform grueling calisthenics all hours of the day and night, and she was constantly being yelled at in a derogatory manner.

So when this exhausted, totally stressed-out, abused person was put in charge of a mission, she decided to make lists.

It calmed her down, she could check things off, and even when it seemed she wasn’t getting things done fast enough the more checks the calmer she felt.

Okay I’m not exactly sleep-deprived but I am post-menopausal, I have physical ailments from riding my stationary bike, and it’s always hectic around here. The thing is I can make lists, and I’m a huge fan of checking things off my lists, and therefore it’s indisputable, I would make a great general.

And who doesn’t love the idea of being saluted by their husband as he passes you in the hall?

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

Life Is A Race You Can’t Win

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In a race that you can’t win, slow it down
Yeah, you only get one go around
‘Cause the finish line is six feet in the ground
In a race you can’t win, just slow it down

Thomas Rhett

“What I know about auto racing could be inscribed with a dry Magic Marker on the lip of a Coke bottle,” says David Foster Wallace, the same could be said for what I know about life, but I have a blog so let’s not quibble over tangential issues (nothing to do with gender), and move on to what really matters.

The invention of wipes. Wipes have to be up there next to sliced bread in my opinion. If it’s sticky, hand them a wipe. Something spills, wipe it up. If it’s melting, here’s a wipe.

I wish we had a sanitized wipe for removing change, which I don’t do well, because it’s sticky, and as a mother, this has been my perpetual nemesis.

I discovered something recently and since it is difficult to keep my thoughts to myself I thought I’d explore the whole viscid situation with you.

My little treasure was found in the midst of a story, as you know wisdom likes to hide in the nook and crannies of life, scrambling off when you get too close.

I call it my Ice Cream Theology, try not to judge, and right now I know three people who are absolutely cringing.

You know who you are.

Deal with it.

Yes, you’ll be glad to know the value of the next several passages is primarily to create suspense, so don’t just skim, Larry, read between the lines.

Here’s the crux of the situation.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU LIKE?

I don’t know about you but I have this illusion that I know what I like and when I like it. If you’re running with that thought remember what your Mother said about scissors.

This is important because sometimes we trip over our principles when we should be sauntering, savoring the many flavors of life, smelling the roses if you will.

It’s as if sharpening an entire box of yellow pencils but never using them. You know what I mean?

Our interests are often manipulated by our fears, fear of scarcity, fear of humiliation, fear of losing. For example, don’t you think racing at breakneck speeds around a snake-like track, with 50 other cars all vying for the lead, is the slightest bit crazy?

Well, that’s why we like it, it’s unpredictable, and we like to observe someone risking their neck from a safe distance. Just my opinion.

I’m about to expose my recent life crash, one that kicked me to the curb, and left me questioning my surly disposition.

Follow Your Inner Moonlight

There are perhaps three important things you should consider doing in this life; figure out what you love, figure out who you love, and if you rub those two together, there’s a chance it will result in new life.

That’s it.

What else is there?

Well, there’s ice cream, and this is when it gets sticky.

If you could just comprehend how essential is it to courageously say no to what you don’t want, prefer, or need, then you can say yes without remorse when it is truly what you want, prefer, need at the moment. This was my go-to philosophy but as you can probably guess it’s about to all change.

My entire life my mother warned me, “don’t be cajoled into doing things you don’t want to do just because everyone else is doing it, you wouldn’t jump off a bridge just because everyone else decides to jump?”

No.

Absolutely not.

If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it says Frank Zappa.

A girl should be two things: who and what she wants says, Coco Chanel.

The Story

I’ll change the names to protect the innocent.

So I find myself with the usual cast of characters one faithful night, we’ll call them Sim, Jue, and Carry. I would be Lheryl in this particular scenario. One nondescript hot afternoon we realized we had a wine club pick up on the other side of the lake. It was a nice day for a drive, so we all piled into Carry’s car, and we’re off to the races so to speak.

After spending an hour or so at the winery we stopped off at the Saw Shop in Kelseyville for a bite to eat. It was a delightful evening, finally starting to cool, with a slight breeze as we were seated on the open patio.

It’s all good but appearances can be deceiving.

As we’re making our way home along Highway 29 Sim, Jue, and Carry decide to make an unscheduled stop.

Not that I’m not a prude, much, because everything nothing revolves around me, and I’m quite flexible all things considered.

This “unscheduled” stop involved a said famous ice cream parlor, renown for their homemade ice cream, and my companions were all in a frenzy to give it a try.

Here’s the deal, I wasn’t hungry.

If you don’t know what you like then for goodness sakes avoid what you don’t like, it’s at least a start.

I may have bemoaned the stop, loudly, and consistently but that had no effect on my companions.

We parked across the street from the “famous” parlor.

The neon sign obsessively flashing open, open, open, annoying me to no end.

Lheryl says, “I’ll wait in the car.”

Carry says, “what flavor do you want?”

“I don’t want any ice cream, I’m full.”

“You like orange sherbet right?”

“I DON’T WANT ANY ICE CREAM,” I may have raised my voice.

Off they go, skipping their way across the street as if a bunch of kindergartners, while I stay stubbornly put, with my seatbelt fastened, and a snarl on my face.

When they returned to the car all giddy with their delicious cups of frozen cream, Carry reaches back, and with all the audacity of a long-married spouse, he hands me a cup of orange sherbet with a bright pink plastic spoon.

Leryl repeats herself, “No thank you, I don’t want any ice cream.”

“Here, you have to try it, I bought it for you.”

I opened the door and set the sticky concoction on the curb. I know, I know, it’s not only childish, but it’s littering. And I never litter! And that was it, right there, that was the moment, as Bridget Jones would say, when everything changed.

Here I was, all puffed up with self-induced boundaries, ready to kick my scruples to the curb, God gave me a voice and as usual, no one is listening. This was a total lack of respect for my unwavering no. Right?

Yes, that’s where I went, lock, stock, and barrel.

But here’s the real deal.

I was wrong

As I said from the beginning, what I know about life could be inscribed with a dry Magic Marker on the lip of a Coke bottle. After weeks of reflection, bouts of unrepentant remorse (that’s a stretch but I did feel contrite), and endless badgering by said companions, I realized I was wrong.

As Maya Angelo says, when you know better you do better, because, in ice cream theology, sharing is the best part of it, connecting, discussing flavors, tasting, smelling, remembering our youth, laughing, smiling, feeling something that was frozen melt in your mouth.

It involves all the senses and is therefore worthy of our participation. You can be present to the ritual, but the only way it can change you is if you participate. It’s true for the sacraments, education, ice cream, and most importantly our relationships.

I was being a curmudgeon on a soapbox with no viable message.

To live is to learn and grow and unfortunately, the only way to grow is to allow for change.

Change requires a shift in our thinking, this is how we learn, it requires exposure, and the only way that we can be exposed is if we throw ourselves out into the open, to the curb if you will.

Because life is a race that no one wins, and if you only get one go around, why not slow down, enjoy the unexpected stops? As Martha Graham says there is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, this expression is unique, and sometimes you have to allow your pretenses to melt.

Ice Cream Theology is expressed by the choices we make, because in the long race, it’s the choices that shape our lives, the process never ends until we die, and we get wiped clean.

I’m Living in the Gap, life is sticky, let’s pick up some wipes?

Anecdotes:

  • “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” Oscar Wilde
  • “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
  • “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” Dolly Parton
Posted on by cheryloreglia · 57 Comments

Tea For Two

Today I’m doing a mini-post as I have been traveling and haven’t had the proper time to write but wanted to briefly share a recent experience with you all because although I’ve been accused of being verbose (using more words than necessary), I’m quite reticent naturally. Bahaha.

Not that you asked, but the history of tea is quite extraordinary, and the way it spreads across multiple cultures over the span of thousands of years is the same as it spreads today. It is introduced by tea lovers to their friends and neighbors as an extraordinary beverage of choice, something that will enhance one’s experience of living, and transform an ordinary day into a sacred ritual.

What’s not to like?

Most of you probably already know that tea originated in southwest China, likely the Yunnan region during the Shang dynasty as a medicinal drink, because as I found out on Monday you actually feel better while consuming the dark, fragrant, slightly bitter beverage.

Drinking tea became popular in Britain during the 17th century and has remained a staple of English society every since. In fact, after water, tea is the most widely consumed beverage in the world. Hello, what rock have I been under?

An attractive box of Yorkshire tea came to me through a fellow blogger named Pete Johnson, who resides in a small town in Beetley, England with his wife Julie, and beloved dog Ollie. Pete thought tea might be an superior alternative to my obsession with coffee as a more refined beverage and flavorful experience. He took the time to purchase the type of tea that would be easy for me to brew without the normal tea paraphernalia, boxed it up, sealed it with tape, addressed to Campbell, California, and handed it off to the postal service with the hope that tea wouldn’t get caught up in customs. You all heard of the Boston Tea Party?

“Coffee—a barbaric drink. That poor, tortured bean. All that fermenting and husking and roasting and grinding. And what is tea? Tea is dried leaves rehydrated. Just add water, Mrs. Strickland. All living things need water.” Guillermo del Toro

After making the long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, the package miraculously landed on my doorstep while I was out of town, and my observant neighbors, Ron and Debbie, graciously stored it for me until my return.

I decide to share the tea with my sister Nancy as having tea seems like an activity for two, not to mention one of our favorite authors, Alexandra Stoddard, claims, the ‘art of tea’ is a spiritual force for us to share.

I arrive at Nancy’s midmorning on Monday of this week with my precious box of Yorkshire tea in hand, she greets me as I walk through the back door without knocking, holding up my prized possession as if a five year old who scored a box of Oreos.

On her counter, Nancy had laid out a teapot I purchased for her decades ago from Nordstrom, and on the bottom, it says it was made in Portugal! It came with matching creamer, and sugar bowl. What foresight I had? She selected two delicate teacups from her collection and set them out on a spacious white tray. It all felt so mature.

My adorable sister Nancy

We haven’t seen each other for a few days, she cared for my dog while I was out of town, and the least I could do to thank her was to share my Yorkshire tea that came all the way from England!

We feel a little giddy as we wait for the water to boil and slowly began to understand the ritual nature of sharing a cup of tea. She pours the boiling water in her exquisite teapot, I add the delicate tea bags, and we set my iPhone for three and a half minutes as Pete instructed so the tea would have time to steep.

We decide on which teacups we prefer while I fill the creamer with fresh milk and Nancy fills the sugar bowl.

Finally, the timer sounds and as instructed I squeeze all the goodness out of each bag into the teapot with a dual spoon technique I made up on the spot. Yes, I can be innovative when necessary. We make a show of pouring our tea, adding cream and sugar, but can’t stop ourselves from giggling like schoolgirls before the first sip.

Magnifico! It is smooth, pungent, and instantly addicting. The second sip is even better!

There is something in the nature of tea that leads one into deeper discussions, relevant chatter, and definitely good cheer. It’s ritualistic by its very nature. One has to heat the water, add the fragrant tea, allow for it to steep properly, and then pour it with reverence into delicate teacups usually made of opaque porcelain. The process alone is enchanting.

Then your taste buds come alive, the soft warm steam assaults your skin, as the fragrance ignites the olfactory system in your nose. My hand naturally caresses the delicate pattern of the teacup with each lift to my lips, sip, and return to the matching saucer. It’s so damned refined as if a substance in search of like corporeality.

As Alice Walker claims, “tea to the English is really a picnic indoors.” So true.

The process inculcates one with a sense of harmony, the mystery of mutual adore, and the drive to perfect the imperfect. We spent the next hour reordering several of Nancy’s rooms, assessing the well-being of our mutual relatives, and planning for the future should we ever be able to move about the world again.

Tea does not insight idle chatter, it feels more like worship, an attempt to accomplish the impossible amidst the deterrents of a complicated life. As Phoebe Stone says, “a great idea should always be left to steep like loose tea leaves in a teapot for a while to make sure that the tea will be strong enough and that the idea truly is a great one.”

We discuss making this a regular event, maybe adding some cucumber sandwiches to our experience, I even found a delicious recipe online which includes, bread, cream cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocados, olive oil, and balsamic. Pete kindly sent enough tea to last me at least six months!

“Tea. I find that both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea.” Cassandra Clare

There are many things that distract us in this life, cause worry, and distress but as Kakuzo Okakura says, “let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.”

I offered Dante a cup of tea after he returned from work today, truth is I wanted another cup, but also wanted to share the magic with my son. The thing about tea is it’s slow, to steep, to cool, and especially to enjoy. We sat on the sofa waiting for our cups to steep before I rang the “goodness out of each bag.”

Dante says, “it takes a long time to cool but the flavor is good.”

This makes sense to me because good things take time. Thank you Pete Johnson, I’m ever so grateful.

Anecdotes:

“Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.” Frances Hardinge
After a cup of tea (two spoonsful for each cup, and don’t let it stand more than three minutes,) it says to the brain, “Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature and into life; spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through long lanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity!” Jerome K. Jerome
“Who would then deny that when I am sipping tea in my tearoom I am swallowing the whole universe with it and that this very moment of my lifting the bowl to my lips is eternity itself transcending time and space?” Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 31 Comments

Our Hearts are Mingled with the Missourians

Jim, Sue, Cheryl, Larry, Rachel, Ellie, Gail, Michael (Missourians in bold)

They’re back!

I’m referring to the relatives from Missouri, the ones I feared might be ax murders a few years back (see; 5 Reasons to Choose Happy), who have finally returned to the lake, and they came bearing gifts. You’ll be relieved to know they brought us a custom-made set of Cornhole boards, instead of a game of ax toss, it’s those unexpected moments that give you the chills.

Larry and Ellie throwing some serious corn!

And this time they brought their lovely daughters, Rachel and Ellie, exceptional versions of Mom and Dad, who charmed the hell out of us with constant smiles, and devilish sparkling eyes!

Upon meeting I say, “sorry, we’re all a little hot and sweaty.”

Ellie responds, “I like warm hugs.”

Can I keep her?

So grab a glass of wine and go boldly with us into the adventure and unexpected bounty of beautiful Lake County!

Wine Anyone?

Our first evening is meticulously choreographed, stocked with Clearlake favorites, designed to ensure our guests will never leave. Now, who’s the creepy cousin? Seriously, I’m irredeemable when it comes to manipulation, but I’d like you to know Larry, Nancy, Mackenzie, Jim and Sue were totally complicit in the bait and lure plan. As they say, it takes a village to get the right shade of lipstick on a pig…

I should mention Jim and Sue are quite proficient at luring their guests, they’ve had one couple stay an entire year, we can only hope!

It’s early afternoon when our prey arrive, most of us are casually adorned in colorful swimsuits, beading with sweat, basking in any available shade, with various body parts dangling in the water. I believe the temperature reached 107 degrees today and the high humidity was not a bonus. Welcome to the lake.

Larry is referred to as our exclusive MSS, “Master Slushy Sommelier,” it takes years of practice, lots of tastings, and several industrial blenders to accomplish such a feat, but as you know, he’s persistent, and has duly earned his title. Slushys are a secret combination of ice, limeade and vodka served up in a styrofoam cup. They only taste good when you’re at the lake, a phenomenon that has never been soberly (pun intended) researched, or substantiated. You’ll just have to trust me.

After loosening everyone up with a refreshing slushy, Larry takes an able-bodied crew water skiing. I stayed home to wave from the deck, and bonus everyone is successful, although Larry took a descent spill while confronting a rather aggressive wake. No broken ribs, just sayin.

Rachel Cutting it Up

Upon their return, our beloved neighbors, Jim and Sue, serve up some delicious coffee martinis, which accompany my bountiful charcuterie board quite nicely. We gather around the hammered copper fire pit on the deck overlooking our beloved lake, catching up on life, shooting the shit, swapping stories about our pre and post COVID experiences.

Coffee Martinis with Mike

It appears we’ve all become quite proficient at using tools like Zoom, living with extended family, and entertaining a ruthless game of Catan. Who knows how will these skills carry us into the future? Let me just say there’s no touch-up my appearance button in real life, but I know the value of noise-canceling headphones, and how to garner my resources when necessary.

Juggling controversial topics with care, we discovered we’re well aligned on the vac wars, masking, and managing our toilet paper supply.

Oh, how we’ve missed those Missourians.

After peeling off those soggy swimsuits and slipping into some cool cotton we convene around the dining room table for a sumptuous meal of filet mignon (cooked to perfection by Jim), mushroom pie, grilled vegetables, and arugula, watermelon, and feta salad that made me wish I was a dog with two tails. My mouth is watering just writing the words. I admit I moaned through every single bite, much to the annoyance of my fellow dinners, whereas my sister Nancy remained speechless the entire meal. She may have been adopted?

Our Table Runneth Over (pictured Cheryl, Larry, Sue, Jim, Nancy, arm of Ellie, arm of Rachel, arm of Mike, photo credit Gail)

If I have learned one thing through the years, it’s this, the act of eating together creates feelings of mutual trust and rapport, and becomes a powerful means of creating kinship. Our hearts have mingled like red wine and dark chocolate, it’s not only decadent, but ages well.

Speaking of decadence, Larry opened some delicious Six Sigma Tempranillo, complimenting the provisions beautifully, and aiding in the expansiveness of the evening.

“There’s a kinship among people who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.” William Golding

It’s no wonder we failed to notice the evening bleeding into the night, nor the slow cessation of several bottles of wine, while the local bat population soars into the darkened skies right over our heads. We talk for hours about nothing in particular, maybe discovering the meaning of life, but having no memory of the panacea in the morning. There is a word for this, it’s called Samar, and it might be my favorite word of all time.

The morning finds us sitting on an already warm deck, with plates of heavily buttered Belgium waffles, smothered in syrup. A beloved Clearlake tradition. We have this industrial waffle maker, it’s magical, and puts out one waffle every two minutes, worthy of the wait, and besides it stretches out the morning with a delicious sort of leisure.

Of course, there are endless cups of coffee, a morning walk in the hood, with Mike marveling at the variety of fruit trees this peninsula supports, and me retelling the intriguing tale of Captain Richard Floyd who established and christened this community as Kono Tayee back in the 1860s. Our street is named Cora, after the Captain’s wife, a name one of our granddaughters now claims.

Six Sigma Ranch and Winery

Loading the cars with heavily laden picnic baskets we head to one of our favorite Lake County Wineries, located southeast of Lower Lake in beautiful Lake County. Six Sigma, established by a gregarious man named Kaj and his lovely wife Else, whose motto is to make the customer feel welcome, celebrated, and valued. It’s not just the usual wine tasting experience, it’s an unforgettable event, one where the owner takes the time to stop by our table and chat it up with us.

At Six Sigma they “combine the old-world art of making wine with the science of data-driven Six Sigma principles. Our team works hard toward one common goal: Making wine of extraordinary quality at an affordable price,” as noted on their website.

“Our story is in every single bottle of Six Sigma wine,” says Kaj Ahlmann. I’d say they’re a novel success and one we are driven to return to time and time again.

Needless to say, Mike and Gail joined the Six Sigma family, their selected wines will be delivered to their home in Missouri in the fall, and Larry and I can boast that we influenced our relatives to consider serial wine club membership. We’ve popped their grape so to speak.

After packing up our grub, we make our way to Vigilance Winery, just twenty miles down the road in Lower Lake, the tasting room is a rustic old farmhouse that was once home to one of Lake County’s pioneering families, and as a bonus, there are spectacular panoramic views overlooking Anderson Marsh State Park. It doesn’t get better than this.

Vigilance Winery

Okay, admittedly our cousins are have not been trained to withstanding the effects of visiting multiple wineries in a single day, their endurance is shall we say subpar. After a short flight of delicious wines, the drive home was eerily quiet, a few of us snoozed a wee bit, but upon entering the nicely cooled house it was a total sleep-fest. Bodies everywhere.

What the hell?

Not the napper type myself, I enjoyed the quiet cool of the kitchen as I putzed around preparing wild king salmon with a dusting of feta cheese and pesto, grilled asparagus, and a caprese salad with Sue’s homegrown tomatoes and basil. Yes, I was hydrating all the while with several glasses of refreshing ice water before wandering over to the Goudreau’s for some fresh company, cantaloupe, and a splash of Sauvignon Blanc.

One by one the Severance’s emerge from their afternoon siesta and join us on the lush patio of Jim and Sue’s.

Our last supper is bittersweet, I offer a small toast thanking our guests for making the long journey to the lake, for their generosity, and for bringing their lovely daughters, whose endless good cheer added so much to our gathering.

Ellie and Rachel adorning Six Sigma’s charming porch

Knowing this is our last night together, our next visit still unknown, I’m a wee bit melancholy.

Many of our discussions revolve around travel plans for a nebulous future, mountains we hope to conquer, canyons waiting to be forged, formula one races we hope to attend, a shopping spree in Paris, and of course our plans, now delayed by two years, to walk the El Camino de Santiago from France to Spain. Our buckets are overflowing.

Mike says, “I need more than one lifetime to pursue all the vocations I enjoy and places I hope to explore.”

I say, “I know, but maybe we have multiple lives, this might not be our first rodeo, it could be our thousandth?”

Mike wasn’t buying it, he says, “I’ll make the most out of the one I have because honestly, I’m doing exactly what I love.”

Me, “oh, that’s going in the blog.”

Nicholas Sparks claims, “the reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected. Maybe they always have been and will be. Maybe we’ve lived a thousand lives before this one and in each of them we’ve found each other. And maybe each time, we’ve been forced apart for the same reasons. That means that this goodbye is both a goodbye for the past ten thousand years and a prelude to what will come.”

Who knows?

I will boast, on our final evening, while sipping wine on the deck, we actually outlasted the ritual surge of bats at dusk as they make their way into the inky night. We decided to make it an early evening, nonetheless, in order to accommodate the Severance’s departure in the morning. Although there’s nothing good about goodnight when you know it means goodbye in the morning.

Lounging on the deck, shooting the shit, Rachel, Ellie, Mike, Cheryl, Sue, Larry

Gail says on the morning of their departure, “I love the Swedish word, resfeber, which means the restless best of a traveler’s heart before the journey begins.”

The restless best of a traveler’s heart, I love that.

I say, “awe, that’s from Lost in Translation, great book.” I was actually stuck on the word, Iktsuarpok, which means the act of repeatedly going outside to check if someone is coming.

Gail responds, “but they don’t have a word that describes the feeling when the adventure is over and it’s time to go home.”

I say, “it’s called bittersweet.”

I have this little word book I stow in the guest room featuring significant words from around the world which carry with them expressions that resonate on a human level, regardless of nationality, because as Walter Benjamin notes languages are not strangers to one another, and given the chance neither are human beings.

Our final adieu was tinged with gratitude, knowing what we know about the capriciousness of life, if we’ve learned anything from COVID we now understand every moment is precious, having in it the essence of finality.

Standing on the sidewalk watching their car drive away, we wave at the enormity of the world that separates us, but we lean into our next crazy adventure, whatever that may be, because the restless best of our traveling hearts are mingled with the Missourians.

Until we meet again…

I’m Living in the Gap, smiling at the memories, until we see you again.

Anecdotes:

  • “The summer ends and we wonder who we are and there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car and today I passed the high school, the river, the maple tree I passed the farms that made it through the last days of the century and I knew that I was going to learn again again, in this less hazy light I saw the fields beyond the fields the fields beyond the fields” Dar Williams
  • “What does brace mean, anyway? Brace. Such an odd word. It comes from the Latin brachium, meaning arm. It means, as its heart, to embrace. It was a hug. A hug good-bye.” Laurence Gonzales
  • “Celebrate the people in your life who are there because they love you for no other reason than because you are YOU.” Mandy Hale
  • “Woven into our lives is the very fire from the stars and genes from the sea creatures, and everyone, utterly everyone, is kin in the radiant tapestry of being.” Elizabeth A. Johnson