A Winter's Morning

It was 26 this morning; no doubt colder with the wind chill. Another day in the “mild winter” world of Charleston. As usual, Mojo came over for a “visit” to my side of the bed about 7:45 -- you can count on it -- and it doesn’t take a psychic to know what was on his mind. With his head resting on the bed and those soft brown eyes forlornly looking up at me, he was wondering if this, at last, might be a beach day. Lately, it’s been so damn cold in the morning that going to the beach with him just wasn’t an option I was so terribly interested in. I mean, who wants to subject themselves to wind chills of 13 degrees on a windswept terrain that is disturbingly lunar in its personality, devoid of life but for the occasional passing pelican? But, this morning I reacted differently. Mojo is headed for knee surgery in two weeks, his second in 9 months. For three months following that, there will be no beach time for him at all. Just house arrest and rehab. How could I say no?

I bundled myself up in more layers than the best lasagna; a veritable Pillsbury dough boy was I. Or, maybe the Michelin Man. I thought it would take a crane to get my coat over the last of my fleeces, but I managed to waddle to the door like a sumo wrestler and took a wagging Mojo with me. He was naked, naturally. And, very excited.

Pulling me as if we were about to be overtaken by a maniac bear, Mojo and I reached the beach in near record time. As is our ritual, he sat patiently while I got his leash unhooked and then waited for me to give him two pats on his side whereupon he launches like a rocket. Eat my dust. As I walked on to the sand, I immediately noticed that the sand was frozen! As crunchy underfoot as a graham cracker crust. The sun was bright, if not warm, and the wind blew the few errant particles of sand like whirling dervishes across the desert. Seeing that I was the only game in town, Mojo returned halfway from the water’s edge to urge me to get on with the business at hand: the flinging of tennis balls far out into the ocean.

Some would consider this tantamount to animal cruelty notwithstanding the (somewhat) warmer temperatures of the ocean water than the ambient air. But, this was not about human activity; it’s all canine. As my brother-in-law-Jim would tell me later, think of Mojo’s coat as a built-in down-filled parka. Warmth is not so much an issue. Except to the canine’s shivering owner. And so our little dance proceeded. I would launch a ball as far out as I could into the icy waters and Mojo would leap over and through waves to track it down. He returns, drops the ball near my feet, shakes off the excess ocean, and expectantly waits the next throw. Throw after throw, throw after throw. Spring, summer, winter -- this exercise knows no season. I stand at the water’s edge my toes secure in the L.L. Bean waterproof boots that I simply never thought would see the light of day once we moved down here. But, here we are and Mojo’s ceaselessly wagging tail tells me I’ve done good here.

As is his fancy, Mojo will approach anything with a pulse, no matter how far he has to roam, if only to drop the ball at their feet in the hopes -- indeed, with the full expectation -- that his new playmate will pick up the nasty, slobbered-upon orb and toss it into the ocean, where it belongs. This morning was no exception. In the distance, a solitary figure approached so hooded and wrapped it was impossible to determine age, sex or anything else other than there were two arms and two legs belonging to this person. As advertised, Mojo ran to him/her looking much like the deranged epicenter of crazed play that he is, and dropped the ball at the person’s feet. Getting the idea, the person tossed the ball into the ocean and repeated and repeated as the two of them worked their way up the beach. As the figure approached, it became clear it was an older guy. I apologized and said what I often do which is that the lucky devil is now Mojo’s new best friend. He smiled and said, “That dog is just full of life, isn’t he?”

Tough to argue with that.

Reminiscing

Why is it we really get into reminiscing just when we don’t have the mental capacity to do that successfully? I know, I know -- when you’re young, and have wonderful mental acuity, you don’t look backward; there’s too much that lays ahead to ponder what was. And, when you’re young, the next step is always so cool and to be envied that you don’t want to waste a moment on some lame memory that happened when you were, let’s say, a toddler. If you’re 8, you want to be 10. Ahh, double digits! When you’re 10, you crave 13. To be a teenager at last! When you’re 14, you can’t sit still until you’re 16 so you can drive. Freedom! And, when you’re 19, you ache for 21 so the whole deal can be legal and you can be treated as a full-scale, honest-to-God adult, just like your parents and teachers. Everything is forward looking.

But, when you get into your 50s or 60s, I guess your head is so crammed with memories, you just have to have an outlet for them before our heads explode from over-capacity. And so we reminisce. Or, at least we attempt to. This past weekend, our good friends Randy and Cathy came for a visit. Our relationship goes back decades, and for Lily, back to college days. We were married within a year of each other, shared summer beach houses for years, raised each other’s kids, skied together, traveled together, partied together. You get the picture: we share a lot of history.

So, there we were, sitting around the dinner table the other night calling up days of yore, drinking way too much wine. We were trying to recall a charades game we all enjoyed, played some time in the last millennium. Ancient history to all but those steeped in Greek history. It was a contest between the girls and the guys, or, as we entitled them, the Powder Puffs and the Bulls. No stereotyping back in those days, oh no. What we couldn’t get straight -- in 2010 -- was exactly who was there. Was Syl there? Randy thought so. Was Maggie there? She had to be, right (even if her name back then was Marge)? Did the Powder Puffs prevail? None of these matters could be resolved. In a desperate effort at resolving the vagaries of history, Lily reached through the cobwebs of her distant past and went to what had to be an unassailable source: some old poetry she had written commemorating the famed pantomime event. I mean, what better documentation of history than old poetry. So what if it wasn’t Homer, Sappho, or Aeschylus. Sadly, all we got from that effort was that there was apparently some guy named Allen at that charades event, and none of us could even remotely think who that might be. I called Maggie, one of the most intelligent people we know on planet earth, and all she had to say was “what charades party?“ Not helpful, but why should she be any different? We thought she was a participant that long ago night, but our memories are -- how you say -- not to be trusted.

And, so the evening wore on. We tried to reconstruct which beach houses we rented in chronological order. Consensus was as ascertainable as an elusive ghost on some far away mountain. Our minds were mush, and while some of that could no doubt be attributed to the wine, equal parts of the blame rested with our over-used and way too cluttered heads. I guess this is why history is written and why extemporaneous accounts are so valued. As the event, whatever it is, vanishes in the rear view mirror, so does our ability to re-create what happened. Is it fun to try to reconstruct personal history? Absolutely. Is it productive? Not a chance in hell.

And, why should we expect it to be any other way? We can’t remember what we had for lunch just yesterday. Nor can we recall who that actor was in that movie (whose title is also a bit too elusive at this particular moment). You know the one. It's on the tip of my tongue! It took place in Vienna. Or was it Rome? And, the star went on to play a major role in that spy movie. You know, the really popular one that led to a TV series that starred the guy who used to be bit player in that old James Garner flick. And, on and on it goes.

It’s all there. In our minds. Somewhere. Probably not far from where we left the car keys or glasses, wherever that might be.

Close Quarters

(September 23-26) An interesting study in human relations, this gullet excursion. The challenge: close, sometimes very close, physical proximity for 4 days to 11 other travelers none of whom you have ever laid eyes on before. As in any forced encounter, some interactions fare better than others, but you know deep down you’d like all of them to work as well as possible since you’re virtually nose to nose with these folks for more than just afternoon tea. What this means, among other things, is putting up with Umete’s snoring a couple of feet away on the deck’s night time sleeping area, or Herb and Judy’s effortless (and, sadly, continuous) attempts at dominating breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations.

For us, the experience worked well, first and foremost, because -- with the exception of Umete -- all of us spoke English. Immeasurable barriers were overcome as a result of this good fortune. I mean, it’s not like we needed to immerse ourselves in Swedish or German to get by. Rather, bonded by everyone’s love for travel stories, an avalanche of information and opinions were the order of the day. Want to know what the life of a journalist is like? Done. Want to know the nuances of beekeeping? Done. Or, maybe you just want to know what it’s like to pedal your way through eastern Europe. Done. Even Herb and Judy’s voracious appetite for the spotlight could not disrupt this totally pleasurable atmosphere.

This may be a bit of an exaggeration, but we ate every nine minutes -- or, so it seemed. A wild pastiche of tomatoes, potatoes, nutella, bread, cheeses, pink deli meats, grilled chicken or beef, pasta, and the ubiquitous olives. Not gourmet, for sure. But, plentiful, tasty, and satisfying. The scenery is spectacular: mountains falling into the deep blue Mediterranean, a smattering of ruins, ancient castles lording over the sea from protected heights, and gorgeous sailing vessels dotting the waters. Swimming off our boat revealed to us not only how warm the water was, but how incredibly salty it was as well. We had floats and noodles to bask on, but, seriously, it would take more than a little effort to sink.

One last note: sleeping on deck was awesome. Lulled to sleep by a gentle rolling of the boat, you could try to keep your eyes open just long enough to take in the full moon and its beams traversing the sea like a yellow carpet leading directly to your eyes.

Not a bad way to end the day.

You Can't Get There From Here. Really.

(October 7) Ok. It’s been just about a perfect trip, right? Lots of sun, gorgeous settings, great food and wine, and great company. We are smiling, relaxed, and nostalgic about leaving.

Leaving? Who said anything about leaving? At midnight on the eve of our departure from Paros, we hear a knock on our door. My thinking is this is never a good sign, and this time is no exception. It is our local travel agent who comes to tell us that the air traffic controllers of Greece have gone on strike, and our flight to Athens (and then home) has been cancelled. We will now need to take a ferry to Athens, and wave bye-bye to our flight out of Athens should it actually leave. Which it did. Without us.

What now? Plan B. Get to Athens, get a hotel near the airport and then start the always endless slog of dealing with the airlines to rebook our departure. One of the dark, little secrets of the airlines is that when you miss a flight and you’re using more than one air carrier, they always point the finger at the other guy. Your problem is never their problem. And, so it was with us. Lufthansa told us we would have to deal with United, and United told us we were out of luck. They could maybe get us out five days later and we would have to buy new tickets at a cost of about $5,000 per couple. That’s right. $5,000. This is not a typo. Sensing this was not an option, we toyed with the idea of staying in Athens, see the sights. Or, maybe go back to one of the islands and wait it out until United deigned to give us mileage tickets at a fairly nominal cost. In the meantime: souvlaki, ouzo, repeat.

What happened instead was we tried another United phone number and were met with a far more compassionate lady who tried her level best to re-acquaint us with the U.S. of A. without draining our bank accounts. She tried to get us on any flight back to the U.S. This meant possible trips to New York, Charlotte, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, Houston, Detroit, and even Canada. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. (Vegas. She should have tried Vegas. Anything is possible there.) We were stranded. I had visions about now having enough time to learn Greek, or, at a minimum, increase my tolerance to ouzo. I wondered: would Mojo remember us? In fact, would he be cared for since our house sitter had other obligations going into the weekend? Huge stress on this one. (Through a series of emails and texts we were able to get word to our neighbors to take the little guy in. Problem solved.) After rolling up $300 in telephone charges, Compassionate Lady at United forged ahead to find us some minimally sensible solutions, and, amazingly, she found one. We could leave the next day, but would have to stay in London for a couple of days.

Fish and chips anyone?

The Gateway to Heaven?

(October 3) Ask yourself to name the three most beautiful places you’ve seen on the planet, and ask yourself why you made these choices. Was it a beautiful beach, a majestic mountain range, the most charming of cobble stoned villages, or, maybe, a lush tropical paradise? Then, narrow your choices down to one. How can there be just one best, one most beautiful place?

I thought that myself until we came to Santorini. The pictures I had seen over the years seemed stunning, but I also knew this place to be a popular tourist mecca -- something that tends to erode great beauty very quickly. Does Santorini have tourists? You bet. Does it have a thousand jewelry, t-shirt, and souvenir shops? Of course. But, all of them combined cannot begin to put a dent in the overwhelming grandeur and sheer mind-bending, breathtaking beauty of this place. Most of the island is a huge rock, but at its western façade, it serves as a fitting foundation for the small, white-washed towns that hug the cliffs along a fantastically sparkling Aegean Sea with views to the horizon so vast and so sweeping you swear you can see the curvature of the earth. The Caldera, as they call it, or the volcanic remains of what was once part of this island, jut out of the sea just enough to give a proper sense of size and distance to this matchless vista and give context to sunsets that are so breathtaking they can make you cry.

The towns of the west coast are a vertical jumble of white-washed buildings and blue-domed churches. They seemingly overlap one another so that from a distance they appear to be one rolling structure. Trying to identify a particular hotel or restaurant from a distance, as you move higher or lower along the aerie-like paths that hug the cliffs, is a game in itself, not entirely unlike “Where’s Waldo.” From the water, the towns and cliffs give all the appearance of snow-capped mountains, the cliffs a deep reddish brown capped by the sea of white buildings on top.

Somewhat like the Amalfi coast in Italy, Santorini’s famed western slope towns are not for the poorly conditioned. Everything is either straight up or straight down. Even getting from our hotel bedroom to our bathroom involved a hike of several steps up and then a steep staircase down. (In the middle of the night, this is not a task taken lightly.) What this presents is an endless opportunity to see everything from different angles -- from above and below -- as you navigate vertically. In one moment you are looking up at a church dome; in the next, you’re taking a picture of the same dome from above.

The alleyways of these towns, notably Fira, and the crown jewel, the achingly beautiful Oia (pronounced Eeya), are almost narrow enough to span with your arms. There are no cars here; there is simply no room. Automobile traffic is relegated to streets inland and to the flatter parts of the island. But, the manner that these alleyways connect, sideways and vertically, give you the feel sometimes that you’ve landed in a life-sized M.C. Escher drawing where all paths seem circular and without resolution.

As in Rhodes, there seem to be cafes and restaurants every nine feet. I have no idea how all of them survive, but I’m told they do. You pay for the view, of course, but mostly that is a price we’re willing to pay. Order your “tomato balls” -- deep-fried tomatoes in a chewy crust -- or deep-fried stuffed olives, or cheese plates, or, for heartier fare all of the beef, lamb, octopus and calamari dishes you can imagine. Ply yourself with local Greek wine, put your feet up on the railings, and breathe deeply.

As they say, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. For me, the eye-popping effect of these starkly white-washed cliff hugging towns against the matchless backdrop of the Caldera and the Aegean, all from a height that seems miles high, is as good as it gets. Is it perfect? No. Is it close? Oh yes. At this moment, I am sitting on a chaise by our pool staring out at a scaldingly sun-washed sea that, as I say, seems to be miles below. There’s a cool breeze blowing, and even the monstrous cruise ships that lurk in the harbor seem no bigger than toys. They are no threat to us right now. We will enjoy cocktails later as we watch the world-famous sunsets here where the sea takes on hues of pinks and reds and the white facades of these towns turn peach in color. Dinner lies beyond. Somewhere.

Rhodes

(September 27-30) We are staying in a hotel whose building dates back 800 years. It begins to tell you the story of this epically historic site which has seen the likes of the Lycians, Romans, Ottoman Turks, English crusaders, and, in more recent times, the Germans, Italians, and Greeks. It lies at the metaphysical and literal crossroads of history and geography as, over the centuries, marauding powers, traders, and crusaders criss-crossed the eastern Mediterranean in pursuit of religious purity, riches, power, or some other greater glory.

One can begin to envision what all this might have looked like way back when, but for the impossibly numerous shops carved into these ancient buildings: jewelry, fine clothing, artwork, leather goods, souvenir emporiums, and t-shirt shops. And, this is to say nothing of the seemingly endless array of rooftop and sidewalk cafes that vie for the tourist dollar at every opportunity. You’ve got your souvlaki, grilled octopus, yogurt, stuffed grape leaves, prawns, all with tomatoes, onion, and parsley and the ever-present and tasty olive. Factor in the waves of folks arriving by cruise ships which dock from time to time, and you have all the ingredients for a shopping and eating frenzy that may have no peers. At some level, this commercial onslaught is insulting given the very serious history of this place. At a lighter level, however, the sensory overload presented by these shops and eateries seems engaging, entertaining, and even comical if you’re in a more relaxed and whimsical mood. Which we were.

We have a safe haven from all this at our hotel, the Sotiris Nikolas, nestled near the western walls of the Old City beyond the rabble. We reach it by a narrow alley whose cobblestones, like those everywhere here, are still impossibly rounded despite centuries of traffic. The Nikolas exudes charm no less than Cary Grant once did with rooms having arched doorways that lead to a protected wooden patio overlooking a rear garden that has enough green to balance out the stone walls that rise above it. The proprietor, Marianne, is of Danish descent, and she is exactly what you want in a hotelier: charming, helpful, funny, obliging at every turn. Breakfasts are up on the roof, and there amid the bountiful offerings of eggs, fruit, pastries, bread, coffee, cheeses (and, yes, olives) lies the city and harbor beyond.

Perfect.

Aboard the Alaturka

(September 23-26) The Mediterranean is pretty spectacular wherever you find yourself on it, and the southern coastline of Turkey is no exception. The water has none of the turquoise you associate with the tropics, but it does sport an eye-popping sapphire, almost electric, blue. We are aboard the Alaturka, a Turkish “gullet” perhaps better described as a wooden sailing vessel. We are among eleven other passengers: five Aussies (including a couple of newlyweds), two Lithuanians into homeopathic medicine and beekeeping, a female Canadian journalist working for Reuters, three other Americans, one of whom is literally pedaling himself through eastern Europe and Turkey on his trusty but well worn bike, and one non-English speaking Turkish dude, Umete. Except for Umete, we are all united by a common language, a love for travel, and a fondness for storytelling.

What is not to like about this? Nothing, I tell you. We all have “staterooms” below, but they are small enough to test even Clark Kent’s legendary skills at costume changes in small places. And, the bathrooms each of us gets are so microscopically tiny they should issue elbow pads as standard equipment. As a result, all of the action is on deck, including sleeping. I mean, why sleep in a claustrophobe’s hell when you can bed down on commodious pads with your blanket and pillow and fall asleep under the stars? As for day-time activity, I know this sounds stressful, but we eat, drink, swim, nap, read, mingle, and repeat. This cruise is not for the antsy.

I thought the sunset last night was as good as it gets, but I was wrong. This morning’s sunrise was a psychedelic pastiche of neon pinks and blues against a foreground of the steep Turkish hills that slide into the sea, each a different hue of black.

Spectacular.

Go and Then Stop. Repeat, and Repeat, and Repeat...

(September 22) Let me make a friendly suggestion. When next you contemplate a dashing, daring adventure far from home, give a thought or two to how logistically crazy it will be to get there. I say this as we board our fourth flight of the day. Count ‘em: one, two, three, four. Don’t ask me what day it is or what time zone we’re in. I haven’t a clue. I do know we’re in Turkey. At this moment, we are awaiting the departure of Flight 2560 on Turkish Airlines from Istanbul to Dalaman, on the country’s southern coast. Charleston feels very far away.

This was a trip planned long ago when we knew we’d barely close out Jesse and Laura’s wedding before having to execute a hairpin turn within 36 hours to ready ourselves for this wonderful adventure to Turkey and Greece. We knew it would be a long journey, but knowing and doing are two different things. Why is that?

Up at 7 to see Alex off for his return to San Diego, we later make it ourselves to the Charleston airport. One hour wait here. One flight of one and a half hours. Arrive in Philadelphia. A three hour wait here. One eight hour flight to Frankfort, Germany. In Frankfort for four hours. One three hour flight to Istanbul. Wait in Istanbul for two hours. Finally, a two and a half hour flight to Dalaman. Let’s run the numbers, shall we? Ten hours waiting in airports, fourteen hours in the air. That’s a day, right?

Somewhere before Frankfort, I lost my train of thought. I think somewhere between Frankfort and Istanbul I lost my ability to reason. In Istanbul, I lost the ability to speak coherently. Will I remember my name when we land in Dalaman? I am clutching our two passports with whitened knuckles lest I leave them in some godforsaken restroom.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I can’t wait to reach our destination and get the trip rolling. I’ll rally, whatever my name is.

But, right now, fatigue rules.

The Ceremony

On September 19, Jesse and Laura got married. Here is the ceremony that I prepared for them......

I’d like to welcome all of you to this wonderful celebration we’re having today. I have to tell you, I find it both amazing and incredibly heartwarming not just to see so many familiar faces, but to realize the distances -- in many cases, great distances -- that so many of you have traveled just to be here. We have folks here from Mississippi, of course, but also Louisiana, Colorado, California, Oregon, Florida, Massachusetts, New York, Ohio, Illinois, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., Delaware, North Carolina, and, yes, even a few from South Carolina. Have I left anyone out? I want to thank all of you for taking the time, for making the effort, to be here and sharing in what is obviously a very special day for us.

Before we proceed, may I ask please who is presenting the bride? Thank you John; thank you Gail.

Laura and Jesse, imagine meeting you here today. Who would have thought even just a few short years ago that one day the three of us would be standing right here right now like this? But, here we are. And, what an extraordinary day it is. I suspect everyone here, if asked, could describe for you in vivid detail the most special days in their lives, but, speaking for myself, I can tell you that there are precious few of them where we can honestly say that we find ourselves surrounded by all of the most important people in our lives: Your family, your friends -- all the people through whom no doubt you can trace every significant step (and misstep) you have taken along the way. There are some people here today who know you as no one else does. They know your strengths, your weaknesses, your idiosyncrasies, your history, your secrets. And, they love you. So, as I say, days like this don’t come along very often. Enjoy these moments and remember them.

I know your relationship started seven or so years ago as a dating one. But, I seem to recall that at some point fairly early on, you deepened that relationship by becoming good friends as well. You learned to trust each other, to rely on each other, and to look out for one another. Essentially, you began the process of becoming partners in each other’s lives. Believe me, I know there were no shortages of parties and good times in those years, but all of us here also know that since those days the two of you have gotten down to the business of sharing your lives together when it’s not all parties and good times. You now know what it is to pay the bills, to put food on the table, to share in day-to-day responsibilities, and to ride out stressful times. You also know what it is to make plans with a keen eye on each other’s likes and dislikes, not just your own fancies. And, yet, through all of this, you have remained sure of each other’s feelings and, best of all… you have remained happy. The trust the two of you have built up in one another is not something you get automatically by simply signing a marriage license; you have to earn it. And, each of you has done just that.

Jesse -- I know you will recall the steady drumbeat of advice you got from us when you were growing up, especially from your mom: don’t you dare get married before you turn 30, we said. We told you that you really don’t know who you are until then; we told you that you would evolve and grow and that your tastes and values at age 30 will bear little resemblance to those you had at age 20. So -- if you don’t know who you are, how can you expect to go about the business of successfully selecting a partner for life? You remember that, right?

Well, Jess, it’s not that we were wrong, not really. We thought that was sensible advice. What we hadn’t counted on… was Laura. Laura, as you know, you have long since become a part of our family. I sometimes feel as if we have literally traveled the globe with you, from Europe to Costa Rica to Indonesia. I don’t remember when it happened exactly, but at some point Lily and I stopped being “ma’am” and “sir” and we became just plain old “Lily” and “Jeff.” And, I have to tell you how delighted we are in the evolution of our relationship with you.

But, apart from our travels with you, Laura, you and Jesse have truly traveled the world as very few ever get to do --- from Africa, to Europe, to Central and South America, and to Southeast Asia. Those have been amazing times for you both, but I also suspect they were testing times for you as well. You don’t need me to tell you that oftentimes, when you’re traveling under less than the best conditions -- something the two of you know a little something about -- qualities such as patience and tolerance are not the ones that always come to the fore so easily. To me, then, what made your travels so special was not just that they enabled you to learn more about each other, but they enabled you to strengthen a relationship that was already strong. Best of all, they enabled you both to envision a future together as well. That’s why I’m thinking that among the many, many irreplaceable memories each of you have of those journeys are not just the destinations you reached, but memories of how you traveled together as well. Somewhere down those roads, Laura, you not only wowed Lily and me, but, far more importantly, you wowed the fellow standing next to you today.

So, Jesse, here we are today seeing you getting married at age 27 and not 30, which means, Laura, that I can say to you that, in your wonderfully disarming fashion, you pretty much singlehandedly shattered one of the basic parenting lessons we had for both Jesse and Alex. And, I am here to tell you how happy we are that you did...this one time. And, Jesse, how happy we are that you so totally ignored our advice...this one time.

I think what I’m going to say to you here may sound a little trite, Laura, but I promise you that is not my intention. Your bright, sunshiny disposition just makes things better. Your graciousness and your generosity are of a sort that simply cannot be manufactured. You are truly genuine. Gail and John -- I have to tell you, you’ve done good here. You have raised an amazing daughter. Indeed, if I may say so, you have raised three amazing daughters. And, Laura, just as we have come to embrace you, so has your family embraced Jesse both as a son and a brother. From Jackson to Pickwick, you and your family have always made Jesse feel relaxed, comfortable, and loved. And, for that, Lily and I are truly forever grateful.

Jesse -- the personal growth you have shown over the past several years has been simply stunning to me. I can say this, of course, because, as your father, I am hopelessly and irretrievably biased. I raise this issue here only because it sheds light, in part, on why we believe your future with Laura is so promising. You know, Jess, there was a time in your life when your inclination was “to go it alone” and when you would engage in decision-making essentially by falling back on your own instincts, really to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. I can say honestly that is simply no longer the case. Not from what I’ve seen. What you have gained is a measure of humility and, in my book, it is humility that is a basic building block in any enduring relationship. You have learned to learn from others and to trust their judgments alongside your own. Nowhere is this more in evidence, Jess, than in your relationship with Laura. Just judging from our own conversations in recent months when we‘ve talked about your life plans, your goals, your aspirations, I am struck by how mindful you are of Laura’s happiness, not just your own. And, I have to tell you, this is a wonderful omen.

You will recall that some months ago I asked each of you if you would share with me what you believe you have learned from one another. Jesse, you told me that because of Laura’s influence in your life, you are now more patient, more tolerant, more mature. You say you see yourself now as a far better person since Laura entered your life, and those of us who know you best see how much easier it is for you now to get outside that once stoic exterior and express your feelings more openly. Essentially, Jesse, Laura has begun the process of opening you up, and how wonderful is that?

Laura, you told me that because of Jesse you are now far more adventurous and that you see yourself as a far more independent and confident person than you have ever been in your life. You told me also, Laura, that because of Jesse you now strive for better things in your life. These are amazing qualities to learn from one another. What you don’t know -- indeed, what you cannot know yet -- is that as each of you continue to grow and as you continue to share your strengths with one another, each of you will grow in ways you cannot possibly imagine. And, I dare say, they will all be for the good.

I’m a little bit older than the two of you, and I only have the floor for another minute, so, if I may, I’d like to offer a few of my own suggestions to you: be kind to each other, be generous with each other, laugh with each other, listen to each other, and remember that while it is so important for each of you to maintain your own separate identities in this relationship, remember also that whereas you were once two, you are now one. Think that way. I’m smiling as I say these things to you because I know you know these things; I know you understand them, and I know you try to practice them. I’m also smiling because as a father, and a father-in-law, nothing could possibly make me any happier.

I know the two of you have vows you would like to exchange, so, if you would, please turn toward each other and repeat after me.

Jesse: I, Jesse, take thee Laura to be my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better – for worse, for richer – for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.

Laura: I, Laura, take thee Jesse to be my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better – for worse, for richer – for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.

May I have the rings, please?

Jesse, please repeat after me: Laura, accept this ring, and with it my promise of faith, patience, and love, for the rest of my life.

And Laura: Jesse, accept this ring, and with it my promise of faith, patience, and love, for the rest of my life.

Jesse and Laura -- In the spirit of God, and with the hopes and wishes of your family and friends, may the happiness you feel at this moment stay with you the rest of your lives. By the authority vested in me by the State of South Carolina, I now pronounce you husband and wife.

Jesse -- You may kiss the bride

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you for the first time, Jesse and Laura Golland!


Epilogue

When I was getting dressed for the ceremony, I reached into my bureau looking for a nice watch to wear for the occasion. What I came across was a watch belonging to my father, a watch that had not been worn for the 24 years since his death. I put it on. Lying next to it was my mother’s wedding ring, untouched since her passing 18 years ago. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I felt like I was in a circle now completed. I felt whole.

In the ceremony, I said to Jesse and Laura that this would be one of the most special days in their lives. What I had not realized, but soon did, is that this proved to be one of the most special days in my life as well. Surrounded by almost all of the most important people in my life and Lily’s -- family and friends -- and feeling the good will, support and love coming from all, I knew this would signal a moment that would be with me forever. Thank you, Jesse. Thank you, Laura. I love you both so much.

Seared Sea Scallops in a Tangerine Reduction Over a Mango and Avocado Salsa

When you're at a loss for what to do for dinner tonight, try this out. I'm telling you, your children and your children's children will be talking about this for a long time. A taste explosion!

ingredients

3 large sea scallops per person
1 ripe avocado
1 ripe mango
1 package string beans
1 can garbanzo beans
1 good sized scallion
1 good handful of cilantro (chopped)
1 medium handful of sundried tomatoes
1 medium handful of pine nuts
olive oil
toasted sesame oil
1/2 cup fresh tangerine juice (or, in a pinch, orange juice)
1/8 to 1/4 cup soy sauce
1/8 to 1/4 cup lemon pepper oil (or the flavored oil of your liking -- maybe basil oil, for example)
1 lime
ground black pepper to taste

the scallops

- place scallops into a hot pan that has been coated nicely with olive oil. use medium heat.
- sear scallop bottoms until nicely caramelized. flip and do the same to the reverse side.

the mango salsa

- chop mango into smallish pieces. same for avocado. add in chopped scallion and chopped cilantro. add in the juice of the lime and the toasted sesame oil. let stand.

the tangerine reduction

- into a saucepan, put tangerine juice, soy sauce and lemon pepper oil. place under medium heat and allow the mixture to reduce.
- when the sauce has thickened, let simmer and spoon on to scallops

stringbean chopped salad

- blanch stringbeans for no more than two minutes in boiling water. drain and put in a bowl of cold/ice water. drain that bowl and add the stringbeans and drained garbanzos to the bowl. add in sundried tomatoes.
- in a pan, toast pine nuts either with a little olive oil or without -- your choice. add in pine nuts to beans.
- sprinkle the mix liberally with olive oil and black pepper and stir.

Serve scallops atop the mango salsa with the bean salad on the side. spoon your tangerine reduction over the scallops.

Wham! One great dinner!

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

You remember that line, right? Roy Scheider utters it in a moment of awe and horror as he takes in the spectacle of the great white thinking lunch thoughts next to Roy’s hopelessly undersized boat. Funny how that line flew into my consciousness as Mojo did his level best to re-enact Captain Sam Quint’s role in “Jaws” this morning. What Mojo clearly didn’t appreciate was that, in fact, he was actually reprising the title role from the 1939 classic “Idiot’s Delight.”

This morning’s jaunt began innocently enough: bright early morning sun, a beautiful low tide, lots of dogs. But, when someone shouted “shark,” that was reason enough to know this was not going to be your ordinary morning. As we turned to the ocean shallows, the large silvery dorsal fin was unmistakable, and while he was no mammoth great white, he was no minnow either. Both two-legged and four-legged life forms immediately got out of, or steered clear of, the water……except Mojo. To the extent that Mojo can be said to think actual thoughts, I felt he was saying, “Damn, that’s one big minnow out there!” Not needing any further encouragement, and having batted zero for a thousand in this summer’s endless attempts to finally land a minnow, Mojo dove into the shallows and attacked the shark. Let me repeat that: he attacked the shark. With his front paws sitting astride the dorsal fin, I feared the Mojomeister was on the verge of having a sushi breakfast were it not for the deft escape maneuver of the shark who proved to be the far wiser of the two animals in this one act play. You could just hear the shark thinking, “What the hell is that lunatic black thing on my back?” as he slithered off to deeper waters.

Normalcy ensued for maybe another 20 minutes or so until the shoreline was visited by yet another shark, this one, to my eyes, even bigger than the last one. (I think the first one went back for reinforcements.) Mojo, having learned nothing from his first encounter, dove into the ocean yet again in pursuit thinking, no doubt, how this really was his lucky day. Never, ever, had the Isle of Palms been visited by such fabulous minnows. In proving yet again how stupid people can be when faced by moments of trauma, I ran into the ocean after him waving my plastic ball launcher as if this were weapon enough should things get dicey. Fortunately, this shark came from the same smart family as the first visitor and found a way to get away from the shark-surfing Mojo and retreat to live another day.

My friend, Brian, tried to convince me that Mojo was not acting stupidly, but was actually indulging in an act of heroism; that Mojo was, in fact, putting himself in harm’s way to save his buddies from an unsavory fate. This is what I will let others think. I would say that Mojo and I know better, but clearly, Mojo does not. When we returned home and I watched Mojo eating his usual breakfast of dry, boring kibble, I wondered whether thoughts of sushi or shark tartare danced in his head.

Next time, big fella, next time.

Life Among the Giants

Mojo has a couple of friends, Mabel and Bosco, whose mere appearance casts shadows across whatever landscape you happen to find yourself in. Mojo is not exactly small in the world of canines; he’s about 75 pounds, give or take. You know he’s there. But Bosco is to Mojo what Mojo is to a cereal box. Bosco, and his mom Mabel, are great danes and they live next door under the same roof as their guardians, Brian and Jan. I see Mabel and Bosco -- oftentimes referred to around these parts as “the ponies” -- at the beach every morning where the vastness of the shoreline can make even these behemoths seem average-sized. But, indoors, they can make your 2,000 square foot house seem like nothing more than a large efficiency in a flash. They fill the space, as they say.

This weekend, Lily and I became dog sitters for the ponies as both Brian and Jan had to be in Chicago for a funeral for Jan’s mom. When Brian asked me if we would take in the big galoots, I didn’t hesitate. I knew they got along famously with Mojo, and I knew this would help out Brian and Jan. The plan was for Bosco and Mabel to stay at their home with me coming over to feed them, walk them, and take them to the beach in the mornings. For a day that worked. While Lily joined me in our early morning beach outing, and was a huge help, I still felt like it would have been helpful to have a third eye and, perhaps, a third arm. Bosco has a tendency to want to explore the rear regions of the deep beach, while Mabel actively seeks out both other dogs and the stray passer-by against whom she does her famous lean which can bowl you over if you don’t pay attention. All the while, Mojo is doing his frenetic “dance in the shallows” looking for minnows, or alternately, leaving tennis balls all over the place which he has passionately chased, but not so passionately returned. And, one of them is surely pooping somewhere during all this, and not always where it’s most convenient. Shepherding these three brutes to more or less head in the same direction is like the proverbial herding of cats. Very big cats. When you finally get them on leashes to get them home, the odds of your getting twisted into a pretzel are of a sort that even Vegas smiles on. So -- this is more than a one-person job, at least for me it is. But, day one, went swimmingly. A good time was had by all.

Day two, however, large and very noisy thunderstorms altered the landscape in more ways than one. Mabel fears thunderstorms the way you and I fear not being able to breathe, so when storms arrive (or even when they’re still in the distance), the poor girl goes into manic mode, drooling, tail curled downward, all the while seeking a safe haven. This is what happened this morning. In an effort to ease her stress, I cajoled her and Bosco -- who is fine with all this climatic drama -- to come over to our house where at least Mabel would have the comfort of human company.

As I write this, this is still a work in progress. What I can say is that Bosco and Mabel follow me around the house in a way that makes me feel like I’m being trailed by two small continents, one on either side. Mojo darts in and around the continents with a toy in his mouth seeking a playmate, two-legged or four -- it doesn’t matter. I feel the need for space.

Sunshine could really help here.

Adieu, Mon Ami

I hope I’m not alone in this. Tell me you don’t have a favorite t-shirt somewhere, or maybe a fleece, or an old pair of jeans, that has outlived its expiration date by, let’s say, 15 years. You know what I’m talking about. Clothing that’s so old it not only looks weathered, but it knows your history; it knows your secrets. It is almost holy in its rankings among your belongings. You put these garments in the laundry and you dearly hope they survive the spin cycle. Why you keep them is obvious. They feel great. They conform to your body in a way that reflects that they are practically human. They know you, right? So what if they are a bit torn, a bit weathered, a tad faded. They are your friends. They understand.

So, when it comes to parting with them you feel a sense of loss that is wholly out of touch with reality; totally out of line with “normal” expectations. They have become a part of you, and tossing them away is akin to tossing away a loved one, sort of. They deserve a fitting burial, no?

This tragic moment happened to me this weekend when I ever-so-reluctantly parted with a t-shirt I loved. It was one I picked up in New Zealand 14 years ago when we were traveling there with Jesse and Alex. It was a muted peach in color -- or at least it became muted after its 4,000th washing in 2003. Over time it became beatifically soft as only a bit of clothing that lasts so long can become. On its back it touted A.J. Hackett Bungee Jumping, an outfit that was responsible for Jesse’s leap into thin air at the tender age of 13 off the Kuwara Bridge outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. A leap that launched an adventurous and -- some would say -- fearless attitude toward life that has suited him well over the past decade. Some would say too well, but that’s another story.

And so, when I realized that its threadbare leavings were not up to yet another spin cycle, I made the terrible judgment that its expiration date -- long overdue -- had actually arrived. Life support was no longer an option. The shirt was now semi-transparent and was deserving of a fitting adieu. I touched it with a sensitivity I likely had never before managed; the kind you would experience maybe with a loved one with whom it was time to say good-bye.

I will get over this, of course. But, don’t tell me there aren’t memories embedded in that t-shirt’s weave. Don’t tell me there isn’t something more important here than discarding your every day piece of trash. I won’t hear of it.

Treasure your old garments. They know you as few do.

Jailbreak

We reached the end of the wooden walkway that leads to the edge of the beach. I reached down and spoke softly to the patiently waiting Mojo. “Be careful out there” I whispered to him and then released the latch on his leash and sat back to watch his ecstasy. It was his first day unleashed since early April when he had knee surgery that would require more than three months of rehabilitation. From his ridiculous “Elizabethan” collar, to his underwater treadmill sessions, to his slow return to long walks, to his trots with me around Wild Dunes, his surgeon finally pronounced him ready to return to the scene of the crime, as it were. He was joined on that walkway by his long time compatriots, Bosco and Mabel, the great danes who live next door. Mabel, too, was excited to see her buddy again. In a flash, he was sprinting to the ocean, his home away from home.

If one can paint a picture of happiness, then this was a Rembrandt. Mojo flew to the water and began his eternal pursuit of minnows in the shallows. He fairly leaped vertically as he tried to pivot and intercept the elusive fish. His motions were akin to a frenetic, spastic dance to a music that has no rhythm, but which has a satanic beat. For a creature that has only two goals in his life -- to catch a squirrel and to catch a minnow -- this was serious, if joyous, business. I brought with me three tennis balls to keep him entertained, but they were wholly unnecessary. The minnows, or, more accurately, the promise of minnows was all he needed. Even his other compatriots, Lucy the boxer, Betsy the goldendoodle, Sandy, the miniature something, and other assorted labs were most surely a distraction, but they were only a diversion from the main event. Center stage was reserved for the ocean.

The fly in this ointment is the knowledge that Mojo will be facing more knee surgery in his near future, this time on his right leg. The surgeon told me it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question as to when the other shoe would drop, so to speak. Lily and I held our collective breath as we watched Mojo sprint to the ocean wondering if he’d pull up lame and face a maddeningly hasty return to being under house arrest. In a way, we were already preparing ourselves for this. But, this was of no interest to Mojo who cared only that he could dive through some waves, lie in the shallows, and chase those infernal minnows. Today all went well.

This is how you spell happiness.

"Will you still need me, will you still feed me......."

Back in the mid-60s when Paul McCartney wrote “When I’m 64,” I barely gave it a thought. It was a nice enough song, but one that definitely took a back seat to a host of other Beatles tunes and, for that matter, almost every other piece of music from that fabulous era. If I had given the thoughts behind this song even a nanosecond of my attention, I would have shrugged and concluded, “that’s for other folks.” And, of course, that would have been right…...in 1966. But, we’re not in 1966 anymore, are we? It’s 44 years later and now its lyrics and sentiments resonate a bit more personally than they did back then. Why? Because today I turn 64; that’s why.

Mostly, as we age, we become avid devotees of the “denial” approach to problem resolution as we still, despite all obvious indications, try to siphon off our latent fears that things are most certainly going downhill. What we hear is such tripe as, “60 is the new 40” and so on. Well, I hate to tell you, but 60 is still 60, and 64 is still 64, and until the human species can reliably extend life well into the hundreds, we are marching, unrelentingly, to our expiration dates.

Do I take solace that I can still run 6 miles or swim 60 laps? Of course. Do I try to tell myself that my parents were not remotely in the same shape I am for this age, and that bodes well for me? For sure. Am I convinced by all that? Sometimes… as when I indulge in one of my flights of denial and delude myself into thinking it so. Maybe it’s a pattern for baby boomers who have never taken well to notions that they are not special or cutting edge. We are immortal, no?

I do have to say that the image conjured up by Mr. McCartney of the person who is 64 is of someone who, in my own mind, is hopelessly infirm and tottering on helplessness. I know I don’t feel that way and look forward to many more adventures before I pack it in. But, I would be lying if I said that turning 64 isn’t a dour reminder of something I don’t want to confront. Am I drooling yet? No. Am I googling nursing homes? Hell no. But, there’s something so arbitrary about a number. Is 64 so wildly different than 63? Of course not. Damn you, Paul, for making me think it is.

Nap time anyone?

Mojo's Knees, Redux

When we first got the news that Mojo -- at the delicate age of maybe a year and a half -- needed surgery for a bum knee, we knew we were in for a tough slog. We were told it would take on the order of 3 months until his body could heal and he could fly free of his leash once again. Like in all things canine, it’s tough to explain to the guy that this too shall pass; that his goofy Elizabethan collar would be temporary; that our joyful forays of chasing one another around the house must be put on hold; and that his weeks long rehab might be fun, sort of. We followed the script and kept him under a proverbial lock and key -- indeed, virtual house arrest -- for the past 2 months. I kept telling the folks, who had become accustomed to seeing Mojo and me in the early morning hours on the beach, that his re-appearance was almost imminent and that I would bring a bottle of champagne to the beach in mid-July to celebrate his rediscovered freedom.

All that was until the other day when I brought Mojo back for some scheduled post-surgery x-rays. The surgeon matter-of-factly advised me that while Mojo’s recovery from the surgery was going swimmingly well, Mojo’s other rear knee was in need of repair as well. He showed me the x-ray and tried to point out in detail the growing fluid on the bad knee and the loss of muscle mass there. To the surgeon, it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question. He opined that the final tearing of the tendon could be in 6 weeks or 6 months, but it was coming as surely as next winter. In a flash, “deflating” had a new poster child. My mind had already been on a schedule that would envision a return to the beach for the rest of Mojo’s life in a matter of weeks. We could get through this unfortunate delay knowing the finish line was looming. Hearing that any such prison break would be, at best, temporary, forced my brain to entertain a mid-course correction of my expectations. It could be done because it has to be done, but I think it’s going to take a while to sell me on it.

And, this does not begin to confront the issue of cost, which, as they say, ain’t chicken feed. As I became fond of telling folks, it’s not as if Blue Cross covers these procedures. I suspect they wouldn’t look too kindly on a bill submission for MCL surgery for a four-legged dependent.

I am taking some comfort -- perhaps as a delusion -- that the angst here is all mine and not Mojo’s. I try to think that dogs don’t appreciate the passage of time -- more specifically, the painfully slow passing of it -- as humans do. They truly live in an “it is what it is” world. Right? I’m clinging some to the notion that notwithstanding the physical discomfort and a replay of the slow rehab process, Mojo is not thinking, as I am, “when the hell can we get back to the beach?” I want to be right about this.

Maybe I’ll age that bottle of champagne a bit more.

It's Free (Sort Of)

I promised myself I would never do this. Never, ever, ever. For as long as I can remember, I always tossed them out when they came intruding into my mailbox. You know -- those ever so superficially alluring promos from mostly real estate interests of one type or another promising free this or free that if all you would do is come on down and listen to a little spiel about their product. We know, and they know (and they know that we know) that this is a little scam to pry loose thousands of dollars from us all in the name of an “enhanced vacation experience.” I always said to myself, what dummy would actually fall for this thinly veiled mockery?

Well, apparently, I am more of a dummy than I gave myself credit for, or, at least I’ve become one since retiring. So, what happened here? I saw the envelope in the mail: a promise of a free cruise. Even knowing what this was about, I was feeling a bit mischievous and curious, and decided to call the folks just to see what it was like to speak to the devil. The nice lady at the other end of the line asked me only to come to their office in Charleston with Lily (and proper identification, please) where we could pick up our free cruise voucher after a “brief” encounter with company “representatives” who would merely introduce us to a wonderful new product before the voucher could be issued. I laughed and agreed. When I told Lily about this, I told her it would be a hoot to do this and she could count on me to nap through what I figured would be a cutesy video presentation. I encouraged her to bring something to read.

I had no idea what I was talking about. Zero. After being introduced to our personal representative, Shannon, whose job no doubt was to soften the first lines of our resistance, we were ushered in to a large room. Here, the subzero climate they maintained was not the primary distraction only because Mike was. In rolled this large sized man with a voice that knew no volume control. I could be wrong about this, but I think Mike’s last name was Megaphone. And, Lily and I were sitting in the front row within spitting distance of the mammoth air conditioning vent that was actively trying to single-handedly create the new ice age. I felt as if our hair was being bent backwards by the force of the sonic waves coming from Mike’s mouth. With Mike finding it to be presumably an effective selling technique by making his presentation interactive, it sealed the deal that there would be no napping or casual reading while he held us hostage.

As Mike and the air conditioning terrorized us, we were showered -- no, make that inundated -- with facts and figures that made it all sound as if this real estate “time share-like” proposal was indisputably a deal that only an idiot could decline. We’d save thousands, and over the 40 year plan that was on the table we would travel the world for pennies. How could you lose? Although I was wearing a t-shirt, I felt as if I were wearing a shirt and tie that were three sizes too small. I felt that somehow they had managed to artificially increase the air pressure in there far beyond normal bounds. Indeed, the fabulous relentlessness of Mike’s performance, made me feel like I was in the middle of the original Terminator with Arnold Schwarzenegger ruthlessly pursuing me with absolutely no chance for denial or reprieve. Or mercy. I felt some compassion for those facing what they euphemistically call “aggressive questioning” by law enforcement or the military. My head was swimming. I felt hunted.

Almost two hours later, Lily and I managed to fend off Mike and Shannon’s final stabs at our vulnerability and, almost begrudgingly, we were issued our voucher for a free cruise out of Charleston to points South . We were so stressed out, we couldn’t wait to get back home, grab two beach chairs, Mojo, and the largest rum drink I’ve had since my junior year in college. We headed to the beach to watch the last rays of the sun... and decompress.

The funny thing here -- lost in all the combat sequences we had just survived -- was that Lily and I have never thought of ourselves as cruise candidates. Just not our style. Our sense of it is that it’s a place for spandex, coiffed hair and garishly mismatched deck wear. And, of course, a non-stop eating experience where food is available in every nook and cranny of this floating refrigerator.

But we’re going alright. This is our only way to finally defeat Ahhnold.

Hello. Good-bye. Again

You know the time worn phrases: no grass grows under his feet; a rolling stone gathers no moss; he’s got ants in his pants; shpielkes (for those of you with Yiddish tendencies). The ultimate truth remains the same: They come and they go. And, so it is with Alex who left at dawn this morning for points West. San Diego, specifically. Here in a flash and gone the next moment. The rhythms of life, eh? In this case, Alex was gone for 15 months, traversing four continents and communicating mostly by email and skype except in those rare moments when we could actually catch up to him in person in those special passages of time overseas. We are no different than any other parent, really. We watch our children grow and take their own baby steps to achieve their dreams, and we watch from the sidelines like so many cheerleaders at an athletic event. But, we are mostly helpless. Children grow and leave, maybe to the next town, over the mountain or maybe to the next ocean. It’s all the same. In this case, Alex is off to pursue his dream of becoming a media mogul and can only watch its twisted path that leads who knows where. Lily and I certainly had no expectations of spending much time with Alex after his return from his 15 month, global odyssey; but, that doesn’t mean we weren’t choked up at his departure this morning. We helped him load his car, helped plan his itinerary West, made some sandwiches for him, gave him some traveling money, and then, poof(!) he was gone…again. At least now he would be within reach by phone. At least now he wouldn’t be off on some incredible third world jaunt unreachable by normal means. Small comfort.

Isn’t it just an extension of the time when you watch them take their first baby step and let go of their hand in that magical moment to see if they can do it on their own? I wonder if that visual image ever changes no matter how much time has elapsed and how accomplished they have become. This is new to me; I can offer myself no expert advice. We will watch, though. But not from a place where we can help dictate a result. He’s on his own now, this kid.

We’ll keep the light on for him.

A Prayer for Captain Tony

They put Captain Tony down today. This bear of a dog, this absolutely wonderful best friend to Jim, is gone. So very, very sad. Our hearts go out to Jim, Ivy, and Marley, but, in the end, this was Jim’s dog and I believe his hurt will be felt the most. To people who do not own pets, or who do not fancy themselves as dog lovers, Captain’s passing will not seem particularly newsworthy; but it is.

We first met Captain Tony, a burly, lightly hued golden retriever, when he did time at the animal shelter in Alexandria. From the get go, he displayed his lifelong habit of nudging his head under your hand for some attention, some special handling. If, moments later, you would pull your hand away, his head would dive right back in there. He simply craved a little attention and affection. And, it was humans he was drawn to, not the companionship of other dogs. He came into our lives when Jim and Ivy had yet to find a place to live that would accept pets, but Jim knew he had to claim this wonderful beast because dogs like Captain Tony don’t hang around animal shelters very long. Until they could find a pet-friendly home, Lily and I agreed to give Captain a home although he would have to share it with our eternally juvenile chocolate lab, Hoover.

Captain Tony was deaf, or mostly so. This did not make him seem disabled or damaged to me; rather, that quirk seemed to make him even more special. We fairly quickly learned that if you wanted to communicate with this guy, you had to face him head on. You needed eye contact. And, once that was established, we did fine. He did scare the bejesus out of us the day he suffered his first seizure in our home, and the terror we felt still resonates with us. His contorted body and wild flailings froze us in place. We didn’t know if he was dying or if he would throw himself through a window. And, afterwards, when he was so disoriented that for minutes he did not know where he was or who we were, were moments that were as heartbreaking for us as they were troubling to him. But, through medication, this issue, too, was safely negotiated.

When Jim claimed him from our house, an era of almost magical camaraderie was born between these two. The fact that they were of two different species was so besides the point. They bonded as few animals and people do. Their hikes, their trips to lakes and streams and to the beach were so special because for each of them, that was what they most loved to do. And, to share that with another being who feels exactly as the other makes for an extraordinary relationship.

As the years wore on, and Captain Tony slowed his pace, he took on a dignity that, yet again, was special. He had a huge head and when he sat on the beach and barked at some unseen goblin, he had the demeanor of a lion. A very agreeable lion. Of late, he developed bone cancer and the dreaded countdown began. A few days ago, when I discussed Captain’s fate with Jim, he told me he had done some research online looking for answers as to when it is, exactly, that marks the time that one should put down an animal. What he came away with was the notion that when a dog can no longer do what he loves to do, then maybe it’s time. It resonated with Jim, but that didn’t make the decision any easier.

At mid-day today, I knew the moment was at hand and both Lily and I felt a great surge of sadness. Having lost Hoover a few years ago, also to bone cancer, we knew the extreme despair of knowing the time has come, but also realizing that your great friend, who trusts you completely, does not share that realization. And there is no way to tell him. It is one of the heartaches of being in receipt of unconditional love that makes this so difficult.

I told Jim I would wait a couple of days to speak to him. It’s just too fresh today. But, our thoughts and love are with that family.

Adjusting (Or Not)

You’ve been there, right? You walk into someone’s house who has a couple of kids -- and enough years have rolled by so this is not a recent experience for you -- and toys are strewn everywhere. So many, in fact, that as you ease your way into a family room you are more frequently stepping on things that squeak and honk than on a flat surface. Some things may even be sharp or large enough to cause a random meeting between your nose and one of those family room walls as you stumble your way to a chair. In a perverse way, this is what Lily and I are feeling these days as our community morphs from its winter ghost town identity to thriving metropolis. Spring has come to Charleston, and so have the tourists. They are everywhere, and they are there all the time. I went to the beach yesterday -- which for months has been more secluded than the Fortress of Solitude -- only to find actual people roaming the beach, making sand castles, burying each other, or just sunbathing. It is so odd that in an expanse that is so wide and deep and with such an infinite horizon that even the most claustrophobic feel at ease, I sensed a claustrophobic-like moment welling up in me. Who are these people and why are they upsetting my personal universe?

At night, when in previous months you would be much more likely to see deer roaming the streets than people, you now see hordes (well, what seems like hordes) of folks walking about like it’s noon. Voices come from everywhere. And the trash! Beer cans, wet towels, pails, and partially buried toy tractors and trucks are all too visible on the beach. When driving, what had once been an environment where the local stop signs were as needed as they would be on the lunar surface, they now must be rigidly obeyed. During the day, behind the wheel, you feel like you’re in an amusement park arcade as you anticipate the constant darting out into the streets by small urchins untethered from their parents. Not that the parents don’t enjoy their jaywalking too. And the traffic! Now, you actually have to plan ahead to wander out to the Piggly Wiggly lest you get caught up in a line of cars so long and serpentine you feel you’re in an ant colony’s conga line.

I was sharing these observations the other day with the nice lady who sells us Mojo’s dog food, and she nodded knowingly, as only a long time resident could. She told me that when she and her husband moved here from Ohio 12 years ago they, too, soon enough came to love the off-season and were quick to take up the spiritual banner against this dreaded species they call tourists. She also told me to lighten up.

So, now I have to deal with the fact that I am on the fast track to curmudgeonhood.

The Race

It was an impulse really. I did it without thinking. The good folks at the Wild Dunes resort here decided to sponsor a 5k run, on the beach. They called it the “Tortoise and the Hare Beach Run.” We had just returned from Colorado where we skied for the first time in 13 years, and, frankly, my legs felt like lead. And, to be honest, in my more than 30 years of running, I had only participated in two previous races and they were more than 20 years ago. I think maybe deep down I thought that among the likely crowd for this one, I could do pretty well since I had been running almost daily for weeks. So, I signed up.

I showed up at the appointed time and sneaked glances at my competition. I was not encouraged. While there were a few souls appearing to be above the age of 40, most were in their early 20s. Jackrabbits, all of them. I was easily the oldest entrant. Certainly, no one else was sporting a white beard. Still, I thought I might do respectably. Lest anyone but the most oblivious think this was an event on a par with the New York Marathon, I could detect several distinguishing features. First, there were about 35 of us, not 35,000. Second, there were no crowds lining the course, although I can tell you there were many mosquitoes and sand fleas. Third, I don’t think you’re apt to see a human-sized tortoise and hare in full costume at the New York event. And, lastly, while we would not be touching down in all five NYC boroughs, we would be asked to run up the beach to a marker near the 18th hole and return to the start.

When the call of “Go!” came forth, I realized that one of the jackrabbits was already a hundred yards down the course before I had even turned on my ipod. Very humbling. But, I gathered myself to get into the fray and found myself, if not near the front of the pack, at least within hailing distance of it. Well, sort of. I realized my pace was a good bit faster than I would normally indulge in, but, after all, this was a race, not a jog. I got into my rhythm and tuned almost everything out except my music and the stares, some admiring, some quizzical, of the folks who had come down to the beach for an early morning stroll.

As I turned it on for the sprint to the finish line, I realized there was no one around me. Most of the jackrabbits had already finished and the rest of the field had slowed under the obviously torrid pace I had set for the them. At the finish line, there was one guy -- the one in the hare outfit -- who was there to give me a high five as I crossed the line. No cheering crowds, no bands playing. No champagne. Silence. I’m thinking to myself, why did I do this? I could have slept in and gone for a run later (indeed, without paying for the privilege).

I grabbed a couple of glasses of water and my race t-shirt and headed home. As I was leaving the area, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around. It was the hare. In his hand, he had an envelope which he handed to me. Apparently, the youthful winner had no sooner crossed the finish line than he had raced himself right off the beach and into a waiting car that would carry him and his family away from the resort and to, presumably, home. The race organizers decided that the award for the first place finisher -- a free massage at the spa -- should go to me! I didn’t ask why. But, it was hard to stop laughing. And, sure enough, when I opened the gift certificate, it said “to the top male runner.” I decided to aggressively delude myself into thinking how that might be the case.

Please tell me they didn’t give it to me out of pity.

The Prodigal Son Returns

I stared at the computer screen transfixed. I was watching a flight tracking site as it ever so slowly recorded the progress of Alex’s return flight to the U.S. from Qatar. It was just a blip on a world map, but that blip contained a son who had been gone for almost 15 months. That’s a long time. The flight tracker gave me more information than I could possibly use: altitude, speed, heading, anticipated arrival time, etc. Everything but what they were serving for lunch. The blip inched its way into U.S. airspace and I experienced an odd sense of relief. As the altitude lowered in the plane’s approach into Dulles, I actually got excited. But, it’s not like we were there to greet him. No, that would come later once Alex had a couple of days to re-acquaint with friends who were just a tiny picture on Facebook or a faceless email account for so many months. I found it very amusing that literally an hour before his plane landed we got a postcard from Alex that he had sent from Nepal six weeks earlier, and, in his last line, he wondered whether it would arrive before he did. Just barely.

We had seen Alex twice in his travels, once in South Africa and again in Indonesia. Each was a sensational treat to have a reunion in such ridiculously exotic surroundings. But, having him home would be a treat second to none. After a whirlwind week of dinners galore with our friends in the D.C. area and then late nights with his friends, it was all pretty exhausting. We did return home to the Isle of Palms where Alex saw a far different house than the one he left in the closing days of 2008. And, he met Mojo for the first time who --doing his best Labrador routine -- was quite excited to see this tall, lanky stranger.

The effects of this trip will be with him for a long time, for sure. How could it not be? The other day, when we were driving through local streets, he spotted an animal and stared at it intently until he realized it was not a goat, but merely a dog. Maybe not what you’re apt to see in India, Nepal or Java, but really quite ordinary here, right? Really, his whole persona needs a re-boot to get into the flow of this strange new land, the U.S. Some friends have asked us whether we thought Alex would have any re-adjustment issues having been away so long (and in such wildly different environments). I think the jury is out on that one. It may depend in some measure on how successful he is in pursuing his dream of working in sports media. It is a venture that has focused his energies, and not just here but also abroad where he spent considerable time tracking down job possibilities and mapping a plan to guide him when he hit the ground.

Alex will be fine. Now, if he could only learn to pick up his stuff that has spread eerily like a lava flow around the house.

The Bushido Challenge

Everybody loves a challenge. It focuses the mind. Gets the juices flowing, they say. “Don’t tell me I can’t beat that guy, “ or “don’t tell me I can’t beat that record.” Where would "machismo" be without a challenge, right? In the food world, the notion of challenge can take several, less than elegant, forms: competitive speed eating comes to mind. Or, perhaps, Man vs. Food which routinely endeavors to shock the world with ungodly volumes of consumption.

And, so it is here in Charleston where the beauty, elegance and grace of sushi creation are savagely re-directed to the more primeval elements of “the challenge.” In this case, the venue is Bushido, a sushi restaurant in the West Ashley section of Charleston, where a steady stream of combatants come to test their will against the almighty spicy tuna roll. Some call it the Bushido Challenge, some call it the spicy tuna roll challenge, but the game is the same: to earn the title of “Legend of the Roll” one must consume in one sitting 10 spicy tuna rolls -- all hand-rolled -- in which each succeeding roll is increasingly spicy. The first few are deceptively easy, but the last few are laced with ever larger infusions of habanero peppers and thai chilies until the last couple fairly spontaneously combust if left unattended for more than a few moments. It is told that more than four hundred hearty, if delusional, souls have attempted this, and only a handful have succeeded.

I love spicy food and had looked forward to experiencing this diabolical, if ridiculous, challenge. Thirty years ago, when Lily and I were in Chiang Mai, Thailand I humbly met my match with a dish that caused my tears to flow as no other event in my life had up to that point (save perhaps the heartbreaking loss by the Yankees in game 7 of the 1960 World Series). I remember telling the restaurant proprietor that I was up to taking his best shot and I was taken down. Hard. I failed that day and now saw Bushido as a much delayed chance at redemption.

When we placed our order with our waitress, she sternly said to me, “You don’t want a number 10. Believe me.” Sadly, I folded, taking her at what had to be her very experienced word. Frankly, I think I may have been intimidated. I went with a number 6 which she said was the spiciest she had ever handled. (I had no intention of eating all ten and going for the Legend accolades. It wasn’t just a matter of the cumulative spiciness that loomed, but the sheer volume of all that food.) I was on red alert as she placed the fiery red conical torpedo in front of me. Waiting for the alarm bells to explode as I chewed, I was somewhat surprised that while this roll was most definitely spicy, even fiery, it was not a killer. That silver bullet lay somewhat higher up the food chain, as it were.

What was so entertaining, though, was to look around and see others there who were unmistakably there for the challenge. They were the ones who could easily be mistaken for being seasick as they sat rubbing their heads -- in disbelief possibly -- with a vaguely green pallor, a vacant stare, and beads of sweat popping up all too obviously on their foreheads. They were up to their eyeballs in tuna, peppers and chilies and their bodies were in active revolt. One poor soul, who had just eaten numbers 9 and 10 had bolted outside with a carton of milk in his hands. Too little too late, I was thinking. Another guy, at the same table, looked as catatonic as one might be and still be considered a paying customer. The girlfriend of the guy with the milk told us there was no way her boyfriend was going to sleep in her bed that night. It was the couch for him. No sirree, no unnecessary risks for her. A third guy came with a large group all the way from Macon, Georgia for the sole purpose of doing the challenge. He told me there was no way he could return home without victory -- here celebrated by the issuance of a headband with the Bushido name on it, a $25 dollar gift certificate, and the promise of lifetime bows by the sushi chefs whenever you enter the restaurant. He was sitting there with numbers 9 and 10 on the plate in front of him daring him to complete the challenge and possibly a call to 911. His vacant stares told me he would be a while and so we left not knowing his fate.

As for me, I am going back. Next time it will be a number 7 and perhaps a number 8. Redemption is out there, I know it.

Steppin' Out

There comes a point when you say to yourself, “okay, the ball’s in your court. It’s time to get out there and meet people.” After a year in Charleston, we have been swept up in a wave of extrovertism (if that’s a word). While I have been out and about for the past year making an easy fit of my new retirement fatigues, the same could not be said of Lily. Whereas I have been doing a steady meet and greet every morning in my jaunts to the beach with Mojo, Lily has been encased, as it were, working in her cave, which we alternately refer to as the office or guestroom numero dos. I have been flapping my gums for months meeting a wide array of dog owners, getting to like some, making my own contribution toward our assimilation into the South Carolinian life style. But now, Lily is retired. And, in anticipation of the event (which officially occurred last Friday), we have been looking for avenues to pursue to glad hand and embrace the entire Wild Dunes Community.

Our first shot in the dark came with the local bridge club. I know, I know it sounds so terribly stolid -- so old school -- but, hey, it’s a start. Lily and I do enjoy the game although we find it so much more enjoyable when it is accompanied by major servings of wine and opportunities to chat amiably with our opponents. As it turns out, the group we joined could not have been nicer: convivial, welcoming, knowledgeable. What the small print disclosed, however, was that the median age of the group was somewhere around 112, maybe a bit less. I mean these folks don’t just remember the Great Depression; some were walk-ons for the movie version of the Grapes of Wrath, I‘m quite certain. That’s old in case you’re missing my point. But, we have gone several times now even including their early bird dinners which begin about 5:30. My God, it's still light then, and it's winter for crying out loud. Stay tuned on this one.

Beyond this, we have enrolled (drum roll, please) in the Wild Dunes Yacht Club! Please, please try to refrain from laughter at this point. Really, wait just a second. First of all, you don’t have to be a boat owner to join. This is a good thing since, first, we don’t own a boat, and second, we are as comfortable in small boats as many people are in straight jackets. Second, it appears that the primary unifying force of the club is to get people together to drink and eat. Not necessarily a bad thing. And, maybe best of all, a number of the members don’t clearly remember a world without the internet. No Civil War veterans here. Lily and I went to one meeting a couple of weeks ago and were delighted at the wine selection, and the care free camaraderie of the attendees. We look forward to the next event.

I’m even thinking of trying to find the perfect ascot for these events. Maybe one with little anchors in it.

And on Reflection

(Dec. 28) On another 14 hour flight. This one’s from Hong Kong to Chicago. At the moment, however, it’s hard to think about anything but a very young, and very unhappy, passenger whose screams may break some windows before he’s done. My hope is that the steady drone of the engines will soothe both his and my jangled nerves. The flight plan for United 896 appears to take us over Russian air space. I presume the Russkies are expecting us.

Our vacation is over. Months and months of planning and coordination and, in a flash, it’s done. Isn’t it always the case? But, the memories of this one will last a long, long time. For Lily and me, traveling with Jesse and Alex once again (and Laura now too) reminds me how wonderful it is to do that, although no reminders are needed. Jesse is fast becoming a very accomplished guy: a 3.95 g.p.a. in grad school, an internship upcoming with the State Department in Mexico City, a graduate degree in June, and nuptials in September. A crowded agenda. He is so grounded and well-prepared for whatever lies ahead. His days as troublemaker par excellence are rapidly vanishing in his rear view mirror. He is master of his fate, and I love that about him. When he mimics someone’s voice, when telling one of his wonderful stories, he sounds like a stereotypical Russian, no matter what the nationality of the person he’s depicting. I find it hilarious. He and I are ruthless hearts players, and it is not uncommon for newcomers to our games to indicate that maybe they aren’t quite ready for this experience. But, we enjoy ourselves immensely.

And Alex? Here’s a guy who’s been traveling for a year. From Tierra del Fuego to Swaziland to Vientiane to Perth. And soon, Kathmandu and Mumbai. Mountain trekking, skydiving, shark cages, bungee jumping, safaris, and scuba. He has not been short changed in this adventure. What was once a kid with learning challenges and self-esteem concerns is now an emerging man of the world. When once reading was a painful exercise for him, he now devours books during his frequent solo journeys to the middle of nowhere. I know I am biased, but Alex may be the funniest person I know. Many people make me smile; Alex makes me laugh. Out loud. What could be better? Together, Jesse and Alex take great pleasure in pointing out my foibles, both physical and behavioral. It is one of the constant drumbeats of our time together. Lily is spared this; she’s their mom, after all. I, however, am fair game, and that’s fine by me. They kid because they love, right?

For the days we spent together in Indonesia in our shared scuba experience, I found myself watching not just the amazing marine life, but Jesse and Alex too. They would probably be embarrassed to learn this, but experiencing these fabulous underwater jaunts with them and Lily, together as a family, was at least as amazing to me. It provided one of those quintessential “pinch me” moments.

So, this adventure is now history. In this family, though, it is always about the next trip. On to Provence, I say!

Singapore, the New Cool

(Dec. 27) Move over New York. You too, San Francisco. There’s a new, cool dude you can learn something from. It’s Singapore. It’s modern, it’s colorful, it’s lush, and it is very, very cool. It is a city that reminds you of the old tale of the blind man trying to describe an elephant -- it depends on what part of the body he touches that reveals the creature’s appearance. The trunk, the leg, and the tail -- they all tell very different stories, and Singapore is much the same. It can be a modern, jet set-worthy, splashy shopping experience. Gucci, Prada, Rolex, Dolce and Gabbana, Calvin Klein, Louis Vuitton, even Starbucks. You get the picture. It has wide boulevards lined by a gorgeous canopy of trees and dotted with marble benches for the weary shopper. But, it is also a city that pays tribute to the best architectural elements of British colonialism. Beautiful white-washed buildings all flowing with graceful arches and large, welcoming courtyards. This style is typified most elegantly by the Raffles Hotel, now in its 123rd year. But, Singapore is also a city devoted to its ethnic neighborhoods -- Malaysian, Indian, and Chinese. Here, the streets are narrow with small shops and restaurants seemingly piled one atop the other as is so typical for so many parts of Asia.

It is a crowded city. Make no mistake about that. After spending almost all of our three weeks in relative backwaters with no roads or cars, sharing sidewalks with what strikes me as one-third of the planet’s population was unnerving and alien. The chaotic flow of pedestrian traffic, often elbow to elbow, paints the same picture for me as the hysterical movements of ants whose nest you have just unearthed. Nothing like post-Christmas shopping to get the juices flowing, I guess. And, the heat -- formidable. Not that it is any hotter than Thailand or Indonesia, but it’s amazing how it wears on you when you can’t shuffle around in nothing more than your swimsuit.

Lastly, a word about the food. It reflects its people: Chinese, Malaysian, and Indian. Every nook and cranny offers a fabulous diversity of cuisine. Having gorged ourselves for weeks on Thai and Indonesian food, Lily and I stopped for a change of pace -- middle eastern fare offered up by one of the many open-air sidewalk cafes. My grilled lamb was delicious, but the shawarma Lily had was to die for. Maybe one of the tastiest treats of the entire trip. I went so far as to inquire in the kitchen how they made it only to learn that the chef whose recipe it was had died some months earlier leaving it in the hands of a supplier to deliver the goods to the café. With a shrug, the current chef smiled and suggested that it was no doubt some combination of the 4 Cs that did the trick: curry powder, cumin, cardamom, and coriander. I will experiment when I get home.

Singapore: whatever you want, it’s here.

Night Dive

(Dec. 24) When I asked Alice, our dive master, whether a night dive would quicken or slow the pace of breathing, she said either was possible. People are either so excited or apprehensive that they use up the air in their tanks more rapidly than is otherwise the case. Or, she said, for some, breathing slows for those who find this adventure to be a remarkably relaxing experience.

Actually, I found both to be true. I freely admit my apprehensions at the prospect of descending to the ocean floor in total darkness. Wondering whether you’ll get separated from the rest of the group and feel the ultimate sensation of being lost, was in my mind not so much indulging in paranoia as it was recognition of a possibility that was uncomfortably greater than zero. We would have underwater dive lamps, of course, but their range was hardly limitless, and (definitely allowing my paranoia to take center stage) I felt the beam in mine was weaker than it should be.

And, so we descended as the sun was setting out over the South China Sea. It was Christmas eve. The drill was to stay together in a mute, marine conga line with admonitions not to bunch up too closely lest one whack a fellow diver in the head with an errant fin. There would be a dive master at the head, middle and rear of the line ostensibly to prevent strays. Well, that didn’t last very long. Not that anyone was lost, but by the end of the hour dive, most of us observed that at least at one point in the dive we had been the last in line with nothing behind us but black and endless ocean.

As we settled in to this weirdly new environment, I relaxed and began to understand what Alice meant by the likelihood of one’s breathing slowing. None of us knows what it’s like to be in the womb, of course, but this has to be a damn close approximation. Movement slows, effort eases, and each breath extends longer and longer. The 86 degree water temperature soothes and relaxes. And, the pace is slow -- very slow.

As planned, late in the dive, we form a circle on the ocean floor sitting on the sandy bottom extinguishing our dive lamps. Blackness you cannot imagine. You know there are people all around you, but you are alone, believe me. Lily, Jesse, Alex, Colin and Shanti might as well have been a thousand miles away. And then, magic. On cue, we all start waving our arms as if in some legless dance routine, and in front of our eyes appear phosphorescence -- tiny, tiny marine life that appear to you as thousands of tiny fireflies or microbursts of a thousand fireworks. Awesome.

There was no evidence of Santa or reindeer that night, but there was no question that this was a pretty amazing way to celebrate the arrival of Christmas.