The Undoing of History

We tend to think of history as something that happens somewhere else, to someone else. To be sure, we feel deeply affected by worldly events no matter how far away they may occur, but history is, for the most  part, something we unconsciously reserve to history books.  We read about historical events and try to envision what it must have been like to be there, but notwithstanding our best efforts, we are dealing in abstractions here, not gut wrenching realities.  Even with respect to current day events, we learn what we know through the TV screen or other forms of mass media.  The images on the screen definitely bring these events to life in a way that no printed word can, but even here as you sit in the comfort of your home the reality of this history -- the feel, the smell, the immediacy of it -- are still several steps removed.

That all changed for Alex and me a couple of weeks ago in Paris.  It was early evening and, as had had become our new pattern, Alex, Katie and Owen had settled in for a break at the apartment just as Lily and I had in our hotel room, all awaiting a meeting up for dinner once Owen fell asleep.  But then Alex got in touch with me sending me urgent images of a cathedral on fire.  To be honest, these images which were from a newsfeed, at first did not resonate with me.  But, suddenly I realized these were images of the cathedral of Notre Dame.  And, yet even in those moments I was somehow doubtful of their truthfulness.  But Alex said he would be by in five minutes and said we had to go and witness this.  I agreed.

When I went down to the hotel lobby, the desk clerk was unaware of the event.  When I mentioned it to him, he frowned and tilted his head in disbelief but then did a quick search on his computer.  When the images came up on his screen, he gasped and his hands went to his mouth in a pure statement of shock.  Alex appeared and we took off.

As we raced through the narrow streets of the Left Bank and peered into bars along the way, the TVs were all blaring the news of the fire.  But, here's where the reality set in.  Navigating the narrow streets and heading downhill, the sky was filled with billowing smoke and then, depending on a break in the skyline of the buildings in front of us, the hot orange of flames shooting skyward could be seen.  It looked like the whole city was on fire just blocks away.  The crowds thickened and soon it became a lava flow as everyone headed for the river.  The stress was palpable and contagious among the crowds the closer we got to ground zero.

As we neared the river, we could now see in full view the cathedral in flames.  In my life I had never seen flames so large, so high, so sweeping.  They were at least thirty to forty feet high and massive in width.  They stretched from the back side of the magnificent two front towers to the rear section of the cathedral and its now dearly threatened spire wholly engulfed in flames licking at its very existence.  Helicopters would occasionally swoop by.  Sirens were the constant soundtrack.  Police would be feverishly yelling at people to stand back in efforts to control the lava flow of the many, like Alex and me, wanting or needing to witness history.  The gridlocked cars had windows opened, passengers with jaws agape or cameras flashing.  The crowds were universally dumbstruck by what they were witnessing.  And, many were either openly crying or quietly wiping away tears that just wouldn't stop.

As I stared in bewilderment, I kept wondering where were the fire fighters?  All I saw were two streams of water, one near the front, the other near the back of the cathedral which seemed so utterly inadequate in the face of what might not unfairly be described as an Armageddon-like expression of fire.  I expected helicopters dousing water from  above and boats gorging water from  the river.  In the panic we were all  feeling in those moments, we wanted water coming from every possible source and from every possible direction.  No effort seemed sufficient.

The mammoth flames had now devoured enough of the roof to not only tumble the cathedral's beautiful spire, but to fully expose the skeletal timbers of the building's roof.  All exposed, they were nothing now but mere kindling to some demonic bonfire and we knew it would only be moments before the entire roof collapsed.  But, when it happened it was stunning.   In a moment the roof was gone and it was only a question of where the flames would turn to feed their unending appetite.  The gasps and moans from the crowd were penetrating to anyone with a soul.

It was just ninety minutes earlier that we had been finishing up our day's explorations when we decided to take a run past Notre Dame.  Lily decided to take the stroller and sit in the small but fabulously charming park behind the cathedral while Katie, Alex, Owen and I walked an encircling route around the building taking in the towers, smiling at the gargoyles, dodging the long lines but, as always, taking in an iconic bit of world history.  I mean, here is a building that has been with us for close to nine centuries surviving every monstrous act of man and nature that has dotted human history all these centuries.  It is part of the reason that Notre Dame is such a world renowned landmark.  And yet here it was, in front of our eyes, its existence actually threatened.  In those moments, it felt like the undoing of history.

So, this is what experiencing history in the most real sense feels like.  I cannot say that I physically felt the heat of those flames, but emotionally I most surely did.

Chaos x 2 = Nirvana

Chaos is a term we tend to throw around rather loosely.  Even thoughtlessly, you might say.  Just like I'm going to do right now. Normally, we use the term chaos to describe pandemonium or complete dishevelment, a situation so removed from our usual norms that we're at a loss as to how to cope with it.  Lord knows, we can all conjure up situations around the globe that give chaos its truest meaning, and I know you know what I mean.  But, in our own, mostly controlled, lives we very liberally call upon the term chaos to help describe hiccups in our normal life rhythms, although some hiccups are louder and more disruptive than others.

Lily and I are witnessing first-hand a world gone mad, or, as I've suggested, chaos, having visited the world of Jesse and Laura.  Here are two absolutely wonderful people -- our older son and daughter-in-law -- who have been living fabulous lives and whose careers have taken them from Denver to Quito to Mexico City.  Living the dream some might say.  But, on December 19 they were presented with new additions to their lives, twin sons Oliver and Charlie!  Yes, having children is something billions of us go through and not just survive but feel that it thoroughly embellishes our lives.  It surely provides us with an unmatchable lifetime experience.  But twins?  Well...that poses a whole set of challenges most folks never have to face, doesn't it?

It's been decades, of course, since Lily and I had to deal with the dramatic nuances and roller coaster adventures of being parents for the first time.  But, having been introduced to grandparenthood for the first time four months ago courtesy of Katie and Alex, those moments of drama, and more importantly, the stresses and rollicking emotions of those early experiences were re-awakened through baby Owen's introduction to life on planet earth.  And, with Owen, we witnessed the dislocation of the otherwise established rhythms of daily living to which Alex and Katie had grown so accustomed.  You know, the sleep deprivation, the diaper changing, the seemingly endless demands for new supplies and equipment, the disruption of work schedules.  And, did I mention sleep deprivation?

So, the chaos (again, if I may use that term) that greets new parents has fondly reached out to Laura and Jesse.  In spades.  Let's start with the most obvious challenge:  who is who?  During the term of the pregnancy, Laura and Jesse regularly referred to "baby A" and "baby B."  Not that they were abstractions, mind you.  It's just that there was no  need to tell them apart.  But, once having entered the world, all that has changed.  And, remember, Oliver and Charlie are identical!  Before leaving the hospital, they had the wisdom to paint a couple of Oliver's toenails red which was a great way to distinguish the two little guys.  However, 98% of the time the two of them are all swaddled up or, at a minimum, wearing socks, so you can never see their feet!  They also had different colored knit caps for each of them but that pattern quickly got messed up as Oliver and Charlie got whatever cap was within arm's reach.

Okay then, so when you're holding one of the babies in your arms and you say, "how YOU doin'?" you really can't be all that certain who you're talking to.  Even with Oliver and Charlie passing the one month landmark, both parents not infrequently would not be sure who they were holding.  Charlie's head is a bit longer from front to back, but since most of the time the two boys are wearing knit caps that clue isn't all that helpful.  Lily believed she saw discernible nuances in a curve in Charlie's nose and a wrinkle in his ear, and she was often right in her identifying guesses.  But...not always.  I can't wait to see how this mini-drama develops.

Then there's the challenge of keeping the little guys on the same schedule.  You have to do this since the alternative means being deprived of any sleep for perhaps the next two years.  Not really tenable, right?  In the case of Oliver and Charlie, this means getting the little guys up every three hours to feed them regardless of whether they may think of themselves as being hungry or not.  During daylight hours this may not seem like an overwhelming burden, but at night?  Every night?  And, of course, it's not just a matter of awakening the little sleepers and sticking a bottle in their adorable mouths.  Oh no.  There's the associated burping, soothing, applications of the burp rag, and, naturally, the diaper changing (which, judging from their most vociferous screams, do not appear to be either Oliver or Charlie's favorite pastimes).  Then there's the bathing which brings out the kind of baby screams that can likely be heard in the next zip code.  And, for poor Laura, she must add into this ritual time for the regular pumping of breast milk.  What fun!

But, just when you think you've hit your limit and exhaustion is about to declare victory, there are these amazing moments of calm.  The calm within the chaos.  It is in these moments that the nirvana of it all can be seen and felt.  Often, these occur while the boys are feeding or in the moments immediately following.  They are at peace and so are you.  It is then that you have the luxury of taking that deep breath and staring at their tiny but gorgeously precise features.  Remember, these babies are preemies so whatever image you have of newborns back them up a few weeks.  What you have are facial features, for example, that are exquisitely perfect but absolutely miniature in dimension.  I know that I have never seen such small noses or eyelids, or such divinely pursed lips.  Their fingers are so tiny that if the fingers of one hand could be stretched wide I doubt they could span the width of two piano keys.  And, their toes seem like nothing more than adorable afterthoughts.

So, yes, there is much "chaos" at play here if I may use that term loosely.  But, for the most part, it is a quiet chaos if that makes any sense.  And, what a grand way to start a new stage in one's life!

Here's to Laura and Jesse!  And, here's to Oliver and Charlie!

And Along Came Owen

As any parent will tell you, the moment your child is born is like no other in your life.  I mean, think of it.  You have created a life.  It is one of the few abilities that all humans -- no matter what their station in life or where they live or what their belief system might be -- share.  And, while our lives are hopefully filled with an array of amazing adventures and colorful memories, there is nothing quite like being there at the moment your son or daughter arrives on planet earth and you are introduced for the first time.

In our case, the arrivals of Jesse and Alex are forever emblazoned in Lily's memory and mine although, obviously, from radically different perspectives.  With Jesse, the drama was intense.  Not only was this our first experience, but Jesse made a lasting impression by putting his mom through the ringer with a most stressful and rigorous labor experience.  It turns out he decided to twist his body upside down at the last minute complicating delivery options, increasing pain levels for Lily and producing a meteoric rise in stress levels for his father as I helplessly looked on.  I do vividly remember the hospital staff hurriedly whisking Lily down to the delivery room as I stumbled behind them ever so awkwardly trying to put on the surgical slippers over my flip flops as I frantically hopped down the hall trying to keep up with them.  But when the delivery had concluded and when they handed Jesse to me to hold, and I gazed into that little face, there was no way to hold back the tears.  There is no way to define the specialness of these moments or to adequately convey the depth of emotions that course through your veins.

With Alex, on the other hand, the labor and delivery were clearly choreographed by Walt Disney, I am quite certain.  It was painless; it was peaceful.  It was on schedule.  I even had an opportunity to go to the cafeteria to get some breakfast!  And, importantly, Lily's memories are not clouded by pain or stress.  Once again, though, those first moments of holding Alex in my arms transcend everything.  In those moments, the world stops spinning; there is nothing else happening.  All that life is, all that it embraces, is staring right back at you, this little life you have created.  Amazing.  Overpowering.  There are no other words for it.

We flash forward now more than three decades.  While parenting never ends, grandparenting is about to begin.  We have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of Alex and Katie's baby for months, and the time has come for us to visit and receive our formal introductions to our first grandchild.  We now know his name to be Owen Michael Golland.  Yes, that's OMG!  As we take a seat on the living room couch, Katie hands Owen to Lily who cradles him in her arms while I gurgle some over the top emotional words that I'm sure made no sense as I take a spot right next to Lily.  Both Lily and I start talking to Owen as if he's already quite conversant in English.  When I get to hold Owen, I immediately tell him that over the next several days I'm going to tell him everything about his dad when he was a baby and beyond.  No, there won't be any secrets here.

But, there's something else at play here.  I realize it's the passage of time. As I stare into Owen's eyes, I feel like I'm looking at history.  My mind flashes back to  my parents and even my grandparents -- this chain of history that continues to unfold at a most personal level.  To put a somewhat different spin on it, I see a passing of the torch.  Here is the next generation, one that is likely to take us well into the next century.  And, as I think back to my grandparents, whose roots date back well into the 19th century, the passage of time takes on a whole new dimension, one so much bigger than me.  This perspective makes each of us seem so microscopic in significance.  And part of me wishes that my parents and grandparents were here to share this moment with me.  Oh well....much better to  live in the moment, I conclude.

Maybe it's just me but I find it hard to look at Owen and not project more mature, well developed thoughts and reactions in him as I closely watch his every squirm and twitch.  When he occasionally crinkles his nose or purses his lips, I can't help but wonder what he might be thinking.  As I watch his eyes dart back and forth behind closed eyelids and those barely perceptible eyelashes, it is impossible not to ask what is he seeing?  Is he dreaming?  If so, what could possibly be on his mind?  I mean, the little guy is only two weeks old.  The same goes for his smiles, at least in the early days after our arrival.  Is he actually pleased about something or is it just gas?

Then there's this issue with "the touch"?  I seriously doubt that I have originated that term here, but what I am referring to is the ability to calm a baby once he or she becomes agitated or, worse, flat out screaming unhappy.  It is undisputed that Katie has the touch.  She is the master of the touch.  When Owen gets beyond the second level of fussiness, Katie is there to magically and consistently bring serenity to the little guy.  It may take the form of soothing words or the right bouncing motions, or the right stroking or body positioning.  And, of course, feeding is always an option.  We're talking an art form here not a science.  If this were merely a function of arithmetic calculation, everyone would be good at it.  But, no.  Meme Lily, I must say, had an excellent touch.  Most excellent calming abilities.  And, new daddy, Alex, showed us his very impressive patience and equally impressive skills at using the large exercise ball to calmly bounce Owen into tranquility.  Poppy Jeff, on the other hand, uh...not so much.  Not that Owen would revolt whenever I would assume the babysitting duties.  No, not at all. Owen and I definitely had a number of extended periods of time where he would either sleep in my arms or, if he were awake, I would fill his ears with stories of Alex as a young child as I had promised when we first arrived.  But, when Owen did get fussy I cannot say I had "the touch" that Katie, Alex or Lily had to calm him down and bring him back to a calmer reality.  I would shift the way I held him.  I would endlessly stroke or pat him on the back.  I would walk him around the house.  I would bounce him on the big ball.  I wanted desperately for one of these techniques to work if only to allow Katie to get some richly deserved sleep which she otherwise only got in sporadic stretches of about two hours or so.  All the while I would whisper in a frenzy to Owen, "no, no, no, Owen.  Please, please let mommy sleep."  Not very effective.  I guess it's a good thing I could do the food shopping, cooking and dog walking.

As the days wore on, we could actually see Owen develop some.  Most memorably, as Owen's smiles developed,we knew them to be legitimate reflections of his happiness.  Whether it was the touch or voice of one of us, or a response to music, or his sheer joy of stretching out on the couch and testing out his churning legs, there was little doubt there were stimuli that made the little guy happy.  Think about it.  There are few things that can make you smile so instinctively as seeing your own grandchild smile.  I'm telling you, the kid is a charmer.  Even his burps and farts are charming.

Yeah, we're over the moon alright.  Isn't that where all grandparents belong?

The Lizard Whisperer

I'm thinking I may have missed my calling.  Seriously.  I'm not saying my career as an attorney was time squandered; I believe I did pretty well and I know I greatly enjoyed the experience.  But, something happened today that made me think I might have this other skill set that maybe I haven't given enough thought to developing.  To be specific, I'm wondering if maybe I should have been a therapist, or at least an animal therapist.  And, you'll never guess how this occurred to me.  I have a lizard to thank.

It was mid-day, and I was, as the phrase goes, minding my own business when I noticed an odd shape in silhouette form on the floor in the hallway just outside one of our bedrooms.  Was this a large dust ball or just yet another aggregation of Mojo's shedded hairs that had finally achieved enough critical mass to attract my attention?  When it moved a bit, my first impulse was that it was simply movement spurred by the nearby air conditioning vent.  But, then its moves took on a much more animated, life-like aspect that no hair ball I had ever seen had ever indulged in.  As I drew closer, I saw this dark form was alive.  It was a creature.  I stopped in my tracks.  What am I dealing with here?  How do I keep Mojo from messing with whatever this is?  And, most importantly, is there a chance in hell that I can actually catch this thing?

Soon enough I came to realize I was staring at a gecko lizard.  And, I could see it was staring back at me.  My concerns here were fairly simple.  I didn't want this guy or girl setting up shop in the house and launching the Gecko Hilton where hundreds or thousands of these seemingly harmless little creatures would take up residence and tell all their buddies about how great life is inside the Jeff and Lily residence.  This was not the Party Central I envisioned for our place.  Not unreasonable of me, right?

But, as you know, these little fellows are super fast.  If you think you can chase one of them and catch them, you are seriously deluding yourself.  And, not only are they fast, they are nimble.  They can change course radically and in nanoseconds.  Not only that, gravity is not their enemy.  They can run swiftly not only on the horizontal plane (i.e., your floors), but on the vertical plane as well (i.e., your walls).  Chasing them is an utter act in futility, especially since this guy had already noticed me tracking him.  No, I said to myself, I need a different strategy here.  So.....I decided to have a conversation with him.

I know what you're thinking.  You did what??  You're engaging a reptile in an adult conversation?  Have you lost your mind?  Yeah, probably.  I'm not suggesting this was a two way dialogue, mind you.  I may be delusional, but I'm not a complete idiot.  Yes, it was a monologue.  First, I decided to give the little fellow a name.  I called him Steve.  People who know me are aware that I commonly name strange animals, whether they be burros, sea lions or monkeys as Steve.  I can't explain that.  But, Steve it was.

As Steve inched his way into the bedroom, I followed him very slowly ever so much not wanting him to take off where I would never be able to find him again or watch him slither into the air conditioning duct and forever be lost to me while he embarked on the initial staging for the Gecko Hilton.  Fortunately, Steve moved about as slowly as I did and he kept looking back at me no doubt wondering what my next move would be.  Rather than continuing to move forward, however, I stopped and crouched down and simply talked to Steve in a calm deliberate voice.  I asked him about himself and his family and what his plans were.  I assured him that I would keep Mojo at bay and that he had nothing to fear from me.  In fact, I told him, if he worked with me I would help him find his way back to the out of doors which I assumed is what he really wanted anyway.  In hushed tones, I described to Steve the beauty of the great outdoors, its tastes, fragrances and sights.  Steve did not run away.  He stopped, turned a bit, tilted his head and eyed me with what I will  most foolishly describe as curiosity and perhaps a sprinkling of interest.  I continued to talk in soothing tones ever so slowly inching closer.  Steve, somewhat to my surprise, held his ground.

I know this sounds ludicrous, but I began to think that Steve was beginning to think that I was not the threat to him that he first contemplated.  I was beginning to think that my calm, soothing demeanor and very slow movement were sending him a message that maybe this weird dude could help him.  That maybe he could even trust me.  As I got closer, I reached for a waste paper basket that had a plastic bag liner in it.  I moved in uber slow motion.  Steve barely budged, but we were moving, albeit achingly slowly, toward the back of the room where we would have our final showdown.

We were now inches from the window and mere inches from the air conditioning duct.  I kept telling Steve in the softest tones that I could muster how this could really end well if he would only let me help him.  He turned and now looked squarely at me, eyes tilting this way and that.  I was now down on the floor as close to eye to eye level with him as I was apt to get.  Ever so slowly I lowered the basket and encouraged Steve to get in.  I did not reach out to  him, confident that would only cause him to scurry down the duct or clamor up the wall.  I knew I had to be patient.  It was my only option, although Mojo was laying in the doorway his ears at red alert, his body ready to pounce.  In what seemed like an eternity, Steve inched his way to the basket and jumped in!  Of course, we'll never know whether Steve's decision was a leap of faith by him in trusting my constant pleas, or whether he wrongly assumed this basket was really just another escape route.  But, allow me the indulgence to believe Steve and I had a moment of understanding there.  In any event, in he went and I quickly took the top of the plastic bag and folded it on top keeping Steve inside for the few seconds it would take for me to escort him outside.

The interesting thing is that when I got Steve out on the deck and released him, he left the basket, but he did not run away.  Instead, he turned around, cocked his head again and looked at me.  I smiled and told him it was a pleasure working with him and that I'd see him around.

Back inside, I patted Mojo for his forbearance, and I patted myself on the back for tapping into a skill set I never knew I had:  how to meaningfully communicate with a lizard!  Who knew?!

Serenity Now!

Even just saying the word relaxation can, by itself, sometimes create a calming experience.  Maybe it's because of all that term conjures up: deep breathing, lack of stress, endorphins on the rise, simple pleasures.  You get the idea.  And, when we think of relaxation, the beauty of the concept is that it translates into an almost infinite variety of possibilities wholly dependent on the personality and psyche of the person engaged in the contemplation.  For some, it means just leaning back in a most comfortable chair or couch and contemplating nothing.  For others, it's the closing minutes of a yoga class when you can hit the floor and devolve into savasana, or "corpse pose" as it is widely known.  Often, it's sitting on a secluded beach and staring out at a most calming ocean.  Or possibly, just sitting back, feet propped up, and listening to the music that soothes your soul.  As I say, the possibilities are nearly endless.

But, when you're in Paris -- well, at least for me -- another possibility presents itself.  And, that's sitting at an outdoor table at one of the gazillions of cafes and taking in the world as it sidles past you.  There is something zen-like here, maybe even meditative if I want to lean towards the hyperbole.  It is a place without time limits, without interruptions, but one that offers a cinematic view of local life with all the color and diversity that life offers.

When Lily and I are in Paris, it is often the case that Lily loves to spend her mornings sleeping late and then engaging in her wonderful pursuit of painting until early or mid-afternoon.  That means for me that I get up earlier, have breakfast and then hit the streets in search of nothing in particular except drinking in the local vibe.  That entails walking the neighborhoods for hours -- the streets, the parks, the river walks.  But, I confess, not an insignificant objective on my part is not just the walk, as wonderful as that is, but the breaks from the walk where I can stop at a café, lean back, bask in the sun, and order up a café crème or glass of rose depending on my mood.

While it is hardly unique to Parisians, I love the pace of those strolling by.  These folks are not running off to meetings or worried about some deadlines.  At least not in a way that Americans do. Rather, they are wandering albeit with an eventual destination in mind.  This is particularly true of people sharing their stroll with someone else, whether a spouse, dating partner, or friend.  Invariably, the spirit of the conversation is positive.  No one is yelling at each other; no melodramas are unfolding.  Many are walking amiably with a baguette tucked under their arm, the end of the loaf already nibbled clean.  Being a quintessentially cosmopolitan city, Paris offers up a wide variety of languages that one can discern as strollers pass by.  Mostly French, of course, but also English, Spanish, German and a variety of eastern European and Asian languages that I am utterly unable to identify.  But, it doesn't matter.  I admit that I sometimes overhear the conversation of English speakers passing by that can be entertaining.  Like the American guy strolling by telling his friend that when he was in Portugal he kept forgetting to say "obrigado" -- which is the proper way to say thank you -- and kept saying instead "avocado."  Amusing, right?  But, by far, the better course is to  allow the chatter to simply become background music, part of a soundtrack that in sort of an existential way serves as a substitute for a soothing mantra.  Think of it as one very long "Ommm."

So, what's to look at?  Just about everything, I say.  Fashion is interesting which surprises me since I pay no attention to that anywhere else.  But, it is interesting, even amusing, to see how many different ways someone can wear a scarf, for example.  Scarves are ubiquitous and the assortment of color and design is seemingly endless.  I could be wrong about this, but I believe to be legally a French citizen one must wear a scarf no matter what the season.  Then, an ongoing inquiry is how tight can your pants be?  In Paris, both men and women seem to be finding new benchmarks for eliminating any airflow that might make contact with the lower half of their bodies, almost as if there is some health hazard there that hasn't been shared with outsiders.  And, the shoes!  How some of these women stay on their feet as they come prancing by with footwear whose heels are so thick and so high that for all the world they resemble very artfully crafted cinder blocks is a mystery to me.  On rainy days, one can take in the bombastic array of bright, multi-colored umbrellas and crazily designed raincoats that shimmer and add life to what might otherwise appear to be a dreary day.

Then there are the dogs.  Certainly, there are many who are average in size, but they are vastly outnumbered by breeds so small they, in my mind, barely qualify as canines.  Let's just say many would fit comfortably in a Louis Vuitton handbag.  And, let's not forget the wonderfully energized kids.  Like kids everywhere, they don't really recognize limitations on their range of movement or the decibel level of their playful outcries.  I love watching them streaming past on their mini-scooters weaving, mostly successfully, through the throngs on the sidewalk.  Their parents nonchalantly follow behind unconcerned about whatever mischief their young ones might engage in. Perfect.  If you should happen to be sitting at a café on a market street, like Rue Mouffetard, it brings a smile as you watch the interaction with customers and the animated, hand gesture-filled conversations taking place.  It doesn't matter what they're saying; it's the visible tableau that your senses are responding to. 

All in all, what passes in front of you while you casually sit back sipping your wine or coffee is nothing short of a cinematic landscape almost in slow motion, constantly changing, offering up a peaceful montage of life Parisian style.  Lean back, take a deep breath, smile and forget whatever it is that might have been bothering you.  In that moment, you are relaxing, and you are at peace.

Farewell Captain Matheson

I remember the first time I met him.  It was about 43 years ago, but for some reason I remember elements of that encounter vividly.  Back then I was a fledgling attorney trying to make my way in the world.  We had a paralegal in our office named Betsy (later to be known as Lily) who had told stories of her father that would fill the pages of a movie script: tales of adventure, accomplishment, and fortitude.  One day, he decided to visit his daughter at the office, and Betsy showed him into my office to make the introductions.  He was wearing a khaki safari shirt and had the look of a man of the world.  He strode in to meet me, arm extended in what would prove to be a most firm handshake.  The look on his face and the meaningful eye contact could not disguise the obvious confidence he had.  In that moment, combining the almost legendary stories I had previously heard from Betsy along with that most impressing spirit about him, he could easily have garnered the title of the "most interesting man in the world" that we see in TV ads these days.

What I learned about and from Jim Matheson, Sr. was stirring and memorable.  From an education at the Naval Academy, the University of Chicago, MIT, and Harvard to serving in a submarine off the coast of Japan in World War II, to working with Admiral Hyman Rickover in the dawning age of the nuclear submarine, to his skills as a Deputy Director and then Director of the Peace Corps in Jamaica and then Ecuador, to his directing of the Fermi Lab in Chicago, Jim was, to put it mildly, a most accomplished fellow.  Amidst all this, he even found time to get a law degree.  And, most importantly, he helped raise a family of four children: Ann, Lily, Susan and Jim.  As was so often the case with military families, they wandered the country from Massachusetts to Key West to New Hampshire to New York to California and ultimately to Northern Virginia.

Over the decades, once I became a member of the family, I would get beneath the surface and learn in greater depth more about Jim.  He was an avid debater.  Nothing spurred him on like a vodka martini and a debate of all things political.  He was not always the easiest man to contend with; his views were drop dead strong and even closer held.  He would hear you out, but it was not a commonplace thing for him to change his views after hearing the other side of the issue.  But, having those discussions were great fun if only because of his energy, passion and extensive knowledge which he freely shared.  While they were sometimes trying, they were always stimulating and energized discussions, a profile he would carry with him for the rest of his days.

Jim was a man who relished the open waters.  Starting with the navy, and then later as boat owner and sailor, it seemed to me this is where his heart was at its fullest.  And, Jim was no casual sailor.  When he took his boat out on Chesapeake Bay it was all business.  No margarita-filled lazy cruise here.  The few times I was aboard, we'd hit the waves and beat into the wind for hours on end making me think I was actually racing in a marathon, not out for some laid back afternoon dalliance with the sea.  But, again, this was a pure reflection of his passion which he so avidly embraced.

Jim died last year at the age of 96.  A life in full by any measure.  Because of his military background, Jim was entitled to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery.  Although I had lived in the Washington, D.C. area for almost four decades, I was never privy to share in such a poignant tradition.  As is true with so many things in life that are understood only in the abstraction, I had no idea the impact the ceremony would have until I experienced it myself.

It was a brisk day, at least for Lily and me.  Temps in the mid-40s, but with a clear and sun-filled sky.  As we entered the gate at Ft. Meyer, we were instructed to proceed straight to the Colonial Chapel where there would be a memorial service for Jim.  When we were all gathered, the organ music began.  If, in the preceding moments, we might have momentarily lost sight of why we were there, the music changed all that in a heartbeat.  There is something so penetrating, so resonant, about the organ music that filled the chapel, the spare decorations of the building allowing the music to fill  the room and echo in it like it was alive.  After some opening remarks, the chaplain explained that since he had not personally known Captain Matheson he thought it appropriate that all of us focus our thoughts on him as we listened to the sentimental strains of "Amazing Grace."  In those moments, my memories of Jim darted through my head in no particular order and with no hierarchy of importance.  Just random thoughts about a life led and the impact he had on so many people.

At the end of the ceremony, we headed outside to now witness the caisson waiting for Jim.  His cremated remains were carried solemnly, one gloved hand above and one below the box.  At the curbside, the box was ever so carefully set into the casket which would be taken by the six horse drawn caisson to the grave site.  It was an eighteen minute walk from the chapel to the grave, and it was along this walk that we witnessed something extraordinary.  There were many people at the cemetery that day, many just tourists but undoubtedly some visiting departed close ones of their own.  As we moved along trailing the caisson, people would line up along our path.  All stood facing us.  Many stood with their hands over their hearts; others stood and saluted to what they knew was a fallen veteran.  It is one of the images I will take with me forever.

At the grave site more words were spoken, but what brought the undeniable air of finality was the playing of taps, the firing of the guns, and the band's playing of the emotionally laden "Going Home." A most memorable day by any measure.

Rest well, Jim.  You have earned it.

Safari So Good

You're sitting in an open air Land Rover moving slowly along a wild looking plain.  The morning breeze is cooling, nicely offsetting the growing humidity.  As you lazily gaze around the local scene, you smile thinking it reminds you a bit of something out of Jurassic Park: primeval, promising things out of the ordinary, filling with feelings of anticipation.  Out to the horizon is a suggestion of hills and the beginnings of many miles of sand dunes that hug the coast.  The Indian Ocean lies just beyond.

Just as you're settling in to  this relaxing vibe, you spot some activity up ahead.  There's a group of female lions grouped together.  As you draw closer, the lions pay you no mind because they are so focused on tearing apart the body of a wildebeest they have recently killed.  The meal is being shared by the mother, her not quite fully grown young ones and their Aunt (so we are told).  Your guide slows the Rover and creeps to within a few feet of the ongoing feast.  Now that you are so amazingly close, you can smell the wildebeest meat and hear the lions tearing pieces of it away.  Their subdued growls are oddly similar to those you might hear from a group of Harley Davidsons at a low throttle.  You realize you're holding your breath.

But wait.  As crazily engrossing as this scene is, drama is about to increase.  Approaching on the right is a herd of water buffalo, large beasts not to be trifled with.  The lions look up and carefully watch the approaching horde.  The buffalo slow their pace and stare at the lions.  They are now just a few yards away from the lions and you are sitting in the front row almost uncomfortably a part of what appears to be looming combat.  The younger lions break away from  their meal, and their more sensible adults, and face the buffalo.  Heads lowered, tails slowly and menacingly wagging, they seem interested in exercising their still evolving machismo.  A tense stare down begins.

Welcome to the safari experience here at the And Beyond Phinda Game Park.  Located about a three hour drive northeast of Durban, it provides the epitome of the South African bush environment with terrain that varies from the densest of woodlands to hills that allow fantastic overviews of the game reserve to  seemingly endless miles of open plains that oftentimes provide the stage for the hunt and kill by the large beasts here.

We have a cottage here with a nice front porch that sometimes provides all manner of passing animals and weird but amusing animal and bird cries.  In the bedroom the large windows allow for staring contests with baboons who are sometimes mere inches from you.  We are advised to keep our door firmly hooked since otherwise the baboons pose a real threat to ransack your place looking for food.  To walk to the common area our path is sometimes blocked by large nyalas who lift their heads and stare as if to  ask, "who the hell are you?"  We are under strict orders not to leave our cottages after dark since all of the animals here have access to where we sleep.  This is also a place where everybody knows your name from the guide and tracker to the managers and wait staff.  They've got us labeled it seems almost immediately while we're still struggling to remember just some of their names.  This adds such a pleasing boost to  the already significant hospitality we receive and the warm welcoming feeling we get every day.

(Speaking of names, it is clear we are dealing with an art form, or better yet, a culture that is rich in imagination and daring.  There are no Bobs or Bills, no Anns or Nancys.  Oh no,  no.  Here in Phinda and elsewhere in our travels nearby, the locals' names pop with adventure and emotion.  We meet Wonder, Lucky, Happiness, December (born on Christmas day), Justice and our favorite, Shamiso Sibanda which translates to Amazing Lion.  Appellation-wise, we Americans are so hopelessly boring and simple minded, aren't we?)

Our guide is an amazing fellow named Matt.  He's only 27 but he has the encyclopedic knowledge and game world experience of a David Attenborough or a Jane Goodall.  Or maybe Tarzan.  The guy knows everything and shares it with us in a vibrant, upbeat and humor-filled way.  We receive wonderfully endless tutorials on the animal realm from the idiosyncrasies of the dung beetle to the mating habits of the bull elephant and the hierarchical  geography of everything in between.  From time to time as we are ambling through the bush, Matt pulls our open air Land Rover off the path to show us a leaf, sometimes a lethally poisonous one, other times a most beautifully fragrant one.  He teaches us the tell tale smells that can tip off the presence of a hidden animal.  This can include the popcorn "fragrance" of leopard urine or the nutty urine profile of the genet.

Accompanying Matt is Muzi, our Zulu tracker.  Muzi sits in a seat mounted just above the left headlight binoculars in hand (or floodlight at night).  This guy, too, is amazing.  He spots animals magically in an almost zen way.  While he has a devilish sense of humor and a most infectious laugh, Muzi is at heart a very calm person.  From his perch he ever so subtly signals to Matt turns we should make into the dense bush as we continually track the animals here.  And tracking is what this is all about.  Matt and  Muzi might just as well be lions themselves in a constant hunt for prey.  For the lions, of course, tracking is a matter of survival.  But for Matt and Muzi it is a game of passion that they play with a wonderful combination of intensity, grit and glee.  The art of the pursuit relies on so many clues.  Sometimes it's the tracks of the animals and the direction they lead.  Are they so fresh that they make an imprint above the latest Land Rover tracks?  How fresh are the animal droppings we see along the way?  Not just smell, but color can be probative as well.  Urine smells can take us left or right such as the popcorn-filled air of the leopard.  And, of course, the noises coming from the bush are clues that must be minded.  This is not a case of "Where's Waldo."  There's just too much knowledge and awareness being exercised for successful trackings to be considered random or lucky.  I asked Matt if he could foresee a day when chips might be imbedded in animals so that GPS could assure the accuracy of animal pursuits.  He shook his head slowly and said, no, he hopes that day never arrives. And, I soon enough realized why.  It would rob the exercise of its clue-pursuing, puzzle solving element that is at the heart of animal tracking.  The passion would be gone.

Over the next few days our twice daily game rides would allow us close-up viewings of lions, elephants, giraffes, rhinos, hippos, baboons, zebras, wildebeests, and a host of birds whose names I will likely never recall.  Matt's tutorials would continue.  Seemingly, with each animal sighting we would learn the proper titling of the groups of each type.  We all know of a herd of cows or a pride of lions.  But, did you know we refer to a "parliament" of owls, or a "dazzle" of zebras, a "coalition" of cheetahs, a "murder" of crows, or an "implausibility" of wildebeests?  No, I didn't know either.

On our last day in Phinda, the day would start dramatically enough with our closing in on two male lions who had eluded us until then.  We were headed in one direction when Muzi casually pointed to the right.  As was often the case, when Muzi pointed one way or another, Matt would chime in with, "let's give it a bash."  Or, as others might say, let's give it a try.  And soon enough, there they were.  Although lions are often referred to as the king of beasts,  they are not that.  The elephant reigns supreme.  No creature of sound mind takes on one of those dudes.  But,  there is an unquestionable majesty to the male lion with his massive size, his almost deadly calm demeanor, and, of course,  that incredible mane that might just as well be a crown.  Once again, we pulled to within about four feet of this guy.  I challenge anyone to say that their minds don't do cartwheels when a lion is that close to you and his head turns so he can stare at you squarely with those calm, or perhaps menacing, eyes.  It is wonderful to think about in the aftermath, but not so much in the moment it's happening.

But, later came the coup de grace.  Once again, Muzi spotted a few female lions off in the distance.  It was clear from their slowed, measured pace and laser-like stares they were tracking something.  Because we were a distance away, Matt got the Rover into high gear and tore through the bush to get closer.  The path was incredibly bumpy as we skirted large rocks and mini-excavations done by aardvarks which surely would have cost us an axle had we landed in one.  We would learn later that this rough ride is often referred to as an African massage.

As we got closer, we could see, amazingly, that one of the adults whisked away the young ones off to a place far from the path of the warthog we now saw.  Matt advised us this was an important move because the young ones, if left to their own devices, would reveal the lions' intentions in a fit of youthful exuberance and thereby tip off the unsuspecting warthog.  The remaining two lions separated, laying out a masterful plan to ensnare the warthog as they closed in on him.

The unevenness of the terrain plus our distance from the looming drama deprived us of being eyewitnesses to the kill.  But, the kill did indeed occur.  As we came over a slight rise, there was the lioness standing calmly with her jaws firmly draped around the warthog's neck.  The warthog was still alive judging from its screeching voice and madly scrambling but airborne legs.  Darkly fascinating but hard to watch as well.  But,  there we were telephoto lenses stretched to the max, binoculars providing more detail than one might want.  One of the lionesses veered off to bring back the young ones who had dutifully remained on the sidelines.

Our time in Phinda was up leaving us with memories that will be etched into us for the rest of our lives.  The immediacy of it all, the vivid reality of it and, yes, the savagery of it are not elements that typically dot our lives.  And, to share it all with Lily, Maggie, Jesse and Laura just heightened its meaning.  If you have not had this experience, I implore you to embrace it.  Get it on your bucket list.  Or, as Matt might say, give it a bash!