Surely I'm not the only one...

Does anybody else get sappy at odd things?

For instance, today there were two back to back accidents on 285 West Bound. The five lanes of traffic stopped for quite a while and like others, I just turned my engine off, which felt peculiar on a highway surrounded by other vehicles which typically cruise at 80 miles an hour. But, parked we were, patiently. Someone ahead was having a far worse day than all of us who were waiting for wreckage to be cleared. But, here's the part that made me weepy. As we in traffic slowly merged along in our cars, emergency vehicles were responding to the scene. I mean the works. Fire trucks came first, ambulances next, and then the cop cars came in numbers. This is all very positive. Helpers. Live in Anguilla, BWI for a year and you will become immensely proud of the punctual emergency response teams that we have here in the USA. As we all scooted right and stopped our cars so that we cleared a path for the emergency vehicles, my eyes welled up with tears. I sucked them back, so no fun can be made of me. But, watching the masses perform considerate acts makes me cry. Does anyone else suffer from this?

The same goes for funerals. When oncoming traffic pulls right and stops and turns their lights on in respect of the funeral procession I just lose it. I could have made it through the entire funeral without shedding a tear, but as soon as someone shows affection or consideration out of sheer unmotivated kindness, well, I can't contain the emotions. I remember in NYC when Nick's uncle died, I mentioned that this sympathetic expression from others is common when encountering a funeral procession and I got some bewildered looks from those living over seas. "Really?" they said. I'm assuming they were impressed. Because I am. Every time.

And if any human (human that is kindhearted that is) cries on television, I'm crying. Show me a stranded Polar Bear and I'm ready to live in a hut and eat bugs to save their ice caps. If a dog is hurt, or a race horse goes down, I don't get over that shit for years. I recently wanted two decorative mantle pieces, and because that meant I was leaving the third behind, lonely and feeling abandoned, I went back and got it too. I'm such a sucker. I rescued a dying bee yesterday and put it in a comfy place to confront its last moments, so that ants wouldn't ruin it for him. And both me and my husband rescue earthworms that will face a dry concrete fate if not directly put back to earth after a rain.

Any one else with me on this? Just wondering.

Sunday Funday

It is Sunday. A beautiful, delightful Sunday.

At this point in my weekend I sit happy. I have just now come in from my little garden that is blooming and fragrant and has made friends with several neighborhood butterflies and one fearless hummingbird. My payment for care-giving is the frequent swoops they make around me as I shower and admire the flowers. The rosemary is so fragrant and the basil makes my mouth water just thinking about it. It might be the most therapeutic task I know of- to garden.

A successful Sunday by Beth. Step one, wake up at dawn, which is impressive considering the good time I had last night. One of Nick’s friends celebrated his recent success on the PGA Tour by graciously having his friends over for a relaxed, but fine party at his home. The bartender was certainly a professional and the night turned out to be everything one would hope for amongst friends; funny stories, lots of laughter, a little history shared and a few new friends made along the way. Upon waking, I decided to bite the bullet and not roll around forcing a lazy morning onto myself and instead I got the dogs leashed and we hiked our usual trails in the Chattahoochee Forrest. We sat and watched the river flow for a while. Well, I sat and Selma put on her best performance to distract me from river gazing. She hops like a deer and sprints like a cheetah and spins in circles and digs a bit… snorts a little loose dirt and runs wild in large circles making paths through the trees as she goes. It’s really incredible! And it works. I laugh at all the contorted body movements and the intense and ever changing expressions on her face, complete with ear flaps flat behind her to give her an aerodynamic advantage, and eventually start cheering her. This is my morning glory.

Step two for the morning was to wake my husband up in the most abrupt fashion I could muster. So, I turned on 92.9, acoustic sunrise, and let it blare through the speakers and challenged the dogs to a race to the bed. Works every time! Nick was up! All three of his girls were on top of him smiling and energetic and Selma Lu Mela was a doll and included a complimentary face wash. Brilliant plan. I even worked out a short shoulder rub for myself. How about that! I splatter myself loudly on the bed and I get petted for it. Works for me! This is my morning pride.

Step three… brunch with my best friend. Husbands welcome. We had a brunch date for four at The St. Regis, Atlanta and my, my how wonderful it turned out to be. The décor in the hotel is phenomenal. And that is not my word to describe it. It is literally the word out of Nick’s mouth as he sat down. Fancy hotel, fancy words. We moved from our coffee and assorted muffins to pancakes and omelettes, which didn’t disappoint. Having wished for pancakes all morning, I was more than pleased when Chef Crystal suggested them. The chef is a friend now, made through Julie, my best girlfriend and a bit of a foodie. She knows good food. We concluded the breakfast with a nice gift, compliments of the chef, a spicy Bloody Mary, (which happened to include a tiny jalapeno pepper that Jules mistook for an olive and accidentally popped into her mouth whole!) The chef shared some knowledge. Bloody Marys are St. Regis’ signature beverage because the St. Regis, New York City was the first to ever concoct them back in 1930-something. What a valuable piece of trivia. Although, I never order them, I am impressed with this odd drink and admire the bravery in those who sip them as well as those who invent them. After touring the hotel and pool and refreshing myself with rosemary water, we parted from our friends and promised to make this our new preferred brunching location. It was really great food, hospitable service, and luxurious ambiance. I will suggest it. This is my morning delight.

Step four in my Sunday morning is home. Sending my Mr. to hit the course and dabbling on my stories, watering my lovelies and hugging my puppies. I guess nothing else is needed for me to be thankful on a Sunday. This is my morning contentment.

Earth, Love, Grace, and Happiness.

Every Sunday please.

A Jot, from my sofa seat

Love, love, lovely love of mine.
I’m here for you in the sleepy slumber of your nighttime dreams.

On the wind of winding nights as ivy bends and grows on trees.
Do you hear me on the breeze as limbs creak and windows squeak?

Love is the language that I speak.
Love is the rhythm of my heart’s beat.

I grow and I flow in your blood as your racing heart thumps and pumps.
The shallow breath that falls off your lips leaves you pale and weak.

Keep your eyes shut, my love; and fear me not, you see.
The prickles on your skin feel me swirling nearer and nearer; you can’t hide; you can’t compete.

I’m here as you sleep.
As you weep, my love, like the winding vine grows.

China Affair

For whatever reason, I’m obsessed with china. I adore plates. Tea cups and saucers send me into blissful oblivion. Add a fancy charger and I might not be able to contain myself. My dear little dog is named China and my other dearly departed dog, Shakti, now rests in a beautiful sugar vase that has a dainty lid and resembles an urn. It was all too appropriate I thought, since she sat with me as I drank coffee and tea and loved her sister named China. Anyway, all of this makes me sound loopy but it is true. I want to cook so I can decorate the table and actually invite someone to sit down to it. The food adds beauty, of course, but I’m looking at the Limoges no doubt about it. Why all the blistering excitement over porcelain? I ask myself this all the time.
I think I was raised by a woman who was always aware of the motto ‘Its the presentation that matters’. No, I know I was raised by her, but I think that was her motto and it made a hasty jump from her everyday intentions to both of her daughters’ everyday intentions. I claim several odd tendencies like this, but the china collecting came from no where. I never spent time in the kitchen when I was young. It made me anxious and I only wanted to escape it. My sister and mother were okay with that, often welcoming my departure so they could continue their delightful culinary experience without my furrowed brow hanging about. But as I’ve grown older I’m drawn toward this thing… an experience one has at a nicely decorated table with beautiful china and real, delicious food. I love it. I use all my china. I store none of it. I set the table and my husband and I sit down across from one another and talk and eat on fine china and drink from crystal and wipe our mouths with cloth napkins and Damn! It feels like I live the good life every night we do it!
I remember stories about women who regretted registering for fine china, stating that they stored it in their attic nicely and securely and never touched it again (with the exception of some grand occasion like an engagement party or the occasional Christmas when the entire family came over). Then, I once read a very touching story of a husband who had the unfortunate task of sorting and packing away all of his wife’s belongings after she tragically passed. He noted that she had such special possessions that were, let’s say, ‘in waiting’. She was holding on to them for a special occasion that warranted using them. She had lingerie with the tags still on, china that she loved in bubble wrap, and when he saw this he said it broke his heart. It was a strong life lesson for me. And from then on I used my favorite stationary and lathered my fancy soaps. Now, still having kept the essence of that lesson, I choose to decide that any day I want to be special is special and I use my Bernardaud. Don’t feel like cooking? Doesn’t matter one bit! I put Whole Foods pick-up on my pretty plates! And when I pass it on in the end, I will love the memories created by my china obsession even more than the actual set of china.
Yes, it’s just a plate. But it’s an opportunity too; to feel special, to invent celebrations, and to be your grandest. “Do you love it? Use it!” That’s what goes through my head. Unfortunately for my husband, when I’m shopping and see china, “Do you love? Get it!” also goes through my silly little brain! Oh well… a boy needs to eat and it is after all the reason why I cook!

Evans Almighty: Lone Fisherman, Shell Seeker

In Anguilla there is a shade tree right by where the rocky ledge that holds Malliouhana Resort meets one of the world’s finest sandy beaches, Meads Bay. Under this tree is a little white row boat over turned and resting in the sand. It disappears early in the morning, but without fail, will be returned to its place before sundown. The boat belongs to Evans.

The day I met Evans struck me as profound and its meaning hasn’t diminished any over the last couple of years. I am certain it will not ever lose its magic in my mind. It was a moment in time that dragged out longer than the measured minute. The words passed between this old man Evans and I bounced along on something other than just air. The sea stretched out longer than to the horizon. There was something eternal about meeting Evans. An echo of a thought kept bouncing back and forth through the caverns of my mind. There was a little bit of God on this beach with me and Evans. I knew I’d meet this moment again, when all was said and done and I reviewed my life, deciding if I was proud of myself, judging whether or not I ever got the hint.

It was a rare day, one that included my mom and sister since they had come to visit me on the island. The two of them leaving Anguilla without savoring Meads Bay, with its blindingly white, fine sand and crystal turquoise water that creates a striking horizon againt the sky, is not a good idea.

Imagine this: You close your eyes. You are standing in warm powder white sand, with your feet sunken to the ankle, hearing the waves crash loudly and fade as they wash back into the Great Atlantic, and as you open your eyes, you squint due to the glare of the sun on the white sand, the crystal refractions of the water, and the sheer intensity of the concept of forever in front of you. You are possibly the only one on this beach. You are alone with massive ocean water in front of you. No noise besides that of your breath, your heart beat, your quiet thoughts, and the nautical sounds of wind and water. Perhaps a seagull is bobbing in front of you as it looks for lunch. The next shore north of here is Greenland. This is the scenery that evokes the word paradise in so many minds.

We were happy, giddy with girly delight; all three of us girls were frolicking about in Earth’s rendition of heaven and Meads Bay was a divine idea. It didn’t take long before we were splashing about and swaying and floating in the anything but threatening waters. I had drifted toward the rocks, away from my mom and sister, when I came up for a breath and saw the subject of my curiosity for the past 7 or 8 months. The little white row boat was humming right toward me. Oddly, the row boat was motorized. I waited and watched as the boat pulled up next to me and then passed me toward the shore with a friendly nod and soft smile from the man directing it. It was all surreal. From nowhere, in that giant ocean, came this little man in his little boat and he puttered right past me as if I were in traffic back in the States. I watched him intently.

He anchored himself, and climbed out of the boat, his legs looking so frail that I was itching to go help him. He had old faded blue shorts on and a back brace and some straps that looked a little bit like suspenders. He was so dark. In a landscape of the intensely bright, my eyes gravitated to him in all of his depth and darkness. He was such a contrast. He removed the motor, which looked heavy, from the back of his boat and dragged it up the shore and up the slight hill to his shade tree and came back to his boat to grab his coolers. I was near him now and spoke out.

“Do you mind if I help you?”

Evans looked at me and with a wisdom that allows humility said he didn’t mind. He and I together carried his very heavy cooler to be placed by his motor. And then we carried another. And then, the big job. We laid slats in the sand to make parallel tracks, fetched the boat, and pushed it up on the tracks so that it glided across the top of the sand. We did this time and time again until the boat reached its place by the shade tree. I looked at Evans and asked him how he did this by himself. He said he just did and that he did it everyday of his life- unless a hurricane was coming.

Evans and I talked for a while. He showed his fish to me. They were colorful, shades of blue and purple and some speckled, some red. He named them and I pretended to be impressed by the names. I knew nothing of fish. He asked me how I liked Anguilla and told me how to go about becoming a ‘Belonger’, one who is not a visitor, not an Expat, but one who truly belongs to Anguilla and is accepted by the Anguillan people. Stories were told of how he used to go dancing at Sandy Ground, the main port area, but how the “young people” had become so rude and violent that it wasn’t fun anymore and so he stopped.

He looked at me with eyes that were tired, but wise. They were blue and foggy just like a puppy that is too young to see. The whites of his eyes weren’t so white anymore and his hands and feet were worn and tough and his legs, bowed. His walk was one of improvisation. His back didn’t bend with ease. But, when I told him I wanted to give him a ride in my car up the hill to his house, well, that body of his walked right back to the water and he did a mild belly flop into the cool water. He splashed with me like a young child and smiled and the two of us were friends for that moment in time. A twenty seven year old American girl laughing on a beach with a ninety year old Anguillan man, and not a difference could be felt!

And so, it ends like this: I sat on Evans' back porch step after we unloaded his motor and his coolers of fish and he introduced his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to me. He gave the fish to his son, who would be preparing them for dinner at the restaurant they operated next door to their house, and he left me for a moment to go around the back of his typical Caribbean house. In his hands when he returned was a paper bag with six hand-picked nautilus shells that he found in the sea. He washed the shells and gave them to me for helping him. He noticed I didn’t know what to do with fish, so instead of giving me a few of his fresh catches; he bagged the treasures he collected while out in the ocean fishing. He told me he would fish and when he looked down in the water, if he saw beautiful shells, he would stop and dive down for them and bring them back and give them a nice polish. He showed them to me like he had his fish, with such a gleam of delight in his eyes.

It was only a matter of hours, but I had learned, related, had given, and had gotten a whole lot with Evans. He was worn but elegant, old but young at heart, and in him I saw a little bit of God. He is my Evans Almighty; a reminder to take pride in simple things, an example of what one spirit can achieve all by itself even in a sea of obstacles, and the giver of a gift that symbolizes what you can find along the journey if you simply look around.