Grant

Wow!  It's been about seven years since I last posted on this blog. I'm going to have to learn how to do it all over again.

I stopped writing when my brother Grant died.  His was not a tragic death--it was a tragic life. My two surviving brothers and I mourned Grant's death, but it was hardly a shock or a surprise.  He had courted Death since he was a child.  He was probably ADD or ADHD and most likely bipolar.  He had a violent temper and was reckless and destructive.  I believe Grant had no conscience.  He could have looked you in the eye with his hand on the Bible and then lie like a politician.

He was a drug addict and an alcoholic, and my mother adored him.  Everyone loved him and forgave him....no matter how angry he made them, or how badly he disappointed them. He threw away a perfectly good wife and two sons.  Everyone forgave him--everyone except his older son.

He was a musical prodigy.  Everyone loved to hear Grant play Dixieland and ragtime on the piano.  He would play anywhere--in bars, in rehab centers--anywhere there was a piano. His music was loved by everyone except my dad.  Dad played ragtime piano also.  But Dad was classically trained, and complained angrily that Grant was totally undisciplined.  Discipline was Grant's kryptonite.

Do I sound angry? That's probably why I wouldn't write after Grant's death. I'm not angry at him anymore, but I am thinking about death lately.

This post isn't about death actually--it's about moving on and acceptance.  I'm old--not ancient--but definitely old, and I'm hoping to survive the COVID-19 pandemic.  I have two beautiful grandsons and a wonderful son and daughter-in-law.  I want to see them and wrap my arms around them and hug the stuffin's out of them some more.

Lately I'm finding the jokes and funny posts on social media make me laugh out loud more or louder.  I don't go to the movies much these days, but I've watched three movies at home this week with Jim.  Like a child, I laughed out loud and shouted warnings to the characters. I can't be certain, but I think food may taste better even.  Certainly chocolate does.

So, to wrap this up I say, Life is Good.  I miss you sometimes Grant, and I'm sorry you can't be here to enjoy your grandchildren and maybe be enjoyed by them.  One of your grandsons has a real gift for the piano and a talent for boogie-woogie.  Boogie on, sad Brother....I have living to do!

The Marathon

At the Start of the Austin Marathon

On Sunday, February 17, 2013, my son Robert (Rob is his Austin persona), and his fiancee, Sarah, ran the Austin Marathon.  They ran the full 26.2 miles against the odds and together, from start to finish. 

It was the first time I’ve witnessed a marathon, and I was not prepared for the range of emotions I would witness and even experience myself.  I don’t enjoy running; I didn’t enjoy it when I could run.  I walk now and certainly not fast enough to be able to finish 26.2 miles in the seven-hour time limit that day.  The sheer energy and joy of the 20,000 runners at the start of the marathon produced a totally unexpected burst of tears from me.  “I get it!” I found myself saying aloud to no one.  I followed the runners for as long as possible just to continue to feel that energy.

Sarah and Robert were both running with leg injuries, and Sarah had a throat virus—I didn’t see how they could finish.  Jim and I followed the course in the car with the aid of a tracking program available through an App on our iPhones.  We had first aid supplies and water and blankets in case the kids injured themselves further.  At each station we caught up with them they were smiling and talking and called out that they were just fine.  At about 20 miles it started to get rough for them and they were walking at one point.  We texted that we’d see them at the finish and drove back to the Capitol where the marathon would end.

They slowed quite a bit during the last few miles, and as we waited I was becoming frantic that something had gone wrong so close to the finish line.  I watched as people of all ages, shapes, and sizes crossed that line to cheers and applause.  I watched as two middle-aged women crossed sobbing, with their arms around each other.  I cried with them. 

Finally, Robert and Sarah came around the last turn, running side-by-side, and smiling.  Robert raised his arm in triumph, and Jim and I snapped photos of the two young victors.  Again I cried.  The next day Jim wrote the following tribute to our son and his future wife.  I felt it was worth sharing with you.

Donna

Rob and Sarah,

         Yesterday was a very special day, not only for you two, but for me as well, and I have a few reflections that I wanted to share with you.  Before I do that though, I want to share something else with you.

         There comes a time in all parents’ lives when their children leave home, and for the first time as a parent we realize we will not be there for all those little life events and firsts that we were a part of before.  We reflect on the first time you took a step, or spoke your first words, or the time you read for the first time or rode a bike or drove a car.  Or that first hit in Little League, or you built a fire on a camp out, sparred in Karate, flew an airplane, so many things.  We realize we won't be there in our child's life for those moments and it is a very sad, bittersweet day.  Our child is doing exactly what we have prepared them for, but we are not prepared for that moment.

         Allowing us to be a part of your achievement yesterday was a privilege and an honor.  We listened all those months ago when you said you had decided to run the marathon and we got almost daily reports on how that was progressing.  Then came the news of Rob's stress fracture and the less than quick recovery.  We wondered if you, Sarah, would run alone or Rob would do the best he could and walk it if need be or just support you.  We knew Rob was disappointed.  But still you both made plans to continue on.  Then Sarah, you got sick and all the questions started about whether you could even get out of bed to participate.  

         When we arrived to pick you up yesterday, I could see the concern and pre-game tension and the questioning looks on both your faces.  It was still there as we arrived at the Capitol, but minute-by-minute the looks on your faces changed from concern to acceptance and then determination.  You both started to focus on the task ahead of you, and I could see in your faces that if you took that first step you would not quit until you crossed the finish line.  

         After heading off in the wrong direction we located you when you came back across the river.  You both looked surprisingly strong and step for step with each other.  The fact that you continued that way for the entire marathon told me volumes about the two of you as individuals and as a couple.  I can only imagine the conversations you had, the encouragement you offered to each other, the support, the energy, and the whole thing it took for you to finish together.  We know it was not easy and at times not fun, but you were doing it totally together.

         I have never seen a bigger smile on Rob's face as I did yesterday as you came across the finish line.  What the two of you did was one of the most courageous personal achievements I have had the privilege to witness and take a small part in.  You will both forever have my deep respect for your accomplishment.  You did it together and you finished strong.  You own the Austin Marathon and you can take that with you wherever your lives take you.  

        

26.2 Miles and 5:17 Hours Later

For Donna and I it was a thrill to watch and support you both, even if we (I) had a little fender bender racing between observation points.  We wish we could have done more, but the two of you were magnificent.

         Thank you for letting us be a part of this most significant event in your lives together.

Love you tons!

Dad

Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, Wives :: Texas Monthly

Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, Wives :: Texas Monthly

The link above will take you to the August 2012 issue of Texas Monthly Magazine.  The article by Texas author, Mimi Swartz, made me furious.  In fact, the article made me so angry that I sat down at the computer to write after more than a year without posting a word.  This is not a diatribe on the issues of abortion or welfare; it's about what's happening to women.

Every woman in the USA should read this article, but it should be mandated that Texas women read it.  And the next time you hear a politician tell you that "there's no war on women," remember this article.  Ladies--and gentlemen--do you realize that in Texas, and in other states, there are men who want to take away the right to practice birth control?  And they are succeeding because women are allowing it.

How did we arrive back at the place in our nation where men decide what's right for our bodies?  Where men can beat down and hold down the poor by eliminating any chance of improving and controlling their health, thus preventing them from reaching up and making their lives better?  The poor are with us; they always will be.  In these economic times, any of us could suddenly become the poor.  Surely there isn't a soul out there who thinks that continuing to provide birth control and health services to people in economic straits is less desirable than paying for the result of no birth control and no health services?

We need heroes--politicians and regular people who will stand up for what's intelligent, compassionate, and wise, and who are not afraid to man up and go a few rounds with those who would impose an agenda that keeps women barefoot and pregnant.

Dad

William Grant Klave in 1946

It’s hard to know what to say or where to begin to write about my dad. He was not my birth father, but he was the only father I ever had. He married my mother when I was five years old—I was at the wedding. It was a beautiful Michigan fall day; I helped Mom and Dad collect red and gold leaves to decorate the windows of the little country church where they were married. Following the ceremony, we lived in a tiny, gray cottage across the street from my new Grandma and Grandpa’s cottage on Portage Lake.

Soon after the wedding, my new Grandma and Grandpa sold that cottage to Mom and my new Dad, and we moved into the home where I lived for the next 15 years. It was a good life—swimming, fishing and boating in summers, and skating and sledding in winters. Dad built a barbecue pit and a picnic table, and we had glorious backyard cookouts in the summer. He’d water the back yard at dusk to make the night crawlers come up so John and I could catch them and then sell them to the fishermen for a little spending money. In the winter Dad cleared the snow from the lake ice and flooded it so we could have a perfectly smooth ice skating rink. Ah yes, we thought it was a good life.

I’m not sure when I realized that all was not The Donna Reed Show or Ozzie and Harriet at our house. Dad left a steady job to start his own small business, worked nights in piano bars and dinner clubs, produced two new babies, and had no family medical insurance. All these would contribute to stress in any marriage. But it was alcoholism that brought down my parents—our family.

“You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’.” Toby Keith

Following a drunk-driving arrest, a judge gave him the option of an alcohol recovery program over jail, and Dad began the long process of putting his life back together. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and for the rest of his life, he spent holidays and Sundays visiting and counseling other addicts in rehab centers and at AA meetings. My father was bitter that my mother couldn’t get and stay sober. Their last years together before Mom’s death were not pleasant ones. In fact, I would call their lives “hell on earth.” My cousin Charlotte called it “living in the trenches.”

Dad was sober for the last twenty years of his life, but died before he could receive his twenty-year AA sobriety challenge coin. My brothers and I asked the pastor at Dad’s memorial service to use the Serenity Prayer as a foundation for his sermon, and we led the service in the manner of an AA meeting. I began with, “My name is Donna Klave Hodgson, and I’m Bill’s daughter.” Everyone in turn introduced themselves and told the group how they knew Dad. We sat in silence while we listened to a recording of Dad playing some ragtime on the piano, realizing we’d never have him sit down and play for us again.

Dad, I hope you knew how proud we are of your success in your war on alcoholism. I hope we honored you fittingly given the magnitude of your battle. And I pray that you knew—that I made you know—how grateful I am that you chose to be my father.

Love,
Your daughter Donna

The "Life Jacket" Effect

This morning Robert called from his workplace with important news. He had received a promotion and they were negotiating a pay raise. We were, of course, thrilled for him. On our extension phones Jim and I immediately began our ritual: “Don’t forget to remind them (his employer) of how much money your work has saved them this year. Make sure they make up the difference you’ll be losing in overtime pay.” We honestly can’t help ourselves! We are compelled to do this to him.

It was apparent he was anxious to get off the phone with us after a couple of minutes of that—plus he had to get back to work. Moments later I started to feel a little bit on the officious side and tapped out a short email to explain.

Robert Dear,

Whenever you share some important news, I know we always do this to you—start reminding you of all the things you should remember and do. It’s the “life jacket effect,” Kiddo. As I saw you sailing through the air over Lake Grapevine’s black waters, realizing at that moment that I had forgotten to double check your life jacket, my heart pounded in terror. My heart pounds as I write about it.

Telling you later that you should have done this or remembered to ask that would be like making sure the life jacket was fastened after the accidental drowning. It’s a parent thing.

Hope you know we share in your excitement and enjoy contributing when and where we can. Love, Mom

The Boating Adventure

When Robert was a small boy our neighbors invited us to go with them for a day of boating fun on Lake Grapevine. They had one of those inflatable tubes that you can ride in and be dragged behind the speedboat. Robert and I climbed into the tube together and were sailing along over the water when we hit a wake wave and were bounced off the tube and hurled separately through the air. The waters of Lake Grapevine are murky at best—a grown man can’t see his feet in four feet of water. It was at that moment that I remembered that I had forgotten to check to make sure Robert’s life jacket was properly fastened. Fortunately, the other mom had checked it for him.

It still haunts me. I still see the black water of the lake in my dreams. My heart races now as I write about it. As I paddled through the water to reach him, silently firing off one prayer of thanks after another, I knew I’d never forget that moment. I felt as if God had fired a warning shot at me: “Pay attention! Always remember to check Our boy’s life jacket!”

Later, when Robert was beginning to gain more and more independence, I would remind him of the dangers he might encounter as he set out on his adventures. We talked about “stranger danger;” I taught him about parking lot safety and internet safety. The poor boy practically had zits before I’d let him go into a men’s room by himself at the mall. Whenever he would set out without me, I’d think, “Did I teach him everything I could to keep him safe?

So Robert, my dear, I hope you understand that ever since that day on Lake Grapevine, I've just been trying to make sure your Life Jacket is fastened.

Donna

Mom

Imogene Dee Summers in 1946

My mother was a gorgeous young woman with the curly black hair and green eyes of her Irish ancestors and the high cheekbones, full lips, and firmly-set jaw of her Cherokee ancestors. She was tall at five foot seven inches, and slender, with good legs and broad shoulders. She also had the voice of an angel. As a girl she sang in church and in the Ann Arbor High School a cappella choir, and years later sang professionally with my dad’s jazz band. I idolized her.

As the teenage bride of a charming, but womanizing young man in his early twenties, Mom gave birth to me four months after her nineteenth birthday. My brother John was born two years later. After repeated abuse that included a pistol whipping once, Mom filed for divorce and custody of her two toddlers. She was fearless.

When I was five Mom married Bill. My birth father was more than happy to give John and me up for adoption by Bill because the agreement they made with the judge wiped out his back child support and alimony payments. No more jail time. Bill gave the three of us—Mom, John, and me—a new last name and we gave him a new first name: Dad. Mom was a survivor.

Mom and Dad were very happy. They had lots of friends and they did lots of things together. They were always smooching when Dad came home from work, and I fantasized that my life would be just like that when I grew up and got married. When I was seven, my brother Grant was born and when I was ten, my brother Keith was born. Mom was my role model.

Dad decided to leave his job at Argus Camera in Ann Arbor and start his own piano tuning and repair business. He worked nights as the piano man in a number of jazz and big band groups and days building his new business. Mom sat for hours at her massive old library-table desk and made piano tuning appointments for Dad. At some point she began singing with Dad’s jazz band, and then she also sat for hours at our grand piano, transposing Dad’s music to a key in which she could sing with the band. She was a trouper.

Mom talked to me about life and people and I could tell her anything. She was never shocked and always gave me the real story about the questions I asked. She was my best friend. Once in ninth grade science class the boys were yucking it up in the row behind me, and I asked them what was so funny. Intending to shock me, one of them told me they were talking about rubbers. This hurled them into fits of teenage boy hooting and sniggering. “What’s that?” I wanted to know. When they wouldn’t tell me, I said, “Fine; I’ll ask my mom.”

“Yeah, right! Go ask your mom,” they sneered.

“I will!” I replied. This drew peals of laughter from them.

As soon as I got to science class the next day one of the boys asked me if I had asked my mom what rubbers are. “Of course I did.”

“Did she tell you?” they wanted to know.

“Of course she did.” They were horrified. I gloated.

After a few years of night club and dinner club gigs, the effect of the long days and late nights began to show and to affect their marriage. They smoked and drank all night while working. We’ve been to those places where an appreciative patron sends a drink over to the piano player or the vocalist; I suspect that Mom and Dad never turned one down. They began to fight all the time, and by day we kids walked and talked softly to keep from waking the sleeping, recovering combatants.

When I left home to attend stewardess training in 1968, my mother was devastated. She had always told me she didn’t know what she would do without me—I was her little helper. She was proud of me and angry at me for deserting her. I was immature enough to think that I could be her friend and rescue her from her prison by sharing my world with her. That, of course, made her resentful. In addition to her alcoholism, she became addicted to Valium and pain killers. Mom continued to decline and our relationship unraveled. During the remainder of her life, she was forced to go through at least three alcohol recovery programs, simply waiting them out until she could get another drink.

When someone is on a pedestal the height at which I placed my mom, it’s a long fall back to Earth. I was angry at her and disappointed. She had taught me that I should not be weak and she had turned out to be weak. Perhaps it was her Irish and Cherokee ancestry that predetermined her fate. No offense is intended here to anyone living or dead of Irish or Native American descent, but both nationalities have the reputation of being prone to alcoholism. Her father was an alcoholic and so was her brother.

Mom was a most human human being. In her youth, she fought hard to save herself and her children from harm and unhappiness. In the end she succumbed to her demons and preferred to numb herself rather than keep fighting. I owe my life to her. She taught me to stand up for myself and to fight for my loved ones. If only she had been able to keep fighting for herself.

I miss you, Mom.
Love,
Donna

Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger

Wednesday was the 175th anniversary of the signing of the Texas Declaration of Independence. On March 1st five delegates to the Texas Convention of 1836 were selected to draft the declaration, and they literally wrote it overnight. They had to hurry; Santa Ana was attacking the Alamo. The Declaration was signed on March 2, 1836, and the rest is Texas history.

The first line of the Declaration is pretty powerful stuff:

“When a government has ceased to protect the lives, liberty and property of the people, from whom its legitimate powers are derived, and for the advancement of whose happiness it was instituted, and so far from being a guarantee for the enjoyment of those inestimable and inalienable rights, becomes an instrument in the hands of evil rulers for their oppression. . . ”

The Republic of Texas joined the Union on December 29, 1845, as the 28th state. And Texas has been declaring its independence ever since. After reading more state history, I have to conclude that Texans have always wanted things their own way and always stood up for themselves. The state is a special place geographically, historically and demographically, with at least a little of what is special in all the other parts of the nation. We have mountains, ocean, beaches, deserts, great rivers and lakes, forests, swamps, and natural resources. We can boast having major centers of commerce, industry, and education. Need I even mention football?

Texans have a right to be proud of their state and its rich history. I guess that explains the importance of having a state sandwich. . . . . .

State Sandwich: From the Star-Telegram, Monday, February 28, 2011.

Designating the hamburger as the state sandwich of Texas sounds like a simple measure. But state Rep. Dan Flynn, R-Van, may have bitten off more than he can chew.
His resolution states that Fletcher Davis of Athens "developed the new sandwich" at his lunch counter in the late 1800s. Other U.S. cities, including New Haven, Conn., and Seymour, Wis., insist that the burger was born within their borders. Four years ago, a Terrell state representative started a national ruckus by filing a resolution claiming the hamburger title for Athens. [Governor] Perry signed it, but the debate rages on.

So when Texas school phys ed, art and music programs are slip-sliding their way onto the chopping block, we have legislators working to establish the hamburger as our state sandwich. I think we’ve got some cheeseburgers in the State Legislature.

Donna



Read More:

The Texas Declaration of Independence
Texas State History

Memories

Yvonne, one of my husband Jim's LP66er high school classmates (April 11, 2009 post) sent this YouTube video. Between the incredible singing and the humorous, but painful truths, I had tears in my eyes. I'm really not sure if I was laughing or crying. Click on the YouTube link below and watch this video to decide for yourself.

Donna

YouTube Memory - A Spoof by Pam Peterson

Don't Be Part of the Problem

Dear Friends,

I haven’t written since September of 2010. I had nothing I wanted to say. We weren’t traveling, we were busy with the aviation museum in Fort Worth, and the holidays came galloping at me with the usual stress and anxiety.

Now, in light of the tragedy our nation experienced yesterday in Tucson, Arizona, I have something I want to say to everyone. Six human beings are dead—a federal judge and a nine-year-old child among them. Many more are in critical condition in hospitals.

When you pass hateful, vitriolic jokes or opinions to your friends in the form of emails and Facebook or Twitter comments, you are contributing to events like the one yesterday. You may react with: “it’s just a joke—lighten up, lady; but you don’t know everyone who reads that material.

A troubled young man tried to assassinate Gabrielle Giffords, a vibrant, gifted young United States Congresswoman. She successfully walked a line that few politicians can or will: She supported policies on both sides of the political fence. She is a politician who worked hard to stay in touch with her constituency and was admired and respected by Republicans and Democrats alike. This was a truly senseless crime.

There is so much hate, misinformation, and stupidity flying around on the Internet that it is no wonder that something like this hasn’t happened already. Please don’t contribute to it. Thanks to Photoshop, you can't even be sure a photo is real. Please think about what you’re spreading when you prepare to pass along something negative and hateful.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. We can all hit the “delete” key—but not everyone does. Sometimes, some troubled person just needs a little nudge to go over the edge and do something like what happened yesterday in Arizona.

There’s plenty good stuff out there to share. While we’re at it, we might share a prayer for the injured and for the grieving friends and families of those unfortunate Americans in Tucson.

All the best to all in 2011,
Donna

On the Road: The Shiner Trip, Part 2

It’s been a while since I started this post about our trip to Shiner, Texas, with the Fort Worth Mercedes Benz club. For a quick recap, check out the August 31st post, “On the Road: The Shiner Trip.” While on this road trip, I managed to check off a total of three Texas Monthly “Bucket List” items, (numbers 10, 12, and 19), and we had a wonderful time with the fun-loving members of the Fort Worth Benz club. The more I learn about this state, the more I want to know and see.

#19 – Drink a Free Beer at the K. Spoetzl Brewery, in Shiner.

After breakfast Saturday morning, Robert, Jim, and I hurried over to the K. Spoetzl Brewery. It wasn’t scheduled to open until ten o’clock, but as we peeked through the window into the locked gift shop, a woman suddenly appeared inside, unlocked the door, and asked, “What group are you with?” We told her it was the Mercedes Benz group and she ordered us to “Come on in!” Her name was Annie and she was to be our brewery tour guide. Then she said, “Come on up to the taps. What kind of beer do you want to taste first?”

There were four Shiner taps, and Annie gave us each an eight ounce cup with our first choices and three wooden tokens to redeem for our next three. Being that it was 9:45 in the morning, we pocketed our tokens and sipped our beer slowly while waiting for the rest of our group. A short time later they arrived at the brewery, and Robert left to head back to Austin. Annie was an unflappable guide—even when more than a hundred Corvette club members showed up without reservations.

Shiner, like many other towns in the “Little Bohemia” area of South Central Texas, was settled by German and Czech immigrants in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Thankfully, these wonderful people brought their love of beer with them to America. Check out Shiner.com for the story of the brewery and the town. The web site is cleverly constructed, but you must be 21 to log on.

When Cattle and Cotton Ruled.

After lunch, it was off to Gonzales to tour the Old County Jail Museum and do the Historic District Driving Tour. Gonzales calls itself the “Birthplace of Texas Freedom,” and claims to be where the first shot was fired in the battle for independence from Mexico. The town is a little over 18 miles to the northwest of Shiner and has a population of fewer than 7500 residents. It’s one of those little gems that make you say “ooh” and “wow” the first time you visit.

In towns all around the state one can find examples of 19th century, majestic old brick courthouses—it’s a Texas thing—and Gonzales is no exception. The courthouse, completed in 1896, is a beautiful example of Romanesque Revival style and is on the National Register of Historic Places.

The Historic Driving Tour begins at the Old 1887 Jail Museum which operated as a working jail until 1975. Some of you may remember the 1982, made for TV movie, The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez, starring Edward James Olmos in the title role. Cortez was one of the more famous “guests” at the Gonzales County Jail, and gained hero status among the Hispanic population because of his ability to elude the legendary Texas Rangers. The imposing old jail is a very depressing place, complete with a gallows and a special cell for women and lunatics. That’s Jim and me on the right, planning our breakout.

From the jail museum we continued on the driving tour and were astounded by the magnificent old homes along the tour. Cattle and cotton were the industries that fed the economy of Gonzales in the 19th century, and the appearance of many of the homes on the tour suggest that some folks were very successful. There are over 80 properties on the driving tour, some in disarray, and others that take your breath away.

#12: Marvel at the Painted Churches, in Little Bohemia.

We had a free afternoon, and Jim and I decided to check out Saints Cyril and Methodius Catholic Church in Shiner. SS. Cyril and Methodius, as it’s known, was established in 1891, and is one of the famous painted churches in “Little Bohemia.” The present-day church was completed in 1921 and has visitors from around the world coming to tour and photograph its beauty. When we arrived, people were lined up inside for Confession. I tried not to stare at them as my imagination ran a little wild as to the possible nature of their sins. I also wondered if maybe I should mention to a priest that I started drinking beer at 9:45 that morning.

After we left the church, Jim and I retreated back to the Old Kasper House for a nap. We had dinner that night with the rest of the Benz club at Kloesel’s Steakhouse and Bar in Moulton. Kloesel’s was a huge improvement over dinner the night before. Sunday morning after breakfast, Jim and I said goodbye to the Mercedes Benz gang and drove to Austin to have brunch with Robert and his girlfriend, Sarah. We met them at Z’Tejas Southwestern Grill, a popular place for Sunday brunch on Austin’s celebrated 6th Street. After that it was back to Grapevine for Jim and me and goodbye to another road trip.

It was a great weekend and another opportunity to check out and learn about Texas’ fascinating history and geography. Thanks to the Texas Monthly "Bucket List," there's plenty more to do and see. I'll keep you posted the next time we head out to explore this amazing state.

Donna

On the Road: The Shiner Trip

Last weekend we hit the road again. This time we were off to Shiner, Texas, with the Fort Worth Section of Jim’s Mercedes-Benz club. When Jim told me that a tour of the Shiner brewery was planned, I said, “Let’s go! I can check off another Texas Monthly ‘Bucket List’ item.”

Friday morning we set out on I-35 south to Waco where we were to rendezvous with the other Ft. Worth members at the Elite Circle Grill. We took the South Valley Mills Drive exit heading east and promptly found ourselves in the Twilight Zone, better known around the state as the “Waco Traffic Circle.” Before us was an enormous traffic circle with our destination on the northwest (behind us and on our left) side. Jim proceeded cautiously into the traffic circle, and we were almost completely around it when a black pickup truck nearly broadsided us. We parked and entered the restaurant, only to discover the entire wait staff wearing black t-shirts announcing: “I Survived the Circle.”

Sip a Dublin Dr. Pepper - #10 on the Bucket List

We met our tour organizer, DJ, and since Jim and I were running late, he suggested we run over to the Health Camp diner, a hamburger joint across the parking lot, to grab something to eat on the road. The Health Camp name is a joke because they only serve burgers, fries, shakes and other foods that will eventually kill you. The little diner was one of those neighborhood joints with a few tables inside and a walkup window outside. Their entire wait staff wore “I Survived the Circle” t-shirts also, and they had posters and signs proclaiming the same. We were beginning to worry about our short drive back to the highway.

We ordered our burgers to go, and while we waited, Jim noticed the sign over the pour-it-yourself soft drink fountain: we serve Dublin Dr. Pepper—made with real sugar. “‘Sip a Dublin Dr. Pepper’ is on the Bucket List,” I told Jim excitedly. Named for the Texas town whose bottling plant has produced them since 1891, the Dublin Dr. Pepper is still made with real cane sugar. Since the rest of the bottlers use the cheaper, high fructose corn syrup formula, the Dublin drink is only supposed to be sold within a 44 mile radius of Dublin. And since Waco is 90 miles to the southeast, the Health Camp diner probably had “bootleg” product.

Fearing that too much liquid would be a problem on a 170 mile drive, I told Jim I’d have a sip of his. According to Jim, the drink tasted like he remembered from his childhood when he visited his relatives in Louisiana. Perhaps my taste buds have been permanently altered by HFCS, because I thought it tasted like a cherry-flavored diet drink. The fries tasted like they were cooked after a batch of catfish, however the real Texas cheeseburgers were excellent. What’s a real Texas cheeseburger? Along with the usual—pickles, lettuce, onion, etc., it has only mustard—never ketchup. Or so I’m told.

The Best Little Town in Texas

At 1:30 the five-car caravan departed, heading down Texas Highway 77 for Shiner, home of the K. Spoetzl Brewery. After checking the map closely, I noticed that our route would take us through the German/Czech town of La Grange. This little town of 4,740, nestled alongside the Colorado River, has been immortalized in music, film and on stage. Broadway and movie buffs may remember the musical comedy from the 70’s and 80’s about La Grange: The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. You also might be familiar with ZZ Top’s song by the same name as the town. While the musical was whimsical and broadminded on the subject of prostitution, the ZZ Top song is rather dark. The town itself was clean and picturesque, and the greeting on the sign at the edge of town welcomed us to La Grange, “The Best Little Town in Texas.”

In Shiner, we stayed at the Old Kasper House, a lovely old bed and breakfast. Our son, Robert, drove from Austin to meet us for dinner at Robert’s Steakhouse (no connection) in the nearby town of Flatonia. The restaurant was packed, and our waitress was a lovely, sweet girl, who never stopped smiling while serving our party of twelve. However at the end of our mostly lackluster dinner, our bills were padded and almost everyone in the group was charged for something they didn’t order. We thought maybe that was in lieu of adding an extra 15 to 18 percent gratuity for a large group. Whatever the reason, I’d drive through Flatonia and find a restaurant in another town next time.

After dinner Robert drove back to Shiner with us. Since he was heading back to Austin the next morning, before the brewery tour was scheduled, we stopped at the Shiner Restaurant and Bar so he could sample a Shiner on tap. The tavern side of the bar and restaurant had a beautiful, stately old, early twentieth century polished wood and beveled mirror bar, like the kind in the old, big city taverns in Chicago. Andy, the proprietor and barkeep, was a walking book of knowledge on the historic town, the brewery, and the area. It was a nice, quiet finish to a long day of driving for all three of us.

Next: Morning at the brewery and afternoon at Confession in Little Bohemia.

Donna

Not My Hero; But I Did Laugh

When I began this post last night, I wrote: “Over 45,000 people ‘like’ Steven Slater on Facebook.” As of 7:45 this morning, that number is over 100,000 fans. In case you live in a vacuum, Steven Slater is the JetBlue flight attendant who quit his job Monday—and quite dramatically, at that. After an unpleasant encounter with a passenger, Slater opened an aircraft door, inflated the emergency evacuation slide, grabbed a beer, and exited down the slide. My first reaction when I heard about it on the radio was: “Well, he did what every one of us would have liked to do at one time or another in our careers as flight attendants.

I’m going out on a wing here and betting that a majority of those 100,000 fans are flight attendants, past or present. And while most flight attendants may have fantasized about popping a slide, grabbing a beer, and blowing the big aluminum tube, thankfully, we are, for the most part, a stable group of people.

“Move ‘em on, hit ‘em up, Rawhide.” Tiomkin and Washington

Last week I was in Detroit and trying to catch a flight back to Dallas/Ft. Worth. After about an hour’s drive in morning rush-hour traffic, my brother dropped me off at the airport on the departure level, and I entered the terminal building. It was a mob scene inside. There were people lined up for the automated check-in machines and dozens of people working their way like a conga line through stanchions and velvet ropes to speak to a live ticket agent.

Then it was off to the security line. Nearly 50 people were in line ahead of me and there were only two x-ray machines with working crews. For the next half-hour we did “clutch and go’s:” pick up, push, or drag your bag…inch ahead a little…move bag…move feet…move bag…move feet. You get the picture, right? All the while a morbidly obese, uniformed TSA agent was weaving back and forth in front of the crowd, shouting orders about security procedures. It was dehumanizing and nerve wracking.

Sardines in a tin.

My flight to DFW was on an MD-80 airplane with the five across, two-seat/three-seat configuration. The overhead bins were jam-packed full, and as we used to say, there was a butt in every seat and a face in every window. Does any of this sound glamorous, exciting, or even remotely pleasant? No. So, imagine being locked in an aluminum tube for a few hours with 140 paying customers who have just been treated like cattle and feel as defensive as I did.

Something happens to some people when they are cooped up in an airplane, surrounded by strangers. Their language may become shockingly vulgar, they may become physically abusive, and they often reject any kind of authority—especially from a woman or a gay man. Most flight attendants accept that the stress of getting to the airport, getting through security, and being stuffed into a crowded airplane in combination with delays, service cutbacks, and too much alcohol many times, triggers the bad behavior. But believe me, there have always been people who behave badly on a plane—long before 9/11 and today’s challenges.

It’s not only on airplanes that people behave badly. A policeman I know once had a woman deliberately drive her car into him when he gave her a traffic direction she didn’t want to follow. He said she was lucky he didn’t shoot her. Flight attendants don’t have weapons, except for their wits and their training. Since 9/11, they have not been able to rely on the pilots to come out of the cockpit and help if things get out of control in the cabin. On the other hand, since 9/11, more and more passengers are more than willing to jump into a fray and help defuse a bad situation.

Flight Attendants don’t make the rules, but they’re dying to.

Most altercations between passengers and crews on the airplane happen because of a “rules violation,” and flight attendants can seem like “rules Nazi’s” at times. Turning off cell phones, stowing luggage, fastening seatbelts, staying in seats, and smoking in lavatories, are a few of the issues that make problems for cabin crews. It is said the rules of aviation are written in blood, and all of the rules about these issues have been written in someone’s blood. If you think that sounds a little overstated, I assure you it’s not. Aircraft accident investigations have revealed that these seemingly small issues have caused loss of life.

I’m not a fan of Steven Slater and his behavior. I like to think that I held it together pretty well for forty years, with some minor exceptions. I’ve been shoved, verbally abused, and insulted by the very customers whose lives I was expected to save in an emergency. I’ve been permanently injured doing my job. And yes, I have fantasized about opening a door, inflating the slide, and zipping off the job, but I’m one to worry about consequences. Our real heroes are the flight attendants of US Airways Flight 1549 and others whose professionalism and bravery saved the lives of their passengers and coworkers. What Steven did was irresponsible, but give us this moment to relish in our umm. . . .folk hero?

Donna

Road Trip Interrupted

It's Sunday afternoon and I've been busy at the aviation museum in Fort Worth and not writing a new post. I'm behind on everything else I do at home also--the laundry, the housekeeping, the grocery shopping, and the de-cluttering. The mail is piled up on the countertop and the Sunday paper is still spread over the coffee table.

Fortunately, my friend Melissa, (a fifth generation Texan and niece of Davy Crockett), sent this video link that she thought we'd enjoy. It's a great slide show set to the Gary P. Nunn song: What I Like About Texas. Yes it's a country-western song, but smooth jazz or hip hop just wouldn't work as well. It highlights some of the legends and icons, old and current, of the state, and will have to be my "Road Trip" for now.



Shameless Self-Promoting.

I will get back on the road, but at present I'm working at setting up a gift shop in the Fort Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park museum. Our doors will open to the public on July 18th, so please come by if you're in the area. We're located on the north side of the city, not far from the historic Stockyards district.

The address is 3300 Ross Avenue, about two blocks west of Main Street, at the south end of Meacham Airport.

Donna

PS: We're right down the street from the famous Joe T. Garcia's Mexican restaurant!

What am I doing next? Eating! Last week I was looking for things to put in my salad—things that don’t cause heartburn, that is. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions make a perfect summer salad for most, but not for me anymore. Additionally, making salads is my least favorite part of meal prep, so something quick and easy was my second priority.

My local Tom Thumb supermarket had watermelon on special, (it is summer after all), so I started with that. I found packages of ready-to-eat red and romaine lettuce leaves and baby spinach. I picked up a couple of navel oranges and some ranch-style seasoned, sliced almonds and headed for the salad dressing aisle. There it was; the salad dressing of my dreams: Briannas Blush Wine Vinaigrette—tall and slender, and kissed with a summer glow. I'm referring to the bottle, of course. A perfectly ripened avocado waited at home in my refrigerator, and there’s always a container of strawberries in there because I make a fruit smoothie every morning for my breakfast.

It might sound like a strange combination of things, but you’ve got to try it to see how good it is.

Here are the ingredients:

Mixed greens (baby spinach, red or bronze lettuce, romaine lettuce, or your favorite).

Strawberries, orange sections, watermelon, avocado in equal portions. Make sure the watermelon and orange sections are not drippy. Pat dry if necessary.

Ranch-style seasoned, sliced almonds.

Briannas Blush Wine Vinaigrette Dressing. Don’t overdo it. There’s a lot of moisture in the fruit.

You can probably use cantaloupe instead of watermelon and substitute or add any berry you like. I’m thinking about trying blueberries also. Add sliced red onions or parmigiano-reggiano shavings if you like. Just make sure you use the Briannas salad dressing mentioned above. Yes, you can make your own blush wine vinaigrette, but I was going for easy as well as delicious.

And no, I promise I'm not on Briannas payroll. I just want to share this wonderful, possibly healthy salad recipe. Let me know if you try it and what you think.

Donna

On the Road: The Hen Party

When last I wrote, we had just left Centerville, Texas, at around 3:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, June 5th, heading for Austin. We said our goodbyes to the Mercedes Benz gang, put on our baseball caps and rumbled out of the parking lot, convertible top down, (you gotta try to look cool), and the air-conditioner on (gotta try to get cool). Jim was falling asleep at the wheel in the hot sun, so we stopped, put up the top, and traded places. I managed to get behind every dawdling farmer or rancher with a pickup truck for the next hundred miles, turning a two-hour drive into three.

On Sunday, Robert and his girlfriend, Sarah, drove with us to Dripping Springs, a town about 25 miles southwest of Austin. That area of Texas Hill Country is home to several wineries, and we were headed to the Driftwood Winery tasting room. I had read that the owner, Gary Elliott, had been hired to fly for Continental Airlines some years back, and Jim was hoping to talk with him. He found Mr. Elliott hard at work installing a fan in his new pavilion. According to Elliott: “If you’re thinking of throwing everything away to go into the wine business—don’t.”

After sampling half-a-dozen wines in the tasting room, we each bought a glass of our favorite and then wandered out to a ledge overlooking the vineyards and a field of sheep grazing far below. There we found tables and chairs scattered under the trees where we could sit in the shade for a while, sip our wines, and enjoy the pastoral view.

The Anniversary Party.

Next it was a dash back to Austin so I could check off Number Four on the Texas Monthly "Bucket List: Play Chicken Shit Bingo at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon." Ginny’s was NOT one of those trendy, downtown Austin Sixth Street destinations. It wasn’t even downtown. The building looked rather like a little old country church plopped down in the middle of an industrial strip of Burnet Road on Austin’s north side.

Just inside the door was an empty chicken-wire cage sitting on a platform; the floor of the coop was covered in numbered squares. The place was packed. At the front of the bar a band played loud country western music, and judging by the bobbing heads a couple feet from the band, it appeared that people were dancing. Jim estimated that there were easily 200 people inside the tiny bar. We ordered some Lone Stars and huddled at the back of the place, a few feet from the cage.

The Texas Monthly “Bucket List” article had suggested that the place gets busy, so get there early to play bingo. Who knew that Sunday, June 6, 2010 was the 10-year anniversary of the Chicken Shit Bingo tradition?

How They “Doo” It.

When it’s time to start, everyone who wants to play lines up, pays $2.00, and gets a ticket with one of the numbers that’s printed on the floor of the chicken coop. Sissy, the hen, is delivered to the coop and fed a combination of chicken feed and dried bread. When Sissy stops and drops on a square, the ticket holder with that number wins the $114 purse. Because it was the 10th anniversary, the purse was doubled—and so was the crowd.

The Honky-Tonk Sauna.

The band welcomed everyone to their little “honky-tonk sauna” and announced the game would start at five o’clock. The place was stifling hot, there was hardly any room to move, and people were still coming in. At last we were told to line up if we wanted to play bingo, and a chicken appeared in the coop. There were so many people by then that I didn’t even see the owner arrive with the hen just a few feet away from us. Robert got in line for me, and I sat down in a suddenly empty chair next to a pretty blonde lady at a nearby table. I told her about my blog and that I was working my way through the bucket list from Texas Monthly.

“Oh,” she shouted over the noisy crowd. “You’re working on a bucket list?”

“Yes,” I shouted back. A few moments later, Robert returned with my two dollars.

“The tickets are all sold out,” he said, handing me my money. “Sorry, Mom!”

People are good.

The blond lady’s husband returned to the table with their two tickets, waving them proudly, and I gave him back his chair. A moment later, she was holding her tickets up before me shouting, “Pick one!” When I questioned why, she repeated that I should pick one and her husband agreed. I rationalized that I couldn’t check off number four on the bucket list if I didn’t play, so I said thanks and picked the ticket with number thirty-one on it. People were gathered around the coop, yelling and cheering, and cameras were flashing. Sissy, the hen, was on the move.

The couple was so nice to me. They made sure I could see the chicken and told me where she was strutting and what number she was pausing over. They even offered me one of their chairs. Suddenly it occurred to me: “They think I’m dying! They think I’m working on my own bucket list.” I kept wondering what would happen if number thirty-one was the winner.

When the hen finally dropped the doody, (on someone else’s number), I asked the nice couple if I could keep the ticket.

“Of course!” they both answered. About then they ordered another round of beers and I pressed a twenty into the woman’s hand.

“This is for your beers; enjoy!” I said. I thanked them for their kindness, and Robert, Sarah, Jim and I hurried back out into the sunlight and headed off for dinner.

Faith in our fellow humans can be confirmed in the most unusual places!

Donna

On the Road: The Centerville Rally

A few months ago Jim bought a pretty little previously-owned Mercedes Benz. It’s a fun car, but I need to fold up like a jackknife to climb in, and I look like a giraffe being born when climbing out. Well, it seems there’s a club for owners of that automobile brand, and the Austin, DFW, Houston and San Antonio branches held their 5th annual rally last weekend in Centerville, Texas. Centerville, a town with 900 plus people and twenty-eight churches, is at the junction of Interstate 45 and Texas Highway 7, halfway between Houston and Dallas.

According to the club’s website, Fort Worth area “BenzNuts” were to rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. at Starbuck’s in Waxahachie, about 30 miles south of Dallas. A half-hour later we were to caravan to Centerville, where we would meet for lunch at Woody’s Smokehouse and then head out to Fort Boggy State Park for the rally.

Jim and I arrived at Starbuck’s right on time. We were surprised that we were the first ones there, and a little nervous when, a half-hour later, we were still the only Mercedes Benz there. We left Waxahachie at ten o’clock sharp and cruised on down to Centerville—apparently the lone ambassadors for all the Fort Worth, Texas BenzNuts.

Centerville is about a hundred miles south of Waxahachie and is one of those “wide spot in the road” kind of towns. There was Woody’s Shell station, Woody’s convenience store and Woody’s Smokehouse. There was a stately old courthouse and a few other businesses in what might be called a downtown, but it doesn’t take much commerce to support a population of less than a thousand people. Woody’s was definitely the gem in their crown and the main attraction of the little burg. Billed as the "Jerky Capital of the World," Woody’s was an oasis in the middle of nowhere.

Inside Woody’s there was a cavernous private room set up for us and a barrier chain with a sign that warned, “Mercedes Benz club members only.” There wasn’t a soul in there. I asked Jim, “Did you actually join this club?” He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, but assured me it was OK to scoot around the barrier. Fearing that we might be the only two to show up for lunch also, we decided to shop a while first and see if anyone else wandered in. I didn’t want to look pathetic—or pretentious—sitting alone at one of a dozen or more picnic tables in a private banquet room.

Woody’s was a supermarket of cookin’ and eatin,’ and it was packed with diners and shoppers. The meat counter held stacks of gorgeous fresh meats, sausages, cheeses and jerky. There was a wall of cold drinks stretching the length of the store and a small bakery area displaying pies and cookies next to the checkout. Here and there were a few souvenir hats and T-shirts, greeting cards and a smattering of collectibles. By far the most interesting area was the sprawling “jarred” section, where it seemed everything that grows in dirt was preserved, jellied, canned, or bottled.

After looking around the store for a while, we noticed four people seated at one of the picnic tables in the Mercedes Benz room, so we strolled over to the lunch line. Woody’s offered standard barbeque cafeteria-style service, but with a salty old guy giving orders as well as taking them. “You gotta tell me if it’s take out; I don’t read minds,” he smilingly growled at a woman in line ahead of me.

Jim and I both ordered the brisket, but he decided to play heartburn roulette and sample the sausage—he lost. The server behind the counter slapped our meat orders on some butcher paper directly on our trays and ordered us to “Take some beans and sauce, ‘cuz their free.” There were little cups of jalapeños and sliced onions to accompany our meat, but I got heartburn just looking at them. The brisket was delicious and possibly the best I’ve ever had. The banquet room eventually filled up with more club members, and the growling meat server brought all of us Woody’s baseball caps and koozies and samples of jerky. I tried the buffalo jerky, and I must say it just tasted like dried beef to me.

Following lunch, we caravanned out to Fort Boggy State Park for the rally. There the Mercedes owners voted for the best cars in four categories, depending on the age of the vehicle. I guess for some Mercedes Benz owners, it’s not enough to just own one. While Jim joined the voting—we didn't win—I found a shady spot at a picnic table and sat down. Everyone we met seemed friendly and sincere, and if it hadn't been 98 degrees outside, we would have called it a real nice day. We left Fort Boggy around 3:30 and set out for Austin and "chicken shit bingo" on Texas Highway 79—a road that could only have been designed by John Deere himself.

Donna

Next: Austin and Number Four on the Bucket List.

Memorial Day 2010

It was at the funeral of my dear Aunt Beth several years ago that I learned of the value of older Americans. Of course, having grown up in the 1950’s and early 1960’s, I was taught to show respect toward my elders. Like many childhood lessons back then, rules didn’t come with explanations—other than the commonly heard “because I said so!”

My dad’s cousin came to Michigan for Aunt Beth’s funeral, and I had an opportunity to chat with him for a little while. He had retired many years earlier, but was busier than ever—volunteering with the American Red Cross. He talked about the importance of volunteering, and his words that day were branded upon my memory: “If it weren’t for retired folks, there wouldn't be enough people to work in all the volunteer organizations. Many of the services we take for granted would be shut down.”

There are many ways and opportunities to volunteer our services; we all know about the Red Cross, Salvation Army, United Way, and other mammoth organizations that have widespread media recognition. But there are countless smaller groups that serve our nation and our fellow humans in quieter, less public ways.

Today is Memorial Day. My morning newspaper ran an Associated Press article, by Helen O’Neill, about a group of women who volunteer at Arlington National Cemetery. Since the 1940’s, these women, representing the Navy, Air Force, Army and Coast Guard, have been making sure that no serviceman or woman is alone when they are buried.

The Arlington Ladies

This small “band of volunteers,” primarily the wives of retired military officers, attend every funeral in Arlington Cemetery. They are there daily, even in scorching summer heat and bitter winter cold, ensuring that every soldier, sailor, airman, marine, or guardsman is remembered and honored. They are the “Arlington Ladies.” As in the history of all volunteer organizations, their founder saw a need and filled it. For an inspiring Memorial Day message, please check out the full story.

On this Memorial Day and everyday, thank you to all those who have given their all for the rest of us. And thanks, also, to those who volunteer their time and energy to serve our military family.

Donna

According to the United States Department of Veterans Affairs, “The Department of Veterans Affairs’ (VA) National Cemetery Administration maintains 131 national cemeteries in 39 states (and Puerto Rico) as well as 33 soldier’s lots and monument sites.”

Mother's Day

Jim and Robert have always taken me out for Mother’s Day. Most years it’s been for brunch and we’ve been to some wonderful places. And most of the time, the brunches have been beautiful buffets with mimosas and champagne, and a rose or carnation for us moms. But these special brunches get very pricey. I thoroughly relish being pampered and spoiled by my guys, but fifty to seventy-five dollars to serve myself seems a little excessive. And besides, I cannot eat fifty to seventy-five dollars worth of food in one sitting—even when you throw in a couple of mimosas.

Jim and Robert are typical guys in that as soon as they finish their last bite of food, they’re ready to throw their napkins on the table and head for the exit. I can forget about long, lingering conversations over another cup of coffee. Oh, they’ll humor me and sit there, but then they might begin playing with the salt and pepper shakers or the straws from their water glasses. This year I suggested they treat me to brunch at home.

After the guys agreed to serve me brunch, I cooked up the idea of inviting my girlfriends, Judy, Gail, Sandy, and Gerry to celebrate Mother’s Day with us. Like me, the girls have all lost their mothers, but the four of them have no family close by. Gerry is Robert’s Godmother, so of course she was invited—we consider her part of our family. I promised to whip up a quiche or something and make it easy for the guys to pull it off.

When Robert and Jim agreed to the expanded brunch idea, I joked, “Would you dress up like butlers?”

Jim’s quick reply was a typical Grumpism: “Don’t press your luck.” Grump was Jim’s military call sign, and he’s still called that by his friends.

Saturday I busied myself doing some prep work for the brunch, and made a ham, mushroom and caramelized onion quiche. I cut up some fresh fruit, cleaned and trimmed some asparagus, and pulled a package of hollandaise sauce mix out of the pantry. I bought a pretty little bouquet of yellow springtime flowers, a couple of packages of mini muffins, and ironed the table linens. I called all the girls and asked each to bring a photo of her mom to place on the sideboard in my dining room.

Jim asked, “Do you think anyone will believe Robert and I did all this?”

“I’m just prepping,” I answered.

When brunch time neared, the guys were nowhere to be found. I had some last minute explanations for them about what I’d prepared and wanted to give them some suggestions for timing things. Yes, I get a little anal when entertaining.

“Where are you guys? I need to talk to you,” I called to an empty room. A few minutes later I started to panic. Knowing Jim, he could have decided to retile the bathroom or go for a thirty-minute run before brunch. I yelled again, “Where are you? You need to be in the kitchen!”

A moment later, I heard Jim call from upstairs, “We’ll be right down.” When they came into the kitchen I doubled over in laughter. They had both dug out their old tuxedo shirts and bow-ties and dressed as waiters. The girls and I loved it! They made and served our mimosas, finished preparing our brunch, and waited on us hand and foot. Of course they ate with us, but after brunch they cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen.

We girls sat at the table for another hour and talked about our mothers. Afterward Sandy took photos of us with our moms’ pictures. It was great to celebrate Mother’s Day with my family, my friends, and best of all, to celebrate our moms again.

Donna

PS: Thanks to Sandy for the great photos.