Yesterday, I hit a chronological milestone. I turned 70. I should have worn this t-shirt …
I woke up to flowers from Robert.
Lots of flowers …
And cards from Robert, lots of cards (he has this tradition of giving more than just one card for special occasions, which at first I thought was a little over the top but now LOVE) …
And lots of new t-shirts from Robert (do you see a trend here?) …
A beautiful day. Greetings and best wishes from family and friends.
And a hand-me-down Apple Watch!
Finally, as I promised in my recent thrilling colonoscopy post, an update on the birthday steak dinner at Toni’s Steakhouse which the “doctor-helper nurse” suggested just before the “anesthesia nurse” put me to sleep.
We opted for the New York strip with broccoli and potato.
What a joy to have lived through the Sixties two times now!
Seriously? 2021 is on its last breath?! Quickly then, here are Five Final Friday 2021 Happies.
1. Robert taking FOREVER to “set the stage” before taking pics of my second (what was I thinking?) fruitcake of the season.
2. Daughter Amy winning South Magazine’s Greatest Nurse Award 2021.
South Magazine — Winter Issue 2021-2022 — Just out!Not that I’m proud or anything.
3. The sky.
“I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow, it’s cloud illusions I recall, I really don’t know clouds at all.” But I do love them.
4. The lunch I “created” yesterday (from use-‘em-before-they-spoil leftovers) for Robert and me.
My vision had us sitting across from each other, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes, then casting our gaze downward to the edible art inhabiting the space between us.
Oops, now you know how many supplements/vitamins I take.
Smiling, we would have no need for dishes, for cutlery. And why would we?! We had our hands, our fingers, our hearts, our culinary freedom. As if we were dining in an authentic Indian restaurant, we would both be silently agreeing with award winning chef Srijith Gopinathan of San Francisco’s Campton Place: “There’s a reason people use their hands to eat. It’s because food is very, very personal.” I could see and hear Robert whispering (no longer in an Indian restaurant), “Bon appétit, mon amour,” as he fed me a finger of (two-day old, slightly brown but still delicious) genuine Mexican guacamole … from Whole Foods.
Doesn’t this look, not just pretty, but personal to you? And yes, I know the ham salad from Monday looks a little runny, but still.
Well, here’s basically the pre-lunch convo between Robert and me when he saw the table.
Him: “Wow.”
Me: (Not responding, except in silent joy, awaiting his next compliment.)
Him: “Uh, aren’t you going to put that ham salad in plates?”
Me: Sounding upbeat, perky, as if I were offering him an invitation to the Waldorf Astoria for their Waldorf Salad: “Ha, ha. No, silly! It’s a communal lunch, but just you and me, reaching and using our fingers.”
Him: “Oh, okay,” staring at a couple of mayonnaise-y green peas sliding off the “sorta charcuterie board.”
But believe it or not, after that slippery start, we had a great and fun, if not 100% fresh, lunch. And I relented with two (small) salad plates.
5. Getting through (sometimes sailing along beautifully, sometimes barely moving) yet another perfectly imperfect year.
1. Robert’s and my annual holiday ritual of reading our beloved “A Cup of Christmas Tea” and “raising a cup of Christmas cheer to loved ones and family far and near.” (That includes YOU!)
2. Grandson Daniel singing “Hallelujah” with a chorus friend at the Savannah Country Day School Holiday Concert.
(Not that I’m a proud grandfather or anything.)
3. Having a fun early Christmas Luncheon Extravaganza (as I titled it) with ex-wife/great friend Donna at Savannah’s The Pirates’ House Restaurant.
4. Robert’s beautifully delicious and holiday-ish “Watermelon and Kiwi Breakfast Salad” sprinkled with fresh mint and nutmeg, and a side of pickled beets with jalapeño sauce and smoked paprika. (He sounded a little uppity to me when he explained the menu.)
The spiced oranges (we made last night) are pretending to lay low in the pic above. But are trying to steal the show.
5. And finally, recognizing and joyfully acknowledging that ….
Grandtwins Matthew and Madison turned two last Saturday. Here’s a memorable moment from the party when Matthew’s balloon got loose and floated to the ceiling.
Twin Madison shows keen interest but not much sympathy.
Well before the pandemic, Robert and I had started exploring our state’s 48 State Parks and 16 Historic Sites. Georgia has an absolutely dizzying array of parks, from the North Georgia mountains, to the piedmont, on down to the coastal plain, where we live in Savannah.
After months waiting out the pandemic, and coming down with severe house-stir-craziness, we decided to venture out again … experimentally.
What a glorious time we had, getting reacquainted with or being introduced to our state’s natural splendors.
We would reserve a cabin for a Monday and stay several days before the weekend traffic arrived.
Oh, btw, here’s our nerdy state park magnet board …
Now that December is here, and we are on our Countdown to Christmas, Robert and I have put up our Travel Tree. What’s a Travel Tree, you ask? It’s a Christmas tree, with each ornament from one of our travels over the years.
For this new blog category, “Countdown to Christmas: Our Travel Tree & Georgia State Parks,” I plan to briefly highlight one aspect of a different Georgia State Park each day till the Big Day.
Starting with one of our favorite, Tugaloo State Park, way up in Northeast Georgia near Lavinia.
Perhaps our greatest joy about this park was our very own private dock down the hill from our cabin. The dock extended out onto beautiful Lake Hartwell on the South Carolina border.
And here’s an absolutely pitiful pic (thankfully dark) of me shivering in the morning cold with my coffee.
And here’s one of Robert, inexplicably taking a picture of my coffee.
1. Robert and I enjoyed a big ole modern family Thanksgiving celebration with daughters Amy and Emily (and their fams) and ex-wife/great friend Donna.
And a pic that defines Awkward Family Photo …
I had just made some silly, jokey remark, and grandson Daniel was the only one who thought it was funny. He thought it was REALLY funny.
2. Cranberry sauce. More specifically, MY cranberry sauce. With allspice, brown sugar, fresh squeezed oj and zest.
3. My aging, sometimes achy and imperfect but wonderful body.
{No pic until said imperfect body is perfect. Do not expect body pics in the foreseeable future.}
4. Robert’s sometimes odd but always delicious soups (which he often makes up on the fly). This time, Baby Bok Choy and Shrimp.
5. The countdown to Christmas. We put up our Travel Tree last night, Thanksgiving night—a tradition. What’s a Travel Tree, you ask? It’s a Christmas tree, with each ornament from one of our travels. (More about the Travel Tree on my blog each day during December.)
I can still remember so very vividly this difficult but meaningful chance encounter one evening in downtown Savannah years ago.
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Touch
Savannah’s Broughton Street bustles with activity this past Friday night, even for a warm and gorgeous early spring evening. I suppose Broughton is as close as my quirky, Midnight City gets to having a normal Main Street, as the historic district snakes around twenty-two breathtakingly beautiful squares. (Savannah’s downtown area is unique and hard to describe–come visit us to see what I mean.)
My friend Robert and I venture to the Crystal Beer Parlor, share joyful banter with lovely Hostess Fifi, meet good buddies, consume delicious and perfectly prepared ribeye steak. Friday night joy. Next, Broughton Street Market and dream-laden lottery tickets. Walking toward my car. Traverse past hip young couples pushing into dance clubs; midde-agers brandishing bags with Paula Deen leftovers; older folks leaving Savannah Music Festival venues; SCAD kids with blue hair waving in the breeze. Packed, noisy sidewalks. All well. Very well. Blessed.
Then fate interrupts–as she often does.
They sit on the sidewalk. No sprawl. As if dumped there. Three young men, in their early twenties. Two dogs. Man and pet, dirty, smelly, retched. Outcasts from society. A block from McDonald’s.
I live downtown and have grown immune to the homeless, the beggars, the street people. They merge and melt into the old bricks, the azaleas, the wooden benches. So what if there is an occasional grocery cart on its side in the shadows? No big deal. It happens.
But then the soiled speak.
“Can you guys help us out? We’re hungry.” Honesty makes me tell you my reaction: No Reaction. Walking on. Past the dirty ones.
Then Robert turns, and says, “I can’t give you money, but I can buy you some food.”
Why do I hang out with people like Robert? It’s so much easier to keep walking. Walking past. Walking toward. Past what I don’t want to see, acknowledge. Walking toward the known, the comfortable.
“What are you doing?” I quietly ask Robert, a bit frustrated.
“Getting them something to eat,” he says matter-of-factly.
I try but can’t think of a real reason to stop this interruption of my previously perfect night.
Too late, already inside McDonald’s, I remember a possible reason to have kept walking, a religious reason even: didn’t Jesus say that we would always have the poor with us?
But Robert, reasonless, places the order.
Five minutes later, with a bag of burgers and a tray of dollar menu sweet teas, we walk back toward the vagabonds. One young guy, with his mouth inexplicably sucking on the side of a smoking soda can, with pierced nose tattooed in triplicate black dots along the bridge, stands up in dryrotted pants that touch bony, bare knees. Drunk. Or high. Or both.
I hold out the bag of burgers. Away from my body, and toward his. Embarrassed. He reaches towards the food and plops back down.
Another, apparently the leader and spokesperson, looks up at me and says, “Man, you guys are beautiful. I gotta stand up and thank you. That’s a cool jacket.”
I want to be anywhere, anywhere but here.
He starts to stand, and then reaches out to hug me, drunkenly. But pauses, perhaps sensing my hesitancy.
I then see his eyes.
And my safe Savannah world shatters.
For his eyes are the eyes of a real boy. A boy with a mama and a daddy somewhere. A boy who used to be a baby.
“Where are you guys from?” I ask, shakily, terrified but now connected. Joined. Level.
“San Francisco, long way from home,” he replies.
And then my knowing comes: his eyes could be the eyes of my daughters. The eyes of my grandchildren.
Without thinking, I reach out and touch his scraggly face and hold it for a moment. I see him. Time freezes. I really see him. He sees me, I think.
“If this was reversed, I’d do this for you, man,” he says haltingly, taking his place back down on the sidewalk, back down to his low place.
Robert and I walk away.
Less than two blocks later, I feel tears on my face.
NealEnJoy 