My introduction to Bernadine was back in Trinidad just after I was born. I don’t remember this but Bernie told me that when I was brought home from the hospital she was so upset that I had usurped her role as the baby of the family the she would walk over to my crib and pinch me.  When Mammy asked her why I was crying she would deny any knowledge and just pinch me again.  Bernie loved being the baby of the family but now she was my big sister and, while initially unhappy with this role, she grew into it and looked out for me.  

Bernie was very smart and so beautiful. She grew up in Queens NY but really blossomed, when she moved to Miami in her early twenties.  Bernie attended the University of Miami, drove a fancy sportscar and got an even fancier apartment on Miami Beach. While I visited for the view of Biscayne Bay from her balcony her nieces and nephews visited because she always had a big bowl of peanut M & Ms on her dining room table.  Plus she always made us lasagne when we visited. She tended to our sophisticated culinary needs.  Bernie loved her nieces and nephews so much and indulged them as often as she could buying them fancy video games, always remembering their birthdays by mailing them tissue wrapped packages of seashell chocolates, jelly beans, toys and clothes and calling them her cuties. 

Bernie dressed very chicly and developed an almost unhealthy Victoria’s Secret habit.  She even bought her business suits from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. She also, ironically, had a Tweety Bird habit.  Many of the treasured objects in her apartment were Tweety themed and she generally padded around in oversized, fluffy Tweety slippers.  

When Bernie moved to Raleigh, NC she started a new phase in her life.  She was so brave, moving out here without a job or an apartment; but she garnered both very quickly.     The only thing she did not get very quickly was furniture.  Bernie lived with an airbed and one folding chair for months.  I don’t think she ever got furniture until she met and moved in with her Ricky.  

Bernie never had children but she had her doggies.  She loved them as her family. Her first dog was a barky, snarling German Shepard named Jake.  She would baby talk with her little Jakey while he side eyed us and tried to take big bites out of us. Then came her fluff ball Bear who truly was as sweet as Bernie said.  We could pet and cuddle him. Both of these fur babies crossed that Rainbow bridge in the past few years which devastated our Bernie. But I expect that they are with her now licking her face and snuggling with her and making her welcome on the other side and I’m sure that Jake is protecting her as always. Bernie leaves behind her doggies Max, Bently and Riley who miss her dearly. Last Christmas when she visited with Riley I didn’t think the puppy had legs because she never let him out of her arms.  She drew such great comfort from her pets.   

Bernadine loved her Ricky almost as much as the dogs. They met at work and married quickly since they knew that they had each found their person.  When they started dating Bernie kept gushing about what a gentleman Ricky was, he’s such a gentleman she said, BUT he’s got this thing about ducks. Apparently Ricky had brought stale bread on their first date so he could feed the ducks at the park. I’d like to say that it was nauseating the affection and all the pet names they continually lavished on each other but it really was sweet.

Our mom and dad both came from large families so we have numerous cousins, somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 or more and Bernie is the first of our generation to go gently into that good night.  She’s again thrust into the role of big sister who has to lead the way into that undiscovered country and look out for all of us.  

I’ll miss her style, her acerbic wit, her kindness and definitely her lasagne.  She’s with our parents now watching over us. So, to honor our Bernie, take care of yourselves, take care of each other and think of our Bernadine often to keep her alive in our hearts.  

Dear Sweet Boy, 

What a joy the last year has been. Your vocabulary is exploding and you can now express many of your thoughts. You say entire babbly sentences with some identifiable words. You say “cold” and give me your tiny hands to warm up or “hurt” when you bump your head, or “pizza” when you see Pop leaving and expressing your hope that he come back with your favorite food. “I cook” you insist, underfoot and trying to help make dinner. 

At 5am one morning you burst out of the bedroom with a list of demands akin to the airing of grievances on Festivus. “Baba, nack, juice, Elmo and animal cookie” rapid fire out of your little mouth, making it clear that it’s been a long night and you are hungry, thirsty and ready for Sesame Street. 

At the park you chase “birbs” and are excited to pick up “bocks”. In fact, there’s a small bock collection on the outside table in Sunnyside awaiting your return. You critically point out where there’s a “meass” even though you are the messy culprit. 

You love handling and reading books and always have a favorite page; the “keys” page in the, Goodnight Gorilla, saga when the sly Gorilla steals the zookeeper’s keys to emancipate his friends and the “cake” page in the, Oh no George, tale when the reckless doggie eats the entire unchaperoned cake. 

You remember where your favorite things are kept; walking to the fridge for milk and juice, pulling me over and pointing to the cabinet where the “nacks” are kept or crawling into the toy chest to get your books and bag of sports balls from Auntie Brennie. You give me a 30 pound workout by throwing around the word “up” when you want to be picked up or, confusingly, put down. You say, “no, hot” and then touch the stove anyway you wee little hooligan. 

Moreover, there is already an independent and sometimes defiant streak emerging, like the time you insisted on getting all your “na nite” accoutrements early, including your “teetee” and “baba”with milk, and then climbing on the couch, clutching each for comfort. When told not to drink your baba yet you defiantly took a swig and with milk dripping from your lips looked me straight in the eyes and said, “nummy”.

You laugh a lot and are sweet and happy and mostly kind to Lulu and Coco and love looking at family pictures on the fridge, pointing and identifying Pop and Mamma and Dada and Chuckie and pizza and the yet undetermined “Uncle Nay Nay”.

So many mysteries and adventures are yet to unfold. I can’t wait. 

Love always,

JiJi 

Karson 

He didn’t look like an angel. He looked like a big, formidable young man with a ponytail and enormous calves whom I would have nothing in common with; but being fellow pilgrims I said “Buen Camino” as I walked by on the mountain trail that late August morning. He replied with the same customary greeting and a smile and as we were walking up the mountain at the same pace we organically became walking companions. Within two minutes of meeting he gave me cake, literally. He had stayed overnight at Refuge Orisson and I had stayed further up at Refuge Borda. I did stop at Orisson, to eat the egg sandwich the host at Refuge Bellari in St Jean Pied de Port had sent me off with early that morning, bought a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and sat admiring the expansive view on the large Orisson deck. Karson asked if I had tried Orisson’s famous lemon cake (I did not; didn’t even know about it). He stopped right there, opened his pack and handed me a foil wrapped wedge. “You must have this.” At first I refused but he insisted. I was floored by the immediate kindness and generosity. I tucked the cake in my backpack for later. We continued chatting as we climbed the Pyrenees with thick fog rolling in and out punctuated by bursts of sun and drizzle and the most incredible mountain views with meandering cattle and horses and sheep (imagine Heidi or The Sound of Music). Karson was from Germany and, luckily, spoke English well. He was about 40 and worked three days per week at a port in the shipping department. This schedule allowed him to save his vacation time and take a month off to walk the Camino. This was his second attempt as he had tried the previous year but fell and hurt himself badly enough that he had to abandon his attempt and go home. He was back again this year after losing some weight and ready for the challenge. Since he had walked this difficult passage over the mountains the previous year, he became my pathfinder. We stopped at a rise in the mountains after about an hour of walking at a farmer’s food truck. I bought a cup of coffee and Karson was excited that the farmer had Aquarius drinks, which are hard to find apparently. He also bought a wedge of cheese that the farmer made himself with the sheep’s milk from his flock. We shared the cheese. It was glorious sitting on the mountain and eating delicious homemade cheese. I learned that Karson lived with his mom and played a lot of video games when he wasn’t working but seemed to be restless and searching for more. He was very intelligent and intuitive and was, I think, hoping to be more social. I offered to pay for snacks at our next stop but Karson reflected that I should learn to accept generosity without reciprocity. As we continued our journey the weather in the mountains, as I was warned, turned hazardous. It went from fog to drizzle to sleet and hail to heavy rain with thunder and lightning. I’m not sure how I would have persevered without Karson. He was sure footed and confident. We stopped off in a mountain hut for a small reprieve and found it crowded with drenched pilgrims. After a few minutes we decided to continue hiking in the downpour as we had many miles to go before we sleep. After a few miles we bumped into Carlos and Jack whom I’d met the night before at Refuge Borda. They joined us and we became a small family of travelers. I think Karson was a bit shy around them but they were so complimentary of his leadership that it increased his confidence and made him comfortable. Karson jokingly commented to me, “you know what they say about us Germans, we can lead … but you may not want to follow.” 😂

We crossed into Spain, only denoted by large stone pillars, labeled Navarro, and a cattle grid to stop the animals emigrating, no walls or immigration officers to stop humans; just a muddy, accessible trail through the mountains. Shortly after we crossed into Spain Carlos asked me to reach up into his backpack and take out a salt shaker tucked into a pocket. He confided that the shaker contained his brother’s ashes. His brother was supposed to make the pilgrimage with him but died suddenly before the trip; this was his way of paying tribute to his brother and having him accompany him. He asked me several times that morning to retrieve and replace the shaker as he spread the ashes along our trail. 

There were no cafes or small towns along the mountains so we took breaks when the weather permitted and ate our snacks. After several hours of hiking, as we descended the mountains the sun came out and Karson led us to the monastery at Roncesvalles where I, Jack and Carlos had made a reservation to stay that night. When we arrived in the courtyard I saw many of the new friends from the previous night at Borda that would become my Camino family. We were all drenched and laid out our jackets, shoes and socks to dry in the sun. I was soaked through to my underwear. Karson planned to continue on to the next town and when I left him to check in, the process took so long that he was gone by the time I came back to the courtyard. We never said goodbye or saw each other again.

I thought about him as I lay in bed that night, in the dormitory bed with paper sheets, eating the extraordinary Orisson lemon cake. I had read that there are Camino angels that you encounter periodically on your pilgrimage. I was skeptical but I’m convinced that Karson was one of them. He led me sure footedly through the oftentimes perilous Pyrenees mountains from France into Spain with good humor, generosity and kindness. I hope he completed the journey to Santiago safely and is back home having a party with a table laden with so much food that it is buckling with the strain (he confided that was how he imagined/planned entertaining friends). Thank you Karson my Camino angel. Buen Camino! 

The teenager upstairs tearfully knocks on my door with a tiny white fluff of fur nestled in her hand. Her boyfriend just gifted a precious kitten to her for Valentine’s Day and her mom had quickly vetoed the idea of her keeping him. Could I please keep him? She would babysit anytime, please please please?  I said yes without really thinking about the responsibility. I named him Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Singh, expecting fully that he would grow into this lofty moniker. At first he was too tiny for his collar and it quickly became a belt but as he grew I found a pretty reflective orange collar and I squeezed his entire name into the identifying tag. Hamlet had a big personality and loved to attack the ankles of my guests, frequently ripping holes in their socks. We lived in harmony, mostly, except that he kept killing my houseplants by surreptitiously peeing in their pots. When we move to a new house he hides behind the fridge for days before cautiously emerging. He watches from the window and never fails to greet me at the door ever day when I come home from work; he sleeps on my chest and likes to purr and knead my thighs as we watchTV on the couch. He loves to puke up furballs and leave them as surprise presents around the apartment. One day I even found a sausage shaped fur ball on top of my comforter. Hamlet had no shame. He was entirely snow white and my clothes always announced that I had a white cat. A coworker gave me a lint roller when she saw me wrapping my hand with scotch tape one morning removing fur. It was a magical invention. Seven years elapse and we live in three homes, endure several relationships, and one marriage. One morning I find him wheezing by the fireplace, gasping for breath. I call an emergency vet who tells me to try spraying him with an asthma inhaler my sister had left behind. It has no effect so I drive him over to the animal hospital. They hook him up to a tiny IV while they run tests. I see his little paw attached to a bag of fluid and he is barely conscious as I leave him and reluctantly go to work. The call comes later that morning. True to his Valentine origin, his heart is too big. The vet says he lived as long as he did because I kept him indoors. In the wild he never would have survived.  The best option is to let him go. 

I call my husband to let him know and he advises me that his mother, who had not spoken to us in 6 years and had refused to come to our wedding the previous year, wants to meet for dinner that very night. Big Sigh, I find that I cannot say no because it is the breakthrough gesture that he’s been hoping for. 

I go to the animal hospital after work and hold Hamlet’s paw and hug him as they put him into that eternal sleep and watch him shuffle off this mortal coil into the undiscovered country. He slips away quietly and quickly. I leave him behind for a mass cremation. I never see him again. 

I stop crying and try to pull myself together for this very important dinner. My husband drives and when he stops for gas I cry quietly in the car. I am bereft of my furry companion. 

At the restaurant my husband’s mother is there with his sister waiting for us. The dinner is awkward but hums along. My husband mentions that I am sad because I just put my cat to sleep. I get some sympathetic murmurs and I’m holding it together, but when no one is looking my mother in law whispers cat noises to me. She meows and purrs. I don’t react because WTF, I honestly don’t know what to do. I don’t mention this to my husband because he is so happy to have his mother back. 

I never see my Hamlet again but I feel him and I hear him. I occasionally hear him jumping from the top of the refrigerator and some nights I feel his weight on my chest as I drift off to sleep. He was a good companion and I was glad to be his Horatio. The rest is silence. 

We didn’t know how much we missed him till he showed up. He smiles and jumps when you walk into his room. He has this bouncy dance he does as he holds on to his bed rail; the happiest prisoner, bouncing his body up and down; no judgment just joy at being noticed. He is a bundle of excitement, curiosity and babbles. He reaches, he crawls, he tastes with such determination and tenacity. He’s standing so walking and running are coming attractions. He smiles and laughs generously. He blows razzleberries with extra saliva; sticking his tongue out and gurgling dddftttttttttt. New words are coming but Dada and Mama are current favorites.

He loves to eat and tries everything. Not only will he savor what is given to him he will make sure you share whatever you are eating. He knows he comes from a sharing family. He likes to feed himself and, while his finger to mouth coordination is not quite there yet, he can fist most foods in his mouth, lifting and shaking the plate to catch every last bite. 

On our first jaunt to the play area outside his apartment, we load up the jogging stroller and walk in the sunshine to the baby swing. In his puffy yellow jacket he sways in the bright sunshine, looking around curiously and reaching for the chains of the swings. As he crawls under the jungle gym I have to continually drag him from or kick away tiny bits of branches, leaves, and pebbles because he wants to taste everything; but he’s just too fast for me and stuffs something in his mouth. I politely ask him to spit it out as he chomps and sucks but he looks up innocently and ignores me. I open his mouth gently at first, then a little more firmly but can’t find anything; I know he’s hiding it. He continues to gum something as I grow increasingly alarmed and just when I’m ready to shake him upside down he spits a brown pebble, the size of a red bean, from his mouth and smiles up at me; great way to restart my heart, his own version of a grandma stress test. Later, I put him halfway down on the plastic slide and, as he slides down, seems more puzzled than entertained. We try two times and he lies peacefully at the end of the slide looking around. Everything in the world is so new to him and I am delighted to rediscover nature through his eyes. There’s an older woman at the park. She must be at least two years old because she is walking and speaking to her mom who is focused on making tic toks … millennial parent. The little guy makes eye contact and babbles all his sounds to get her to come over. His charisma is real because she ambles over and they curiously stare and smile, still unsure how to interact. His eyes are so striking; she probably notices but walks away pretending to be unaffected.  

What will he be? How will he be? Who will he be? I hope he never loses his carefree and fun persona. Life will throw challenges his way but he has a large supportive family to help navigate his way. ”Saturday’s child has to work for his living” but that’s not necessarily a bad thing as hard work can have great reward. Years ago my father-in-law sat with me one Christmas admiring his grandchildren toddling around. He said to me, “I wish I had enough time to see how they all turn out.” Sadly, he did not, but rest assured Poppi they all turned out to be fine humans; you’d be so proud. I love being my little man’s Jiji and am grateful to be on this journey with him and look forward to seeing how he turns out.

Back in the 1970’s in Queens Village we looked soooo forward to having a snow day. A snowy, cold day off from school was glorious. If it was snowing even a little we’d get up early and listen to the radio, hoping for those fateful 5am words, “All New York City Schools are closed today.” We never found out the night before, never got a phone call; we had to wait till the morning of for the joyful news. We’d snuggle back under the covers as our parents trudged off to work; no snow days for them. Sometimes we would take all the blankets and make a tunnel of blankets to crawl around in the bedroom. Eventually we would emerge to hunt for food. Mammy would make savory sandwiches for our breakfast (at least 7) and put them back in the sleeve of the plastic bread bag to hold till we were ready to eat. Sometimes she would bring the bag up to our room before she left for work and toss them on our bed like we were chickens. Yum, breakfast in bed, my favorite was the soggy tunafish sandwiches on white bread. Such luxury. I can still remember the mayonnaisy taste and the smooshy bread plastered to the roof of my mouth. Those days will never come again. 

I can’t help but reflect on all the snow days with my kids. I hope they cherish the memories of shoveling, snowmen, and hot chocolate; well maybe not so much the snow shoveling. I still have the red metal and wood sleigh in the garage that was used to drag them around on the streets. Later, when the wet clothes were draped all over the living and dining rooms, we would make hambone soup with creatively shaped, little hands rolled dumplings. Snow days are perfect family days. 

Today I have a snow day. It’s still a term that can’t be whispered. Early yesterday afternoon the NYC Board of Education announced that NYC schools will have a virtual school day today. Here on Long Island I received an email at 6pm last night from the Superintendent of Schools advising of our school closure due to the inclement weather today – very civilized but at least no fun sucking virtual school day and, more important, no less joyful than 1975. I sleep in, stay in my pajamas and have a crockpot stew going. I didn’t make a tuna sandwich because nothing would measure up to that long ago memory, but I did have a luxurious two fried eggs with salt, lots of black pepper and ketchup on a roll for a late breakfast. This may be my last snow day EVER as I retire soon, so I am enjoying it immensely. I am grateful for a career where I have been granted 20 years of yaaaay snow day! Yes, I will probably have to go out later to shovel and clean off my car but, if I time it right and delay getting dressed long enough, Rich may have taken care of all of if before I pretend to go outside to help.

I started bagging up my work clothes this month. 2024 is going to be the year of change. Change of career and change of residence and change of attitude. We’re moving to a new home(s) and planning on jockeying back and forth to follow the sun and the kids. Yes kids, I plan on seeing much more of you!

How many pairs of black slacks does anyone need? The answer is none. Yoga pants that have never been to yoga is my new uniform. I’m purging my closet of teacher clothes and work stress. If the clothes don’t evoke a good memory they’re out. I’m also going through all the clothes my kids have left behind and pulling out what I can use. I’m totally rocking Brayrizz circa 2019 with my, new to me, velcro vans and Hollister sweater, dressing like a cool kid; maybe I’ll finally be popular. Socks? I have hundreds (no joke) of unmatched pairs. My new drip is thrifted teen clothes. 

I’m done with entitled, apathetic, ill mannered, farty, attention seeking teenagers. But I will so definitely miss the sweet, hardworking, ambitious, funny, low key, strong, mature young adults that far outnumber the noisy minority. The good ones I usually don’t hear from again because they move on, as they should. The few that come back to visit have regrets and are looking for redemption or forgiveness or validation. I’m kind if they visit, but not ready to forgive their behavior.  

I jokingly say that I’m finally graduating high school after 20 years, but ironically I’m faced with the same question as when I originally graduated. What do you want to do with the rest of your life? This is a time of immense joy and trepidation. I am scared. My biggest fear revolves around the fact that I love sitting on the couch and I will have so much time to engage in this luxury. I’m afraid that I will no longer be identified by having a profession, which is what you ascribe life value to. I’m afraid of getting old, not just older. I’m afraid of falling out of the learning loop of new technology, trends, fashion etc.. I’m afraid that my weight will go up and my health will decline. 

I’ve read that the first person you encounter on a journey is fear and you need to acknowledge them, tip your hat, and then keep going. Therefore, I’m giving myself an anxiety provoking, liberating retirement/graduation present – a month long adventure in September, just as school is starting, I will go away from every thing/everyone, tip my cap, and take a long walk to reflect (no cap :) 

I embark on a solo trip to Hawaii with trepidation. What am I thinking going all by myself? How will I manage? Who will I hike with? talk to? eat with? The answer (spoiler alert) turned out to be me. The first step is the airplane. I pack a backpack with a few essentials for the week, board the plane and am pleased to have an aisle seat. Another solo female traveler sits in the aisle seat at the end of our row with two seats separating us. We make eye contact and telegraph our hope that no one will sit between us. Our wish is granted and, while we never speak over the 10 hour flight, she is a perfect travel companion.

The Maui fires are foremost on the news and it’s having an impact on the rental car wait when I arrive at HNL. We are assured that there are cars for everyone but there will be a long wait. I am on line for three hours. The woman on line in front of me misses her friend’s bridal shower and rehearsal dinner as she waits. We chat and I find out that she’s just in for the weekend wedding from Seattle. I wait with more patience that usual and it dawns on me, as I see other complainy travelers (some yelling and cursing at the rental staff), that since I have no one to take care of or worry about I am allowed to react with calm and have no anxiety about the wait.

I strategize about how to best enjoy my week and decide to take a three prong approach. Every day I will hike/walk, eat something delicious and have a cultural experience. Every morning I wake up early for sunrise hikes. Makapuu point, circle walk around Diamond Head, Hanama Bay, Lanakai Pillbox, Waikiki beach … each more picturesque than the next. I agonize about hiking Kokohead but ultimately decide that I don’t want to do that alone but I’m still not sure it was the right decision.

Delicious food everyday is easy, too easy. I eat a daily spam musubi, from 7-11 or the ABC store, on my morning hikes but opt for more exotic fare later in the day. I find a Vietnamese restaurant near Walmart (for all my shopping essentials like ramen for my hotel room). I sit alone at a small table and the awkwardness dissipates quickly as I take the time to enjoy the meal and people watch. I order the house bahnmi with its crispy French bread and fresh herbs and a child size portion of ramen, which is so big I can’t finish it. After some sweaty hikes I head to Waioloa Shave Ice and indulge in their consistent deliciousness of fluffy ice, ice cream, lillikoi, Azuki beans, boba, and condensed milk. One morning before driving the Pali Highway I go to the famous Leonards for malasadas. I get there before it opens and chat with a woman from Tennessee as we wait on a short line. I order one of every flavor. I pull over on the highway for sunrise and I take a huge bite of all six in turn to get the full effect of the fillings – haupia is my favorite no it’s the jelly or maybe the chocolate pudding. I break up the half eaten donuts and feed it to the chickens who are also enjoying the sunrise. I eat ahi or salmon poke almost every day. A woman on the deli line at Foodland gives me some good flavor recommendations for a poke bowl. One morning I drive to the north shore stopping off wherever looks pretty and end up at Giovanni’s Shrimp Truck. There is no line and the shrimp and rice is savory and garlicy. Most of my vacation meals are so good but there are some missteps. One afternoon I walk around chinatown and get a mediocre curry pork bun and then get overcharged for some meh beef and rice dish. I try to talk to a little girl sitting in the restaurant but all she can say is, “I come from China.” Most of the restaurants I patronize are small family run places which have a good vibe. One morning on a walk around Diamond Head a woman standing in her front yard gives me a mango that just fell from her tree. The mango is one of the best that I’ve ever had, super juicy and sweet, maybe because it was mixed with kindness from a stranger and a beautiful walk.

My cultural experiences were varied. Who knew Hawaii had a Museum of Modern Art? The dried flower waterfall exhibit was amazing and my favorite piece of art there is The Lei Maker. I walked through all the galleries twice enjoying the eye fest; with no teenage daughter complaining, “mom, dad and I agree that when we go to museums you spend too much time looking” (sadly, true story). Hawaiian Plantation Village focused on the life of immigrant planters of all races – Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, Filipino, Puerto Rican? there are Puerto Rican immigrants in Hawaii?? I toured their homes and places of worship. The smell, plants and structures reminded me of Trinidad. Iolani Palace is subdued and lovely while the Temple of the Gods is so very grand with the enormous green lava flow mountains and the Buddhist Temple. I loved walking up and ringing the immense gong to announce my arrival. The capital building had a respectable amount of beautiful Hawaiian art. Local theater featured a play written by a High School teacher revolving around Hawaiian volcanic legend and its impact on a native family. I don’t want to be a theater critic but I was glad the ticket was very reasonably priced.

Traveling alone is ironically a community affair. I noticed that I talked to more strangers that I normally would because being alone makes you more approachable. I also seemed to gravitate towards other women or perhaps they gravitate to me. From the woman who gave me a mango to the woman at the supermarket to the woman at Leonards or the kind woman at the second Lanakai Pillbox who offered to take my picture because she noticed that I was alone, we women see each other and organically support each other and that is a great comfort.

Indian Arrival Day is celebrated in Trinidad to commemorate the arrival of the Indentured Indians to the island.  They came from various parts of India looking for a new start, to make some money, because they were duped, or perhaps an escape.  I jokingly refer to the day that our family arrives for our annual reunion in Cape Canaveral as Indian Arrival Day.

Indian Arrival Day this year will be Saturday, July 1^st.  Siblings, in laws, nieces, nephews, cousins and friends, will come from all over (last year we had a record breaking number of states – NY, NJ, RI, VA, PA, NC, TN, FL, CO, CA, and HI) and converge to reunite the family.  It’s an annual summer ritual to reconnect and solidify relationships.  The last time we all lived together was probably 1978 or thereabouts.  Therefore, every family is strategically placed in their own apartment to promote harmony and to encourage them to continue coming every year.  Living together has never been conflict free and we still have the ability to push each other’s buttons or, futilely, try to fix each other’s problems.  (ง •`⎽´•)ง

Indian Arrival Day this year will be celebrated with Curry Chicken and Roti.  This is probably the main vestige of our culture that we cling to; food is forever the thread that binds us.  The kitchen and the house will smell of curry regardless of the fans and open doors.  Soon our fingers will have the lingering smell too.  Everyone has their own curry recipe and it varies based on preference but mostly we use what spices we have in the kitchen.  I’m expecting homemade roti this year!!  Brenda has been practicing and I bought a new tawa for the occasion.  It was sold as a cast iron pizza pan but it should accommodate misshapen roti very well.  Other items on the menu, special thanks to Jeff Bezos and Amazon, will be phoulorie, scotch bonnet hot sauce, mango anchar, tamarind sauce, Tunnocks caramel, Peardrax and Solo Champagne Kola. Let the festivities begin.

I can’t wait 〵(^ o ^)〴 ( ˘ڡ˘)

I fly into Miami to the fabulous house in Kendall for a visit.  It was the trophy of the family and the symbol of success – A big pool with a Chattahoochee lanai and a screened in porch; a living room and dining room, we almost never used, and a family room off the kitchen that was used every day.  Everyone ate at the small Formica kitchen peninsula with the orange pattern.  The house had an intercom and built in radio with speakers in the walls, circular driveway and a riding lawn mower.  We were in high cotton. 

Bernie, Betty, and I decide to go out for the evening to Coconut Grove.  It is THE nightlife spot.  We dress up in typical 80’s style with our long, overblown mall hair.  Our first stop is Fat Tuesdays for frozen, spicily named, overly sweet, potent drinks.  We try many tropical flavors and, once the alcohol intelligence kicks in, we decide that the cheap, hard, plastic cups with cheery designs are exactly the fancy cupware we’ve been looking for all our 20something lives.  It complements our nonexistent china pattern so perfectly.  We simply can’t drink enough to get a suite for each of us so we nominate Betty to grab a few from the cup towers by the bar.  She has to make several trips.  We are very giggly and cute and guys start to notice.  A brave one breaks from the pack and throws out his best pick up line, “so, what song is going through your head right now?” We are a bit stunned at this unusual approach and I blurt out the first song to come to mind, “Oh, Me So Horny” which was a very popular, albeit somewhat controversial, song by 2 Live Crew at the time.  I won’t even mention the name of the album.  I don’t know what reaction I was expecting but I was definitely not expecting the dude to scurry away, which is exactly what he did; embarrassedly hurrying away at road runner speed.  We laughed and laughed, joking that, “all we saw was his dust” haha. His group did not bother us again.  To commemorate the night we even buy the overpriced key chains from the roving Fat Tuesday’s photographer. It’s a great picture, all youth and hugs and smiles.

 On to the dancing at Senior Frogs where we dance to all the 80’s tunes – Pump up the Jam, Push it, Wild Thing, Thriller, It’s Raining Men, Relax, Conga; we had all the dance moves.  Bernie had her shoulder shake, Betty did her rock and I danced like no one was watching.  I don’t remember if anyone asked us to dance, maybe our reputation preceded us. 

Now, the best place to go to eat at the early hours of the morning after drinking and dancing and drinking in 1987 was Miami Subs.  For a modest $5 they had the best sandwiches and French fries with a variety for all tastes.  They had awesome cheesesteaks which tasted even better at 2am. After we gorged, Bernie drove us home.  I have no memory of getting home.  I think Fat Tuesday’s finally kicked in.  We woke up the next morning with $20 keychains and a stack of cups.  Betty woke up to the same but the $15 spending money she went out with was now $17.