Endless Night

Because my husband, Mark, and his coworkers sold enormous quantities of a product line, the wholesaler paid for all salespeople and their significant others to spend two nights in Las Vegas, at the new MGM Grand Hotel - plus airfare, ground transportation and meal costs. All we needed were suitcases and gambling money.

We arrived at the Grand in stifling heat, its vibrant blue glass forming angular outer walls. Graceful palms rustled and swayed in a slight breeze. We entered the hotel through the belly of a multi-story carved lion with enormous turquoise eyes.

Lights blinked at every turn. Insistent ‘ding-ding-dings’ rang as delighted gamblers eagerly cupped their hands below slot machines that regurgitated hundreds of tokens. Cheers rose and fell when blackjack players showed their lucky hands and craps shooters rolled winning dice. Cigarette smoke and clinking ice permeated every foot of the casino. And female gamblers still wore cocktail dresses from the previous night at 6 a.m.

With only two hours remaining in our whirlwind trip, Mark and I decided to try a slot machine renowned for high payouts. Our last few tokens rattled into the heart of the machine, he slowly pulled down on the golden handle, and we held our breaths. The first round of pictures stopped at a pair of cherries attached by their stems. Seconds later, we had another pair. Finally, the third cycle ended with a third pair of cherries.

As the dinging began I cupped my hands below the machine and Mark scrambled for a token bucket. We’d won back every bit of our cash, just in time for our airport departure.

International Relations

In the mid-1960s, my family moved to a suburb of Oakland, California, for what my parents called our ‘California vacation.’ Two years later we moved to Pittsburgh, Pa. Thirty years later, I revisited the Bay Area with a close friend.

We sought a lunch spot in San Francisco’s Chinatown, and one block seemed hauntingly familiar. I remembered eating Chinese food there with my elementary school Girl Scout troop. Our waiter taught us how to use chopsticks correctly and I tried in vain to pick up bits of chicken and vegetables. But, by the end of the meal, I had abandoned my fork.

My elementary school had a sister school in Japan, so I joined a singing group that learned and performed Japanese songs. I loved to wrap my tongue around the unusual syllables and know my words made sense in another country. I used those words again, a decade later.

While I worked towards a master’s degree in speech pathology, I lived in an international dormitory. As my Japanese roommate moved into our room, an Iranian friend repeated the words of ‘Sakura,’ a popular Japanese song, through the intercom – under my direction. The year I spent living with students from Japan, Quebec, Canada; Micronesia, Thailand, Nigeria, Iran, Iraq and China taught me more about life than anything I’d ever learned in a classroom.

Six years ago, a Pakistani friend from the dorm and I rekindled our friendship via email. He later visited our home and cooked for me, my husband and our teenage daughters.

Last week, my husband and I hosted ambassadors from U.S. embassies in Japan and Pakistan for Sunday dinner. As we talked and laughed throughout the evening, I once again felt at home.

Chasing Butterflies

My family already had used Echinacea as medicine to treat upper respiratory illnesses for many years when we added the plant – often known as a purple cone flower – to our backyard garden. Although I first thought of planting these flowers so we could make our own medicine, I quickly learned the work involved to convert plants into usable product was not worth the expected yield.

But, by that time, I’d fallen hard for the daisy-like flowers with several twists. Down-turned petals, in a stunning pale purple, surrounded dark brown and slightly prickly-looking centers. During our second summer growing these lovely perennials, they bloomed profusely, filling nearly one third of the garden with riotous color.

Little did I know that purple cone flowers also are one of the top 12 perennials for attracting butterflies. The next summer, they became a Monarch magnet, the striking black and orange wings a perfect visual counterpoint to lovely blossoms. The fragile creatures flitted from one flower to the next and one day to the next, until my camera beckoned me to capture the magical scene, only steps away from my kitchen. I zeroed in on a single butterfly and followed him with my lens for a quarter hour, seeking just the right shots.

Six months later, one of those images graced the Nature Conservancy’s Natural Events Almanac.

Riding the Colorado Rails

About six months before our summer vacation began I wanted to schedule one new and different activity, particularly for the sake of our young daughters. Our neighbors had once taken a train ride through the mountainous terrain between Durango and Silverton, Colorado. Although the trip cost more than $100 for three of them, it was the highlight of their vacation. Marsha recommended making reservations as soon as possible so I ordered our tickets the next day.

Before we knew it, we were on the road to New Mexico and Colorado. After we had climbed amidst cliff dwellings, bought Indian jewelry from Santa Fe street vendors, and eaten plenty of Mexican food, Mark turned the car northward, towards the tiny mountain town of Durango. We arrived at the antique train depot in mid-morning, picked up our tickets and boarded an open-air car.

The temperature plummeted as the elevation climbed, and we snuggled together while we traveled through impossibly deep canyons and acres of undisturbed pines. Our enormous train click-clacked upwards as thick gray-black smoke poured from the engine car. The rock-strewn Animas River rushed far below us and several magnificent wooden homes grasped the hillsides on sturdy stilts.

Suddenly, Mark pointed to a tiny figure. We followed his finger to see a grizzly bear, standing straight up from his forage. A rickety, abandoned mine shaft rose from one hillside and dilapidated, wooden freight cars on the parallel track were almost close enough to touch. As our train approached flatter land, a two-seater biplane flew beside us within only a few feet of the ground.

It was worth every penny to ride those rails.

Looking Up

Some moments become etched in memory for days, weeks or even decades, yet remain as clear as if they just happened. I’ll never forget one early June evening in 1982.

My now-husband, Mark, and I had dated for three short months. Things were finally looking up in the ‘love’ department as the adrenalin of our young relationship infused every second we spent together. Mark’s birthday was imminent and I wanted to celebrate, impress and surprise him in one fell swoop, without spending a lot of money.

I would plan something outdoors for this nature lover, but after summer heat abated a bit. That meant evening. I would impress him with a picnic of easily portable, homemade food – quiche, salad, birthday brownies and a good bottle of wine. That meant cooking ahead without him knowing about it. Finally, I would give him driving directions to an enormous field to watch hot air balloons lift off near sunset, without telling him our destination in advance.

By the time we arrived at the launch, a riot of color filled the sky as the whoosh of air filled balloons that awaited lift-off. We ate our picnic and sipped our wine, and Mark blew out candles, as we stopped every few minutes to capture a perfect image on film.

Twenty-five years, two college-age daughters and a lifetime later, a photograph from that evening hangs on a wall in our home, reminding us to always ‘look up.’

Good Vibrations in Chimayo

Torrential rain followed Ellen and me from Santa Fe to Chimayó, leaving six-inch puddles on the highway. Waves of water slapped against the windshield as each vehicle passed. Hillside runoff in the tiny town created deep pools stained with red mud.

We finally arrived at Santuario de Chimayó, a tiny antique chapel reputed for miraculous healings. Visitors prayed silently in the sanctuary. An anteroom housed several dozen discarded crutches. Religious artifacts lined the walls of a second anteroom where a dusty border of red brick encircled a hole in the floor, filled with a pile of dirt and a small trowel.

We next stopped for lunch at Rancho de Chimayó, a 40-year-old family-run restaurant, where we ate what Ellen called the best meal we’d had during our four-day trip. For the first time since our journey began, she felt like a million bucks. And then the vibrations began. I felt them from touching the blade of Ellen’s knife as she held the handle. She realized she had inadvertently stepped into sacred dirt in the floor of Sanctuario de Chimayó, and the chapel’s miraculous powers seemed very real.

We finished lunch and headed towards Taos. Tentative sunshine pierced the clouds and gradually brightened. A magnificent rainbow arched across several miles, with the highway as as midpoint, a beautiful finale to a memorable afternoon.

Morning in New Buffalo

My extended family had arrived in New Buffalo, Michigan several days earlier, to celebrate my mother’s 75th birthday. From the moment we set foot on Lake Michigan’s sandy eastern shore I felt at home. I recalled countless summer Sunday afternoons spent beside the huge lake during my childhood years, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, eating tuna salad sandwiches, basking in the sun and shooting the waves. I burrowed my toes deeply into the warm evening sand.

Contented smiles etched my parents’ faces as they watched my siblings and our children talk and laugh together after a year apart. Sunset painted the sky with a kaleidoscope of pastels as impatient waves rushed the beach, the force of high tide drawing them ever closer to blankets and lifeguard chairs.

Our three day vacation was a whirlwind of activity, designed to keep restless teens and preteens well-occupied. We played miniature golf, saw a movie together, shopped, and had a big birthday dinner, leaving only a few afternoon hours for another beach visit. Although my sister-in-law took one long walk with me along the gentle shoreline, it didn’t nearly satisfy my craving for time beside the lake.

On the final morning of our trip I awoke early, tiptoed past my sleeping family, and walked several blocks to the beach, with camera in tow. Sail boats and motor boats bobbed gracefully in the harbor waters. A lone fisherman cast his line over and over again, the horizon barely visible behind him in the early morning mist. Suddenly, flaming orange light edged dark clouds beyond the dunes, as sunrise emerged.

I breathed deeply, savored the fine sand that squished between my toes one last time, and slowly made my way back to the hotel.