I Salute Those Who Serve

William Hayward Lumpkin

On this Veterans Day, I think of all those who willingly step up to serve our country, especially those who choose to wear a uniform that requires them to go where they are sent, even when those orders take them  to the front lines.  Most especially, I think about those soldiers, sailors and air warriors, nurses and medics who served in World War II.  Many of them are gone now, as that conflict ended more than 60 years ago.

I think especially of my husband's father, William Hayward Lumpkin.  He was among those in uniform in World War II, then served until his retirement from the U.S. Army many years later.  Though retired from military service, he never really left the Army behind, retiring a second time from a civilian job at Ft. Campbell in Kentucky.  He remained loyal to his comrades-in-arms, maintaining friendships made in the Army throughout his life.

While I never saw him in uniform, I heard the pride in his voice when he talked about his service.  Those comments were rare, actually, despite the breadth of his experience.  He wasn't inclined to share war stories.  Rather than talk about those memories, his conversation was centered around those he loved and his penchant for wry humor.  Whatever he'd known of hardship and strife in uniform was left behind, replaced by the joy he knew in home and family, friends and golf, or the pleasure of a good horse race.

I saw the pride in the eyes of his family, their pride in his service.  I know that pride lives on in their memories of him more than a decade after his death.  They know the sacrifices he made for them and for our country, a country boy from Alabama who honored the uniform he wore.

So, I think this Veterans Day of the man we called "Pappy."  I thank him and all the others, gone but not forgotten, who have given of themselves in service to America.  I thank those who go into harm's way today.  We are a fortunate people to have among us the men and women who choose to serve.

Some Thoughts on Perspective

Each bloom is unique; together they become special anew.

It seems, in this hotly-contested political season, that even when the two sides say they want the same thing for our country, they feel compelled to find mutually exclusive solutions. We hear words like “partisan politics” and “non-compromising positions” so frequently that they have taken on a life of their own, seeming now more important than the issues at hand. Attack and blame substitute for collegial action on behalf of the citizens these people ostensibly represent.

“A democracy is nothing more than mob rule, where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine.” ― Thomas Jefferson

I, like most Americans, am bombarded daily by the onslaught of political messages flooding the airwaves. I have wearied of the intrusion of politics into social media, wishing that, instead of flogging each other with the vitriol collected from websites hither and yon, we could talk about the issues without so much rancor. Why are we so angry? In the privacy of our own thoughts, do we really believe that our anger will make things better? Or are we just allowing ourselves to be manipulated by those who feed our fears?

“When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport; when a tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity.”

― George Bernard Shaw

In fairness to all concerned, we humans all too often lose our ability to see beyond the ends of our noses. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and it seems to me a little perspective can go a long way toward more happiness in our lives and less misunderstanding.

“What we see depends mainly on what we look for.” ― John Lubbock

Close at hand are so many instances that might help us look at life with more balance, less angst. In my case, life is enriched daily by one man’s journal of hope. It is a testament to courage in the face of adversity, faith in the face of fear. The journal, updated online multiple times each day, chronicles the open-heart surgery of the journal writer’s partner, a friend whom I was lucky enough to meet at a business gathering many years ago. The patient is someone I know as a good and decent man, now fighting for his life. One might think him always fit, always healthy. In reality, his heart was sick and needed repair. So he has undergone a very serious operation and now, cared for by excellent medical expertise and a loving partner, he fights to recuperate. As I follow his partner’s journal, I marvel at the strength and endurance both patient and caregiver are displaying.

“Some people grumble that roses have thorns; I am grateful that thorns have roses.” ― Alphonse Karr

I was reminded by a high school friend’s post on Facebook of a favorite teacher we had. He encouraged us to learn through questioning. While debate was often provoked in his classroom, it was managed and tempered with civility. When passions ran too high, he reminded us that our differences of opinion were just that, differences and opinions, none life-threatening. For myself, in the arrogance and ignorance of my youth, I espoused and defended positions that were outdated and ill-informed, primarily due to lack of experience and perspective. Rather than chide me, our wise teacher encouraged me both to speak my mind and, more importantly, to listen to other views.

“It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.” ― George Eliot

There is a wonderful saying about perspective that goes something like this: “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” The world recently watched such a man who had no feet, Oscar Pistorius, run in competition with footed athletes in the recent Summer Olympic Games. The sheer inspiration this man embodies remains vividly in my thoughts. Any time I’m inclined to whine about the psoriasis that hurts my feet, I think of Oscar. It’s not just the wonder of watching him run on those amazing springs, but the genuine joy he expressed in interviews after coming in last in the semi-finals of his event. He obviously understands that winning is a different thing than being number one.

“When it rains it pours. Maybe the art of life is to convert tough times to great experiences: we can choose to hate the rain or dance in it.”

― Joan Marques

In looking at what others have said about perspective, I’ve found so many different ways of expressing it. A favorite thought comes from Jane Yolen’s writing in Briar Rose: “Fairy Tales always have a happy ending.” [so they say] “That depends... on whether you are Rumpelstiltskin or the Queen.”

Photo by Mike Lumpkin

Morning Magic

Some of the most magical times I’ve experienced have been mornings. There’s something primitive in me that appreciates the dawning of a new day, that reassuring appearance of first light. It’s a beginning, or to indulge in redundancy, a new beginning. It’s a step into the unknown, the future that unfolds a minute at a time as we rub our eyes, sip that first cup of hot tea and open the door to feel the air and hear the sounds. Whatever came before, each morning promises a chance for something new.

The days that we spend at the lake are especially inspiring. When it’s foggy with the clouds hanging low across the mountains, I’m reminded of a morning walk in Edinburgh when we could barely see three feet ahead, but ventured into a blufftop park and met an elderly Scotsman and his “wee doggie” and heard a tale of his wartime days. We struggled to understand his accent, but reveled in his delight in telling tales.

On those mornings when we see the first pinks and lavenders of the rising run across the eastern end of the lake, I think back to mornings at the Outer Banks. Mike and I like to get up early and head out to the dune to watch the sun come up from the ocean. Before the sun breaks the horizon, the sky above the water is painted with all the glorious colors of the clouds in the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. It is spellbinding.

One of the joys of the cruises we’ve taken has been early morning walks around the deck as the ship moves through the water. The sense of adventure is heightened by the first sight of the next port as we circle the deck before breakfast, breathing in the ocean air and hearing the cries of gulls that have come out to greet the ship.  Often, we enjoy a last sight of the moon before it disappears from the sky.

Our mornings in North Carolina often begin with the musical gobbling of wild turkeys in the woods around our house. In many places, near and far, we’ve awakened to the voices of cardinals, loons, hawks and eagles, the buzzing of hummingbirds speeding around the feeder, and the chattering of squirrels. Their presence connects us to nature and to the earth, assuring us that we belong together in this world.

I remember cold mornings as a child when, snuggled in bed, I didn’t want to get up. I imagined that I would just stay there, tucked into the warmth of the quilts, forever and ever. It seems funny now that I didn’t want to yield to bedtime back then, but also resisted getting up in the morning.

I remember, too, mornings when I couldn’t rise quickly enough. Those were the days when we were going fishing with Daddy or going on vacation with the whole family. They were the days when, despite giggling late into the night with sleepover friends, we leapt out of bed in the morning to pursue whatever schemes we’d plotted the night before.

Now, though I sometimes wish for a few more minutes of sleep and stumble through the routine of getting up, dressed and out the door, I relish anew the experience of being up and about when few others are there. I cherish those first sights and sounds and the sure sense that the day ahead, whatever it brings, is mine for the living.



Who is an American?

Holidays like the Fourth of July cause me to become reflective. In a society currently sensationally polarized by a number of issues, I hope tomorrow can be a day that we can all share with, I hope, less rhetoric about what separates us and more about what makes us all Americans.

Quite by chance, I am currently reading a book about the Battle of the Little Bighorn. The Last Stand , written by Nathanial Philbrick, is a well-researched and well-written account of that infamous meeting between the Seventh Cavalry, led by George Armstrong Custer, and Native Americans, led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. Philbrick has obviously done his homework, checking his sources and collecting facts. He has a knack for turning all of that into a fascinating series of stories that all add up to the larger saga, detailing not just what went on in battle, but what was going on in the country.

One of the revelations of the book for me was finding that Sitting Bull, learning that white men were headed to his village, initially told his warriors to hold back because it might be an effort to make peace. As we all know now, it was not a peace initiative and it ended badly with plenty of blame to go around on both sides.

Somehow, this story of two cultures at odds in 1876, the year of our nation’s centennial, seems timely. Each side believed it had rights, including the right to its own beliefs. Both were frustrated by the other side’s inability to “live and let live.” It’s a parable for our time in that our search to protect our rights seems to require that, in order for one side to be right, the other must be proved wrong and, often, denied its rights.  Then, as now, uncertainty engendered fear and fear drove actions that had disastrous results.

Many of those killed near the Little Big Horn River that late June day in 1876 were veterans of the U.S. Civil War, including Custer and several of his family members who rode with him. Those men had endured horrific battles over whether the United States would even survive as a nation less than a hundred years after its formation.

"If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man he would have made me so in the first place. He put in your heart certain wishes and plans, and in my heart he put other and different desires. It is not necessary for eagles to be crows." -- Sitting Bull

We were then, as we remain today, a nation of immigrants, a human tapestry of differences. Philbrick describes one point in the battle in which several of the Seventh Cavalry took refuge in a buffalo wallow, among them an Italian, an Irishman, a quarter-blood Blackfoot and an American of French Canadian heritage. Though Sitting Bull was of the Hunkpapa people, his village that day included members of many tribes, including Cheyenne, Oglala and Minneconjou and others.

The hostilities then, as now, were about who were the “true” Americans. The progress of settlers and gold miners ever westward spoke to their dreams of a life better than the one they had known. With them came their sensibilities about civilization and railroads that would bring more of them faster than ever before.

On the other hand, their dreams had created a tipping point for the nomadic tribes whose lives depended on keeping their natural lands free for buffalo herds and other game. Many of the warriors who rode against Custer’s men had left reservations to gather with Sitting Bull because there was not enough food on the reservation to sustain their families.

Laws were made and broken. Treaties were signed and broken. Out of the brutal defeat suffered by Custer and his troops came not a victory to be savored by the native warriors, but instead a stronger and equally brutal crackdown from the growing majority white population in the nation.

Maybe what America will always be about is this tension, this angst about who among us are the “true” Americans. At our best, we come together in moments of great challenge. At our worst, we splinter into factions, each so hungry to have dominion that we must diminish any who disagree. Somewhere in the middle there is, we must hope, room to respectfully disagree about some things, while protecting always the rights of all, whether "eagles or crows."

Photo by Mike Lumpkin

Remembering a Special Father

I’ve been lucky so often in life, never more so than when I married my husband who has been our son’s father, steady and true for almost 30 years. I often say that Mike married me so that he could be Michael’s father. When Mike and I married, Michael stood snuggled between us and told everyone at the wedding that “we got married today.”

In marrying the father our son has relied upon for all the years since, I got a very special father-in-law. Father Hayward and son Mike looked so much alike that anyone who knew either of them could be sure of their relationship without being introduced to the other. Not only did they have the physical resemblance, but they shared the same devilish sense of humor.

My name for Hayward Lumpkin was “Wayward” because of his constant effort to slyly mislead and misdirect all who came his way. A career in the military had not changed his sense of fun. A World War II veteran who had surely seen much that he would never forget, he never brought darkness to those around him, instead lighting the room with the twinkle in his eye.

One of my fondest memories of “Pappy,” as the grandchildren called him, was at a lake in Alabama where he spent an afternoon fishing with Michael. The two of them were thick as thieves from the moment they met, sharing hours and days of loving camaraderie. Their time as fishing friends was something both treasured. The photograph of that day is one of our favorites.

Occasionally when Mike and I had to be away from home, Pappy eagerly volunteered to come to stay with Michael. He loved to take our little one to Shoney’s where kids ate free. Pappy enjoyed the amazement the staff expressed as Michael turned up again and again to refill his plate at the buffet. He was the proverbial “bottomless pit” and Pappy claimed that Michael might single-handedly put them out of business. Pappy prided himself on pinching his pennies and sought bargains wherever they were to be found.

Pappy and the love of his life, Willie Mae, raised three wonderful children, encouraging them to learn and pursue higher education. They glowed with pride in each child and in the grandchildren who followed. They embraced me as a daughter-in-law, as they did their sons-in-law. They welcomed friends and family into their home and even went out of their way to help an elderly couple with a myriad of needs from driving them to doctor visits to helping them pay their bills.

I miss Pappy and will for the rest of my life. Like my father, he was a source of strength and joy. He encouraged me to be myself, even when my unorthodox approach to playing as his bridge partner occasionally baffled him and caused us to lose. He was an excellent card player and played to win, but indulged my rebelliousness, perhaps because he recognized my individuality as he prized his own.

I am much blessed this Father’s Day. It has been my great good fortune to know the love of father and father-in-law and to see that shared with our son. I am gifted with the love of my husband, a good father himself. As my son said to me recently, “I look forward to having children who know Dad because I think he will be the kind of grandfather to them that Pappy was to me.” I can’t imagine higher praise.





Ma. Mike, Linda, Ramona, Hayward



Honoring My Father (1908-1986)

For all the years that he has been gone, my father’s presence in my life is with me every day. I hear his voice in my own with the words that he used. I see his eyes in my face and in my son’s. I feel his sense of humor rippling through me as I laugh and I recognize it in the spirit of fun that has been a part of my son almost from the day of his birth.  John William Armstrong, Jr., lives on in us.

He resides in me today, not just as a memory, but as the spirit imbued in me through his example. He taught me so many things, some of them seemingly contradictory. His compassion for others was evident in many ways. He would answer a call any time of day or night to help someone to whom he felt responsibility. He gave his heart to those who needed someone to believe in them, even when their frailties or disabilities might bring him to tears when he returned home from working with them.

He could be intimidating to us as children. His expectations for us were high. We were in awe of his edgy intelligence, a breadth of knowledge drawn from living and from voracious reading. Unable to attend more than a few months of college, he educated himself while working in a myriad of jobs. When we were growing up, he worked long hours and was often up long before we arose, then home in the afternoon when we finished school.

Even as he hungered for knowledge, he remained bound for too long to some of the ways of the past. He clung to the mores of a rural South he learned from relatives with bitter memories of Reconstruction.  Ultimately, he would admit that he had been wrong about many things, but in his wrongheadedness, I never knew him to treat anyone unkindly or cruelly.  He would not allow us to treat anyone as our inferior.

He espoused a level of cynicism that was hard for me to understand as a child. I can relate to it better now, having experienced more of life, including the disappointments, as well as too many views “behind the curtain,” where I’ve discovered flawed human beings are seldom wizards or heroes. Though an avowed cynic who often told me: “you’ll see,” Daddy showed an enormous faith in human nature throughout his life.

So what is this heritage that fathers leave their children? Is it the way we look, or the training we’re given? Is it the biases and prejudices we carry forward into our own lives? Is it their beliefs? Is it their questions? Is it the talents witnessed or the manners ingrained? It is all of these, I believe. Those of us fortunate enough to have a loving father in our lives, one we might honor this Father’s Day, take away a gift.

It is the gift of love, given freely and generously in the best way our dads know how. They give themselves in risking parenthood at the start, in being our role models throughout and in leaving us with the grace and courage to go on if they pass on before we do. Sadly this year, as during so many wars and other armed conflicts in the past, many will miss a father who gave his life for our country.

My wish for them and for all of us is to have the memories that allow us to have our fathers, though gone before us, living in us. May we know that grace this Father’s Day 2012.

Tuesday Morning with Mike

I awoke very early this morning, my head full of thoughts about the month just past. I was missing my dear friend Dale, feeling that loss anew with the realization that her friends in New York City gathered to remember her yesterday. As tears fell again, I reminded myself that she would want me to be happy with those memories rather than sad. I could hear her voice once again, saying as she so often did: “Are you okay? Are you sure? I want to know you’re okay.”

When Mike woke up, we had that first cup of tea and headed to the park along the lake for our morning walk. That was what my soul needed. With few sounds other than the occasional honking of geese and the rattle of Mike’s cart on the boardwalk, I was enveloped in the peace of this place.

Above and around the lake, the lush green cloak that spring rains have brought to the mountains lends a softness to their rocky sides. The sun, still low in the sky, gleams and glistens on the lake’s surface. We pass a neighbor’s garden where deep blue hydrangea blossoms cascade down a slope.

As we follow the path through the park, we see a wood duck with her ducklings on the far side of the pond. She seems to be tucking them into the foliage along the bank, perhaps hiding them from our view until she is sure we aren’t there to harm them. A couple of mallards share the path with us briefly, keeping up an incessant quacking. We dub them “the bachelors in search of girlfriends” and leave them to their quest.

An evergreen along the path catches our eyes with its dark green branches liberally tipped with new yellow-green growth. Most things here are thriving, drawing up the abundant rains from recent storms into branches and leaves.

A flock of geese is noshing on the grass, more than a dozen adults watching over six or eight young ones. These goslings still have some of their baby yellow, but are more a fuzzy brown now, wobbling around on legs than seem too long for them.  Just a couple of weeks ago the babies were still yellow, practicing swimming with their parents.

It’s the first morning in a week or so that we haven’t seen fishing boats heading out into the lake, but we do spot the fellow who brings his single skull here to skim across the water many mornings. Along the river’s edge, chairs on the docks await those who will come today or tomorrow to sit for a spell and enjoy the water and the wildlife as we do. Here and there canoes are on their racks, their red and green sides still now, but we know they will be in the water when Memorial Day weekend fills them with vacationers.

We pass the gazebo, quiet now, but I can almost imagine a time-lapse film of the weddings that have taken place here on the lakeshore. A few days ago, there were rose petals in the grass nearby, left from weekend nuptials. It’s a beautiful spot for happy ceremonies.

As we leave the park after making our circuit around the path, we see again the wood duck and her babies on our side of the pond, counting six. As they swim out into the middle of the water, five little ones stay close to Mama’s right side, but one ventures out on his own from the left until she gathers him back closer. It’s wonderful to watch how the waterfowl care for their little ones. They know the dangers of predators and attempt to hold their young close and safe for as long as possible.

Back along the boardwalk we find our way to the car again, now noticing how the traffic has picked up. It’s almost time for school and kids are being ferried to schoolyard or bus. Others are headed for work. The Lake Lure Arcade, built in the mid-1920's, centers the town, overlooking the beach and settled into the curve of the mountains rising behind it.  

Our day starts with this panorama of life and nature, blended into something that seems almost magical .  There’s that great sense of beginnings that each morning brings, somehow made oh-so-special in this little mountain lake enclave we love.

All photographs by Mike Lumpkin

The Madness of Mommies

Why, you ask, would I associate madness with motherhood? Ask any mother and she can probably offer an answer unique to her experience in attempting to nurture, guide and advise offspring. Give her time to bring out the album and she’ll have the pictures to prove it.

For me, the madness occurred without warning at the birth of my son, just over 33 years ago. I had no idea that the moment I heard his first cry, I would instantly be so unconditionally mad about him. He re-centered my universe, taking my heart outside my body to beat with his forevermore.

In anticipation of motherhood, whether by birth or adoption, we expect to be caretakers, sure. What we don’t know is that we are to be emotionally committed beyond any capacity before understood.

How could I have known that I could be made to weep so easily when his elementary school teacher told me what a good student he was? No one told me how hard it would be to remain quietly in the stands when a coach benched him, even when reason told me the coach was right. I wept again as he crossed the stage to receive his college diploma and burst with pride as his grandparents congratulated him after the ceremony.

When I was blissfully coasting on the hormones of pregnancy, how could I know that I had a life ahead of me so full of fear and pride, second-hand pain and utter joy? There were the “boo-boo’s” of the toddler years, the more serious injuries and illnesses of later years. Though none was life-threatening, there was always in me the wish that I could kiss away the hurt, soothe the angst, and make it all better.

And, as my mother wisely told me, “your child will be your child all your life, even when he is an adult.” And so it is, each disappointment and heartache he knows sets my nerves tingling. Each achievement and happiness he gains warms my heart with that glow I felt the first time I saw him. I revel in seeing the man he has become, the woman he has found to share his life and be his children’s mother. I anticipate happily the fatherhood that is to come for him when the time is right.

Being his mom has taught me, I believe, more than I’ve taught him. I had to learn more patience, less vanity. While I have imparted some of my “neatness mania” to him, I did adjust my standards so that I could merely sigh when I felt swamped by the diapers, the toys, the playpen, the car seat and the never-ending laundry chores. Small children have to be changed more than runway models at a Paris fashion show. It’s not just about keeping them clean, it’s a sanitary issue. Those “oops” moments are odoriferous!

My history is all wound up with his. I was fortunate to have a wonderful career that I remember with pleasure and pride. One of my favorite memories of those years was reaching into my purse during a meeting and finding that I had stuck my hand into the gooey remains of a peanut butter and banana sandwich that had been discarded there. The initial “yuck” response was almost immediately followed with laughter. Wherever I went, he went, too, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

He came, this child, with a sense of humor that has broadened my own, not just because it included the potty humor for which little boys are infamous, but because his blue eyes see the world in their own special way and I’ve been allowed to share that perspective. He can still make me laugh despite any attempt I might make to remain serious. One of our games when he was little was trying to see who could be cracked up first. Although I was occasionally the victor, he won more often. How could he lose when his very presence could make me smile?

This Mother’s Day I celebrate the great fortune that allowed me to know this “madness of mommies.” I will relish the best gift I get each year on this day (and the days in-between), the pleasure of that big bear hug and that sweet voice, saying, “I love you, Mom.”

Rest in Peace: Eleanor Dale Davis

Dale at Home

I hope I will be forgiven for indulging myself in speaking with love of our dear Dale, who left this earth just over a day ago. May she rest in peace and may all whose lives she touched find solace in their memories of a remarkable woman, an indomitable spirit.

When death comes to someone we love, there are so many conflicting emotions that it’s hard to sort them all out. If that person has endured a long struggle with illness, we can certainly take some comfort in knowing that they will no longer suffer.

There is an almost surreal quality to this loss, an inability to comprehend that the spirit, however vibrant it has always been, has moved from the body to another realm. Whatever our religious beliefs, we balk at that passing on to someplace we cannot go just yet. We feel bereft. We feel alone and confused, moved to a sadness that takes our breath away. We deny this new reality. We grieve.

There is, too, even anger at the loss of the physical presence. There is that one more thing we would want to say, one more kiss or hug to give, one more laugh to share. One more moment, please, just one more. Why are we denied this one last connection in this life? Why have we been left without this presence that has left us? Whether expected or not, at the moment of the leaving, we feel the shock of loss.

As days pass, what do we do with the grief that steals up at the most unexpected moments, bringing physical anguish for the hole left in our lives. Just when we think we’ve grappled with the loss, seeming to have achieved a sort of stoicism, the tears come unbidden, spilling down our cheeks like a sudden rain.

We use the phrase “larger than life” about some personalities. When we begin to cope with our loss, we learn what these words can mean in a new context. The one who is gone returns to us in memories of shared experiences, in the stories we recount of times gone by. The spirit echoes for each of us in a different way, but it brings with it again that confusing mix of loss and comfort. We laugh with a memory, only to shed a tear with the laughter.

Having just lost a dear friend and an extraordinary personality, I find myself writing this to attempt to cope with all these feelings. I can almost hear her dulcet voice, saying “Darling, just do whatever makes you feel better and, by the way, have a drink for me.” I know she would encourage all of us who loved her in life to love each other now. She would want us to celebrate her life rather than mourn it.

She was, in fact, larger than life. As one of her many friends points out, she was one of many people’s “two or three best friends.” She nurtured young people seeking a career in performance. She encouraged mature performers as they continued the pursuit of their careers. She loved her city, New York, and she loved the theatre with passion. With all her years of experience, she remained unjaded in the face of talent and its expression in every form of art. She had the hard-nosed wisdom of a veteran and the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a novice. She told me last week that a friend told her once that she was “all ages at once.” She was, indeed.

She embraced a legion of friends, maintaining close relationships over decades, also touching people’s hearts within hours of their meeting her. Through the long months in and out of the hospital this past year, friends came, they called, they sent cards and flowers, presents that might please her. A friend from California gave her a pedicure in the hospital and those perfect pink toenails were a source of joy that she remarked on more than once. Other friends sent artwork made especially for her. They sent creams to soothe her skin, perfumes to transform a medicinal environment with the scents of gardens.

Shortly after her unanticipated and mercifully quick death, hospital personnel, some of whom had just met her within the week, came by her room to express their sense of loss and to speak of her kindness to them and her humor. They were moved by her endurance, the courage that spurred her to respond to the encouragement of her wonderful physical therapist, Golda, and get into the wheelchair that last day.

She took a short ride through the hospital halls, greeted along the way by staffers who had come to know her through her stays there. We stopped for a time at a wall of windows where she looked at the skyline of her beloved New York under a perfect spring sky the color of her favorite seas in Greece, a sky animated by perfectly fluffy white clouds sailing by.

Teddy and Dale

She napped a bit, waking to talk of her boundless love for her nephew, Teddy, and “her babies,” his daughters, Corrie and Gracie. Moments before she passed away so suddenly, she spoke to her dear business partner and friend of decades, Harris, wishing him a good weekend. Then, too soon, she was gone without warning.

A few days ago, glancing out the window of her hospital room, she said: “I want to talk to my Mama.” It is my belief that she is with her Mama now, basking in the assurance of the deep and abiding love of Eleanor Hobson Davis, from whom her first name came, our Eleanor Dale Davis.

I am reminded of what Dale wrote about her mother in a little book we published in 2008: “When I am told that I remind someone of my mama, I know I am a pale carbon copy, but humbled and thrilled to have even a trace of whatever it was that made her who she was.”

Rest in peace, dear Dale, who was never a pale carbon copy, rather a woman who lived life in glorious color and with gusto. We who grieve your passing from this place would be humbled and thrilled to have even a trace of whatever it was that made you who you were.

I Heart New York Redux

One of the pleasures of this city is its diversity and the self-expression of its endlessly inventive citizens. There are those whose attire is designed for simple survival at this time of year when spring is still a flirt and winter won’t completely go away. There are others who ignore the weather and wear what feels right for the. On any day one might see people in boots and full-length wool coats scurrying along the sidewalks, brushing against people in sandals and shorts, maybe topped by at least a lightweight jacket.

A joy of my hospital visits this past week were the fantastic hose worn by one of the researchers working on my friend’s floor. These stockings were works of art, an impressionist’s view of legs on which oranges, blues, greens and reds swirled. I was so moved by their unique statement that I had to ask the wearer about their origin. She had, she said, purchased them in Barcelona and regretted that she bought only one pair. They obviously gave her as much joy to wear as they provided those of us who saw her that day.

One of my favorite restaurants in New York is Rosa Mexicano. I had a wonderful lunch today with friends at the Lincoln Center location where we were seated by a window with a close-up view of a newly leafed-out tree. The conversation was fun, the food was delicious and the frozen pomegranate margaritas were sublime. I’m exhilarated anew by the bond that has grown so quickly with these women, friends of my friend. I am still getting to know them, but already clear that I want to know them always.

Then I had my first experience on the cross-town bus, a quick trip from the restaurant to the hospital. I loved the inclusiveness of the riding population. People of all ages and walks of life were crowded together in a shared need to move around the city. There seemed to be a loose camaraderie among us and an acceptance of one another for this brief time together. Some who must be regulars acknowledged one another; others of us kept more to ourselves, but without shutting out the others the way we often do on plane rides.

The sounds of the city continue to amaze me. As I write this with windows open to the deliciously cool night air, I hear the occasional siren on 8th Avenue amid the continuous hum of traffic all around. I can’t say I miss the nearby construction sounds that are part of the daytime symphony in the neighborhood. There are two buildings going up a block or so away and other projects closer by. Crews begin their drilling, banging and clanging before 8 weekday mornings. Fortunately, I’m usually up well before they begin or that could be a rude awakening!

I’m taking some photos with my phone, but have been too technologically lazy to upload them to my laptop to add to the blog. “Maybe later,” I think each night. Then I find myself doing something else or just flopping down to read or watch TV or blog rather than play with wires and geeky stuff.

For those who read this, you have my apologies for rambling. Writing is the best therapy for me and, particularly when I am away from home, it is more than communication, it is companionship. When I think that those who know me are reading this and, I hope, sharing a bit of my experience as they read, it is comforting. I can only hope it brings a bit of pleasure on your screen as well.

Sisters

I am joined in the love and care for a friend who is battling ill health by a group of women who inspire me.  As she fights to overcome her enemy, leukemia, we gather around her to share our strength, this band of sisters.  She has many men friends, too, who lend their spiritual muscle, but it is the women who are in my thoughts today. I came into this world with one sister of my blood.  She was and is my hero.  She guided and protected me when we were children.  As we became adults, she set an example I have tried to follow.  Her courage and her all-encompassing heart, her willingness to stand and be counted for the rights of women and all who need defense in the face of unfairness have set a standard to be admired. She taught me, by example, the value of sisters.  I have been fortunate to gain many sisters through my life, these women friends who stand together, sharing good times and bad, supporting one another faithfully.  These relationships are not based always on shared philosophies.  We have differing views on politics and religion and many other topics.  We set aside those differences to join hands metaphorically, as well as physically. What we share is our experiences as girls and women.  We understand each other at that gender level in a way we cannot share with men, just as they connect in ways we cannot fathom.  Our sisterhood is not about excluding males, but simply a reality that came with our chromosomes. We laugh together.  We cry together.  We dish and share the stories of romances that have touched our lives, the men we love and have loved, the ones who broke our hearts and, yes, those we treated badly and regretted.   We talk of our children, those we have reared and those who have come into our lives not through the birth canal, but through fate, those we've adopted, whether legally or by marriage or as unofficial "godmothers".  Some of us who are older have "adopted" younger women whom we have mentored in some setting or other.  All of them have changed our lives. We talk fashion, or the lack thereof.  We muse about the meaning of life, sometimes interchanged in far-ranging conversations with chat about the most mundane issues we face daily, like what to do about that pesky mustache that has developed.  Those of us still in our child-bearing years share lessons learned about the in-vitro process or breast feeding. When times are good, we celebrate.  When times are troubled, we circle our emotional wagons for solace.  Today, some of the special women I have met in New York, friends of my friend, are gathering in our mutual friend's hospital room to celebrate her birthday.  In this place we come together to be renewed and restored ourselves as we share the love and concern we feel for our sick friend.  We are sisters.

A Dark Room, an iPad and a Cherished Memory

So I am sitting in a dark room with my iPad. It's mostly quiet, despite the the fact that this is a part of a busy emergency room in New York. For protection against infection, our room is separated from the main nursing area. There is, of course, the occasional page or a ringing bell alerting the nurses that someone needs attention.

Overnight it was not quiet here. It was so busy that stretchers were backed up in the halls and there was a shortage of beds on some units upstairs that has, in fact, kept my friend here since early last evening.

The doctors and nurses have kindly found a bed so she doesn't have to remain on a stretcher. As I write, I am comforted by her little puppy snores, the music of a peaceful rest and a restorative sleep.

My iPad is a blessing, veritably a light in this dimness, a completely quiet keyboard that won't disturb much-needed rest. For one whose therapy is writing, it is the ideal palette for thoughts, however mundane.

Somehow, this experience reminds me of those childhood nights when I read with a flashlight under the covers. We kids shared a room and our parents were strict about "lights out" for bedtime. My secret passion for those first books was illumined by a purloined flashlight that I kept hidden under my pillow until I heard the others were asleep. Then I pulled out book and flashlight and tented the covers over me.

The fact that this was "forbidden" behavior made it all the more lusciously seductive. I did (and do) love to read, but never more than when it was under those covers. It's a wonder that I didn't ruin my eyesight, I suppose. I wouldn't trade the memory for any amount of money and relish it anew this moment in the dimness of this room.

Hell's Kitchen and NYC's Midtown West

Thanks to the good graces of my SMIL (son’s mother-in-law) and her son and his partner, last night I reveled in good company, a great Mexican dinner and a delightful margarita in Hell’s Kitchen at Ariba! Ariba! It was the perfect spring evening to sit at a sidewalk table and catch up with them. Not to be overlooked was the passing parade of New Yorkers eager to get out and enjoy the season.

We had to lean in to hear each other over the sounds of passing conversations and traffic, but that only added to the ambience. Somehow the crowds and the noises and the dogs pulling their owners along the sidewalks added to the party atmosphere.

Also known as Clinton and Midtown West, this part of New York has been the setting for many novels by writers from Ayn Rand to Mario Puzo and Clive Cussler. It was also the backdrop, I was told, for West Side Story.

Close to the Broadway theatres, the area is now home to many actors and has undergone renewal and resurgence as a trendy part of the city since the 1990’s. It is vibrant and diverse, offering every imaginable cuisine in a series of tiny restaurants with tables spilling onto the sidewalks.

I was curious about the name, Hell’s Kitchen. However appropriate the cooking reference might be, as evidenced in all the restaurants, a little research indicates that where the name originally came from is hard to pin down. Most references point to the neighborhood’s rough past when it was home to gangs and “the most desperate ruffians in the city,” according to author Herbert Asbury. His 1927 book, The Gangs of New York, inspired the Scorcese film of the same name.

One colorful fable about the origin of the neighborhood’s name says that a rookie policeman, witnessing a riot in what was then a violent and unstable part of the city, said to his veteran partner: “This place is Hell itself.” The veteran replied, “Hell’s a mild climate. This is Hell’s Kitchen, no less.”

However the name came about, the area today is full of life and good food, entertainment and, luckily for me, proximity to so many options. It is within easy walking distance of great theatre, the Museum of Modern Art and Central Park. It’s close enough to the Hudson to hear the sounds of boats passing. Every block has an abundance of architectural diversity and a multitude of languages are spoken along the sidewalks and in the shops.

This morning I went out early in search of a needed pharmacy item, trekking from one drug store to another before successfully my quest a few blocks away. My ride down in the elevator was enlivened by the excited squeals of two young neighbors anticipating a special outing today. I shared the sidewalks with those eating their breakfast as they headed for work, others in exercise garb beginning their day. I passed the neighborhood precinct where a shift change had uniforms parading in and out.

As one of the first customers in the local pharmacy where I finally ended my search, I had to duck under the half-raised security gate to enter. Apparently some electrical problems had affected their building overnight, so things weren’t working quite right. The basement storage room was dark and the clerk gamely went there with a flashlight to get what we needed. New Yorkers are nothing if not adaptable.

In a corner coffee shop where I stopped to buy breakfast pastries, I ran into someone that I had worked with years ago in Atlanta. Now successful in network news, he might not have remembered me from our brief working acquaintance, but he was gracious nonetheless.

I’ve written before about things I like about New York City. I think that above all other traits this city has for me to admire is the sense that anything is possible here. Despite the rigors of living in a relatively small area with millions of other people, the sheer electricity of the experience is energizing.

Sunday in New York

The rain that was supposed to come overnight and linger into the morning hours either came and went before dawn or maybe never came at all. It’s been a pretty sunny day that we’ve spent indoors, warm enough to turn on the fan for the first time.

As I have noticed each day, the sounds of the city are many and varied. Yesterday I awoke to the clopping of horses’ hooves. This morning the first sound I heard was the whistle of a train, followed by what might have been a boat horn. I don’t know how close we are to any trains, but know we are only a few blocks from the Hudson River, so perhaps the boat was sailing there.

Our helpful home nursing aides have shared the travails of using the subways. Their work requires frequent subway rides, but though the system operates 24 hours a day, the schedules are not reliable at night and on weekends because that is when work on the tracks occurs. With almost 850 miles of track running throughout the area, it must be a huge undertaking just to keep them working. The frustration for those depending on the trains (almost 5 million riders a day) is that there is not always clear information about service disruption. One can be waiting on the platform for a train that is not coming.

Our aides are representative of the international flavor of this city where more than a third of residents were born outside the United States. We have helpers from Jamaica, Haiti and India, all with stories to tell of both their U.S. experience and the homelands from whence they came. Most bring their lunches, so our little kitchen has become a center for the cuisines of many nations with the aroma of fragrant spices wafting through the air.

It’s interesting what one can learn without stepping outside. Because circumstances have kept me indoors today, I’ve spent little bits of free time researching the city as my friend naps to regain her strength. Only today did I learn that the Hudson River (for which I have a fascination) is actually a fjord, the only fjord in North America. Since Mike and I spent some time cruising the fjords of Norway last summer, I found this particularly interesting.

How does the Hudson come to have this designation? It is so classified because it was formed when a glacier cut a u-shaped valley by abrading the surround bedrock. Apparently the river only becomes a true fjord many miles north of the city as it passes through the Highlands. All I know is that the few encounters I have had with the river, here in New York City and farther north around the Franklin Roosevelt home on the Hudson in Hyde Park. I long to take a Hudson River cruise and have that on my list of places to go and things to do.

As I write this, the sun is beginning to set and I’m watching its last rays move across the courtyard, painting the bricks a luscious pink shade, rather than the deep red they wear during the day. The building is more than 50 years old, built just after World War II.

NYC - New Day, New Joys

The first sound I heard this Saturday morning in Manhattan was neither sirens nor the steady hum of traffic that fills weekdays, but the distinctive sound of hooves clopping on the street below. It was slightly surreal, that simple sound, echoing alone, where there is typically a cacophonous symphony of competing noises.

The juxtaposition of (1) steel and concrete soaring improbably into the sky with (2) the simplest forms of transportation is astonishing. In one block there are the hastening feet of pedestrians, the daredevil antics of bicycle messengers, the roving pedicabs and the horse-drawn carriages.

Vying with them for space are, of course, the ubiquitous yellow cabs, the limos, police cars, fire engines, delivery trucks, local news vans and assorted other mechanized vehicles. While there are certainly many personal vehicles in operation, they are few in comparison to those sent into the streets by companies and government agencies. And, of course, below the streets the subways are moving people through the city. It’s level upon level of people in motion, however they achieve it.

From the sounds of the morning and the hurry-scurry of the streets, I entered the dark and magical realm of the Broadway stage this afternoon to enjoy “Clybourne Park.” I love the theatre and found this performance really well done. It’s no wonder this is a Pulitzer Prize winner. It is artfully written, well cast and staged and, ultimately, both entertaining and thought-provoking. There is a richness in the plotting and dialogue that would draw me back to see it again as I’m sure I missed nuances and would find it worthwhile a second or, perhaps, third time. The Tony Awards await.

The day is beautiful here and New Yorkers are out in full force to experience the pleasure of sunny skies and a warm, but near perfect temperature. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk to and from the theatre, sharing the sidewalks with mobs of other theatre-goers, as well as the ever-present tourists visiting Times Square. Though less chaotically noisy on a Saturday, the city was crowded this afternoon with people freed from weekday work mode roaming outside.

It was a perfect day for Central Park, but that will be another day, weather willing. I look forward to wandering through the green space there and enjoying the fruits of Frederick Law Olmsted’s vision. The Conservancy takes good care of Central Park now and this is the time of year when it draws New Yorkers into their own big “back yard.”

The Gift That is Friendship

So I’m visiting my friend who is finally home after months of battling first one illness, then another. And while I’m staying to help out for awhile, her other friends are coming by the apartment in a steady stream, just as they came to the hospitals for all those months. I’m renewing acquaintances with her circle of friends, meeting new people, observing the connections and marveling at this woman and this experience of friendship.

My friend Dale personifies those attributes that make us cherish a relationship with someone else. She is loving and generous, warm and funny. She demonstrates how much she values friendship by being honest, as well as kind. Beyond those traits that draw us inexorably to her, she embraces life with such a vibrant spirit that being with her infuses her friends with its power. Simply put, she has a knack for making each of us feel not just special in her eyes, but so uniquely meaningful that anyone should be able to see and appreciate our merits.

I listen as she greets friends whose calls keep the telephone ringing all day. Her signature opening, “Hey, Darling,” comes up out of her heart with a deep Southern accent (despite many decades of living in the heart of Manhattan). She remembers the names of each caller’s family members and asks about them with genuine concern. She answers their queries about her health concerns with humor and conveys her confidence in a positive outcome then quickly turns the conversation to their lives, their concerns.

I watch as one friend, then another rings the bell and comes into the easy welcome of her home. There are hugs and kisses, laughs and an occasional tear as fond memories are called to mind, and talk turns to friends no longer able to visit in person. Gifts are brought for a birthday to be celebrated yet this month—a book she’s sure to enjoy, a special scented candle, fresh eggs proudly brought from a farm on the island, flowers from a well-tended garden.

And even as they come and bring their gifts, they come to receive the gift that is Dale. It is her spirit that flows in the telling of stories with the dramatic flair and the vocabulary of exaggeration that is her style. It is her laughing self-deprecation, without any hint of lack of self-esteem. She allows us to relax and forget our fears and our flaws. We who have come to comfort are comforted. Her voluminous vocabulary spills through the conversation, a combination of the erudite and the profane that provokes our imaginations, entertaining us lavishly.

The mementos of a rich and full life are all around us as we gather at her bedside to encourage her and be encouraged by her indomitable will to live fully and completely. There are the artworks given her by friends whose talents adorn the walls and shelves. There are the photographs of family and friends, hundreds of images of loved ones related by blood and by shared experience.

In this woman, reveling in the resumption of her home place, is the essence of friendship. One of my father’s wisdoms has come back to me this week as I have watched her. Daddy said one should seek the company of those who allow us to be ourselves and feel good about it. He would approve of this woman who nurtures friends already in her life and makes a new friend of almost everyone who enters her sphere. She banters with friends she’s known for decades. She captivates a visiting health aide who, meeting her for the first time, is so charmed that he “must come back soon.”

One and all, we respond to her authenticity. She is honest and forthright, leaving no question about what she believes and likes, but always open to something new. In the process of being completely herself, she has a gift for reflecting us back to ourselves in our best light much as a brilliant photographer captures her subject’s best side. She opens her true being to us and looks into us to find us as we truly are. This is a friend to be held close to the heart and a friendship to be shared with gratitude and the purest of joys.

And once again this time with this very special friend reminds me of the great fortune I’ve found in friends.  Like others, I have come to comfort and been comforted, graced with the blessing that is knowing Dale.

I Love (Heart Goes Here) NY

I love the incessant, often strident noises all around. Really, I do love the city noises here as much as I love the deep of night quiet at our lake in the mountains. One feels life all around in the frequent sirens of all sorts, the banging of trucks being loaded and unloaded, the voices spiraling up from the sidewalks and the echoes of children laughing as they run through the halls to their apartments.

I love that many of the windows have no window treatment other than pots of plants on the sills or an air-conditioning unit or maybe curtains or blinds seldom closed. And I love that we think neither of looking into their windows nor of them looking into ours. It’s enough to see the life they choose to expose at the edges of their space with no need to delve beyond the glass, invading their privacy.

I also love the windows that are closed and covered tightly because those make me wonder about the people who live there, keeping even the slightest light from filtering in from outside. I like to imagine them as mad scientists or great writers, closing themselves off from the world so that their fertile brains are left without distraction, perhaps to change the world they don’t let in through those windows.

I love watching the tiny lady attempting to manage the giant black dog on a leash while he climbs into a sidewalk planter to do his business. Final score: Dog 2, Lady 2 (in a baggie, a big baggie.)

I love having an entire folder of menus for nearby takeout that will be delivered to the door of the apartment in less time than it would take to heat up a frozen pizza. And I like that the food is hot and tasty when it arrives. Yum!

I love the excitement on the street in the theatre district in the early evening as the lucky ones with tickets stride purposefully into the restaurants with just enough time to enjoy a quick meal before curtain time. Their anticipation of the performance ahead is almost palpable.

I love the buzz on the street when the theatres let out. Under the marquees and spilling down the sidewalks are people reviewing their experience loudly with all the energy pent up from sitting mostly mute in a dark theatre, afterwards propelled home by the emotion built up via words and/or music.

I love the neighbors’ habit of leaving fruits and vegetables on the fire escape just outside their kitchen window. I check at our kitchen window, peeping across and below each morning to see what’s new—yesterday bananas, today a loaf of bread. Is it a space issue? Is it a refrigeration technique? (It’s soon reaching into the 70’s here, so I must question that plan.) I love my compatriots, the pigeons, who also check out the fire escape stash.

I love the creativity in the attire of my fellow pedestrians. A fellow in a really expensive suit also wears a grubby watch cap on his head. A young woman wears leopard leggings with a tiny red skirt and an oversize man’s football jacket, a lavender scarf wrapped around her head, Cochise-style. An older gentleman is dapper in a camel suede vest with a houndstooth beret on his beautiful silver head of hair.

I love it all and know that tomorrow I’ll find as many more things to observe and enjoy. It’s New York City. What’s not to love?

Getting My City Self On in Manhattan

So here I am in New York City, staying with a dear friend in Midtown as she recuperates from a long hospital stay. It’s been awhile since I’ve spent time in the city, so I’ve regressed in my street smarts, reverting to my persona as “country mouse in the city.”

Fortunately, I have a sense of humor or I would be humiliated by my ignorance of some things Manhattan. The first night here, I heard the reception buzzer and my friend said: “ Just say hello and they’ll tell you why they are buzzing.” So I said, loudly, “hello” in the direction of the apartment’s front door, forgetting that there is phone on the wall where one answers calls from the doorman. We all got a good laugh and have since told the story to visitors who’ve enjoyed the recounting of my ignorance.

Then there was my visit to the nearby Gristedes market. I thought I was quite city-savvy when I remembered to take my friend’s rolling shopping cart to bring back the goods.

At the store, my ignorance of local custom reasserted itself and I dragged the shopping cart behind me up and down the narrow aisles as I pushed the store’s grocery cart in front of me. I hope none of my fellow shoppers had their phones in video mode as I tried awkwardly to hold on to both carts. I suspect there were movements that mimicked scenes from the Three Stooges movies. At one point I had to quickly prop one cart against the shelves so I could chase the other as it escaped my grasp and rolled down a sloped aisle. New York markets don’t have those broad, flat aisles we have in the suburbs.

Only at the end of my grocery store visit did I ask the woman at the register if I could park my personal shopping cart at the front of the store during future shopping visits. My Mama would be so proud that I was too polite to assume I could stick my cart anywhere I wanted as the clerk suggested. Mama’s attempts to raise a nice girl in the South were so often thwarted by my tomboy behavior in childhood and here I am now being such a courteous adult.

Despite my foibles, I have managed to find both the grocery store as well as the neighborhood Duane Reed location for pharmacy items. While I seem to require instruction at both places, I am getting the hang of it, however humbling the process. A clerk in the drug store was actually reasonably calm when she said, “Ma’am, you don’t put the basket on the counter, just the products you are purchasing.” The fact that a line of locals was behind me in the queue, rolling their eyes and sighing as my lesson in basket management took up their precious time, was only mildly humiliating.

Growing up in the South, we were taught that Yankees, particularly those in New York City, were neither polite nor well-mannered. I must say that I don’t find that true. Despite the fact that I move too slowly for most pedestrians on the sidewalk and make cabbies wait as I walk across the street, I have found that questions asked, however naïve, are answered. Advice is given, usually kindly enough, prefaced by a “Hey, lady” rather than something less flattering.

And, when each little adventure out onto the streets ends, the doorman is quick to open the door of our building with a smile and a word of greeting. That’s something to which I look forward every time.

Rest in Retirement? Not So Much!

I’ve had any number of conversations with folks about the five years (in June) of our retirement. Some wonder what we are “doing with ourselves.” Others who have followed these years more closely wonder “how the heck we manage our schedules.” Some envy us our freedom; others aren’t sure what they would do with themselves if they retired. I distinctly remember someone saying: “How can you walk away from the excitement you’ve known? Retirement will surely be dull.”

Truth is, we didn’t know in advance quite what to expect. What we’ve found is more joy than we might have anticipated. None of our pleasure is about not working, really. It’s actually about pursuing a myriad of activities that we simply didn’t have much time for when we were primarily engaged in our careers. As much as anything, it’s about freedom of choice.

Learning is a key to life these days. Now a day might include long stretches of reading, including real books with pages, as well as internet resources. We got smart phones because it seemed that every conversation in motion made us want to look something up, so now we are forever checking names and dates, history and geography as we’re driving through the countryside.

We’ve wandered around the world, too. In five years we’ve been to China, Australia and New Zealand, Sweden, Norway, Canada and roamed these United States widely. We were lucky enough to travel a lot even while we were working, but these more recent trips have been longer and farther afield to places we had dreamed about, but weren’t sure we would ever see. What once seemed impossible did, in fact, become possible with more time to plan and enjoy. In the process, we’ve met terrific people from all over, good people who have enriched our knowledge of the world and reassured us about the wonders of humankind.

We have volunteered, spending time on birds and conservation, education and job connection and even a flowering bridge!  We've knocked on doors to get people to go the polls and vote on election day.  We’ve each reconnected with our universities in different ways and I’ve been really proud to discover and participate in the amazing growth of Georgia State as an internationally-respected research institution.

We vowed to spend more time with family and friends and we’ve done that, happily spending weeks in Florida with my sister and traveling to enjoy time in Tennessee and Canada with other family members. We’ve been able to reach out to those who needed us in times of illness and sorrow and appreciated the opportunity to support them in ways that would not have been possible when time was so limited. We’ve deepened friendships and made new ones, having time to strengthen Lake Lure friendships as we spend more time there.

Most of all, and perhaps best, has been how we’ve learned so much about the world and about ourselves. We’ve had challenges to face and found that we could meet them and move through them, grateful again for the benefits accrued from association with a world-class employer and a wise financial counselor.

Now we are anticipating the next five years, breaking ground for a new home and an exciting collaboration with our children who are building next door. We look forward to what’s ahead, knowing no more about what will happen than we knew when we retired in 2007, but sure that it will be anything but dull.