Packing Light

suitcaseWhen I “graduated” from junior high, my parents gave me a new set of luggage. Three pieces of powder blue naugahyde Samsonsite, very stylish. You’ll need this when you venture out into the world, they said. Later, when I was a young career woman, I upgraded to a beautiful 7-piece ensemble in rich jewel toned tapestry, complete with garment and cosmetic bags and lots of little hidden compartments. I’d pick up my bags off the conveyor belt and wisk through the airport like I was a jetsetter – oh my, I was stylin’!

These days, I pack light. Give me a clean pair of undies, a toothbrush, and some hair gel and I’m good to go. Today, I own just two small travel bags – “rollies” – and they both fit under an airplane seat. You could say I’ve come a long way, baby. (Yes, I have. In more ways than one.)

My shop sees a lot of travelers these days. It’s the beginning of the tourist season and the roads are filling up with motor coaches. I love it when people tell me they’re “getting away from it all” and seeing the country … and bringing a whole house with them! At a quarter of a million dollars a pop and counting, with tip-outs and pull-outs and slide-outs, some of these RVs look like penthouse apartments on wheels. Contrast that with the Johnny Appleseeds who stop in my shop for an espresso – the cyclists and hikers who travel with just a backpack … and a laptop.

The early settlers who headed Out West loaded down wagons with all their prized possessions, never dreaming they’d be forced to lighten their load and abandon family treasures along the trail. For years, travelers following in their footsteps would find the remnants of their broken dreams … Grandma’s treadle sewing machine, Mother’s prized dishes, a cradle, pots and pans, cherished heirlooms left behind. When they finally arrived at their destination, very little remained … perhaps a cast iron skillet, some quilts, a few necessary utensils.

Stay with me as I work this through ….

My grandmother is nearing the end of her journey. At 96 years old, she has seen all there is to see, said everything that needs to be said, and done everything she cares to do. She’s let go of all the “baggage” she packed around for years. Old hurts, broken dreams, disappointments, harsh words spoken and never taken back, regrets … they’ve all been tossed out the wagon. She’s forgiven everyone she needs to forgive and asked the same of those she’s hurt. At this very moment, nothing is weighing her down.

When she was still in the hospital, I asked Granny if there was anything I could bring her. Yes, she said. I need my bible, my antiperspirant, and my White Shoulders perfume. I cannot go Home to Glory smelling stinky!

“Home to Glory” … that’s what she calls it. Sometimes it’s Beulah Land or Beyond the Sunset … the Sweet Bye ‘n Bye. But most often, she talks of Home.

“I don’t know what’s taking Him so long,” she has often said. And more recently, “I don’t know what The Master has in mind for me, but I’m willing to wait on Him.”

See, she’s wanted to take this trip for a loooooooooong time.

The hospice volunteers have been wonderful. They bathed her and washed her hair and instructed her caregivers on how to keep her comfortable. I’ve powdered her face and put on a bit of blush. And yes, she smells wonderful! She drifts in and out, sometimes awake and lucid, but mostly in a dreamlike sleep. “It’s lovely,” she says of the place she goes in her mind. The peacefulness that surrounds her is almost palpaple.

I read her the cards and emails that arrive and show her pictures on my phone that people send. A hospice volunteer calls and asks me if Granny would like a group of ladies to come and make her a scrapbook of all her cherished photographs. It’s a thoughtful gesture, but I say no.

I’ve watered her plants, just like she asked. Her little kitchen is neat and tidy and my daughter has done her laundry. I guess, in a way, you could say her bags are packed.

To be honest, I’ve struggled with my emotions when visitors come and want to engage her in conversation. It’s such an effort for her to refocus. She asked me to make sure she is painfree, and clean, and left to go in peace. And yet, she knew in advance that there were family members who would need to come, to say goodbye and have closure. It’s a little ironic but Granny has had more visitors in the last week than she has in the last four years. Just make sure I look presentable, she said. (Don’t worry, Granny, I’m on it.) And while I don’t know if she always recognizes who is here, I’m certain she knows she is loved.

People ask Can I bring something for her when I come? A box of chocolates? A good book? A pretty new robe? Is there ANYTHING she needs? No, I say, just bring you.

This leg of the journey is almost over, and a new adventure awaits. Granny’s going Home, and she’s packing light.


This world is not my home I’m just a passing through
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door
And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore

(Reeves & Brumley)

Wearing Grace

Today I am reminded of why I wear a crucifix. Yes, I know “Sunday is a’comin” … but I’m not willing to go there yet. Please let me explain …

I did not grow up in a religious culture that recognized and observed Lent. I didn’t know about Ash Wednesday. I vaguely remember palms being passed out on Palm Sunday, and somebody bringing a donkey to church for the Sunday School kids, but the concept of “Holy Week” was foreign to me. Easter was about The Resurrection and the Risen Christ. There was an Easter Egg Hunt, and an Easter Pageant, and good old-fashioned hymns like “Up From the Grave He Arose, Like a Mighty Triump O’er His Foes.” But I wasn’t real clear about Good Friday.

I am now.

In my little town, we have something called “Three Hours at the Cross” on Good Friday. Several churches come together and set aside three hours for half-hourly reflections and meditation. Folks can quietly come and go. I’ve been sneaking in late for the last 15 years. But for a variety of reasons, this year I’m right here, deep in thought, keyboard in hand.

I mentioned that today has something to do with why I wear a crucifix … my well-intentioned Protestant friends often make pointed comments about the crucifix I wear. “Why don’t you wear a cross? Don’t you know that our Jesus is a Risen Savior? Cindy, He’s no longer on that tree!” I’ve lived much of my life as a Protestant, so I understand why they don’t understand me. And while I frequently use humor when I refer to my rigid upbringing (hence the tongue-in-cheek-self-description “recovering pentecostal”), I am truly thankful for my pew-jumpin’ Pentecostal roots, and for the care and nurturing I received along the way from the Quakers, the Nazarenes, the Lutherans, the Episcopalians, and the Free Methodists. I love the rich diversity that comprises the foundation of my faith and my spiritual life. And I unconditionally love the many, many people who have contributed to it. But today, Good Friday, this Catholic Girl is especially mindful of why I choose to wear a tangible and visible representation of Christ’s crucifixion, every day of the year.

. . . because I have been physically broken.

. . . because I have suffered.

. . . because I have known fear so desolate and deep that it defies description.

And so has He.

That’s it, folks.  It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the Risen Christ, and it doesn’t mean I won’t be celebrating come Easter Sunday. It means that the road I have traveled has given me an understanding and definition of Grace that runs deeper and wider than an empty cross. It means that I have learned there is something unspeakably exquisite about the comfort and steadfast companionship of a friend who has been where you have been, and who has walked where you are walking. It means that there is strength in brokenness, and beauty in suffering. It means that there is hope in the darkness.

And it means that I need more than three hours to say thank you.

Making a sofrito – it all starts here!

Fork It Over!

One of the first meals I brought home from Panama and shared with friends is a colorful, flavorful stew of fresh, locally caught seafood known as “Sancocho de Mariscos”. Many latin cultures have a similar seafood stew; my first introduction to this Panamanian favorite incorporated stewed chicken into the background, with sea bass, squid and mussels as the primary ingredients.

Like many foods in Panama, Sancocho de Mariscos was introduced by the Spanish and adapted by the locals to include foods commonly grown and readily available in the region such as local tubers like yucca, ñame or otoes. In some of the Colombian, Ecuadoran and Dominican versions, people put coconut milk or plantain chunks in their sancocho. I often add coconut milk and yucca (I can’t always get yucca or plantains at the local grocers, sometimes I have to make a trip to my favorite latino mercado in Eugene).


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The Bucket Talk

bucketThis morning as I was driving into my shop, I had a little talk with myself. I keep a number of “talks” in my Tool Box – there’s the Story of Geraldine the Pig Talk (my daughter knows this one really well), there’s the You Catch More Flies with Honey Than Vinegar Talk (a little lesson I learned in my first year of marriage to The Nice Catholic Boy), the Get Back Up On The Horse Talk (another one my daughter knows really well), and The Come to Jesus Talk (trust me, this one is not what you think), to name just a few. Today, however, my audience was, and is, just me … and I need the Bucket Talk.

It’s the week before Christmas. One full week. Seven whole days.
I am in the retail business. The catering business. The restaurant business.
I operate a “brick and mortar” store AND an online store.
There are 256 brand new emails in my “inbox” this morning.
My voicemail is full.
It seems like everyone wants “it” yesterday.
I try very hard to be nice to everyone, all the time, because I really do love people.
Sometimes, right in the middle of this season of Joy and Goodwill and Peace on Earth, some people forget their manners.
They get demanding. They want what they want right now. They stop being nice.
It doesn’t matter that they waited until the last minute.
Or that everyone on this end of the phone is working overtime.
It’s Christmas.

I watch my little team of wonder women at Mon Ami greet customers warmly and serve them Grace, even when it’s hard to keep the Happylicious comin’. They patiently take orders for non-fat, sugar-free, no-gluten, no nuts, no foam, extra foam, hold the mustard, put tomatoes on just half, can you toast the bread, hold the bread, is there meat in the clam chowder, do you have vegan mayonnaise, can you mix the non-fat and the whole milk so I have a little of both, is it too late to change my order … and they do exactly what I ask them to do every day. Because we love people, and because The Boss Lady says that the customer is ALWAYS right, even when they’re wrong.

I keep the door to my office closed because I need to respond to those emails without interruption, but it doesn’t matter. Another head pops in and says, “Hey, I know you’re busy, but do you have a sec?” The answer is yes, because I am in the people business, the service business, the public business, the what can I do for you business and how can I help business. It’s my choice. I picked it.

Deep breath …

I know why I’m here, and I know why I do what I do. I know that it’s not about me and never has been. I know I can’t be all things to all people all the time. I know there are only 24 hours in a day. I look at my warm and cozy shop full of happy customers sitting at tables and eating wonderful, nourishing food that we have lovingly prepared and served with Grace, and I know that behind my building, beyond the alley, there are homeless and hungry foks – human beings – who come down out of the trees and go through my dumpster looking for scraps to eat. I know that on Christmas, when my husband and I are surrounded with family and love and laughter, there are MANY in my little town who are not. I know that tonight, when I’m snug as a bug and tucked into my comfy bed, there are many folks – human beings – in my town sleeping outside, and they are cold. I know I am a small cog in the wheel of life. I know I can’t fix everything. Yep, I know.

Sometimes it feels like what I do is just a drop in the bucket. It’s not good enough, big enough, quick enough.

Enter the Bucket Talk …

I have a bucket in my hands. That bucket is my life today – all the things on my To Do List, a project I’m trying to get off the ground, a need I want to meet, customers to greet, a worthy cause I want to take on, a problem I’m determined to solve, calls to return, emails to answer, orders to fill. Each time I take a step forward, I put a little drop in my bucket and watch it fall to the bottom. My contribution is, literally and figuratively, a drop in the bucket.

Due West is the Pacific Ocean, just a short walk from my home. Sometimes I stand on the beach and look out on the horizon, over a gazillion gallons of water, and ponder my place in the world. I am small. In the big picture of life, I am a little drop of water. And all of the things I do – the important stuff and the not-so-much – it’s just a teeny tiny drop of water lost in the sea of oblivion. Oh, that can get discouraging …

I must keep my eye on the bucket in my hands. I focus on one drop at a time. There are times when I bring my bucket out into the open, and I ask my friends for help. They come with their containers, we fill the bucket together, we dump it into the pond, and its time to start over. There is ALWAYS another bucket.

Again, my job is to keep my eye on MY bucket. I focus on the drop of water in my hand. I watch it fall to the bottom of the pail and I hear it “ping”. Then I go find a another drop. And another … because slow and steady will win the race. Eventually the bucket will get filled and the job will get done. And then there will be another one.

Each morning, as I drive to work, I say a simple prayer. I thank my Creator for the life He has given me and the “bucket” He has placed in my hands. I ask Him to bless me and enlarge my territory. I ask Him to give me the physical strength to meet the challenges of this day, because I need it. I ask Him to bring people into my shop that need compassion and kindness. I ask Him to keep me alert so that I recognize those opportunities when they walk through the door. Because they will. They will walk in and step up to the counter and interrupt the person in front of them and order a triple-shot-no-foam-decaf-sugar-free-vanilla-make-it-extra-hot decaf-no-wait-make-it-half-caf-twelve-ounce-do-you-have-a-bathroom-I’m-in-a-hurry-can-you-make-it-quick latte. We will smile at them, greet them warmly, make them the best latte they’ve ever had, put an extra chocolate espresso bean on their lid to brighten their day, and wish them a Merry Christmas because that’s actually the name of the holiday we’re celebrating right now. They may not leave a tip.

No worries … Just one bucket, the one in my hands.

The Roman poet Lucretius wrote, “Constant dripping hollows out a stone.”

It will also fill a bucket, one drop at a time.

Paying Homage

A few weeks ago, I found myself in the little town of Lebanon, Oregon with a couple of hours to kill while I waited for a friend. On a whim, I started up the car and headed south to the even smaller town of Sweet Home, where my dad had spent much of his childhood and where I knew my paternal grandmother was buried. It can’t be too tough to find the cemetery, I thought. Well, little did I know …

For the record, there are six – yes, I said SIX – repositories of restful repose in Sweet Home, Oregon, a town of maybe 8,000 folks. And I burned through a quarter tank of gas trying to find every one of them. While driving, I passed an old church building that’s now a community center. I recall visiting there with my parents on a Sunday evening when I was five or six. We must have been returning from a visit to my grandpa’s house when Dad turned to my mom and said, “Waddya think? Wanna stop?”

“Let’s just slip in quietly and sit in the back,” Mom replied.

R-i-i-i-i-ght. Sunday evening service in a small town Pentecostal church and the place was packed … there was no “slippin’ in quietly” for us, no sirree. This was the little church my dad had grown up in, where he often sang and accompanied himself on the guitar, where my grandparents had been Prayer Warriors and pillars, where Grandma had brought her famous potato salad and bread ‘n butter pickles to every church potluck, and where my dad had been the Young Man with a Calling. These were the people who had laid hands on my dad in fervent, earnest prayer and sent him off to bible college in the hopes that he’d return home to be their preacher. Nope, no slippin’ in quietly for us.

We were ushered up to a wooden pew near the front and Dad gave my brother and me the Behave Yourself- I Mean It Look. We sang and clapped our hands through ALL THE VERSES of Bringing in the Sheaves and were fussed over by the church ladies during the Greet Your Neighbor and Tell ‘em Jesus Saves intermission. Dad slipped us some quarters to drop in the offering and we fidgeted through a fire and brimstone sermon, and then the pastor announced that there was a Special Guest in our midst. I remember popping my head up to sneak a peek, wondering who it could be. “Brother Brent,” said the preacher as he motioned to my dad. “Would you come on up to the pulpit and bless us with The Word in song?”

Now, I don’t remember what my dad sang, but I do recall the hush that fell upon the folks of that little country church as he walked up to the front and spoke a few words to the lady in a hat behind the piano. I remember Mom pulling a hankie out of her purse as Dad began to sing and an elderly woman behind me whispering “Thank-ya Lord, Thank-ya Lord, Thank-ya Lord.” Later, as we headed towards the back of the church, a gentleman stopped my dad to shake hands. “When are you going to come back to the ministry where you belong, David?” he asked.

“Just as soon as the Lord calls me,” Dad said quietly. “Just as soon as He calls me.”

Funny, the things that stick in your head …

I was two when Grandma Brent passed away. I don’t remember meeting her or sitting on her lap in the rocking chair. But my parents spoke of her often, sharing stories about her life and personality, and keeping her memory present in our home throughout my childhood so that I grew up with a strong sense of her presence and her influence in my life. I think my mom was especially intent on honoring her memory and making sure I grew up “knowing” the grandma who now lived in heaven. I’m really grateful for that. My uncle also helped to fill in the blanks – he was 28 when Dad was born and his memories where understandably different, but his stories gave me a better picture of who she was as a young woman and some of the hardships she overcame.

My grandmother was born in 1887 to a Nez Perce mother and a German father in Huron, Kansas. There’s a lot of heartache and suffering in the history of the U.S. government’s treatment of the Nez Perce in the 20+ years before her birth, and it’s hard to know how much family lore is fact or fiction. But I do know that while many were “relocated” to the Coleville Reservation in Idaho, my ancestors refused to go and Grandma was born into what looked like a typical Victorian-era “American” family. Her first husband abandoned her and my uncle when he was a toddler, leaving in the middle of the night and emptying out Uncle Lovel’s piggy bank before he fled. She was an amateur actress as a young woman, but was forced to farm my uncle out to live with relatives while she worked as a cook in mill camps to support them. It was a harsh and difficult life, and the old photos of her clearly show the toll of her struggles, but she was beautiful when she was young.

At some point, probably at a camp meeting, she got “saved” and from that point on Buelah Belle held tight to the promises she found in the King James version of that Old Time Religion. She never wavered in her faith and committed herself to doing the Lord’s Work with whatever resources were at her disposal.

My grandfather had immigrated to the States in the late 1920s and was working in a Seattle ice house when Uncle Lovel invited him home for supper. Grandpa soon took up with the cook, they married, and Grandma gave birth to my dad when she was 48. She named him David, after the Old Testament patriarch …. “a man after God’s own heart,” and she was determined that he would become a preacher. Throughout his childhood, she schooled him in scripture memorization and elocutionary skills, encouraging him to memorize entire chapters and recite them “with feeling” for company. In fact, Dad was a gifted speaker and communicator, and I know much of the credit for that was due to Grandma’s intentional efforts to mold him into a first-rate evangelist.

As I child, I loved to hear stories about my grandma, and every time Grandpa came for a visit I heard a new one. She was a country woman and much admired for her expertise in the kitchen, so much of what I know of her in some way or another is connected to food. Throughout her life, Grandma used her skills and meager resources to make sure that nobody in the neighborhood went hungry. She generously fed every homeless hobo on the roadside, and every visiting evangelist and missionary home on furlough at her kitchen table. My grandparents were poor, but theirs was a table of plenty.

By all accounts Grandma Brent had a simple but stalwart faith in the Almighty. I don’t believe she had much education beyond the basics, but she read her bible ‘til the pages fell out, and she prayed with conviction and expectancy.

One afternoon, when Dad was home for a visit from bible college, two young men knocked at the door and asked for some food. Dad’s roommate, Ron Hittenberger, was there visiting as well, and Grandma invited them in and set two more places at the table. Dad said this wasn’t unusual, as Grandma was known for taking folks in and welcoming strangers. She sent those fellas into the washroom to clean up, then they all sat down and ate. After dinner, the young men thanked Grandma for her hospitality and headed on down the road.

An hour or so later, Ron came out of the washroom and mentioned that his watch was missing. He’d set it on the sink before lunch and had forgotten to put it back on. The watch had been a special gift and meant a great deal to Ron, so he was understandably upset. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who the culprits were.

“You boys get in the car,” said Grandma. “We’re gonna get that watch!”

Dad said it wasn’t long before they found those two fellas. They’d stopped to take a nap under a tree, and when Grandma roared up in that car they were dumbfounded.

“Now boys,” said Grandma. “Ron here is missing his watch. I know you two took it, and I want you to give it back. No questions asked, you just hand it right over, and we’ll be on our way.”

Those two young men swore up and down they didn’t know what she was talking about, they’d never seen a watch, no ma’am, they never saw nothin’.

“Boys,” said Grandma, “you and I both know that’s not true. Now here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna pray, boys, right now, and I’m gonna ask the Lord to tell me where that watch is. And boys, He’s gonna tell me.”

Right then and there, my Pentecostal Grandma knelt down in the dirt and started praying … outloud, fervently, the way I heard folks pray at church when I was a kid. As Uncle Lovel used to say, she knew how to do “bizness” with the Lord. Then she said “amen”, got up and walked to the other side of the tree, brushed aside some leaves and debris, and picked up Ron Hittenberger’s watch and handed it back to him.

I know of at least five lives that were impacted by what happened that day, including two would-be thieves who got themselves a Sunday School lesson, and two young men in their first year of seminary. Not long after, my dad came to the difficult realization that the vocation he’d been prepared for his whole life was not his calling after all. His best friend Ron went on to become an evangelist and missionary in Haiti and is now the regional director for the Caribbean for Global University at Assemblies of God World Missions. Dad enjoyed a successful career in real estate investments, and my parents supported the Hittenbergers’ mission work for over 40 years. I’ve never met him, but Rev. Hittenberger sent me a personal and encouraging letter when I graduated from high school 30+ years ago, which I took to heart and have never forgotten.

And the fifth person? Well, that would be me.

Funny, the stories we hear as a child that take root in our memory and shape the way we think, and the way we live …

After making a third pass by that old church, I knew I was lost, so I stopped in at a little coffee shop for sustenance and a hopeful chat with some locals. Excuse me, can anyone help me find a cemetery on a hill?

“Ask Marilyn,” said the waitress, pointing to a booth. “She’s been here forever.”

Indeed, Marilyn was a fount of information. “Just get back on that road and keep headin’ straight,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”

Ten minutes later, I found it, but the office was closed and I didn’t have a clue where to start. Fortuitously, a maintenance worker drove up in an old pick-up and asked if he could help me. “

“I’m looking for my grandmother’s grave,” I told him.

“Know her name and when she died?” he asked.

Yes, I did. He motioned me to follow him into the office and for the next 15 minutes, we sifted through shoeboxes of hand-written index cards in search of Buelah Belle Brent. Brandt … Branson … Brown … Brumwell … Buckwald … Busse … nope, no Brent.

“Hmmm,” he scratched his head. “I seem to remember mowin’ over a Buelah Brent the other day. If she was buried in Sixty-Three, she’s gotta be over on that little hill. Why don’t you head over to that neck of the woods and see if you can find her.”

“Over there” were rows upon rows of tombstones and gravemarkers, but I set off in the direction he’d pointed and started to search. A few minutes later, he pulled up in his truck, got out and called to another worker.

“Howard! Get off that mower and start going up and down these rows! We gotta help this lady find Her People!”

It didn’t take long before Howard let out a whoop – “Found her!”

I often wonder how much of me comes from my “people” … what personality traits survived through the generations and how much of what I think and how I act has been influenced by the ones who went before me. I wonder how many ideas in my head are the result of thoughts planted long ago, shaped by years of hardship, loved ones lost to war, gains and losses, births and deaths, and failed crops in the field. The beliefs that my grandparents held so closely were passed to my father, who tried and tested their merit and worth, all the while instilling a revised version in my malleable mind. These are the things I ponder when I listen to my own bright, articulate, and independent-minded daughter and wonder, “Where did that come from?” I think about the thousands of people who have walked through the doors of my shop these last 15 years, most of them strangers, many of them travellers, a few of them in need of a warm place to dry out and a meal that they can’t pay for, and I wonder how many seeds I have sown over the years that have taken root and will surface in generations to come. Hospitality, kindness, a warm welcome, good food, and an extended family when there is none of their own …

How much of me is you? I whispered as I knelt down to kiss the grave marker of a woman I don’t remember but have known all my life.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Hebrews 13:2

Flowers for my Granny


Magdalena Wilhelmina Bakker Wolfe is my little Dutch granny. She was born at a time when women and people of color could not vote, and at 95 has lived through nearly a century of change and progress in both technology and basic human rights. Never going beyond eighth grade, she is immensely proud of her daughter, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters who have pursued higher education and careers. She is amazed that I can take pictures with my phone and send them to someone instantaneously and that I can email a letter without a stamp. “My goodness,” she says as she shakes her head in amazement. “As I live and breathe …”

Up until just a few years ago, Granny was an avid gardener. The yard in front of her cheery yellow mobile home was overflowing with peonies, lilacs, roses, and hydrangeas. And invariably, whenever I would drop in for a cup of tea, that’s where I’d find her – out in flower garden with clippers in hand, fussing and pruning. In a matter of minutes, she’d put together a beautiful bouquet of fragrant stems and put them in a mason jar for me to take home. Some folks may have a green thumb, but Granny has green hands. I don’t know how she does it, but she can coax a leafless Poinsettia back to life and a paltry African Violet into full bloom. I know so because I nearly killed them both before she got her hands on them!

Around the perimeter of my home are four hydrangea bushes nearing the end of their summer bloom, all lovingly planted from cuttings that Granny gave me from her yard over the years. Like her, I love old-fashioned flowers, and hydrangeas are one of my favorites. Yesterday afternoon, I clipped the last of this year’s blooming, arranged them into a bouquet and popped down to the assisted living center where she now lives to surprise her. Her memory isn’t what it was once, and she doesn’t remember growing hydrangeas in her yard, or making cuttings and dipping them in Root Tone before sticking them in a pot of dirt to give to me. But I do. I remember her lessons on how to properly prune a rose bush. I remember the heady fragrance of her French Lilacs. I remember countless cups of tea with toast and honey, plates of fudge, and buttered popcorn popped in oil on top of the stove. I remember macaroni and cheese with a crust of saltine crackers. I remember waltzing around the house as a child in her girdle, and the box of oranges she and Grandpa would send each year from their house on Tico Road. I remember building a fort together and climbing up into it for a picnic. And I remember a shoebox lined with wax paper and filled with Christmas cookies that arrived every December in the mail.

My little bouquets pale in comparison to hers, but she doesn’t notice. “Oh my, Cindy Sue,” she exclaims. “As I live and breath …”

She may have forgotten, but I’ll always remember.

The Best Laid Plans

hammockThe sign reads “”Bienvenido al Paraiso – Welcome to Paradise – and each time I pass through the gates of Valle Escondido to my home-away-from-home in Boquete, Panama, I feel like I’m experiencing a little slice of Eden. Nestled into the base of Volcan Baru is a “hidden valley” of lush native plantlife, tranquil ponds filled with koi, and crystal clear streams surrounded by a tropical forest. Even now, during the rainy season, it’s spectacular. And while I love my coastal home back in the States, I always look forward to returning to Boquete.

As with my previous travels to Panama, this is a “working” trip, interspersed with spur-of-the-moment explorations into the neighboring hills to take pictures and … well, I’ll just go ahead and admit it, daily siestas in my favorite hammock. And I love my mid-day visits to the colorful “Mercado” to pick out locally grown produce for the evening’s meal. The rich soil and tropical climate here make farming possible year-round and it seems to me that EVERYTHING wonderful grows in Boquete – except apples, which are apparently imported from Chili. Tomatoes, mangos, plantains, avocados, papaya, and pineapple are ripe when they’re picked and brought to the market stalls each morning. There are vegetables here that I’ve never seen before, but I’m an adventurous cook and willing to try anything at least once. (Which might explain why I found myself in a hukkah bar in Panama City …. but I digress ….)

As always, I have an agenda while I’m here. While I’m best known back home as the proprietress of Mon Ami Gourmet Deli & Antiques, I also have an alter-ego as the COO and Creative Director of Toby and Max Jewelry. My partner and the designer-in-residence, Sandy Comstock, lives here in Boquete as a permanent resident with her long-time companion Oscar the Poodle. And since the “Muhammed” refuses to leave Paradise and to come back to the States for our annual business review, the “Mountain” is forced to come here. Which is why I am once again half a world away from The Nice Catholic Boy, my cozy little shop, and my personal comfort zone.

Getting here takes some doing. It’s a long trip and I usually head for the hammock as soon as I get here for a nice, long siesta before I hit the deck with my usual full-speed-ahead enthusiasm. There are people to see, places to go, designs to review, issues to discuss, and plans to make for the year ahead.

My agenda for this year’s trip quickly went south, however, when I couldn’t ply myself free of the hammock due to a severe sinus headache, which I attributed to the intense change in barometric pressure. This quickly morphed into a throbbing toothache and swollen jaw, which I treated with what I could find at the local farmacia. But by the evening of Miserable Day Four, I could bear it no more and surrendered my name, rank, passport #, you name it – puhleeeze, Somebody, GET ME SOME DRUGS OR GET ME ON A PLANE FOR HOME!

Sympathetic friends came bearing gifts of strong drink, then bundled me into the backseat and headed off into the hills where a local dentist kept late night hours in his home-based clinic, in between operating a small cantina and hotel. (Admittedly, I was a bit anxious about having any dental work done in a third world country, but at this point I would have been willing to see a veterinarian. Seriously.) Dr. Riviera’s office was a far cry from the beautifully decorated clinic of my dentist back home, and his equipment was clearly older than me, but he was kind, thorough, and a competent professional and I knew I was in good hands. Three more office visits, two x-rays, ten whole dollars and a trip to the farmacia for the Good Stuff … and I find myself nine days later operating at a markedly subdued pace and contemplating the Best Laid Plans.

On top of it all, it’s raining here in Boquete. I understand its warm and sunny back home and has been since I left. Oh, the irony of it all ….

But juxtaposed against all the things I haven’t been able to get done since arriving in Paradise is something my friend Connie Spinner will be delighted to hear. During the last week, I’ve read three books. I went to a birthday party for some Panamanian friends at their home (this is a BIG deal for a gringa). I got up early and went to mass, but since I was too nausaus to participate, I sat in the back and listened to the nuns sing. I took a lot of siestas, and I ate a lot of soup.

I spent more time in the hammock and listened to the birds. I took a few walks around Valle Escondido and marveled at the breathless beauty of my surroundings. I’ve gone a whole week without an espresso. And yesterday, I was treated to a rare sighting of a Basilisk lizard, known locally as the Legarto de Jesus Cristo because they can literally walk on water. I’ll probably never see one again!

There’s still a week left before I return to the States and back to the life I live at warp speed. Messages to return, meetings to attend, catering jobs to bid, lattes and lunches to make, orders to fill, people to meet and places to go. And a root canal. In the meantime, I know I need to make the most of my time here in Panama.

Which is why, first thing in the manana, I’m headed for my hammock.