We began our long vacation in Denver, spent a day with Amy’s older sister, Emily, and another day with Amy’s younger sister, Molly, visited some friends, and then flew to Oregon.

Bob had rented a place outside the tiny town of Drain, half an hour from Amy and Jasper. When I told our host I was a walkaholic, he pointed out a woodsy path behind our room and, in the other direction, the gravel road we’d driven in on.

I walked both ways both mornings, taking note of two little deer who were as curious about me as I was about them.

It was berry season, which added time and calories to the walks.

On the woodsy side of things, we encountered moss and lichen, something we have in much smaller amounts back home.

We stopped at a bakery on the way to Cottage Grove and scored some hand pies for breakfast.

Amy and Jasper live in a surprisingly spacious tiny house built inside a large barn.

When it was time, we sang the Happy Birthday song, which I am certain we are somehow born knowing, since I cannot remember ever not knowing how to sing it.

I’ve only met one person in my life who didn’t know what to do next. You make a wish and blow out the candle! Equally important, you must keep your wish a secret or it will not come true.

Amy was born on a Saturday, for what that’s worth. Bob was Thursday-born, and I arrived on a Friday.

Osha, now a mature dog (we remember her as a pup), has been with Amy and Jasper for as long as they’ve been together.

And we met their cat, Scrumpie.

Bob gave Osha’s comfortable bed a test drive after she got up to lie beneath the table.

Stools are cool, perfect for small spaces, portable for camping, and close to the ground for tending fires and petting dogs. By the end of the day, I had an appreciation for Amy and Jasper’s well-crafted lifestyle of simple relaxation, and saw how it reflected their down-to-earth values.

No Wifi, no TV, no cell service. “If you need us, just honk your horn,” our hosts told us. A writer’s haven if I’ve ever seen one.

I knew these were my people when I saw the loop trail. Bob and Amy were also ready to stretch their legs, so we set down our bags and went for a walk.

We noticed right away one tree that seemed out of place. We later learned it was a Monkey Puzzle tree, native to South America, thriving in Washington State as an ornamental.

The trail wound through ferns and firs which seemed to grow larger the further we went.

We were soon surrounded by moss and shrinking into the forest like Alice in Wonderland.

Fallen trees nurture forest life. After I’ve lain down for the last time, I’d like to do the same.

Here’s a tree that was once a small seed, which took root in the fallen nurse tree and now has grown straight and tall.

Now we were in the stuff of fairy tales, half expecting to see a wolf in a bonnet or a small hut with a very large chimney.

Back in the hideaway, we rummaged through our road provisions and settled on grilled tofurky and cheese sandwiches for dinner. Each time we reached for our phones, we realized there was no point. I wondered if I would make it until tomorrow to check my texts.

After sundown, we stepped outside to look at the stars and saw the lanterns.

If we’d had any doubt these were our people, the lanterns and the ball jar of crayons next to the guest book settled it for us.

The next morning, I took the loop alone and went beyond, finding evidence of mankind, a rusted car that reminded me of an upturned beetle.

I froze when I heard a loud snap. And froze again when I heard another. Perhaps I was about to see a bear! Holding my breath, I stepped closer to the sound, wishing I’d brought my invisibility cloak.

Time stretched as I watched the ferns rustle. Maybe it was an invisible bear. Finally, common sense prevailed, and I looked into the overstory to see a few squirrels knocking pinecones to the ground.

I turned and headed back. I’d had enough of an adventure. Two shelf mushrooms waved goodbye, a little mockingly, I thought.

Bob and Amy had enjoyed a good catch-up. I told them my bear story before diving into a bowl of granola, blueberries, and soy milk. We left replenished, fully oxygenated, with our sleep tanks topped off. Unplugging had been as easy as falling off a log.

Bob began planning our time out west last year, and I started training immediately. In the past, travel zapped me royally, but this time I was determined to return home unscathed.

On day two, after a good night’s sleep, we picked up our oldest daughter, Emily, said hello to her cats, Rufus and Cortado, and drove down to the Denver Botanic Gardens. Just the three of us on a brilliant day.

The air was as crisp as a fall apple with a full-throated “Colorado Blue” sky, a color we call “Carolina Blue” back home.

Many of the plants in their tropical collection felt familiar, reminding us of our summers with the girls in Belize, on Guam, and Hawaii twenty-plus years ago.

I cannot think of a better way to refresh and connect than a stroll among oxygen-exhaling eye candy.

Naturally, we lingered over the orchids as Bob identified species in his private collection.

We encountered a giant picture frame, and I saw how it made me both focus and detach.

We were drawn to a massive sculpture which I initially mistook for a real flower. When I realized it was made of glass, that only made it cooler. It shone brightly even after ten years outdoors, making me wonder how you would clean such a thing.

A bench—cleverly constructed of woven branches—beckoned, but we resisted and kept on moving.

These Dr. Suessian flowers reminded me of vintage hats.

We encountered dahlia blooms as big as Emily’s head.

By the end of the day, I felt calm and energized, and I knew this trip would be different. Here’s the formula I came up with for stress-free travel:

Always get a good night’s sleep
Walk around outdoors as much and as often as possible
Eat real food, staying away from sugar and processed food
Pace yourself socially, detach when necessary
Avoid screen time

And it worked! I returned home nearly two weeks later, aglow with memories and no worse for wear.

Denver was essentially a cow town turned hippie haven when I first set down roots here in 1972. Located on the last miles of flatland before the Rocky Mountains, Denver’s ecosystem is dry prairie grassland, treeless except for what grows along the rivers and creeks. And that would be Cottonwoods.

After we landed, Bob led us through Denver International Airport to the train, to the rental car shuttle, and to the National Car Rental lot, and within an hour or so we were at Mahlon’s door. He greeted us with great hugs.

Mahlon’s apartment was clean and tidy, a loud nose-thumb toward the “sloppy bachelor” trope. Seriously, uncluttered counters and (yes, I got a glimpse into his closet) clothes hangers all spaced two inches apart. There was just enough of everything and not too much of anything.

After lunch, I excused myself for some outdoor time. Mahlon walked me out to the sidewalk and pointed south, “Go down to Pecos and back,” he said, then turning, “And if you want more, walk up to the light,” he gestured towards Huron Street.

I strode off briskly like a loose pup, resisting the urge to leap into the air until I was respectfully out of sight, overjoyed to be moving after the long, sedentary morning. It was a spectacular day. Cool air, warm sun, Colorado Blue sky (we call it Carolina Blue back home) with flowering shrubs and lavender flanking the wide, level sidewalk. This being Colorado, one of the healthiest states in the country, other people were about: jogging, dog-walking, and pushing strollers.

This is when I spotted my first wizened Cottonwood tree. I stood in reverence, my affinity for Denver blossoming in my chest.

I remembered riding borrowed horses along the city ditches in the ’70s and ’80s and our rides on Jesse and Penny down to the Big Thompson east of Loveland in the ’90s.

A couple of days later, we had lunch with Molly and Shane and their longtime friends, Alex and Jade, at the Lake House in Littleton. Molly has several times mentioned how much Alex reminds her of me, and this was our first opportunity to meet. Molly was right, Alex and I have similar profiles and many traits in common. Someone mentioned that we should adopt Alex and Jade, and Bob and I enthusiastically agreed. So now we have five daughters!

Molly and Bob took the opportunity to catch up while the rest of us walked the Clement Park Lake Trail. This time I couldn’t help myself. I took off running and Jade sprinted to overtake me in her dress and hiking boots. Laughing, we returned to Alex and Shane only to burst into childish exuberance the next time either of us had the urge. Soon we were straying from the pavement to chase fat-bellied prairie dogs, Alex calling after us, “Don’t touch them! They’ve got mange. Maybe Bubonic Plague.”

A pair of boys wheeled towards us, asking if we’d like them to catch a prairie dog. “Yes!” we screamed and they flung down their scooters. The larger boy gave chase and at the last minute the chubby pest dove into a hole with a indignant chirp.

The smaller boy crouched low like a border collie, milking the limelight, and crept towards another plump rodent. Then with a wiggle of his hips he flew forward. For a minute, we thought the boy would win, but his intended target also scampered away unmolested.

We were more than halfway around the lake now and Jade and I had settled down, chatting idly with the adults about movies and such. We came upon some old Cottonwoods and I shared my thoughts about reconnecting to my years in Colorado and about how much I loved climbing trees as a child.

Jade, too remembered fondly her tree-climbing youth. “I haven’t climbed a tree for ten years,” I said wistfully. “All I need is a limb I can reach and I can walk my feet up the trunk,” I said. “The trees at home all branch out too far up to reach.”

“What about this one?” Jade asked and a minute later, she was up and urging me to try.

It was a hard-won battle. Grasping the branch nub, I got my right foot wedged between twin trunks, and willed my leg to raise me from clinging to standing while Jade cheered me on. I doubt I would have made it without her encouragement.

It took a long time for the euphoria to dissipate and settle into my bones. Since then I’ve felt connected and rejuvenated, and sure that I won’t ever stop absorbing the world of people, plants, and animals with childlike delight.

Bob and Deb’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary gave us an excuse to see most everyone in one place. Joe flew into Pennsylvania from California, Taylor and Theresa from Utah, and the rest of us drove in.

Brother Bob put together a photographic history of their lives, and we had fun finding our youthful selves in the pictures.

It was a relaxed atmosphere. We arrived early so some of us could take a stroll, but were soon turned back by a cloudburst to sprawl across the sofa, nibble at carrots and dip, examine the story boards, and tell each other funny stories.

My niece, Theresa, entertained me with talk about the challenges she faces in her work. During the winter, she serves as an EMT on ski patrol along with some hospitality. In the off-season she does fire prevention work. She said that she is more at home on skis or in workboots with a chainsaw than catering to priveleged tourists.

Our hosts, Bob and Deb, went to great lengths to host their this gathering and were pleased when everything fell into place.

When it was time, we helped ourselves to salad, pasta with two kinds of sauce, two kinds of meat, rolls, and a good selection of desserts. I mixed both the white and red sauce when I returned for seconds, and it was so good I don’t know why I don’t always make two sauces.

I thought of my mother and how she would mix leftover spaghetti sauce into one of two pans of macaroni and cheese and put both, baked to steaming, on the dinner table. The flavor of the mixed sauces made me feel as if Mom was right beside me, thrilled to see so many of us together.

BOB’S PORTRAIT GALLERY

Bob enjoys taking portraits with his 56mm lens. He always asks permission, and few hesitate for long before warming up to the idea. He puts people at ease and captures candid smiles.

JOHN AND DARLA’S

We stopped at John and Darla’s the day before the anniversary party. Darla prepared an extensive Taco Bar with produce grown by her cousin next door. Most of us saved room for apple pie.

Charity joined us on her lunch break with her two youngest, Alex and Joel. Her husband, Jason, stopped by later to pick up their boys after Charity returned to work, but we didn’t get his picture because we were busy lounging and because he was in his mechanic’s clothes.

A few days later, John and Darla drove up from Florida after spending a month in St. Augustine—a trip I would have found arduous—but they arrived on our doorstep with smiles, their overnight bags, and Katrina, their Coton de Tulear.

Darla handed me a plush bathmat with the words “Squeaky Clean” and a copy of Jeanette Walls’ Half Broke Horses. “I was needing a new mat for our guest bathroom,” I said, and told her I knew I would enjoy the novel, having loved The Glass Castle. Somehow, Darla always knows the exact right gift—not just for us, but for everyone she knows. Intuitive shopping is her super power.

We spoke in whispers—it being a tad past nine and Bob already retired—while Katrina padded through the house, finding the food and water bowls that I had set out. I wondered if she remembered them from her last visit.

“This house smells like Nana’s house,” John said, nose lifted. We both knew that Nana’s house represented the very best moments of our childhoods. I blushed, realizing that my ovearching life goal has been to make a space where others would feel as at home as I had been at our Nana’s. This, I thought, was my super power.

What was that smell, we wondered, trying to pick it apart. “Do you use Calgon bath salts?” John asked.

“No, no bathtub here. Windex and fried onions, perhaps.”

“Remember that face cream Nana kept in the downstairs bathroom with her makeup?” And we drifted down memory lane, thinking about our grandmother special smells and our days as children on her acre of paradise.

The next morning the five of us sat in our yellow dining room and when our plates were empty, it was time for show and tell. First, John went out to the van to fetch a small alligator head that Darla had picked up for someone back home in Pennsylvania.

Next, Bob gave a tour of his gorgeous orchids. Like Bob, Darla wears the green thumb in their house. She, too, has a few orchids.

Show and tell is boring for little dogs, but Katrina is made of patience. She lay down in our living room, bathed in orchid lights, and waited for a good smell to appear, or for her people to move toward the door.

We soon said our goodbyes on the lawn, promising to drop in on each other as often as possible, no matter for how long or short. We’ve often enjoyed John and Darla’s hospitality and were pleased to return the favor. They are the kind of hosts who leave chocolates for their guests, and post “Welcome, Camille and Bob,” on their refrigerator.

After their van had vanished down the road, I went inside to strip the bed and looking out the window, wondered when I’ll get around to finishing washing the others. Maybe next week, I thought, and turned my attention to other, less productive pursuits.

My family was very pro-Carter. So much so that my mother joined a bus full of college students headed to Washington DC for his inauguration. Here is the article she wrote about that day.

INAUGURAL TRAVELER FINDS HOPE FOR AMERICA

Janice Illo

The Slate – Shippensburg University’s weekly newspaper

February 1, 1977

It was around 7 am as I sleepily found a seat with my two young sons on one of the five Shippensburg State College student buses headed for the Presidential inauguration in Washington.

Questions and thoughts began awakening me as I watched each pair of eyes search for a seat. What were they thinking? The year 1976 was such a whirlwind, the first Presidential election after Watergate; the Republican and Democratic conventions running neck and neck with the Olympics; Carter, running all the way on hope and just making it ahead at the finish line; and all within the setting of the country’s exploding Bicentennial celebration.

I began talking with these eager, knowledgeable, young people as they headed to add a live historical experience to their knowledge. As we talked, I was interested to learn that the group was mostly made up of students majoring in elementary education, government or social welfare.

The students were soberly optimistic about the next four years and were realistically aware that the term may have its dangers. They all agreed that anything could happen, with the assassinations of the 60s still etched in their minds. The hope was strong in them, though, as they talked about what the new President might accomplish.

The group was a happy one and a delight to be with. Their quick eyes detected everything of interest that passed by the bus windows. Their witful comments made the ride speed by. As the bus paused for a light on Constitution Avenue, cheers rolled through from end to end as each one caught sight of a pretty, slight, fully uniformed police woman at the wheel of a police car full of robust policemen.

We arrived! Some of us had the good heads to get tickets to enter the Capitol gates. Others stood outside, including me. We even forgot to bring my son’s invitation. I wasn’t sorry, though, for there was much to see among those thousands of outside people.

We climbed the icy steps of what looked to be a law building to get a better view. The day was bright and clear but cold. An Indonesian family sat huddled on an icy step in a sleeping bag.

Another man was wrapped in a green blanket.

A well-dressed man wore a plastic bag over his head with a hole cut at his mouth.

Men were shouting and holding up hats and gloves for sale. Steam poured forth from thermoses. Newsmen were in and out, getting their captions.

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

The people, as they stood around with their banners and signs stating their ideals and prides, were happy but not jubilant. They were hopeful, but somewhat reserved. There was peace and a disarming trust everywhere.

In front of us, young men walked up and down with a sign saying “Stop Nuclear Weapons and Power.” In back of us, a man quietly wore his sign of “Total Amnesty.”

All kinds of “Home State” banners waved. Even a figure of Abraham Lincoln turned out, looking so real that everywhere he stood people asked him to pose for a picture.

It was a few minutes until noon and “America the Beautiful” was filling our ears. Everyone was silent now as the Presidential swearing in took place. That man we chose stood earnestly on the Capitol balcony in what looked to be his traditional green. The only distraction of the moment was the shield he stood behind, and the gunned guards standing on each nearby roof reminding us of the all too real problems of our society.

Then the distraction left our minds as our new President’s words echoed back to us. Words such as: “Spiritual strength of our Nation;” “love and mercy to all;” “a new beginning and spirit;” “learn, laugh, work, and pray together;” “to be true to ourselves we must be true to others:” “we will work to eliminate nuclear weapons on this earth;” “pledge perseverance;” “cannot be indifferent.”

As I looked around me the faces seemed to have an attitude of introspection, the realization of the littleness of one man to do all and the awareness of the nitty-gritty of each ones own responsibility.

It was like the bottom beginning instead of the usual climax. We left the grounds thinking this man will hear if we will speak.

Our steps quickened as we headed for the parade. Many of us stopped off at the open legislators’ buildings to thaw and to eat. The lobbies were like picnic grounds as people sat on the floor near the heaters and opened their box lunches.

Friendliness was most prevalent as people warmed their toes in the sunny spots. In spite of the crowds there was no disorder anywhere, just friendly warmth.

Highly refreshed, we set off again for the parade. Everyone was smiling. Three well-dressed middle-aged business-type men handed us a camera asking one of us to take their picture in front of the Commerce of Labor sign. Click, and we were on our way again as they waved a thank you.

The parade was upon us now, and true to his ideals the President and his family stepped out of the limousine and walked with the rest of us.

All the while, a big peanut with a Jimmy Carter head walked along the sidewalk. Tiers of unicyclists equipped with a crutched participant showed this was a celebration that nothing could stop.

The next hours were a sight to behold; a patriotic Mardi gras spiced with circus overtones. The fifty states sported floats and bands. Tennessee’s barn and square dancers and a real chicken perched on its roof; South Carolina’s smoking train; Alaska’s Husky dog team, and Georgia’s peanut balloon.

Our Pennsylvania float was a source of pride, with its two eagles and the words “Committed to the Spirit of a New America” moving to the rhythm of Shippensburg’s own College Raiders.

Even Colonel Lindberg’s first plane, the Curtiss J N-4 “Jenny” was there.

The students couldn’t see much of the Inaugural Ceremony from where they stood and didn’t catch other details of the day, such as Amy stopping to tie her shoe in front of the parade. Some even had to jump up to see the parade over the heads of the people. Nevertheless they learned a whole lot that day about the very real presence of America and the ever flow and exchange of ideas among its every walk of people as they stood among signs and comments that they agreed of disagreed with.

I thought as I took notes on the bus, “How lucky I am to be able to decide in a moment to write a newspaper article about my surroundings and be free to do it.”

What a wealth we have here if we will use it. Let’s “Keep Freedom Ringing.”

There are six of us. Born to John and Janice who have now passed on. My parents married in 1953 and chased my father’s career across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York for nearly two decades. They finally settled in rural Pennsylvania—a place my father referred to as “the armpit of the universe.” I had recently turned sixteen and this was my eighth home.

I stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to earn a high school diploma and began my own wanderings. My brothers also scattered, some leaving the state altogether, and as my parents aged, we coordinated annual reunions, cumulating in two final gatherings, one in 2021 to bury my mother, and another in 2023 to put my father to rest.

Family visits have since become catch as catch can, sporadic and incomplete. And as my appetite for travel waned, I started nudging my brothers to come visit me and Bob in North Carolina.

John and his wife, Darla, have driven down to see us a couple of times, and earlier this year Jim and Kathryn said, “We’re really coming down this time.” They would drive down from Massachusetts, we would meet at the beach, and Joseph would fly in from California. Then we would all drive back to our humble abode.

So Bob and I got to work spiffing up our house. I fluffed and dusted while Bob, as per usual, did the heavy lifting, spending days painting the guest bathroom.

Bob and I were the first to arrive and quickly slipped into relaxation mode. He had booked a beach house with three beds for two nights.

Former pilot, Jim, had never been to the Wright Brothers National Memorial, so we went. The forecast for our one full day in Kitty Hawk had been for rain, but we lucked out and it stayed dry.

We began our tour in the visitor center learning about the Wright family and the history of aviation and gaping at a replica of Wilbur and Orville’s ground-breaking invention.

Bob and I had visited the Memorial two years ago with our friends Henry and Kelly.

Henry was Bob’s high school roommate at TASIS, The American School in Switzerland. Like brother Joe, Henry and Kelly live in San Francisco.

But, back to 2024. Here are Joe and Bob standing outside the visitor center with the flight path and a small airstrip in the background.

I was struck by the parallels between Wilbur and Orville Wright and my brothers, Joe and Jim. Both extremely intelligent, born four years apart, and avid bikers—the Wright brothers ran a bicycle shop before pursuing flight.

Two of my brothers, Bob and Jim, acquired pilots licenses early in life.

We climbed Kill Devil Hill for the exercise and to put ourselves in Wilbur and Orville’s shoes, imagining for a moment what it might have been like to launch ourselves into the air on faith alone.

I watched my brothers with pride, both so healthy and curious, thinking about Wilbur and Orville’s supportive older sister, Katherine, and made a promise to myself to follow in her footsteps.

To complete our foray into the Wright Brothers experience, we drove to the sculpture park on the other side of the monument.

At the visitors center, the hard copy urged us to stay on the trail lest we puncture our footwear with prickly pear cactus.

We drove four hours inland the next day and Spot got to meet the gang.

I picked up the mail and found a package of hand-harvested wild rice from Amy Armantrout which the five of us later ate atop steaming bowls of stir fry garnished with daikon steaks from our garden.

Joe’s birthday was coming up on December 4, so I baked a cherry pie and we sang to him.

Later, after Joe returned to California, Jim, Kathryn, and I visited the Raleigh Executive Airport. Jim seemed to know each model plane by sight and was savvy enough to look up them up online. “That’s a 1957 Piper Cub,” he’d say, or “That’s just like the plane I used to fly.”

That evening we hosted a small dinner party with some of our neighbors and the next morning Jim and Kathryn left before dawn to begin their twelve hour drive home.

Cards, letters, and phone calls are great ways of keeping in touch, but nothing can replace sharing time and space together. Now, when we talk on the phone and I tell Jim or Kathryn that I’m at my desk or in the garden, they have a mental image of me in that space in the same way Bob and I can picture their kitchen and yard after visiting in July.

As Bob and I were leaving Lake Mills for Chicago, we decided to stop at Rock Lake Cemetery and pay our respects to Cousin Patty’s family. We drove in and immediately realized were never going to find Aunt Lois and Uncle Dick among twenty-five acres of markers.

So we called Patty for help. Lucky for us, she was free and willing to come over and show us around.

I listened to Patty’s stories about her parents, her younger brother, and her older sister. I was a fly on a tree with a camera, picturing myself in Patty’s shoes.

Patty’s younger brother died when she was nineteen years old. I could not get my heart around the magnitude of this tragedy. I tried and failed to imagine losing one of my precious brothers before I had found my footing in life.

I stared incomprehensibly at Patty’s sister’s tarnished white plaque, realizing that I am a lucky outlier, a seventy-year-old woman who has not lost any brothers or cousins.

Bob’s father, Bill, had two siblings, Patty’s father, Richard, and Becky’s mother, Mary. Patty’s mother, Lois, passed at the age of ninety-five in February and her father left this earth in 2010.

Both Patty and Steve told us how Lois was able to walk up the stairs to their place without holding onto the railing. They said it wasn’t until recently that she complained she was no longer able to pull on her socks while standing up. Ever since hearing that, I think of Bob’s Aunt Lois each time I’m tempted to sit down to put on my socks.

We had a second grave to find, this one on Aunt Mari’s side of the family. We spotted it right off, looming in the distance not far from the Armantrout plots.

Patty had told us that Mari’s son Scott had spared no expense on his memorial, but we were unprepared for what we found. The three of us stared at the towering black monument, stifling giggles and sighing.

Scott got cancer as a young boy but lived into his fifties, consuming every day as if it were his last. He came from money, so that helped. Bob says Scott always had the fastest motorcycle and the fastest boat on Rock Lake, so it made perfect sense that he would have commissioned the largest headstone in Rock Lake Cemetery.

Patty and Bob obligingly posed next to the polished granite, dwarfed by Scott’s legacy.

Our appetites wetted with family history, we decided to find Bob’s parents. Bob looked up his father on Find a Grave, made a phone call, and drove us the short distance to Helenville.

Zion Church Cemetery was a small, well-tended roadside park surrounded by autumn corn. The church was long gone.

Bob had no trouble locating the Armantrout markers.

Here lay his oldest brother, Rich, and his parents, Bill and Alice. It’s no secret that Bob’s family did not approve of his divorce. They were unable to accept me, and eventually Bob grew tired of hearing about it. Communication dropped off. Bob’s father called to tell Bob his mother had passed, but no one reached out to him after his father and brother died. It occurs to me that memorial stones represent the weight of a lifetime, whether short or long—all the complicated relationships and unspoken truths.

I don’t know what was going through Bob’s mind as he stood before the graves. Estrangement is hard on everyone, especially the survivors. I want to believe that he got some closure while standing near these markers on a beautiful fall day.

Bob’s Cousin Patty and her husband, Steve, came to see us on Maui in 2002 and in North Carolina last spring. It was our turn to go see them.

Steve and Patty lived in what used to be Patty’s parents house for much of their married life, but recently moved to smaller digs next door Their son, Tom, and his family have moved into the big house.

Patty and Steve’s deck comes with a brilliant view of Rock Lake. You can see their boat dock from up there, too.

I enjoyed meeting Patty and Bob’s cousin, Becky. She drove over from a nearby town to see us and hang out lakeside.

I couldn’t get over the sunsets. “This is spectacular!” I said. “They’re all great,” said Steve. I tried to imagine living in one place with such a view for forty years or so. Imagine!

The next day we put on our bathing suits. Gideon caught the football while jumping from the dock time after time, as tireless as a Labrador.

The weather was unseasonably warm. Patty couldn’t recall it ever being this nice this close to her birthday.

Aubrey was equally athletic with her leaping, twisting spins.

Bob delivered on his promise to get into the lake.

Something he had not done for at least thirty years. As children, he and his brothers would come to Lake Mills from Ghana in the summer to spend time with their cousins.

Old times, new times. Memories are made from repeating memories.

Cousin Kathy brought her little dog.

Steve, not-yet-retired, enjoying some downtime.

Tom kept us entertained with his quick jokes.

I was taken by Aubrey, such a bright light.

Sisters!

Kathy and I are nearly the same age.

Charlie stopped by after dinner to see his Uncle Bob. Patty and Steve’s third child lives on a Caribbean Island, so we did not see her.

On the way out of town, we stopped at the cemetery where Patty’s family are buried. Stay tuned for more on that story.