Blame it on Rio

One day late that summer, Zach came home to a surprise. Instead of Mrs. D in the kitchen making him lunch it was his Mom. He ran over to her and gave her a hug. “Mom what are you doing here.

“Well right now I am making you lunch” she said smiling. She turned around and produced a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as is if by magic, “And when your done we are going to mall and shop for new school clothes. School begins in a couple of weeks.”

Zach was super surprised. He was having such a wonderful time this summer that school had completely slipped his mind. The thought of summer ending seemed like the most terrible thing in the world to him. He loved these long hot days of endless exploration and constant adventure. The thought of being trapped in a school room, no matter how much fun he could have there, filled him dread.

“Zach, whats wrong? You have hardly touched your sandwich and we have to get going. Didn’t I make it the way you like it?”

He didn’t answer her question.  Instead he took a bite of the sandwich. It had no flavor. He didn’t even detect that his mother had used smooth Skippy instead of crunchy. Normally that would have created quite the hub bub but instead Zach just dully bit into his sandwich bite after bite until all that was left was a few crumbs and a couple of dots of leaked jam. When he looked up he saw Mom staring at him, with her “spill it buster” look on her face. Looking down at his plate, he mumbled.

Zach’s Mom smiled and said “Zachie all things have to come to an end honey. If Summer didn’t end, then the fall wouldn’t come. Then you wouldn’t be able to drink apple cider or go pumpkin picking. Just think of all the candy you would miss at Halloween if we did not have a fall. Now finish your milk and go wash your hands there is peanut butter all over them.  Lets get going buddy.”

Zach did what he was told .He thought seriously about what his mother had told him as he walked to and then climbed into the back seat of their Jeep. After they had driven for a moment or two he said somewhat petulantly  “ I don’t care about any of that fall stuff. Summer beats it hands down. I wouldn’t even miss Halloween. I would save my money and go to Caties whenever I wanted to.”

He could see his Mom’s eyes smile in the rear view mirror. She said “Zach if summer never ended then you would never go to school. And if you want to be a world famous explorer you have to go to school. You have learn about geography so you know where to go, and you have to learn math so you can figure out how to get there and learn foreign language so you can speak to people when you get to where you want to go.”

As Zach thought about what his mother had said she pulled into the mall parking lot. He had completely forgotten that they were going shopping for school clothes. This served to distract Zach completely from the subject at hand. He hated clothes shopping. He hated the way that everyone seem to prod him, measuring this that and the other thing. To make matters worse his mother insisted he try everything on and his mother seemed to bring everything in the store for him to try. The clothes were always stiff, smelled funny and made his skin itch…and just when he though it was all over his mother would take to him to another store to try on more stuff. After a summer of wearing nothing but shorts, t-shirts and sneakers, it was torture.

Three hours later an over-prodded and over tired boy climbed back into their car. It had not been a good afternoon, and even the bribe of an ice cream cone, did little to lift his spirits. He decided that he needed to talk to someone else about the end of Summer….someone who was smart enough to help him figure out a way around this problem. He decided that he needed to talk to his Grandpa.

When he got to Pop Pop’s house he found him sitting on the front porch sitting in his favorite chair reading a book. At least he said he was reading a book. Zach could of sworn that he had a snore just as he was walking up the steps. “Hey little buddy! To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit.”

Zach explained the problem to him. He told his Grandpa how he had been surprised that Summer was almost over. He did not think that it was fair that it had to end and that he was trying to figure out a way to make it last a little bit longer. When he had finished explaining the situation to Pops he was pretty worked up. If had not been such a big boy some people might have even mistaken the wetness on his cheeks for tears.

Pop Pop smiled at Zach and motioned to him to come sit in his lap. He put his arm around him, smiled and said “Summer is pretty terrific isn’t Zach. What is your favorite part of Summer?”

“Oh Pops I love it all. I love the fact that you don’t have to wear a lot of clothes. I love the fact that it is warm all the time. I love going to camp and learning to swim and shooting bows and arrows. I love exploring the woods with my friends. I love the fort we built.” He paused for breath and gushed on “I love Mrs. D’s fried bologna sandwiches and the stories she tells me. I love learning to play chess with you and the books you read me. I love going to Caties and buying ice cream or candy. I love playing in the brook and getting muddy and dirty. I love eating on the back porch with Mom and Dad. I love playing capture the flag and catching fire flies. I love sneaking out with Dad and getting an ice cream cone when I have already had one that day. I love the way the night smells and the sounds crickets make at nights and I love falling asleep with the window open and waking up and doing it all over again.”

His Grandpa chuckled and said, “Wow that is a whole lot of love Zach. Let me ask you a question though. Do you think that you will ever forget any of those things that you love?”

Without any hesitation Zach said “Of course I won’t.”

“Then how can summer ever really be over if you always remember it?”

Zach thought for a minute and said “Pops, what do people do to remember things”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know that I will always remember what I did this summer and all the fun that I had but you know that sometimes you sort of forget stuff and you have to be reminded. You know like in school when you are trying to remember how to spell a word and the teacher gives you a letter or two and then you can remember the whole thing. So what do people do when they try to remember things like the things that they have done?”

Zach’s Grandpa thought for a second and said “Well I suspect that depends on the person. Some people like to write their memories down…like the stories I read you so that re-read them later and remember what it was like. Other people take pictures of things and put them in photo albums that they could look at later. You know that your grandmother used to like make scrapbooks and put little odds and ends from the adventures we have in it and that way we would have little pieces of our memories with us for as long as we cared to look at them.” He paused and began again “And if the memories are really really important some people create museums like the Natural History Museum I took you to in New York…..”

In a flash Zach was out of his Grandpa’s lap and flying down the stairs. “Thanks Pops. You have given me a great idea.”

Sometimes he and Byron would walk to town. It was not  far away and for that matter it was not very big either but Zach like going there just to see what was going on. He would climb onto a bench and watch the world go by.  The postman go from store to store.A truck making a delivery to Mr. Brown’s hardware store or Mrs. Spiro dropping off her husbands shirts at the dry cleaners or any of the hundreds activities that take place in a small town on a quiet summers afternoon.

What he hated the most about going downtown was sometimes he would run into one of his mothers, fathers, or the absolute worst his grandfather’s older friends. They would make such a fuss over him which invariably ended with his hair being rumpled or his cheek being pinched or some other indignity.

But downtown was home of Catie’s Confectioners. It had  every conceivable type of penny candy including sour balls, pixie sticks, gummy worms, Razzles, bubble gum in 7 flavors, smarties, and buttons. They sold ice cream in all the normal flavors and then some of their own invention such as MilkyWay, Fruit Loops, and Boysandberries.  On the days when he had only managed to scavenge a few penny’s he would spend long moments examining all of the bins and trying to figure out in his mind which of the would be best suited for today….did he want to blow bubbles that would collapse over his nose or did he want to pour a pixies stick his mouth so he could watch his tongue change color. But if he had managed to find a dollar or he had persuaded his parents to give him one he always got the same thing: A double dip of Boysandberries and Fruit Loops. . He would sit outside the store and try to make it last as long as possible by taking as little licks as he could until only the cone remained. Then he would eat the cone from the bottom to the top. And when he was done he would let Byron, who sat patiently waiting, lick his hands clean.

Even rainy days were fun in the summer. He loved the excitement of the thunder and lightening storms. He would sit out on the porch swing and wait for the flashes of light and count the number of seconds before he heard the thunder like his father had taught to do.. He especially loved the fact that it was one of the few times that he was braver than Byron who would often sit under the swing and whimper until the storms had passed. Later after the rain had stopped he loved the way the neighborhood smelled clean and fresh. He would go out into the street and play in the puddles and wonder how the worms managed to find their way into them.

Dinner was always a family affair at Zach’s house. His Mom and Dad would always try to make it home from work so they could eat together and talk about their day. Everyone had a job. Zach’s Dad was in charge of the grill because during the summer most nights they would barbeque outside. His Mom thought  loved to put together complicated salads with three types lettuce, two types of tomatoes and various other bits and pieces she could find to throw in . Zach’s job was setting the table and he usually did a really good job, especially folding the napkins, but sometimes he forgot what sides the fork and knife went on.

When the weather was nice they would eat out on the back porch on an antique table made from an old farmhouse door. It had a heavy coat of polyurethane and you could still see some of the heavy brass fittings underneath the clear coat. His mother loved flowers and the table often had a spray of roses, or deliphinimums or some other bloom from their garden . Citronella candles in mesh coated tear dropped lamps finished off the table their scent keeping the voracious mosquitos and flies at bay.

Zach loved eating dinner outside with his parents. The food tasted better than it did indoors and they seemed to have more things to talk about. They still chatted about all the boring things that parents talked about like what they did at work and stuff but he always had more things to tell them about his days and the adventures that he had. And even better, instead of having to go upstairs and work on his homework or his reading after dinner he was usually set free to go play with his friends some more.

There was always something to do in the hours between dinner and dark. Someone might be having a game of catch or playing football. Firefly capturing was popular as was  Kickball.  But Zach’s all time favorite was, especially in the growing darkness of the early evening was Capture The Flag. He loved sitting and planning strategy with the other kids and being able to create diversions so he or one his friends could silently approach and then with war whoop capture the flag. He loved to win and would be momentarily down in the mouth if his team should lose.

Every once in a while, just as one of these games ended he would hear his father whistling for him…”Doahdoo.Doahdoo…DohadooDohaddooDohaddoo” His father whistling could only mean one thing…they were going to Caties Confectioners. His Dad loved Ice Cream and if had been up to him he probably would have gone to Caties every night but for some reason beyond Zach’s comprehension, his mother would only let them go a couple of times a week. She said that she was trying to protect his Dad’s waistline, whatever that meant, but Zach suspected she just didn’t love ice cream as much as his dad and he did.

Caties was different at night. Instead of the quiet place that it was during the day, the store was packed. Often,  it seemed to Zach,  that the whole town had turned out for ice cream at the same time. But sometimes that was okay as he would run into one of his  friends from school that he not seen all summer. For example one night while he and his Dad had waited in line they had run into his friend Krissy Bradbury. She was wearing a sun dress that had watermelons on it and she was deeply tanned from her the days she spent playing on the beach on Cape Cod. As the line moved forward they had shared the adventurers they had that summer with each other both trying to impress the other with their daring deeds. When they finally made it to the counter, he was absolutely delighted that she loved lemon Boysandberries as much as he did.

Even summer days need to come to an end. Zach would slowly trudge up the stairs to his bedroom with Byron climbing the steps behind him. After he washed his face, and brushed his teeth, he would crawl into bed with Byron jumping onto the bed, creating a nest at the end of the bed. His Mom would come in and tuck him in and his father would follow to tell him story of his own creation. His father’s stories were always fun and sometimes quite silly and he never grew tired of them. When his father had finished he would walk to the doorway and turn the light off and call to Zach’s Mom. Together they would sing a silly song “We belong to a mutual admiration society….my baby and me.”

After they had left, Zach would lay in his bed and smell the night air drifting in through the window. He could smell the fresh cut lawns, and the barbeques, and every once in while he swore he could pick up the chlorine smell from the pool at Union Field.   He Laying in the dark listening to the sounds of the summer night going outside his window….crickets bleating, wind chimes ringing, a ball game on a television down the street, a dog barking, and sometimes way off in the distance a lonely sounding train whistle. His eyes would close and he would dream of endless summer days.

[Part 3: 6/26/20

Zach’s bedroom was awake with sunlight.

It always was first thing in the morning. His parents,  who liked to sleep late when they could,  had decided that their only child should have the bedroom that faced east. In fairness, they had given him that bedroom not only so he would not sleep late but they believed their child should start every day with sunshine.  A bright beginning to a day would make their youngster to start each day on the right foot. It would fill his day with the promise of the possible. .

By and large there strategy had worked. Zach was an exceptionally happy and exuberant kid. The type of child that whenever you looked at him there seemed to be a smile and on his face. He loved to laugh and had an infectious giggle and an enthusiasm so powerful the could always rally his friends to help him even with the most improbable projects.

Most mornings he bounded out of bed. He would complete his morning ablutions, face washing, teeth brushing, and running a comb through his thicket of curly hair, as quickly as possible. Then dash down the stairs to inhale his breakfast. During the week this consisted mainly of cereal and a small glass of OJ as both his parents work. But on weekends Mom would make him breakfast of bacon and eggs or his favorite waffles with lots of butter and maple syrup. In both cases, as soon as breakfast was over he was out the door.

Summer mornings were devoted to sports and athletic activities of all sorts. During the week he would go down to Union Field, a city owned athletic complex, for a camp his Mom had enrolled him in. They played baseball, and dodgeball, and tennis. There was archery, nature class, and arts and crafts. His favorite though were swimming lessons with Miss Alice.  He was naturally comfortable in the water and she had a way of bringing out the best in him. Often his reward for doing something particularly well was a hug. This made him blush and squirm while at the same time always pushing him to do his best.

He managed to collect souvenirs from all of his activities. Baseball and dodgeball had each provided him a scar on his knees. The baseball scar had occurred when had tried to slide into second base when he had shorts on and in dodgeball when he was tried to escape being hit by Jay Kelly and slipped and fell onto to the asphalt. In nature class he made a a plaster of Paris mold of a fox’s pawprint he had made while on expedition to the nearby woods with his class. His teacher had made the mold and awarded to Zach as he was the one who discovered the tracks.   He and the class had gone into the woods looking for animal tracks and he had found the fox print. The teacher had showed them how to make a mold of the print by surrounding it with a dirt wall and laying down the plaster. As finder of the track he had been awarded custody of the mold.

He wasn’t very good in Arts and Crafts. He could never seem to make his fingers do the things that there were supposed to do and his exuberance made him lack patience.  For As a consequence, while he loved the idea of making a lanyard,  he couldn’t get his fingers to make the little loops correctly and his work always looked a little lopsided. The only reason he got anything done was because his friend MaryAnn had helped him with the stitches and eventually he had persevered enough to have a blue, white and gold wristlet. It was far from perfect, and in fact some of his friends teased him about it. He did not care. He was proud of it and continued he worked so hard to create it.

In tennis he had been awarded a certificate of most improved forehand. In archery one day he had put all the arrows into the bullseye and was awarded the order of Robin Hood which was really nothing more than a robin’s feather but he was so proud of it he put on his desk at home.

Zach’s favorite mementos from camp came from swimming. He treasured them not only because Miss Chatham was his favorite and he would do all he could to please her and get those treasured hugs, but he genuinely loved the water. He loved the way it felt on his skin on a hot day. He loved the smell of the pool and the way the rough cement of the deck felt against the bottom of his feet. But mostly he loved the way he felt when he was in the water. He felt like an explorer, an astronaut exploring some strange new world and the better he got at swimming the better to explore it. That summer he had passed both his advanced beginners and intermediate swimmers courses and the Red Cross had awarded him pins for each of these accomplishments which he promptly pinned to his favorite pairs shorts.

When Camp ended at noon, he would rush home in the heat the day for lunch only stopping occasionally to pop the tar bubbles on the street. Sin Mom and Dad worked,  his baby sitter, Mrs. D’Angelo, would be at home to greet him. She was an elderly widow whose children were grown and moved away. As a consequence, her grandchildren lived far away and she adopted Zach as a surrogate. . She would listen to his daily camp with great interests exploits while she making him his lunch… his favorite being either crunchy Skippy and Schmuckers Rasberry on whole wheat bread or Mrs. D’Angelo’s specialty fried bologna on white with a touch of yellow mustard.  There would be chips and Kool-Aid and for dessert fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. .

After lunch he was ready to go out and search for his friends for more fun and games but Mrs. D’Angelo would never let him. She thought vigorous activity right after lunch would be “bad for his digestion.” Instead  they would go to the big couch in the study and she would read to him from chapter books such as “The Wizard of Oz,” or When We Were Six or his favorite “Encyclopedia Brown”  that he was a little to young to read by himself.  Mrs. D’Angelo read with enthusiasm and emotion often giving the characters unique voices. That summer she had decided to read him the entire Misty of Chincoteague series and he had been entranced wondering if his parents would let him have a “Misty” of his own.

Sometimes, and to his everlasting embarrassment, as he was way too old for naps, he would fall asleep while he was being read too. On other days, when Mrs. D no longer had a voice for reading  all he would read a book on his own or do a jig saw puzzle or other little projects to bide away the time until the D gave the all clear for him to go out again.

Often,  when he went out in the afternoon he would be accompanied by his dog, Byron  a big black lab who considered himself Zach’s younger brother even though he was older. He never set out to take Byron along. This was something that dog, like all little brothers,  decided to do on his own.  Zach, like all tolerant older brothers,  never minded when he padded along quietly after him.

His favorite afternoon activity was to play at brook that ran along the back of the houses that were on his street. There, he and his friends, could always find something fun to do. They would build minnow traps the way his father had showed him the year before. You would take stones found at the bottom of the stream and make a U with the opening facing up stream. They never caught a lot of minnows but it was always fun to getting wet especially on really hold days. Or they would go turtle hunting. Searching for the box turtles that often lived in the skunk cabbage by the edge of the stream. When they found an exposed clay bed along the creek they would take they would craft it into small people, small animals or miniature forts.

There were only two downsides to playing in the brook.

First, and for reasons not fully understood by Zach playing in the creek would excite Byron beyond all reason. He would often run from child to child barking and pushing them out of the water with his snout. And when that failed he would lay on the bank, his head resting on his paws, his eyes scanning the children, ready to jump in at a moments notice.

Second, playing in the stream often made you filthy. Not that that was bad. Getting completely covered in mud and clay and grass and whatever else was a huge amount of fun. Or at least that is the way Zach saw it. Unfortunately, Mrs. D and his mother saw it quite differently. They would oget very cross with him when he would come home from these adventures. Often they would not let him into the house unless he took all of his clothes off, including his underwear, even before he got into the house.

Another favorite afternoon activity for Zach was exploring the woods at the end of the street with his friends. There were lots of trails and almost all of them led to one adventure or another. It was not an uncommon site for those passing on the street to see a group of children, some with back packs on, walking into the forest with a large black dog at their lead. Once inside the wood Zach would almost always make the decision for the group which way to go.

They could go over to the slate mine, which was really a small hillside whose slope had been ripped open by some torrential downpour long ago. That was fun because you could find neat rocks and slide down its crumbly slope.

There was the pine grove which held huge evergreens that were remarkably evenly spaced as if someone had planted them. The forest floor with thick with discarded needles and to walk into the woods was like walking into a church it was so silent. It was a great place to play hide and seek or to make nests out the needles and tell each stories that every one claimed was true and everyone also knew were made up.

Occasionally, while walking along one of the paths Byron would get all excited and he would bark and run back in forth until Zach made him stop. Invariably, it would be the carcass of some poor animal that had died. And even though the smell was often hideous and the dead body a  little scary to look at everyone had to examine the poor beast often poking it with a stick to see if there what was inside and everyone running when they discovered maggots or anything else really gross.

On one walk that summer they had discovered an old lean too that some previous set of adventurers had built. Who ever they were had really built it well with good strong branches and some discarded 2 x 4 s set on rocks that were arranged on what must have been a fire pit at one time. The gang and he had decided to make it their fort and soon began bringing cherished items from home to mark it as there own. His good friend Rebecca, who lived across the street from him had even made a flag for the place. She had taken one of her father’s old T-shirts that had a big black dog on it and cut off the sleeves and painted 10 stars around the dog, one for each one of the kids in the gang. And while Becky’s dad was not too pleased about losing one of his favorite T-shirts it was a hit with the kids and it was hung with honor on the inside of the lean to.

Even on the afternoons in which he could find no one to play with he still always managed to have fun. Somedays he would walk over to his pop-pop’s house who lived a couple of streets over. Grandpa was always glad to see him and they would have fun together. Grandpa loved to play chess and he was teaching Zach to play and even though he wasn’t  very good yet they always had fun playing. Sometimes he would sit in his grandpas lap, which was always warm, comfortable and smelled of old wool and bay rum, while he would read to him books to such as Emile and the Detectives or A Wrinkle in Time. And on really special days they would go downstairs into the basement where they would turn off all the lights and put a flashlight under their chins and tell each other ghost stories until they were so scared they had to come up stairs and have milk cookies.

[Part 2: Tomorrow]

It is Sunday June 17, 2001, Father’s Day, and I am standing with my father and a group of people on the pebbled beach of Skilak Lake, Alaska.  The weather is cool with a silky breeze, sunny skies with only a few puffy white clouds transiting above us as if they were late for an appointment.  The lake is a mirror, flat and unbroken with only a large inflatable motor boat maring its pristene surface. Just beyond where we are standing a brook bounces overs rocks on its way into the lake.  Off in the distance I can see the terminal moraine of the Skilak glacier and beyond it the snow covered peaks of the Chugach Range.

A postcard perfect day…in a perfect postcard setting: The type of day that I had thought of when I had told my father that I wanted to go with him to Alaska nearly nine months before.

We were all listening to our guide. He looks to me the same way Grizzly Adams would have looked if he had been outfitted by the Cabela catalogue. He is bearded, broad, and has a gentle nature about him. And like many of the folks who work at this camp we are staying at this is not his full time work. He spends most of the year teaching biology to high school students in Washington State and he is addressing us as if we are his students and an exam is looming.  In fact, what we are doing is preparing for a day long hike up the south side of the lake to the foot of the Harding Ice Shelf

The trail, he tells us, extends throught a national wilderness area. What this means is that the trail is cut once a year and that all the flora and fauna are protected. You are not allowed to pick things, collect samples or even move a tree limb if it falls across a trail. The fines, he states, for breaking the rules are extreme and strongly suggests that we do not break them. He pauses for emphasis and then begins to describe the trip.

“We will be traveling through three distinct climate zones…” His tone and cadence produced in me much the same reaction that my high school science teacher had generated when he lectured on thermodynamics. My mind drifted.

The summer of 2000 had been a busy one for me.  I had new responsibilities at work which had kept my Executive Platinum Status at American Airlines safe for another year. I had an active social life and spent weekends on Cape Cod and the Hamptons. Combine the above, with the fact that while I lived in NYC, my parents lived 20 miles away in the Jersey suburbs. It meant that even though I talked to my parents nearly every day, I had not seen them in months.

It was with a great deal of anticipation that I pulled into my parent’s driveway early in August. I had missed them, and as for many people, the feeling of coming home to the house you grew up is a singular one.  The diverse thoughts and emotions that define your everyday adult life seem to fade. Memories of childhood….street baseball, first kisses, and long summer nights….remind you of times when happiness and contentment were easier to define.  Fears of an uncertain world are replaced with the certainty and absoluteness of a parents love. You suspend your need to be an adult and, at least for a short while, can enjoy the feeling of being a child a little longer.

And it was with the enthusiasm of a child that I bounded up the stairs to the deck in my parents backyard. The deck is directly adjacent to my parent’s kitchen and I had hoped to surprise them at the kitchen table.  As luck would have it my father was on the back deck asleep. He was wearing his summer uniform of a dark blue LaCoste shirt, khaki camp shorts that are several inches short of being instyle and only inch or so shorter than being imodest,  a slouch hat, and gold Ray Ban Aviators.  My father, always the good host, would normally rise to greet any guests especially his children, even if he was asleep. Today was different. He did not bother to get up. Instead, he just pulled himself up on the handles of the chez and said hello.

The father I saw there was not the father I remembered from even just a few months previous.  My father is a big man 6’ 2. He is a man who has a robust appetite that is only kept in check by the vanity of wanting to look his best. The father I remembered was strong, active and vibrant.

The man in the chez lounge was only a shell of that man. He was gaunt and thin having lost at least 25 lbs since I had seen him last. His face was pulled tight and he looked uncomfortable in his skin…as if he could never find a position that made his body feel comfortable. And he looked tired, as if were effort just to stay up for the few seconds it took to greet us.

I said: “Hey Pops.”

“Pablo…hey how are you.” He managed to blurt out with the froggy voice of just awakening.

We gave each other kisses and hugs and he didn’t feel as strong as I remember. Those broad shoulders seemed some how frail. And he smelled different…not badly…just different. And I can remember thinking “What the fuck is going on here.” Clearly my father was ill and just as clearly this had been going on for a while and yet no one had bothered to let me know….WTF.

My father could clearly tell what I was thinking. He, much to my chagrin, has been able to read my mind for as long as I could remember. So he said “What do you think of my new diet?”

I replied “You look great old man. What is your secret?”

He explained, in the clipped voice he used to lecture his students at Columbia,  that for the past few months something odd had been happening to him that whenever he ate his body became very umcomfortable and when he explained this to his physician he prescribed an anti GERD medication and while it helped a bit, the symptoms had not gone away. He told me that the lack of eating had caused him to be tired all the time.

When I asked him what he was planning on doing about this he told me that I sounded just like my mother and that he was going to go to the Dr. in a few weeks so there was nothing to worry about now.

When I suggested that perhaps seeing a Dr. a little sooner would be a good idea. He just laughed and changed the subject. It was not that my father was not concerned about his health. He was. It was written all over his face. Instead, it was his way of taking the burden of worrying and concern away from me. It was his way of trying to protect me and yet at this moment my most precious wish was to protect him.

The guide was talking about bears and it was enough to snap me back to the present. Only the night before I was reading a book in which their was a description  describing in great detail how a man in Homer Alaska had been attacked by a bear even after he put five .44 caliber slugs into him. It reminded me that humans are not neccessairly the top of the food chain here and that I should probably pay attention to this part of the lecture. Our guide was telling us that there was a small but real chance that would run into bears on our hike as the trail was like a bear superhighway through the woods and that if we did that he would do his best to shoo the bear away.

A woman, who appeared to be more Neiman Marcus than Orvis, raised her hands and asked “What if he doesn’t shoo away.”

“Then we will wait until he does.”

“But what if he becomes aggressive?”

“The chances of that are small but if he does make aggressive moves then I will try to draw him off while the rest of you would be well advised to find a tree nearby to climb it.” He paused a second for emphasis, he then added “Folks, there is really nothing to worry about it if we follow the basic rules. Stay on the trail. Place any trash you have in the ziplock bags we have given you as bear’s have an extremely acute sense of smell, and bears are very aggressive when it comes to food….any more questions before we get on the way?”

There were none so he yelled “We leave in five minutes. Don’t forget to Deet up!”

I turned to my Dad and said “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here with you?”

“No” he grumphed “You should go…One of us should go it sounds like a great hike.”

I could not help but hear the deep dissapointment in his voice. My whole life with my father has been one of walks in the woods. In fact, my favorite picture of us, and one that I keep atop my bureau, is of my brother at about age 2 and me at about 1 at a pebbled stream near Troy New York. I am sitting on my father’s shoulders as my brothers wanders nearby.  I love the photograph because it reminds me of all the walks in the woods I went on with my father.  Whether it was just for a walk, or building minnow traps in streams, or looking for ferns he wanted to plant in our garden, it was time that he loved to spend with his children and that we love to spend with him.  As I grew older, and probably read too much, I began to think of these woodland jaunts we would take as wonderful metaphors for fatherhood…how a parent is always trying to help  child find the right path, give him survival skills to live in an untamed world…

Beyond the metaphor, these walks always described my father the best. He was active, curious, and engaged. When you were with my Dad, you never felt that any harm could come to you. The walks were also a great mystery to me. I always wondered, but never asked, how does a boy from the inner city of Vienna get to love the woods and the outdoors as much as he did?

Had it been any other time in my father’s life there would have been no question about him climbing to the top of this mountain with me. He would have done it with joy and likely beat me to the top of the mountain much to my chagrin. However it was equally without any doubt that he could not make the trip today. If I had any question about that it had been resolved the night before.

The camp we were staying in is best described as luxury rustic. It was run by a travel outfit called Alaksa Adventure Outfitters who made a living selling adventure travel to the Orvis adventurer. The folks like my father and me who want to see the wilderness but don’t neccessairly want to pitch a tent or build our own slit trenches.  Our encampment consisted of a combination of cabins, small log rooms with small porches with rocking chairs, half tents: that is canvas tents that were built on concrete platforms with a partial wood wall; a concrete bath house and a lodge house where meetings and surprising good gourmet meals were served.

More surprising than the epicure being served was that the owners of the camp had built a wood fired sauna. Our guides had told us after dinner on the first night that they usually heated up the sauna after the evening meal and that it, combined with quick dips in the glacier fed lake were an excellent remedy for mosquito’s bites. My father and I both had fed these insects amply on our way down river and were more than willing to try any remedy that would relieve the discomfort and itching that the bites had caused us. So, shortly after dinner we changed into our bathing suits and headed down to the sauna.

Once in side the hot box we both found benches on which to lie. It was extremely warm and before too long I had worked up an excellent sweat. My original intent had been to tough it out with my father and see if I could stay in the sauna as long as he did but when I looked over at him he looked as if he could have spent the night there so I decided to take a dip in the lake to cool myself down. The water was as frigid as the sauna had been hot…it could not have been much above 40 degrees and the bottom was not sandy but lined with irregularly shaped rocks so wading in gracefully was not an option. Intsead I sort of hip hopped into the deeper water until I could dive into the water without scraping my chest.

I returned to the sauna shivering and anxious for its heat. My father on the other hand was on his way out the door. He asked how the water was I responded by saying that I had glasses of ice water that were warmer and then I warned him about the rocks at the bottom of the lake. Instead of sitting down after he left, I watched his progress into the water through a porthole in the sauna’s door. I wanted to see his reaction as his feet hit the water… What I saw through the glass was an older man, who seemed to have trouble with his feet shuffle into the water, loose his balance, fall and then struggle to get up.

And while I knew from personal experience that the footing was difficult I did not expect my strong father to falter and fall, nor to see him struggle to get up. Even though he had been through an awful lot over the past year, and demonstrated in no uncertain terms his fragility if not his mortality, his renewed health had somehow convinced me that my strong father of old had returned. His struggles in the water had demonstrated to me vividly that the man my father had once been was no longer. That he had been replaced by a different man. One that I needed to get to know.

What is more I knew I had changed too. Instead of rushing to my father’s aid, I just stood there and watched. Not because I did not want to help him, I did, but I also knew that by going to him and trying to help would have embarassed and humilated him. He still had the need to be the strong Dad that he had always been and I had no desire to rob him of that. It made me realize most of all that our relationship had changed. That now I would begin taking care of him just as he had taken care of me all my life.

So it was with that knowledge that I went into woods that Father’s Day. Just before I dissapeared into the trees, I turned and saw him stading there watching us. He waved and I sensed, more than saw, his sadness but as he had taught me to all of my life I put on a brave face, waved energetically and trekked into the Alaskan forest.

Two things hit you almost immediately upon entering those woods. One is that it is quite a bit warmer than open ground. So much so in fact that you are tempted to remove your jacket which may or may not be a mistake as the second thing you notice is mosquitos. No matter the amount of Deet you apply they swarm you the minute you hit the woods with a ferocity that is reminiscent of Pirahna. But they warn you not to apply Deet to your face as it may cause an allergic reaction so within seconds of entering the woods those vicious insects had turned my head into a pin cushion. Luckily, I had come prepared and reached into my bag and pulled out a mosquito head net that I secured with my baseball cap. Now while the world would look as if I was sitting behind the screen at Fenway, at least I would not need a transfusion at the end of the hike.

The canopy of the forest was beautiful. High above our head, its few open areas allowed streams of light to illuminate our surroundings as if we were walking through a Renisance painting depicting divine providence. The trail was clearly marked and our pace reasonable enough so that it was quite easy to keep up. This combined with the heat, and my pixalated view of my surroundings allowed me to slip back into my thoughts quite easily.

It is a miserably hot afternoon in August in a way that only New York City can produce them. That is, in addition to the hazy, hot and humid you might find anywhere there is an element of grit that burrows into your clothing and skin like a parasite. I am in the back of cab heading through the west village on my way to visit my parents and while the air conditioning in the cab is working none of it seems to making it through the pexiglass and metal partition that  separates me from the driver. As a consequence, I am drenched as I emerge from the back of the cab and head into the building my parents maintain a pied e terre.

I had received a phone call from my sister about a half hour earlier letting me know that they she and my parents were heading here after my father’s afternoon of tests at Columbia Presbatirian Hospital. My father had finally seen a doctor the previous week and while preliminary tests had shown nothing his physician had palpited a large mass deep in his abdomen. He had ordered further tests. The studies that they had done today were supposed to give us some answers as to what might be happening to him. And while none of us said anything to each other about the possible diagnosis, the presence of the mass and the tests all drew us to one conclusion: my father had cancer.

Our unspoken fears and the tenision of not knowing what bomb would blow up next had turned us grim face and determined. It also provoked the desire in my mother, sister and me to do anything to help  my father lick whatever it was he was suffering from in the way that suited our little family best : equal parts humor, nostalgia, and growling at each other.

The air conditioning was blessedly on when I entered the apartment. It was a studio that my sister had rented for years. When the simultaneous blessings of my sister getting married and moving to a new apartment had coincided with the building going condo my parents had bought the place so that my father would not have to commute home every night from Columbia and my mother could have  a base of operations when she was doing work in New York City.

As I entered I could see that my Dad had parked himself on the day bed that doubled as a couch. He was sprawled across it diagnoly his head resting on cushions and pillows that my sister and mother had no doubt propped him up on.

I walked across the room and sat in a chair directly opposite him. As I sat down, my sister decided to crack wise on me, and said something to the effect that it looked like I had run through a sprinkler before I got here. Normally, I would have come up with some clever witty reparte such as “Well at least it doesn’t look like I just french kissed an electrical outlet” but today I was too focused on my father and his illness to bother. Instead, I looked at my Dad and asked him how his tests went.

He proceeded to give me a very scientific explanation of the tests he had undergone that afternoon. I understood. Long before this day I had come to the understanding that one of the reasons that my father had become a scientist was to help explain an irrational world in a logical way. Considering what he had been through in his life it is something that I could completely understand. However, there were times like these that I wished that he would forego the scientific and provide me with the emotional.

Perhaps it was his long unemotional, emotional response to my question. Or perhaps it was the worried looks and frenetic behavior of my mother and my sister. Maybe it was the oppressive heat and grit of New York in August or my own roller coaster of emotions that had begun three weeks earlier when I realized that my father was sick. Whatever it was , I suddenly was struck with the realization that my father may not survive this illness no one had yet defined. It was as if someone had stuck an icicle down my trachea. I was chilled to the core and choking on my own emotions. I had only one thought running through my consciousness: “ I am not ready to lose my father right now…I am just not ready.”

I could feel a sob ready to come gagging out of throat and tears welling up. I didn’t want to impose my emotions on anyone else in the room, least of all my father, so for reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, I got up and walked across the room , sat down by father’s feet and began to massage them. He looked down at me and we both exchanged a glance, and then quickly  averted our eyes, both afraid of what might come up if we held the glance any longer. Instead, he just put his hand on my head and said “You’re a good son.” And since no one could see my face I cried.

As I rubbed his feet and tried to hide my tears, I also tried to hide my panic. It felt as if my father had given up…that this was one battle that he felt he could not win. That he was willing to slip silently into the good night. And it scared me but it also motivated me. I racked my brain about what I could say to him to help him get over this hump of not knowing what he was battling and the exhaustion that the disease had delivered to him.

I said him “Dad, you have to get better. Who else will get to Alaska with me.” While my father and I had talked of going to Alaska many times for all the reaons Harry Chapin had sung about we had never managed to plan the trip.

I said “When you get better, the minute you get back on your feet, we will go to Alaska. Planning the trip is something that you can do while you are recouping.” I looked up at him, and while he said nothing I saw him smile and I took it as a sign that he heard me and perhaps, just perhaps, it was the carrot that would help him keeping pushing on.

Emboldened by his response, I continued “Do you remember Dad all those walks in the woods you took with David and I? Do you remember how after a while he and I would get tired and start to whine about not be able to make it back. Do you remember what you used to say to us….”

I looked up at him and said “You used to tell us “Rothkopfs never give up.” So Dad, remember,  Rothkopfs never give up…..

After several hours of hiking the trail emerges from the woods onto the tundra. Despite it being the middle of June there are still large deep patches of snow that we need to climb through. Some are quite deep and climbing through them is a four limb operation.  Beyond the snow, on a small plateau, is a rock field no doubt left there by now retreated glaciers. They are our final destination on the uphill part of this hike and climbing towards them I become fascinated by the way walking on tundra feels which is similar to walking on partially dried sponges. There is a crunch followed by a light spring. I know it is something that would delight my father and I make a mental note to tell him all about it.

When we reach the rocks many of my fellow hikers cast off their day packs and use them as a pillow. They are exhausted from the two hour climb and need to catch their breath. I don’t feel that way because for the last two months I have been training to run a marathon. I break out my box lunch and greedily wolf down its contents of a sandwhich, apple, and super delicious chocolate chip cookie.

As I eat I stare out at my surroundings which are as beautiful as any place I have ever seen. Below me is Skilak Lake, the size of Manhattan, its waters grey blue color and opalascent from its glacier origins. To my left the Chugach range raw and jagged, its snow covered peaks scraping the sky like a primitive comb. To my right, is the densly forested coastal plain that leads to Anchorage and the ocean beyond. In front of me, on the cusp of the horizon, is a snow capped peak that I can not identify so I ask my guide. He stares for a while, checks his compass heading  and says “It is Denali.”

“How far away is that?”

“Has to be over 200 miles as the crows flies.” And laughingly adds, “You can see a lot farther with out any pollution.”

Involuntary, his comments makes me inhale and the air smells sweet and clean like sheets do after washing and hanging on line to dry. At this point, the hike, the food, and my surroundings all conspire against me and suddenly I am very tired and decide I need a nap before we begin our descent. I pull a fleece out of my pack, put it on, tuck the pack under my neck, pull the baseball cap over my face and close my eyes. And just like that I am asleep.

I am on the Eastern Spur of the New Jersey Turnpike.  It is early September, and very hot. The sun is pouring through the windows of my parents Jeep Grand Cherokee and is making the air conditioning work extra hard. Traffic has come to a stand still, a fuel truck has caught fire somewhere and the radio has told us that we are caught up in one of the largest traffic jams of the year. Next to me, on the passenger side, my father is sleeping fitfully…he keeps moving and adjusting himself so that he can find a comfortable position. My mother is in the back seat. She is silent and deep within her own thoughts as am I. It had been that sort of a day.

I had met my parents a few hours earlier at Columbia Presbtyrian.  We were there to check my father in as his surgeon had scheduled a surgery for the next day. We had still not received a diagnosis but he wanted to perform exploratory surgery. When asked what the prognosis was the Dr. had coldly asked my father whether or not he had his affairs in order. Things looked very grim and all of us had mastered putting on a happy face while internally we fought back the twin demons of fear and despair.

We took my father to the registration desk. There, much to our surprise and somewhat to our chagrin, we were told that my father’s surgery had been cancelled for the next day and instead we needed to head up to his surgeon’s office. He needed to speak to us.

He kept us waiting in his office for a long time and none of us had very much to say to each other. None of us knew what was happening and while the surgery he was scheduled to have was scary…it included the likely removal of one of his kidney’s and massive blood loss…to me the fear of not doing anything and not knowing anything was far worse. So I busied myself by examing back issues of Time Magazine and silently fuming that the Dr. had the audacity to keep us waiting so long. Didn’t they know how sick my father was? Didn’t  he know how difficult it was for us to sit and wait when all we really wanted was some forward movement….some action that would move us to the known from the unknown…some action that would allow us to move to healing from watching my Dad seemingly slip away.

When the nurse called my father and mother into the Drs exam room I was left by myself so I tried to busy myself with my new Blackberry but  couldn’t concentrate on the emails that made up so much of my daily life. Somehow they seemed far less meanifull and consequential that they had just a few weeks earlier. I had already had flipped through all the magazines worth reading so I just sat there and did the only thing I could think to do. I prayed

A few minutes later, my parents emerged from the Dr’s office looking  ashen face and shaken. When I asked my mother what was up, she explained that the surgeon had cancelled the surgery. They had discovered the cause of the mass in my father’s gut and that it was inoperable. That my father had lymphoma and that another physician needed to be contacted so that they could examine him and prescribe a course of treatment. Worse, the earliest appointment we could make with his oncologist was nearly two weeks away. We had left the hospital confused and upset. None of us knew what Lymphoma meant. We just knew that instead of moving forward we are again at a standstill and that it would be weeks before my father would get any help with his struggle.

Traffic had just begun to inch forward again when my father began to mutter in his sleep. I thought  I had turned the radio’s volume up too loud so I turned down the sound only to hear my father say “I don’t want to die” as I leaned over the dial. I looked in the rear view mirror to see if my mother had heard him speak and it was clear from the stricken expression on her face that she had.

I squared myself so that I was staring directly ahead at the road.  I didn’t know what to say or for that matter how to feel. Both my mother and I had heard the fear and despair in my father’s voice. This coming from a man who I had only heard cry once….at his mother funeral…this coming from the man who I never known to be fearful of anything…for christ sakes he had survived Krsytalnacht and the Nazi’s before immigrating to the States and then he had gone back and fought them as an artillery officer with the Blue Devils in northern Italy. My pops was scared and I had nothing to give to him. Nothing to say that would make him feel better. And it made me feel like a failure that this man who had given me everything he could and yet I did not have a clue on how to comfort him now that he needed me.

We drove in complete silence for a while neither my mother or me knowing what to say to each other. Instead my father’s words just hung over us like smoke at a bar. Eventually, traffic began to move again and before too long we were driving through Summit. While we were passing the Junior High School, I heard my mother begin to cry in the back seat.  She blurted out “ Paul, I have never been alone. I went from my father’s house to your father’s house. I don’t know what I will do if he dies….I don’t know what I will do…”

I reached back and grabbed her hand and said “Mom, he’s not going to die….we won’t let that happen…..but no matter what happens I promise you I will never let you be alone. Not on my watch…you will always have a place with me. Always.”

When we arrived at my parent’s house, we had an hour or so before my mother needed to drive me to the train station for the ride back into the city.  So we scraped together some soup and sandwiches and ate and made small talk until it was time to go. As I walking out the door, I went to my father who was sitting in his chair at the head of the kitchen table, and kissed him on top of his head and whispered into his ear “Dad, don’t forget. Rothkopf’s never give up.”

And he didn’t.

We had almost made it all the way down the mountain to the trail head when our guide called for us to stop. I was standing right behind him and I saw him looking all around as if he was trying to spot something. There was a look of deep concern on his face so I whispered “What is up.”

He pointed to the middle of the trail and replied “You see that” pointing to a large steaming brown mound in the middle of the trail, “That was not there we went up the trail this morning and it is bear scat and its very fresh. But don’t worry, he doesn’t seem to be around. I just wanted to make sure.”

I paused for a second and then asked “Do you think the Ranger’s will mind if I took a sample of it?”

He looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face and said “Sure…..but why.”

I replied “Well it is Father’s Day and I haven’t gotten my father a father’s day present….”

He laughed and said go for it. So I went over to the pile and using some card board from our box lunch as a tool and a zip lock bag as a receptical,  proceeded to collect a large sample of bear scat.

When we got back to the camp, I found my father sitting on an Adirondack chair on a bit of lawn overlooking the lake reading.  He looked up as I approached and asked how the trip was. I replied “It was great. You would have loved it but more importantly I answered a question that has plagued mankind for generations.”

“Really” he said with surprise “What is that?”

So, I reached into my backpack and pulled out my carefully collected sample of bear poo and handed it to him. He looked at, held the baggie up  to the sunlight, smiled with the recognition of what it was, and began to laugh and said. “So bears really do shit in the woods.”

That sample of bear scat, now esconced in a glass jar, sat on my fathers desk until his death 11 years later. Now it sits on mine. A permanent reminder of my much missed Dad and the best Father’s Day present I ever gave him.

It is mid-morning, with a gentle sun streaming through the trees of the street are walking long.  The temperature was perfect where you feel neither hot or a cold. The breeze was so gentle it, but it brought with the smells of early summer.  ….honeysuckle, hydrangeas, newly turned earth, and freshly cut grass.  In the distance we heard the sound of children playing: shouting, giggle and screams and with them memories of a distant childhood when summer days seemed to last forever.

The side walks we were on were made of poured concrete,  straight and true, edged with  no cracking, or undermining by the roots of trees, no winter heave. Most of the houses on the street, were set back. This was not a new neighborhood, generations had been raised here with only the regal shade trees, overarching the streets and canopying the yards as witnesses to the families of the past.  Most had  been modernized to some effect with modern windows, paving stone driveways but it did not detract from a feeling of comfort and safety, where children could play without playdates, and evenings were spent at kick the can or catching fireflies.

Elaine is wearing a pair of jeans that fit her as if custom maed, a white peasant blouse, and a pair of Haviannas with a tropical theme. My dress was similarly casual, jeans that were well aged, a navy Lacoste shirt and a pair of blue Asics running shoes. We are holding hands and more ambling than walking.

I said “When I am alone, I normally walk at a pace just shy of jogging but when I with you…”

You bless me with  a smile and say “ Some things should be savored and this does not look like a place where you should hurry.”

I grip your hand a little tighter and say.” Have I told you today…”

“Yes, many times, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

“Well that too, but that is not what I was going to say….what I was going to say is that have I ever told you how much I love holding your hand. How it makes me feel ten feet tall and as small as a child. How it makes me feel like I can conquer the world yet like I don’t want to leave home. How when I hold your hand I feel at peace, comfortable with who I am, and where I am going. Holding your hand makes me feel like I have reached my destination. That I can stop worrying about the journey and just love the living…”

“I probably would have remembered that if you had said that before…I feel the same way….connected and alive, soaring and grounded, like I can change the world but have no reason to….

“Well, finally we can agree on something….” I said in mock sarcasm and kiss you.

We come to a yard where the owners had planted an English garden. It looked a little odd in this well manicured neighborhood but we agree that is  wonderful that some one had the courage to break the mold and that the sienna orange roses tthey had planted were breathtaking.

The block ended in a park. We walk along the crushed stone pathways that wound instead of meandered, and by a pond where several boys were attempting to fish. In a clearing near the pond we pass a small portable band shell that has a banner announcing “Wednesday Night Concerts in the Park.. Beyond it is  a fenced in dog park and several ball fields  replete with bleachers and backstops.

We stop and sit on an iron black lacquered benches with aged wooden slats that are generously dispersed throughout the park. It is a great place to watch the world go by. Roller bladers, dog walkers, joggers, bicyclists and fellow amblers all pass us by. Birds sang from their perches in the trees and occasionally we cohear shouts from one of the ball fields. When I look at you, there is a look of mild consternation on your face. When I ask you reply of  “We have not passed a single sign or place that has given me even the smallest clue to where we are.”

“You don’t say!” I responded with a grin. “Do all places need to have name for you to be comfortable?”

You give me a rueful look “Am I going to have bribe it out of you.”

“What kind of bribe do you have in mind?”

“Don’t past deeds count at all?”

“Sorry!”

“Okay.” Then you whisper something in my ear that seems physically possible but highly unlikely and I reply , blushing mildly “As much I would like to take you up on that proposition…and will at some point….can we put off me telling you where we are just a little bit longer.”

“That was a pretty good offer….”

“I know and lord knows I want to take you up on it but its our last stop and I want to hold on to the suspense just a little longer. But if you really mind…”

You shot me one of your inquisitive looks, you head slightly tilted to one side, eyebows in V formation annd reply “Okay you can have a little longer on your reveal but I reserve the right to change my mind at anytime. “

The park directly abutted a small downtown area. Most of the buildings in the six square block area were from the first third of the last century. There were newer structures peppered among the old,  but the town definitely gave the impression of being established, its roots extending to the bedrock.  Furthering that image was the conformity Signs over the storefronts being identical in color and size. There were no chain stores. Just local businesses who were content serving the community they lived.

We stop at the local barista, “The Perk UP!” for a mocha latte and a chocolate cupcake we split. I ask “What do you think of the downtown area?

“It looks very peaceful.”

“You mean it looks as if they roll up the sidewalks at night.”

“Yes”

“I like it but there is something a little sad about it too.”

“In what way.”

“Did you notice that there aren’t really any stores here are little bric a brac shops and some service establishments but not a lot of places to really shop. No book store or stationers, or even a clothing store. I mean at least I didn’t see any.”

“Yeah”

“I mean this is a charming town and I am sure during its day its downtown was thriving with all sorts of stores for the people in town but they have all been put out of business by chain stores and malls. Now the downtown area is really no more than a shadow, it is still here but is faded.”

I smile

“What”

“Sometimes you do me very well.”

You raised your eyebrows and said “Ah the soapbox”

“Ah the soapbox.”

We finish our coffee, and stroll down the main street of the town. The sun is warm, birds can be heard chirping and our fingers are interlocked.  Occasionally we stop when we saw an architectural feature or some other small item that interested us. Even though I am the tour guide, it does not stop Elaine from peppering me with questions about the town. was delighted. Clearly you were beginning to love this place as I hoped you would.

Why wouldn’t you. I had made it just for you.

We made a left-hand turn onto Cassandra Street. It is lined with evenly spaced Elms, that arboreal columns that shade the street except for few errant shafts of light dappling the lane and sidewalk with light. It is an older part of town, perhaps the oldest but the next block we come upon is a gated lane that contains modern brick town houses. Each of the semidetached structure exteriors are of narrow horizontal mahogany siding with large floor to ceiling windows on the outside. Each has its own driveway and garage tucked underneath the house.

As we turn onto the lane, you ask “Are you going to finally tell me where we are?”

I reply “Can you be patient just a few minutes more. I will give you a full explanation then…but I think you already know.”

You gave me a look that was somehow a combination of “I feel like hitting you in the head with a lead pipe” romantic love (perhaps the same thing)  and say “Vamos”

We walk another half block and I stopped and said “What do you think?” You turn to your right. It is a town home identical to the others except for the deep red Jeep Grand Cherokee in the driveway. I say “Do you want to go in?

You bless me with a rueful look and we walk up a set of gently sloped stairs to the front door and the enter the house through an oversized heavy wood door. We are in a large open floor plan room where the living room dining room are one with a minimally divided kitchen. The floors are wide planked bleached oaks with each siting area with its own run. The furniture is modern enough to match the décor but there are enough older pieces to add warmth. Most of the art on the wall is modern but there is a beautiful oil painting of Botofago bay and also an ancient print of Vienna. The Kitchen is spacious, with a lot of stainless steel and designed so whomever is cooking is also part of the action going on in the other rooms. Light streams through the windows and you can see tiny dust motes doing their ballet.

You nod your head and say “I think I know what you are up to…”

“Care to venture a guess?”

“I will. But, lets look upstairs first.”

We walk a set of floating stairs that have guy wires instead of bannister. When we reach the top there is a small seating area and three doors. One leads to a utility room with washer, dryer HVAC system, and endless water heater. The other leads to a large secondary bedroom, complete with a walk in closet, and with a large window that looked onto the street below. The owners of the house have turned this into an office with a modern desk and another of Danish mid century design. Each is replete with computer screens. There is a couch and a large television at one end. It manages to be business like and cozy at the same time.

The other room on this floor is the master bedroom. At its center is a King sized bed with night tables. A large Japanese print is over the bed and opposite is a mid century dresser with a flat screen hung on the wall over it. The floor is same wide planked bleach oak as downstairs with a Persian carpet under the bed. There are large windows one of which turns out to be a sliding door that leads to a porch that is large enough to fit a table and two chairs. The bathroom is sybaritic. Two sink console, Toto fully automated toilet is heated, acts as a bidet, and blow drys the user, a large glass enclosed steam shower and a tub that is the mirror of the one in the Maldives.

I say “Take off your flips flops.”

When you comply, you gasp “The floor is warm!”

“The floor is heated. No more jumping out the bath too cold floors. The towel racks can also be heated. The designer had delicate Brazilian flowers in mind.”

Hand in hand we leave the bathroom and cross the bedroom and walk out to the porch and sit looking onto old growth trees and the house’s postage stamp back yard. .. Would not want y large with a king size bed The house began with a cupola, with weathervane, with windows on each side of its pentagonal shape. The second floor had turret like structures at its front corners, with large curved windows, and on the ground floor a 12 foot wide stairway let up to a wrap around porch that was empty except for some hanging plants and two wood rocking chairs that stood side by side.

Pointing to the rocking chairs you said “Are those….?” I was too nervous and too emotional to be able to respond verbally so instead I just nodded. It was clear from looking at your face that  that you were touched by my emotions but it was also clear that you were a bit confused about what we were doing here. You put your hand against my cheek to reassure me that whatever the reasons were that we were here that it was okay with you. I turned my head while at the same time reaching up and taking hold of your hand at the same time, and kissed your palm. I said in the lightest tone I could muster “Do you want to try those puppies out?”

You gave me your biggest grin, complete with sparkling green eyes, and dimples and nodded. We climbed the bricked driveway and then the stairs and assumed our positions in the side by side rocking chairs. We held hands as we rocked back and forth and looked out at the quiet street dappled in sunlight and listened to birds happily chirping away in the trees. The shorter of the two little girls came flying by now riding the little boys bicycle. In hot pursuit was the little boy who yelled out “Come back here” with the girl just giggling in response.

You say “So”

“So what…”

“Aren’t you going to tell me where we are now?”

“Come on…. you know!”

“Well its sort of obvious that we are at your house, but I guess…”

“We’re not at my house.”

You turned and looked at me, a surprised look on your face and said “We’re not? Then where are we?”

“We’re at our home.”

The surprised look on your face was replaced by one of mild confusion. It was a look that clearly conveyed to me that you hoped that I would provide you with a more complete explanation on why I was spitting hairs on the differences between house and home. So I said “A house is a place you dwell. A place where you may sleep and eat…A home is a place you live. Do you know what I mean.”

Smiling now you said “I do. It’s a big difference.”

“One of the things I realized shortly after I met you, is that no place is going to be home unless you are there.”

“I know..”

“And one of the things we have tried to do for the seven years of our marriage is find a way to be together always. Our intent from the beginning has been to live together in the US but obstacles keep jumping in front of us.”

“My darling…”

“Let me finish. How to handle bi continental finances is challenging. How to handle your apartments let alone your house have left us scratching our heads. Even when to apply for a green card, so you could come and go as your please, has been impossible to schedule.”

“Darlingo.”

“But we figured out. Well mostly figured it out. You would come and stay in the US for as long as you could and when I could make it to Brazil I would do the same. We weren’t always together but we always knew when we would see each other again.”

I reach over and grab both of your hands “But now this damn Covid19….were forced apart. Traveling is not only risky but also limited. Not like before when you could pick up 10 flights a day from Rio to the US now there are less than that per week from all of Brazil.”

“And…”

“It has forced hard decisions on both of us. I could have stayed in Rio. But it would have been harder if not impossible for my work. Rosie, who was already well on her way to forgetting me, would have forgotten I ever existed. I would have missed my family.

“But…”

“I would have been with you. Or, you could have come with me…”

“You know I couldn’t.”

“I know why you felt why you could not make the journey. What to do about Romeow?  What about Fatima and Antonio? What would happen with the house? The uncertainty of  making it back to Brazil for your pensions. And fear. Traveling through Sao Paulo is scary with what is going on and at our home in Itanhanga at least you feel safe. “

I paused and looking into your eyes.”There are so many places left in the world I want to go with you this journey could go on night after night for years. But at the end of the day, or night, as the case may be, there is only one place I want to take you. Home. I want us to have a home where we are always together. Where parting, if it happens, is brief, and we keep all our suitcases”

You leaned forward and lift my chin with your hand and kissed me softly on the lips. The wind blew and a branch of tree moved just enough to allow a beam of sunlight to shine on us and then we were gone.”

It was not quite dawn and the light coming through the double hung windows of my bedroom was as grey as a bank of fog. There was just enough light in the room to see Rosie asleep at the end of the bed none the wiser of our journey. I lay in my bed propped up on pillows, and you were sit with one leg on the bed and the other hanging off, facing me. Our hands are clasped together.

You say “Its almost dawn.” Leaving the last part, that you had to leave, unsaid.

“I know….I don’t want to be selfish…I have just spent all night with you, taking you places I have only dreamed of taking you…showing you places that are in my heart….showing you my heart. But even after all that I don’t want you to go. Can’t you stay here with me.” I pause for a second and then I added
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp’ring run
Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th’ enamour’d fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be’st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes.

For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait :
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas ! is wiser far than I.

I could see your eyes mist and I add “My mother would have been very pleased that I remembered John Donne. She always liked his poetry.  “

You say “.If only I could stay…I think you know I would. That nothing in the world would make me happier than crawling into bed next to you and falling asleep in your arms and starting the new day together. I wish that I could do that  today, and tomorrow, and they day after that…until there aren’t any days left but….

“You have to go” I say smiling the smile of those trying not to impose their sadness on others.

You said “Yes, I have to go… but ou were quoting poetry before. Can I give you a favorite verse from TS Elliott.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated.

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated with no before or after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment.

“Remember home is not a place. It is a state of mind. You are always in my heart. You are always my thoughts. Even when we are apart we are at home with each other.”

You pause for a second, trying to maintain your composure but several tears made paths down your cheeks nonetheless. You continued “From the first, every moment that I have spent with you has felt like I was finally home. That wherever we were or were going to be, as long as it was together, would be home… I loved knowing that the placed you wanted to take me most of all was home.…”but I have felt that I have been home since the first time you put arms around me and kissed me.”

You continue “A lifetime burning in every moment.reminds us that our life exists in moments and that every moment if we cherish it enough can live on forever. That every home like feeling that I have ever given you and that every home like feeling you have ever given me will last as long as we care to remember them.” You paused again and got a very serious look on your face and grabbing my hands said “It is very important that you remember that…promise me that you will remember that.”

I looked at you with what can only have been a confused look on my face and nodded. You kissed me and said “Good!…” You turned and looked at the double windows opposite the bed. The grey pre dawn light was beginning to develop hints of pink and reds. When your gaze returned to me you had done you best to put a smile on but I could sense that there was deep sadness there too. You kiss me and say “I love you.” And, I fall into a deep sleep.

Alexa wakes me at 7AM as I have programmed her to do. However, instead of the normal claxon she sounds to rouse in me into consciousness she decides to play Coldplay.

Steal my heart and hold my tongue
I feel my time, my time has come
Let me in, unlock the door
I never felt this way before

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummer begins to drum
I don’t know which way I’m going
I don’t know which way I’ve come

Hold my head inside your hands
I need someone who understands
I need someone, someone who hears
For you, I’ve waited all these years

For you I’d wait ’til kingdom come
Until my day, my day is done
And say you’ll come and set me free
Just say you’ll wait, you’ll wait for me

In your tears and in your blood
In your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh, I heard you sing
I wouldn’t change a single thing

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummers begin to drum
I don’t know which way I’m going
I don’t know what I’ll become

For you I’d wait ’til kingdom come
Until my days, my days are done

I am not sure if it is Alexa, God or you who have the sense of humor. …playing “Till Kingdom Comes” after our night together. But What I do know is “Til Kingdom Comes.” it is and the perfect way to start this day. So I do.

The row boat was a brilliant white, with teak wood gunwales, and shining brass holders for the oars. The man rowing the boat had a medium brown complexion, short coarse black hair, a broad smiling face, and was wearing an expansive white banded collar shirt with pants of the same color that were equally baggy. Whether he spoke no English or was just politely mute he just smiled and rowed and said nothing to us.

We are sitting on the stern seat of the little boat. You have on an off white sundress, with inch wide straps that offset your brown shoulders beautifully. The dress is  a study in simplicity, flowing and light but with a high waist and a scoop neck that showed off your figure deliciously. If you looked closely you can see the fabric is richly embroidered with flowers with thread that matched the whiteness of the dress perfectly. In your hand is a broad rimmed straw hat, the breeze a too strong for you to wear it. You gaze out on the world through th Oakley Sunglasses I bought you. You like a queen upon her throne; serene.

I am wearing an un-tucked, generously cut white linen shirt with a soft collar and naturally colored linen pants. I wear a Panama Hat along with Maui Jim aviator sunglasses to protect me from the sun.

Neither of us are wearing shoes.

On the seat between us and our pilot is a basket of fruit full of mangos, papayas, oranges, star fruit, bananas and kiwis. Next to it, a tulip shaped terra cotta container holding crushed ice, a bottle of Veuve Clicot, and two flutes buried to their stems.

We hold hands, content not to speak although I can tell you are itching to say something about my hat. Instead we take stock of our surroundings. Our little boat is traveling through a half moon shaped lagoon, bordered by a narrow strip of very white fine sand, and beyond that a jungle of palm, mangrove and banyan trees. The water of this little bay is crystal clear and the sandy bottom reflects the light back up and gives the sea an exquisite hue of pale turquoise. You can see small schools of fish darting across the bottom.

Several hundred yards in front of us is a structure built on thin stilts, standing two meters above the sea. The construction looks primitive with a thatched roof, bamboo walls and wood decking. The type of structure that has been dotting places like this for thousands of years. You lean over to ask me a question but I gently put a finger to your lips. I thought I knew the questions you wanted to ask and I wanted to answer them in private. You understand and for the rest of our boat journey we enjoy the serenity that the sea often provides.  .

We pull alongside a beautifully maintained dark wood dock that is connected to the bungalow. Our guide expertly ties off the boat and with a gesture of his hand asked us to disembark. He follows, with skill born of repetition, with both the basket of fruit and the champagne. We are led up a narrow ramp with a rope rail to a semi circular deck that had a small round table, 4 chairs and a couple of chez lounges. The champagne is ensconced on the table and as the deck had a beautiful view of the ocean, backlit with the late afternoon sun, I thought this a beautiful place to toast our arrival.

However, before we can enjoy the Champagne our guide provides a tour of our bungalow. He walks to a pair of sliding glass doors and opens and with a borad  them, sweep of his arm invites us in. We walked in and reminded at once of the axiom “Never judge a book by its cover. From the outside this place looks like it was designed for those living a subsistence life. The interior is anything but that. Instead, it is modern and would look comfortable in any 5+ star hotel. The beams of the ceilings as well as the floor were polished teak. The king size bed was tucked into the corner of the room. Its frame made of some exotic wood that I could not identify and above it a gauze like mosquito netting that I was quite sure was more for show than real use. There is a small sitting area for indoor meals, a couch that looked suitable for napping, a desk overlooking the sea, and a full range of stereo equipment but, happily, no television. Ceiling fans move in unison off a single motor and a belt drive.

The bathroom is a marvel. Even though it was open air, with just a roof and no walls. It is completely modern with granite tops, a glassed-in shower, and a tub that resembles a diagonally cut egg.

Our guide shows us how to use the telephone to call for room service, …apparently they would row it out to us… how to use the stereo , and where the light switches are. Bowing and without ever saying a word he leaves and rows off into the  and then bowed,  walked out to the boat and began rowing in the direction in which we had come from bathed in the deep yellow light of late afternoon.

You walk across the room putting your hat on the table, shoot me a devilish grin and run across the room and dive onto the bed. I follow with less grace landing with a bump that nearly knocks you to the floor. Giggling like school children you snuggle in, resting your head against my chest you ask “Where are we?”

“We are in the Maldives, in the Indian Ocean.”

“It is que linda.  Like you would read about in a magazine or a travel show.  One of those places that you read about maybe even ear mark the page but that you never think you will ever get to…..

I am laughing. “Its just that is exactly how I found this place. A while ago, maybe five or six years ago, I was on airplane, on some endless business trip and someone had left a copy of one of those magazines in the seat back. I didn’t feel like reading my book so I began to read the magazine. When I got to the article about this placed in literally looked like heaven on earth so I tore it out of the magazine and put it in a file I keep of places that I want to go. I promised myself I would take you here someday….

“I am incredibly grateful for that magazine. I feel like I could stay here forever.”

I replied. “ I am grateful for you….but for right now why don’t we go out onto the deck and open the bottle of champagne. The sun is about to set and the clouds are pink and orange and the sea is changing colors right before our eyes

We walk onto to the deck and I open the bottle of Champagne. Pouring us both glasses I hand you yours and say “Here is to the providence that brought us together and the providence that has brought us here. There is not a day that goes by where I don’t thank the all mighty for bringing you into my life nor a morning I wake up without realizing the blessing of your love. Thank you for being here…thank you for your heart.” We clink glasses and kiss.

The sky is growing dark and just above the eastern horizon a star appeared and I ask “Do you have a poem in Brazil that you say when you see the first star of the evening…I wish I may I wish I might first star I see tonight…”

Instead of answering your say “What are you wishing for tonight.”

I closed my eyes and wished my best wish.

When I opened my eyes you were staring at me as if to ask me what I wished for but I just smiled and I am sure you knew what I was thinking. Not only what my wish was but that there was no way that I would tell you. I said “Hold on” and walked back into the dwelling when I came out I asked “Would you like to dance.”

You stand  up and move into my arms just as the first notes of the song I had chosen began to play  ….

“Dance with me, I want to be your partner

Can’t you see the music is just starting.

And night is falling and I am calling

Dance with me….”

You kissed me and whispered “Good choice and “ your voice trailing

“And what”

“And you still smell great.”

And then you kiss me again and we became lost in our embrace. Our bodies touching but more importantly something deeper and when I could resist it no longer I picked you up and carried you across the threshold.

Afterwards we cling to each other in the dark room neither wanting the closeness to end. Neither wanting  to forget the sensations, the emotions and the intimacies we had just felt. I kissed you and began to speak “I…”

“I know…you don’t have to say it.”

“But I want to shout it.”

“You already have!” I smiled knowing you were right.

Then you say “Our time is growing very short…I am happy to spend the rest of our time here but you said there was one more place that you wanted to show me.”

I say “Have you looked over there!” You turned you head and looked out through the doors. Coming up over the horizon was a super moon so large it rivaled children’s fairy tales.

We are silent for a few moments. And I reluctantly utter, “We need to leave soon but would you mind if we had one last dance together?”

We slip off the bed and walk onto to the moonlight drenched deck. Taking you in my arms, Tony Bennet began to sing.

Fly me to the moon
Let me sing among those stars
Let me see what spring is like
On jupiter and mars

In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby kiss me

Fill my heart with song
Let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you

Kissing we fell into the moon.

The next transition was gentler if not more dramatic than the last. We are  in a scrub desert. Yellow grasses, stunted trees, and plants that were low to the ground extended to the horizon in a sea of red dirt. It was windless. Not even a breeze, and hot , over 100. The sky was a pale blue with a patchwork of clouds that looked promising but would bring no rain. You could hear in the distance a deep bass sound that had the reminded me of the music I would make blowing over the top of a soda bottle back when soda bottles were made of glass when combined with electronic feedback.

You grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear “Where are we?”

I replied “You can’t guess? I was beginning to think you were able to read my mind.”

“Normally, I can…but this place is so different. Almost, as if, we are on a different planet. No landmarks…just scrub and grass…”

I put on my best Rod Serling voice and said “Pause to consider that somehow, someway in the vagaries of mind travel, your body has been turned in such a way that you are not seeing the most important part of the landscape…the one thing that can you help you identify this place in the Twilight Zone.”

I took you by the shoulders and gently turned you 180 degrees. The new vista showed a group of indigenous 4 indigenous people. One was sitting and blowing into what looked to be a long wooden branch, a didgeridoo, while the others stamped and chanted, spear and boomerang in hand. All were festooned with white and red symmetrical marking over their deep chestnut colored skin. Beyond them, bathed in the persimmon glow of a setting sun, a great red monolithic rock glowed.

You shove by me as you sometimes do when you when you are in a hurry to get somewhere and said nothing. Your silence a testimony to the out of world vista you were seeing.

“My luv, do you know where we are now?”

Not turning your head to look me, still intent on taking in what lay before you, you say “Uluru…Ayres Rock. We are in the outback of Australia.

“I knew you would know. It is why I had you turned around when we arrived. Isn’t magnificent. Just looking at it, can’t you understand why the aboriginal people of Australia have thought it sacred.”

“Its beautiful. I mean it is really glowing like it is a living thing.  I don’t think I have ever seen that color red before.”

“They say it changes color through out the day. Scientists believe its because it does that because its limestone is studed with minerals like feldspar which make it take on the characteristics of the ambient light. For example when it rains it changes color completely again turning silver and black.”

“I love it. I could stand here for a long time and still not see all that could be seen. It is like our mountain, Pedra de Gavea, I have seen it every day for 20 years but it never looks the same twice.” You turn to me and add “ I love it. But why are we here?”

“Platypuses.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I was a kid and first heard about them I thought they were the be all to end all.”

“The what?”

“I thought they were terrific because it was as if they were made from spare parts. Fur like a beaver, bill like a duck, poisonous like a snake, and laid eggs like a chicken. Then I discovered that Australia had a lot of bizarre animals like Kangaroo’s, Koala’s and salt water crocodiles the size of a SUV. What I did not know then and only learned years later, after reading a book I gave you, “In A Sunburned Country” that was not even the weirdest shit about Australia.  Did you know that ground in Australia is considered a living fossil?” You mean besides the fact that you once made me promise that I wouldn’t go to Australia without you.” You nodded and I said. “I have wanted to come to Australia for the longest time, I think from the time I was a kid and I discovered there were all sorts of weird animals down here like a Platypus. What kid wouldn’t be fascinated with some beast that it looked like it was made out of spare parts….a body like a beaver, a bill like a duck, that laid eggs, that was poisonous to boot. And then to throw on top of it that they had Kangaroos which just seemed like fun bouncing all over the place….well its just so much honey for a bee.”

“The older I got the more the place seemed to grab hold of me. Imagine living in a country that is an island and a continent that has changed little in millions of millions of year. Its soil is so old that it can be considered a fossil because it comes from a different geologic era than the rest of the world. That the remnants of the earliest known life on earth was found off the coast of Australia….and they still exist?”

When I take a breath I can see you are interested but also have that quizzical look on your face that asks silently “Where did all of this come from.”

“Yeah, I know. I get carried away but think but this place is just so cool. It is vast. Rougly the size of the United States with a population that is only about that of New York. And new to Europeans. They only found the place in 1770. So big and so underpopulated that they are literally discovering new things about themselves everyday. Did you know a few years ago they discovered a type of ant, or proto-ant, that was supposed to be extinct for millions of years. From what I understand that kind of stuff goes on here all the time.  It is a country that has the most venomous animals on the planet including the top ten venomous snakes. Add to that it is the only country that was settled by convicts…compare that to the Puritan fathers who permanently screwed up the United States and the “Captains” who settled Brazil., and you get a place that at every turn and in every way seems to captivate me.

You smile and reply “Now I know why you got Yankee and Rosie from here.”

“ You know better. Yankee came from down under because I couldn’t find any Labradoodles in the US and Rosie came from here because Yankee was the best boy ever.”

“So why haven’t you been.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me. Remember this is where I wanted to go on our last trip but you wanted to go to Asia…and as usual you got your way.”

“Paul.”

“Okay. You were right. Australia is not a country you visit on a cruise. But we need to find the time because this is a country that will take at least two weeks. You would need that just to get beyond the 20 hr flight from New York. …But two weeks probably wouldn’t be enough. Three would be good but four almost perfect.”

“Well we don’t have that much time right now. In fact we have only a couple of hours left. So are we going to stick around here and see a few places or are we off to see another place right away?”

“Just one more place here and then we can be on our way…But before I could take Elaine to our next destination  we are approached by two Aborigines. Dark brown skin with broad foreheads and pierced noses, their hair is wild and matted. They wear nothing but a loin cloth. The older of the two seemed very excited and came up to us and  beraged us with a torrent of his native tongue. Circling around Elaine he sniffed and stamped his feet. To Elaines credit she just put on her beatific smile and allowed the old man investigate her.

The young one began to speaking English flawlessly albeit with an Australian accent telling us “My grandfather is very excited to see your friend. His says that there are many spirits here but he has never seen a spirit such as your friend. He wonders whether she is an evil spirit or good. He says it doesn’t matter as both exist here as we need both to exist.”

Taken back a little I say “She is not a spirit.“She is my wife.”

The young man translated what I had said to his grandfather who again his let fly with a series atonal sounds and clicks. The young man translated. “No. She may be your wife, but she is also a great spirit.  At which point he paused, and his grandfather and he exchanged a few words and said “It is hard to translate but he is wondering if he can go walk about with you. He seems to think that you travel in an interesting way and I can’t really get this word but it sort of means you are just going to be there….does that make sense to you…anyway he wants to experience it.”

Elaine and I exchanged the glance that couples sometimes exchange when you are trying to decide who will speak for both of you when neither one of you wants the job. How do you explain the inexplicable? Elaine as usual won this dual of silence and I try to gracefully explain to our new friends that our “walkabout” was a private one. But we would return one day and perhaps then he would honor us by joining us”

When the old man heard the translation of my words, he nodded, smiled and hit his didgeridoo on the ground twice and Elaine and I were sitting in a swarm of brown, caramel and cream-colored Labradoodle puppies. They seemed not at all surprised at our presence and thought the best thing in the world was climbing on our laps and competing to see who could like our face the most. They had that great puppy smell and enthusiasm about life only found in puppies and I am sure my face reflected my joy in being amongst. Elaine looked happy as well but in the reserved way a cat lover would look happy amongst a swarm of puppies. I said “Aren’t they adorable.”

“Yes. They are very cute.”

“And…” I said with hope.

“No, my darlingo. Now is not a good time.”

“Wouldn’t it be great for Rosie to have a companion?”

“She has you…”

“But….puppy!”

“One day my love, just not today.”

“Well, as long as we were here it was worth a try….”

I leaned over and kiss Elaine and we are standing in a forest surrounded by trees that are so large that they made us feel as if we were Lilliputians in the land of Gulliver. The tree nearest us looked like it could use its own area code for it was at least as tall as a 25 story building in Manhattan and as wide as a brownstone. I heard “wow” and Elaine pulls away from me and within a couple of strides is standing at the base of one of these amazing tretrees are hands touching the bark.

“I knew you loved nature” I said smiling, “and you love trees…you do after all live in the jungle.”

You shoot me a look that would make any man wish he were wearing depends.

So I add, “These trees, the jarrah and karri grow no where on the planet except here in the most southwestern part of Australia. 50 million years of evolution have flowed to this one place and created these magnificent trees. And in many ways it is the story of Australia in and of its self. Isolated from the rest of the world, species of plants and animals forced to evolve in a harsh climate that can barely sustain life these living things have had to find their own way. I mean in many ways these trees are the platypus of the tree world. Think about back home. We live on continentd blessed with wonderfully rich soil. The earliest settlers were greeted by forests greater than anything they had ever seen before. Consequently, the trees that could survive in the most places excelled and spread across the continent killing off the ones that could not compete. Here in Australia the soil is so poor that most species have little competition.  The only things that could survive are those who could truly specialize themselves. When I read about thes trees it really made me wonder about the nature of competition and what is lost. Do you know what I mean?

“I think so. It is not that competition is a bad thing. It isn’t. It is the nature of everything to compete but that sometimes things get lost in that competition and what we lose can be truly spectacular.”

“Exactly! And also that when you find those things that have survived despite the odds against them, I feel like you should venerate them. Celebrate their survival.” You gave me an understanding look so I continued. “So there is a second part of this story. The jarrah it turns out can only live in soil that is rich in bauxite, the base mineral for aluminum. When commercial interests discovered this, they quite literally believed that they had found the motherlode. You see they could rip down the tree and make a huge profit on the wood and then mine for Bauxite as well.”

“Sakanagi!”

“Exactly, I am against capitalism but often enough the interests of those who are greedy for money conflict with something that is for the common good. Like looking for oil in undisturbed places in the Alaskan Wildlife Preserve.  Not that they shouldn’t but they have to take care not to destroy something or interfere with something that is every bit as precious a resource except that it can not be sold or quantified…….I started laughing at myself “ sorry I didn’t realize that there were soapboxes in the middle of Australian woods. But you know what I mean. I took you here because I wanted to show you something that may disappear and it is important to remember them and protect them but I am also here because it is unique and disappearing. And if we don’t get here soon, we may miss the opportunity. Does that make sense to you?”

You nodded and the splendid forest and its tall canopy of leaves were gone and replaced by a large sky peppered with puffy white clouds and a rolling ocean. We were on a large boat, surrounded by folks wearing wet suits, floatation devices, and scuba tank. The dive master was standing in the middle of the fan tail telling those standing around them.

“G’day folks. Today’s dive is going to be on a part of the Great Barrier Reserve known as the Olympic Reef. This is a wildlife protected area and as such you as visitors are not allowed to touch the reef in any way. The reef itself is a very delicate organism. Touching it can kill it so if you are looking for handholds to steady yourself for any reason do not touch the coral. It is also to protect yourself. There are lots of things in the water and on the reef that can hurt or even kill you. These range from some as relatively benign like a sea urchin which is just painful, to a sea snake or box jellyfish that if they don’t kill you, you will seriously wish you were dead.” He paused for effect “If you see one those blokes out there the best thing to do is just get out of their way. Sea snakes are as passive as they are venomous so if you leave them alone they will leave you alone…..The box just flow with the current so they too won’t come after you but remember they have very long tentacles so if you see them give them a wide birth….Everybody understand?

“Okay we are going to do a drift dive today. Meaning that when we drop you in the water the current is going to carry you a long the face of the reef. The boat will follow your bubbles. When you run out of air just surface inflate your “scuba sausage” and will be right along to pick you up. The reef itself sits about 10 meters and drifts down to about 40. Please keep yourself no deeper than 20 meters as we don’t want to do any decompression today. Does anyone have any question?

As people began to ask questions, I turned to ask you a few questions of my own. You were wearing a purple and black dive skin that looked like it came out of the latest incarnation of star trek. Your PFD was simple and black but your mask, fins and snorkel all matched the purple in your skin. I smiled and said “Nicely coordinated outfit.”

“Hey I didn’t pick this outfit. You did and besides look whose talking blue boy.”

I looked down myself….and I was dressed just as you were except where yours was purple mine blue. “Well at least were stylin! Are you nervous about this. I mean I know you don’t know how to dive but I have seen you snorkel and it isn’t that different.

“I am fine….I think that under the circumstances this is something that I can do.”

“Good. When we get in the water. I want you to lead us down to the reef, that way I can keep an eye on you. Then when we get there and the current picks up we will hold hands and if either of us sees anything interesting point to your eyes and then at the object that you see that is interesting….Okay?”

“Okay”

“If you have any trouble or get spooked in any way just get my attention any way you can and point up and we will go to the surface and have the boat pick us up. And if you run out of air, making a slashing motion across your throat and we will go up. And I may give you the little ok sign with fingers to check on you. If you are ok signal back. Okay?”

Okay…..

People began getting up and walking to the transom of the boat and two by two jumping into the water holding their masks in place with one hand and steadying their tanks with another. We were the last couple to go.

The water felt cool as compared to the warmth we were feeling on deck with all of our equipment and as soon as the bubbles had cleared from our jump, I look for you. You are already slowly kicking for the reef in the crystal clear water. I kicked hard to catch up with you and finally managed to tug on your fins. You turned around and managed to smile through your regulator, your brown eyes luminescent behind your mask. I gave you the ok sign and you returned it and we then, hand in hand, kicked gently to the reef.

When we got there I checked our depth, we are at about 30 feet which was just perfect. As we were above one atmosphere depth there is lots of air in a tank at this depth and no matter how long you are down for, no decompression time. The current was not too strong but strong enough so we could be like passengers at airport on a moving walk way, slowly but easily moving towards our destination.

Once we were drifting, I was free to be a tourist. As we drifted by a large pink coral head, we saw on the lee side of the current, a school of hundreds of silver, blue and yellow fish, moving as a single unit. When one of our dive parties drifted through them, they simply made a hole and reformed.  We see beautiful fans of choral drifting in the breeze, brightly colored parrot fish with their white bills gently biting the reef as their midday meal.

On the far side of the reef, in shallow waters a school of Tuna dart by their big eyes glinting in the filtered sunlight. I see a small opening in the face of the reef and I pull you down to it and shine my light into the darkness. There is the long tapered snout of a lime green moray eel its mouth, with its rows of razor teeth , slowly opening and shutting pushing water past its gills. We  stop at the base of a huge piece of brain coral. I to point out the little things that live on the reef that if you don’t stop and really look you miss like the cleaner shrimp waiting for a grouper to come by to groom, or the little clown fish dancing through the venomous tentacles of a sea anemone.

The dive is over too soon. From the moment the regulator is out of your mouth you bubble with excitement of all we have seen. I bask in your joy hearing only every other word, not because I don’t care but I am more swept in your joy than your words.   Finally, you add “It was just incredible. Who knew something like that even existed. It is like a world that has been hidden from me all of my life has suddenly been opened up!”

I smiled and kissed you and said “Now you know how it is to be in love with you.” You smile and kiss me back.

When I opened my eye from your kiss, we were sitting in a red two-person kayak. You seated in the front and I the back. The sky was grey and low lying, the water a slate grey and calm. The wind was slight but infused with the scent of a cold sea.  Looking around I could see we were at the mouth of a u shaped bay. At its apex, was a blue white glacier that wound into  imposing primal looking mountains in the background. I was just about to tease you about me have to do the hard work, paddling in the stern, a large cracking sound, as if a telephone pole was being broken in two, interrupted me. We turned to see part of the face of the glacier collapse into the sea.

As I turned our little vessel to meet the waves caused by the glaciers calving, I said. “Its hard to believe that it has taken the ice thousands of years to make it back to the sea. It makes me think about the value of patience while at the same time reminding about the brevity of our time here on earth…..”

You said something but it was muffled. it is hard to hear when you are sitting in the back of a kayak and your partner is facing away from you. I told you needed to turn your head because I could not hear you. You showed me your lovely smiling face and said “ My darling, please, next time give a girl a little notice. One moment we are in Paris and the next minute I am sitting in a Kayak. I didn’t even get a chance to finish my Mille Feulle…..”

I knew you were  teasing me but I responded “I am sorry. I promise from now on when I will give you fair notice so you can finish your dessert. And you know where we are.”

You flashed me a smile, with brown eyes full of knowledge. “Alaska…” And, when I nodded ascent, you added “But where?”

“If memory serves we in Aialak Bay, southwest of Seward and a part of the Kenai Fjords National Park. Hey…look over on the right at about 2 oclcok. Do you see that brown thing floating in the water.”

Laying in the water not fifteen feet from us was a large, over a meter long, sea otter. He was floating on his back and appeared to have a rock on his chest on which he was pounding some kind of mollusk shell. We both watched until he got the shell opened and ate what little meat was inside and again dove below the surface. You turned to me and said , “He was so cute and did you see how clever he was in opening that clam.”

I laughed, “If you think that is cool,  look over there.You see that rock outcropping off the port bow, go left about 15 degress and them come in towards us about 100 meters.” Your gazed shifted and just as you locked in a black and white object lept from the sea, rolled over and landed on its back.”

I heard you gasp “Orcas!”

“There is a pod of about 6 of them over there. See their fins sticking out of the water.  I think they are hunting…..” We sat quietly for a while the silence with only interrupted by the t lapping sound of the sea against the hull and the occasional screech from the sea gulls following the whales.” When they had passed beyond a rocky point and out of site.  I said “You asked me to warn you. It is time to move on.”

You turned and said, smiling “It is so pretty here. So peaceful. I feel like I am the first person ever to see this place.”

“I know. Alaska is like that….so unspoiled. You can imagine the world when it was young. Like when you were a child and you found something and were convinced that you were the first person ever to see it. But as much as I would like to stay here with you you warned me our time was limited  andthere are other places in Alaska I want to show you.. Ready.”

“Yes, my love.” And breaking all the rules of seamanship I leaned forward and kissed you.

We are sitting on a mountain top. Below us a long serpentine lake its water an opalescent blue. In front of us, north and on the horizon was Denali. The largest, and tallest, mountain in North America. In the west, the sun was just above the horizon illuminating the lower Kenai delta with dark oranges and earthy reds. In the east, the Chugach range with the sun just about to peak its pink incarnation over the sharp peaks of the mountain.

The air was crisp, and you were cuddled in close both for warmth and for the comfort our touch provides us  You whisper in my ear “I knew you were going to let me see the duplicitous sun…rising and setting at the same time ! But I thought we would see it from the balcony on a cruise to Alaska.

“I know. And perhaps we will. But this place is special to me and I thought it the perfect place to show you that there are some places on earth, where at special times, you don’t have to go through darkness to find the new day. Where darkness is not inevitable but a memory.

You squeeze my hand, snuggle in even closer and ask,  in almost a whisper “Why is this place special to you?”

“You know the story I tell about being with Dad in Alaska. The hike I took on Father’s Day, where I found the bear scat in the woods that I gave him as a present that he kept on his desk for years and now sits on my bureau.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is where I hiked to that day. And, I remember when I reached here how overwhelmed I was by the beauty while the same time being sad because I knew it was a place that Dad would have love to have seen. I told myself then, that I would soak in the beauty of this place and when I got back, I would use every skill I had in storytelling, to tell him about this place. That moment on this mountaintop made me realize that age and infirmity was making Pop’s world smaller and that if I wanted to help feed his wanderlust, I would have to share my journeys with him.”

“And.”

“Everywhere I go, even now after he is gone, I think about how I would describe where I am to him. To have the answers ready for his questions.”

“And.”

“I miss him.”

You burrowed in closer and squeezed my hand and for a while watched the sunrise and sunset at the same time. Then you leaned forward and just before kissing me said “Thank you for bringing me here.”

The room was dark. It was late enough and overcast enough so that there was little ambient light entering the room through the two double hung windows opposite the bed. The sound of the air conditioner buzzing faintly in the background. Not because it was one those steamy, tropically damp nights we occasionally get here that remind me of Rio but since my return to New Jersey I need to hear its purr as it reminds me of our bedroom in Itanhanga.

Rosie was doing her imitation of a bagel on her under the curtains.

I lay on the bed, the blue and white duvet tossed aside, my favorite pillow tucked underneath my neck. Having fallen asleep reading my iPad lay closed on my chest. When I  awakened only minutes later, panicked and searching for you only to realize that you were five thousand miles, and pandemic away. I sighed. It is always difficult to fall asleep without you. It is even more challenging to fall back to sleep without you after a a acute reminder of how truly far away you are.

As I lay there, eyes shut; I pondered how I was going to fall back to sleep again. There were options. The pharmaceutical method…but I am not fond of Ambien, they leave me mentally foggy and physically sluggish the next day. Besides, Dad had ingrained in me a great suspicion of pills to solve problems, so I try to avoid them when I could.  Of course there was that exceptionally nice bottle of Bourbon, so tasty that it practically beggeds me to pour a glass every time I am near it. The problem with alcohol is while it puts me to sleep it also awakens me hours later with a craving for water and something sweet. I guess I could should just cut to the chase. Sugar always knocks me out. And I did have a healthy supply of Van Leuven’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream in the freezer.

All of those things require that I get up.  I was far too comfortable to even consider that. Perhaps a prayer would help? You know that I am not religious in the sense that I go to synagogue weekly but, to me, prayer is meditative, providing an opportunity for thankfulness and grace, allowing me to move beyond my day and find rest.

“Dear God, thank you for the beautiful day. I appreciate all the opportunities that you have given me to see the beauty in the world and all the opportunities you have given me to love, cherish and understand. I ask your patience and understanding missing seeing some of the beauty you sent my way and ignoring or misjudging some of the breaks you sent my way. Allow me to continue to feel the pain of others so I know when to lend a hand or open my arms. When I have lacked patience forgive me and help me do better the next time.  Please look after Marissa, Mark, Catie and Oliver…they bring me joy. . And please shine your love on Elaine. I love her lord and hope that her world is full of all that you can bestow.

The prayer helped. Soon I had that marshmallow feeling  in the middle of my stomach I always get when I imagine you falling asleep in my arms. It is a feeling of connection. Not just to you but to everything. You make me feel as I if  I am capable of changing the rules of nature. That the impossible is possible. Big dreams are possible. As I drift away I think of you.

When I awoke next it is with a start. As if a noise or movement had interrupted my rest and put me on instant alert. The room is dark but I can still make out the shapes and outlines. I can see nothing amiss but here is something not right. I can feel it. As if I am having a dream within another dream. As if someone is looking at me. Not being able to shake the feeling that something is amiss,  I am about to get out of bed and investigate when I hear “Meu Amor”from the other side of the bed. I roll over and see you sitting on the edge of our bed with the smile of a schoolgirl who had just accomplished some amazingly precocious act.

I close my eyes and then reopen them. You are still there. I do it twice more with the same effect. What is that expression of Sherlock Holmes. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Stuttering, I ask “Aren’t you in Barra.” Your eyes sparkle as if with a splendid secret. quickly I add “I mean I am really happy to see you and all but I am just really surprised to see you here….I just said good night to you a few hours on Whatsapp.  I saw you. You were in our bed in Rio.”

I started to rattle on and you held a finger to my lip and said “Wasn’t it you who told me the story of Haita the Shepherd. What happened to him when he questioned happiness?” Then you  kissed me slowly and in a way that made me suspend my disbelief. I pulled you closer but you pushed me away gently and said “I am here because you wanted me here”

“Yes but…”

“Weren’t we talking tonight about how you wished that magically I could come to Chatham now…No airports, or airplanes to travel through so I don’t have to worry about the stupid virus.”

“Yes, but…

“Well I am here. So don’t question. Time to get up  my sleepy darlingo. Vamos!”

“I don’t understand. Where are we going….

Again I was began to ramble and as you had the first time you held a finger to my lips and kissed me again. “You are so right . I am sorry my luv. I need  to tell you the rules.”

“Okay.”

“Well first you have to realize that this is a fantasy, not a dream.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A dream is something that is made of cotton candy. It looks pretty but the minute you bite into it, it disappears. A fantasy is something that lives at the edge of reality. Just beyond your reach. You can live a fantasy but first you have to imagine it, then believe in it and then maybe if you work hard for it, it can be achieved.”

“Have I told you I love you, today.”

“No you have not. Thank you. But you need to listen.”

“Okay.”

“We can go anywhere you want tonight. You just have to believe in your heart that we will get there one day. Do you understand?

“I do. Are their any other rules, Meu Amor?”

“Yes, darling” you responded smiling despite my impertinence “one. Our trip will only last as long as your dreams. When you wake it will be over. We can go anywhere you want to take me but That means you can take me anywhere you desire pick your places well because our time tonight is limited?”

“But didn’t you say that his was a fantasy. Not a dream.”

“Yes.” And you gave me a look that told me in a second not to question this confounding so I add  sure, I get it. But anything else fair game. This is my fantasy and I can go and do anything that I want to do”

“Yes.”

Despite the low light you look beautiful. Your hair draped around your neck and hung over your left shoulder. The smile is the same incandescent one I saw on my first trip to Rio. But there is also mischief in your eyes. A gleam that told me you know more than you are telling and the secret knowledge pleases you. I see you are wearing clothes perfect for travel. The white peasant blouse I had bought you years ago and jeans that seemed to be made to fit only your body..

I said “We can do anything?”

Suddenly you wearing the black La Perla nightgown I had bought for you.You look perfectly luscious in it. The swell of your breast and the curve of your hips perfectly accented. I may have gasped.

You looked down at yourself and then at me and said, “Not exactly traveling clothes….”

“I know but you look so beautiful in it and its been so long since I have seen you in it and you did say that I could do anything I wanted.”

“I did” and you kissed me again and said, “I am glad that you think that I look beautiful in it but don’t you think it is time to go.”

I say smiling “There you go again…reminding me that it time to go. Have I taught you the “party pooper” song yet?

You giggle and take my hand and pull me out of bed.  We kiss and I said “Vamos?”

In an instant, you are back in your traveling clothes. I wear a pair of khaki colored jeans, black LaCoste polo shirt with a Boston Red Sox cap. I take  your hand and lead you to the windows. I slide it open and with just a touch of mischief say  “Second to the right and then straight on to morning.”

You smile and say “Your name is not Peter and I am not Wendy and you do know that you do know we don’t have to use a window?”

I smile back and reply “I do. But you know me. I need to play.”

Instead of replying, you kiss me,  lightly, but with all the import of our first.

We are sitting at a sidewalk table at the Café Flore. It is early afternoon. The traffic on Saint Germain is buzzing by. The sidewalk traffic is at its French best. Crowded  with elegantly dressed people strolling, with pefectly wrapped bundles in their hand. They have a destination in mind but are in no particular hurry to get there. Young couples are walking  hand in hand oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them. A retiree walks a small perfectly coiffed dog, and several art students walk by with their sketch pads and charcoals. You are sitting facing west looking at the wonderful shops that line that section of the boulevard. I am facing east with a beautiful view of Brasserie Lipp. A coupe Denmark is sitting in front of me and a Mille Feuie in front of you. We both drink espressos.

I must have looked like I felt. Very pleased because you say “Why Paris first?.”

“There are so many reasons…It is a place we have both been before and love but we have never been there together. To me, it is the city at the epicenter of Romantic love. It is a place we should experience together. Perhaps even buy a lock and place on the Ponts des Arts”

You just smile and nod and are silent knowing there is more I want to say. I ad remember that Andrea Bocelli televised concert at the beginning of the Pandemic…Music For Hope?”

You nod. “All of it was so emotional. The empty church. The socially distanced organist. But when he sang Amazing Grace outside the cathedral and they showed images of empty cities….well I completely lost it when they showed the empty streets of Paris. It was as if the world had ended…and I guess it had in a way…but as I cried all I could think about is that I had never taken you to Paris and it made me weep more.”

I guess I started to cry again and perhaps to regain a little dignity I say, “And of course the Addams Family reason.”

“What is that.”

“I always wanted to hear you speak French.”

You indulge me with a small smile for my small joke.

I take a bite of my coupe Denmark, savoring the richness of the ice cream and chocolate sauce when you say.  “I am glad to be here with you. Where shall we go after we finish our snack.”

“You mean after you take me back to the hotel room and had your way with me?”

“Okay that was easy….yes after that….”

“We would walk to Musee de Orsay and spend a lazy couple of hours looking at the art and telling each other what we love and what it is we just like. And then we might walk across the Seine and go window shopping along Rue St. Honore or go for a ride on a Batten Mouche. We might find a small café that looked like a place where the neighborhood people ate and have a meal of simple French food… Steak Frittes or Cassoulet with a bottle of inexpensive Burgundy. On the way back to the hotel we would walk by the river listening to the form one of the party boats passing by. And maybe, being a little giddy from the wine I would ask you to dance. Perhaps it would earn the applause of the passengers on the ships passing us by.”

“That sounds lovely but no Notre Dame…”

“If you want my love, but I think having seen it while it was in its glory, seeing it now, in ruins. The world in tatters. Might break my heart too much.”

“Okay my love…we will see how we feel.”

“But  there is so much more that I would want to do as well… I would want go to a different museum everyday. Not for long just for an hour or so and find the things that most others pass over and savor them. We could go to the open air market and find little bargains or object de arts that we could love together.You know that the type of knick knacks Brazilians love.  I would go for a picnic in some small park and watch the French playing with their children….” I paused looking at your brown eyes sparkling as if amused by a private joke.

“I love your enthusiasm.”

Your comment gives me pause. Not because it was off kilter in some way but because I knew that you were trying to say something to me without saying anything at all. It dawns on me. I add “But I guess it isn’t really the point what we do here. Is it? The point is that this is where I start my world tour with you. It is where the fantasy begins. And that is why we are here just to let you know that. That the first place I would take you if I could.”

You smile then leaned across the table and kiss me and say in the soft sultry lusophonic voice you use when you are moved  and say “So what is next my darlingo.”

I have been thinking about my great uncle Louis today.

Louis was married to my Great Aunt Margie and it is with her that they built a business called “The House of Books LTD” which sold modern first edition books. Their shop which was on the 8^th Floor of a building at 61^st and Madison became a salon of sorts for important authors who had an interest in books and literature. They counted among their friends and customers notables such as Ernest Hemingway,  T.S. Eliott, Robert Frost, Carl Sanderg, Ezra Pound, and Tom Stoppard. Their catalog was an event in the world of letters….

I never met Louis. He had died shortly before I was born but from what I understand from the recollections from my Aunt and my mother who adored him, he had lived a very interesting life. He was an early volunteer in the first world war. He became an officer in the French Army and was awarded many medals for bravery including the Legion of Honor. (I can remember being fascinated by his medals as a young boy as they were kept in a glass covered table in my Aunts living room.) After the war he moved to Paris, and like many of the so called lost generation, tried to find his soul after the most horrible war ever fought. It is here that I believe he made his contacts that would later become his business. It is also in Paris where I think he became a bit of a philosopher.

I can remember being in my Aunt’s shop sometime in my early 20’s looking at these books that were dedicated to him and asking my Aunt about him. She was, as I described, a bird like woman, very small, with dark curly hair and thick glasses and slightly crossed eyes. Not the most attractive woman you have ever met but very sweet and with a real sense of style and when ever she would talk of her late husband she would glow. I can remember telling me how handsome he was and how strong and how he had swept her off her feet. That part of the story never changed. However, she told me more on this particular day. Perhaps it was because I just graduated from college and she thought that I should know more or perhaps she was just in the mood to reminisce about an earlier simpler time of her life.

We were sitting at her desk, bookshelves all around, and some Danish butter cookies from a tin on a delicate china plate she had found in her desk. We were both drinking coffee from Chock Full of Nuts that she had insisted that we put into real coffee cups that were of the same pattern as the plate the cookies were on.

She began by telling me that it had been hers and Louis dream to start a book business.. They had literally hocked everything they owned, borrowed all they could from relatives and even some famous authors like Hemingway to start the business. Nobody thought they would succeed lest of all my Grandmother, her sister  and things were not going well. It seems that they were suffering the slings and arrows of most new businesses. They had bought some books for too much and not sold enough of the others and it really looked like that the business was going to go under. One evening after doing the books she became very upset. Their balance sheet was telling her that if that if things did not change and change soon they would be bankrupt and not only would their dream be dead but also she would have to suffer the humiliation of her sister telling you “I told you so.”

She went to Louis intent on telling him the news but before she could get the words out she began to cry. My uncle took her arms and soothed her for awhile until she could talk and then asked her what was wrong? So she told him about their impending doom and all the fears she had.

It was at this point she interrupted her story to offer me another cookie and when I had taken one she said “Do you what Louis said then?”

I said “No What did he say…”

He said “That love would find a way…and you know it always did. We got out of that crisis when someone came off the street and bought some of the best things from our collections. From then on whenever we reached a rough spot, he would always say…Love would find a way. If you believe…it will find a way….

When I first heard that story, so long ago, I was cynical about its truth. My name may be Paul by I am not a “Paulyanna.” I believed then, as I do now, that not all stories have happy endings. Life and God have funny ways of dashing plans and ruining happy endings. Sad endings are a part of life. Ironically, they are the ones that makes us grow the most.  The sad endings are what allow us to fully understand the value of what we have.

It seemed to me that the idea that love will find a way and the existence of bad fortune and sad endings were mutually exclusive. How could both exist within the same universe?

But age, and the maturity that it may bring, have a way of untangling confoundments.

I have come to believe that love will find a way. But it will not do it by itself. You need to work at it. Like most things in life it will not magically appear. You need to plan for it.  Put yourself in the right place at the right time for it. Strive for it. Love, and its pursuit, is a motivation, not a destination.

Sad endings and disappointing news can serve, should serve, as superchargers for love. When something occurs in our life that is tragic, frustrating or disheartening, the people we turn to first are the people we love the most. They are the ones that help us untangle the wreckage wrought by broken hopes and dreams. Their love helps us find a way. Their love motivates us to find a way past this.

I was thinking about this last night.

Two weeks ago, today, I left Brazil to return to the United States. I very reluctantly left my wife behind.  She was understandably reluctant to travel and expose herself to Covid19. While I needed to return to the US to take care of pressing business, she had no such pressure and as a consequence she stayed. The decision to part caused great angst on both our parts. We are better together and suffer when we are not. But our anguish was mitigated by the knowledge that Elaine had a reservation on American Airlines to come to the United States on July 6. Our separation had an end date and that made it easier coping

Last night American Airlines cancelled her flight. They do not anticipate and will not guarantee establishing service to Rio De Janiero until August. This was devastating news for both of us. We were told that for the foreseeable future RIOgaleão – Tom Jobim International Airport would be closed to travel for the United States. For Elaine to travel to the United States in July she would have to travel through Sao Paulo, the epicenter of the unchecked and unmeasured Covid 19 epidemic in Brazil which is unacceptable.

This is devastating news. We have for the 7 years of our marriage we have led a bi-continental relationship resulting in weeks and occasional months of separation, but we have always known when next we were going to be with each other. Now the only two things we know are the uncertainty of when we will see each other and the hole in our lives we will feel from not being together.

What I am sure of is Uncle Louis’s favorite maxim. Love will find a way.

If Elaine cannot find a way to me, I will find a way to her. I already hold a reservation on their first flight to Rio in August. And if that falls through, as AA reservation have been prone to as of yet, I will find another way. And I will find a way, to bring here back with me.

Because love will find a way.