Prodigal Daughter, Ross Cookies

I like my new role as The Prodigal Daughter who comes home from far away once a year and whose presence is something special. This is mostly due to the fact that I spent 20 years being the The-One-Who-Lives-Next-Door-And-Her-Presence-Is-Nothing-Extraordinary Daughter. Meanwhile, my two brothers would swoop in for their annual visit, and in anticipation my mom would spend weeks preparing the house for their arrival: weeding, dusting, waxing, cooking, and slowly crossing things off her to-do lists. You'd think the Queen was going to be gracing us with her presence with all the cleaning she did. I'm surprised she never organized parades and banners for their visits, too.

By far, the most important preparation was making "Ross Cookies" named after my younger brother because she always made them for his visits, and then she'd invariably try to dissuade the rest of us from eating them because they were for Ross. Hrmph. I lived there year round and she never made special cookies for me, let alone named any after me.

This year, as everyone began to fly home for Dad's funeral, she tried to rename Ross Cookies to "Comfort Cookies." She knew that having Ross Cookies named after our sibling always made Scott and me feel bad so she was trying to be more inclusive. Politically Correct. Diversity and all. But you can't fool us. Those were still Ross Cookies. (Insert sibling rivalry here.)

Mom says she actually calls them Funeral Cookies (when Ross isn't around) because whenever her women's group was in charge of providing refreshments for a funeral at church, she'd make Ross Cookies/Funeral Cookies. Well, Ross was coming home AND there was a funeral coming up, so she had 2 excellent reasons to make them.

What are Ross Cookies, you might ask? The recipe is nothing exceptional; it's just that they're a family tradition. They're a mixture of corn syrup, peanut butter, and Special K cereal, topped with chocolate, and cut into bars. Their real name is Special K Bars, evidently.

I'm quite sure these cookies are thousands of calories each, so it was probably a good thing that my mom tried to regulate my consumption. Over the years, when she made a batch before Ross's arrival, she'd try to hide them in the freezer, but I could always find them. And I soon discovered that if you microwave them for exactly 8 seconds, they don't break your teeth like they do if you try to eat them frozen.

I knew I had finally achieved the honored status of Prodigal Daughter when Mom told me she had made a batch for MY arrival this time! Predictably, the cookies only lasted about 24 hours. In my defense, there were 6-10 people in the house so you can't blame it all on me. Then she made another batch. By this time, I could feel them attaching themselves directly to my thighs so I asked her to postpone further production. My waistline and I couldn't afford to eat excessive amounts of Ross Cookies for breakfast (yes, breakfast), lunch, and dinner for the next 14 days. Understandably, she simply HAD to make one more batch for Ross's arrival. She "hid" them in the freezer, in hopes that it would at least slow me down a bit. Once Ross arrived, the cookies made their grand entrance. Mmmm. I simply HAD to make sure I got my fair share - a share worthy of a Prodigal Daughter. They sure are good. But they are still called Ross Cookies.

My areas of expertise: organizing, parenting

I'm an organizer from way back.
So one of the first things I did was create a spreadsheet that showed which people would be at the house on which nights. Over the next few weeks, there would be boys coming and going, Scott and Diana making one last trip back to Missouri, Curt arriving from NZ, my younger brother and his family arriving from Hawaii, and 4 relatives arriving from Illinois. Some people would be staying at a hotel, some would be at the house, and some live in town but would be here for meals. My head hurt just trying to keep track of who needed to be picked up or dropped off at the Seattle or Bellingham airports ... not to mention there was a limited number of cars available to drive in the snowy conditions. See what I mean? I couldn't keep it all straight without having it laid out in a nice grid. Everyone made fun of my beautiful spreadsheet, but they sure used it a lot! Apparently my fondness of spreadsheets had even been a topic of conversation at Christmas time, especially the detailed travel itinerary I made for our 6 week trip to Europe in 1995 with the boys.

I also got to practice my parenting skills on Scott's two girls when he and Diana were out of town. Let's face it, I've raised 4 boys and I've taught middle school, so two girls for five days is no sweat. Add Grandma's experience to the equation and we're an unbeatable duo. In the morning, I'd ask the younger one if she'd brushed her teeth yet. She'd answer yes. About ten minutes later, I'd hear Grandma asking if she'd brushed her teeth yet. She's say YES. The poor thing. We really tag-teamed them. Just like the good ol' days when my own boys were littler, I was driving the girls to swim practice and to school. (The girls go to the same school I attended, and the same school all four of my boys attended. In fact, the older daughter has the same extraordinay teacher that #4 son had ten years ago) I was doing such a good job parenting that when Grandma told the younger one that her parents were expected back the following day, she replied, "Oh good. Only one more day with Aunt Megan as my mom." Which I consider a compliment.

Slumber parties

One of the best parts about being back in the US for 3 weeks was the opportunity to see my boys. They're still my boys even though they're all men now, taller than me (which isn't saying much), and scruffy with 3-day beards. I still like to pinch their cheeks.
I was staying at my mom's house in a room with 2 single beds. When #3 son arrived, he slept in the other single bed in my room and we stayed up till 2:00 in the morning talking just like teenagers at a slumber party. It was so nice that we did it again the next night. Then he had to go back to Portland and my #4 son arrived, who shared my room for the next 2 mights. Again, we stayed up till 3:00 a.m. having heart to heart talks, laughing, crying, and catching up. There's something about lying there in the dark late at night that fosters special conversations that would never happen in the light of day.

My sleepovers with #3 and #4 were so much fun that I thought it was only fair to invite #1 and #2 as well. They actually live in the same town as my mom and have houses a few miles away, but I wanted them to sleep in my room one night for a slumber party. They're pretty good about indulging me and tolerating my wacky ideas, so they grudgingly agreed to come on Thursday and Saturday respectively. (I think their girlfriends helped convince them that they needed to go humor their mother for just one night) On Thursday, #1 son and I talked until 4:00 a.m. which he doesn't even consider very late because he works nights and sleeps days. We always called him a vampire. Then on Saturday night, #2 son had to acquiesce at about 2:45, admitting that I'd outlasted him. Ha. I'm 49 and I outlasted this 24 year old kid!

During those dark hours, I learned lots of things about their lives. I learned that one of them thinks that being a stay-at-home dad would be the greatest job in the world. I learned that two of them would like to join the Peace Corps. I learned that one of them is more subdued than I remember. I learned that one of them is more sensitive to his brothers than I imagined. I learned about their feelings towards painful experiences in their past. I learned about their frustrations and their aspirations. I learned what fine young men they all are, even though I already knew that.

Having sleepovers with my boys turned out to be magical experiences and one of the highlight of my trip.
Watch out boys, I think I might make it a tradition!

The Roley homestead

My mom grew up on a farm in Illinois where generation after generation of her family have lived since 1835. In fact, there are still 4 generations of Dorseys living and farming the same land today. Growing up 1500 miles away, my brothers and I looked forward to the annual summer vacation "to the farm" which usually included a big softball game in the yard with all the cousins, homemade ice cream, and catching fireflies after dark. The farmhouse itself looked like it came straight out of a commercial for lemonade with its long white columns surrounded by fields of tall corn.

My dad, on the other hand, grew up in what these days we'd call a dysfunctional family consisting of his parents' repeated brushes with the law, moonshine, divorce, and constant moving about from sub-standard house to house, and from school to school. He certainly didn't have a majestic white farmhouse to call "home."

Therefore, when he bought his first house, a modest one in Bellingham, at the age of 40, he desired to create a stable homestead of his own. It worked. He turned the 3-bedroom house into a 6-bedroom house, built a deck, and tended the huge yard. Even after my brothers and I grew up and moved out, my parents stubbornly held onto the house "so you'll have somewhere to come home to." I believe I was the most vocal one opposed to them EVER selling the house. It seemed a little silly for two retired people to live all alone in a 6-bedroom house with a gigantic yard, but it was more than just a house. It represented the beginning of his own dynasty.

When Curt and I bought the house next door, we further advanced the notion of a family compound. Every summer, when my brothers' families came home to visit, we'd have mass picnics on the deck, and play cards until all hours of the night. The grandkids would run back and forth from our house to Grandma's house. There would be Slip-n-Slide set up on the side yard on hot days, and a huge game of kick the can after dinner. During all this, Grandpa was in his element, admiring the family unit he'd established. Ironically, he didn't actually like the reality of having all the grandkids around, screaming and making racket. It was too much stimulation for him. But he adored the idea that they all came home to the family homestead every summer.

When Curt and I sold our house next door and moved first to Portland and then to New Zealand, we put a serious dent in his dream of a family compound. But they still had the red house for people to come home to.

When Dad had a serious stroke 6 months before his death, we all wondered what to do about the house. Should Mom sell it? Were we too attached to it to ever sell it?

My older brother Scott came to the rescue. He and his wife were tired of their current lifestyle and wanted to move back to Bellingham to raise their kids. Eventually it came to pass that they would move into the house with my mom, help her with my dad's final days, and eventually take care of her when the time comes. This way she gets to stay in the house. The house stays in the family. There will still be a place for us "to come home to." Finally, most widows would come home after the funeral to a lonely, empty house but instead, she's got a lively, loving family to keep her young. She's pretty lucky.

Naturally, there are problems associated with Scott's family moving in. Blending two households as they've done is a monumental task of constant give and take, and he and his wife Diana have been consistently sensitive to my mom's feelings. They've been working out whose dishes to use and which cupboards to put them in, etc. They have 3 blenders, 2 coffee makers, 2 can openers, etc. And that's just the kitchen! There's also too many couches, 2 dining room tables, and 2 washing machines. It's a nightmare. But I have no doubt that they will work it all out to everyone's satisfaction. Diana's going to be wonderful to have in the house with my mom. They get along well (who doesn't get along with my mom?!?), and Diana is especially aware that Mom has certain places where things go and certain ways of doing things. They're both pretty amazing ladies. They'll be good for each other.

On a different level, my other brother and I have to get used to the idea of going "home" to the red house, which is now Scott's house instead of Grandma's house. It's a subtle difference, but one that takes some adjustment. That's one reason why I was so happy to be able to stay for 3 weeks after Dad died. It helped me start to feel like Scott's house was still home.

I also have to resign myself to Scott and Diana being the ones who will take care of my mom. Since I was the one who stayed in the same town and lived next door, I'd always assumed I'd get the privilege of taking care of my mom in her later years. Plus I was the only daughter. And we were best friends. It just seemed natural that I would take care of her. Now it looks like Scott will be taking care of her and I'm a little sad about that. Of course, I'm also the one who moved halfway across the world, so I pretty much lost my position as primary caretaker then. It's my own fault. But I'm still sad that I won't get to be with my mommy. : (

What does Mom think of all this? She's thrilled to have Scott's family there. She is also bemused at how we are "fighting" over who gets to take care of her. She's only 72 and in perfect health, so she doesn't need anyone to take care of her at the moment! My dad would not be at all surprised to see how devoted we are to my dear sweet mother. But he might be a little surprised - and very pleased - to see three generations of the family living there. I think the red house has truly earned the name homestead now.

Familiar/unfamiliar things about America

FAMILIAR:
On Sunday, I went to church with my mom, #3 son, and Scott's youngest daughter. I had attended this church from 1967-2001, but they've built a new sanctuary since then so although many of the people were the same, the building was not. Besides seeing familiar faces, it struck me how comforting it felt to hear the familiar rhythm of an American service with all its familiar components. It was nice to hear The Lord's Prayer said the way I learned it, as opposed to the version we do in NZ which is slightly altered. It was also nice to hear familiar hymns in a familiar hymnbook printed with the words in each stanza, not at the bottom of the page which is how they do it in our church in NZ.

Everybody at church was appropriately consoling and my mom held up fine. She said she only loses it when people are nice to her so I assured her I'd treat her like dirt if that's what she wants. After church, we went back to the house for Diana's traditional 'Jewish Brunch' of bagels with cream cheese and lox (salmon), plus pickled herring. Mmmm. Scott's wife Diana is Jewish and whenever they visited Bellingham, she always made Jewish Brunch which has become a family favorite.

UNFAMILIAR:
I used Scott's car to pick up #3 son at the train station a few nights ago. Remember, there was lots of snow on the ground. Plus my mom's street goes up a steep hill which is often unpassable in snow. So going out anywhere is a little risky. That night, I managed to add to the usual risk by DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE STREET! I pulled out of my mom's driveway and calmly headed down the hill on the left side of the street. Apparently I've been living in New Zealand too long. I saw a car coming at me, struggling up the hill and I thought - Hey what's that guy doing on MY side of the street? - until I realized it wasn't really MY side of the street after all; it was HIS side of the street. Oops. Fortunately, it's a residential street with little traffic, especially in the snow. My story - and I'm sticking to it - is that I consciously chose the left side of the street because there was less snow on that side (true).

FAMILIAR:
I realized how much I missed Jon Stewart's fake news show, The Daily Show on the Comedy Channel. He's so funny and irreverent as he skewers (among other things) the current administration which has provided him with no shortage of fodder (remember last year when the vice president shot his fellow hunter in the face?). I think it's the only American TV show that I truly miss. The fact that this show even exists is a testament to all that is good about America. Think about all the countries in the world where, if you insulted the leader, you'd lose a crucial body part, such as a head. But in America, you can insult the nation's leader and become a millionaire. What a great country.

FAMILIAR:
It was football playoff season at the time and the Seattle Seahawks were in the quarter-finals. I was reminded of how often there was a football game on in our house when we lived in the US and by how nice it is to be free of all that football hysteria in NZ. I'm quite pleased to live in NZ where they don't have all day anchor desk covering the entire league, zooming in on the barely dressed buxom cheerleaders (oops, they do this during rugby), interviews with players who are not known for their intellect (rugby again) , and overweight drunk fans with painted bellies (yup, rugby).

The playoff game was also a perfect example of American consumerism: Scott has a 52" High-Definition TV which you'd think would be perfect for the big game. But no. They wanted to go to #4 son's house instead because he has a TV mounted to the ceiling that projects a 90" picture. Men.
(PS - the Seahawks lost in overtime)

FAMILIAR:
I went shopping with my mom today. Besides going to familiar places, I saw 3 people I knew at the Post Office, 3 people I knew at the bank, and about 6 people I knew at the grocery store. I'd forgotten what it was like to live in a small town, and to have 30 years of history and connections in that town. Everywhere I turn, there's someone whose son was on the same soccer team as one of my kids 15 years ago, or the daughter-in-law of someone in my exercise class, or former students of mine who have since grown 12 inches taller and acquired beards. When Curt and I are out shopping in New Zealand, we're pretty anonymous which suits us fine.

Reminiscing

I spent the next few days socializing and reminiscing. My mom had been holding up well. My older brother Scott, his wife, and two girls had recently moved back to Bellingham and into my mom's six bedroom house. They had decided to ditch the rat race and high-powered jobs of city life, and move back to our little hometown to raise their daughters ... in the same house where he grew up! My mom is elated to little grandchildren around again. Curt & I lived next door to my mom & dad in Bellingham for fifteen years and she was able to be an integral part of our boys' childhoods. Inevitably, the boys grew up and we moved away, but now she can be uber-grandma again for Scott's two little girls, Gwen (9.9) and Sasha (8).

Besides Scott's family being there all the time now, there was also a revolving door of my boys and their girlfriends at the house. My #1 son lives in Bellingham with his girlfriend, as does the #2 son and his girlfriend. Both these boys have been invaluable help over the last 5 years as Grandpa's health was increasingly fragile. After Grandpa's stroke 6 months ago, they and their girlfriends began to help even more. They came over daily to transfer Grandpa from his bed to his wheelchair and back again. They also took out the garbage every week, and would babysit Grandpa so Grandma could go to church. In return, she had been feeding them a home-cooked dinner every Wednesday night, a welcome respite from the usual junk food diet of young men in their twenties. Now that Scott's family was living there, the boys had been coming even more often to play with the girls. And now that I was visiting, #1 son and #2 son had been coming over almost every day. #3 son lives in Portland, about 5 hours away, but he would arrive at Grandma's two days later. #4 son would arrive from Seattle a few days after that. It seemed like there would be 10-12 people every night for dinner. Luckily, Scott loves to cook and had taken on all the chef duties.

Anyway, there was plenty of socializing and reminiscing to be done and an ample number of people to do it with.

One of the things I did was dig out all of my dad's old newspaper columns. He wrote a bi-weekly column on the opinion page of the local newspaper, the Bellingham Herald, for 16 years. Occasionally he wrote about the Soviet Union because he was a Soviet history professor, after all. He also wrote some sentimental memoir-type columns. But most of all, he wrote about political issues, both local and national. Being at opposite ends of the political spectrum, I often had a difficult time reading his political columns. But I usually appreciated the sentimental ones. He wrote sweet ones about having his four grandsons growing up next door, about my mom's extended family who lived on the family farm in Illinois, and even about American diversions such as baseball and fireworks.

As we shared the collection of his columns, we delighted in reading Dad's own words, for it brought him back momentarily. We could all hear him complaining (repeatedly) about Clinton's lack of character, or ranting about some hare-brained local initiative. However, one of our favorite columns was the one about kids playing baseball in his side yard for the last 40 years. Because it was a corner lot, our side yard was the biggest expanse of grass on the block and therefore the preferred site for most neighborhood games of baseball, football, capture the flag or kick the can. First, my brothers and I and our friends wore a bare spot where home plate was located. Even after we grew up, other neighbor kids came to the side yard to play. When Curt & I moved in next door, my boys and their friends used the same spot for home plate. Now there's even a new set of grandchildren who can wear out the grass. His final line in that column was: "Perhaps it would be a fitting epitaph to note on my tombstone, 'He let the neighborhood kids play in his side yard.' It's probably the most important social contribution I've made in this life."

"Oh crap. I thought Mom told you"

I took off from Auckland on Thursday at 7:00 p.m and landed in Seattle on Thursday at about 7:00 p.m. It took about 24 hours to fly from NZ to Seattle counting layovers in Fiji and LA, but due to the international date line, it was still Thursday.

At the airport in Seattle (while I was waiting for my bags), I called my mom's house in Bellingham to tell her I'd arrived, and to find out whether I should take an airporter bus 100 miles to Bellingham, or whether someone had driven down to get me. She told me that my older brother Scott and my #1 son were indeed on their way to pick me up ... but they had gotten a flat tire so they would be a little late. (Their frustration level might be a little elevated, too, I was thinking) Mom said I should call their cell phones to get the latest timeframe. OK.

I called #1 son's cell phone, who gave me an update on the flat tire, then passed the phone to Scott:
Scott - "I suppose you heard the news"
me - "What news? Did Dad die already?"
Scott - "Oh crap. I thought Mom told you."
So that's how I heard the news: standing at a pay phone near baggage claim in the Seattle airport. My eyes start to well up. I guess I knew that he only had a few days left to live - and it takes 24 hours to get there - but somehow, I was hoping to see him before he died. Not to say goodbye; I did that in July when he was still aware of the world around him, and knew who I was. Maybe I wanted to see him one last time to confirm his frailty and to determine that yes, it was OK for him to go now. Or perhaps I just wanted to be there with my mom at the moment it happened. But I didn't get there in time. He died soon after my airplane took off, about 22 hours ago.

Once I got off the phone I tried to collect my luggage, but the entire carousel had been emptied while I was talking with Scott, and the Baggage Nazis had moved all unclaimed bags (mine) to the lost luggage area. So I spent the next 10 minutes trying to track down my two suitcases. I felt like telling the people at the Lost Luggage desk, "Look, my dad just died, and I really don't have the energy to deal with lost luggage at the moment." Fortunately, they retrieved my bags before I resorted to using my sob story. I am obviously not above milking the situation for the highest pity factor I can get.

While I was waiting for Scott and #1 son to arrive from the tire repair place, I changed from a southern hemisphere sundress into northern hemisphere long pants and dug out my long winter coat and mittens. There was 8 inches of snow in Seattle at the time. Brrrr. Scott and #1 showed up soon after, with hugs all around. They were remarkably calm in spite of the recent flat tire. On the 2 hour ride back to Bellingham, we had lots of time to talk and process. We agreed that when I called my mom from the airport, she probably didn't want to tell me that Dad had died because it would get her started again, which is perfectly understandable. But poor Scott felt absolutely awful for having delivered such emotional information in that way. It doesn't matter. Bad news is bad news, no matter who delivers it or how it's delivered.

Time to Go

I got an email from my mother titled "Not good news." It seems my dad is entering his final days. He has irregular breathing, coughs, is not really conscious, and can't swallow any more. The nurse says it will be a matter of days ... but he's such a tough old fighter that it's hard to tell.

So I have plane tickets to go to America. Once again, the timing is easy for me because I'm on summer break at the moment. I'll fly to Seattle on Jan 11th and might be there for his last few days. Then I'll definitely be there for his memorial service, at which time Curt will fly over too. Until then, Curt will be home all by his lonesome. : (


My mom says they just got 4 more inches of snow there, which is a far cry from my current circumstances as I sit here in NZ, wearing a sundress with a fan pointed at me. So I have to pack my winter coat and mittens. Too strange.

We've all had plenty of time to get used to the idea that Dad's death is imminent, but as my mom says, " Somehow it still seems to hit pretty hard. It's just not fair."

New Year's Day/Sydney, day 8

After the fireworks display, we walk through the streets of Sydney to pick up our bags and head to the airport. We actually catch the wrong train at first, but deftly make a mid-course correction with my keen navigation skills. (Even though I said we were good at all this public transport stuff, we still make mistakes.) Oh well. We get a nice ride on a virtually empty, air-conditioned train. It's not like we don't have extra time for a scenic detour!

We eventually arrive at the airport which is actually closed! I've never heard of an airport that closes. It always seemed like airports had planes coming and going pretty much around the clock. But there's a big iron gate between the train station and the adjoining airport. Fortunately, there's a small lounge area in front of the gate with about 8 rows of airport seats. You know the type - 4 seats welded together, with metal armrests that prevent anyone from lying down. But hey, it's better than nothing. We settle in with about 50 other passengers who are also spending the night there. Many people are on the hard terrazzo floor trying to get a little shut-eye. I don't know if there's always this many people, of if this crowd is extra big because it's New Year's Eve and there's no hotel rooms available.

At about 4:00 a.m., the gates reopen. I'd managed to sneak a few hours' sleep sitting up, using my suitcase next to me as a pillow for my head. Curt wasn't as lucky. Poor boy. He's too tall to sleep sitting up because he can't slump down far enough to rest his head. He can never sleep on planes either.

After the 3-hour flight and a taxi ride home ... (a long digression: there's no long-term parking lots with shuttle buses near the airport like we're used to. There's parking at the airport's own lot which costs a fortune, naturally. But surrounding most US airports, there's scores of off-site parking businesses with 24-hour shuttle service. Someone here really should buy a few acres of land near the airport, start a parking business, and make a fortune! There's also no train service to the airport, and - get this - no city buses that go to the airport. Everyone is forced to use a taxi instead. I think somebody in the transportation ministry must be in cahoots with the taxi drivers.) ... as I was saying, after the 3-hour flight and a taxi ride home, we start the first of 4 loads of laundry, take a shower, and nap for a few hours.

My first mission is to go grocery shopping TO BUY THE INGREDIENTS FOR SALADE NICOISE which I promised I'd make tonight. Sheesh.

I also have to stop by my workplace to feed the fish. Our library has a fish tank, and I agreed to go in during the school holidays and feed them since I live so close. Unfortunately, when I enter the library, I set off all sorts of security alarms and I have to call the alarm company and sheepishly explain.

Back at home, I make Salade Nicoise for dinner and Curt is finally happy. He's weird.

New Years Eve/Sydney, day 7

Tonight is the big New Years Eve fireworks show and Sydney is already buzzing. There's about 25 or more designated areas around town with views of the harbour that are already filling up. Each area has a maximum crowd size and once it's full, they don't let anyone else in. So some places fill by noon; others don't max out till 3. But the overall message is: Get your spot early!

As a consequence, we head to the Royal Botanic Gardens right away, minus a few digressions to look at restaurant menus. (Curt's still hoping to find a Salade Nicoise. What has gotten in to that guy?) The streets are already barricaded and our bags are searched multiple times. It's OK to bring alcohol, just as long as there's no glass bottles. Instead, people bring plenty of beer in cans & wine in boxes, along with a picnic basket full of food, and some blankets or beach towels. Fortunately. we're armed with our Aussie beach towel (purchased yesterday in Manly) covered with a pattern of road signs saying Watch Out for Kangaroos and Wombats Ahead. (see the photo of me sitting on said beach towel) We should blend right in.

We arrive about 1:00, which means we'll be here for the next 11 hours. We're sitting in almost the exact same spot where Curt sat to do his sketch of the bridge on Tuesday. That day, the grass was deserted except for 2 ibis birds who kept coming over to inspect Curt's progress. Today, the same grass is covered with blankets and towels and bodies. Not surprisingly, the ibis seem to have retreated to the depths of the park, away from the lively partiers.

Some of the more experienced people remember to bring a deck of cards and one couple behind us even bring a Scrabble game, which we covet. Curt LOVES to play Scrabble, and he and Byron have become experts to the point that they know all sorts of obscure words, such as ut and qat (would you believe that ut is the old word for do in the musical scale do-re-mi?) The only problem is that Curt's such a ruthless Scrabble player that I don't play with him very often because I end up in tears about half the time. We contemplate challenging the couple behind us to a game of Scrabble, but I feel it would be rather unfair of Curt to ask to play with them, and then beat the pants off them.

We bring along some snacks for the duration, but there are also food stalls available selling things like coffee, chips (French fries), ice cream, hot dogs, and other equally unhealthy options. The whole operation is amazingly well-organized with security, porta-loos, and rubbish patrol. There are 2 wheelie bins every 25 yards - one for rubbish and one for recycling. A few event staffers walk around offering rubbish bags and people periodically get up to take a load of beer cans to the recycle bin. Remarkably, throughout the afternoon and evening I hear people calling out things like "Hey Andrew, want me take your beer cans with me? I'm on the way." If there is such a thing as 7,000 polite drinkers in one spot, this is it. I am astounded at how well organized it is and by how well behaved everyone is. Nobody is too loud or boisterous and everyone seems to respect others' right to enjoy themselves. This goes on for the next 10 hours!

Most of the time, we feel like the only people over 30 in the crowd, but eventually a man (45ish) with 3 kids (10, 12, 18) settles near us and we strike up a conversation. He credits the authorities' excellent organisation skills with the experience learned by hosting the Olympics. It's nice to talk to him for a while because by this time, we've been here for 5 hours and I can only read, write, or do sudoku for so long before I go stir crazy. Plus my butt hurts from sitting on the hard ground. I'm really too old for this kind of thing.

One thing that surprises me is how many people in the crowd bring books to read. Most of the people here are in their 20s and are spending a lot of time on their cell phone, flirting, drinking, smoking, or giggling. It's hardly the type I would expect to be reading. But there they are, all over the place, buried in a book. Out of each group of 8-10 people, 3 or 4 will be reading. I can't imagine finding a significant proportion of American young people reading at a big drinking party/event.

Whenever Curt and I get bored, we just watch the people around us:
• Meet the Cuddly Couple, in their late 20s, who nap on the blanket while she gently caresses his cheek.
• There's also the Drunk Wife, about 25, who first catches our attention as she loudly tells the story of how her husband almost didn't marry her for some reason. She manages to get totally plastered soon after we arrive so we start placing bets on how long she'll last. There's no way she'll make it until midnight! I'm guessing she'll be out by 6:30.
• And there's Drunk Wife's Husband, who doesn't seem nearly as drunk as her (but makes up for it later).
• Behind us we have a young man with a Golden Voice. I have no idea what he looks like, but with his deep baritone voice and his accent, he really should become a newscaster. As the night progresses, I learn his entire life story - how his parents divorced, etc. But what he seems to be the most proud of was that he "shagged Lisa in the shower" which he repeats a number of times at great volume. We don't believe his claim for a minute. It seems like he has more imagination than facts.

At 9:00 there is a 10-minute fireworks show for the children, so they can go home and go to bed at a reasonable time, I guess. There's still 3 more hours of steady alcohol consumption left until the big show. But about 11:00, the nice man in front of us and his 3 kids depart. I think the kids are running out of patience. The youngest has been wrestling and rolling around for hours, while the middle one plays with her cell phone.

As soon as this family leaves, their space is inhabited by a group who proceed to take pictures of themselves in all possible combinations. Curiously, one guy in the group has a really squeaky, nasal voice like Owen Meany in John Irving's book. A Prayer for Owen Meany is undoubtedly my favourite book; it's the only book I ever read from cover to cover ... and when I reached the end, I immediately read it from cover to cover again. In the book, Owen's growth was stunted and his voice was high-pitched and grating, so Irving always wrote Owen's dialogue in upper case such as "I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU WON'T COME OUT AND PLAY WITH ME, JOHN." As I read it, I could clearly hear a voice in my head that represented Owen's shrill delivery, and the guy who was now sitting in front of us seemed to personify it perfectly. Thank goodness they don't arrive until 11:00 because it would have been excruciating to endure it the entire time.

My prediction about Drunk Wife is turning out to be dead wrong - she remains totally plastered, but not passed out. She's been in this state for almost 10 hours so far. Now that's endurance. Drunk Wife's Husband keeps stumbling over Owen Meany's tripod so he wisely moves it to the other side. Meanwhile, Golden Voice is making good progress with the girl he was telling his life story to. Cuddly Couple light some incense which makes it smell like 1970 all over again. Drunk Wife's group is British, not Aussie, and they start singing (drunkenly of course) O Britannia, but they don't know any words other than "O" and "Britannia." So they switch to something about "... I know I am, I'm sure I am, I'm England till I die." Over and over. (Remember how I said that nobody is too loud or boisterous for the next 10 hours? It was during the 11th hour that people truly hit their stride.) It doesn't really seem like a good idea to start singing raucous British identity songs when you're vastly outnumbered by Australians, though. I was half expecting the other 6,990 people to counter with a blazing round of Waltzing Matilda to drown out the Brits. But they appear more bemused than anything, and manage to resist singing a reply, perhaps assuming that the Brits will get bored of singing the same 2 lines and will move on eventually. Meanwhile, this seems like a good time for me to make a trip to the porta-loos. When I return, everyone seems to have mercifully gotten over their urge to sing.

FInally, it was time for the fireworks to start. The organisers spread out the pyrotechnics around the harbour so different areas could all have a view. It starts with a big display off the bridge. It moves to a couple different spots, east of the bridge and west of the bridge. There are even fireworks exploding behind us from the tops of the skyscrapers in the city which worries me a little because it makes it look like all the skyscrapers are on fire. They explode some by the opera house, then back to the bridge and during the big finale, things are blowing up all over.

Here's Curt's impression of the evening - " If I had to sum it up in a few words, it would be: cell phones, cigarettes, boobs and booze. Boobs has a double meaning - in addition to the idiot factor fueled by alcohol, about 80% of the young women were falling out of their tops. It's a fashion trend."

Sydney, day 6

Today we are heading to the beach town of Manly, which involves taking a ferry from Circular Quay. This is our substitute for a tourist-style tour of Sydney Harbour since we're too cheap to pay for a ride on a real tour boat. We like ferries better. We walk along the pedestrian corso that links Manly ferry terminal (which faces west to Sydney Harbour) to Manly beach (which faces east to the Tasman Sea). There's even an arts & crafts market going on today that we peruse. Curt's mildly interested in buying some shorts while we're here, but honestly, we're just not very good shoppers. I have a Kiwi friend who came to Sydney with her two teenage daughters specifically to shop for a week. They'd be disappointed to hear how much shopping we've done on this trip, which is next to nothing. I'm pretty much a failure at being a shopper. It's just not in me.

As we wander down Manly's beach, Curt finds a modern sculpture to sketch. It looks a lot like the sculptures along the boardwalk in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico (which he also sketched). I dutifully assume my role, sitting on some rocks, dangling my feet in the water, and reading a book. Ahhh. That's what vacations are all about. I'm well into my second book already, and brought along a third one just in case.

After the sketch, we walk farther to Shelly Beach which is even nicer and more secluded than Manly beach. Despite our aforementioned ineptitude at shopping, Curt scores a major success at a small gift shop near Shelly Beach that happens to have a perfect black ceramic pot for our bomb collection. Before you report us to the elite anti-terrorism squad, let me tell you the story of our bomb collection: My brother gave us a black ceramic pot for Christmas 18 years ago, and as we opened the box, it looked just like the size and shape of a cartoon-type bomb (but without a fuse). One of our boys cried out, "Cool! Uncle Scott gave us a bomb!" Uncle Scott immediately zoomed to the top of the list of best uncles ever, because what could be better for Christmas than a genuine bomb when you're 8 years old? Ever since then, we've called that pot our "bomb", and we began to collect matching black pottery bombs on our all travels. We have to be extra careful these days not to call our pottery a bomb in the airport as in "Do you have the bomb in your carry-on honey?" or "Don't let the bomb break." This kind of slip-up could have catastrophic consequences.



After securing our most important purchase of the trip, we climb some steep steps to a lookout over North Head. It has another stunning view of the Tasman. We keep following more trails, through a hole in a rock wall, and ultimately into a couple of dead ends. We've been walking for 90 minutes now, without knowing where we are or where we're going. We are utterly lost. I have visions of us stranded in the bush for days. With no water. It's HOT out.

Who will ever report us missing? Nobody will even notice our absence until Curt doesn't show up for work Jan 8. I'm convinced we'll get bit by a poisonous spider or attacked by endangered bandicoots (whatever they are). I can see the headlines now: STUPID AMERICAN TOURISTS' BODIES FINALLY FOUND or STUPID AMERICAN TOURISTS LOST IN THE BUSH WITHOUT WATER. Well, we eventually find our way back to civilisation, head towards the ferry terminal and get some nice cold water. And chocolate milk for you-know-who. So I guess we won't be headlines this time.


After that sweaty, nail-biting adventure, I'm ready for something safe. We take the ferry back to the city with three objectives: 1) Salad Nicoise 2) shorts for Curt 3) a movie.

1) Allow me to explain - Curt has been hankering for Salad Nicoise for days. We keep stopping at every restaurant and reading every menu, but can never find Salad Nicoise. (We actually do find it on one menu, but it's at a restaurant that is closed for 2 weeks during the holidays. Drat.) Don't ask me why he's so obsessed with finding Salad Nicoise, but he is. It's like he's pregnant or something and is having cravings. In the end, we settle for tasty exotic salads at David Jones Food Hall and I promise to make him Salad Nicoise when we get home to NZ.













2) We successfully purchase some shorts and two shirts for Curt so I guess we can say we did some shopping here after all. He did, anyway. The shorts are khaki, and the shirts are white and ... white. You have no idea how many white shirts he already owns! He's such an engineer. He wears white shirts and keeps a pen in his pocket - even while he's on vacation. I kid you not. Luckily, it's part of his charm.

3) At the cinemas, I want to go see The Queen. Curt thinks it's about Diana's death and he hates all that "pseudo-celebrity schlock" as he calls it.
Me: "But it's not about Diana's death. It's about the queen's reaction. And Tony Blair's."
Curt: "Mmm hmm." (pause) "Let's see what time James Bond begins"
Fortunately, James Bond doesn't start for 90 minutes and The Queen starts right now! So we buy the popcorn (this step is absolutely essential) and go watch The Queen. Even Curt likes it.

We end our night with a train-bus ride back to the hotel, and polish off the semi-melted ice cream bars we have in the room's mini-fridge that supposedly includes a freezer section but these ice cream bars aren't exactly frozen anymore. Still, that doesn't stop me. I eat it with a spoon. Tastes fine.

Sydney, day 5

Took the bus to the nearest train station, took the train to Bondi Junction, then took an express bus to Bondi beach. We're good at this public transportation stuff.

Bondi is a famous surfing beach, and it's where the beach volleyball competition was held for the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Think Malibu. We walk to the far north end and sit on a bench for a while to read/loll. We climb up some rocks to a promontory looking out into the Tasman. You can see the dark rock cliff in the center of the photo, in the distance. Supposedly, New Zealand is directly east, across the Tasman, but it's 1300 miles away! I used to think New Zealand was right off the coast of Australia, similar to Vancouver Island being off the coast of Washington state, or Long Island off New York. Boy was I wrong.

After our brief venture up the rocks, we return to the sand and walk all the way to the southern end. Here's what Curt's journal says about that afternoon: "We took off our sandals and walked through the last traces of waves washed up on the sandy beach, dodging gleeful children who can't resist the fun of playing in the surf and throwing sand at each other (and us when we get in the line of fire). We walked to the other end and then back to the central shop area as our clothes dried in the sun, having been licked by rogue waves advancing on inattentive strollers."

That evening, we return to our new hotel by bus-train-bus, walk along Brighton's beach and wander past their shops for the necessary fix of coffee (Curt) and ice cream (me). But first we need some dinner, so we decide on a Greek place selling "yeeros" which I guess is a good way to spell gyros if you want to make sure people pronounce it correctly. It is a difficult word to say, and I've heard plenty of Americans call them jyros which makes me cringe. When we were in Greece with the boys in 2005, I remember getting confused at the gyros stand because I ordered 2 gyros which cost 3 euros and "gyros" and "euros" sound the same. Our conversation sounded like something out of Laurel & Hardy's famous comedy routine "Who's on first."
me: 2 gyros, please
Greek man: OK. Here. 3 euros
me: No, I only ordered 2 gyros.
Greek: 2 gyros, 3 euros (I thought he was counting 2 gyros, 3 gyros)
me: But I only wanted 2!
Carlin: Mom. They're €1.50 each. Just give him 3 euros, OK?

Sydney, day 4

Today's plan: to the art museum. However, we got sidetracked along the way looking at St Mary's cathedral as a sketch possibility ... and Curt ended up sketching the Sydney Tower instead. It was an easy subject and only took an hour, so we still got to the museum by 11. I'm beginning to recognise names of some of the well-known Australian artists, and we're familiar with most of the European and American artists of course. This museum had a nice enough collection, but it can't really compare with others we've been to over the years. Our poor kids have been dragged to museums all over Europe and the US on our travels. Byron made his first money as an artist at age 10, sitting on the grand stairway inside the D'Orsay museum in Paris, sketching a huge clock above. (He wanted to be just like his dad who was nearby sketching a statue of a naked lady). Austin, the oldest brother who was always full of clever ideas, suggested that Byron should put his hat out next to him while he worked, and people would put money in it. Sure enough, people gathered to see what this little boy was doing, and dropped a few francs in his hat. I think he made enough money to buy himself some ice cream later in the day. We always thought he would grow up to be a professional artist eventually, and we knew this would make a great story about how he got his start in the art world. Well, at the moment he's studying engineering at the University of Washington which isn't exactly art, but at least he's still trying to be just like his dad.

After the museum, we thought it would be appropriate if we went to the Sydney Tower to ride up to the observation deck since Curt had just sketched it that morning. Alas, the queue was about a half-mile long so we opted out. Instead we wandered over to the waterfront area called Darling Harbour which was a little too Disneylandish for us. However, I did stumble upon a Lindt Chocolate store & cafe so I indulged in some dark chocolate gelato. Mmmmm. That made it all worthwhile. We sat on a bench and watched little kids play in a long fountain. It's nice the way Australia encourages people to actually use the water features, rather than just look at them. Parks in Europe can be a bit stodgy when they don't allow you to sit on the grass or play in the fountain. But here, there was a sign at the gate to the Botanic Gardens that asked people to please sit on the grass, hug the trees, and smell the roses. I like their attitude.

Next we entered the Chinese Garden which was an oasis of beauty and tranquility in the middle of downtown Sydney. I was thinking Curt might find something sketchworthy here, but he wasn't inspired.
Me: How about a sketch of the lily pads? Monet liked to paint lily pads.
Curt: Nah.
Me: Ooh. Look at that arched stone bridge. And there's a bench right here with a perfect view.
Curt: Nah.
So we walked along the paths, around the ponds, over the stone bridge, and admired the giant koi fish swimming by the lily pads. It was a nice quiet break from the crowds at Darling Harbour and the throngs of bargain hunters who are still sardined in the shopping streets of Sydney.

Speaking of Chinese, it's time for a rant. Here's what Curt said in his journal: "There are a lot of Asians taking pictures of family and friends standing in front of any statue, building, sculpture, or viewpoint which might be photo-worthy except for the person posing just like they did for the previous gazillion photos." As a Westerner, I just don't get it either. I was trying to understand this habit, so I pondered if maybe they believe that a photo has more interest in it if there's a person in it. And I can agree with that. But the photo album of their trip would NOT be interesting because photo after photo would be mind-numbingly repetitively made of the same composition. So there goes my argument that people do it to make the photos more interesting. My next theory was that perhaps people pose in front of everything to prove that they were there. Honestly, won't their friends believe them? Anyway, I'm stumped. If anyone can enlighten me on this curious habit, please do, because I just don't understand. That's enough ranting for now.

Our last job today is to switch hotels. You see, it was next to impossible to find any hotels in Sydney this week, and there are absolutely NO rooms left for New Year Eve. Besides the fireworks, there's the big cricket match against England so all the rooms are taken. Consequently, we could only find a room downtown for the first 3 nights, a room 10 km south of the city for the next 3 nights, and no room at all for our last night, New Years Eve. We're figuring that we'll be staying up and watching the fireworks till 12 or 1 ... and then we have to be at the airport at 5 the next morning, so we'll just hang out at the airport or something. Anyway, today's the day we switch hotels. We get our bags and take a bus to Brighton (on Botany Bay) which is pretty easy. We like to use public transportation on our travels, so we bought a 7 day pass when we arrived and use it to hop onto subways or buses or ferries whenever we want. By the end of the week, we're pretty good at taking the bus from our hotel to the nearest train station, riding the train downtown, and then doing it all in reverse at the end of the day. No problem.

Our day finishes as it usually does: more walking, more coffee, more ice cream, a nightly foot rub, and lots of sleep. Zzzz.