I had one hell of a shower for my first born. Numerous gifts were given. I had been to my fair share of showers, both for weddings and babies, and now I wanted a big, fancy one of my own. Kimme had the best house, so she threw it for me with my other BFF, Kimberly. Robin made the unforgettable-to-this-day desserts.
Two of the gifts were what seemed at the time like simple, not-too-much-thought-put-into-it gestures. A white stuffed bear. And a brown stuffed bear.
By the time Oliver was only a few months old, he clung to those two bears — they had become his best friends, his security bears. Before the age of one, he would never leave the house without white and brown bear.
I was hired for a small part in a small movie, on location in Texas. I would be gone a week. Oliver, white bear, brown bear and I boarded a plane. I hired some random local girl to watch my baby while I worked on set. Things went well and I hired her for the following day too. But when I came back to the hotel, brown bear was missing. We went into panic mode, though the teenaged girl seemed way relaxed. I grilled her. “Where were you when you last saw brown bear?” She did seem to recall something about the pool area. It was now evening, dark already and we all went down to comb the pool area. No brown bear. As we were about to give up, I looked into the trash and there he was looking very forlorn, ready to take a trip to the local dump. He would never have been seen again had I not peeked into the trash can. What a relief. Separation anxiety averted.
I grew up in the deep south, a small town called Hawkinsville, GA, population 3500. Probably the best thing I have ever eaten in my life is the BBQ we had on special occasions on our farm. I know, you can get BBQ everyday. Yes, I have been to those famous BBQ joints in Memphis and those in North Carolina. Not impressed; it's all about the sauce and good BBQ needs little sauce. My dad employed an old man named Clayton since I was a child until he died a few years ago. Great BBQ is an art, like the glass blowers in Murano, Italy or a small farmer in France making cheese. There is no recipe, just talent and experience. 
When Chloe was three, we lived on Martha’s Vineyard. She was an unusual three year old. She didn’t like pink, or dolls but her most unusual quality at that tender age, was her love of lobster.
Ever since joining the club, my diet has changed. Health club? Good God no! Book club, country club, beach club? Wrong again! I am now a card carrying member of the worldwide group of “empty nesters.” The club one is automatically granted membership to once their last or only child leaves the house for college or life elsewhere. No dues, no rules, and absolutely no where to go!
Perhaps it was the slant of late afternoon sunlight filtering through
the vine-laced pergola, gracing the plank of organic crudités. Maybe
it was the large grape leaves serving as blotters and platters for the
abundant array of fresh foods presented that perfect June day. 