Once Diane regains some or her drug-sapped energy and can stop by, she will be happy to not have to have to negotiate the makeshift stairs that disgraced the approach to our house from our new garage level all Winter and Spring.

As I write, Linda beautifies our new morning-coffee-and-paper view, engrossed in her next favorite passtime (after cooking) — planting Stella Dora Day Lillies, purple Salvia, and Variegated Coreopsis along
the patio wall (that’s Gracie inspecting her work).

No remodeling result is more impressive than when depicted in
before-and-after shots.

It’s as cool to experience its actualization as it was to design it!

Oh yes, the excellent, meticulous and incredibly fast-working Brazilian craftsman, Miguel, and one of his apprentices, Aljon. “This is my house now; when I’m done I’ll give it back to you”, he proclaimed, just before starting. He truly attended to every detail as if it was his own. Thanks also to Oscar, who went two extra miles and patched the garage siding!

Kudos to Matt Junod, owner of JHS Landscape Construction for a project that exceeded expectations. Matt says what he does, then does what he says — with quality, speed, and a smile. You couldn’t expect anything better than that.

Stay tuned for the patio-warming party!

Kenney and two of his sons, Rick and Keith, built this garage in 7 days. They showed up at 7am sharp every morning, driving an hour from Manchester NH, which means they rise at 5. This Monday, when it was blistering cold and rainy, they were there, nailing cedar shakes. Amazing workers, proud of their fine worksmanship.

And we get an awesome garage!

(That’s Gracie in the foreground!)

(Dan read this at his father-in-law’s memorial service. It was a pefectly paced, precise and moving tribute, and encapsulated, for me, the importance of this type of sharing service as I could imagine a momentary lifting of Linda’s pain.)

Arthur Scott Laughland

August 20, 1924 — April 24, 2007

Reading from Chapter 4, First American Year, by Arthur Laughland
===============
From those humble beginnings in America, Arthur Laughland, through necessity and persistence, overcame all obstacles, eventually earning a Doctorate in Education, and the Principal-ship of a Newton elementary school.

The man I came to meet in 1983, as I was arrived onto the scene of the Laughland family, immediately impressed me as an accomplished, intelligent, charming, and self-effacing father and educator.

Underscore “self-effacing”. From the growing-up stories Linda would tell me, I was amazed at the hardships he overcame raising his young family in a hut in England with a dirt floor and no indoor plumbing, and later in a tiny apartment above the horse barn of the uber-wealthy Dole Pineapple Lincolns of Chestnut Hill, where the children had to share the same bath water every night, and in Winter had to put their school clothes on under their blankets in order not to freeze in the morning.

I did not gain a full appreciation of his greatness as an educator until I experienced how royally he was celebrated by his beloved faculty on his retirement in the late 80’s.

I had not fully appreciated his command of history — and of *his* story — until I witnessed first-hand his prodigious memory for childhood detail, when in my presence, armed with a tape recorder, he began dictating his memoirs.

While his quiet greatness was gradually unveiled to me during family events over the last 24 years, it was not until his last 76 days, when he came to live with us on February 8th, following his neck hospitalization, that I really got to know what a truly special man he was.

Here was a man almost completely blind, who had lost his wife of thirty years just 9 months earlier, with just enough strength to shuffle about our house in his walker, wearing a stiff collar around his neck — yet uttering nary a complaint, always gentle, listening intently to every conversation, doling out encouraging and fatherly advice to me on appropriate occasions.

Here was a man that despite a broken neck (and, I would say to myself, a broken life), could still establish a special relationship with Geish, a very special person herself, who came twice a week from Emerson Home Care to bathe him.

Here was an 82 year old man that despite his stiff neck and fierce longing for the independence of living back in his own house, was still flexible enough to adapt to *our* routine, eating dinner with us every night on a TV table watching the PBS News Hour, even though he would have much preferred sitting at the dining table.

Here was a man capable of introspection, and courageous and generous enough to share with Linda and me his most intimate thoughts, fears, desires, and self-doubts.

Here was a man that despite a life of accomplishment and quiet greatness, would castigate himself “a fool” for this or that foible or minor accident.

Here is a man that showed me by example how to comport myself, if and when it should come to be my turn to be cared for by one my children in their home.

Here is a great man, whose immortality is in his children and in those he quietly touched.

Here is a quietly great man: Arthur Scott Laughland.

We didn’t quite ring in the New Year, but we sure did surprise Linda, captured on her own new camcorder!

Great food and drink, thanks to Drew, Barb, Polly, Anita, Mark, and all that contributed.  We missed you, Mike!

Dan Downing

And by deliberate association, cross off The American Repertory Theatre.

At Michael’s suggestion, for Christmas I gave Linda tickets to see The Three Sisters, and so we pilgrimaged into definitely-not-our-old-Harvard Square Thursday evening.

We dined at The Harvest, and began feeling like interlopers in a wealthy-Cambridge-academia milieu that is not us. Good, but way overpriced, oysters, Caesar’s salad , and Tuna.

As we approached the ART, I prophetically said to Linda, “you know, hun, this may not be our scene”.

It wasn’t.

The theatre was small, our seats had a good view — but not the intimate feel-the-actors-sweat Mike experienced when he and Di saw Desire Under the Elm Tree (or something like that) earlier this year. The main thing is we had aisle seats (I can explain to anyone interested how I managed to trick the on-line box office into giving me those).

The play was supposed to be about three unmarried sisters stuck in a provincial Russian town, yearning to go to Moscow, and finally being wooed by soldiers stationed in the local garrison.

Within 15 minutes I thought we’d mistakenly walked into Sartre’s No Exit, with the audience, rather that the actors, trapped in hell.

The action was glacial. What passed for dialog were meaningless utterance separated by 45-second pregnant pauses that were acoustically hard to hear. The characters had to have been insane.

“Delirious ennui”, the Globe said about the first act. We agreed. We up and left before the intermission, having given the drama more than enough time to unfold and explain itself, along with another couple.

On the walk back to the car, Linda and I mused about how many empty seats there would be after the intermission, versus how many would stick out the 3 ¬Ω hour production.

Definitely not our scene.

We learned later that Mark and Ginger saw this play in London and loved it. Go figure.

Here’s $100 to send Director Krystian Lupa packing back to Prague.

By Dan Downing (aka smiling)

The Elegant Christmas Brunch at Kibbe’s two Saturdays ago is worth re-celebrating.
Memorable highlights:

– Individual menus on which the usual suspects mark their eating preferences and hand to short-order-cook Adam for processing.

– Inimitable Kibbe presentation, complete with take-home nips for the guys and Christmas Tree bells for the ladies.

– Schreib on a roll of hilarious one-liners, undoubtedly aided by his new Peruvian hat, egged on by Fan Jan, and laughed at by all.

– Q objecting to his wife and everyone else’s abuse.
***Photo Censored***
– Ginger giving Dan the double-fingered salute (mouth shut, gums still sore from surgery) in response to Dan’s email about flossing better, thereby elevating their relationship to a new level of intimacy.

Hurrah for an emerging Christmas tradition that’s quickly replacing those boring Camping dinners!
Michael sent me this photo, his favorite, of his lovely and long-suffering wife, Diane. Look closely at her socks.

By Dan Downing (aka smiling)

The Elegant Christmas Brunch at Kibbe’s two Saturdays ago is worth re-celebrating.
Memorable highlights:

– Individual menus on which the usual suspects mark their eating preferences and hand to short-order-cook Adam for processing.


– Inimitable Kibbe presentation, complete with take-home nips for the guys and Christmas Tree bells for the ladies.


– Schreib on a roll of hilarious one-liners, undoubtedly aided by his new Peruvian hat, egged on by Fan Jan, and laughed at by all.

– Q objecting to his wife and everyone else’s abuse.
***Photo Censored***
– Ginger giving Dan the double-fingered salute (mouth shut, gums still sore from surgery) in response to Dan’s email about flossing better, thereby elevating their relationship to a new level of intimacy.

Hurrah for an emerging Christmas tradition that’s quickly replacing those boring Camping dinners!
Michael sent me this photo, his favorite, of his lovely and long-suffering wife, Diane. Look closely at her socks.

Dan Downing (a.k.a. smiling)

At the other end of Chris’ musical / celebrity adoration spectrum is where I live.

My butt found itself comfortably ensconced in the third row Orchestra at Caesar’s Palace for Elton John’s Red Piano extravaganza last October, spitting distance to where Elton planted his.  The Colosseum was full of screaming, delirious fans, many of whom paid $250 for the privilege.  I paid zero, this being part of the computer conference package I attended.

Baffling to me was the apparent adoration of this overweight, aging rock star and of his music.  Baffling again was the evidently turned on audience in last evening’s NBC’s telecast of this same concert. With the exception of a couple of his hit songs (Daniel, Rocket Man), his music, to me, is not in the same class as that of my musical heroes of the 60s (Judy Collins, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens, Buffy Saint Marie, Joan Baez). I loved their music, but did not fawn at their stages nor identify myself as a fan.

In fact, the whole notion of celebrity adoration is very, very, very baffling to me.  Yes, I can admire both form and content of a Jewel at the Boston Opera (attended by a subset of the usual canoe-group suspects in 1999?), but people that can put their feelings and life insights into thought-provoking poetry, sing them lucidly, and accompany them with understated guitar chords so you can clearly hear the words and get the message, are relatively few.

And very baffling to me also is that anyone would pay dearly for an event like this in a theatre as large as the Colosseum for a view that from most seats requires binoculars, and requires sullying yourself with that weirdest destination in the Universe, Vegas.

But that’s me; clearly left behind in a gentler subset of my 60s generation.

Eulogy to My Mother Bertha Downing, 11/1/1919 ‚ 9/7/2005
Presented at the Mass at Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, 9/10/05

Its pretty hard to summarize the life of a person, especially when father Ignacio said I only had 45 minutes‚ just kidding‚ he said I had five minutes.

So I will cut to the chase. If you knew my father, you know that he was the head of our family. I don’t just mean he was the head of our family, I mean he was the HEAD of our family‚ the analytical, thinking, logical part, and he imparted to all of us the practical and analytical skills for life.

Well my Mom was the HEART of our family. She taught us about loving.

She taught us to love deeply, which she demonstrated with unreserved love for her children, for her husband Emerson of 52 years, and for all our family members, even ones that may have been temporarily estranged through life’s sometimes entangled circumstances.

From her we learned that expressing our feelings was a show of strength and not of weakness. She often felt and expressed our own feelings for us, when we could not get in touch with them ourselves.

She taught us to love broadly, through the nurturing of friends near and far, cultivated through their rich social lives in Mexico and Texas, and through their travels in Central America, Europe, and Canada. She nurtured relationships and mourned the deaths of friends near and far throughout her long life.

She made many friends here in the Valley, including people in her literature class, many of whom are here today, and she loved and admired their teacher, Dr. Rovira.

Our friends were also her friends, and she was warm and accepting of them, and always welcomed them into her house. (And I brought home some pretty strange people)

She taught us to express our love creatively, through her painting, playing the piano, preparing loving and nourishing meals, and creative writing (though the painting unfortunately never stuck with any of us).

She taught us that the boundaries of love were not limited to this physical world, through her deep religious faith and her relived and re-told memories of family members that had passed on.

The three of us had the fortune to spend her last few days at her side, have the last rights administered, and encourage her to let go and join Pop. On the morning of her death, after we had said our final good-byes and her cold body was removed from Cristy’s house, the three of us hugged each other, and one of us whispered “She is gone now, it is not up to us to keep her love going.

As for Cristy and Carlos, they have already been doing this through caring for her in their house all these years. And Lilly and Chet also, both close at hand, and Chet always thoughtful of her, bringing her books and suggesting food he thought she would enjoy.

For me, I can only hope that I learn to grow my heart large enough in my remaining years to fill the void that Bertha leaves behind.

She touched the lives of many, as all of you in attendance today know personally. Many that are not able to be here have emailed remembrances and poems that we put together on the large poster some of you have seen. I would like to share a couple of these with you.

The first was sent by my best friend in Boston, Michael Miller, who met my parents in way back in 1969 and several times after that.

Twenty years ago, shortly after Dan and Linda were married, I dropped by Sunnyside Lane to see Dan’s visiting parents. It was summer, it was humid and it was hot. That morning I’d grabbed a pair of white pants that were no longer work-worthy and ripped off the legs at mid-thigh. I thought I looked pretty good in my new shorts.

As I walked up to Bertha in the living room, flattered to be in the presence of this woman who taught Dan about emotional strength, I said, “Welcome to Lincoln.” She greeted me with a broad smile and an open heart as she had the first day we met, some ten years earlier. With Emerson I sometimes felt I had to prove myself, with Bertha I only felt I had to be myself.

She sat upright, with her perfectly combed dark hair, her hands crossed on her lap, and exuded elegance. I suddenly felt that maybe these new white shorts with the frayed legs weren’t so nifty. Bertha must have sensed my unease because she said, “Take off those shorts and I’ll hem them.”

I slipped my pants off in front of her and then, fifteen minutes later, back on, newly hemmed. I looked down for the third time that day and I thought, “Bertha made a better me.”

Bertha, you made all of us better. We’ll miss you.

This second is from my cousin Stephanie Bloem now living in North Carolina:

I remember Tia Bertha as being immensely kindhearted and loving and I remember these qualities as being especially noticeable when she visited her older (and – we all know meaner) sister Aida, my mom …

I remember how my dad (Bill Clark) used to call her “the Pink Lady” because she always did such great volunteer work at the hospital …

I remember her pastel Moctezuma …

I remember her singing Mr. Sandman …

I loved her very much and if I close my eyes I can see her playing canasta with your dad and with my parents somewhere on the other side …

This last one is from my son Greg.

I remember Aba best, through the eyes of a child.

As a child, I lived for her smile, for her laugh. I remember the feel of her and the sound of her voice; gentle, loving, calling me ‘sweetie’.

I remember the softness of the couch in her old home. The pine trees that would stand in the corner on the Christmases that I visited. The fruit trees that sat in the back yard that I would sit and look out at.

I remember, amusingly, that she bought me my first hand-held video game, though I cannot remember the name of it. Only her smile and my joy at her gift.

It is through the eyes of the child that I was, that a part of me will always hold her, wishing for those simpler days again. But it is with the heart of a man that I love and miss her so terribly now.

Wind to thy wings, Aba.

I will close with a poem by Hugh Robert Orr, sent by my favorite mother-in-law, retired Unitarian Universalist, Reverend Polly Guild:

They are not gone who pass
Beyond the clasp of hand,
Out from the strong embrace.
They are but come so close
We need not grope with hands,
Nor look to see, nor try
To catch the sound of feet.
They have put off their shoes
Softly to walk by day
Within our thoughts, to tread
At night our dream-led paths of sleep.

They are not lost who find the sunset gate,
The goal of all their faithful years.
Not lost are they who reach
The summit of their climb,
The peak above the clouds
And storm. They are not lost
Who find the light of sun
And stars and God.

They are not dead who live
in hearts they leave behind
In those whom they have blessed
They live a life again,
And shall live through the years
Eternal life, and grow
Each day more beautiful
As time declares their good
Forgets the rest, and proves
Their immortality.

Presented at the Roselawn Cemetery, 9/10/05

While they finish preparing the grave, now that we have all the time in the world, I would like to read another memory, this one from my cousin Pinky from Guatemala.

I remember with special tenderness watching her on Sundays celebrate Holy Mass. I found Mass boring in those youthful days, but Tia gave me something to think about — seeing her kneeling, attentive to the teachings, and absorbed in her meditation when the little bell rang during the consecration.

So mystical her conduct — that was the seed that grew in my heart: the desire to know what she knew and feel what she felt.

God bless you Tia — your example was the backbone of my life. Thank you for your patience and your kindness.

Good-bye Mom. By the way, I asked Chet if he had a good book to leave with you…but the said that he hopes instead now to inherit some of your prized ones.

Eulogy to My Mother Bertha Downing, 11/1/1919 ‚ 9/7/2005
Presented at the Mass at Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, 9/10/05

Its pretty hard to summarize the life of a person, especially when father Ignacio said I only had 45 minutes‚ just kidding‚ he said I had five minutes.

So I will cut to the chase. If you knew my father, you know that he was the head of our family. I don’t just mean he was the head of our family, I mean he was the HEAD of our family‚ the analytical, thinking, logical part, and he imparted to all of us the practical and analytical skills for life.

Well my Mom was the HEART of our family. She taught us about loving.

She taught us to love deeply, which she demonstrated with unreserved love for her children, for her husband Emerson of 52 years, and for all our family members, even ones that may have been temporarily estranged through life’s sometimes entangled circumstances.

From her we learned that expressing our feelings was a show of strength and not of weakness. She often felt and expressed our own feelings for us, when we could not get in touch with them ourselves.

She taught us to love broadly, through the nurturing of friends near and far, cultivated through their rich social lives in Mexico and Texas, and through their travels in Central America, Europe, and Canada. She nurtured relationships and mourned the deaths of friends near and far throughout her long life.

She made many friends here in the Valley, including people in her literature class, many of whom are here today, and she loved and admired their teacher, Dr. Rovira.

Our friends were also her friends, and she was warm and accepting of them, and always welcomed them into her house. (And I brought home some pretty strange people)

She taught us to express our love creatively, through her painting, playing the piano, preparing loving and nourishing meals, and creative writing (though the painting unfortunately never stuck with any of us).

She taught us that the boundaries of love were not limited to this physical world, through her deep religious faith and her relived and re-told memories of family members that had passed on.

The three of us had the fortune to spend her last few days at her side, have the last rights administered, and encourage her to let go and join Pop. On the morning of her death, after we had said our final good-byes and her cold body was removed from Cristy’s house, the three of us hugged each other, and one of us whispered “She is gone now, it is not up to us to keep her love going.

As for Cristy and Carlos, they have already been doing this through caring for her in their house all these years. And Lilly and Chet also, both close at hand, and Chet always thoughtful of her, bringing her books and suggesting food he thought she would enjoy.

For me, I can only hope that I learn to grow my heart large enough in my remaining years to fill the void that Bertha leaves behind.

She touched the lives of many, as all of you in attendance today know personally. Many that are not able to be here have emailed remembrances and poems that we put together on the large poster some of you have seen. I would like to share a couple of these with you.

The first was sent by my best friend in Boston, Michael Miller, who met my parents in way back in 1969 and several times after that.

Twenty years ago, shortly after Dan and Linda were married, I dropped by Sunnyside Lane to see Dan’s visiting parents. It was summer, it was humid and it was hot. That morning I’d grabbed a pair of white pants that were no longer work-worthy and ripped off the legs at mid-thigh. I thought I looked pretty good in my new shorts.

As I walked up to Bertha in the living room, flattered to be in the presence of this woman who taught Dan about emotional strength, I said, “Welcome to Lincoln.” She greeted me with a broad smile and an open heart as she had the first day we met, some ten years earlier. With Emerson I sometimes felt I had to prove myself, with Bertha I only felt I had to be myself.

She sat upright, with her perfectly combed dark hair, her hands crossed on her lap, and exuded elegance. I suddenly felt that maybe these new white shorts with the frayed legs weren’t so nifty. Bertha must have sensed my unease because she said, “Take off those shorts and I’ll hem them.”

I slipped my pants off in front of her and then, fifteen minutes later, back on, newly hemmed. I looked down for the third time that day and I thought, “Bertha made a better me.”

Bertha, you made all of us better. We’ll miss you.

This second is from my cousin Stephanie Bloem now living in North Carolina:

I remember Tia Bertha as being immensely kindhearted and loving and I remember these qualities as being especially noticeable when she visited her older (and – we all know meaner) sister Aida, my mom …

I remember how my dad (Bill Clark) used to call her “the Pink Lady” because she always did such great volunteer work at the hospital …

I remember her pastel Moctezuma …

I remember her singing Mr. Sandman …

I loved her very much and if I close my eyes I can see her playing canasta with your dad and with my parents somewhere on the other side …

This last one is from my son Greg.

I remember Aba best, through the eyes of a child.

As a child, I lived for her smile, for her laugh. I remember the feel of her and the sound of her voice; gentle, loving, calling me ‘sweetie’.

I remember the softness of the couch in her old home. The pine trees that would stand in the corner on the Christmases that I visited. The fruit trees that sat in the back yard that I would sit and look out at.

I remember, amusingly, that she bought me my first hand-held video game, though I cannot remember the name of it. Only her smile and my joy at her gift.

It is through the eyes of the child that I was, that a part of me will always hold her, wishing for those simpler days again. But it is with the heart of a man that I love and miss her so terribly now.

Wind to thy wings, Aba.

I will close with a poem by Hugh Robert Orr, sent by my favorite mother-in-law, retired Unitarian Universalist, Reverend Polly Guild:

They are not gone who pass
Beyond the clasp of hand,
Out from the strong embrace.
They are but come so close
We need not grope with hands,
Nor look to see, nor try
To catch the sound of feet.
They have put off their shoes
Softly to walk by day
Within our thoughts, to tread
At night our dream-led paths of sleep.

They are not lost who find the sunset gate,
The goal of all their faithful years.
Not lost are they who reach
The summit of their climb,
The peak above the clouds
And storm. They are not lost
Who find the light of sun
And stars and God.

They are not dead who live
in hearts they leave behind
In those whom they have blessed
They live a life again,
And shall live through the years
Eternal life, and grow
Each day more beautiful
As time declares their good
Forgets the rest, and proves
Their immortality.

Presented at the Roselawn Cemetery, 9/10/05

While they finish preparing the grave, now that we have all the time in the world, I would like to read another memory, this one from my cousin Pinky from Guatemala.

I remember with special tenderness watching her on Sundays celebrate Holy Mass. I found Mass boring in those youthful days, but Tia gave me something to think about — seeing her kneeling, attentive to the teachings, and absorbed in her meditation when the little bell rang during the consecration.

So mystical her conduct — that was the seed that grew in my heart: the desire to know what she knew and feel what she felt.

God bless you Tia — your example was the backbone of my life. Thank you for your patience and your kindness.

Good-bye Mom. By the way, I asked Chet if he had a good book to leave with you…but the said that he hopes instead now to inherit some of your prized ones.

Dan’s mother, Bertha, died Wednesday morning.

Photo taken in April by Dan.

As a young woman.

Twenty years ago, shortly after Dan and Linda were married. I dropped by Sunnyside Lane to see Dan’s visiting parents. It was summer, it was humid and it was hot. That morning I’d grabbed a pair of white pants that were no longer work-worthy and ripped off the legs at mid thigh. I thought I looked pretty good in my new shorts.

As I walked up to Bertha in the living room, flattered to be in the presence of this woman who taught Dan about emotional strength, I said, “Welcome to Lincoln.” She greeted me with a broad smile and an open heart as she had the first day we met, some ten years earlier. With Emerson I sometimes felt I had to prove myself, with Bertha I only felt I had to be myself.

She sat upright, with her perfectly combed dark hair, her hands crossed on her lap, and exuded elegance. I suddenly felt that maybe these new white shorts with the frayed legs weren’t so nifty. Bertha must have sensed my unease because she said, “Take off those shorts and I’ll hem them.”

I slipped my pants off in front of her and then, fifteen minutes later, back on, newly hemmed. I looked down for the third time that day and I thought, “Bertha made a better me.”

Bertha, you made all of us better. We’ll miss you.

Bertha Downing as told to her son, Dan.

Jim Downing

Bertha, Emerson and Jim Downing

“When Jimmy was born, it was in Mexico’s ABC Hospital. He was delivered by our long-time family doctor, Dr. Castorena. His mother wanted her aunt Peg, who lived in Mexico City, to be there. JoAnn was never very friendly. I remember having a shower for her; all the ladies came, but she would not come downstairs. You three stayed with us for about a month, then went back to your Junior year at RPI.”

“I think that’s the last we ever saw of JoAnn. You got divorced the next year.”

“Your father and I maintained contact with Jimmy through his great grandmother, Hazel Anderson. I remember we visited him at Mrs. Anderson’s tiny apartment in Pontiac. I have some pictures taken of your father and me sitting on her front door steps in June ‘73. Jimmy was 6 years old. Tom [Tillson JoAnn’s father] would send us photos of him every birthday, and I have a bunch when he took Jimmy to Florida in 1974.”

“Later I remember that Tom befriended you and Bonnie, and we invited him to come and spend Christmas of 1973 in Mexico. He never had such a good time as that Christmas with our whole family. He brought lots of presents, and he brought me lots of books. Mrs. Cambon [Gaby’s mother, Dan’s sister Lilly’s first husband] also came from France that Christmas.”

“We took them to a Pastorela [a re-enactment of the birth of Jesus] in Tepozotlan [a little village near Mexico City]. The performance was outdoors, after sunset, played by the shepherds and inn keeper where Mary and Joseph seek shelter. All the players wear colorful Mexican costumes. We all sang, and afterwards they served pozole [a light stew with beef and corn in chicken broth]; this is a typical Mexican Christmas dish.”

“Tom took us all out to dinner at Normandie. Here’s a photo of the whole crowd.”

“That was a long time ago. Long past the time when a spanking or an injection would cure anything.”

Jim all grown up.