Category Archives: Families

A Moment in Time

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Visiting historic homes is one of my favorite pastimes, when I travel, or when I’m in the mood for a quick day trip from home. Newport, Rhode Island, where wealthy families once built elaborate “summer cottages” during the Gilded Age is a marvelous place to step into the past.

Last summer, a like-minded friend and I took a road trip to Newport. We toured two of the famous mansions, the Breakers and the Elms. One of the rooms I always find fascinating is the kitchen. I enjoy looking at the old-fashioned appliances and equipment used to whip up delicious meals and confections. On our summer visit, we were able to take part in the Servant’s Life tour at the Elms, after traipsing through the ornate rooms upstairs. These photographs have inspired the story below. Happy reading!

Shifting from foot to foot as she stood behind her broad, wooden baker’s bench, Poppy delicately placed a ring of fondant forget-me-nots on the top of the three-tier cake.

Already, the day felt endless. She had risen before sunrise to put the finishing touches on the wedding cake and to get the three additional desserts Mrs. Crocker insisted on adding to the menu into the oven. Time was short. At noon, the daughter of the house was to be wed.

“Ooh! That looks too lovely to eat,” a flutey voice called out from the doorway. “Hello, Poppy!”

The chef looked up and smiled warmly at the bride-to-be. She was dressed in a camel hair wrap coat with a wide fur collar and sturdy walking boots. “Good morning, Miss Rose. My goodness, you’re up early. Are you going out?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the girl explained. “I was on my way to walk on the beach, but the scent of your baking led me on this detour. What smells so heavenly?”

“Ooh, the tartes tatins!” Poppy exclaimed whirling around to don oven mitts and swiftly pull the French apple tarts from the oven. She let out a sigh of relief as she placed three trays of golden brown pastries on her bench to cool.

Rose drew closer to breathe in the apple-cinnamon aroma, letting her coat slip from her shoulders. She lifted a floury sheet of paper from the table top. It was a hand-written recipe for madeleine cakes.

“That’s the last item on the menu I have to prepare,” Poppy explained, hurrying around to pick up Rose’s coat and drape it over the back of a black bentwood rocker by the stove. “They’re your grandmother’s favorite.”

Rose nodded and smiled in thanks and observed, “Yes, Granny has always been obsessed with Marcel Proust and his madeleines. The summer I turned ten she insisted on reading the first volume of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu to me.”

She handed the recipe to Poppy and went on, “Mrs. Crocker would make a batch of these cakes every morning. This is her recipe, isn’t it? One morning, she showed me how they were made and even let me help her with the baking.” A wistful smile lit up Rose’s face. “Those madeleines tasted extra nice at tea time. Granny even commented on how good they were.”

“What a lovely memory,” Poppy said, gathering the ingredients to mix the batter for the tea cakes. “Mr. Proust would surely approve.”

“Have you read A La Recherche?” Rose asked with an admiring glance.

“Only in English,” said Poppy, “but the translation is quite good, I think.”

Rose reached for her coat, saying, “Well, I suppose I should let you get on . . .”

At the same time, Poppy said, “Would you like to help . . .”

They each stopped mid-sentence and shared a laugh.

“I don’t mean to presume,” Poppy said hurriedly. “It’s just that I think baking can be a calming pastime and I wondered if it might settle any wedding jitters.”

Rose tilted her head, considering this idea. “I do feel a bit jittery. I suppose that’s why I couldn’t sleep.”

Poppy clasped her hands in front of her, waiting.

With a decisive nod, Rose rolled up her sleeves. “I would love to help. Why shouldn’t I?”

As they got to work, Rose and Poppy continued to chat, casting aside the rules and strictures imposed by society and savoring the warmth and companionship of the moment — a moment they would each look back upon with fond nostalgia.

Emily, Emily, Emily

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Emily opened her clear green eyes.

The sliding glass door stood open. Beckoning music from a set of wind chimes hanging just outside the door drifted into the living room on a gentle spring breeze along with the scent of rain.

Rousing herself from the corner of the cozy couch where she was napping, she sat up. Her whiskers twitched and she jumped lightly to the floor. She padded over to the open door and peered outside, sniffing the warm air.

With a quick glance back at her friend Cosmo, who lounged on the back of the couch looking like a miniature panther, Emily bounded out onto the wooden balcony. Quickly she jumped up onto the cedar high top table. From her perch she had a fine view of the yard below. The drop to the patch of grass and the damp sidewalk was pretty far. But Emily felt secure crouching safely behind the protective barrier Linda’s long flower box filled with dancing pansies provided.

Emily and Cosmo were indoor cats. She loved her comfortable world filled with soft carpets, warm blankets, sunny patches and overstuffed pillows. Out here on the balcony, Emily felt a bit daring and adventurous, but also slightly hesitant.

As the soft wind ruffled her long fur and the sunshine peeking through the light clouds warmed her, Emily began to purr. A moment later, she mewed in delight when Cosmo ventured outside to join her. He sat companionably beside her on the tabletop.

Cosmo’s yellow-green gaze darted here and there. His tail twitched with restless energy. Emily touched noses with him, hoping he would relax, but then Cosmo stepped from the table onto the white balcony ledge. Chirping in alarm, Emily watched her friend cavalierly strut from one end of the ledge to the other. In a series of plaintive meows, she told him to be careful.

In astonishment, Emily watched Cosmo tense and carefully brace himself. Suddenly, he jumped off the balcony. For an endless moment he seemed to float through the air, before landing safely in the wet grass. He shook glistening raindrops from his front paws and looked back up at Emily. They stared at each other in wide-eyed surprise. Now what, they silently chorused.

“Emily, Cosmo . . . breakfast time.”

At the sound of Linda’s voice, Emily turned back to the screen door. She jumped from the table and hurried back into the living room, meowing in concern.

Linda scooped her up in a gentle hug. “Emily, Emily, Emily,” she said. “What’s the matter? Where’s our friend Mr. Cosmo?”

Where indeed was Cosmo? She hoped he hadn’t wandered away. Or been chased by a dog. Struggling in Linda’s arms, Emily let her know that she needed to get down. On the floor again, she trotted as quickly as she could to the balcony door, and Linda followed her outside.

“Cosmo,” Linda called.

To Emily’s relief, Linda immediately looked over the edge of the balcony and spotted Cosmo. “What are you doing down there?” Linda asked.

Picking up Emily again, Linda rushed inside and securely closed the balcony door behind them. Softly placing Emily on the couch, she said, “Don’t worry sweetie. I’ll go get him.”

Linda disappeared through the apartment door. What if she couldn’t find Cosmo? What would they do without him? Emily sat up on the back of the couch, alert and watchful. Minutes dragged by.

At last, Linda stepped through the doorway with Cosmo in her arms. “Don’t you ever do that again, silly boy,” she told him, echoing Emily’s very own thoughts.

She put Cosmo on the floor and he sauntered over to the couch. Flooded with gratitude, Emily jumped down to the floor and gave her friend a head bump. Together, they followed Linda into the kitchen where breakfast awaited.

Saints, Stained Glass and the Sé

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Thrilled to be traveling in Europe again, my husband and I thoroughly enjoyed a trip to Lisbon in April. What a warm and friendly city! Everyone we met from the hotel staff and restaurant servers to taxi drivers and local shopkeepers made us feel welcome. Our hotel, Memmo Alfama, was located in the medieval district of the city, just steps away from the national cathedral (the Sé).

The cathedral is officially called Igreja de Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa. It is the bishop’s seat or Sedes Episcopalis. Construction began in 1147 on the ruins of a Moorish mosque. Part of the site today is an archaeological excavation of the mosque.

While exploring the historic place of worship, the brilliant rose window caught my eye. The Romanesque window, which depicts the twelve apostles encircling Jesus, bedazzles the stone floor of the choir loft with jewel colored sequins of light. My vacation photos of the cathedral inspired the following photo essay.

Climbing the stairs to the choir loft, Anabela drew in a deep breath, trying to quiet the insistent thoughts whirling through her mind. She had so much to get done by Sunday, just two days away. For the first time, she would be hosting her family’s Festa de Santo Antonio celebration. Everyone would come back to her house after marching in the parade down the Avenida da Liberdade.

At the top of the stairs, Anabela glanced up at the gleaming rose window. Jesus and his twelve apostles depicted in the stained glass had an overarching view of the shadowy nave down below. Last summer, she had married Silverio in this church on a hot July morning. Anabela had walked up the aisle, escorted by her proud papa, while her cousin, Mariela, who was the choir organist, played the processional. Mariela was now teaching Anabela to play the organ and had insisted that she was ready to play at Mass on Sunday.

Taking a seat at the organ and closing her eyes, Anabela allowed herself a moment to daydream about her wedding day. She remembered the flowers, hydrangeas and lavender decorating the altar. She recalled the smiles and waves from her friends and relatives who filled the pews. But most of all, she thought of Silverio standing calmly at the front of the church, waiting.

Speaking of Silverio, she couldn’t keep him waiting today. She was supposed to meet him at Mercado da Baixa as soon as she finished her organ practice. They were going to buy the food for the festa. Sardines (of course), fresh kale for the caldo verde, fruit and vinho tinto for pitchers of sangria, and loaves of bread and pasteis de nata from their favorite bakery. Anabela had a shopping list tucked safely away in her purse.

Hurriedly, she opened her folder of music. She spread out the pages, placed her hands on the organ keys, and began to play. As the chords and melody of her favorite hymn filled the church, outside the sun broke through a layer of clouds and streamed through the rose window. Swirls of kaleidoscopic color danced across the floor of the choir loft, seemingly in time with the music. Anabela watched the sequins of light and played on.

She felt as though Santo Antonio had sent her a sign. Sunday would be a beautiful day.

En Famille

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In 2008, my husband and I visited Paris for one sunny week in April. One of the highlights of our trip was spending an afternoon in Luxembourg Garden where we saw children sailing toy boats on the man-made pond and Ed sat down to play chess with an accommodating French gentleman. These memories have inspired the following photo essay.

“How is our friend Maude?” Edmund asked, stretching out his denim-clad legs and crossing them at the ankle. “Still driving Duncan crazy?”

Elizabeth Ann looked at her twin brother with a bemused smile. They sat together on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The clouds drifted across a watercolor blue sky, but the warm sun shone down dappling the pool of shallow water in front of them with spangles of light.

Edmund’s wife, Joy, stood at the edge of the expansive granite basin with their daughters, Angela and Victoria. At the far end of the man-made pond, the Palais du Luxembourg rose like a fairy tale vision.

“Maude is great and so are Duncan and the twins,” Elizabeth Ann replied, as she watched her nieces.

The girls each clutched a wooden pole. They leaned carefully over the rippling water, using the poles to steer two toy sailboats.

“Marjorie and Dylan are four now,” Elizabeth Ann went on. “They are so curious and observant about everything. Maude says they come up with some pretty hilarious questions sometimes.”

Edmund chuckled. “Too bad they all couldn’t make the trip with you.” He had met Maude and Duncan on several occasions over the years. All three worked as academic historians and Edmund often joked that he had more in common with his sister’s best friend than she did.

Early that morning, Elizabeth Ann had flown to Paris from Edinburgh, where she had been visiting her old school friend. She had met Maude while studying abroad in London.

“I know,” Elizabeth Ann agreed. “But they had scheduled a trip to visit Duncan’s parents this weekend.”

As he nodded in understanding, Edmund lifted a hand in greeting to a stocky, dark-haired man who returned the wave with a grin as he strode past.

“Who was that?” Elizabeth Ann wondered.

“Before you got here, I challenged him to a game of chess,” Edmund said. He gestured with his chin at a gathering of tables shaded by a grove of lime trees. At each game table, competitors stared intently at the black and white pieces arranged around the tabletop.

“You did?” Elizabeth Ann raised her eyebrows. “Does that guy speak English?”

“Nope.”

Elizabeth Ann laughed. Only her brother would have the confidence to challenge a stranger in a foreign country to a chess match.

“Who won?”

“Oh, he did. But I gave him a run for his money.”

“Très bien,” Elizabeth Ann praised and then stood up to welcome Angela and Victoria as they made their way back to join their dad at the park bench. Joy followed, smiling fondly at Elizabeth Ann.

“Auntie!” the little girls cried, laughing and skipping in their rush to give Elizabeth Ann exuberant hugs.

“Did you watch us sailing the boats?” six-year-old Victoria asked.

“Sure did,” Elizabeth Ann said.

“It was so fun!” Victoria slipped her hand into her aunt’s.

Elizabeth Ann squeezed her niece’s small, warm hand and bent down to kiss the top of her head.

“Hey, Dad,” Angela said. “You promised us ice cream. Can we get some now? I’m starving.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Edmund. “Let’s see . . .” His voice trailed off as he pulled a guidebook from his back pocket. “I think there is an ice cream shop not too far from here.”

“Do you want ice cream?” Angela asked Elizabeth Ann.

“Always. I hope they have cinnamon ice cream,” she said.

“I never heard of cinnamon ice cream.” Victoria wrinkled her nose.

“It’s really good,” Elizabeth Ann insisted.

“My favorite is peanut butter cup. I hope they have that,” Victoria informed everyone at the same time that Edmund said, “Here we go. There’s a café on Rue Soufflot where we can have some Berthillon ice cream.”

He turned to Joy. “That’s the brand the travel agent recommended, right?”

“Definitely. He said it’s out of this world.”

“Sailboats, chess, and ice cream . . . could this day get any better?” Edmund joked. “Life is good.”

As the family set off, Victoria walked between her parents. But Angela followed behind with Elizabeth Ann. “I think I’ll get cinnamon ice cream like you,” she confided.

Elizabeth Ann put her arm around her older niece’s shoulder, her heart warmed by Angela’s earnest tone.

Edmund and Joy were so fortunate to have two sweet little daughters. Maude and Duncan were blessed with their children too. Walking along the leafy Parisian street with Edmund, Joy and the girls, Elizabeth Ann considered her brother’s words with bittersweet emotion.

Life was good, but she wondered when she would have a family of her own and hoped she would not have to wait too long.

Lily-of-the-Valley: a token of happiness and good luck

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Wherever I travel, my itinerary includes a visit to the local botanical gardens whenever possible.  Through the years, I have wandered down so many garden paths, snapping photos of eye-catching blooms and breathing in the heavenly perfume of the flowers.  Some lovely gardens that are well-worth a visit include Monet’s water garden in Giverny, France, the Huntington Botanical Gardens in San Marino, CA, and the Halifax Public Gardens in Nova Scotia.

 In June 2019, my family and I spent a sunny afternoon roaming a botanical garden that is a bit closer to home: the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens.  At the time, a fragrant patch of lily-of-the-valley was in bloom.  The delicate scent of these tiny bell-shaped flowers, calls to mind memories of my mother getting ready for an evening out with my father.  Beautifully dressed and made-up, she always completed her ensemble with a spritz of Muguet perfume from the elegant glass bottle on her dresser.

My childhood memories and the pictures I took in Maine have inspired the following photo essay.

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Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens (photo by L. Walkins 2018)

Anneliese Twigg sits at her French grandmother’s round kitchen table swinging her legs and tapping her heels against the wooden chair as she finishes her lunch.  Across from her, Mémé is knitting. She knows how to make hats and mittens and even stuffed animals with her needles and colorful yarn.  Anneliese hopes her grandmother will teach her how to knit someday.

In the center of the table, an old jelly jar filled with water holds a bouquet of lily-of-the-valley.  Anneliese reaches out a pudgy hand to pull the sparkling glass closer.  She studies the quilted pattern adorning the sides of the vase, and traces her finger over each square.  The tiny white flowers sway like silent bells.

Breathing in the lovely fragrance of the lilies, Anneliese remarks, “They smell like Mama’s perfume.”

Mémé looks up.  “In France they are called muguet.”  She sets down her knitting and catches the ball of yarn in her gnarled hand as it rolls off the edge of the table.  “I am going to tell you a story about why these flowers are so special.”

Sitting a little straighter and flipping her long blonde braid over her shoulder, Anneliese smiles.  “Okay.”

“Hundreds of years ago in France, there was a girl named Elisabeth.  She grew up in a royal chateau outside Paris with her brothers and sisters.”

Anneliese’s grey eyes widen in delight.

“And do you know what else?” Mémé asks.

“What?”

“Elisabeth was your eleventh great grandmother, so this story is part of our family history.”

“Really, truly?”

Mémé nods and gives a little laugh.  “Elisabeth had three brothers.  The oldest boy, Francis, became King of France when their father died.  He and his wife, Mary, who was Queen of Scotland, ruled for just one year, and then Elisabeth’s younger brother, Charles Maximilien became King when he was just ten years old.”

Anneliese, who had turned ten just two weeks ago, gives her grandmother a skeptical look. “How can a little boy be a king?”

“That is how things were done then,” Mémé says with a shrug.

“But what about the flowers?”

“I am coming to that.  Just listen, ma petite.”  She folds her hands on the edge of the table and goes on with the story.  “At a royal May Day celebration, someone gave Charles a sprig of muguet to wish him good luck.  He was so charmed by the kind gesture, he decided to create a new holiday.  He called it the Fête du Muguet and from that day on, he gave bouquets of lily-of-the-valley to his sisters and all of the ladies of the court on May 1.”

“For good luck?” Anneliese guesses.

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Lily-of-the-Valley (photo by L. Walkins 2018)

“But of course,” Mémé says gently.  “This tradition has lived on even until today.  When I was a girl in France, my sisters and I would go into the little forest behind our farm to gather the muguet that grew wild underneath the trees every year on May 1, which also happened to be my birthday.”

Leaning forward to once again smell the flowers in the pretty little jar, Anneliese says, “I wish I was born on May Day like you, Mémé.”

 

 

 

Home again, home again . . .

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Reading is one of the great joys in life.  Visiting new and intriguing literary destinations in the pages of a novel has always been a favorite pastime for me.  Even as a young girl  I would never go anywhere without taking along a book.  I gloried in getting to know some of the world’s best-loved literary heroines from Jo March and Laura Ingalls to Mary Lennox and Elizabeth Bennett.  I was particularly drawn to the talkative orphan with long red braids, Anne Shirley, reading and re-reading L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series many times.  Although I admired Anne and was entertained by her mishaps and antics, I was equally enchanted by the village of Avonlea on the north shore of Prince Edward Island. 

 In June, I finally visited Anne’s beloved home.  My husband and I set off on a Canadian road trip as soon as the school year ended.  We visited St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, NB, Cavendish (Avonlea), PEI and Halifax, NS.  All three destinations were delightful, but Prince Edward Island was by far my favorite.  As we settled into our rustic motel in Cavendish, I felt immediately at home.  That sense of welcome along with the photos I took during our visit inspired me to write the following photo essay.

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The lupines were in bloom, lining the roadsides all across PEI. (photo by L. Walkins, 2018)

From the top deck of the ferry, Luna spotted her sister on the shore.  Stella’s bright blonde hair stood out like a beacon against the deep blue sky.  Slowly, as the ferry chugged across the Wood Islands harbor, the features of Stella’s smiling heart-shaped face came into focus.  Luna took off her straw sun hat and waved it over her head in greeting.

Picking up her overstuffed backpack and hooking it over her slim left shoulder, Luna hurried down to the main deck and joined the line of passengers waiting to disembark.

When the crew had the boat safely tied up in port, Luna followed the crowd out into the June sunshine.  As she stepped off the metal gangway onto her island at long last, a sense of peace flooded through her.

“Luna, over here,” Stella called.  She stood beside two bicycles leaning against the weathered wall of the marina office.

Luna joined her sister, dropped her backpack at her feet and the two girls shared a warm hug. Barely a year apart, they were often mistaken as twins.

“I can’t believe I’m back on PEI,” Luna said as Stella simultaneously cried, “Welcome home!”

They laughed and Stella continued, “I’m so glad you’re here.  How was Halifax?  What about art school?  It must have been so awesome.  You haven’t turned into a city girl, have you?”

Luna held up her hands to ward off her sister’s torrent of questions.  “Whoa,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything when we get home, and of course I haven’t turned into a city girl.  No way.”

Nodding at the bikes, she went on, “Is this how we’re getting to White Sands?”

Stella shook her head as Luna grinned at her.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  The car’s over there.”  She waved vaguely toward the parking lot.  “We definitely should go for a bike ride later though.”

“Sounds good,” Luna agreed.

Stella grabbed the backpack and led the way to the yellow VW bug the sisters shared.  A few minutes later they were cruising down Shore Road.

Luna rolled down her window and drank in the view of the countryside rolling by.  Blossoming lupines lined both sides of the road, creating a pink and purple picket fence in front of the white clapboard houses and farm yards they drove past.

“Do you remember that old picture book, Miss Rumphius?” Luna asked her sister.

“Is that the one about the librarian who went around the country scattering lupine seeds?  I love that story.”

“Exactly,” Luna said.  “The illustrations are really amazing.  I can still picture some of them so vividly even though I haven’t looked at the book since we were little.”

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Prince Edward Island 2018  (photo by L. Walkins)

“Your paintings are just as good,” Stella said loyally.  “And maybe some day, you’ll publish a picture book that everyone will remember.”

“I hope so.”

The sisters fell silent and Luna continued to gaze out the window.  When they slowed down at the traffic light by the red and white lighthouse, she sighed in contentment.  In a few minutes, she would walk into her mother’s cozy kitchen where Mom would have tea and her favorite scones waiting, and later she would take a long bike ride with Stella.  It was good to be home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you remember?

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My lifelong friend, Avery, lives in Malibu, an ideal vacation destination.  I have been out to visit her several times over the years.  We always have a grand time together.  In April, I flew out to LA once again, looking forward to the different excursions we had planned.  One afternoon, she took me to Point Dume, where we walked along the cliffs overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean.  While we were admiring the ocean panorama, we spotted a playful whale in the water below.  We watched with delight as it cavorted in the surf.  In the piece below, my character, Grace Martini and her sister, Charlotte, have a similar experience which brings some nostalgic memories to the surface.

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Grace followed her sister up the steep path.  Both sides of the track were lined with yellow coreopsis.  The rampant wildflowers danced in the ocean breeze beneath a bright blue sky.

Some lines from Grace’s favorite poem popped into her mind.

… all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, /  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

William Wordsworth would certainly appreciate this view at the top of Point Dume.

Charlotte paused a few steps in front of Grace.  She shaded her eyes with one hand and gestured at the panoramic scene with the other.  “There’s Zuma Beach,” she said, taking a swig from her stainless steel water bottle.

“It looks the same.  Just as stunning as ever,” Grace observed.  She pulled her camera from the pocket of her linen capris to take a picture.  “I wish Elizabeth Ann were here.  She always loved this hike when she and Edmund were little.”

“Remember how they used to race each other up the path from the boardwalk?” Charlotte said, setting her bottle on the sand beside her.

“With Harold right behind.”  Grace smiled at the memory of her dignified husband galloping up the bluff like a kid.  Harold was spending this morning on the golf course with Charlotte’s husband, George.

Charlotte stretched her arms up in front of her.  Reaching for the sky, she pressed her palms together in a graceful mountain pose.  “This would be a perfect spot for a yoga class.”

“Why don’t you take some of your students on a field trip?” Grace joked as her sister lowered her arms and grinned.

“Maybe I will.  Let’s keep going to the overlook platform,” Charlotte said, picking up her bottle and leading the way along the edge of the cliff.

Grace snapped one more picture for her daughter and hurried to catch up with Charlotte.  When she joined her on the overlook platform, Charlotte beckoned eagerly.  “There are dolphins playing in the water.”

Scanning the deep blue expanse of ocean, Grace clapped her hands when she spotted three dolphins diving in and out of the surf a few hundred yards off shore.  One suddenly leapt into the crystal clear air,  momentarily silhouetted against the horizon before slipping neatly underwater again.  “Did you see that?”  Grace turned to Charlotte, who’s eyes were gleaming with pleasure.

“Amazing,” Charlotte murmured.

The sisters watched the frolicking dolphins for several more minutes.  They laughed and exclaimed over their antics and Grace managed to take a couple of photos.  As the dolphins moved further out to sea, she sighed.

“When the twins were about eight years old, Edmund was obsessed with dolphins and whales,” Grace reminisced.  “He convinced Elizabeth Anne that they should both become marine biologists.”

“And today, Edmund is a history professor and Elizabeth Ann is a restaurant critic,” Charlotte said.

“I know.  Apparently, childhood dreams don’t always come true.”

“I suppose not.”  Charlotte brushed her wind-blown hair back and once again led the way along the coastal hiking trail. “But I believe life usually turns out the way it is meant to.”

As they carefully descended the bluff taking the path that would bring them down to the beach, Grace decided her sister was right.  She wouldn’t trade  her own life with Harold and their two children for anything.

 

Family Resemblances

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While visiting Montreal in August 2015, my husband and I spent a rainy afternoon in the Musée des Beaux Arts.  We enjoyed strolling through the galleries of Canadian, American and European paintings and inspecting the unique items in the decorative arts collection.  In particular, I admired several intriguing portraits including Abraham van den Tempel’s  seventeenth century painting of Odilia van Wassenaar and her dog.  

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Musée des Beaux Arts, Montreal (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

 

Annelise van Strum  hurried  along the rue Sherbrooke clutching her umbrella.  The red and yellow tulips decorating the rim of its clear plastic bubble danced in front of her eyes as she splashed through puddles on her way to the Musée des Beaux Arts.  She didn’t mind the weather.  A rainy day was ideal for exploring the museum galleries.

She was on a special quest this afternoon.  For the past few months she had been  researching their  family tree for her mother.  She had traced the family line all the way back to seventeenth century Holland.  Just that morning she had discovered that the portrait of one of her ancestors was hanging in the fine arts museum around the corner from her apartment.

Pulling her umbrella closed as she stepped into the museum lobby, Annelise handed it over to the girl behind the coat check counter.

“Passez une bonne visite,” the girl said with a smile.

“Merci.”  Annelise accepted the thick plastic disk numbered 143.

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Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar, Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

Making her way to the Hornstein Pavilion for Peace where works from the Dutch Golden Age were on display, Annelise wondered what her ancestor Odilia’s life was like.  She located the correct gallery and began perusing the portraits hung around the softly lit room.  The expressive faces painted hundred of years earlier by the Dutch masters peered out from their frames.

At last, Annelise paused and looked into the eyes of a young woman seated in a sturdy chair with a small dog on her lap.  The girl looked to be in her twenties.  Her light chestnut hair and dark eyes were of the same coloring as Annelise’s own.

The plaque beneath the painting identified it as Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar.  Stepping back and hugging herself, Annelise murmured, “There she is, my tenth great-grandmother.”

Annelise carefully examined the painting, searching for clues about who Odilia was exactly.  The gold trinkets adorning her ornate fur-trimmed gown and the pearls encircling her throat and wrist spoke to a wealthy upbringing. Odilia wore an intelligent, almost mischievous expression on her pale face.  The way she cradled her dog gently on her lap convinced Annelise that her ancestor must have had a kind heart.

Raising her cell phone, Annelise snapped three photos of the painting.  Odilia’s portrait reminded her of an old black and white photo of Aunt Phillipa, her mom’s older sister.  In a family album, there was a picture of Phillipa, aged 15, with their Jack Russell terrier sitting on the front stoop of their childhood home.  Phillipa and Odilia might almost be twins.

Annelise laughed softly to herself as she retrieved her umbrella and made her way home. The rain had stopped but the pavement still gleamed with puddles that reflected the clearing sky.

She felt like she had connected with a long-lost relative and couldn’t wait to show the photos to her mother.  Together, they could go online to find out more about Odilia and her family . . . their family.

 

 

 

 

Life is good

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When I was in my late twenties, my friends and I took a vacation to Miami, Florida.  We took a cruise to nowhere, explored the shops at the Bayside Marketplace and Coconut Grove, visited a historical home called Villa Viscaya and of course spent time on the beach. One afternoon I spotted a pink hotdog stand on the sand.  Down near the water, a man was flying a bright pink kite.  The color combination provided a tempting photo opportunity.  Later, while looking through my  vacation album, I wrote the descriptive piece below.

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Miami Beach, March 1991 (photo by L. LeVasseur)

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Juliette watches him from the boardwalk.  His fluorescent pink kite is a solitary point of color in the overcast sky.  The kite hovers on the horizon and then plummets toward the rolling waves.  She feels her pulse quicken and her freckled face flush as the kite dives toward the blue-green surf.  But with a determined flick of his wrist he stops its abrupt descent and sends it soaring in the strengthening breeze.

She breathes out a sigh of relief and sets the picnic basket she has brought with her on one of the tables surrounding the cheerful pink hotdog stand, which has closed for the day.  Perhaps they will come back tomorrow at noon and have hot dogs and curly fries for lunch like teen-agers.  Now, they will content themselves with her home-made macaroni salad, deviled eggs and apple pie.

Pulling her denim jacket closer around her slight frame, she waves as Leo catches sight of her.  He reels in the kite, walking slowly up the beach to where she waits. He looks relaxed and comfortable in his shorts and snug windbreaker.  She notes that he must have gone to the barber and admires his closely cropped graying hair.

He greets her with a kiss and says, “Hello there.  How was your last day of school?”

She smiles a little sadly.  “It was fine.  The kids gave me farewell gifts and they all said they would miss me next year.  The teachers surprised me with a cake in the faculty room at lunch.”

“I’m glad they appreciate you,” he says, opening the picnic basket and helping her set out their supper.  “You’ve certainly devoted many years to the school.”

She nods and holds out her hand for his plate.  She puts a mound of macaroni salad on the plate and asks, “How was your first day of retirement?  What did you do all day?”

Helping himself to two deviled eggs, he says, “I had a great day.  I read the paper and worked in the garden this morning.  After lunch, I ran into town to do some errands and now I’m here enjoying a delicious supper with my beautiful wife.  Life is good.”

Juliette gives him a fond smile and as they eat, they laugh and talk, making plans for the next day and the months ahead.  They will spend time with their grandchildren.  Leo will plant more roses in the garden.  Juliette will take up quilting again.  They will travel to France and visit the village where her parents met and fell in love.

At last, they both take a final bite of the sweet and spicy apple pie.  They pack up the remains of the picnic and stroll hand-in-hand down to the water’s edge where he launches the bright pink kite once again over the ocean.

Make a Wish

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When my niece spent a semester studying in Rome, of course I had to visit her.  We had a marvelous time.  On our first day, we hit many of the popular tourist sights, beginning with the Pantheon, where we marveled at the ingenuity of ancient architects.  A few blocks away is the magnificent Trevi Fountain (pictured below), where visitors flock to throw a coin over their shoulder into the crystalline waters flowing from the imposing marble sculpture portraying Triton and Oceanus. Someday, I hope to return to Rome to make a wish at the Trevi Fountain. 

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Fontana di Trevi, Roma (photo by L. Walkins 2014)

Elinor can hear the rush of moving water even before she enters the Piazza di Trevi.  Hurrying along the narrow sidewalk, she dodges swinging briefcases and over-size pocketbooks carried by Roman commuters.  At last, she breaks free from the crowd and stands still at the edge of the historic square.  Before her, the splendid fountain glows in the morning sunshine, the magnificent marble figures glowing, the pool of water dappled with spangles of light.

Hands on her hips, she scans  the square and spots a slim figure, wearing a swirling floral dress.  The girl perches on the low fountain wall and dips her hand into the water.  She leans too far and nearly tumbles into the pool.

“Maggie?” Elinor calls, shaking her head and walking briskly to join her younger sister. They haven’t seen each other since Maggie departed for her year abroad in September.

“Elinor!  I can’t believe you’re here,” Maggie shrieks as she leaps up and wraps her in an enthusiastic hug.  “Thank you so much for coming to visit me.”

As her sister begins to pull away, Elinor holds the embrace for just a second more, and then steps back to peer into Maggie’s bright blue eyes.  “You look happy.  Rome must agree with you.”

“It does.  School is fabulous.  My apartment is fabulous. My friends are fabulous. Everything is fabulous.”  Maggie links arms with Elinor.  “Are you ready for some sightseeing?  What should we do first?  Climb the Spanish Steps?  Or, I know, let’s go to the Pantheon.  It’s right down the road.”

“Wait, wait.  Slow down a minute.”  Elinor fishes in the pocket of her Shaker-stitch sweater.  “First, let’s make a wish.”

She hands Maggie a round gold and silver Euro, keeping one for herself.  Together, they toss them over their shoulders.  The coins land one after another with a satisfying splash.

“Do you think our wishes will come true?” Maggie wonders.

“Of course they will,” Elinor assures her as the coins drift lazily to the bottom of the fountain.