Disciples of a different time, place and journey

It's been a while since I had something big to process.  Knowing that I process better when I write in stream of consciousness and mindfulness of what I'm feeling, I'm returning to the blog to do just that.  This is a big one.  A friend told me last week that she has a strong feeling - a 3AM wake up feeling - that my purpose in going through this journey into the criminal justice and prison system, supporting a friend, is so that I can improve conditions and outcomes for those once incarcerated.  AND further improve the process to help them reenter society and change their path going forward with love and respect for themselves and others.  So we're starting on that path.  Part faith journey, part institutional journey and all with the faith that all will be well.

For the first time this Lent, I have some idea what the disciples were feeling.  Jesus took them through the process of what was to come in parable and story and preaching, but they really had no idea.  What would happen? How it would affect them and others far into the future?  They could not fathom the far-reaching affect of this separation from their friend.  I can somewhat understand their walk in the wilderness, not literally, but figuratively.

We always want to think we have it under control, we know what to expect and how to prepare for what is to come.  When that power is taken away, we swirl in uncontrolled waves of rage and anxiety.  In a few weeks, a good friend, Yvette*, will be taken into custody to serve 6 ½ years in prison for a fatality accident that was her fault.  Her judgement was impaired, she made a poor decision and someone died.  

We’ve known for almost three years that a sentence would come, but it was a nebulous shadow hanging over our lives while we did other things – mundane things.  Attended AA meetings, appointments, work, grocery shopping, visiting with family, paying bills, doing our taxes, loading and unloading the dishwasher, washer and dryer.  Coming out of a pandemic in various stages and waiting for the court backlog to abate, until her case came to the forefront of a long delay.

And then it happened.  Almost 3 years after the incident.  She called and said, “I have news.  Are you sitting down?  I heard from my attorney and we’ll have two court appearances.  At the one in May, I’ll be taken into custody and serve 6 and a half years, or less.” And I took the news with a surprising sense of calm and acceptance.  Underneath, I was nowhere near calm and accepting.  I was raging inside.  

We all know some of the hiccups of the prison industrial complex and criminal justice system, so while I’m sure she will be dedicated to keeping her head down and serving her time, I’m wondering how she will adjust to the subtle social order within a women’s prison.  I’m hoping that there isn’t someone who has it out for hazing newbies.  I’m hoping she can achieve her goals of further education, sponsoring and mentoring AA buddies.  That she will find a church group to support her in her time of need.  I’m hopeful that the system can help keep her safe, tend to her medication needs and maintain her sanity.  Those are not small goals within a broken system.

Another friend, Betsy*, is preparing for a move to a new home.  We’re not sure Yvette will ever visit that new home.  We’re trying to schedule a gal’s weekend away – but time is compressed and there is a pressing need to make good memories to sustain her in her isolation.  Yes, we’ll visit, write and send her goodies to help pass the time. We don’t yet know what is considered contraband and what is allowed.  But it won’t be the same.  How many times will I start to send her a text message, then pause and remember.  We often went thrift shopping at Value Village and Goodwill together.  I’ve been a few times alone, it’s just not the same.  I’m eating my feelings.  I’ll have six years to correct those mistakes.

We’re clearing Y's rental home to the walls.  I have to resist wanting to keep everything for her for 6 years because that isn’t practical.  She will have space at my home to acclimate after she is released, but what will she truly need?  There is no way of knowing.  She may want to start fresh, she may want to retain some old items, she may have no interest or need coming from such a minimal existence.  We are giving items to people who have true need for them.  We found a home for her sewing machine with a woman who will send it to her family in Mexico.  

We’ll find a new home for her dog, Marco, she has raised since a puppy.  He won’t understand but he will accept. Most likely with someone who needs a pal for their sobriety journey.  This is the one time it might be advantageous to be an animal and not have full understanding of what it to come.  He will have faith that we will find a good home for him and he will adjust and accept.  If only the rest of us could follow and just allow the unknown to happen with such blind faith.

The mantra prayer of Mother Julian of Norwich:

*Some names have been fictionalized, but not Marco...

"ALL mothers were summoned when HE called out for his MAMA"

In reviewing the new post, I discovered this DRAFT that was never published.  As we approach Holy Week, it is timely as the sins of the past still occur in our day to day.  

"ALL mothers were summoned when HE called out for his MAMA"

https://georgefloydstreetart.omeka.net/items/show/1390

Throughout this pandemic time, I've been plagued with insomnia.  At first it was something I fought, then embraced the quiet solitude to embark on questions that led me down deep rabbit holes. Questions entered my brain that could not be ignored.  One such question was a comparison of the last words of George Floyd and the last words of Jesus.  I found resources for both and they appear below with credit for each compilation at the bottom.  May it give you pause and compel social action.  A drive to be educated, a drive to learn the rest of the story regarding our collective human history and a drive to make changes in large and small ways that will have a ripple effect into future generations.  Peace. MDM

When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved

standing nearby, he said to his mother, "Dear woman, here is your son,"

and to the disciple, "Here is your mother." 

1. Mama, mama, mama!

“When George Floyd called for his mother, he was calling for all of us,” said a friend

of mine who is the mother of a young Black son. When Jesus was dying on the cross, he

looked to his mother, Mary, commending her to John’s care. We can only imagine how

Mary felt to see the life slowly leaving her son’s body. In his last moments, Mr. Floyd

cried out for the woman who brought him into this world as he realized he was being

ripped out of it. 

 

"I am thirsty." ​ (As translated in the New Living Translation (NLT.)

2. Please, man.

When Jesus was on the cross, he appealed to his tormentors to quench his thirst.

Mr. Floyd appealed to the humanity of his tormentor to save his life. He was already on

the ground and restrained. He was not a threat. This plea echoes the signs of the 1960s

strikes when working-class Black people asserted their dignity by simply saying, “I am a

Man!” It also echoes the appeal of Sojourner Truth for persons to see and value her

humanity by saying, “Ain’t I a Woman?”

 

I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

3. You’re going to kill me, man!

Mr. Floyd told Chauvin he was dying and pleaded with him to stop. As the trial goes on,

we are hearing the damning testimony of persons who all say they know they witnessed a

murder — an assassination perpetrated by white supremacy at the hands of the police.

How many times have we heard deadly force being justified because of a perceived threat

or a need to stand one’s ground? We remember the witnesses of Jesus’ march to Golgotha

and Simon of Cyrene who did his best to help our Lord.

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” 

4. I can’t believe this.

Floyd’s disbelief that a transaction with an alleged counterfeit bill could cost him his life.

The shock from emergency personnel who clearly saw the signs of distress yet were not

allowed to render assistance. The horror of rookie police officers out on their training

patrol witnessing a superior crushing the life out of a restrained suspect. We all cannot

believe the cruel brutality of white supremacy—yet it plays before our collective eyes daily

with its deadly consequences. We remember the brutality of the Roman Empire and the

fact that Jesus’ execution was an example of the continued assurance of their supremacy

through brutal oppression.

  

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." ​

5. Tell my kids, I love them.

Floyd had a life before he became a martyr, a slogan and a T-shirt image. He was a friend,

a son and a father. Behind every victim of racism is collateral damage — grieving children,

a heartbroken community, the lost potential of what could and should have been. Even

though his death has become a symbol of the cost of institutional racism for Black people,

George Floyd was a real man with real people who mourn him and have been robbed of

his presence in their lives. We remember Jesus’ human relationships and the grief of his

loved ones that often get lost and forgotten in the course of Jesus as a symbol of divine

love.

"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." When he had said this, he breathed his last.

6. I’m dead.

Between 1920 and 1938, the New York branch of the NAACP hung a flag outside of its

office emblazoned with the words, “Another man was lynched today.” In 2015, the flag

was revived and updated to say, “Another man was lynched by police today.” Jesus’ death

was a public lynching complete with a gambling show. The world has borne witness to

Floyd’s lynching — many anguished, others cheering and some nonchalant — in the same

way the spectators watched Jesus hang his head on Golgotha as the sun set.

... he said, "It is finished!"

7. I can’t breathe!

The most well-known phrase that embodies how white supremacy has strangled the life out

of Black people globally through the trans-Atlantic slave trade (Maafa), colonialism,

apartheid, segregation and a litany of other terms associated with white supremacy and

anti-Blackness. It was first seared into our memories when we watched Eric Garner have

the life choked out of him. On May 25, 2020, over 600 years of global anti-Blackness

seemed distilled into a single moment as a white cop ripped the spirit out of a Black man.

We remember Jesus committed his spirit to God as his lungs collapsed from the crucifixion.

https://religionnews.com/2021/04/02/on-this-good-friday-let-us-reflect-on-the-seven-last-words-of-george-floyd/ - John  Thomas III

Fairchild, Mary. "7 Last Words of Jesus." Learn Religions, Aug. 27, 2020, learnreligions.com/7-last-words-of-jesus-700175.

"Father, forgive Them for They Know Not What They Do..."

In the first Century, Christians would gather quietly to celebrate Eucharist in small groups to avoid being detected by the government at the risk of being persecuted or killed.  As we gather in small groups on technologically enhanced service modes, we may have considered ourselves similar to the early Christians, but above persecution and threat.  Hiding out in our homes during this pandemic for safety and to preserve our health while connecting with others in the same boat and who share our values and place spirituality and religion as valuable in daily life.

Last night was Good Friday, a solemn night of Holy Week when we reflect on the events leading to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.  Our small local church was holding services on the Zoom app.  We started promptly at 7pm and our reader was midverse in the first lesson when we were bombarded with "bots".  Avatars broke in and spewed racist, vile and non-family friendly garbled speech just to interrupt the service as is their method of entertainment or the personification of their possession.  Some of our children and families were trageted.  We were stunned, shocked and at a loss for words.

If you have ever read of demonic possession in the Bible and wondered what it would sound like, we had a taste of that when our service was interrupted.  We saw images we didn't intend to see and heard speech spewing forth hate, vile and repulsive words used for shock value - similar to what people might have heard uttered by those possessed in Jesus' time.  It was shocking, it was evil and I just wanted to make it stop and go away.   Later, I thought, we might have all unmuted and started chanting "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."  Jesus spoke these words as the Roman soldiers nailed his body to the cross.  Was this our test to extend faith, forgiveness and the touch of God to those who hacked us? 

Was their intent motivated by Satanic involvement to disrupt our service?
Was this an opportunity to remind us that evil exists in the world and manifests itself in a variety of ways in those who have no spiritual presence in their lives?
Did this happen for a reason?

I think yes on all counts. My answer to these questions came later in the hastily rescheduled service when we recited the following prayer:

Let us pray for all who have not received the Gospel of Christ;
For those who have never heard the word of salvation
For those who have lost their faith
For those hardened by sin or indifference
For the contemptuous and the scornful
For those who are enemies of the cross of Christ and persecutors of his disciples
For those who in the name of Christ have persecuted others
That God will open their hearts to the truth, and lead them to faith and obedience.

Did this happen for a reason?  I think it was to give us the opportunity to continue to pray that God's presence enfolds these persons and helps them throw off the mask of hatred, racism, perversion and welcome faith and love in a world that is still filled with the personification of evil in many forms.  As we travel through the rest of the Easter weekend, I plan to hold them in grace and peace and if they should infiltrate again will unmute and preach forgiveness, for they know not what they do.

May the peace, grace and hope of Christ's resurrection at Easter 

buoy your spirit in these challenging days.

Why Help Someone Who is not Family

For the last month I have been very involved in the life of an 87yo friend.  She has needed greater help to stay in her home and transition at a rate that is comfortable to her to assisted living.  Her sons are out of state and rarely contact her but by phone/email.  In late November, she fell in her home and ended up in the ER.  She did not have a stroke.  She was found to be in relatively good health, but no longer safe to live on her own.  I jumped in with both feet to make sure she was not alone in navigating this process and sometimes have doubted my decision to do so.  She needs a local advocate, a pal, a visitor to keep her connected with the outside world.  We all do.  Several people have asked me why I'm doing this for Lucy and why I don't just drop the situation and let her kids handle it.  In short, they won't, they can't, they still think she should be able to handle it all despite the evidence to the contrary.  They haven't for the last 10 years I've known her and won't expand their level of involvement even when it's warranted.  This makes me sad, because Lucy can't be the only senior with this experience.  She's just the one with whom I have connected.  Why?  She has all but served as my surrogate grandmother for the entire time I have known her.  She raised 2 sons (the same age difference as mine) and managed subsidized senior housing to augment her social security income.  She cared for folks who lived in her buildings in Montana when their families left them alone.  When they had no families.  When they had no one but themselves to rely on.

The first time I worked with Lucy we were assigned to facilitate a taco bar for a Junior Youth Conference at our church.  At that time, she was in her mid 70s and hadn't cooked for a group in some time, and never tacos.  Since I was elbow deep in Cub Scouts at the time, we joined forces in the experience in feeding youth and set out with a plan.  We made a grocery list, filled the trunk and back seat of her convertible (yes, I see the irony there) with food stuffs, assembled the ingredients, enlisted folks to help cook, and produced 15 LBS of taco meat.  Yes, 15 lbs.  Because we were feeding 50 middle schoolers and that's what the recipe said we needed.  We had shredded lettuce, cheddar cheese, taco meat and salsa from hell to breakfast in that tiny church kitchen.  We dirtied EVERY bowl, container and set of tongs.  She was sure we needed 25 taco shells.  I insisted we would need only taco chips and soft tortillas. Lucy also bought 2 dozen taco shells. When we ran out of tortillas and chips, she took her 25 taco shells in the back and "found" two extra bags of chips... she broke up the taco shells and put them in two bowls.  Lucy is an out of the box thinker like that.  When all was said and done, we had one ziploc bag of taco meat left over and my family grew quickly tired of taco salad, nachos and the like.

When I was diagnosed with colon cancer, there were several weeks before we could determine a treatment plan and I just had to sit and wait for test results to come back.  We escaped to the Quinalt Lodge at Ocean Shores for the weekend. We walked the beach, played slots in the casino, had massages, ate and drank well and thoroughly escaped the impending doom of what was to come for a day or two.  It was just what I needed at the time.  After my surgery, when I was recovering and bored out of my mind, she'd come kick off her shoes and sit on my bed and chatter about everything and nothing.  She brought me a stuffed dog that one of my sons kept at his side the entire time I was at the hospital, and Dan has in his room to this day.  After all was said and done and I was completely cured of the cancer due to the surgery and the fact that it was first stage, she told me her mother had died of colon cancer and she wanted me to have some time free of worry just in case I followed the dismal road as her mother.  She waited to tell me this until I was free and clear - she held the thought that I may die like she watched her mother die and kept that from me.  That is a gift, to protect others from what you fear most.  That is what a surrogate grandma does.

Lucy and I have had many adventures over the years.  We attended the Nutcracker and more movies than I can count.  Some were memorable - Spectre - the latest James Bond, and some forgettable - the Tree of Life - huh?  Some in the theater and some at home.  She was concerned that since I couldn't have popcorn since colon surgery, her large buttery bowl would annoy me.  I made up for it by having caramel milk duds, something she can't have due to dental work.  We found ways to adapt to each other's idiosyncrasies.  We are Thelma and Louise, we are Lucy and Ethel, we are Lucy and Mimi and we get each other.  If we are together more than 10 minutes, giggles ensue.  We get each other.  More lunches and dinners and birthdays than I can fathom.  She has often joined my family at holiday dinners not as an outsider but as an extension of my family.  I now know her birth date and SSN better than my own.  She has watched my sons grow up and hears the stories of their trials and tribulations with as much eagerness as if they were her own grandchildren.  She reinforces that I was and am a good mom and I trust her judgment. 

The Lucy I knew was an out of the box thinker.  The Lucy we have now is definitely in the box thinker and sometimes cannot see what all is in the box due to vascular dementia and cognitive issues due to age and blood flow to the brain.  Lucy now is vulnerable to a world where she could be taken advantage of and exploited as the elderly often are in our society.  I fear what could happen if I abandon Lucy and let the world take care of her.  The world won't take the same quality of care for her that I do. The world won't make sure she has her favorite shampoo, her Bose radio set to classical and her TV set to Judge Judy daily at 3pm.  These things bring her stability now and make her feel at home wherever she is - hospital, nursing home or assisted living apartment.  The world won't make sure her lifetime of things in her condo are dispersed to sources that are of importance to her - to Habitat for Humanity and Salvation Army and such.  The world will let her disappear to oblivion,  The world won't hold her favorite outfit and jewelry from the past in a drawer in my home and bring it out for her memorial service, but I will.  Because I have known the gift of her friendship, her gift of presence and it will be my final gift to her.

Living Our Authentic Selves

As a school age child, I knew I was different.  I used tools with the “wrong hand,” was called

sinister, lefty and special by teachers and other students.  Some in authority even tried to force

me to use my right hand instead. One teacher would switch my pencil to my right hand when

she walked by my desk.  I learned to never write until her back was to me and relied on other

students to distract her attention to finish my work. Or I would hold a pencil upright in my right

hand and put a second one up my sleeve of my left hand to complete work.  There were two of

us who were lefties and we had one left handed desk that had been retrofitted for an older

student. Could another be crafted for our mutual comfort? No, that would be wasteful, we were told. It wouldn’t serve the best needs of the greatest number of students.  It would be special treatment for just a few people. It was often frustrating when we did art. The left handed scissors were dull and I found that the right handed scissors were fine, if held upside down. I made do with the resources available, but was not given any tools to assist in my adjustment.  I eventually became ambidextrous in several tasks just to make fewer issues and draw less attention to myself. I knew that to try to become a full righty was just not in my makeup. In order to engage my brain, skills, and neuro transmitters correctly, I had to use my left hand.  

It wasn’t a choice, or something I was exploring to see how it fit.  It was how my brain and neurons
were wired. I could no sooner change the hand I utilized in writing than I could change my skin tone,
or eye color.  It was a distinct part of my being and identity. I identify as a left handed person and no
amount of rules, restriction, bullying or descrimination was going to change that.  My family didn’t see
a need to advocate on my behalf. It was just something we had to get used to and deal with as subtly
as possible to not make waves.  

I’m talking about being left-handed in the 1970s in a private school. Insert trans-gender for left-handed to see what this is like for people who identify as other than the sex their biology appears to determine. Read this as someone forced to appear, dress and act as something different than their true self. Read this as someone literally dying to live as their true indentity against all costs, because the frustration of being forced to live against the grain often results in suicide attempts by transgender youth. Ostracism by family, bullying by peers, a lack of understanding and feeling it's a phase or social experimentation are some of the many forces working against transgender youth. Then society as a whole attempts to deny their right to access a bathroom. Would you want your child or yourself to be subject to that kind of hatred and ignorance?

In the 1990s, I worked in a building that had security-coded single-use bathrooms. One of the other employees in the building was living her true self as a female to satisfy conditions put in place by the medical field to validate hormone pills, injections and other steps that would complete her transformation from male to female appearance. The uproar from other colleagues it caused JUST to give her the CODE for the women's rest room was insane. Wasn't this person going through enough? Who would put on pantyhose and control garments if they weren't FULLY committed? Apparently, we haven't progressed as much as I had hoped.

 A small group of people at our church gathered and engaged in discussion after watching together
The Most Dangerous Year
https://www.amazon.com/Most-Dangerous-Year-Annabelle-Knowlton/dp/B07SCKSGX4/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+most+dangerous+year&qid=1571099632&sr=8-1

A movie documenting the path of families supporting transgender school age children. It is
available for about $4 from Amazon Prime and is well worth the cost and time to view the movie. 
Among these were 90yo grandparents with a need to understand and know how to support those in our
midst traversing this road, not by choice or whim, but by the need to live their authentic selves.

The most ironic point for me came when our blind Lieutenant Governor Cyrus Habib was one of the only
politicians with the CLEAR VISION - let that sink in - to recognize that protecting the civil rights of these
children and future transgender persons was clearly equal to protecting ADA rights that he had been
subject to discrimination for due to his blindness.  He also assured my vote for him for as long as he
chooses to run for being on the right side of history in standing up to protect the rights of LGTBQIA -
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender, Queer, Intersex and Asexual (and any other letters necessary
to be fully inclusive) as a commitment, not due to politics, but because it is an issue of moral integrity.

Be educated, be aware of signature gathering efforts to eliminate the rights of others.
Be open to the plight of others who fight for rights that in no way threaten your own.
Be on the RIGHT side of History.

Circuits Round the Sun - Opportunities for Experience

Life is all about experiences and how those experiences mold you to relate to the rest of the world.  Chosen experiences this week were all about self care, self-awareness, mindfulness and creating space for calm in a too busy world.  In the last year, it has become a goal to pay more attention to self-care, learn to hold space for others without projecting my agenda and to seize opportunities to explore areas I would normally pass by in the course of being a slave to the schedule.  Be open to change, opportunity and experience peace in the day to day.

On Saturday, my day was spent at a workshop making prayer labyrinth mats.  We learned the history, design elements, themes and meditative prayers for walking labyrinths.  We all shared locations of truly exceptional labyrinths encountered in the world - there is a winery in Eugene OR with a lavender labyrinth that is now on my bucket list - and then commenced planning to complete our own small scale labyrinths.  It was an exercise in patience, faith and a moving meditation exercise in and of itself.  I thought I had chosen a simple pattern... not so much.  But in the end, was the only participant with a completed project.  Others had their layout penciled in and we brainstormed ways to complete the layout with glued on embellishments, decorative stitching, painting the labyrinth design as a background base for a painting in the foreground and other expressions of personal preference.  The uniting of women from all walks of life, ages, professions, faith bases and intentions was as much of an education as the workshop itself.

The plan was to explore the grounds of the priory in Olympia, but weather prevented that plan from occurring, and left it for another opportunity now that I am familiar with the location.

Sunday was spent in my usual and customary worship service with all the trimmings.  Full choral music, instrumental accompaniment, a church full of people who have served on my faith journey for the last 10 years, family, friends and friends I consider as family.  There was potluck coffee hour after the service and the opportunity to share the adventures and challenges of the past week.

Monday, my birthday, brought my mom and a church pal to yoga class and out to lunch for Thai food. We learned that with one modified downward dog move, we stimulate 76 acupressure points of restoration and healing in our bodies and noted that this move needs to happen daily in life. The opportunity to learn what is good for heart, soul, mind and spirit while refreshing and nourishing with well seasoned fresh food was good for all systems.  We visited the back yard of our new home and reveled in the glory of creation in the water fowl, plants and bright blue sky that appeared.

Tuesday presented the opportunity to join a small group in centering prayer.  A passage was shared from Brother Lawrence - a Carmelite monk, and we were given 20 minutes to reflect, hold space and contemplate the passage in our own interpretation.  I had recently learned in yoga that finding your true center of gravity would feel like opening a door and the urge to yawn was a clue that one had found it.  I was able to identify the feeling of center both in mind and body and felt that was enough for one day.  Yes, my mind wandered.  Yes, I had to snap it's leash back to mindful emptiness.  Yes, I utilized some yogic breathing to assist in that endeavor.  But it was all good. 

There is no right or wrong way to center, to pray, to find one's path in the world.  We are all here to help each other.  But the path for one, may not be the right path for all.  Life often feels like a maze where we have made a wrong choice and followed the winding path to somewhere we ultimately did not want to be.  While a labyrinth helps us to discern how far and how fast and what we hope to find when we reach the center and reexamine the path as we exit the labyrinth for what we might do differently next time.

Precious Time

One of my motivations behind taking an early retirement was the opportunity to spend more time doing fun things with my parents - now in their mid-70s.  Making memories and hanging out as peers, before it becomes necessary to shift into a care giving role as their needs and progression of age dictates.  Having a memorable anecdote to stir a memory in a mind plagued with dementia can make the difference between a mundane task and quality time reviewing the past while completing a bothersome task like taking medications or tending to skin issues.

This past weekend, mom celebrated the 53rd anniversary of her 21st b-day - Don't bother to with the math... It's not my forte.  Taking my mom to the ocean is where her inner 5 year old emerges.  She brings her kite, her brightest smile and checks the wind for the best angle to launch her kite and spirits aloft.  Offering Mom an escape from the usual schedule with a beach trip was one I could offer with no qualms.  It effectively worked its usual magic.  We added daily morning mimosas in small orange juice containers and a good time was had by all.

Time spent at the beach - whether ocean, bay or lake side - has always been cathartic for me.  Long ago, I developed the mantra that the waves come close to steal whatever is plaguing your mind, take it out to sea and smash it in the surf.  Now that I practice yoga, the image of surf and kites riding swift breezes give me another dimension to escape to during my time of mindful practice. 

We were also celebrating the long-awaited closing of the sale of our family home, which occurred during our beach trip.  And we timed our trip to be able to tour a series of artist studios to see creativity in its natural habitat.  How could one not create art when surrounded by beach scenery on a daily basis?

As usually happens when we travel together, anecdotes are shared and new ones develop.  After birthday dinner at the casino, we were on our way out the door.  My folks are NOT gamblers.  They spent much of their lives together under a STRICT budget that left no room for trivialities.  So, when Dad pulled out a $5 bill to take a slot machine for a spin, I was stunned.  Even more so when he pushed MAX BET on his third roll.  AND WON!  The bonus animation started and I had to coach him through the steps of each level... he ended up with a three level bonus... for the uninitiated - that RARELY happens.  He figured if he made $20 on his $5 investment, he was doing OK.  When he ended up with significantly more than than - both he and mom were stunned.  He cashed out his ticket and more instruction was required on the redemption... he wanted to take it to the cashier cage - of which there is no more; unless you win in the tens of thousands.  Dad was a little disappointed that when he cashed out there was no cascade of quarters to catch in a bucket like in the OLD days.  But still amused that he won on three rolls.

In my family, when there is down time and cocktails, there are board games.  We played Scrabble - complete with "My rack is deplorable" jokes - "I hear no complaints from your better half..."  "There's gotta be a vowel in that old bag."  "Who are you calling an old bag?"  We discerned the new rules to a new game - badly and made up our own to serve our purposes.  I noticed that as the night got later and the cocktails more potent; the rules followed became fewer and fewer... hmm.

We had originally contemplated taking a 6yo nephew with us for the excursion, but decided that a reconnaissance mission was necessary first.  We've determined that next year both nephews will be prime age for:
1)  fetching crashed kites
2)  sprinting up the stairs to unlock the hotel room door ahead of us - usu for a bathroom sprint...
3)  fetching dropped items left behind
4)  possibly learning to make a good cocktail,
5)  provide good nap companions and
6)  give us reason to try all the entertainment options we skipped this time - like bumper cars... 

Now we have to decide which WA beach presents a better venue for that purpose. 
Here's to more family quality time to make those precious memories!  Cheers!