Cynthia Borris

No More Turkeys

2011-11-16T18:54:00.000-08:00

Beware of turkeys bearing turkeys

NO MORE TURKEYS

"Somebody answer the phone!" I lug the twenty-two pound turkey into the kitchen, plop it on the breadboard and drop my keys. The phone screams a fourth ring.

"Hi, this is Ned," a husky voice greets me.

"Hi, Ned," my arms ache from carrying in the bulky groceries. I hunch my shoulders to release the tension.

"My company gave me a turkey and if you're, you know, not... "I pause and listen. "I thought I could bring it over and we could have Thanksgiving together." I peek at the frozen tom headless on the chopping board.

"Sure Ned that would be great." I fake enthusiasm.

"I make killer mashed potatoes and gravy." Oh, my stomach remembers - potatoes loaded with sour cream, shredded cheese, whole milk and "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter".

I reach to the cupboard and scout out the Maalox supply.

"How about one o'clock then Thanksgiving Day?" The trap is set. "And Neddy's coming, too. Is that all right?"

"Sure." What's another kid I concede. "Pumpkin pie, okay?"

I turn back to the groceries and make mental rearrangements in my mind for a couple more people on Thanksgiving Day. I grab bags of cranberries and toss them into the refrigerator.

"Buy out the store?" Krista checks through the brown paper packages on the kitchen table. She snatches an orange and jabs a fingernail into the peel. "While you were out Kyle, your hiking pal, stopped by with a turkey. Something about 'he got it at work and thought we might like to have it'."

"A turkey?"

"I put it in the freezer." Orange peels drop and the fragrant juice lotions her fingers.

I open the freezer door and a twelve-pound turkey wrapped in white plastic fills the left corner. I shove packages to the rear.

"I think he was sort of hoping we'd invite him to Thanksgiving dinner." She rummages through groceries and stacks cans on the table.

"Hmm? Ned and his son are coming." I finger count the guests - two plus four. That's six at the table. I count chairs - six.

"Not Neddy, Mom!" She pops a finger down her throat and gags.

"Stop that." Memory tells me the kid turns my stomach, too. "It's Thanksgiving and nobody should be alone. Besides they're bringing a turkey also."

"But what's that on the breadboard?" The card-special-turkey for $5.99 glistens with frost. "Isn't that a turkey?"

"Afraid so." I tap my finger on the counter, open the freezer door and say, "Move over Tom. Here comes your bud."

"That makes three turkeys." Krista shakes her head. "We're going to be eating turkey sandwiches forever."

"And don't forget the soup." We laugh and remember we hate turkey sandwiches. "I guess I better call Kyle. We'll squeeze him in somewhere."

The days grow long, the shadows play over the sidewalk and Thanksgiving Day arrives. I check the television guide for the Thanksgiving parade time and NFL football. Pumpkin pies cool on the counter, the broccoli casserole is mixed and ready to bake and the first batch of dishes is washed. I scrub and cook for hours.

My sons, Kent and Jake, put a leaf in the table, bring in the picnic table benches, arrange candles and the mood is set.

"Time to get Tom cooking." I say.

A seasoned pro better than the herb stuffing, I pull the knobs from the burners, lift the chrome face off the stove and turn on the oven. I grasp two bare wires, tap them to the metal griddle and hot- wire the oven. The old stove sparks; the gas ignites. I get down on all fours, lower the broiler door and bend my head sideways. I double check, the gas flame flickers - good. I slip the dismantled parts back in place and applaud my survival skills - a master makeshift repairman.

Kent watches the ritual and frowns, "Mom, you're going to blow us up someday."

I bake for hours in the kitchen, apron tied around waist, turkey stuffed and popped in the oven. The crippled stove struggles to maintain gas supply to all the burners and oven. I hear the slight poof on the gas line and adjust the temperature. Poof gone.

Ned and little Ned arrive arms full of goodies. Kyle turns on the football game - a Thanksgiving Day tradition.

"Mom, come quick!" Krista kneels on the sofa and watches through the mini-blinds.

"What's the problem?" I drop my rolling pin, brush flour against my face and run to the living room.

She separates a blind. I bend to peek. "There's a guy coming up the walk with a turkey in his hands."

"Not another one." We stare.

"And he's got a dog."

"You know who that is don't you?" I nudge her shoulder. "That's the single guy down the street. You know, what's his name with the immaculate yard and white fence."

"Ahh…look. It's just a puppy."

The door bell chimes and I answer. Guy and dog with turkey on doorstep, unfair strategy.

"Hi, I live down the street." He extends a firm grip and the dog wags its tail. "I won this turkey at the local department store and since I'm all alone I thought maybe you could…it's fresh." He pushes the lifeless flesh in my arms. "I brought champagne, too."

I stand plump with poultry.

"Boy, something sure smells good." He lingers on the doorstep. "Reminds me when I was a kid and our entire family…did I tell you I'm Italian?" His gaze drops to the ground. "Anyway, we had great get togethers before they all moved away." He pats the eager pup behind the ears. "Now it's just DaShiell and me."

I kneel down and stroke the flaps of skin on the toddler bloodhound. Front paws straddle my shoulders and a tongue tickles my chin. I turn to the man attached to the leash, "And you must be…"

"…Sam."

I perch my hands on my hands and wait. There's got to be more. I wait for a pipe and sleuth coat to materialize. Nothing. I gaze at the scar etched along his temple; the rogue hair poking from his brow. Still, he offers no more.

"Well then, come on in Sam. The football game's just getting started."

He ties his partner in crime to the porch, steps in and kicks off his loafers. Clean socks, no exposed toes, good touch.

"Everyone, this is Sam. He's coming to dinner." Hands wave. Sons and male friends root and swear from the living room floor and couch.

"DaShiell. What kind of name is that for a dog?" I head to the kitchen, arms freezing with turkey, Krista at my heels.

"Babe bait, Mom."

"Ma, I think you better tone down your scent of a woman or something." Jake pokes his head around the corner. "We're running out of chairs."

"Like I said 'babe bait'." Krista scoots pies to the left window corner and I drop the bird on the counter. "Now we have four turkeys." she gasps.

"Krista," I pull her deep into the room of treats and roasting turkey and whisper, "Beware of turkeys bearing turkeys--especially single ones." I pour a tall glass of champagne and the bubbles pop under my nose.

Krista looks at the three men complete with kid and dog cheering the holiday game. "These guys think you're dessert, don't they?" eyes wide with discovery.

With a sigh I lean against the ceramic counter and swirl the gold liquid in the fluted glass. "It also means they're hungry and don't know how to cook."

"Say where's your friend Arlene today? Maybe she'd like to come over."

"Oh didn't I tell you? She stopped in for some cajun wings at the Chicken Palace last week and she met-"

"Not Denny?"

"Worse. She hooked up with Sly, the cook." I grab my chest and swoon against the counter, "She's 'in love'."

"Again?"

"Well at least for this week."

"What about Jodie?" She starts down my list of girl pals.

"Nah, she flew home to Iowa for the holidays." I count again the men in the front room. "Forget it, we're on our own kid."

Shouts and loud clapping travel from the front room. Score one for the favored team; score zero for Mom.

The kitchen phone rings and I tuck the headset against my shoulder. "Hello?"

"Happy Thanksgiving." A melodic voice returns.

"Hi Maggie. I haven't heard from you in awhile. This is a surprise." I wink at Krista and motion for her to mash the sweet potatoes.

"Yeah, I know my Dad and I've been busy." The teen stumbles on her apology, "but we, I mean, I was wondering are you making your broccoli casserole today?"

I look through the glass window of the oven door. The casserole bubbles, the edges golden brown. "Where are you going for Thanksgiving dinner, Maggie?"

"I'm making dinner for my Dad and me," again a pause.

"And what are you making?" I hesitate to know.

"We haven't gone to the store yet." Her voice drops, "You know my Dad, 'there's always tomorrow'."

"You haven't gone shopping?" The hands on the clock extend well past 2:00pm. "Would you and your Dad like to join us for dinner?" I swing the cabinet door open and bring out two more place settings. "However, there's one catch."

"I can make a salad. I have a bag of lettuce." The girl pleads.

"Salad's wonderful," I shove my mix of greens back in the refrigerator. "Tell your Dad if he'd like to come to dinner he has to call me first. You know he hasn't called in over five months."

"He's such a putz." We laugh, hang up and seconds later...

"This is Bob. I was just calling to say hello."

"Bob? Oh, hello. This is a surprise." I feign excitement. I drag another bench along the linoleum and rearrange the table display. "I hear you're coming to dinner. Great. Would you mind stopping at the store for a pie?" I nudge Krista, smile and add, "Seems dessert is a popular item on the menu today."

"Sure…" the familiar click of an electronic goodbye.

"Men." Krista shakes her head. "Maybe we should disconnect the phone?"

"Nah, just check caller ID." We nod in agreement. "We won't answer anymore numbers from guys in want of a hot meal."

"Or dessert," she pops an olive in her mouth and laughs.

"Okay, so now we have ten for dinner." I pour another glass of champagne. "And we ain't even Italian."

"Well, at least Kent and Jake will be happy," Krista mocks Maggie's full bosom, "Little Ms. let-your-boobs-hang-out is coming over."

Ah yes, teenage sons.

The smells of the day take over the house. Ned hauls in his potato offering, Kyle stirs gravy and Sam takes a bowl of water to DaShiell. We wait for Bob and Maggie to arrive.

The oven goes poof-poof-poof.

I check on the turkey. The legs stiff, not wiggling freely, I pop it back in for another twenty minutes. The football game continues.

We nibble on snacks and watch the fire dance in the fireplace. I walk outside and take an up and down peek along the street. No Bob and Maggie.

The hour hits four. We gather for dinner and give thanks. Sam carves the steaming bird empty of stuffing and everyone grabs a fork.

A solid knock on the front door interrupts the meal. Already knowing who is on the other side, I push back my chair and leave my napkin on the seat.

"Hi Maggie," I give the girl a hug, her breasts bare just above the nipple line. "We're just starting to eat. Come on in." I shoot Bob a 'how dare you' look. I swear it flies over his head and keeps going West.

"Happy Turkey Day," he hands me a mincemeat pie, boasts a bottle of Boone's Farm Fuzzy Navel and lands a three-second kiss on my lips.

"Here, let me uncork the wine for you." Kyle greets the newcomer with a corkscrew.

"No problem. I got it." With a quick twist Bob turns the bottle cap and pours the orange liquid into his glass. "Anybody?" He holds up the beverage.

We shuffle chairs and Bob plops down at the head of the table. Kyle, Sam and Ned frown.

"Mom?" Krista swirls her fork in her yams and leans shoulder to shoulder, "I think you have a problem." She glances at the three men.

I cut my turkey and whisper, "it's going to get better."

"Man, that was a great football game." Ned pours gravy over three of the nine items on his plate.

"Yeah, that last play was about the best I've seen in a long time." Kyle relives the final touchdown.

"I didn't think the wide receiver had a chance of catching that ball." Kent motions a long pass with a buttered roll.

"Foosball, foosball, foosball." Bob drones.

"You don't like football?" Sam plants the question and waits.

"What guy doesn't like football?" Ned scores a point. "Gosh, remember when Montana--"

I raise the bottle high and look to shift the conversation. "More wine?"

I watch the men and study the selection of guys-wanting-to-be-mine.

Ned toting double six-packs of blubber under what might be a taunt six-pack. Not a muscle in sight. Neddy flings a pea from his fork. The pea lands in Jake's hair.

No, not Ned or son.

Bob, lopsided beard, hole in pant's pocket, nice guy but always a day late. Single father of adolescent girl. Non-football fan.

No chance.

Kyle spoons a large mound of stuffing into his mouth. He lifts his wineglass for a fourth refill. His elbow slips from the table.

Sam sits across from me. The late afternoon sun highlights gray strands woven in his thick dark waves. The bulge of his biceps expands the thin cloth of his knit shirt as he passes the Jello salad.

Hmm? Man and dog.

Dinner disappears amid stifled and superficial conversation. We rub swollen stomachs and clear the table.

"That was delicious, " Ned cuddles me from behind and adds, "How about I take a look under the hood of your car. Isn't it pinging or something?" He squeezes my waist and moves in closer.

"That would be wonderful Ned. " I turn, my hands covered with soapsuds and pull back. "I do think it needs a tune-up." He gives me a peck, asks for the keys and heads for the driveway.

Krista dries a dish. "Where's he going?"

"He's going to where all guys go on Thanksgiving after the football games, after the dinner," I nod towards the front yard. "To work on cars. What else is left."

"Mom come take a look," again we peek out the blinds. "Bob's out there, too."

"Not Bob?" I lean back, sit on the couch and laugh tears to my cheek. "He hates working on cars."

"He must really want you Mom."

"Observe and learn daughter-of-mine." I pull open the door and hear Bob shop-talk spark plugs. Ned ups the ante with precise documentation of fuel-injection engines. Kyle contradicts the stats and the conversation escalates.

"This is funny." She stands next to me, looking at the male beast tote its feathers. "Even DaShiell's doing tricks." The puppy jumps sideways in the air and snags a rubber disc.

"And look over there," I point to the over-developed Maggie smiling sweetly at my sons. "She's got the boys right where she wants them." The boys wash and wax her silver Tercel.

'Men." Krista giggles and notes, "Looks like you've got four admirers."

"Yep," I curl my arm around her shoulder.

"They don't stand a chance, do they Mom?" She looks at the flock of men.

"They're great friends, but no," and then with another look, "Well, maybe Sam. Ugly dog. Still -" something about that duo intrigues.

She sports a thumbs-up on my choice.

"What else needs fixing around here?" She eyes the house and turns to me.

"Let's see -- the fence is falling down and the bathroom faucet drips." I chalk up all the repairs and start making a list. "And then there's the stove."

"I'll get the toolbox, Mom." Krista hurries out the backdoor and returns with a metal box.

"Oh Bob," I call from the porch, "Kyle? Do you have a minute?"

I turn to Krista and add, "Thanksgiving's a day to give thanks and remember one can have too many turkeys."

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

I'm Not Broken

2011-11-08T17:49:00.000-08:00

Reprinted in memory of Mom - July 9, 1920 - October 31, 2011 - who believed in more than a little...

"But what're you going to do? You need to geta regular job." I held the receiver away from my ear as Mom's voicespiked.

Mom, the originalfix-her-upperI swallowed my thought.

“You’ve got to fit into the mold.”

“I’m not broken, just broke. Those are twodifferent things." The conversation continued; a circle of unlike minds.

"You should be a secretary."

"Mom," I braced my feet on the floor andprepared for the rebuttal. "I’m not a cubicle kind of person.”

"You've got to work." The words stung.

"I do work. Writing’s a job and I likeit." The argument unending, I listened for a few more stanzas of 'yourlife doesn't meet the norm'.

"You're not supposed to like your job. You needmoney. How are you going to pay your bills?"

I looked at the pile of envelopes marked 'pastdue', 'friendly notice', 'forget something'?

"They'll get paid, someday." I shoved themound of envelopes to the floor. "Just believe in me a little."

“What about the kids?”

A single mom with two sons and a daughter, I wasdetermined to stay at home and make my dual career of mom and provider work.Divorced or not, my kids needed a face to come home to after school and thatface would be mine.

"What about medical coverage?"

"Mom, I've got to go… "My voice trailedaway as I put down the phone and whispered to the now silent one, "Quittrying to fix me."

I turned to my pile of work. A brochure neededupdating, a manual transcribed, a database reorganized. Granted, not thecreative writer I envisioned. Merely abroom keeper for other people’s words on a page: a cleanup person followingprescribed protocols. Meantime, a story churned in my head.

Settled in my chair, I watched the computer screencome to life, greeting me with a cornucopia of icons: Yahoo, Nero and iTunes smiled an unspokengood morning. I welcomed the familiar images like gossip over a copy machine.The array of characters stared, tempting me to play. Enjoying the break fromsolitude, I jumped into the game, hit the Internet search key and entered theword – hello.

Returns of hello in languages known and obscurepopped up: Konnichi Wa, Goeie dag and Jou San. A collection of Hello Kittyitems blanketed a bookshelf. A site simple in name, Hello by Esao Andrews, superb in design, captured my attention, andI paused to explore the creativity.

Intrigued, I sipped my coffee and noted. I had afriend named Hello.

"Anyone else like me out there?" Myfingers clicked the letters in place.

A prompt begged "where do I want to go?"

"I want to find people like me. People whothink beyond nine to five, stock options and 401 plans," a tear trickleddown my cheek and I thumbed it away. "Someone who thinks it's okay for meto be me."

I hit the Internet connection and typed my questionin the search box. The computer hunted and returned with an offer of a personaladvice counselor. Nope. Got one of those.

I entered "Writers", hit search andwaited again. I dipped a scone in my French Roast, nibbled the dry pastry andleaned, elbows on table, towards the computer. Stunned, I reeled in my chair.What's this?

Hundred of writers. Writers in coffeehouses, chatrooms, workshops, E-groups. I scrolled down the list and clicked into severalweb pages, discovering sites for grammar, publishers, and freelance jobs.Reaching out towards the screen, my fingertip touched the word writer. A slightcurrent traveled up my arm and I lingered--a connection.

"May I join?" I posted my request, hitsend and reclined back in my chair, holding onto the base, exhilarated.

A bright message popped on the screen. "Pullup a chair and stay awhile."

Thrilled, I settled in, posted work and waitedanxiously for comments and peer validation. What’s this? I was labeled thequeen of purple prose, descriptive repetition and head-hopping. I scrambledgrammar and made my cyber classmates pull hair and scream down invisiblecorridors. Embarrassed, I withered in my seat in the back row of websites.

"You have tautology." The message in capsshouted.

"I have what?" I bent for the dictionary,flipped through the alphabet and gasped, "I have tautology."

Recognizing my rusty skills, I enrolled in onlineworkshops, accepted the challenge to clean up my court of illuminating phrases,and forged forward. I learned my point-of-view, story structure and beginnings,middles and ends. Armed with knowledge, I grabbed a seat in the front row ofURLs.

Still, I massacred commas and frustrated newfriends with fragments and hanging participles. I nosed into a grammar site,polishing grade school skills with bone-headed exercises of independent anddependent clauses. I scribbled and wrote, getting characters out of my head.Confident, I stepped to the plate a player. With the best, I provided feedback,offered suggestions, and soon decided to enter a short piece in a contest.

I typed and created. I printed to proof, drewrivers of red lines on my paper and revised. I ran back to the computer - cut,paste, and delete my mantra. The deadline loomed. Echoes of 'write tight' keptme focused. The hours ticked down. Persistent, I formatted the manuscript,packaged the entry and chased down the mailman--my entry on the way.

The months passed and the list of winners arrived;my first rejection notice tumbled to the carpet. I performed a ceremonial danceto my success; my left hip crippled for days, I downed Tylenol cocktails.

"I'm in the game," I circulated a shortnote to my friends. "I got my first rejection notice."

Words of support, smiling faces and emoticonstagged the moment. The camaraderie system in place, I sent out a selection ofshort articles and soon a check arrived. I copied and enlarged thepay-to-the-order document and stopped at the store for a frame. Breathless, Ihit "my E-groups" and shared the news. E-cards of congratulations and‘great job’ poured in from Australia, Mississippi, and New York.

My mailbox burst with rejoicing. Unknown faces inunseen places--present in my heart, we had a party of many in my room of one.

Between congratulations the bedroom phone rang andI trekked down the hallway. I caughtmy breath as my feet followed.

"I was wondering how you're doing?" Thescrape of mom's kitchen chair across the tile floor told me we were in for along chat. “The ladies at church have been praying just for you.”

“Thanks,” I dropped to the bed and curled against apillow. "I'm just having a party with some friends."

"That's wonderful. Did you get a newjob?"

"I guess I did." I switched ears, theright one flattened by the headset.

"Does this one pay well?" A pause on thelong-distance line followed.

"It pays pittance." I gazed at the framedcheck hanging crooked on the wall. "But it has great benefits."

"That's wonderful news. So you have medicalinsurance and vacation time?" The excitement in her voice told me Igraduated off her prayer list.

Struggling for the answer, I said, "Well, notreally."

"Then stock options and a good commute?"She searched for the mix of conventional benefits. "Nice boss?"

"The job comes with a terrific group of friends."On a roll, I continued, "I'm working with writers that think like me.Imagine that?" My adrenaline pumped.

"So you're still broke." I sensed a dipin her enthusiasm, my name back on her prayer list.

"Yes, I'm broke but I'm not broken." Ijumped from the bed and affirmed, "I'm complete."

"I don't understand your world but if you'rehappy then so am I." Mom's unrelenting faith reached across the miles andwrapped around me.

Embraced in her words, I smiled and said, “Mom, Isold my first story.”

...she believed in me.

THE END

September Seattle

2011-06-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

With my Southwest non-refundable-in-stone tickets, I board the pre-yawn morning flight. My virgin-solo vacation, I settle in for my 48-hour adventure in the Emerald City.

Space Seattle under a blue September day

Three minutes ahead of my schedule, my shuttle arrives in downtown Seattle. Greeted by mountain dew and a sea breeze, Seattle embraces me with a palatable energy. A pull towards progression: a positive force, an entity recognized by the entrepreneur spirit. I’m in the pull.

Parallel to the waterfront a train makes a run. I pause and take a double take. Is that a torpedo on the rail car? With a smack of my senses, I realize it is a Boeing fuselage minus wings and structure; my adventure begins.

Built on the pier, the Edgewater Hotel staff welcomes the early traveler and offers me an upgrade room to a waterfront view.

"For only $50 more a night we can upgrade you to a waterfront room."

Ah, a majestic view of Elliott Bay from my own balcony so romantic but alone I decline and prepare to spend my night in my city side room. With the view of the Duck Mobile guaranteed to stay on schedule, I’ll not lack for entertainment.

"I'm putting you there anyway." The manager smiles, my trip to Seattle just got better.

Minutes later, I step into a rustic room with a French flavor. Fireplace, bear rug and two wingback chairs. With a balcony overlooking the Elliott Bay and the entry toPuget Sound, I pinch myself. I'm still awake. The only thing missing is Tom Hanks. Sleepless in Seattle, my all-time favorite movie I want a Sam.

Always stop to smell the flowers

Back to schedule, I hurry to my first tour, the Pike's Place Lunch Sampler. Overall, a terrific sampling of knowledge and food. The tour guide bubbles her stats although the word *tip* escapes too often. The array of sampling of fresh fruit, clam chowder, smoked salmon, fried donut nuts, more fresh fruit, crumpets and wine gurgles with indigestion equal to the eruption of Mt. Helena. Only three hours in Seattle and I'm looking for the nearest hospital.

After a brisk walk, the gastro intestinal war eases and I board the Goodtime II for the Argosy Tillicum Island Salmon Bake dinner and presentation. Note: schedule food tours to one a day. Tourists drape the guardrails and gasp at the panoramic view of the Cityscape.

On the island, Tillicum Native Americans greet guests with a bowl of hot steaming clams followed by a scrumptious salmon bake dinner. A brief program reenacts the Tillicum Native Americans story through dance and although the costumes are nice the performers appear bored and not vested in the ceremony. Perhaps, that's why the tribe no longer reigns in the region.

Salmon Bake

Afterwards, tourists explore the island and snap pictures. Soon I meet Mel, a widower from Philadelphia, and John and Vivian, from Oklahoma. Three's a crowd so they say so I join in and we make four.

"Mel, do you ever read Stu Bykofsky, a columnist in Philadelphia?" I ask while trying on a souvenir knit hat three sizes too small for the human head.

With a ‘yes’ an instant connection is created and we jump into chatter.

“What do you think of the recent political agenda?” He drops the unexpected *guy* conversation into the souvenir shopping. “Are you a Democrat or Republican?”

“I’m a Californian.” I answer, standing on neutral vacation ground.

“Oh, you’re one of them.” An artic breeze ices the “one” and I feel no global warming by the word “them”. Boy, weather does change fast in Seattle.

I sense the Liberal lights go off in his head and I offer, “I’m also an animal activist like Stu. Do you have pets?”

After neutral chatter and a gorgeous cruise along the City night lights, we wander the wharf and call it a night. Great company if only for a brief time, we hug good bye.

Early morning I'm ready to exit the city limits and go on the Snoqualmie Falls, Winery and Swiss Chocolate Factory Tour. Over the bridge and to the wineries twenty-one tourists laugh and ‘ooh’ and ‘awe’ at the local landmarks.

Can you say Snoqualmie Falls after wine tasting?

Lucky for me Dot sits by me and an instant friend is made. Between Chardonnay and Merlot, Dot, the chemist-quilter from Virginia, and I soak in the countryside and sample fine chocolates with her companions Richard and Jenny. Add three new friends to my adventure.

Back at the hotel, I nestle on a bar stool for a night cap and listen to the music.

The man next to me laughs at a commercial on the overhead television, extends his smile and says, "Hi, I'm Sam."

Sam?

There's something to this Seattle thing after all I hold my thought and feel my heart patter. We chat about everything and nothing and close down the bar.

Next morning, one more tour but first a trip downtown to explore Westfield Center. With regret I check out of the Edgewater and lug my bag onto my back. Funny, it's a lot heavier now. Three tiny hotel shampoos add up to a ton.

Downtown, I do the coffee thing and buy a Seattle's Best mocha and rest my weary feet at an outside table.

Caffe Vita Artist Coffee too good to drink

Within minutes a man wanders by and asks, "May I eat my lunch with you? I hate to eat alone."

Glad to have the company, I move my cup over and motion for him to snag the empty chair. By his suit and tie, he's a native worker bee.

Between his nibble of fried chicken, he says, "I'm Bob."

I knew it was only a matter of time before a Bob crossed my path. After chit-chat with the *Bob* I'm off to the tour.

Before the excursion, I visit the Ladies room. Purple people everyone. Doesn’t take long to figure out college football is underway. Everywhere I look there are Louisiana University fans. Baton Rogue. Lafayette. New Orleans. The home of Tabasco Sauce. Oh yeah, hot sauce. I got a tiny bottle at the New Orlean’s National Society of Newspaper Columnists conference; the bite is still on my tongue.

"Do you read Smiley Anders?" I ask while I wash my hands. "He's with the Advocate?"

"Every day!" The chorus erupts and I acknowledge that I know Smiley.

"Smiley's my friend," I introduce myself.

Without a doubt, I'm more welcome than a pot of crawdads at the tailgate party. Thanks, Smiley. My best new pals, the LSU gang, line up for the tour. This promises to be good.

My trip just gets better

The Chocolate and Coffee Decadence Tour by Seattle Savor Foods. Simply awesome. A must for anyone going to Seattle. First, Caroline, the perky tour guide, hands the eight participants headsets. No matter where we wander, we can hear Caroline on tour. Even those who step into tinkle or sprinkle - however you stand - attendees never miss a word of fun.

From Patrick's Flatliner cocktails at the Mayflower Hotel, to designer Lattes and salted caramels, Caroline keeps the tour on schedule, organized and professional. The tour ends at the top of the Space Needle as we enjoy the majestic view while savoring mocha braised short ribs. Superb tour.

Just under ninety minutes to catch my return bus to Sea-Tac airport, I go full circle and back to Patrick.

"I'm back." I relax on the stool as he notes my return. "Make me something very Seattle."

The perfect end to a fast 48-hours

Buzzed, I end my Seattle adventure. The aroma of fresh coffee beans drifts from my bag as I settle into my crunched airplane seat. The sun sets and a purple haze blankets the mountain range. Could it be? LSU fans take over Seattle?

Go Huskies…

Fried Green Tomatoes, Crab Cakes and Low Country Ghosts

2011-05-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

Fried green tomatoes, crab cakes, collard greens, ghosts and thunder storms, a Low country Spring time vacation in Charleston, SC scores big.

Meeting Street

Jestine’s Kitchen, down-home fried green tomatoes, Hyman’s, hush-puppies and stuffed grouper, Sticky Fingers, simmering peach cobbler, The Swamp Fox, pure elegant dining to Palmetto Charleston beer, chocolate-covered pecans, Savannah Bee Sourwood honey, and Super-duper Extra triple-Strength cat nip for my feline souvenir, it’s a wonder I don’t waddle down the street.

Southwest Oakland to Charleston, I land on a Monday afternoon on a connecting flight out of Houston. A simple, convenient transport by the Charleston Airport Shuttle not only is inexpensive it provides a scenic tour and comfortable chatter between my new-found travel mates. Price range $12.50/one-way shared ride; $30/one-way single passenger. A best travel tip.

Not so fresh from the airport, I arrive at the Jasmine House Inn. Rated #10 of 49 Bed and Breakfast Inns in Charleston, it ranks high on my top five list.

Jasmine House Inn Courtyard

Nestled behind the main house, my room is in the carriage house. Carriage house number two. With a lace canopy bed, loveseat and rose-floral wallpaper, I step back into a slower time; a Southern Charm. The second-story room provides a door that opens to the veranda. In my pajamas, I savor my light breakfast – hot-biscuits, fresh fruit, cereal, orange juice and hot coffee – the menu varies daily. Just below in the courtyard, guests dine at the patio tables. A Cardinal perches on the veranda rail in wait of morning crumbs.

Vibrant colors dot the greenery, the humidity level is just under the sweat radar and the night-blooming jasmine perfumes the air. Twelve bites and counting the mosquitoes dine on the bare skin so insect repellant is a must in your side pocket.

Charleston is an awesome City. Deep in history, pride and personality. I feel guilty having Yankee-blood. I'm humbled as I step onto Fort Sumter and reel in the realities.

Tuesday, I’m off and running to my morning tour. The Magnolia Plantation. 24 people on a shuttle, I meet Jan and Dave from Benicia, CA – a mere 45 minute drive from my home – and I recall something about the six degrees of separation.

Magnolia Plantation

Relaxed, we arrive at the gorgeous plantation. With Allen, a ten-year veteran tour guide, we wander the gardens, explore the swamp and are escorted through the magnificent home. A peace wraps around your soul and for a moment you understand the tranquility that surpasses a top Billboard tune.

Much like visiting the home of Jack London, a writer feels the power of nature, and I want for the creative energy that sings in the birds, that whistles in the oaks and that powers the smallest alligator across the marsh to ignite my senses. I’m soaked in the unlimited possibilities of serenity in harmony.

A slower pace than California the early-afternoon settles in for Low country quiet time. Guests of the Jasmine House Inn sip on wine, sweet tea, lemonade and cheese, crackers, fresh fruit and pasta.

Nancy, Care and Me

An added perk, I meet two online writer friends. Care, a new friend from Massachusetts, and Nancy, Bookfoolery and Babble, a longtime online friend.

For over ten years a voice in print but never a real-talk-time word between us, Nancy and I have a layered-friendship built on years of conversations, accomplishments, family triumphs and heartaches. For us, it isn't a social topping of "How are you?" and "What do you do?" Instead, it is an instant embrace and a step into gentle banter and a knowing rhythm.

Girl’s Night Out, we brave the graveyard for our Ghost Tour. Thunder rumbles in the not-so-far distance as we listen to the Charleston tales of those that lie beneath our feet or not. We snap multiple photos of gravestone rows in hope of capturing an *orb* on print. No ghosts visit my lens but for Nancy, I’m open to what I saw on her shot and we’ll leave it at that.

Intrigued, I note the inscriptions on several headstones that beckon me. I revisit graveyards over the next few days and find some reach out with curled finger and say, “Me. Come visit with me.”

I snap a picture and answer, “I will.”

During my Walking tour with Ed Grimball – hi Benicia Jan and Dave again - we visit the Circular Church cemetery and over Ed’s shoulder yet another grave speaks out to me. I headstone wander later in the day until I find this spot again. General Mordecai Gist.

What’s with these restless souls?

General Mordecai Gist born February 22, 1742 – August 2, 1792 is a third cousin to President George Washington. An officer in the American Revolution, I’m humbled that he chose to sit with me for awhile. A warrior for independence, I’m not surprised his two sons were named States and Independent.

An Internet search quickly adds a photo to the name. Spirited. What do you know? Just proves you can’t keep a good man down; not even in death.

My new haunts

I pull up another photo from my haunting. I’m face-to-face with the Reverend Reuben Post and his wife Harriott and daughter Frances. Post was not only the U.S. Senate Chaplain he was the pastor of Charleston’s Circular Church. In 1858, the Reverend died from an outbreak of yellow fever but his humor lives on. The three grave markers are chess pieces: the king, queen and the rook. Not exactly scriptural but he guaranteed a top spot on the tourist route for eternity. I think I would have liked the Reverend.

In a City where ghosts are welcome as sweet tea in the afternoon a nudge or awareness is commonplace. I encounter my first ghost in my room. Either a playful or warped spirit, I awaken to the snap of my window blind. The yellow shade careens taunt to the top window edge. I fly to the window to see what's the matter and I'm trapped between The Night Before Christmas and The Nightmare Before Christmas.

I can see why a ghost would linger

I tiptoe back to my canopy bed, curl under the cover and decide it is a playful ghost and wish it good night.

As I wait to cross Meeting St. two men idle in front of me. A wisp of a breeze picks up Old Spice cologne and I’m bathed in the scent. One whiff and I know. I’m not alone on the sidewalk. My dad alive in spirit is on vacation with me. Together, we cross the street: the two strangers, me and my personal ghost. I bid hello to the two men as I walk by and say, “I love Old Spice.”

Every body stand up and crow

Beyond the Market, I discover priceless treasures. Braided horses and roosters.

Blues and Barbecue Sunset Cruise

The Blues and Barbecue sunset cruise highlights the week. I love the harmonica player and Shrimp City Slim, Fiery Ron’s Home Team barbecue buffet and the serene sunset over the shoreline. Blues to perfection. Scrumptious macaroni and cheese. A ten for my favorite tour.

Ghosts of the four-legged variety

Friday, I’m off to Poogan’s Porch for lunch for the best crab cakes, hot honey-buttered biscuits and Poogan’s Punch. No canine ghosts tickle my backbone. Not a wisp of a wagging tale against my leg. No matter. I have my own circle of newfound ghosts.

Yes, I'm really in Charleston

I wander the streets and walk every Southern calorie off and then some. It is a great way to end my stay in Charleston.

American Idol Thanks!

2011-05-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

Season ten is now over. Congratulations Scotty and yes, Lauren, too.

Many thanks to everyone who joined in the weekly observations on the shrills, squeals and high notes. I appreciate all your wonderful comments and interaction.

Dial Idol is quiet. And of course, right on with the prediction. My own method of checking the most comments on iTunes, a pale comparison, but it marked the Scotty power trend. Surprisingly, Haley was a strong iTune contender.

Lauren...you never faltered. Your charisma captured everyone's heart and your duet with Carrie, a pure gem.

Ah Casey. You were made for Jack Black. Oh so right. James, Jacob, Paul...thanks for all the moments.

Without my friends, I'd be watching alone and wondering if I think I heard what I did or not. East Coast, Midwest and the South, I enjoyed sharing our gentle banter and thoughts. You made each week special and fun.

Here's to a wonderful tenth season, celebrate the summer and let's do it all again for Season 11.

American Idol Finale Just One Word

2011-05-24T23:01:00.000-07:00

Lauren!

American Idol Yawner

2011-05-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

American Idol Top Three proves to be a yawner.

I admit that I’m bored with American Idol. What promised to be the greatest range of talent, fizzled last night. Even after a beer to boost my excitement, the performers failed to light the stage on fire. Not even a kindle of polyester or spark from too much hairspray.

Of course, the annual judge manipulation played out last week with the torching of Haley followed by the standing O. James Durbin fell to the wicked judges’ curse of premature crowning of the title. He also had a double-whacking with the backlash of Haley voters rising to the manipulation. The judges cost James the final opportunity.

Casey, sadly, was the collateral damage of the southern tornadoes.

So that leaves us with three viable contestants: Scotty, Lauren and Haley.

A Kenny Roger song was the perfect choice for Scotty and he sang it well. However, owever, it lacked the intensity and conviction that Kenny bought to the stage. Time. Scotty just needs time to mature.

Frankly, I loved the Lauren from the audition clip. Relaxed, natural and fun. Come back, girl. We miss the down-to-earth southern flavor.

Haley is still a mystery. Her song choices baffle me and although talented perhaps not the next American Idol. Out of fairness I did give her a vote because her final song was cut out in the early stanza as once again American Idol overshot it’s time slot. Sorry Haley.

Here we are crossing into the final stretch and the momentum is gone. The personality and full-package contestants are gone. Suppose we’re so used to frugality that we forget to reach for the full menu.

My exit vote for tonight is pointless.

With the Haley tribe on the warpath, I say its hanky time. Sorry. Lauren.

American Idol Top Five

2011-05-04T21:31:00.000-07:00

Fired-up, prepared for battle, the top five American Idol contestants ignited the stage. Many pitch issues and shrill notes across the board but that comes when you step out of your comfort zone. Good job.

I'm not sure what they had for breakfast but they were energized with every man and woman for themselves. Jacob, James, Lauren, Scotty and Haley - the transformation into warriors is like the fierce playoffs to the Super Bowl.

The inner self is out and exposed. There's no going back to the safe-zone.

I might as well toss the five names into a hat and let them drop to the floor. I haven't a clue who will go home but here's my take:

James - You got a double-whammy of the judge curse. Jennifer and Randy. Like don't hex the man with a projected winner. Seasoned Idolers know how that works out. Exactly how it works out. James, pray quickly. You're still top on my list but you know, the curse...love, love, love the gentle soul.

Jacob - A crotch-touch. I saw it. Yes, I did! You manned up tonight and let it go with complete abandonment. This was the new face of Jacob. He's in it to win it.

Lauren - Little Carrie clone who exposed cleavage. I tell you, this is war. Work it, girl. Not thrilled with the second song but you opened your voice to a different range. Nice.

Scotty - I remember the meek Scotty looking for a group back in Hollywood. You've come a long way. Still, there's a cold wall. Perhaps of control. Perhaps of innocence. Maybe not enough life experience but the ice melted when you engaged with your grandmother. Embrace that feeling.

Haley - Getting in a rut. Love your talent. Excellent suggestion by Sheryl to let your voice stand alone and simmer.

Now to go vote. The big question is for who? This is an Idol first. They're all fantastic.

Okay, I decided. Say what? My call cannot go through. That's a positive sign. Finger-blister time. Oh no, my second choice went through right away. Not good. Oh no, it went through again.

Tradition as it is, my exit vote for tonight is Haley. And yours...

American Idol Top Six

2011-04-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

Fired-up, focused and fixated on a win.

Wow! What an evening. American Idol Top Six.

At this point, I measure more than the measure. I look for the song that burns within and percolates under the skin and erupts with complete abandonment and like a wildfire spreads into soul.

Yet..unlike the wildfire where wind and dry twigs play the flame on stage the performer controls the fuel. Stoked, smoked and simmered. Each note sparked and tight within the fire line; an escapee crosses over and for a moment the artist lets in linger and then reels it back.

James Taylor? Where was my Fire and Rain and Sweet Baby James? Oh yeah, not your night.

Cooling the heat, here is my take for tonight:

Jacob - Started shrill but then that fire erupted and your entire body felt the heat. Fantastic. Loved your duet with James. Natural, playful, carefree with nothing to lose but yourself in the moment. That may have saved you tonight.

Scotty - "You've Got a Friend" was the perfect choice. Love, love, love the song and for me, I think you pulled it up a notch and delivered a different aspect to your voice. I'm not sure you have the friends to keep you out of the bottom two. There's still a feeling of disconnect. Take a taste of James' humility. It goes down quite well after the first swallow.

Lauren - Pure southern joy. Start clearing the mantel for your future Grammy. On second thought, buy a showcase.

James - Awesome! Not only do you know how to sing you reach the audience and connect. There's a depth to your personality perhaps marred with scars, a knowing smile, a spirit rich in integrity that commands the stage. You are cloaked in humility and have a genuine caring for your fellow contestants. That is the mark of a man. You're still my number one for all the right reasons.

Casey - Completely different than James in style, voice and venue. In my top three, James has you beat on the human connection.

Haley - Who would have thought you'd still be here and in the top six. You've found your voice. Work it. Not sure I liked the song selection. With so many top Carole King songs why pick an obscure song?

My top three: Lauren, Casey and James

My exit vote: I'm so sorry but I'm afraid it is Jacob. And yours...

Hail to King Trump - Not

2011-04-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

It's " We the People..." not "I the Donald."

Just my take...

American Idol Top Seven

2011-04-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

Seven is a lucky number but one is the luckiest of all.

Duct tape, a stolen kiss and more bleeps than from fans at a Raider Game. The family hour is tainted. And the tongue. Steven, Steven, Steven. Good thing my Dad is already in heaven or you'd be the death of him. Potty-mouth.

Disenchanted with the news that fallen contestant Pia will showcase Dancing With the Stars, I wonder why I vote. It appears a winner is already crowned. I don’t like the new rules and guidelines of Season Ten. And I sure don’t want a cross-over of the two shows – yet.

Let’s cross the finish line, folks.

What a week. Paul’s love life. Pia’s love life. Dudes, this is a singing competition. Right Randy?

Now to our Wednesday night special: Paul and the Fallen Beauties. Off-key, out-of-sync, out-of-place. No Steven. We remember quite well why we voted them adios.

Now to cast my vote to the 50+ million across the nation:

Scotty – Over-confident. Maybe there is room next to Paul. You’re swingin’ on a short rope. There’s more to life than a low note.

James – Solid five-star. New dimension to your voice, control and maturity. You’re a complete artist with more to come.

Haley – Mumbled words. Great for Adele not for Haley and the impossible high note. Love your raspy jazz.

Jacob – I disagree with judges. Imagine that. You touched my heart and really made me feel my mother’s pain after his death. Sing me Peabo Bryson. Just once…

Casey – Major contender, sly and versatile. Redheads rock!

Stefano – Yes, I saw it. I felt it. You looked into that camera, eyes wide open and ended on a high note. Very nice change to massage the lines and orchestrate the storyline. Good job.

Lauren – Good news. Rain in the forecast. Dance in the puddles, sing in the rain with complete abandonment and then bring it on home to the finish line. Only 17...you can do it.

My top three: Casey, James and Jacob.

My bottom three: Scotty, Haley and Stefano

My exit vote: Haley – for no particular reason except it’s time.

American Idol Top Eight

2011-04-13T22:04:00.000-07:00

First, the Pia drama and the judges tears. At this point a great voice isn’t the key. It’s the yes-factor. Jennifer and Steven are rookie judges. Bring your hankies. It’s a tough job. Lesson learned; don’t crown a winner before the contest ends.

America got it right. Good voice, over-rated and over-praised by the judges, the connection was not there. To elevate Pia to the ranks of the best in the business diminished Pia as Pia. She is not Celine. She’s also a rookie. Call it as it is. She’s Pia with a road to pave.

Now to this week’s Movie Night.

Paul – I enjoy your voice when my eyes are closed. Probably good for the radio but the Woody moves distract. Get your marionette strings in order and use them to showcase. Go see Toy Story.

Lauren – You’re already on the other side. Climb higher, climb on.

Stefano – Yes, yes and yes! You have magnetism, charisma and animation. Finally, out of the shadow of the crowned Pia, you shine. Go for it!

Scotty – I disagree with Steven. Note, he never says a negative word. The vocals were off and I’m sorry, you can’t take on George Strait. Only accentuated your immaturity and weaknesses. Go sip a taste of humility.

Casey – Jazz-King. I’m so glad to witness your birth and know you’ll be around for a long time. Can’t wait to hear you ripen into your fullness. Awesome.

Haley – Shake it up. Too much like prior performances. Didn’t like much.

Jacob – Lay me down, brother, lay me down. I’ll be there for you.

James – Heavy man, heavy. Not my thing but you did your thing well.

My top five for this week: Casey, James, Jacob, Lauren and Stefano

My exit vote goes to Paul. And yours…

American Idol Top Nine

2011-04-06T22:28:00.000-07:00

Let me quit rocking and start the talking…I think I lost a pound dancing on the ceiling. Oh wait; it’s not Lionel Richie night. My brain is pooped trying to figure out if I’ve ever seen the rain on a sunny day?

Ten years and it just gets better. By far, this is the best season. How does one choose? At this point, it becomes more than voice. Attitude, body movements, stage presence, and most importantly, would I attend a concert? When I close my eyes can I feel the music?

Tonight’s take -

Jacob – Terrific vocals and tamed a bit. Not sure the * doing the nasty* comment was a good choice. I rather like the *nasty*.

Haley – Moving in the right direction. You are in your element with your raspy growl.

Casey – Love the attitude adjustment and the willingness to learn, listen and deliver. Still a big contender.

Lauren – Oh girl, you are a woman and in my circle of top five.

James – Pure honest emotion. Always look forward to your moment. Looking forward to the Steven Tyler and James Durbin performance at the finale.

Scotty – Wow the girls, win the boys. Maturity beyond seventeen. You have it all for tonight. Another circle goes to the Southern flavor.

Pia – Grates. No, no, not great. Grate.

Stefano – Somehow the Broadway persona is back. Not a bad thing but maybe not an American Idol winner. I’ll miss you.

Paul – Oh man, can we wind you up and watch you go again? Consider your name circled.

For tonight my top five: Casey, James, Scotty, Lauren and Paul

My exit vote: Stefano or Pia

And yours….

Come Together Columnist and Blogger

2011-04-04T12:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, you attended the February 2011 SF Writers Conference and you’re packing for the BlogWorld Expo. Over and over you hear the message: network, network and network. You exchange business cards and rub shoulders with career-building individuals. Names are scribbled on napkins and tucked inside shirt pockets. Perhaps you even laugh over cocktails with a Board Member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and you just know you’re in the right place.

Now’s the time to reach into that arsenal, revisit the connection and network.

Often a Columnist and Blogger work alone. Some days the cubicle isn’t enough and the need to share with like-minds is crucial. We want a sense of community and camaraderie; we search for individuals who think like us; we gain strength when we come together.

Why not join a professional organization designed just for someone like you?

NSNC Membership Board Member and freelance columnist, Cynthia Borris, encourages you to explore the benefits associated with the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. While the annual membership fee is low the perks are high. Beyond the tee-shirt, free promotion for books is just one of the benefits.

Cynthia finds it doesn’t matter if you write for the New York Times, Chicago Sun or on one-ply toilet tissue for a backwoods weekly, you’re all NSNC family.

Yes, we understand. Newspapers are a dying field. That’s why it’s important to move forward into a new tomorrow. Recapture your audience, redefine your journalistic career and embrace a new media. Offline and online. Columnist and Blogger. Together.

Ignite with the spark of like-minds: Dave Barry, Bruce Cameron, Steve Lopez, Stu Bykofsky, Heloise, SF Bay Area columnists Cameron Sullivan, L.J. Anderson and more.

Join fellow members in Detroit as we Rebound in Motown. Share your new releases and special columns. Learn how to rebound and regain your voice. Bask in the Hospitality Suite.

Cynthia welcomes your questions: Cynthiaborris@gmail.com

Cynthia Borris is the author of No More Bobs, a frequent Chicken Soup for the Soul contributor and freelance columnist. A seasoned volunteer for the SF Writers Conference, she invites you to visit her site for The Wicked Sense of Humor Sampler.

American Idol Top 11 Again

2011-03-30T23:10:00.000-07:00

Well according to the judges, it was an amazing evening. Not sure I agree with the verbiage but there were outstanding notes and praise to mask the shrill ones.

My take for the night:

Scotty – Down in the basement notes excel. Attic has leaks in the roof. Needs work.

Naima – An original and quirky. Same thing, new tune old sound.

Paul – Love the softer side and control. Enhances and rocketed you to a new level.

Pia – Perhaps a dose of Casey humility is in order. Still not a buyer. Something’s missing. Not inching up the staircase.

Stefano – So glad to see you step away from the Broadway theatrics and move out of your element. Great job!

Lauren – Are you Carrie Underwood’s little sister? Grammy sound good? Like Hockey?

James – Still chartered for the winner. Confident, steps it up, humor. Commands the stage. You got it all.

Jacob – Redefines soulful. He’s so full of soul and emotion; he’s spent at the end of a performance. You reeled it in and tamed the drama.

Casey – Redheads rock! Redemption equals humility. You wear it perfectly and wrapped it around our heart. Good call on the haircut and a shave. Framed your face, added maturity to accent the humility. You’ll be back just not the unruly curls.

Thia – Daniel’s traveling tonight on a plane but he’s not alone. Thia’s at his side waving goodbye.

Haley – Lost in the moment. Can’t ask for more.

My exit votes go to:

Thia and Namia. And yours…

American Idol 11

2011-03-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

After a long day, I settled in for an energized night of Motown tunes. With my note pad ready, I jotted down eleven numbers and waited for the hour to unfold. Like any good scorekeeper, I have a rhythm to my markings.

Number followed by name:

Check mark for a vote.
Line through name means contestant is scratched for the night. No vote.
Circled name is high on the list and gets multiple votes.

At the end of the show last night, I studied my chart. Little to no markings. Not a single scratch. That’s good. Or not. Six checks and one circle. Not a single wow moment.

Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the singers. Maybe it just wasn’t a stellar night. I didn’t get in the groove, mood or anywhere in between.

I chalked this theme week to ho-hum and based my decision on which singer would I pay to see. Who captured my visual senses and moved me along the stage and beyond?

My take on an evening that didn’t make the cut:

Casey – again you delivered the goods. Soulful vibes ignite from the tips of your toes to the untamed curl in your beard. Excellent.

Thia – Heat Wave. Perhaps in a few years when you know the heat, but this wasn’t the right choice. A young soul with an old song. Too theatrical.

Lauren - a fresh air of youth

Jacob – my one circle and side note: All The Way! Each word was caressed, massaged and in control. Can I package this man and take him home?

Stefano – You selected one of my favorite songs. Can’t believe you’ve never heard it before? Hello is rich with emotion. Slow it down on the retake and send Lionel Richie a bottle of Scotch. Or better yet your Mama with dinner. Study your tape, slow-mo, rewind and get out of your box.

Haley – You go girl! Redemption. A song performed with complete abandonment and hunger.

Scotty – Not sure of your comfort level beyond the basement note. The South will rise and vote but not the West Coast. Take it up and work it.

Pia – Humility will enhance your performance.

Paul – Still pitchy but who cares. The voice of Rod Stewart with the charisma of Kenny Loggins. The guitar is a great partner. Now swivel like Rod and bring it deeper.

Naima – Spirited, entertaining, joyful but ditch the dance.

James – What can I say to my Santa Cruz guy? You capture the audience and every week step up the delivery. It’s going to be awesome to watch you, Jacob and Casey spar towards the finale.

Based on the singer I’d pay to see or not, my exit vote for tonight is:

Thia

American Idol 12

2011-03-17T12:10:00.000-07:00

And then there were twelve…

All you have to do is watch the body language of the judges. Heads bobbling, bodies swaying, rhythm igniting from a deep place, lips singing in unison and you know the contestant is in the moment.

With the judges stoic, backs erect and smiles fixed that contestant might as well pack up on stage and move on. Psychology 101.

So after studying the facial expressions and rock in the seat judge’s movements, I add my own take to the Top 12 and sing adios…

James has winner marked all over my paper.

Naima was way off but I think she'll make it through. Quirky.

Thia, Thia, Thia...great voice. Wrong competition. No apologies after the fact. You know we don’t want ballads. Perhaps Disney?

Paul tamed the marionette movements. Woody gained a string! Gorgeous smile but hasn’t tapped into my soul with staying power.

Haley – a free-spirit not willing to commit.

Stefano – Wow-factor. Traces of Michael Buble. Loves his Mama. Tony Danza energy. Charisma.

Pia soars to the high note but still I’m not a buyer.

Scotty – out of the lower range not as strong.

Karen – out of her league.

Casey – unstoppable, crazy-dude. Let’s hear it for the redhead.

Lauren – a caterpillar ready to emerge from the cocoon.

Jacob - Croon me a Peabo Bryson song. “If Ever You’re in my Arms again…” and I’m sold.

My exit for tonight is a female. It’s a simple elimination. If you’re female, you’re in danger and the process will take place over the next several weeks. The men outshine and out maneuver every note.

Tonight I’ll toss the weakest links: Haley, Karen and Thia and my exit for tonight is Haley.

Subject to change my current top five: Casey, Jacob, James, Stefano and Lauren.

And you....?

American Idol 13

2011-03-10T12:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, I admit. I'm an Idoler. A seasoned American Idoler.

I reeled over the Chris Daughtry elimination. Gasped with the Taylor Hicks win. Celebrated the David Cook moment.

With the outstanding talent this year, I'm up for the challenge to pick the best.

Randy, Jennifer and Steven did a great job weeding through shrill notes, sour faces, off-key auditions, and foul gestures to present the public with 13 viable contestants.

For me, it's easier to say today who I feel is going home, than project a season winner.

After the March 9 show, I believe Thia may go home. This is a difficult as she's a local Bay Area girl with a tremendous voice and I like supporting a hometown contestant. While her youth should be her biggest advantage - sparkle, energy and vibrancy - it's her biggest disadvantage.

The kid in Thia appears lost. Go play, have fun and be a teenager. Come back a young spirit and cast the old soul. Hum the words to your song and you'll get by. Smile.

Although a favorite, Paul's cut-string marionette moves distract from the experience. Remember AI, it's all in the package. Perhaps, tie a bow or ribbon on Paul to keep him in one place. As I try to recover from vertigo, Paul drops to sixth place on my list.

Haley? Not sure I like yodel but it was done well.

My top five choices are Casey, James, Stefano, Jacob and Scotty. For today....and yours?

Get Your Oscar On

2011-02-28T14:08:00.000-08:00

Get Your Oscar On

It’s Award season. You have the red carpet walk down, a night out on the town outfit in your closet that still fits, and your acceptance speech memorized. Why not grab the award and make the night yours and enter the National Society of Newspaper Columnists annual column contest?

Like the artists honored by the Academy of Awards, you have a library of work. Your voice is not on the big screen but the painter of words. You are a writer, a columnist, a blogger. Your voice is read. Like the Oscar artist, the writer, the columnist and the blogger are also honored with awards.

Your award may be just around the corner but you’ll never know unless you thumb through your 2010 collection of work and submit the best of the best for consideration. Today.

Deadline to enter the National Society of Newspaper Columnists annual contest is March 15, 2011.

Now may just be your year to walk the *red carpet*, pull that crinkled thank-you speech out of your pocket and make that award yours at the NSNC annual Detroit conference June 23-26, 2011.

Prestige, great friends, superb hospitality suite. Terrific speakers, columnists and journalistic community.

It’s time to get away from the computer, revisit your columns and enter. The time is now…

Cynthia Borris, NSNC Membership Chair

We Border on a New Day

2011-02-22T14:22:00.000-08:00

Draped across the storefront the oversized banner beacons - Store Closing.

One more time around, I circle the parking lot. Resigned to a long walk, I pull into a stall and reconsider. Do I really want to go to Borders today? Is there anything there that I need?

Silent, I study the people. Moms, dads, women with strollers, men in wheelchairs, children, couples hand-in-hand all on a direct course to the entrance, unfettered in their goal, and the answer is clear. Yes, I need to go to Borders. Today.

I note the customary guidelines. All sales final. No checks. 20-40% off. A meager discount at best. No big deal.

Yet the people keep coming.

“What’s up with this?” a man asks, “Out of business?”

I nod yes and sigh.

“My wife and I are just waiting to see Black Swan at the Cinema next door .” His stature gives him a good focal point as he sizes up the crowd. “We had no idea.”

“You’ll like Black Swan.” I offer, lost in observation of the impending change. No more movies, Applebee's drinks and late nights at Borders.

He eases into a gentle banter and says, “I wanted to see True Grit but the wife…” He shrugs with consignment, “Ballerinas.”

Ah yes, poor man, I strive to redirect his perception and not give away the plot. “It’s about mental illness.”

Brows furrow, his night just worsened.

“Great sex,” I spice up the prospect and walk on.

Yes, I will miss movie night and the Border chatter I note as I relocate to the New Release section. While I thumb through the latest New York Best Seller, a face peers between the racks.

My new friend’s beard tickles the top edge of Dean Koontz as he shares, “I usually watch the Christian channel. Do you think, that, maybe---?”

My sense is that conflict is now part of movie night.

I look to the left, to the right. With no wife in sight, I purse my lips along the book spines and propose, “You can close one eye.”

Satisfied, he taps the tickets in his pocket and perks up.

In truth, I know temptation will win and he’ll keep both eyes open. Wide open.

I shut the book, place it back on the rack and pause. A palatable energy is in the room. This is more than a bookstore. It’s a place of community.

Soon, I understand. This isn’t about a good bargain. There are none to be found. It’s a wake. An honor. A rite of passage.

Weaving in and out of the rows like a confused hamster, an older gentleman ponders, “Where’s the end of the line?”

I point towards the back end of the building. Grateful, he scurries to the distant wall. Nearby, I take a head count.

Over sixty patrons stand in wait. The line extends to the far corner of the Children’s section and beyond. With each transaction, they creep in unison.

No one orchestrates the movement. There is no employee directing customers to the back of the line. There are no ropes or rails to mark the path.

There are no borders. The way is clear. Forward.

No fights, grumbles or cut-in-line crashers. Patience is the virtue of the hour.

More than a moment, it’s a chance to share with a stranger behind you, in front of you and on the side, the memories, the moments and the sadness; an understanding of the finality - that the opportunity to meet at this location is no more.

“Borders may be dead, but books are not,” I say to a thirty-something customer, excited with the possibilities of the possibilities.

“I love books. I love to read.” His answer resonates through the crowd as he shuffles one step closer to his all-sales-are-final purchase. He has no doubt. His purchase is final. It is more than a sale. It’s a tribute. A statement.

Yes, I needed to go to Borders today.

As an author, I’m ecstatic. As a patron, I’m part of a movement. As a person, I am better for the experience.

Perhaps, this was Borders failure.

Doomed in the end by a word. One word. Borders.

There are no borders on creativity, imagination and the people connection.

Renewed in spirit, I trace a paperback with my fingertip. Hello old friend. Close to my face, I breathe in the familiar smell and flip the pages so the breeze gently feathers my hair. The energy of the written word embraces my spirit. Powerful images created by the sculptor of beginnings, middles and ends.

With a final glance, I thread through the customers still browsing the racks and memorize the scene.

Yes, Borders may be dead in the San Francisco Bay Area but books are alive in the wake.

We border on a new day without Borders.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Cynthia Ballard Borris, author No More Bobs and humor columnist

Copyrighted 2-21-11

Pass the Blessings, Please

2010-11-24T10:33:00.000-08:00

Pass the blessings, please

Turkey up, put down the fork and season the day with a compliment

In the Spirit of the Thanksgiving season, offer the gift of self for the season. Join me as I embrace the words of a fellow author, blogger and columnist and wish them a wonderful holiday.

Add spice to the moment and pick up that phone. Let your voice warm the kitchen of a family member, old friend or neighbor like hot apple pie.

In celebration of the meaning of the day, visit postings and wish the friend the gift of giving. Season your words with motivation, energy and mirth.

Make this the gift that keeps giving and when blessed, share the sentiment with a nearby stranger.

Remember to receive give with an open heart and you'll be surprised how one kindness multiplies!

Pass the blessings, please...

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Writers the Moment is Now

2010-11-16T19:40:00.000-08:00

I attended the SF Writing for Change conference this past weekend.

Under the warmth of a November sun, we gathered at the SF Hilton in the Financial District, just steps from the heart of Chinatown. The Writing for Change conference is one of my favorite events. The core element is non-fiction and the atmosphere is rich with individuals reaching for a better tomorrow by understanding today.

Not only did I re-ignite my creative energy, refocus my goals and connect with positive people, I learned that I can walk into a conference without mascara and eyeliner. What a better place to forget my makeup than a motivational self-esteem building event. Maybe I'll go naked next time.

From Stephanie Chandler to Kevin Smokler to Dan Millman to Rita Rosenkranz - the message was clear: the moment is now. My moment is now.

Yes, Kevin I will strive for balance and at all times be happy. So good to see you again and I'll see you in February. I appreciate the kick.

Thanks Stephanie for the countless tips and book. I listened and will act. Your energy is contagious.

Dan, I bought a huge club to ward off procrastination. Interlopers and time thieves beware.

Excellent conference! Thanks Mike Larsen and Elizabeth Pomada for a wonderful experience. I'm so glad to part of your team.

Gobble-gobble or Not to Gobble

2010-11-16T16:50:00.000-08:00

Gobble-gobble or not to gobble.

75% of my invited Thanksgiving Day guests and family all agree - they do not like turkey.

Go figure.

I wonder then just how many people partake of this annual ritual on Thanksgiving to be polite. Are rituals negotiable? Is a turkey dinner the symbol of Thanksgiving or is the symbol the gathering together to share blessings?

I plan to share the blessing and not serve a roasted turkey with all the trimmings.

For me and my family this year it's steak, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes.

Yes, rituals are negotiable and compromise comes in many shapes. No turkey on Thanksgiving? No way.

Compromise also comes in many flavors including See's milk chocolate foil-wrapped turkeys.

A Thanksgiving Day I don't spent probing a turkey's cavern is fine with me. For that I give double thanks.

Chocolate anyone?

Naked Men on the Market

2010-08-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

Two naked men walked down Market St in San Francisco.

Save for the flip-flops and one birthday hat and a sign that read vote for someone for supervisor, imagination wasn't needed. The dimpled-pock mark on the thinner man's right butt cheek; the only crinkle in his pale skin.

Mothers shrouded children's view with coats. Little boys were whacked in the head for roaming eyes. Teenage girls reeled back and laughed. Old women smiled with gentle memories. Men jeered with "Hey pencil dick" and "At least my tally-whacker is in my pants" and "There's kids out here!"

Cameras snapped, Twitter tweeted and for me, I walked behind the behind with the pock-mark on the right-cheek and noted both men's fine physical shape. Not a wrinkle or sag.

Cloaked in our inhibitions, an exchanged glance of "I wish I could do that" spoke volumes. The social barrier of ties, pants, and summer dresses hiding our desire to prance naked down the streets of San Francisco.

"You know you want to," I whispered to a man and his dog.

Block after block, they sauntered. Me, too. On the same route to different journeys, soon the nakedness became normalcy. The reaction of the people stood out in the crowd and drew the attention.

Side-by-side at the signal light, I confess, I peeked. As the light turned green, I walked ahead and spoke softly, "If that was a pencil I want an entire box."

Ah, the days of summer and a cool bay breeze.

But wait, just who was I to vote for? Guess I'll have to go back...

Bloomington Indiana Welcomes America's Columnists

2010-06-07T17:14:00.000-07:00

My hair is styled, my airfare booked and I lost a pound or two so I can gain a pound or two at the NSNC conference. But more importantly, I plan to gain knowledge and strength as I celebrate the camaraderie of columnists from across the country.

I'm ready for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 34th annual conference, Get Schooled, in Bloomington, Indiana, July 9-11. I even rescheduled my flight so I can accept the hospitality of West Baden Springs and the French Lick Hotel to enjoy a massage or round of golf with my *free* night lodging after the conference. Since I'm a duffer with a duck hook, I think I'll take the massage.

I'm looking forward to renewing old friendships and discovering new ones. Hope you'll join me in a toast in the hospitality suite.

What you're not registered yet? I'm sure that's just an oversight. Columnists are known to procrastinate. That's okay. It's what makes us special. So let's call it a deadline. July comes right after June...the time to act is now.

For complete conference information and registration, visit the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.

Now I better start packing. You know how it is for women. We pack and repack at least five times. With the conference five weeks away that's just about once a week until we share that drink...see you soon!

Cynthia

2010 National Society Newspaper Columnists Contest

2010-03-02T11:51:00.000-08:00

A deadline is a writer’s best friend. It makes us excel and rise to the challenge of the midnight hour. Good news, it’s your moment to shine. The hour of decision is near.

March 15, 2010 is the deadline to enter the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 2010 contest. With seven categories including online and blog columns, there’s an opportunity for you to enter the best of your best 2009 columns.

Visit the National Society Newspaper Columnists for your entry form and contest guidelines. While you’re there enjoy the outstanding March newsletter and celebrate the accomplishments of fellow columnists.

Along with your contest entry, we invite you to join the NSNC and embrace new friendships at our annual conference, Get Schooled, in Bloomington, Indiana, July 9-11, 2010. You’ll be glad you did.

Now back to the NSNC 2010 contest…

You may have the winning entry in your hand but we’ll never know unless you get it into our hands. A deadline is a deadline. Package that entry, walk to the nearest mailbox and conquer that March 15, 2010 cutoff.

It's that simple.

Good luck and remember procrastination only puts off what you can do today until tomorrow...

Babes in Toyland

2009-12-24T16:17:00.000-08:00

With Santa’s arrival just over the rooftop, I join my niece for the required visit to Santa Claus with her two sons. Strollers and diaper bags packed, we inch along the gold braided path. A Rudolph-themed village entices anxious children and our toes tap to the music of childhood.

“We are Santa’s elves…”I hum to the surround sound of plastic trees and shredded snowflakes.

Wes, a mere breath away from three-years old, waits in anticipation to present Santa with his wish list. The look on his face leaves no doubt – this is serious business.

Once on the red-velvet knee, Levi puckers-down and the magic dissolves into reindeer tears. Quick picture snap and exit baby until next year. A seasoned-pro, Santa remains cool like the frost on a Winter breeze.

Now one-on-one with the Man, Wes chats at length; engaged in intent conversation.

We shrug shoulders and wait. After all, a year’s a long time between good friends.

A nod of understanding, the two come to an agreement. With a tip of Santa’s hat, Wes waves goodbye; his list delivered now and safe in Santa’s keeping.

I bend down to kid-level and ask, “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”

An experienced Mom, I brace for the usual barrage of hot toys and must-haves.

With a twinkle he says, "I asked Santa to bring you a present."

Speechless, I hug Wes and embrace the innocence of childhood, letting it perfume my body with wonders old and new.

Pleased, I see Santa wink as he rubs his belly and lets out a cheerful jolly.

"Thanks," I whisper to the one-who-knows-all and then turn to Wes and say, "He already did."

And that is what Christmas is all about.

Merry Christmas to All

and to

All the Innocence of Childhood Awakened Anew

No Room for One

2009-12-13T21:11:00.000-08:00

Four books in the bag, a pot of coffee in the gut -- I am hostage in the hospital. Mom’s scheduled for a one o'clock test; the hands of my watch point to three o'clock. I flip another page of a year-old magazine and mentally catalog my unfinished Christmas shopping.
Finally, a technician enters the crowded waiting area. The holiday characters on her scrubs warm the room with a cheerful spirit and I set aside my magazine. I count at least ten of the twelve days of Christmas while she checks mom’s wristband.
With Mom’s name and identification number confirmed the employee smiles and says, "Helen, come this way."
Mom pushes her walker to the dressing stall with eighty years of grace. A drop of a sweater and black pants and she dawns a new outfit - blue floral cotton with tie tabs in the back.
Bad news. The carotid angiogram shows a blockage of the right artery and Mom’s charted for morning surgery. I gather my caffeine-riddled body as the outpatient procedure turns inpatient admission. Paperwork, questions, wrong answers. Mom’s baffled. I empty mom's purse for her hearing aid. No ear.
In between blood pressure checks, I spot the eleven pipers dancing along the mid seam, left elbow, on the technician’s top. While in search of the twelfth day of Christmas, I’m interrupted by a brisk voice. An unfamiliar employee’s presence fills the room.
"We're short on rooms right now.” The Cath Lab nurse states in measured breaths. “We'll keep your mom here until the shift change. By then we should have a free bed."
Without a moment of holiday cheer, the no-name employee glances at the overhead monitors and scribbles numbers in the chart. Ms-No-Holiday-Cheer turns on her heels, and disappears behind the pleated curtain. As the night falls silent I question if the hospital has an antidote for the Hum-bug virus.
Hours creep by. Mom sips tepid water. I lean back and finish the remnants of another cup of coffee. Gingerbread latte, peppermint mocha and cinnamon spice. I’ve exceeded my limit of holiday concoctions. I’m ready for the New Year.
Swamped, the staff scrambles to find empty beds. Dusk arrives and still no room available, we relocate for a temporary stay in recovery. Patients moan and intravenous bags hang on hooks. Tucked in a far cubicle, we order dinner and wait for a vacancy. Flat on her back I spoon feed Mom peas. One disappears down her gown.
"Everyone's so nice." Mom jokes with the staff and savors the attention.
"We're not used to having patients that can talk." The recovery room nurse chuckles and brings me salt for my bland potatoes. Low on fuel, my body craves chocolate. I smell a dark blend on her breath and spy the See’s candies at the nurse’s station.
“I was wondering if…” I glance towards the spread of goodies.
“…Happy to share,” she hands me a slice of fruitcake leftover from a staff holiday party. I pick around the chunks of petrified fruit, choke down the stale offering and cough a dry thank you. Define happy. I wonder if I can file a union grievance.
Restless, I bend and stretch. The recovery room cubbyhole stifling, my skin starts to sweat sterile spores. Unconsciously, my foot taps to the cadence of the heart monitor and accompanying blood pressure bleep; my body begs to dance in rhythm.
“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,” I hum, orchestrating the bells and whistles of the machines to my own concerto. Not bad.
Mom’s fingers curl around my hand, a joyful smile kisses her parched lips and she whispers, “…How lovely are your branches.”
Together, we finish the song and the night is brighter.
Thirty minutes creep by and we drift into silent holiday memories with an occasional “Remember when…?”
“…I remember,” I say and hold back my thoughts. I remember every wonderful moment.
Layers and layers of spent holidays unwrap like crinkled photographs. Between a giggle of a long ago memory of paper angel wings for a junior church choir the staff member checks mom’s incision.
"Nurse, did they find me a room?" The words slur and mom struggles to hear the answer.
"Soon," with a reassuring pat and a practiced smile the conversation ends.
Early evening we arrive in the telemetry unit. A tiny artificial Christmas tree welcomes visitors and patients; the symbol of the season comforts like a familiar blanket. From a neighboring room, a radio plays Away in a Manger. The words repeat in my mind, “no room for a bed” and I emphasize.
Settled into her room, Mom slumbers as I gaze at the city’s nightline. A kaleidoscope of red, green and white lights blink. Beside the hospital sign a Christmas tree welcomes visitors and staff. The glass holds away the noise of the outside world and I drift deeper into life’s threads.
Stockings stuffed with apples, oranges and nuts. A miniature box of Whitman’s chocolates wedged in the toe. Sticky cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate; the upset stomachs. A tapestry of traditions.
But this tradition; this snag in the tapestry, this stitch I’d rather not have.
Beyond the thin veil of sleep, Mom’s eye lids flicker and a peaceful mew escapes on her breath. The IV drips, the nightlight casts gray shadows and the bedding reeks of industrial- strength-baked cotton. Not chocolate chip cookies.
I sit in a nearby chair and wonder how the days ebbed into years of silver. Lost in reflections, I stroke her worn hands and wish for laughter again.
The effects of the angiogram gone, Mom can use the restroom. Wobbly from the recent stroke, she grasps my arm. We shuffle to the toilet area as a pea rolls to the floor.
Half past late, we hear the rattle of rails. I lean from my corner spot. "You're getting a roommate."
"What's she like?"
"Well," I peek around the end of the bed and say, "Your roommate's a man."
"No…" She squeezes my fingers and gasps.
"…Yes. Remember the shortage of beds.”
"What am I suppose to do? I only have this flimsy gown," she motions for me to come closer, "and no panties."
"He probably doesn't have any either." I touch her shoulder and smile. "So what's the problem?" I sneak a peek again and fan my face. "He's a stud."
"Good grief…"
I catch a glimpse of Mom as she finger combs her silver strands, primps her cotton gown and attempts to camouflage a grin. A man’s coming.
Wait! I’m the one with a new man on my Christmas nice-to-have list. Santa crossed our wish list. Or did he? Widow or divorced, mother like daughter, I rearrange her covers and wink approval.
The nurses push the gurney towards the window. "Helen meet Lillian."
Her roommate lifts a palm and waves. Mom swats me with her good arm; a hue of rose colors her cheeks.
"So I'm the bad seed." I concede. Best time I have had all day.
Curled on her side, Mom twinkles and says, “You’re just like your mother.”
I laugh and realize it’s the best time we’ve both had all day.
Tis the season to be jolly…fa, la, la, la, la.

Recession Gray

2009-10-27T18:27:00.000-07:00

At a recent family party, I cuddle my grand-nephew and introduce him to a guest.

“He has such beautiful hair.” The woman coos and tickles his belly.

“Levi, the first redhead of his generation,” I beam. Just like his aunt a blend of enough red to be smart and enough blonde to be dumb I take silent note.

“Isn’t there a history of redheads in your family?” She says.

Startled, I question her eye sight. Just what the heck do you think I am? I swallow my thought.

With the baby cheek-to-cheek, I stare at our reflection. Strawberry-blonde. Golden hues and light red. Yes, we’re related. But what’s this? My blonde is overtaking the red. I’m becoming a blonde. Sprouts of dementia bloom at my crown. I sense my intelligence fade. Quickly, I speak my name aloud just to see if I remember.

Cynthia, Cynthy, Cindi. Good, I’m still in self-recognition mode.

Unsettled, I peer harder. Worse. I see gray. I blink my eyes in disbelief and swear they multiply in that instant. Spawned by the stressful economy, the colorless invaders resemble the same outcropping on President Obama in recent months.

“I’ve got recession gray.” I gulp.

Obama and I are in a tight race to the silver dome. This is not good. America’s got to hold its head up high. And in color. Homeland security starts at ground zero and this war against listless white is top priority. I type an email to the White House and invite our leader to join the cause.

I shout in bold print, “I’m gonna wash that gray right out of my hair…”

After a call to the local salon, I choke at the fee. A kin to scammers, I roll pennies for hours. Nowhere near the seventy dollar mark, I put on the plastic gloves and concede to a box job.

Money tight, I embrace the Republican approach and use the product with caution and diligence. No liberal coverage. Non-permanent color. No unnecessary cost.

I pop the tab off the bottle and pour the contents of bottle one into bottle two. A quick glance at my image in the mirror and I look like the mad scientist in gray vogue. Although the final promised color is a golden red the wet product is hemorrhage-purple. Shocked, I grab the box and check again – Golden Sienna. Stamped with the Good Housekeeping seal of approval, Clairol, my image rests in your potion.

Conservative, I leave it on for ten minutes. Scared of the deep color resembling a bruise, I finger the damp strands for scalp stain. Anyway, it washes out nicely. I can’t say as much for the white shower stall. I apply the conditioner for two minutes, dry my hair and it looks nice. The purple eases into a golden red and I wonder what shade our President should consider.

In the dawn’s early light I survey the follicle landscape. It’s now the shade of a spent pumpkin. Orange even. Perhaps the conservative path paled. I cringe but remember my pocketbook and give myself a pat for frugality. A good citizen, I fueled the economy nine dollars.

A battle zone unconquered but penetrated. A foothold, I tousle my antioxidant-fortified strands as I recite Einstein’s theory of relativity and speak three-syllable words. Golden shimmers streak from the crown and halo the bangs. Each blonde strand cloaked in carrot-pumpkin highlights. Yes, America’s got talent.

My stimulus package on course, I hear the phone ring and run to answer.

“Hi, it’s Norm.” a familiar voice says, “What’re you doing?”

“I just colored my hair.” I answer.

The inquiry continues, “Did you go red or blonde?”

“The box reads ‘light golden red’.”

“And…”

“…Well, it’s more pumpkin.”

“Orange,” he chuckles.

“Orange,” I parrot.

“So you’re still blonde.” He says.

I reflect on my dilemma. In the marketing world I can turn a copper penny silver. In the bathroom it’s a complete reversal of fortune. Silver to copper. I bow to a setback.

Refocused, I march back into battle and callout, “I’m gonna wash that orange right out of my hair…”

Some days it’s best to stay inside the box and leave it to a pro. Maybe the President can use my skills elsewhere. Got a penny?

THE END

Idol Me an Underdog

2009-05-21T14:43:00.000-07:00

Mine That Bird 50-1
Steals the Kentucky Derby
Filly Rachel Alexandra
Dusts the boys at Preakness

Teen Shawn Johnson stuns
Dancing with the Stars
Soft rocker Kris Allen
Captures coveted American Idol title

Show me a quarter
I’ll sing you a tune
Idol me an Underdog

A drag of tail
A bark up the wrong tree
Come on, we’re next
On the great-things-do-happen train

Pack your bag of dreams
Get your passion in motion
Put legs on your words
Eyeore is a brighter shade of blue

Show me a quarter
I’ll sing you a tune
Idol me an Underdog

All aboard…

Battle of the Choke

2009-05-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

Battle of the Choke

Deep-rooted resistance to death
Under the California sun
A four-inch artichoke in the pot
Now garden monster armed prick

Leaf circumference five-feet spread
Strawberries smothered
Water unquenchable
Drought ration in force

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the choke won.

Spawn of thorns
Kootnz and King take note
House of snails
I will not be derailed

Ax killer I tread through soil
Slice of hand a leaf falls silent
Texture of celery
Aroma of artichoke dip

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the choke won.

Braided roots cord in defiance
Deep the shovel blade cuts
Blister on blister splinters pierce skin
Twines of tentacles hold fast

Stabbed by thorn
Throb in thumb
One last whack
The choke was done

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the thumb won.

Copyright May 2009

Discouragement to Encouragement

2009-04-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

"Let no feeling of discouragement

prey upon you,

and in the end

you are sure to succeed."

- Abraham Lincoln -

Note the word: courage

Is it a surprise on a day when discouragement shadows my thoughts like a predator, a voice reaches from the past and says, "Let no feeling of discouragement prey upon you,..."

I think not

Thank-you Abraham. I will listen and not fall to the prey.

Pay It Forward AIG

2009-03-17T11:19:00.000-07:00

Although the lawyers claim it’s a breech of contract to not pay the AIG executive bonus, I wonder if it’s a breech of conscious to keep the bonus. The law may state the bonus must be paid. But it doesn’t say the AIG executives must keep the funds.

It takes but one voice to start a chorus. I say pay it forward.

Each AIG executive has the rare opportunity to rally the American spirit and trust. Should they choose, they can draw this frown into a radiant smile with one simple act: donate the entire bonus to charity and non-profits. Reach out and shake the hand that helped you.

Make the right choice and embrace the good karma.

It takes but one voice to start a chorus. My song is clear. Pay it forward.

Malted Milk Balls, please

2009-03-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

It's a malted milk ball day
Ate the entire carton
Still no stress-relief in sight
Only sugar jitters and a belly-ache

2008-12-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

Tis the Season

Lift the eggnog and brandy in toast

Laugh a lot...

Dance a little...
Love a lot!

Best Wishes for the New Year

Love Cynthia

No More Turkeys

2008-11-26T13:50:00.000-08:00

Beware of turkeys bearing turkeys

NO MORE TURKEYS

Happy Thanksgiving and remember pass the blessings, please...

Bewitched

2008-10-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

Beyond the ads, beyond the sales, lies the truth.

BEWITCHED

"Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble." Kathryn Ferguson cackled and swirled a crooked finger, casting a fake spell.

"Rubbish." Lori brushed the invisible hex aside.

"But that was how witches did it, according to Shakespeare." Kathryn protested. "What's more, I saw the movie Hocus Pocus."

"Well, Shakespeare is dead and the sisterhood of witches is still alive and I can prove it." Lori spotted her contact entering the coffee shop. "Quick, hide."

Lori Razzo was investigating modern witchcraft and had found a woman who agreed to take her to a secret meeting of a real coven nearby but only after she agreed to an oath of silence. Under no circumstances was Lori to expose the locale or she would forever pay the price of her tongue wagging. The professed witch glanced furtively around the coffee shop, swayed over to the table and drew up a chair.

Leaning forward, she spoke definitely, "I'll pick you up on the corner of Seventh and Wicker at 5:45am tomorrow. Don't be late."

"5:45am sharp."

"And remember, if you violate our agreement there will be harsh consequences to pay."

Gabriella's stare bore through Lori like a termite to wood. The message understood.

"This should be a hoot," she whispered to herself when Gabriella, the self-proclaimed priestess of the coven, strode out of the shop. "Witchcraft, boo-pucky. I'm so scared."

"Well?" Kathryn poked her head around the coffee bean rack. "Did she cast a spell on you? Wait. Let me look into your eyes. Okay, pupils normal and reactive."

Kathryn plopped down in the chair and Lori chuckled, "The meeting's tomorrow."

"Are they going to put a mask over your head?" Kathryn drank down the rest of Lori's tepid coffee. "Can I come?"

"And get me bewitched?" Lori feathered her short, reddish hair behind her ears. "Stay at least two cars behind in the slow lane, okay?"

The plan set, the two said good night and went their separate ways until the early morning hour.The sun crested over the hills while Lori stood shivering on the street corner. What is the matter with these women anyway? Don’t they know any self-respecting witch meets in the darkened shadows under the glow of candlelight and incense?

An Exhibition pulled to the curb and Lori hopped into the front seat. The vehicle, packed with ordinary women, jerked away from the roadside. The voices escalated as Gabriella maneuvered through a series of continuous green lights on target to the prescribed destination.

"Why this is--" Lori gasped.

The Exhibition screeched to a halt and the women quickly scooted out and marched towards the glass doors. Standing in a single line, they extended arms in front of their bosoms and repeatedly flexed both hands open and shut while chanting, "Open, open, open."

Slowly the locked doors opened and the coven welcomed the witches.

With purpose, the witches entered with a new incantation under tongue, "Charge it."

Lori stumbled onto the linoleum floor just as the doors closed tightly behind the one-way spell. Just like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves she thought. Turning backwards, she read the word "s'nyvreM".

"This is the secret coven?" She said, glaring at Gabriella. "Mervyn's?"

With the wink of a long lash and the crinkle of her nose, Gabriella tugged her by the elbow.

"Hurry, the best deals are gone in the first ten minutes and remember, mum's the word."

"What to wear, what to wear?" The witches chanted as they ran up and down the aisles of Mervyn's, checking price tags and trying on shoes, looking for the perfect price an hour before the store opened.

"A bargain hunt? This is modern witchcraft?"

Gabriella shrugged, "Witches have budgets, too."

"But isn't this Super Saturday?" Lori looked at a store sign.

"Who do you think started that idea?" Gabriella sighed, sarcastically. "Come on, the racks are already getting bare."

Lori grabbed a leather jacket and draped it over her arm. The witches scrambled and fought over sale items and carried armloads to the cash register. Sale after sale rang up at the register, absent of electricity and a sales clerk. Tiny charge slips printed out and faithfully the members of the sisterhood scribbled signatures of credit agreement, interest-free and triple bonus points. Lori laid her purchase onto the counter and watched the magical forces fold and package her selection. Cool. She could get the hang of this witchcraft.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the glass door, peering in, shocked at the private sale in action.

Kathryn.

"You!" A witch cursed towards Lori and pointed a rigid finger. "You told someone of our secret coven."

"No…" Lori retreated on her left foot, looking for an escape. The witches encircled her, grasped hands and slowly started to cast a spell. The cash register clanged, the drawers flung open and shut violently. Dollar signs flashed by in a blur. The sisterhood sang louder and swayed as one. Voices deepened and a lone cackle erupted as the women chanted a few choice mumble-jumbles.

Lori trembled and hugged her purchase. The machine grew hotter, shuddered and spewed out the charge slip. Eyes focused on the intruder and silence overpowered the room as Lori's hand unwillingly signed the charge slip.

"What? $5,031 for a jacket at 34.9% interest. That's outrageous." Lori protested as her pen zagged the "z" in Razzo. "I'll be paying this off forever.

"Gabriella spoke with a wicked laugh, "Month after month after month….pay back's a witch."

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Democrats, Republicans, Republicrats and those sitting on the Road of Indecision

2008-09-07T22:50:00.000-07:00

First, I think it's great that as Americans we can agree to disagree. Since we represent all corners of the states, it's not a surprise we have different POVs. I'll be the first to state that politics are not my expertise.

For me, I want the Vice President to be able to step up and fill the president's shoes. Many have seen just how quickly this can happen from Kennedy's death to Nixon's resignation. I take the VP as a VIP position. I vote for a team.

As a former soccer mom, single mom and sister of a *special needs* child, I'm not qualified to represent this country. Hands down. I bake great cookies, weave tremendous tales, manage a family single-handed, run a business, and house a host of pets. Although I refuse to gut a moose, I can support a broken spirit, treat a bruised knee and cheer on a team. I'm a mom and that's what moms do. Rally to the cause. Dads, too.

On a side note, I've met soccer moms and some are down right vicious. Not a platform I'd embrace.

As a child I sat on metal chairs in a tiny room as my parents joined with other *special needs* families and were the grassroots advocates for the Association for Retarded Children - a term honored now with gentler and positive terms as developmentally disabled and celebrated with Special Olympics events. Even so, after speaking openly, achieving milestones and acting on boards, my mom is not my candidate for VP. She's my mom.

I don't vote for the gender. Period. I vote for the best qualified, experienced candidate. Promoting Sarah Palin’s *mom* achievements places the gender card upfront and personal. This isn't a media issue. It started behind the podium. Can't have it both ways and cry wolf when it doesn't play your way.

Nor can the Republicans expect us to ignore teen pregnancy as a family issue yet embrace Palin’s Down Syndrome son as the poster child that she’ll step up for special needs children. The current cover of People magazine draws question. Can a candidate use one child for political gain and put the other off limits? It’s a shameful political agenda to use a child as a pawn. Even Solomon just rolled over in his grave. My brother Jeff, a Down Syndrome, just joined him.

Still, I try to learn the facts and find articles that offer claims with supporting evidence. An environmentalist and supporter of animal rights, I found the article Maybe Your Type of Leader; Definitely Not Mine by Ed Kostro supported by facts and fueled by passion. I take note of my findings, cringe at the photo, and catalogue the image into my data bank, forging forward to discover the experience level and balance for a right-hand to the President.

To entice Hillary supporters to Sarah may be the biggest mistake. With no comparison between the two, I suspect Hillary Clinton may be the deciding factor in this campaign after all. Wonder if she was a soccer mom? She definitely can be a pit bull when necessary. More research for me.

Friday night I was at the SF Giants baseball game. On the message board it asked us to guess the night's attendance. The winning number: 38,904.

My friend, Cy, leaned over and said, "Take a look at the bleacher section. That's about equal to the town Palin served as mayor."

One-quarter of a baseball stadium.

Curious, later I Googled the population for Alaska. 2006 census 670,053. Lower than the 2006 census for San Francisco 764,976.

I respect every ones right to choice and to cast a vote for their candidate and beliefs. For me, I'm researching and studying all the issues more than ever to make an informed decision in November. I watched both conventions to be fair and I read, listen and search between the lines.

An eloquent speaker and charmer at the podium, Sarah, I'm not sold that easily.

Now I think I'll call my mom, place flowers on my dad and brother’s graves, and celebrate my Giants win and together with Democrats, Republicans, Republicrats, Middle of the Fence and those sitting-on-the-crossroads, mourn my 49er Niner loss.

And tomorrow on to the other candidate…Joe Biden.

Soar with the Best

2008-08-31T11:46:00.000-07:00

"Be like the bird, who

Halting in his flight

On limb too slight

Feels it give way beneath him,

Yet sings

Knowing he hath wings."

-Victor Hugo

Naked Ladies Survive Fire

2008-08-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

Prized real estate where egrets and clapper rail tip-toe in the pickle weed; a place where a Marbled Godwit is your next-door neighbor and mustard plants create a fence line. Waterfront property and a home with a view of the San Francisco Bay puts the *fine* in the define of location. I look for the human directional to paradise.

The only sign advertising this location: East Bay Park District. No motorized vehicles. No firearms.

A protected habitat I enter the Pacific Flyway and wetland area. My iPod plays George Strait and I pick up my step. My stress clears and characters and dialogue whip through my thoughts. Midway between a fight and torrid love scene, I stumble on remnants of a grass fire.

Off the trail, I wade through the charred shrubs, the grass crunches underfoot. The smoke and spent embers outline the skeleton of the home that once was and wasn’t. The dry grass the carpet and the thistle the decorations, the open décor an understatement at best.

I study the charred remains of a ten-speed. Upside down, the wheels barely move with the whistle of the afternoon wind. Licorice bushes and a small tree provide shelter in place of mortar and brick. Driftwood borrowed from the nearby wetlands, the only visible furniture.

A vagabond.

An avalanche of cracked bottles – Vodka, cheap wine and mediocre beer – the scrapbook of someone’s life. Didn’t do Martha Stewart proud I note. Empty cans of tuna, beans and soup rust in a heap. A bottle of Gatorade is buried under the garbage. At least, the homesteader was trying to be healthy.

Under the ash a singed box of cigarettes. I kick the open carton and frown – the dropped-cigarette-on-the-couch syndrome. Only here the couch was red flag flammable, a tinder box of ripe twigs. Too bad.

I take a closer look at the far southwest corner. By the stench, I find the deposit zone for human waste. An untidy bowl moment, I move north and try to cough the odor away. A sweet aroma tempts; a familiar exotic scent that lures men to kiss behind our ears. Intoxicating and aphrodisiac the fragrance begs me to come closer.

What’s this? Naked Ladies dance.

Pink, fringed on the tips, they sway with a rhythm of beauty and grace.

Survivors of the fire.

Beyond the scorched bulbs the ladies sweet perfume fragrances the area. Surprised, I stroke the flower and run my fingers along the trumpet shape. I change my music to Chris Botti, sit down on the blackened earth and reflect.

For now I can forget about the price of gas, foreclosures and traffic congestion. With my hands I form a box and frame the image. Yes, this is the perfect place for a window. Maybe a table to my left. Wonder if I can get free WiFi? A tiny field mouse scuttles nearby. Definitely not part of the deal.

Warned of my presence, a jack rabbit lopes through the brush. His intentions clear, he has no plans to be the guest of honor at my next meal. No problem. I hear rabbit taste like chicken. So just what does chicken taste like I wonder?

The Naked Ladies trumpet touches my shoulder and I hear the petals sing, “Stay.”

I recall the sign at the entrance to the shoreline park: No motorized vehicles. No firearms.

Doesn’t say a thing about a tent and a sleeping bag.

Or better yet a two-man tent. Maybe even a naked man. A theme I learned from the Democratic convention – dream big and make it happen.

I nod to the Naked Ladies and say, “Thanks, I think I’ll stay awhile.”

One can dream. Big.

Romance Writers of America Sizzle in San Francisco

2008-08-01T17:12:00.000-07:00

In need of a hormone rush other than my own mis-wired ones, I hop on BART and head to the San Francisco Marriott. I can’t imagine a *hotter* place to be than the Marriott’s lobby or to loiter at the bar bombarded by romance, sex and temptation.

No, the Marriott isn’t the hot spot for singles in the City. This week it’s better. The Romance Writers of America (RWA) are celebrating their 28th annual conference at the downtown hotel July 30 – August 2.

As an author, I discovered sometime back that romance writers put the define in fun. Especially at conferences. Every workshop is a moment to market, to tease and showcase the playful personalities of the word crafters who tempt, taunt and tantalize the reader page after page. Not to mention the cover art.

One step into the lobby and a palatable energy embraces me and I exhale slowly. With my meno-no-longer-in-pause, I greet the first woman with a conference tag and introduce myself. From Alabama, Connecticut, Maryland to Texas warm handshakes and friendly hellos tell me I’m in the right place. Hundred of attendees fill the lobby. I feel the heat. I search my purse for a paper to fan the flush.

More than the need for a sensual ride and peer connection, I’m here to support the Readers for Life program. Over 400 authors are on hand to autograph books, pose for photos, and promote literacy programs. The books donated by the various publishers are as varied in romance genre as the creators. With proceeds going to charity, I’m ready to open my pocket.

Entering the large conference room, I’m overwhelmed with the number of tables, countless authors, and animated chatter equal to a 6.7 quake on the Richter scale. Immediately, I recognize fellow authors: Debbie Macomber, Nora Roberts, and Susan Elizabeth Phillips. More so, I wander up and down the landscape of tables and note names unknown to my book shelf.

Intrigued by the title, Kiss Her Goodbye, I pick up a novel by Robert Gregory Browne. Not only does his warm personality capture my attention, I’m drawn in by the first sentence and I’m sold. A native Californian like me, I snap his picture. A rare find.

Up and down the aisles of authors I wander. Listed alphabetically I’m lost in this new frontier of romance that reaches beyond the lust and sex of the past. Book after book, the works are rich in prose, plot and characters.

After ninety minutes, I arrive at XYZ neighborhood. Breathless, I need a rest and notice author Connie Brockway, idle at her table.

I glance at her book, Skinny Dipping, and say, “You must write humor.”

Her sparkling smile and vivacious personality answer the question before her words. I kneel by her table and for the next few moments we chat, author to author.

Up to a little Skinny Dipping, I add my dollars to the charitable event. We hug for a photo spot of like-souls – humor people are like that – exit with a smile and I return to my ABC exploration. Dont' we look happy in our photo opp?

No question, author Lisa Gardner, is a definite on my hit-list and Hide tops the pile.

Marketing trinkets of Hershey kisses, bookmarks, magnets and lavender heart-shaped lights highlight the displays. Author Kira Sinclair promotes “Sinfully, Sensual Romance” with sugared-vanilla bubble bath and the offer to “Relax with a Steamy Read!” I note the bottle is just the right size for two. Smart girl. I accept her offer, talk awhile and promise to do my best but I’m not sure how one relaxes while reading a steamy read. Have to get back with you on that.

I hurry to catch the E-list but the two-hour event ends before I cross the HIJK border. And Barry Eisler’s so cute. Damn.

In line Leena Hyat, Author Sound Relations, treats me to an Arnott’s TimTam, a “must” chocolate for romance writers and I’m good to go the distance to the cashier. No question, I’m refueled in more ways than one.

Soon, I’m back in the lobby. The liveliness in the room intensifies and shows no sign of quieting. Friends old and new relax in the lounge and bar area, Cosmos and bottles of red wine the common choice for the respite before the next day’s workshops. Conversations are over-the-back-fence casual and genuine.

Outside, the fog creeps through the streets. I board BART and decide to read Kiss Her Goodbye. A hard cookie to crack, I’m hooked from the first page and immersed in the adventure. I almost miss my train station. Robert Gregory Browne is a rare find.

Back home, I check the RWA conference for next year in Washington DC and read membership guidelines. Curled on the bed, I flip through No More Bobs and consult the cast, “So what do you think guys? Romantic comedy and a flight to DC?”

New Orleans welcomes the National Society of Newspaper Columnists

2008-06-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

June. My calendar marked and my bags packed, I’m off to the 32nd annual National Society of Newspaper Columnists conference. From the west coast, east coast and in between, newspaper columnists travel across the nation and gather at the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans. The theme: New Orleans, we haven’t forgotten…

We spend considerable time immersed in Katrina info as shared by many columnists in post-conference columns and blogs. For three days, we renew friendships, listen to Katrina stories of devastation and reconstruction, and taste the fabulous food of New Orleans.

Friday night we work up an appetite as we parade through the French Quarter tagged the Columnists Comb and Kazoo Band. With beads, kazoo and party umbrella, Jenn and Stu Bykofsky, the Philadelphia Daily News, and I pose for a photo opp. Better get us now. It's the only time we stand still. Second-line behind the Storyville Stompers, columnists two-step, side-step and step-on-toes to the Aquarium of the Americas. Adjacent the Mississippi backdrop, we dine and listen to a first-hand witness to the loss and rebirth of the aquarium.

Laughs in order and somewhat needed the columnists kickback in the hospitality suite for camaraderie, nightcaps and Zapp’s spicy Cajun Crawtators.

Boozed out, plump as a piggy and sleep deprived, Sunday I wander with the locals and home-grown and discover that smiles still go on.

Along the St. Charles line, Tamara Mellon waits tables at O’Henry’s Food and Spirits. A young mother of two sons, Tamara, wears the smile of optimism. Residents of Slidell, a hard hit zone of the flood waters, Tamara and her husband John lost their two businesses, sustained major damage to their home but not their spirit.

I’m not sure what the secret ingredients for crawdads, mudbugs and sweet potato fries may be but I suspect the bright, cheerful persona of Tamara has something to do with the extraordinary flavor. Her gracious personality and spunk energizes the afternoon.

Early that evening I join columnists Anita Hanaburgh, the Leader Herald, and LJ Anderson, the Palo Alto Daily News, at the Café Giovanni, for encore Opinionated Vodka Stiletto martinis, the conference official drink.

After several nights dodging Frat Boys, venders and baring a little skin on Bourbon Street for beads - yes, I was tossed one string - a trek to the outskirts of the French Quarter tempts my curiosity. Armed with the names of the best jazz venues and restaurants this side of the quarter we cross the Esplanade for Girl’s Night Out. Destination Frenchmen Street, New Orleans.

Along Frenchmen Street, the Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro, The Marigny Brasserie and the Santa Fe Mex-tex restaurant extend southern hospitality: chilled margaritas, watermelon mojitos and crispy shrimp. The atmosphere jazzed and gentle; foreign to the hype and colorful people of Bourbon Street, the welcome mat is huge.

One particular funky rustic building, the Spotted Cat, begs us to enter. Above the entry a windsock shaped like a white cat with black spots dances in the early evening breeze. An open-door policy with patrons along the walk and chatting on the street, we accept the invisible invite. Cash only, $4 beer, one drink minimum per set.

Just a columnist’s kind of place.

At the bar rail, I order a Bud Lite and note the balloons, birthday cake and lone sugar cookie with green frosting. It’s someone’s special day.

In a loose white shirt with a black crown with green, purple and gold jewels and a smile as wide as the Mississippi, it was easy to spot the birthday king. Al Carnival Time Johnson. A forty-year icon of Mardi Gras, Al wrote the unofficial song of Mardi Gras “Carnival Time”. Born in the Ninth Ward, the native son lost his home with the high waters of Katrina. With the help of fundraisers and friends, Al’s destination is Musician’s Village.

A birthday tradition, we dig into our pockets, pull out dollar bills and pin George onto Al’s shirt. Soon, he’s joined by Abraham and even a Grant or two. Happy 69th birthday Al.

I watch Diane, the woman next to me move with the rhythm; massaging each note with harmony - somewhat envious of the easy release into the moment. As the saxophonist tops a high note, she accents the shrill sound with the sway of her shoulders and a tap of her foot. Lost in the music.

Still ahead of my alcohol, I’m not ready to lose my California reserve. Yet.

From guys on motorcycles to a woman aided by a walker, exuberant, spirited and poignant, to the woman dancing on the bar, they party. Against the far wall three slot machines yet no players. On stage the jazz revs up and the crowd takes to the miniscule dance area.

Another swig of beer and square of birthday cake, I find myself on my feet, swinging with the beat. Outside the revelers dance under the spotted cat and I realize I could quickly become one with the cat, sashaying my tail and meowing into the early hours.

But the midnight hour nears and like Cinderella at the ballroom we cross back into the French Quarter and transform again into tourists.

At the Café du Monde, we pose for pictures and tip generously. As we sip café au lait and the powdered sugar drifts from the beignets like fairy dust I glance again towards the forbidden boundary and whisper into the balmy night, “I’ll be back.”