If this past weekend in Margaritaville were an actual Margarita, it would be one of those fishbowl-sized ones.

It's Monday afternoon, and I'm still woozy with the wonder of it all.

White and whirling cloud of terns,

The man who loves me watching the white and whirling cloud of terns,

and later, gathered around the kitchen island, friends, wine, and ice cream with espresso poured over the top.

Over. The. Top. 

Goat and Vegetables

                              Daughters and squash from my garden a million years ago

Dinner tonight was roasted cauliflower, squash, a stir fry of onions, zuchini, and sweet red pepper with garlic and ginger served with a slice of last night's veggie pizza on the side. All veggie dinner tonight, I told my mom as we were slicing and dicing. Fine with me, she said. And then she told me how she was raised on the vegetables from her mother's garden. Not much meat, she said, except for goat now and then. 

As we ate, I asked her how her mother prepared the goat. She remembered only that an Italian woman showed my grandma her recipe. My grandmother, in addition to tending her goats, chickens, garden, and seven children, was the cleaning lady for the Italian family. The Italians owned a store. What kind of store, I asked. Whatever kind of store Italians have, she said.

 Hmmm. There are some things that I may never find out.

How We Made It...and Other Wonders: Part 2

It was a four-Advil-dozen loads of wash kind of day.

Everything we traveled with and all the treasures we retrieved needed to be purged of cigarette smell. The suitcases sat airing on the patio all day, and many of the paper items and other non-washable things are quarantined to the garage--a cookbook, family photos, two purses, a beautiful piece of art that hung on the dining room wall of my mom's and aunt's apartment that they salvaged from the trash (see previous post)--tossed out most likely because the glass in the frame was broken. They never re-framed the piece, and it absorbed twenty years of smoke. All of these things will be beautiful--or at least utilitarian someday.

I've succeeded in putting almost everything away.

I love old family items, but I'm afraid the enormous skillet might be too heavy for the drawer under the cooktop. I wonder where my grandmother and my great aunts kept it.

It was easier to find a place for the 1940s beads and the crocheted jewelry (my mom made quite a few of these necklaces and earrings once upon a time.)

The crocheted bedspread and a dozen doilies and dresser scarves are soaking in the washing machine.

Is the bedspread destined for my bed? Maybe...but there's already a well-worn and much loved quilt on it that my mom made for me. Stay tuned.

As for my mother herself, the unpacking was quite the effort. She circled around all day, losing this, finding that; telling me little tidbits about an old family prayer book, a pair of earrings, a couple of old watches. Nothing really valuable in the sense that people would pay hundreds for it, but treasures in their own way.

I'm tired. I drank too much wine at dinner.

I'm home.

And trying to come to terms with the fact that the City of Angels no long holds one of my beloved writing teachers, Les Plesko. Like most of his former students, I learned of his death on Tuesday, and each morning since then, I've done that thing we do when someone is newly gone from us. No, that was a dream, I think as I wake. He's here. But he isn't. And won't be. I think of him as I drop into sleep. Try to imagine. Try not to imagine. 

How We Made It to the Curb and Other Wonders: Part I

The wheelchair guy who met my mom at the door of the plane looked something like this. Do you have luggage? he asked. I told him we did, and he said not to worry, he would help us. Counting the time that he waited outside the ladies room, we probably spent an hour together. He was smooth. The whole process was smooth. We arrived at the curb with my mom in her wheelchair and our mountain of luggage just as the beautiful M pulled up. I tipped him generously, but forgot to thank him for giving up his Bollywood career just for us.

This morning our house looked like this.

Here are some of our treasures.

Don't worry, it gets better.

Um...that's a tiny bungee cord and a pair of those non-skid hospital socks.

Well, this is sweet. "Someone in Iowa loves you!" it says.

Check out the matchbox cars in the tin and the box. We have dozens more. My mom's older sister crocheted the afghan. I washed it three times this morning to get the cigarette stench out. The purses are stuffed full of family photos. And hiding in the back is a boxed set (still shrink wrapped) of Anne of Green Gables. 

And what was my mom doing with the matchbox cars you ask? She and her twin sister searched the streets, trash-picking, for many years. They routinely washed, repaired, and refurbished tons of stuff, saving it from the landfill and giving it to people they thought would like it--and every so often having a pretty profitable garage sale. The cars were kept for my nephew, whom my mom and I now call Big Jacob since he's 15 years old. We brought them back to California so my grandson, whom we sometimes refer to as Little Jacob, can play with them when he comes to visit.

Is there more? Oh, my. Yes. But I refuse to get up right now and take more photos. Later.

But wait!--we did find her martini hat.