Halloween and the Bride of Frankenstein

Denise outdid herself this Halloween. For years she has dreamed of dressing up as the Bride of Frankenstein. Bonnie added her artistic talent, helping Denise with makeup.The Bride of Frankenstein scared her Grandchildren. 

Tigerboy seems more like he's having fun rather than feeling that he is about to be eaten by the Bride of Frankenstein.

The Bride of Frankenstein intimidates the Cat in the Hat.

The Cats in the Hats join forces and the Bride of Frankenstein is overcome.

90 mile Bike Ride in Memory of Jeremy

Arriving at the Amtrak Station parking lot in San Diego

A few weeks ago, I took Jeremy's bike to have it tuned up. We've had his bike hanging in the garage since Jeremy died in 1992. I would dust it off every now and then, but I never got around to riding it. When we lived in Kent, Washington, I bought fenders for it so that I could ride it in the Seattle's normal wetness. I don't know why, but I didn't ride Jeremy's newly fendered bicycle. It stayed hanging in the garage, as a memorial, of sorts, to our dead son.

I have been riding an old Schwinn ten speed that I've had for nearly 30 years. It works well, although, by today's standards, it is a very heavy antique.

At the end of September, my younger brother, John, and my cousin, Anthony, rode their bikes from John and Winnie's house in Costa Mesa to San Diego. It took them over twelve hours.  About a week after their ride, John asked me if I thought I was strong enough to ride to San Diego with him. He expressed his concern for my heart condition. The distance from his house to the Amtrak station in San Diego was 90 miles. The longest I had ever ridden a bicycle was in 1990 when I rode 22 miles from downtown Los Angeles to Long Beach.  90 miles was a distance I had difficulty imagining myself riding on a bicycle. The furthest I had ridden a bicycle in the last year was to Seal Beach and back. That was only fourteen miles round trip. I rode my bicycle to the university pool each weekday morning, but that was only a mile and a half each way.

I thought about it for a day or two and told my brother that I would join him in a ride.  He called and recommended that I get an odometer for my bike, a tune up and a snack to eat on the way.  He told me that he would give me his old bicycle seat which was a better seat than the current one on Jeremy's bike. He suggested that I buy padded bicycle riding gloves because the handlebars would hurt my wrists after riding for several hours. I took his advice and went one step further, wrapping the front handlebars with soft rubber pipe insulation.

I took a 37 mile practice ride from my house in Long Beach to Newport Beach about a week before our planned San Diego ride. The wind picked up when I turned around from Newport Beach. I struggled to pedal downhill against the wind. I rode against the wind for about ten miles. It was a good practice ride.

The night before our ride I loaded Jeremy's bike into the van. Looking at it, I felt a tear slide down my cheek. The next day's ride would fall on the eve of the anniversary of Jeremy's death. Denise and Celeste drove me to John and Winnie's house in Costa Mesa. Denise gave me a heartfelt hug and returned home to Long Beach with Celeste.

The alarm sounded at 5:30 AM. The sun had not awakened yet. John and Winnie still slept. I got up, took a shower and put on the new bicycle jersey that Denise bought for me. I pulled on Jeremy's bicycle pants. I felt awkward walking in them because of the extra padding in the crotch. I walked into the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal. When I finished eating, John asked me if I wanted anything before we left. I wanted Jeremy to be riding with us. I wanted my son to be alive.

We turned on the bike lights, mounted our bicycles and headed west to the river trail. I felt good, wide awake and magically at peace. Turning south onto the river trail, I said, “Good Morning,” as I passed an older gentleman who was taking an early morning walk. The bike trail terminated at Pacific Coast Highway. I could hear the waves crashing on the sand when we turned east onto the main road. Thoughts of Jeremy pedaled into my heart as we approached the far end of Newport Beach. We had floated Jeremy's ashes off that beach so many years ago.

I asked John, “What happens when we get to the Marine base?”

There was a moment of silence before John replied, “Oh no. I forgot my wallet. We'll have to show our ID when we get to the base. I'll have to call Winnie to bring it to me. I'll tell her to meet me at Dover Street.”

I rode passed Dover and waited for John at the gas station on the other side of the bridge. Looking at the water I noticed the empty dock where a river boat had been moored in the 1970s. I remembered listening to Jason, a friend from high school, sing and play guitar in its restaurant. Jason died, driving off a cliff in Big Sur when in his twenties. John finally came over the bridge.

A morning mist kept us cool, while our strides kept us warm. Newport Beach has no designated bike lane on the highway. Cars passed uncomfortably close to us. We reached our first hill as we approached Newport Center Drive. Reaching down, I shifted gears for the first time that day. I looked ahead to see the sunshine paint the clouds in shades of gray and the grass and trees in shades of green. Up and down we pedaled, through Laguna Beach towards Dana Point. The restaurant that John wanted us to stop at for coffee was closed, out of business. We continued a little further until we reached Stacks Pancake House. We ordered coffee and we tried to figure out why my new odometer wasn't working. The clock worked fine, but it wouldn't track the miles. We assumed that it must be a dead battery in the wheel's sensor.

When we reached Califia Park, near the south end of San Clemente, we were stopped because of an accident on the bike trail. John and I waited for about 30 minutes with a growing number of bicyclists who were doing the Multiple Sclerosis ride. The fire department paramedics eventually sent off the ambulance. They let us continue as a huge pack. We passed a red emergency truck and saw a paramedic busy working on a bicyclist.

As we passed the San Onofre Nuclear power plant, I thought of Homer Simpson and my friend, Tom, who works there. I've known him since elementary school. I also thought about the tsunami disaster in Japan. I rode eagerly passed the power plant. I smiled when I saw a sign that read, “No Nudity Allowed” as we entered the San Onofre State Park. After we passed the park, the bike trail went under the freeway. We continued south until we reached an MS bike ride rest stop at Las Pulgas Road. They offered us bananas, orange slices, candy and drinks. Jax Bike shop set up a small repair station there. I asked them to look at my odometer, since Denise bought it for me at a Jax Bike shop in Long Beach, the day before. The battery was fine. I had installed the wheel receptor incorrectly. Now I could see how fast I was traveling.

We followed the MS bikers under the bridge and into the marine base. I started to dismount to show my ID, when the guard told me that I didn't need to stop. There was a person behind me, however, who he asked if he was part of the MS group. The guard assumed that John and I were.

Riding through the marine base, I remembered that Jeremy chose to be a hospital corpsman who worked as a medic for the marines. He said that the marines think of themselves as invincible. He got to fix them when Mother Nature proved them wrong. A small slice of pride swelled for our son. As we were leaving the base, I heard a pop and a slow fizzle as the rear tire of the bike ahead of me flattened out. I followed the MS riders under the freeway and onto Pacific Street in Oceanside. John said, “By now you have ridden further than you ever have.”

I had never seen this pretty side of Oceanside. I liked it. People sat along the sidewalk encouraging us, along with the MS riders. The residential streets were not busy and we could see the ocean between the houses. We climbed a small hill from sea level on the highway into Carlsbad. The clouds teased the sun by opening little blue holes every now and then. John and I stopped and shared a large ahi tuna sandwich in a restaurant at the end of the business district. John called Winnie to tell her that we would reach San Diego in about four hours. I talked to Denise who expressed her surprise that were already in Carlsbad.

Replenished, John and I hopped on our bikes and rode along the bluff, overlooking the beach below. John told me that there would be three more beaches before we reached the hard climb at Torrey Pines. The waves crashed and surfers carried their boards to and from their cars. The salt air filled my nostrils, while memories of Jeremy warmed my heart. The road through Leucadia brought us back in competition with the cars and trucks as they whizzed by, inches away, at times.

When we were about to ride down the last hill, along the last beach before Torrey Pines, John told me to go ahead. I picked up speed in an effort to gain as much ground as possible for the long climb. As I climbed, I shifted gears and kept looking at the ground. Up ahead I could see a turn. My knees started to burn, my breathing labored. “Keep pushing, don't look up.” I kept telling myself. When the burning in my knees reached a point where a small voice said, “Don't overdo it,” I dismounted and walked. I looked down the hill, but I could not see John. I walked a bit, allowing my knees to cool down. The Torrey Pines hill shielded the ocean breeze, making the climb all the hotter. I climbed back on the bike and pedaled until I reached the top. I parked my bike and waited about ten minutes for John to reach me. He dismounted and called Winnie, giving her an update.

When we passed the UC San Diego, John stopped and pulled out Winnie's phone to access the GPS. He couldn't remember how to get to get to Gillman Drive. I saw a woman riding her bike and yelled out to her, “Do you know where Gillman Drive is?”

“Follow me,” she said. She waited for John to put away the phone and catch up with her. She led us down a steep hill. We went under the freeway and onto a bike trail. When we came off the bike trial and onto the city streets, John mentioned that there was another bike trail along a river. But he didn't know where it was. When he reached a busy intersection, an older man on a bike was talking to a younger woman telling her to go on without him. John asked him if he knew where the river trail was. It was directly across the street. Without this gentleman's being there to ask, we wouldn't have found it. John told me that the river trail saved us a lot of grief riding in heavy traffic. The river trail terminated in Mission Bay. John and I stopped there to take a break and eat a Payday candy bar.

As I nibbled on my candy bar, I thought that Jeremy would have loved to have taken this ride with the little Russian sister that he never met. He died two years before we adopted her. When we finished our break, we hopped on our bikes and pedaled through town. We had to stop and cross a busy street in front of the U.S. Marine Processing Center. Again, I thought of Jeremy.

“See those tall glass high rise building ahead of us?” John asked. “The train station is right next to them. I bet you can't wait to get there.”

“Actually, I'm doing fine. I am getting thirsty though.”

We rode into the Amtrak parking lot and walked our bikes to Starbucks to wait for Winnie and Denise to arrive. It had taken us a little more than nine hours. Sipping my latte and looking out the Starbucks window, I thanked Jeremy for riding 90 miles with me.

Loading up the bikes onto the Jeep at the San Diego train station

White Rose

White Rose

Sunny mornings are rare in October, in the Great Northwest. Thirty miles southeast of Seattle, clouds drizzle millions of water droplets on a normal autumn day. The seventeenth of October, 1992 turned out to be an abnormally warm and sunny day. The brown and yellow leaves of the alder trees littered our backyard lawn. The lingering water droplets from the previous night's rain glittered on the leaves, reflecting the unusual October sunshine. A flock of geese flew overhead, reminding me of the autumn migration of cranes in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment.

After my morning run, my neighbor came over to chat about the roses that were still blooming. When she told me that her white rose bush was in full bloom, I told her that white roses symbolize death. They represent our own mortality with their lack of pigment without which they can't color our world.

On that unusually sunny seventeenth of October, 1992, we received a phone call that all parents dread when their children are away. Our son, Jeremy, was a University of New Mexico student, living fourteen hundred miles from home. A nurse from the University of New Mexico Hospital trauma unit was on the other end of the phone asking for permission to provide medical care for our son. He had sustained a severe head injury from a motorcycle accident.

We granted permission and immediately made arrangements to fly to Albuquerque. Our plane landed in the early morning hours. Having spent the day at the hospital, we made our way to a friend's house that evening. She told us that we could stay with her as long as we needed.

Leaving for the hospital, the following morning, I walked out of her front door and noticed a beautiful white rose bush in full bloom, growing in front of our friend's home. The pit of my stomach dropped when I saw a few petals at the base of the rose bush. I stopped and stared at the rose and its petals, as much for its beauty, as for its message. The rose was telling me that our first born child would die from his injuries. I walked to the car, not wanting to see or think about the white rose bush anymore.

I drove to the hospital, a little too fast, trying to erase the image of the white rose bush from my mind. I wished it had not been growing at the entrance of our friend's home. But every morning, on our way out the door, on our way to the hospital, I would see the white rose bush. Each morning more white petals collected at its base. Their whiteness blemished brown and yellow as their vibrancy bled out into the dry New Mexico air. I stopped each day, acknowledging the rose and silently pleading with it to stop dropping its petals. I didn't want to see its warning signs that were telling me that our son was dying. Every morning fewer petals lived in the bloom and more lay dead and dying on the ground.

On the seventh day, as I walked out of the front door, I tried not to look. But I couldn't stop myself. My shoulder slumped as tears began to flow over my cheeks. All of the white petals had fallen on the ground and the flowers were no more.

My feet felt heavy as I walked to the car. My mind's eye could only see the white rose petals decaying on the ground. We drove in silence to the hospital. A little before midnight, Jeremy, our first born son, died. The white rose petals gave their life, showing me what my ears were too terrified to hear.

Like the handsome white rose blossom, our handsome grown son spent his last days giving us a last chance to admire him and say good-bye. Jeremy died, leaving behind his body, that was still beautiful and still vital. And like the white rose bush, Jeremy had other branches, his organs. We honored Jeremy's wish to donate his organs thereby giving a new lease on life to many people.

The white rose no longer serves as a warning, telling me of impending doom. Rather it reminds me of the gift of life that our son gave to so many. And yet, when I see a white rose, I cry a few tears for Jeremy.

Roses for Denise

Soon after Denise and I met on June 2^nd, 1973, she invited me over to dinner. She had driven to her mother's house, in Long Beach, to pick up her mail when she saw me, Getting into her light blue car, she asked me to follow her to her apartment in Seal Beach. I hopped onto my motorcycle and followed her. While waiting for the traffic light at the intersection of 2^nd Street and Pacific Coast Highway, I noticed a young man selling roses on the left turn median. I tried to get his attention. Since I was on a motorcycle, he appeared to be ignoring me. When I finally succeeded in getting him to talk to me, I told him that I wanted to buy some roses for my girlfriend.

He asked, “How are you going to carry the roses on our motorcycle?”

“I’m not.” I replied with a smile.

“I want you to give the roses to that woman in the car in front of me.”

There was a minivan, in the lane next to me, that was full of young girls who squealed with excitement as they watched the encounter.

We got married 14 months later.

New Grandson: Keegan Eric (Valentino) Montoya

We have a new grandson! ! !  He was born on Valentine's day.  Orlando and Tara had not picked out a middle name for him by the time he was born.  I suggested Valentino and I told everyone.  Then they gave him the middle name, Eric.  
Eric was Jeremy's middle name.  

 Denise got to see him this month.  I hope I get to see him before he grows up and moves out of the house.

 His name is Keegan Eric Montoya.

April Fool's Day Flood

On April Fool's Day my son called me to tell me that our basement flooded.  I was hoping it was an April Fool's joke.  Nope.  I hired a concrete core drilling company to bore a hole into the foundation to ensure that the basement won't flood again.

 This is what we found in the crawl space next to the flooded basement.

 Core drilling a hole into the foundation should do the trick.

 My dilemma was determining how far to dig so that the hole in the foundation wall was lower than the basement floor.

 We put that pipe in that trench and covered it up, again.

I owe a great thank you to Mark for all the help he provided me.  He crawled under the house, , with me, and helped to replace the sump pump.  
The water was sooooooo cold.
He even picked me up at the airport and presented me with a Coca Cola.  Thanks, Mark.

Retirement Quilt

 I retired on Halloween 2008 from GSA.  I just received a most marvelous gift: a retirement quilt.  Several of my former coworkers contributed.  Joy put it together.  I am so lucky to have such good friends.

Christmas Letter 2010

It’s already December???  Yikes, where’d 2010 go?!!!

Holiday news from Mushroom, Denise, 
Celeste and Grandma Eda Bea

Denise at Seaport Village-Long Beach

We’ve been in Long Beach for nearly 2 years, and no longer have legs as white as snow.  In fact, Mushroom has more freckles on his hands than Denise! 

Celeste (photo below) still works at JC Penney fitting kids for shoes in the Kid’s Shoe Dept.  She worked 1:30 p.m.-1:00a.m. on Black Friday, and then returned to work at 9 a.m. on Saturday!  Retail…what a job!   She has a side job as a pool cleaner too!

Celeste wearing and Elmo T-shirt while posing with Pluto at Disneyland

Great Grandma Eda Bea has been a hospice patient here at the house since last July.  Breathing has been a significant challenge, so the quality of her life is in a gradual decline.  We are all very grateful for each day she’s still with us.   She thanks you for your cards, gifts, goodies and visits!

Mushroom has been writing a book about his naval war time experiences in Vietnam.  He inserts fiction in order to tell a more complete story.  Members of his weekly writer’s group commend him highly for his creative writing style and his ability to express his feelings about a truly dark time in his life.  

Denise has continued to manage 4 houses, with not one, but two hands tied behind her back!   In addition to being Great Grandma’s primary caregiver, she took on Banker’s Life long term care insurance, and successfully fought to secure additional care benefits for her mom.  Denise relaxes by teaching her grandkids (grandson Edan below) how to cook, and by going to San Diego with Mushroom once in awhile.

Gifts

Our greatest gifts this year have been:

 Denise said, “This is one of the best Thanksgivings – ever!  Dinner was a tad late, but everyone had a wonderful time, and the food was delish.  

Celeste, Holly, Cass, Dana, Bonnie and Jiho have stayed with Great Grandma Eda Bea while we’ve been able to attend social events and to get some respite!

Ten of us, Montoyas and Yoons, went to Disneyland in Sept. and had a terrific time!   We were accused by the little grandkids of taking them on some “scary rides.”  We were a real team!  We also got into Knott’s Berry Farm for a substantial discount, due to the reduced fees on Veterans Day!

We wish you Happy Holidays and a love-filled New Year with lots of opportunities to be silly.

Denise & Mushroom & Celeste & Eda Bea & Sugar & Ginger
Denise put our annual Christmas letter together.  I posted it here.

Celeste Gets Her First Business Cards

Celeste finally got her first business cards after working at JC Pennys for a couple of years. Yesterday, she gave me one. I put in on the kitchen counter to show Denise.

A short while later, Denise said to our grandson, "Edan, what do you have in your mouth? Spit it out."
 

Now you know why Celeste's business card is warped.

'Tis the month of December, and all through the land:

'Tis the month of December, 

and all through the land,
Mamas and Papas, 

with store flyers in hand,
Turn page after page 

hunting for that prize
Of a Xmas present 

that'll brighten their children's eyes.

Poo poo, I say, 

the "real" point is missing,
What a child needs most 

is you to go playing.
This Xmas give your loved one 

TIME.

Time to play, 

Time to talk, 

Time to share laughing

and reading and going for a walk,
Time to share 

what you both can give:
Time to Love.

Plucking Uncle Tony's Turkeys

Many years ago, when Uncle Tony owned his little grocery store in Bernalillo, New Mexico, USA, he hired a high school boy to help out in the store.  A few days before Thanksgiving, as the customers flowed into the store, Uncle Tony was becoming overwhelmed. He asked the young boy to go in the back, behind the store and take over for Uncle Ray.

“Tell Ray that I need him up here and that you are to take over for him,” Uncle Tony told the boy.

The boy went out back, behind the store. He heard turkey's gobbing. Looking up, he saw where Uncle Ray plucking a turkey. After telling Uncle Ray what he was there to do, Uncle Ray asked, “Have you ever plucked a turkey?”

“No, I never have,” the boy said, “But I was watching you. It can't be that hard. I'm sure I can do it.”

“Good. Work as fast as you can. We are going to sell a lot of turkeys today. When I get a break, I will come back here and get the turkeys that you've plucked.”

Uncle Ray left the boy with the live turkeys and went into the store, carrying the two turkeys he had just plucked. As he and Uncle Tony worked with the customers, they both noticed a tremendous racket out back. They could hear the turkeys gobbling and screaming.

“What is going on back there in the turkey pen?” Uncle Tony asked Ray.

“I am as curious as you are, Tony. I will go and see when I get a chance.”

When the line of customers dwindled down, Uncle Ray walked out the back door to the turkey pen.

Arriving at his destination he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, that he could hardly stand up. He immediately turned and ran into the store.

Grabbing Uncle Tony by his sleeve and laughing all the while, he said, “I'll take over the cash register. You've got to go to the turkey pen.”

Uncle Tony was now more curious than ever. What could be going on in the turkey pen that made Uncle Ray laugh uncontrollably? When Uncle Tony reached the turkey pen, he saw the boy, nearly in tears, bloody with scratch marks all over his arms and face. The boy was frantically fighting with a live turkey, trying, with all of his might to pluck it.

Uncle Tony could not believe his eyes, as he too, burst into uncontrollable laughter. “No, no,” he yelled to the boy, “You have to kill the turkey before you pluck it.” Uncle Tony had to grab hold of the post to hold himself up from laughing so hard.

Thanksgiving Trickster

Thanksgiving 1974 was suppose to be a day in which Denise and I were going to get fat on four Thanksgiving feasts. My mother invited us for dinner at 2:00 PM, Denise's mom invited for dinner at 4:00 PM. Imagining our pants to be very tight, we could waddle onto the plane the Thanksgiving meal that the airline had prepared. Upon disembarking, in Salt Lake City, we would rent a car, and drive to Tia Lucia's to top off the day with left overs and desert.

Coyote spirit had different plans.

My mother was really late, which was no surprise because my mother was always late. She told us to go to Denise's parents house. We walked out the front door, trekked across the street and ambled eastward to the fourth house. Denise's mom greeted us and asked us to help. Looking at the clock, after we had been helping Eda Bea prepare the feast, we realized that we needed to leave to catch out flight. The smell of roasting turkey made our mouths water, but to no avail. We had to leave without eating. Peanuts and Coke was the airline's idea of Thanksgiving dinner. Our stomachs growled angrily.

We didn't mind, because we "knew" that Aunt Lucy would stuff us like turkey's with Thanksgiving leftovers.

Ha, ha, the joke was on us, because Aunt Lucy had Thanksgiving dinner at someone else's house, affording Denise and I with NO leftovers. Aunt Lucy feeling sorry for us, fried some potatoes in the skillet.

The final score: Coyote 4, Mushroom & Denise a big ZERO.

I told Coyote Spirit that he was just being mean.

“Mean?” he asked, “I gave you a gift that you can keep forever.”

“A growling stomach is not a gift, Coyote!” I said.

Coyote rolled over on his back, laughing at me. He chuckled as he said, “Look for the silver lining. This is a story that will always make you laugh. And you can't loose it.

I love Coyote Spirit, even if he is a big stinker.

Gift of the Heart

Gift of the Heart

I Knocked on the door to Robert's house, hoping I would have the courage to ask the question, hoping that this time, the lump of grief that had taken permanent residence at the base of my throat would not interfere and choke my opportunity to make my request. I had tried so many times before. And so many times before, that dreaded lump of grief stole my voice, denying me a means with which to make my request. Waiting outside the door, I could feel my palms getting wet as my knee caps began a little frenetic dance of their own. Standing in the warm Albuquerque sunshine, I practiced, in my head, what I would say when he opened the door. And I worried,“What if Robert didn't open the door?” Taking big gulps of air, I told myself to relax. Hearing footsteps, my heart skipped a beat. The door opened and smiling widely, Robert greeted me.

My hands outstretched, I embraced Robert in a big hug. “Ask Now, Now, Now!”rang in my head. Gulping the air once more, I blurted, “Robert, can I listen to Jeremy's heart?”On previous visits, I had wanted to make this request. I always choked up at the thought and those words I could not muster.

Still smiling, he replied, “I'm surprised, Mushroom, that you hadn't asked before. Of course you can listen to this most marvelous gift that your family gave me. Would you like to use your ear, a glass or the stethoscope?”

My ear was the only choice I would consider. I wanted to feel my son, hug my son, hold my son. I told Robert that if I cried that it was OK. Sitting in his big easy chair, Robert pointed to his chest. Leaning over the arm of his chair, I put my ear to his chest and listened to the “gift”thumping happily in Robert's chest. Beating with the strength and vigor of a 22 year old, Jeremy's heart let me know that life was good.

Robert, along with his wife and two teenage children, chatted with me for a while. Robert told me how grateful he was for the gift of Jeremy's heart. The doctor told him that his new heart was healthy and strong and that it should last him a long time. I expressed my gratitude for the news. It was news from the heart, so to speak. Our conversation moved on to talk of work, family and future plans only interrupted by sips of soda and an occasional laugh. When our conversation came to its natural conclusion, I got up to leave.

As Robert opened the door he offered me one more opportunity to listen to the gift we had given him. Standing, I put my arms around him, sunk my ear into his chest and whispered inaudibly, “Jeremy, I miss you. I love you and will forever.” Tears began to flow once again. Releasing the hold I had on Robert, I regained my composure. Tears were flowing out of Robert's eyes as he said, “Ya know, Mushroom, I am not a touchy, feely kind of guy, but when you were hugging me, I have never felt so loved in all of my life.” The lump in my throat prevented any reply. I gave Robert one more hug and walked out the door.

Robert didn't realize what a heartfelt gift his last words have given me.

Olya's Night Visitors

About nine months before we found out that little six year old Olya, (Celeste) was available for adoption, I went on a shamanic journey to see what what our new daughter looked like.  Listen to the story that I wrote for Celeste about the process.  This is a true story.  Bear in mind, that as a story teller, I don't let the facts get in the way of the truth ;-).

Riding the Thunder Mountain train at Disneyland

Orlando, Tara and Dallin came down from Auburn Washington to visit and play.  We had a wonderful time playing in Disneyland.  We thoroughly enjoyed riding the Thunder Mountain train.

 Orlando took videos and photos of the day's events.

We started the day full of energy

 We ended the day happily exhausted.

It is jack o lantern season

Dallin was shy around Mini Mouse

We all had fun on Mr Toad's wild ride

Isis said Alice in Wonderland was scary

Orlando and Jiho could not pull out the magic sword, try as they might.

Denise became a big kid riding the merry go round

 

Flying on an elephant is silly

I think that this little family should have a car like this.

So does the Celestial Being

I

Denise, along with everyone else enjoyed taking me on It's a Small World

Dancing with Dust Devil

Driving my motorcycle, with Denise wrapping her arms around me, I began to unwind from the stress of doing the presentation at the university. Winding down the road, with the wind blowing in my face, I wound my way down the off ramp onto Rio Bravo Boulevard. Up ahead, across the Rio Grande, a glowing orange sunset welcomed us homeward. Tapping Denise's leg, I pointed up ahead to the desert landscape on our left. Whirling and twirling its dance, a dust devil dug up the dirt, dressing itself with dingy debris. She danced towards the East, about 100 yards to our left, as we rode our mechanical horse to the West.

Mesmerized by her dance, I called to her, “Come. Oh windy Lady of the West, venga y baile con migo. Come and dance with me.”

To my surprise and delight she accepted my invitation, and turned 90 degrees. We joined her in her dance as we rumbled across the railroad tracks. Enveloping us in her gossamer skirt, she tossed and twirled tumbleweed twigs to and fro. Tipping and twisting, she bantered us about as she twirled around and around us kicking up the hem of her desert skirt. Bidding us, adios, she kissed our cheeks with sandy lips, as she danced away, giggling like a little girl holding her hand over her mouth.

Throwing her arms up in the air, Denise yelled out, “Wow! What a wild and windy dance that was!”

Fr. Martinez's old Fiat gets polished into a gem

When I was a student in a seminary, preparing for the priesthood, in 1966, I had the chore of washing the priest's cars. I didn't mind because it gave me an opportunity to drive.
 
Fr. Martinez, who wasn't Irish, like all of the other priests (or so it seemed) had been given an old 1959 Fiat.  Its paint had weathered to a very faded light green with an equally faded yellowish trim.  

I decided to wash it with Ajax and scrub off the top of overly weathered paint.  Generously applying Classic Car Wax, I transformed that old "left over" into a sparkling gem. 
With its new lease on life, I drove it into the school's dining hall before dinner.  

Fr. Martinez was taking his turn, sitting at the head table along with the assistant dean.  He asked the students, who were sitting closest to him, who's car was parked in the school's dining hall.  Observing the interrogation, I got up from my assigned table and told Fr. Martinez that the Fiat, in question, was his car.  

He adamantly denied that it was his car, stating that he had an old beat up, Fiat.  He wanted to know whose shiny Fiat was parked in the school's dinning hall.  I requested him to follow me.  Looking inside the car, his face expressed confusion and delight.
 
God played the trickster after dinner.  Fr. Martinez was unable to drive his newly polished Fiat out of the school's dining hall because one of its tires went flat. 

 

American Eye Test?

Take a look at these photos:Taking Denise to the eye  doctor can be a weired  experience not only for Denise but for anyone who  witnessed the eye  dryness test. They actually had those pieces of paper in her eyes.

The Gift in the Trauma Center October 1992

Gift in the Trauma Center

La Noche, the night had cast her dark blue blanket across the sky leaving only the moon to quiet the University of New Mexico Trauma center's hustle and bustle. I Waited until everyone had disappeared from my son's private intensive care room before I entered, walking slowly not wanting to draw attention to myself. I wanted to be alone with my 22 year old son. I needed to be alone to give my dying son one last gift.

Unzipping my backpack, I withdrew the sheet music of “Memories”, from the musical play, “Cats.” The cat's yellow eyes on the black cover of the sheet music foretold dark moments ahead.

The song's words, “Memory, all alone in the moonlight”, took a bite out of my heart as I turned the page.

“Jeremy,” I called to him, from the side of his bed. “I'm going to sing a song for you that I've been working on in my voice class."

Being in a coma, unable to make a response, my first born son could not refuse the gift of my voice. I began my song, soft and low, almost a whisper; “Midnight, not a sound from the pavement.”

The instruments in his room were quiet.

"Has the moon lost her memory, She is smiling alone, in the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet and the wind begins to moan.”

A moonbeam shined on Jeremy's face as he lay motionless in his bed. My heart moaned as I continued to sing. Increasing my volume, the song took on a life of its own.

“Memory all alone in the moonlight, I can smile at the old days, It was beautiful then, I remember the time I knew what happiness was, let the memory live again.”

No response came from Jeremy as he lay in his coma. It's as if he had descended into Hades. I was no Orpheus and had no instrument other than my voice to persuade the God of the Underworld to release my son. I made a slight modification as I sang to him.

“Touch me, its so easy to leave me all alone with the memory of my days with my son. If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is. Look, a new day has begun.”

Tears flowed down my cheeks as Denise wrapped her arms around me from behind making me aware that the room had filled with family and hospital staff. My gift had been shared with all those who heard my melodic gift.