Go Ask Alice

Fifteen months ago (a lifetime for some) we met Alice. That's her there on the left. Although you can't tell in the photo, Alice has no tail and was raised at Capitan Suizo, a hotel on the beach in Tamarindo. At the time we were renting a house two doors south of the hotel and now we are living in a tree house two doors north where the local gang of howlers wake us up at 530 every morning--who needs an alarm clock? Some nights they sleep in the tree over the house and have their coffee klatch directly overhead, flinging their noisy news and bits of breakfast onto the roof and pooping, well, you get the picture. When the gang moves through the 'hood, one male consistently stops to peek at us over the edge of the roof or to otherwise come closer for a chat. We finally noticed that he had no tail but was clearly a male, the dangling white cojones not leaving much room for speculation.

Last week Bella and I stopped by the hotel to check on the progress of a lora (olive ridley sea turtle) they were rehabilitating and on Friday at sunset we stood on the playa and waved goodbye to her. (I am certain she was Maude or Mildred, but that is another story blogged about earlier.) Talking to Hector, the hotel wildlife guy, I asked about the overtly friendly howler hanging around the 'hood and he informed me that our tailless socialite is none other than Alice, herself! Turns out young howlers are rather amorphous in their private parts and that Alice was a bit of a misnomer. The good news is that the local gang has accepted her-m because it also turns out that a tail is a critical component of howler attraction and so, alas, poor Alice is not considered much of a threat in the mating department. The bad news is that Alice's lack of a tail will probably preclude him from getting any. So, Alice must be content to hang around as best he can, socializing with distant relatives, and generally making a life for himself.

Pura Vida.

Con Mucho Gusto!

One of the more endearing terms used by Costa Ricans with frequency is, "Con mucho gusto," which is often shortened to simply, "Mucho gusto." Any time you try out your amateur Spanish by thanking someone with a "gracias," or really showing off with a "mucho gracias," the automatic response will be that simple phrase--Mucho gusto. It is a lovely retort and I prefer it to our standard, "you're welcome." Whether you are in a restaurant or the grocery check-out line, any time you find yourself giving a perfunctory thanks to someone they will respond, "with pleasure," or "with much pleasure."

One of the sure marks of an amateur writer these days is the use of what we were taught to call the exclamation mark or point. Fairly soon into your writing career or your MFA program you will learn to indicate all forms of excitement and horror along with all adverbs by simply choosing a better verb to denote the exact extreme emotion you are attempting to convey. (Thus, the blurb at the top of my blog.) I freely admit that I, myself, am a formerly-frequent user of the now-dreaded and tres-gauche punctuation mark I used to put at the end of almost every sentence of every email I ever wrote to denote my happiness and excitement to my friends and family. Then I had a friend tell me her husband says reading exclamation marks makes him feel like he is being yelled at. This was certainly never my intent and thankfully I have never written to him or he would have run from the room, hands over eyes, screaming with a trail of periods following behind. And then I had an editor tell me you are allowed maybe three exclamation marks per book. What? Well, admission is the first step and I trainable. So I am well on my way to being the writer formerly known by her profligate usage of the exclamation mark. Not to mention those pesky adverbs...

Now without further ado, let me put these two seemingly disparate paragraphs together with a little Memorial Day tale. On Sunday we had a brief break in the rain here on the coast where a 3-day weekend fills every road and all vacant spaces with campers and I don't mean tents. I mean enough equipment to duplicate all the comforts of home BUT you are "camping." Seeing a bit of blue open up in the heavens above was all we needed by way of encouragement and we headed for the beach which was uncharacteristically packed with people, many of whom actually thought that frolicking in near-freezing water was great holiday fun. Until they did it. We had a nice long walk to the "big stump" which is a huge redwood remnant that has been sticking up out of the sands since Andy can remember and that is something on a beach where full-length trees are tossed about like match sticks by the waves and tides and nothing stays put. Except that stump. Bella packed snacks and books and we took a stump break and the five of us generally enjoyed ourselves to the point where we even stripped down to one layer for a moment or two.

Our journey yielded not even one intact sand dollar, given the hordes combing the intertidal zone, and upon our return we sat down to put on our shoes because in spite of the fact that the weather is worse now than in the winter, we bravely marched forth in our bare feet in deference to the calendar more than anything else. As we sat collecting ourselves Isaiah began to write a B in the sand with his stick. "Look, a "B," I noted to Bella sitting next to me, "I wonder what Isaiah is going to write?" "E," I continued, I guess he is writing "be."

She laughed with the assurance of a 6-year-old, "No, he's writing Bella." (Note: Here my natural inclination is to end her sentence with the exclamation point that follows almost every sentence of a 6-year-old with all their enthusiasm for even the most mundane aspects of life, all of which, of course, are still new and exciting to them. But I have learned to slap the little finger of my left hand when it wanders too close to that now-rarely-used key which can only be touched when typing the number 1.) And sure enough, Isaiah continued to write two L's and an A. "Bella," Bella exclaimed period. But then Isaiah continued to draw another line.

"Hmmm, now what is he writing?" I asked her, "Kittel?" But just then he lifted his stick and then poked it back into the sand with a flourish and finality, to her delight.

"A Gusto Mark," she exclaimed. (Again, see note above.) We all looked at each other and at her with curiosity and laughed. A gusto mark? I have no idea where she got this name for the punctuation formerly known as an exclamation something. Did she learn it in Kindergarten, as she said? Or did she hear the teacher wrong and put her Spanish and English vocabularies together in a cheerful new Spanglish punctuation term? Either way, it is a very fitting name for the much-maligned sentence ending which has fallen from grace. But I think Bella could well be on her way to changing that. (Or her middle name is not...)

K3

PS The photo is of the very-excited Bella at her dance recital which was akin to Christmas with the counting down of days and everything.

Dear Emily,

Happy Belated Birthday. Tuesday was your big day. On that afternoon I sat in my van at the Nye Beach parking lot overlooking the endless progression of Pacific waves while Bella practiced for her ballet recital. Isaiah sat in the back seat behind me watching a movie. It was a sunny day but the wind had come up, strong, and a kite flyer struggled to hang on to his wings which threatened to abandon their tether and take him for a ride. And then, Emily, your mom and your grandparents arrived. They parked their silver sedan in the row in front of me and I watched your mom's back as she struggled to unfold herself into the elements, her fists clutching four balloons filled with helium and hope. Before I had even read the Happy Birthday messages printed on their bubblegum backgrounds, I knew it was your birthday. And I knew you weren't here.

Your mom wore a black leather jacket, its wind-driven fringe whipping her onward while those balloons pulled her closer to you. I know she would have gladly abandoned herself to the lift. Your three loved ones wrapped their arms around themselves against the weather and the missing you as they proceeded down to the hard-packed sand with I, and perhaps you, their only audience. When they reached the darker shades of sand they huddled together as your mom patiently unwrapped the desperately entwined ribbons. I wondered if it had been so when she was forced to say goodbye to you. Had she simply, helplessly let go of you, all wrapped up and twisted together with parts of herself? Or had some stranger peeled her pleading fingers from your blue skin, one by one, prying her loving warmth from you on that cold day and leaving you covered with only her fingerprints? What had happened to you, Dear Emily?

Finally your mom succeeded in her grosgrained task. She distributed your enthusiastic balloons to the helpless hands of her parents. The three of them busied themselves taking photographs of each other holding your gifts. And then they just stopped and stood there a minute. Maybe they spoke. Maybe they had already said all there ever was to say. On silent cue, they let your birthday presents go, sending them soaring to you, Emily, wherever you are. We all watched, desperately straining our eyes as your balloons ascended on an upward current--up, up, and away. We lost sight of them as they disappeared over the rooftops of houses built too close to the eroding cliff sides which the sea will shortly claim as its own, just as perhaps you were doing then with your birthday balloons.

Your mom found a stick and began to write to you in the dark brown sand, packed hard and cold by receding salty water. I knew without looking what your mom was writing--the same thing I would write were I down there with the wind whipping my face with my hair and my jacket fringe instead of wrapped in the warm cocoon of my car, watching. We bore silent witness, your grandparents and I, with your grandmother bending in to help her bereaved daughter as best she could, lengthening a letter here and there. I, in turn, kept silent pace with your mom in my head, slowly, painfully learning your name. While your mom scratched with the hard, brown stick that had once exhaled soft, green leaves, so I, too, engraved each character in my head, etching H's and A's into the pink tissues of my brain.

When at last we ceased inscribing the happiest and saddest words a mother can sing, your mom straightened her weary spine and your loved ones took their final photos of your big day. Wanting only photos of you, Emily, laughing and smiling so pretty while blowing out your candles and opening your presents, they settled for snapshots of themselves waving bye bye to balloons and inscribing sandy birthday cards with forced smiles on bewildered faces. The three of them fought the wind back to their car and I watched them climb back in more easily now, unfettered by some of their heavy burdens. They drove away, your mom clutching a dead stick with a damp and sandy end--one more thing for Emily's baby book.

I started my own car but before I left to collect my ballerina, I asked Isaiah to run like the wind down to the sea's edge and learn your name. "It says, Happy Birthday Emily," he panted upon his return, "5-11-88 to 3-5-09." So it was your 22nd birthday, Emily. You were born the year we were married and the year before Hannah, our firstborn, who just turned 21. You, Emily, did not quite make it. Today is her brother Jonah's 12th birthday. He was born three days after your tenth birthday but he has only that one date, 5-14-98, as his birth was also his death. I won't be buying any blue balloons and any messages I send will be invisibly transmitted from my heart to my heart, which holds him still. And besides, my brain is now permanently scarred. But, Emily, I might prevail upon you to share your balloons and your spirit with Jonah. I like to think of the two of you laughing and playing tag with his brother, Noah, and all of your too-many friends in the warmer, friendlier waves of your home. By now the selfish Pacific has claimed your birthday card. That is bittersweet. Like so many things in life, the words were only temporary. The message, however, is eternal.

Yours,

Jonah's mom

PS Happy Birthday Jonah. Mommy loves you. As your sister, Bella, said yesterday with a heavy sigh, "I wish he was real."

Happy Mothers Day!

Happy Mothers Day all you Moms out there in cyberspace. Good work if you can get it, as my Mom would say. Like most of you, I cleaned yesterday so I wouldn't have to do it today. Woke up with just Bella, the rest of my kids and Andy currently scattered around the country. So sweet receiving her Kindergarten gifts--a book about "My Mom and I..." with great illustrations and a cute pink teapot card that says, "Here's a card for Mother's Day, I'll try to be my best each day. But if you get upset with me, Relax and have a cup of tea." It has a tea bag inside. Decaf. I'll probably never need it. Right.

Thank goodness for teachers. Without them we would not get these lovely momentos of our kids early years. Certainly the Georgetown professors are not sitting their students down with glue sticks and markers to make gifts for their Moms. I wonder what they would produce if they did? Certainly they are good with scissors by then. Ditto for Jrs and Srs in high school. I guess by the time they reach these advanced grades the teachers figure these kids can work independently, however misguided that may be. Ahh, but the day is young yet.

By nightfall I hope to have heard from DC that Hannah can come home to visit later this month. By this afternoon I hope to see Andy and Christiana's smiling faces as they arrive home safely to sleep in OR, having woken up in RI. I am sure Micah will call from his island perch at some point. And Isaiah will be home from his sleepover at the Pankey Pit. Everyone will be back in their proper places and we can give thanks once again for the blessings of each other. Which is all I ever want from my mother's day. Altho a kitchen sink would also be nice.

K3

Lonesome Larry

It is Friday afternoon. I am lonesome. I know lonesome sounds more like a Friday night, or a Monday even, but it is one, the loneliest number, etc. Maybe I am just unsettled but there is no segue to my story from there. Waiting on news of the weather, as in whether or not Isaiah's baseball game will be rained out or not so we can travel east today over the mountains to the desert, to Sisters, to visit friends and escape this incessant spring rain. He is playing the other red team, the Siletz Indians, again, having already been beaten twice by them. How much restitution can one team make? Waiting to hear if the heater guy is coming or not. Waiting for school to get out, for the clock to strike two, for another sighting of that black bear, or that humming bird, or for, as always, some good news. Bella has her first loose tooth, which is exciting news. Now I want more. So, speaking of lonesome, while I am waiting, let me tell you a fish story. See how that worked?

In one of my past lives as a fish biologist, I managed a variety of projects including a program to save the critically endangered sockeye salmon of Redfish Lake in Idaho, the offspring of Lonesome Larry. You have probably never heard of Larry but he was a pretty famous fish in his day. In 1992 Larry was the only sockeye salmon to successfully make the journey of over 900 miles from the Pacific Ocean to Redfish Lake, a lake named for the symbolically passionate color of its water when it historically filled with some 30,000 red fish like Larry every year. Sockeye turn bright red when they are ready to spawn and develop a hooked jaw that makes them look quite fierce to other males and oh-so-desirable to the females they entice, red representing either anger or amour in the eye of the beholder.

Larry's ancestors made this journey for thousands of years, but Larry had the additional challenge of navigating past eight dams starting at sea level on the Oregon and Washington border, turning up the Snake River in Washington and on into Idaho, climbing up to the almost 7,000 foot elevation of that deliciously cool Sawtooth Mountain lake. The intended reward for his perseverance on this perilous feat of endurance was, however, conspicuously absent when Larry arrived that year, exhausted yet exhilarated.

Larry's excitement at reaching his manifest destination must have quickly turned to disappointment as there was no attractive female wagging her tail provocatively at him with whom he could co-mingle his genetic material on the gravelly bottom of that pristine lake. Larry found himself all alone in the lake. Well, not quite alone, but not with the lovely lady he had hoped to dance with. In her stead, there were some not-so-sexy scientists waiting for him in the cold, clear water, excited in their own way to see Larry. They captured him and milked his sperm, then froze and stored it in their laboratory.

Larry’s sperm lived on to become the basis for a captive breeding program for his progeny, the most endangered salmon stock in the Pacific Northwest. Each year it is carefully dispensed to artificially fertilize the eggs of the future females who manage to show up, eliminating that nasty little variable--timing. His offspring are reared in captivity instead of in the lake where they are ultimately still released with the prayer that they will successfully negotiate the dams and return some day.

As for Larry? Well, they stuffed the poor guy, mounted him, and hung him on their office wall. Not a very auspicious ending for a legend. Although I am sure he draws an admiring glance every now and again from members of a species he never intended to attract. Larry has been preserved for perpetuity. His offspring may not be so lucky. Our days of telling tales of the ones that got away might include his whole species some day. Now that would be lonesome.

K3

Hannah is 21!

Parabens a Voce Hannah! Nesta data querida!

No forgetting number 21 at the Tombs! Happy, I think, that you are still on the team. Shout out to my devoted fans, Allie and Lindsay--thanks for not letting her get 21 marks on her arm...

I traveled to DC for a pre-birthday bash amongst the somewhat faded cherry blossoms a couple weeks ago. Had fun watching Hannah do what she does--row, bike, walk, study, sleep, work, eat, not in that order. Here is Hannah with her free birthday Georgetown Cupcake of the day--Cookies and Creme--right before she keeled over and fell asleep after getting only a few short hours the night before.

Last nite on 60 minutes they had a piece on post-Loma Prieta earthquake rebuilding of the Bay Bridge. Twenty years ago we lost some of our more delicate wedding gifts to that rocker when Hannah was only 5 months old. Here they are, twenty years later, still rebuilding and fingers crossed they will complete this "quake-proof" bridge before the Hayward Fault slips again, any minute now. (Last time it slipped - 1868. Average time interval of slips - 140 years. 140th anniversary - 2008. Gulp. This is not a good time to relocate to Berkeley, thank you Stanford for rejecting Christiana...) Of course, not a good time to be living here on the Oregon Coast either. Plate tectonics are a bitch.

And all this while that the bridge building has continued, Hannah has been living her life. She was born to us naive newlyweds of only 6 months confirming her grandmother's sage warning, "The first baby can come any time, the rest take nine months." We lived in a third floor walk-up in the Sunset district, built on sand, not a great foundation for quakes. I delivered Hannah naturally, pushing all 8 pounds 7 oz. of her for an hour and a half with enough force to break my own tailbone, speaking of plate tectonics. Ouch. Afterwards the nurse and doctor both informed us that ours was the first natural birth they had ever seen. What? I had no aspirations of martyrdom. Especially around 8 cm. All those Lamaze drop-outs, who knew? Hannah paved the way, pushing that pesky coccyx aside, making me wish I still walked on all fours as I crawled around recovering, vowing "Never again," and going on to deliver six more babies who did, indeed, take nine months...

So, we cut our teeth on Hannah, our perfect first child. She was so happy and easy and made us feel like the best parents in the world. So successful. So competent. She sat on the floor and grinned at everyone and everything, content. No hurry to crawl. No rush to walk. She quietly went about her life doing great things and making no fuss about it. "Goody, goody Hannah," her grandmother called her when she potty-trained her with a pack of gum. And she was.

Happy Birthday Hannah!

Love,

Mom
XOXO

Kelly Go Bragh

Happy St. Paddy's Day-After from Bella and Isaiah down by the creek in a field of clover. Some of you might recall my posting from last year's celebration off the sea-snake-filled waters of Brasilito--if not, scroll thru the archives for a trip down memory lane. This year, Outback Jacks not being, sniff, a sweaty option, our plan was to head down by the port docks to the Salty Dawg, for the advertised corned beef dinner. Great. As we wound our way down the one lane road that follows our creek, forks in hand, Andy asked, "Should we get Uncle Buster?" So we crossed over the river and wound our way up his one-way road to his sunny perch on the hillside, pulling in amongst the rusting cars and agate-filled sinks spilling into the garden. It's a bit unkempt, you might say as the understatement of the year, navigating your way past prehistoric cobwebs. Andy roused UB from his slumber and out he came, looking like Santa in a black leather jacket, gun in hand. Gun?

"This is for Isaiah," he announced, a shiny black and chrome 22 the proferred offering. Now, I happen to be in the middle of reading Before you Know Kindness, a novel about a girl who accidentally shoots her father unaware the gun is loaded.

"Is it loaded?" I gulped. Buster extracted the rod and sure enough, 6 or 8 little bullets fell out on the seat next to Bella. Great.

"Is the safety on?" Andy asked.

"Red means it's on," Buster showed Isaiah. (Later, back home at the yurts, Andy would show the same red spot and inform Isaiah, "Red means it's off.") The gun went in the back, Bella put the bullets in the cup-holder, clearly an unadvertised innovation, and my nerves became a bit more frayed in the face of my 6-year-old with a fistful of the only kind of gold the day would bring. We headed downriver past a herd of grazing elk to the Dawg--the actual spelling as I discovered but I am getting used to these things.
*

It was a beautiful sunny evening but the wind was cool off the water and Bella was dressed for Outback Jacks, purple flip-flops and all. So we scurried to the entrance, our tastebuds ready for corned beef, only to be met inside the door by a surly waitress definitely not of the happy leprechaun variety who barked that the dining room--vastly exaggerated in nomenclature as "the garden room"--was reserved for a private party. Now, mind you, we had eaten in desperation at the Dawg a couple weeks ago which is why we knew that they serve no butter, only nasty fake stuff, and that they were hosting the annual eating of the corned beef. On that night we were seated in "the garden room" since the rest of the place is a bar/restaurant and there is a sign posted between the two rooms that says No Minors Past this Point but we had joked with the waitress as the bathrooms are located on the "other" side and Bella, as usual, had to go at least twice. She-of-the-not-so-sour-disposition told us that kids can go in there, not a problem. Now the only thing the Dawg really has going for it, especially if you like real butter, is that it has been forced to join the ranks of the non-smoking. But having filed away this little No Minors reality check and now finding my way to my ancestral corned beef blocked by the ugly stepsister of the kinder, gentler waitress, I simply said, "Okay, then we will go to the other side."

"NO kids are allowed in there," she hissed before playing her nasty trump card, "And we are out of corned beef anyway."

"Well, then why are you advertising a corned beef dinner?" I gasped incredulously, my Irish blood starting to boil at the thought of missing my annual corned beef fix.

"We've been serving it since 11," she sneered over her shoulder, clearly finished with the likes of us, the uninvited.

Now, of course this begs too many unanswered questions, not the least of which could be,"Who eats a corned beef dinner at 11 and wouldn't that be called a lunch?" You are not in that bastion of all things Irish anymore, Lassie, I told myself, meaning Costa Rica. Stunned, I remained in the warmth of the garden room entrance in deference to Bella's tropical attire, reading and re-reading the false advertisement for their corned beef dinner, while waiting for Xana to get dropped off to meet us while Andy marched past the NO Minors sign to work the crowd. The triumphant witchy waitress made a point of shooting daggered looks at me in between taking her green beer orders, pausing her scribbling only to aim a dramatic roll of her evil eyes like I didn't understand English or whatever. Once everyone converged, we left. Kelly Go Bragh.
*

There is a new little diner around the corner so Andy suggested we try that. We blew around the corner on the exhaled cloud of nicotine from the desperate Dawg patrons and entered the place which is smaller than a very small yurt, instantly greeted by the cloying smell of fryolater which clung desperately to our every hair follicle and clothing fiber. The owner is a large character in a town full of them and he was seated in a side alcove hunched over his computer, never bothering to make the effort to rotate his bulky girth around to talk to us while we guessed at the veracity of his sign which did say "open" and which appeared to be so as there was a decidedly non-Gaelic-speaking couple busily eating their fish and chips, explaining our freshly acquired scent. The six of us along with the two fish eaters commenced to guessing if he was open, wondering aloud if he had given up at 6:55 because the hours Sharpied permanently on the sign threatened that it would, indeed, flip to Closed at 7. Unable to persuade the big guy to turn from his screen where clearly his Free cell game or Facebook account were proving irresistible even in the face of 6 whole paying customers in a local economy that put the Dee in Decline, we took the rather obvious hint and left. Again. Welcome to Waldport is not the sign that greets our visitors as it would, indeed, be a stretch. What our sign does say is, Waldport, Home of the Fighting Irish. No comment.
*
We hurried back thru the cloud of smoke and into the warmth of the Silke-mobile, where I ascertained that the gun was pointing towards the back, just in case. "I want to go to Outback Jacks, floor it," I announced, the 22 our only passport. We cruised beneath the proverbial one stoplight in town which is typically blinking yellow and hit the main street of Waldport with my blood cells screaming for a salty beef fix, passing the only other Wallyworld culinary options - Grand Central Pizza, Geng Sing Chinese (sacrilege, both of them) and the notorious Flounder Inn which is a scary place to drink much less "dine" although I am sure some of my ancestors would have happily acquiesced to a liquid dinner and turned their thirsty selves right on in. Trying to set a good example for the kids in a town where parenting has become a lost art, we headed south to Yachats, quelling our hunger while enjoying the St. Patrick's Day sun sinking into the Pacific. We drove along the coast, reminiscing dreamily about a place 3000 miles further south where the party was in full flip-flop swing complete with bagpipes retrieved from Peru, an acapella-singing amiga, and plenty of smiling non-Waldportonian-type faces.
*
Pulling up to the Drift Inn we encountered a lass in a green velvet shirt and Irish plaid skirt drifting out of the inn so Andy rolled down his window to inquire as to the status. She said she thought the wait was too long for dinner and was heading for the Adobe instead. We parked and Andy went in to inspect the situation while Buster got out, crossing the street towards the ocean where he encountered a scruffy hitch hiker and proffered a smoke while we watched from the warmth and safety of our armed vehicle. "That's called sharing," Bella informed. Andy returned with the happy news that yes, there was a table in about 5 minutes and we all piled out. Heading towards the bar I noted the towel-covered Irish soda bread resting at one end and my blood began to sing along with the Irish band. Bella and I shared a stool by the soda bread while the fiddle-playing lass sang an old-country yarn. As the notes lingered in the air, Bella sighed, "That was the best song I've ever heard."
*

The whiskey flowed, the corned beef was tender, the cabbage was green, the mash had little green onions, and the soda bread was typically short but would have been better without those blasted caraway seeds. We ate, drank, tapped our feet, and were filled with good ole' Irish cheer, momentarily forgetting the cursed Luck O' The Irish I grew up hearing muttered about by me mum when faced with situations of a decidedly unlucky nature. A precocious young lad sat at the next table with his parents and little sister and as they rose to exit he informed me that they lived far away from the ocean in Talent and extricated a precious muscle shell and a rock from his jacket pocket--gifts from his day at the sea.

"You should ask Buster what kind of rock that is," I told him, pointing the way to the guy who looked like Santa. Clearly a brave lad, he marched on over.

"It's a Leverite," he returned to tell his trusting Mom who had amazingly not stopped him from talking to strangers in an area full of them.

"You will have to write that in your journal," she said.

"Buster knows his rocks," I assured.

Our Irish blood restored to its proper salinity for another year and our tropical dreams temporarily forgotten in the face of our full bellies, we all drifted back out of the inn to a perfect sliver of moon cradled over the sea.

"You could hang a pail on that," Buster noted.

"What kind of rock was that?" I asked as we drove away.

"Leverite," Buster replied knowingly.

"As in leave 'er right there where you found 'er," Andy snorted.

We all laughed. I wonder if that family from Talent will think to question the authority of a man who looked like Santa. Will they ever recognize that treasured rock for what it really is--a Blarney Stone.
*
K3