I found a lump in my left breast in March of 2024. It caught me off guard, as my mammogram, taken just that December, had shown everything was normal. Denial argued with common sense. Women in my family didn’t get breast cancer. Two of my younger sisters had had lumps, but theirs had been benign. I was 71 years old and had been retired for five years.

Why me? Why now? Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe this was just an infection or a cyst. But dang, that was a big lump, about the size of a gumball. Why hadn’t I noticed it sooner?

I dithered around over the weekend but finally decided that denial could get me killed and anxiety over what might be nothing could drive me crazy. I called my doctor’s office on Monday to make an appointment for an exam. The earliest available time was three weeks out. Three weeks was too long. The next day, I called again to ask if there were any cancellations so that I could take to be seen sooner (Always call to ask about cancellations!). One had just opened up that morning. I grabbed it.

My doctor checked out the lump and confirmed that it had to be checked out and that there was at least one deeper lump farther in. He immediately referred me for an ultrasound (US) and another mammogram. I told my husband, who’s a very calm, cool, amiable guy, what was happening. “I’ll come with you,” he told me. “Then we’ll go out for lunch.”

I hadn’t known mammograms came in different flavors. Most of us get routine screening mammograms. A diagnostic mammogram takes longer and involves taking more X-ray images from multiple vantage points. Banner Imaging directed me to their Sunwest Breast Center in Glendale for an ultrasound (US) and a diagnostic mammogram. The ultrasound documented the lumps … and found three more.

The staff quickly obtained a referral for a US-guided biopsy. The referral turned into five biopsies, all on the left breast—three more days of waiting for that appointment. The biopsy sites were cleaned and disinfected, numbed with lidocaine, and then biopsy needles were inserted into each lump, and samples taken. Very tiny markers that would show up on X-rays were inserted. The diagnostic mammogram confirmed the lumps and placement of the markers.

The sites were then sterilized a second time and sealed with waterproof bandages. If I was careful to keep the bandages dry, I could shower. The staff said they’d have the biopsy results in about two business days.

Anxiety all but destroyed my ability to focus on other things — the art of daily living. Running laundry and ordering grocery pickups. I made a list and clung to it. I checked the Banner Imaging portal but only found the report confirming the biopsies had been performed, dated April 4, not the results.

Seven days later, I was sitting in a McDonald’s restaurant with my husband and our younger son’s family, halfway between our home in Arizona and Knott’s Berry Farm in California. I’d resolved to live life normally until we knew something definite. This trip, a three-day getaway, had been planned for weeks. Halfway through my quarter-pounder with cheese, I used my cell phone to log onto the Banner Imaging portal to look for an update. Still no report.

Frustrated, I pulled up the initial biopsy report, and there it was. Addendum 1. Pathology: malignant. Refer to surgical oncologist. The addendum was dated April 9. It was now April 11. I’d lost three days. I’d also lost my appetite for the rest of that quarter-pounder. I told my husband, my son Robert, and Alexa, our daughter-in-law, what I’d found. Our grandsons, Ethan and Brayden, continued to play inside the McDonald’s PlayPlace, blissfully unaware of the sudden change in our lives.

Robert looked at his wife. “Don’t worry. Mom will do something.” Sometimes, Robert’s faith in me is terrifying. When confronted with calamity, I always “do something.”

My husband brought my laptop from the car while I tried calling my doctor’s office. The doctor’s office phones were closed for lunch. I left a message and then logged into my health plan to look for in-network surgical oncologists in our area. That McDonald’s had wonderful public Wi-Fi. Not a bad place to be in the middle of an existential crisis.

One of the treatment centers that popped up, City of Hope, jogged my memory. A co-worker had spoken very highly of it several years ago when his wife was dealing with colon cancer. I called the number and was connected to a nurse navigator, who quickly took my information and scheduled my first appointment for the following Friday. No, I didn’t need a referral from my primary. Yes, my insurance company would let me schedule my appointments directly. She also sent me a link to a small stack of e-forms, which I signed.

I’d told her of my circumstances. “Should we head home and try for an earlier appointment?”

“No, dear. Enjoy your day with your family. Next Friday will be soon enough.” Then she explained that all of the tests and procedures I would need going forward would be at the same location and coordinated through their staff and my treatment team. Things would go very fast.

We continued on to Seal Beach and explored the pier. Robert took Grandpa and Ethan metal detecting while Brayden hung out with Alexa and me. Aaron, our littlest, decided he was hungry, so Alexa found an unoccupied bench and nursed him.

I played ‘Find a Shell’ with Brayden, mindful that I might not get another chance. Strangely, that thought got mobbed by the sea breeze and chased away, and an odd sense of peace took its place. I would hang out at the beach with my family again. Each day is a victory. Sometimes, the Lord’s still, small voice is very loud.

We ate supper at a nearby beachfront bar and grill, then began the short drive to the Knott’s Berry Farm Hotel. I’d reserved two adjoining rooms, each with two queen-sized beds, a few weeks earlier. We checked in and, the next morning, set out to enjoy our day at the park with the kids and grandkids. This is where I learned I am still prone to motion sickness, even on a kiddie ride. Or maybe it was the low-grade anxiety that had plagued me during the night. All I could manage at lunch was some watermelon and salad.

I spent the following three rides taking pictures of Ethan and Brayden from the safety of the sidelines. By 3:00 pm, I was wiped out and stressed out and Brayden needed a nap. We returned to our rooms with the connecting door. My son walked back with us, a fussy, cranky Brayden in tow, then returned to the park. Brayden sat in his bed and watched the room, sucking his thumb while I cuddled next to him. My presence kept him from crying. When I drifted out of my doze, he’d toppled over and was finally sleeping. I moved to our room and went back to napping.

Ethan stayed at the park with Mom and Dad until 6:00 pm, when Robert brought him back to the hotel with some food for us and to check on Brayden. The large order of pulled pork and tater tots was just enough. Ethan slept for a bit, and then he and Brayden decided to watch some TV with Grandpa. I turned in early and slept hard.

The next morning, we headed home. On the drive, I checked the link that City of Hope (CoH) had emailed to me. They’d already set up my online dashboard. When I logged in, I discovered the CofH staff had also obtained my previous lab work, mammograms, biopsy results, and all of my prescription records. There is a comfort that comes from watching your medical team form up on your behalf. God’s voice came through clearly. My grace is sufficient for this. Do not be afraid.

I felt … peaceful. I had my marching orders. Do not be afraid is a command only God can give.

On January 6, 2016, while waiting for my Starbucks coffee, the new manager of the Barnes and Noble bookstore that hosted our twice-monthly writer’s critique group approached me. There had been a recent change in management of which we’d been unaware, and she got right down to business.

“You can’t meet here.”

It didn’t matter that this B&N store had hosted our critique group for 18 years. When pressed, the new manager said that B&N “had no policy” for hosting writer’s groups or any other kind of local community group in their stores. So, we were out.

Since most of us were either sitting in the store’s Starbucks Café or standing in line to purchase or pick up our coffee and food, she relented enough to provide us with folding chairs (but no tables) and the use of some open space in the corner of the store’s east bay for one last meeting.

The incident troubled me enough to contact the B&N customer service department on Friday. I submitted an email explaining what had happened and asked if there was any kind of B&N policy regarding local groups who wanted to meet in their stores; if not hosting writer’s groups (or other community groups) was truly a matter of corporate policy, it would save us time and aggravation simply to know that upfront and seek other arrangements. I did make it clear that their manager had not been rude or unprofessional, merely adamant.

The B&N representative was very apologetic that we’d had such a poor experience. More details were requested, which I provided: the store location, who we’d talked to, and any specifics as to why we’d been told we could no longer meet there. They promised to get back to me.

My next call from B&N amounted to a polite brushoff. The store manager had ‘been informed’ so that the issues I had raised would be properly addressed by all concerned. Additionally, my feedback “would certainly enable us to review our service commitment at our Peoria, AZ store.”

Except that my experience had been at the Glendale store, and I’d asked a simple question that still wasn’t answered. I tried following up one more time. It appeared that B&N indeed had no policy for hosting or sponsoring writers or other community groups in their stores. Such arrangements appeared to be solely at the discretion of each store manager.

My final conversation with the B&N Arizona district manager boiled down to 1) Barnes and Noble was a retail operation, not a community hangout; 2) Hosting our writer’s group interfered with store operations; and 3) the staff had no time to deal with setting up tables or chairs when it interfered with helping “actual” customers.

The entire call felt rushed, and there was no one really listening on the other end. I ended the call feeling … disrespected. Then, I began thinking over the business ramifications of the entire peculiar episode. As an engineer, I was used to dealing with numbers and doing cost-benefit analyses for numerous projects. In this case:

Our critique group routinely spent about $120 per meeting on coffee, pastries, and sandwiches or hot soup at the store’s Starbucks coffee shop. At 22 meetings a year, we represented $2640 of annual business for that alone. However, we also spent over $4000 a year in that Barnes and Noble on books, magazines, journals and Christmas presents. Many of us ordered books from “our” B&N when we could have ordered from Amazon at lower prices and with free home delivery.

It took B&N less than 20 minutes to set up and take down the folding tables and chairs we needed for our meetings. That didn’t count the intrinsic value of free advertising and referrals to friends and family. So — the cost was 440 minutes a year. The benefit was $6640 in annual gross income.

Our tables were set up in a quiet corner of the store, usually in the east bay, to reserve the Starbucks café seating area for other patrons. All around, it had seemed like a win-win.

The bottom line? Barnes and Noble lost 22 loyal customers due to a short-sighted attitude and a five-minute, one-way conversation. They also lost at least $6600 in annual sales. Maybe that’s only a drop in the B&N annual cash flow but drops add up.

When a retail operation loses touch with its customer base, it shows in a lot of small ways. When they do it in the face of competition from the Amazon/Kindle juggernaut, it can be downright self-destructive.

I looked at the trends in B&N’s stock prices during this interval. Barnes and Noble (BKS) stock dropped from $13.79 per share on July 17, 2015, to $5.56 per share as of February 3, 2016, a 60% drop in value. In comparison, Amazon (AMZN) increased 9.96% over that same interval. By March 1, 2018, B&N stock had dropped to $3.76 per share. In August 2019, when the company was acquired by Elliott Investment Management, the stock price rebounded to $6.50 per share.

Our critique group tried several other venues with mixed success. When the COVID pandemic happened, we migrated to ZOOM, an online meeting platform, for our critique meetings. ZOOM was surprisingly successful, but when things opened back up, we settled into a hybrid format of ZOOM and ‘brick and mortar’ venues.

New management brought changes. Barnes and Noble’s new CEO, James Daunt, gave much more autonomy to local B&N bookstore managers, allowing them to respond more intimately to the needs of their local market. As a consequence, the Barnes and Noble we’d once met in closed and reopened in a smaller, more modest location about a block farther east.

In 2023, one of our breakout groups asked to meet at the newer, downsized B&N store in Glendale. The manager welcomed them with open arms. We moved that group’s start time up an hour since the new store location closed at 8:00 pm. Several attendees still joined the group at that location using ZOOM, as the store offered excellent WIFI. My breakout group meets entirely on ZOOM, mainly for its convenience. Our third breakout group alternates between meeting on ZOOM and at a Panera restaurant near the old B&N location.

I’m glad the Barnes and Noble brand survived and appears to be thriving. I do miss the coffee shop, though, and hope the Glendale store will eventually add one at its new location. Who knows? If they add a coffee shop and extend their store hours to 9:00 pm, we may all come home to roost.

The retired couple we’d bought it from had outfitted the Minnie with everything we needed to haul it home and use it immediately. They also took the time to give us a detailed tour of the Minnie’s features, and ensure our SUV was configured to haul it safely.

We had spent two months looking an many RV travel trailers before choosing this one. Our choice was based on several factors. At a dry weight of only 5200 lbs., the Minnie could be pulled with our mid-sized SUV. No need to buy a new truck. The inside of the Minnie was pristine, the cabinets a light, warm cream color, and everything worked but one LED hallway light that needed a new switch. The floor plan was also ideal for three adults, one of whom needed a modest, mobile office.

The previous owners had replaced the jack-knife sofa with theater seating, but they saved everything needed to reinstall the sofa and included it in the sale. We hauled everything home and swapped out the theatre seats for the sofa in about two hours. The sofa converts to a bed for my sister, leaving the dinette available for use as a late-night, mobile office. The power strip and a narrow wicker basket installed at the back of the dinette table made a perfect cubby to store my laptop and mobile monitor, making it easy to switch the space from mobile office to dining area. Otherwise, no remodeling was required.

Sometimes I feel left out of the joy of remodeling our little RV. I love the pics other RVers post of brightening up an older RV with new colors, or replacing older, dated cabinets and new upholstery. But as retirees, it’s more important for us to actually go places and do things rather than wait, wait, wait until all the little details of our RV are perfect. We made a careful choice — we wanted a slightly used RV travel trailer that didn’t require much, if any, renovation, and we put our time into finding the right rig.

Second Son, A Novel of the Deep South

First, Second Son, is not my story. It’s my uncle’s story. Herman Willis Logan wrote the original manuscript in the early 60s. He later sent it to my mother with the request that she make the necessary changes and try to get it published someday. After he passed away in the early 90s, my mother sent the manuscript and Uncle Willis’s notes and request to me. I’m a nuclear engineer by profession, but writing is my passion and Mom knew I wanted to retire early and write full-time. Four chapters in, after finally agreeing to read the manuscript, I was hooked on the story of a poor sharecropper’s son who wants an education to escape the cottonfields of 1938, Mississippi.

Second Son touches on universal issues that still plague us today: the effects of poverty and ignorance; broken families; racism; and sexual abuse. However, it also celebrates the power of faith and the resilience of the human spirit. The manuscript needed a comprehensive revision to meet today’s publishing standards: reducing a massive, 160,000 word manuscript to something under 100,000 words. In many ways, Second Son is my family’s story. The novel was published by Touchpoint Press as historical, southern fiction, and as a family saga, on July 20, 2021. I want to share an excerpt with you:

Second Son, A Novel of the Deep South

Chapter 1, A Penny a Pound

BLACK THUNDERHEADS spewed white lightning and a rumbling tirade across the field where Angus Whitaker kept watch over his cotton field, his hired pickers, and the weather. The cotton was a bumper crop this year, and his pickers were eager to make some money, but his fields had barely dried enough to start the harvest, and already another deluge was on its way. The brawny sharecropper glared at the sky in impotent fury.

“Ain’t fair, you bitch.” He sucked at the cud of mule tobacco in his left cheek and spat in frustration. The spittle landed on a fire ant mound, and the ants burst from their underground burrow in wild disorder. “Drown, you bastard pissants, you.”

He stepped away from the raging insects and stole another glance at the roiling sky. He could rage all he wanted, it made no difference to the weather.

The next bolt crackled through the air, but the thunder sounded a bit farther away. Harvest season in the Delta was always a chancy business. A man couldn’t win against Mississippi weather — the best he could do was survive. A dollop of warm rain pelted him on the nose. Angus reckoned this skirmish a draw and turned his attention back to his crew.

They were a motley assortment, mostly settlement folk and offspring of local families, typical of farming communities in Sunflower County, Mississippi. Not much raising, little education, and of no specific breeding. Still, he reckoned he’d got the best of the lot, and no matter the color of their skin. Angus judged his pickers by the weight of their tar sacks.

Whitaker’s eldest son moved steadily among them. Clifford Lee was far from his best picker, but Angus believed having his boy in the crew spurred the paid workers to a better picking average. Besides, it was past time to put more responsibility for the farm on younger shoulders.

Today, Angus suspected Cliff had more than farming on his mind. His seventeenth birthday had passed, and being large and overdeveloped for his age, wild rushes of emotion gripped him in such a state of confusion he seemed blind to the fact rain wasimminent. Right now, the boy seemed blind to everything but Joreen Anderson’s lush, swinging hips, about twenty feet ahead of him.

Angus hid a grudging smile. He’ll change, damn it, I know he will.

His gaze moved on to the Anderson sisters. Both girls plucked the soft white bolls and stuffed them expertly into long, tar-bottomed sacks strapped across their shoulders. Both were good steady workers, but Kathy, who’d turned fourteen last month, still wanted to attend the settlement school. Joreen, at a ripe sixteen, just plain didn’t want to learn.

He felt a reluctant sympathy for the older girl. Picking cotton gained her nothing but scratched and sunburned hands. The money he paid her bought food for the younger kids at home. With thirteen children to help feed, Joreen wouldn’t see a penny of it. Why the hell, Angus wondered, did PeeTee Anderson make all them kids if he couldn’t feed and take care of them?

But in the end, it wasn’t his business. PeeTee had a wandering eye, a restless pecker, and likely had bastards scattered halfway across Sunflower County.

A sudden, sharp wind rippled over his crop, and a fine mist fell over the field. Angus, his shoulders hunched, walked quickly to the cotton shed at the side of the field. Once there, he raised his arms and shouted for the pickers to come forward and weigh up.

Krane Edwards and Krane’s wife, Tincy, reached him first. Angus hooked their tar sacks to the hanging scales and carefully moved the scale pea forward. Ninety-nine pounds. Knocking off four poundsforthe tarsacksleft a net balance of ninety-five. Whittaker paid a penny a pound.

Angus pulled the worn tobacco sack containing his seed money from his hip pocket. “Seeing as how you had to quit early, I’d say that’s pretty good picking, Krane.”

“Me and Tincy, we’ll do better tomorrow.” Krane glanced nervously at the roiling sky. “We’ll get an early start if the cotton ain’t too wet. We got to get it while we can.”

He counted out the money, and then counted it again into Krane’s hand. The Anderson girls came next. He weighed their sacks and handed the coins to Joreen as Kathy, the younger sister, looked on.

Angus was forty-seven, but he could not help but notice the full breasts swelling above the neckline of Joreen’s blouse. “See you girls tomorrow, eh?”

“If it don’t rain too much, Mr. Angus.” Joreen’s pink, sensuous lips broke into an impish grin.

His gaze dropped to Joreen’s hips as the two barefoot girls sauntered down the turn row toward the Anderson house.

Damn if that don’t look like two hog shoats in a tater sack. Angus tried to ignore the throbbing in his groin. Perhaps all his vigor was not yet gone, and what had lain dormant for weeks might yet rise, yearning for the heat of passion. But the sensation slowly faded. Angus shivered and looked away.

The remaining pickers were paid as fast as Angus could manipulate his scale, his arithmetic, and his seed money. Cliff came last, but Angus didn’t bother to weigh his son’s sack. It always helped to have a little overage in the bale.

A distant movement caught his eye, and Angus stared down the turn row. He could just make out the thin form of his second son, Towanna, hurrying home from school. The boy’s lean body hunched over his schoolbooks, and he slipped and almost fell.

Angus frowned. Towanna’s books belonged to the county, and Angus was liable if they were damaged. Anything owed would come out of his seed money. Towanna had turned a scrawny fifteen in June. It was past time to pull him out of Miss Rosa’s one-room schoolhouse and set him to work the fields next to Cliff. The boy had almost finished eighth grade. That ought to be enough.

Looking closely at his figuring, Angus calculated he had enough for a full bale that could be ginned, come morning. The sale would provide the cash to hire another bale picked and still set some aside for his land fund. He tucked his seed money away and headed for the house. Behind him, Cliff tossed his sack into the cotton shed. The rain fell harder, and whips of lightning licked the distant trees. Knowing his boy, Angus yelled for Cliff to close and latch the shed door.

With his last burst of energy, Angus leaped onto the front porch of the faded, white tenant’s house that served as the Whitaker family home. He took a moment to catch his breath then stooped to untie his shoes, forcing them off, toe to heel, flexing his bare feet against the smooth, worn boards.

“That you Angus?” called his wife, Klara, from inside the house.

“Yep. We made the first bale.” Some of the tension eased out of him with that statement. “Hate to see it rain, though.”

Slipping through the screened door, Klara settled herself into the porch’s cane-bottom chair. Angus sat on the edge of the porch, swinging his bare feet through the streams of warm water pouring off the weathered tin roof.

“Towanna get home before it started pouring?”

“Yes, he’s in the kitchen doing his homework.” Klara’s pride in Towanna was evident in her voice.

“He’d be a damn sight better off if he cared more about learning to farm,” Angus told her. “That much book learning ain’t never gonna do him any good. He can read and cipher well enough.” Hell, the boy can read and cipher better’n me.

He could feel Klara’s frown against the back of his head. She believed him unjust in his attitude about Towanna’s hunger for an education, proud her boy wanted to read and write and figure more than simple math. Miss Rosa had even mentioned college, and a scholarship, as a possibility.

Angus knew better. Scholarships only went to those that didn’t need ’em. A sharecropper’s boy from the Delta stood no chance, no matter how deserving.

Staring at the rain puddles under his feet, Angus considered the prospects of his two sons. Towanna was slender and “delicate,” unfit for heavy fieldwork.Cliff was far more inclined to be manly. Angus still hoped his boys had inherited his drive to work hard and get ahead, to be more than poor rental farmers, but sometimes he feared his ambitions for them would never be realized.

There was nothing to do now but farm. What with little learning and being tied down to a family — hell, I’m doing damn good to be alive.

Eighteen years he and Klara had been married. They started out with big ideas, how they would earn their stake, become landowners. They moved their dreams and hopes into this house, but the years rolled by, and their dreams faded like the whitewash on the weather-beaten slat siding.

Tucker, who owned and leased over 900 acres of prime cotton land in Sunflower County, had given them their choice of tenant houses. The one Klara settled on boasted three rooms, a kitchen with a woodburning stove and hand pump, a small bedroom off the side of the kitchen, and a generous front room that could also serve as a bedroom as the family grew.

The house sat about forty feet back from the turn row on a generous half acre. It included a good well, an outhouse near the back door, and a barn large enough to house their two mules, a milk cow, some chickens, and the work wagon. Tucker made no objection when Angus added a shed behind the house with a rooftop tank for wash water, or the cotton shed next to the field across the turn row. Tucker paid for the wood, while Angus supplied the labor. Angus had no qualms about improving another man’s property. Someday they would own this house and the two hundred acres that came with it.

Their second year, Klara had added the garden. Cliff had been born that same year, and Towanna two years later. But Klara never seemed to regain her health after the second baby. Repeated miscarriages sapped her strength, and Angus struggled to keep everything going by himself.

Klara seemed to have recovered some these last two years, but at forty-seven, Angus mostly came home from the fields too exhausted to “piddle.” Lately, he’d taken to sleeping on a pallet on the floor to avoid the restless demands of his wife. Now he wondered — did age have anything to do with his lack of vigor?

“Cliff needs to hurry,” Klara murmured. “He’s just poking along.”

Angus looked across the turn row. He knew his oldest son was well-built, but Cliff’s rain-soaked, faded blue shirt and coveralls revealed every muscle. Angus sighed. He couldn’t help but envy Cliff’s strong young body, the taut, flat belly, the muscular arms, and broad shoulders.

“Take your tail ‘round to the back and shuck them wet clothes,” he bellowed. “You’ll catch your death, and we got no time for sickness.”

CLIFFORD PAUSED, then sprinted around to the rear of the house and the shed Angus had built for summer bathing. It contained a bench, a homemade stove, a stack of towels, and a number three washtub. The tank on the roof captured rain to provide wash water. He and Towanna took turns keeping it full when the rain didn’t oblige.

Pulling off his rain-soaked coveralls, Cliff shed his shirt and dried off. Standing in the damp warmth of the room, he took stock of the recent changes to his body. The black hair under his arms and on his chest was expected, for he’d seen his pa naked from the waist up many times. Now a rich, black crop of it grew on his belly and down around his groin. He fondled himself, and his pecker promptly rose to attention.

Cliff grinned, then grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and dashed for the back door. When he entered the kitchen, he found Towanna seated at the table.

“Hey, Wanna, whatcha doing?”

“Homework for tomorrow’s lessons.”

“You keep your head in them books too much,” Cliff chided, making his way to the small room he and Towanna shared.

TOWANNA RESENTED Cliff’s scoffing remark, but when he turned to watch him disappear into their room, he couldn’t help but notice the older boy’s swagger. It made him uncomfortable — not with Cliff, but with himself. His thin, pale body was lean and bare as a slug. His only redeeming qualities were an agile mind and a passion for learning everything Miss Rosa, the teacher at the county settlement school, had to offer.

His ma entered the kitchen and went to the stove to check the evening meal.

“Best clear away your books, Towanna. Help me get supper on the table.”

“Alright, Ma.” Towanna stacked his books and set them carefully against the kitchen wall like some fragile, precious treasure. He quickly placed glasses, plates, and utensils on the table. His ma smiled, as always, appreciating his help.

His ma placed bowls of garden-grown vegetables, beans cooked with salted bacon, and a platter of cornbread on the table. Moments later, Angus and Cliff came in and took their seats. Except for the short “Grace” Angus offered, the meal was consumed in silence.

ANGUS FILLED HIS belly and brooded over the oddity that was his youngest son. Towanna was a fine-looking boy, even better looking than Cliff, but he was thin and scrawny and looked about twelve, instead of fifteen. He never sopped his plate as Angus did, and never came to the table bare-chested. Angus glanced at Cliff, who wolfed down his food, clad only in a pair of worn jeans.

Towanna showed little interest in the fields and balked at plowing with the mule team. Angus doubted if the boy even knew which end of a mule to put the bridle on. And Towanna was too damn close to his mother. She keeps coddling him, soon he’ll have to squat to pee.

Still, Angus struggled to be fair. Klara had been sickly these past ten years. Four miscarriages had sapped her strength, and dust and pollen made it harder for her to breathe. Towanna needed to help around the house in those times. Each time Angus brooded on the boy’s peculiarities, he had dismissed them, thinking Towanna would outgrow them as he matured. Except he hadn’t.

Angus finally scraped back his chair and padded barefoot to the front porch. There he sat, letting his feet dangle over the edge. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and dusk blanketed the moist cotton fields. He took out a stingy portion of mule tobacco and tucked it into his mouth.

TOWANNA WATCHED Cliff leave the kitchen through the back door to make his way to the small barn behind the house, where the few farm animals they owned waited patiently for their evening feed. Cliff would feed and water the mules and their milch cow, and scatter cracked corn for the chickens. It was the one chore Towanna envied his brother. A few minutes later, Cliff returned.

“Just three berries today, Ma.” Cliff handed the eggs to Ma.

“Thank you, Cliff.” Ma put the eggs into the brown wicker basket on the sideboard and sighed. “Not enough for fried eggs for breakfast. We’ll have to eat grits again, with the last of tonight’s beans.”

“That’s okay, Ma,” Towanna told her. “You make good beans.”

Cliff nodded in agreement. His chores done, Cliff headed for the small room next to the kitchen Towanna shared with him. His ma wiped her hands on the dishcloth and headed for the front porch.

Towanna was left to finish up in the kitchen. He washed the plates and pans, and dried and put them away. He wiped the table clean and emptied the dirty wash water. At last, he placed his books back on the table, opened his algebra book, and turned to the day’s lesson.

The equations were hard. If only he had someone at home who could help, but no one else in the Whitaker house understood the arcane nature of algebra. That lack had kept him after school for a few precious minutes of Miss Rosa’s tutelage. He’d barely made it home before the rain fell, hunched over the books that were his lifeline to a profession, or at least a decent job — anything to escape the grueling poverty of a sharecropper’s life.

~*~

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from Second Son. The book is available in ebook and trade paperback formats on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. You can discover more at my website, www.kathleen-parrish.com.

We are a small household of three: my husband , myself, and my sister who lives with us. My husband and I had managed to check off two trips on our retirement bucket list before COVID hit in 2020 and put a hiatus on future travel plans. We’d done a two week cruise-tour of Alaska in 2018. We’d done a 28 day road trip to the east coast and the Deep South in 2019. Then the pandemic happened, and for months we limited outings to trips to the pharmacy and a weekly, grocery curb-side pickup. We wore masks when we had to go out. We used hand sanitizers. We attended church and did most of our shopping online. After a year of this, I was frantic to get out of the house.

In 2020, we bought my sister a vintage secretary desk for Christmas. We’d muscled it into her bedroom, and she’d been using one of my office chairs for it. But the chair kept getting moved between her bedroom and my home office, and I really wanted to get her an office chair that could stay put. I balked at buying anything new, though. That vintage secretary’s desk had been found and purchased from a private seller through the Nextdoor app marketplace. I discovered long ago that better quality could usually be had for better prices if we were willing to “hunt for treasure” and buy used. My two home office chairs were Steelcase Citations that originally retailed for $1400. I’d gotten two of the little suckers for $400 each by purchasing them through a used furniture liquidator.

We began searching online for a chair for my sister’s desk, and discovered Office Furniture Now (OFN), a used office furniture store located in downtown Phoenix. They’d posted a selection of their inventory on the Facebook marketplace, and there it was: a like-new, Steelcase ergonomic office chair in basic black for $50. That chair had originally retailed for about same price as my Citations.

We plotted our expedition carefully. Mid-morning, mid-week, well after rush-hour traffic, check. Masks, hand-sanitizers, check. Chair dimensions vs. cargo space in our mini-van, check. The OFN staff was expecting us because I called them the day before to make sure the chair was still available. They verified masks were required, their staff would be masked, and they would help us load the chair.

We bought the chair, loaded it into the mini-van unassisted, and headed for home. It was near lunchtime, and we decided to brave the Arriba Mexican Grill Restaurant in Goodyear, AZ, which was on our route and which had recently reopened their dine-in seating. Surreal, to be sitting in a nearly empty restaurant. The groups of diners seated inside with us were all at least 20 feet away from our booth. We ordered lunch and ate slowly, savoring the experience.

We got the chair home and in place. Since then we’ve ventured out, albeit cautiously, for an occasional meal in a restaurant. We’re still avoiding the gym. We still mask up, hand sanitize, and social distance. Little by little, we’re reclaiming our lives and activities. Adapting to the new normal. Eyeing that bucket list with a little more hope. We can live cautiously without letting fear dominate our lives, damn it. We can work on it little by little, day by day.

Monday, my sister and I swung by a Barnes and Noble after taking her for a chiropractic appointment. We ordered two pumpkin spice coffees, sat in B&N’s little cafe, and savored our coffees. The nearest patrons sat about 30 feet away, and we toasted each other across the social distance. I purchased two cookbooks and a gift bag for my son’s birthday on Tuesday, and we went home. Small victories.

At the tender ages of 70 and 68, my husband, Buster, and I bought a used RV travel trailer. We’d spent a year in quarantine due to the COVID. No movies, no dinners with friends, limited contact with our church family. No time at the gym. We longed to get out of the house for something besides a grocery pickup, a run to the pharmacy, or a doctor’s appointment. This wasn’t the retirement either of us had signed up for, and I could feel the plans for our so-called “golden years” slipping away.

Part of my adjustment to retirement entailed coping with worsening arthritis, sciatica, and chronic hip pain. A minor nuisance during my working years, pain had surged to the forefront of my days after I retired. With chronic pain came chronic depression. I slept more during the day and tossed more at night. I found it harder to concentrate — or to write. My doctor also took away over-the-counter pain relievers, like Aleve, Advil, and aspirin, which once helped me get through the day. Age and chronic aches and pains had become an unwanted reality that meant my hiking and tent camping days were relegated to fond, wistful memories.

Buster had long enthused over the idea of the two of us retiring to go traveling. We’d tour Alaska and do road trips to all the lower 48 states. I, in turn, dreamed of retiring to write full-time and blog while on our travels. True to the plan, we retired in May 2018 and embarked on a two-week Alaska cruise tour in July 2018. To alleviate back pain, I kept my walks on the cruise tour short and signed us up for activities that involved sitting down. Boat excursions. A river cruise. Salmon bakes. Museums. Train rides. It made the trip bearable — even enjoyable.

In July 2019, we did a 28-day road trip in our Dodge Caravan using a camper kit that turned the cargo space into a raised, queen-sized bed with ample storage below. It worked for a while, but the lack of air-conditioning at night and the cramped sleeping space soon convinced us this mode of camping wasn’t going to work for us in the long term. After three nights of waking up in RV campgrounds with stiff and increasingly sore hips, I caved and switched us to using three-star hotels. The road trip morphed into a grand adventure — once we quit trying to sleep in the Caravan.

We got home and moved on to Plan B — finding lightweight RV travel trailers we could rent and pull with our Caravan. The upcoming 2020 Frontiersman Camping Fellowship (FCF) Family Camp, our much-loved annual campout with friends and family, was the perfect opportunity to try an “iron teepee,” as Buster called it. If it worked, we could continue camping with our friends for several more years. Then the COVID19 pandemic happened, and our beloved family camp was canceled.

Worse, all our favorite campgrounds closed, as did most local shopping, entertainment, and dining venues. We’d reserved a Safari-Alto teardrop travel trailer located in Durango, Colorado, to take to family camp. The RV rental agency was only a six-hour drive from our family camp location near Happy Jack, Arizona, and it would have been a good test of the Caravan’s ability to tow the teardrop.

When I called to cancel our reservation, the RV rental owner assured us we could have a full refund but noted that most RV campgrounds in Colorado were reopening in time for Memorial Day Weekend. We rented the teardrop for the extended weekend we’d planned to spend at family camp and spent three days relaxing at the Dolores River Campground and ambling along the hiking trails beside the Delores River, about an hour’s drive from Durango. We chatted with neighbors in the adjacent RV campsites. I made time to write in the mornings. We also ventured out for a self-directed driving tour of the nearby Mesa Verde National Park.

Towing the Safari-Alto teardrop with our Dodge Caravan was our first big test of Plan B. The Caravan came through with flying colors. The teardrop? Not so much. Despite its many unique features, the retracting roof, well-designed kitchen, and incredible, panoramic views, it was simply too narrow and cramped for two aging, overweight retired people to move about with any degree of comfort. I loved the design, but we needed something bigger.

In March 2021, we replaced the Caravan with a Dodge Durango that had a towing capacity of 7200 pounds, and I started looking at RV travel trailers to rent within that weight limit. We were still not going to buy one of the darn things. Then a neighbor put his 2019 Winnebago Minnie 2401RG up for sale on the Nextdoor App. With pictures. And a floor plan. And I fell in love.

The Minnie featured an L-shaped rear kitchen with ample storage, cooking, and counter space. The refrigerator could run on propane or electricity. The propane oven offered the promise of hot pizza and fresh-baked biscuits. The three-burner propane range converted to counter space if needed, and the microwave promised convenience. The Minnie also offered an apartment-style bathroom with not one but two doors, one opening into a compact, Queen-sized bedroom, the other into a short hallway that provided easy access to the rest of the rig.

The middle section contained a slideout extension with a sofa and plenty of overhead storage, but what really caught my eye was the dinette. The thickly padded bench seats, meant to convert to an extra bed, were extremely comfortable. Moreover, the layout and overhead electric outlets let me quickly convert the dinette from an eating area to a mobile working office. There was even room inside the bench seats for a printer. As a writer’s mobile office and home away from home, the floorplan was just about perfect.

The Queen-sized bed had walkways on both sides that allowed us to get up during the night without waking each other. The sofa also converted into an extra bed, leaving me free to write at the dinette into the wee hours without disturbing anyone.

I contacted our neighbor and asked if he would consider renting his Minnie instead of selling it. When he declined, I looked for places nearby where we could rent that particular floorplan. Unfortunately, the only ones I could find were for sale, not rent. It finally dawned on me — unlike a new RV travel trailer, a used Winnebago Minnie held its value. If we bought one, we’d be able to resell it for about what we paid for it. That revelation eliminated my long-standing argument for not buying an RV. However, when I checked, our neighbor’s Minnie was already off the market.

I ran the notion of buying a used Winnebago Minnie past Buster, and he was open to the idea. Unfortunately, most of the ones I found online were sold before we could view them. I broadened our search parameters, and soon we were taking a second and third look at a 2019 Winnebago Minnie 2401RG located in Tubac, Arizona, about 200 miles away.

The couple selling it, Tom and LeAnn, had retired before us, but health issues combined with the COVID pandemic had prevented them from using it after a road trip to attend their granddaughter’s wedding. They had equipped the Minnie with cookware, utensils, tableware, and flatware: an entertainment system; rugs and outdoor furniture for use under the powered awning; a complete set of bed linens; and an extended warranty with three years left on it. Everything was clean and neatly stored for a second trip that had never happened.

We made the drive down to Tubac to meet the owners and look at the Minnie. Tom demonstrated that the air conditioning, refrigerator, microwave, flat-screen TV, and powered jack for the hitch were all in working order. The only thing we found wrong was a light switch, easily replaced. Otherwise, it was in mint condition and well within the towing capacity of our Durango.

Buster stayed outside with Tom for a more technical tour of the RV’s features while LeeAnn invited me into their home. I followed her inside to be confronted by the rest of the family — five senior foster dogs with curly hair and bright button eyes. LeeAnn and Tom were the local, go-to foster couple when it came to small, older dogs left at the local shelters or on the side of the road.

The largest of the five — about 20 pounds of wary attitude — refused to let me approach, but the other four came close enough to bark in my face, gradually settle, and companionably lick my hands. I was looking at the other reason for the Burks’ decision to sell their Minnie. These five aging foster dogs had become family. None of them would have done well on the road in a travel trailer.

LeAnn walked me through the paperwork on the Minnie and the provisions for transferring the service warranty. Everything was in order. I stepped out to tell Buster I was ready and willing for us to buy, but he and Tom were already hooking the Minnie up to our Durango, ostensibly to ensure our hitch was compatible. Tom explained that we’d need to purchase towing mirrors, but Buster was confident we could get it safely home. So, the four of us caravanned up to Tucson and spent an hour in the Sunwest Credit Union doing the transfer paperwork. And it was done. We had our RV.

We parted company with Tom and LeeAnn and headed north on I-10. Buster took the whole thing in stride, but I suffered a mild panic attack during our drive home. My husband was a retired professional bus driver and handled the RV like a pro, but I would have to learn how to drive the Durango while towing that thing! By the time we reached our driveway, the Minnie loomed behind me like a hungry, restless great white shark.

A few days later, we learned that the 2021 FCF Family Camp was on and would be held at the Long Valley Work Center Campground near Happy Jack, Arizona. Even better, our team leaders, Martin and Arlene Schutzow, had volunteered to plan the meals and do the grocery shopping for our group. We would reimburse them once we got to the campsite. All we had to do was pack our personal gear and show up.

Climbing in and out of the Minnie while we prepped it for family camp drove home how out of shape I’d gotten. Something had to change. I made an appointment with my doctor and obtained a referral to a physical therapist but couldn’t schedule an appointment until after family camp. So, for the next ten days, the Minnie became my exercise. Climbing in and out of it became a daily routine: four steps up, four steps down, clinging to the sturdy safety rail mounted outside the Minnie’s kitchen door.

We stocked the essentials needed for camping in the rough: A 30-amp gas-powered generator, enough to run the Minnie’s air conditioner and refrigerator; ten gallons of gas for the generator; those strap-on towing mirrors Tom had recommended. Buster even slept in the Minnie’s queen-size bed, the AC powered from the 30-amp circuit in our garage, and pronounced it as comfortable as any bed in a three-star hotel.

The next day, I moved my laptop and mobile monitor to the dinette and spent half a day writing in my mobile home office. Amazingly, my laptop connected from the Minnie to the Wi-Fi router in the house, over one hundred feet away. Everything I could do from my home office, I could do from the Minnie.

We started packing the day before the drive to family camp, loading everything except the perishable food. That evening, we plugged the Minnie into the 30-amp outlet in our garage and pre-cooled the refrigerator. Last, we removed the wheels of our new “portable” generator so we could fit it through the Minnie’s kitchen door (My one miscalculation. Our new generator was a tad too big for the Minnie’s pass-through storage compartment).

We loaded the perishables the following morning. Our group organizers would provide most of the food, but we wanted the diet Pepsi, bottled water, some fruit, and half-and-half for morning coffee in the RV. We also used an old camping cooler to store the frozen fixings we needed for our potluck entrée for the Saturday night group dinner.

My sister joined us on the front porch for a safe journey prayer and waved us on our way.

Buster did the driving, and I did the navigating. We watched the temperature gauge on the Durango while we hauled the Minnie up northbound I-17 on that long six percent grade to Camp Verde, but it never overheated. We reached the Long Valley Work Center campground a little before noon. After five tries, we were able to back the Minnie into a level spot next to a huge pine tree adjacent to our group’s campsite. We chocked the wheels, set the leveling jacks, and set up the generator. Buster fired it up and turned on the AC. That accomplished, we joined the others setting up our common area and outdoor kitchen.

No activities were planned for that afternoon, and I settled in for some writing time. That’s when I discovered the cell phone service at the campground was too weak to use my iPhone as a Wi-Fi hotspot. I spent a few minutes mourning the lack of an internet connection and then buckled down to write. The laptop and extra monitor worked fine, and the peace and quiet even more so. Several friends stopped by to admire our “tin teepee” and ask questions. Most of the group showed up in time for a casual dinner of cold cut and cheese sandwiches with trimmings and chips.

Saturday’s breakfast included scrambled eggs, grande biscuits, hash browns, and link sausages. Buster and I pitched in to help with breakfast cleanup, and I spent time listening to the teenagers discuss their plans for the weekend. Back at the Minnie, I took our pulled pork entrée for the potluck out to defrost and managed two more hours of writing. After a lunch of sandwiches, fruit cups, and chips, I passed on the ladies’ craft project and took a much-needed nap.

Later, I tried out the Minnie’s microwave to heat the pulled pork. Buster helped me get our food out of the camper and over to the family camp potluck site. Salads, ribs, the pulled pork, and side dishes made a feast. The judging of the dutch oven cobblers after the meal made for good-natured rivalry between contestants. Most of the cooks were men, many with cobbler recipes they’d jealously guarded for years.

It came as a shock to realize we were one of the oldest couples there. Fellowship, worship services, and the close proximity of good friends we hadn’t seen for months left me sorry when things came to an end on Monday morning.

I had my first physical therapy session scheduled for the day after we got back. My therapist looked like a teenager, but he knew his craft and worked with me for an hour before sending me home with a list of daily exercises and a twice-weekly torture schedule. After two sessions following our weekend in the woods, I could feel the improvement. I was sleeping better. I’d also lost two more pounds, and my balance improved.

Two weeks and five sessions later, I was able to write for half a day, with several breaks for coffee and stretching, before those lower twinges warned me to get off my butt and take a nap. Or go for a swim. Or do more stretching exercises. It was time for me to get mobile if I could do it while staying safe.

My parents recently moved to assisted living, and we were overdue to visit. It dawned on me that traveling from Arizona to Kansas City by RV, instead of hotel hopping and eating in restaurants, greatly reduces our risk of catching COVID or spreading it. The Minnie allows us to travel while maintaining quarantine, and we’ll use it to go adventuring until it’s time to pass it on to new travelers. Even with the new COVID-D variant, life is starting to open up again. I have stories to write, and Buster and I have travels to plan and promises to keep. There is time for important things, even in the time of COVID.

I hurried toward the security checkpoint at John F. Kennedy International Airport, en route to my first international engineering conference. My feet hurt, my nerves jittered, and my head was a block of wood from lack of sleep. I had never been to Rome, or even Europe for that matter, and I really didn’t want to be here.

Two weeks previously, I didn’t even have a passport. Now my virgin passport, itinerary, makeup, credit cards, and the inevitable stash of “must-have” medication filled my bulging purse. The conference materials and an oversized, hardback novel fought for space in the laptop case rolling at my heels. My suitcase lay somewhere in the belly of the plane. And I was going alone.

Most of the conference team were bringing their spouses. My husband, Robert, should have been with me; however, we hadn’t planned or budgeted for a trip to Europe. My expenses were covered by the conference, but bringing my husband would have cost us an additional $3000. My going alone made sense, and we were sensible people. Still, I’d done years of solo business travel without this odd, hollow feeling.

I had planned to fly out of the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport on Monday, November 2, arrive in Rome and attend the pre-meeting on Tuesday, do the conference, and fly home on Friday. Get in, get out, get it over with. My minimal plan did not survive a follow-up phone call from Tom Laubaum, our conference manager.

“It won’t work. Fly in that late, and you’ll still be jet-lagged on Wednesday. Rome is ten hours ahead of Arizona. Changing time zones will be harder for you than the rest of us.”

Most of the team was starting their trip from the east coast.

“I can sleep on the plane,” I lied.

“You need to fly out on Friday,” Tom insisted, “Phoenix to JFK in New York, then JFK to FCO in Rome. We’ll arrive mid-morning on Saturday, and Mel has three days of team building scheduled. He expects you to be there.” Mel was our conference team leader.

“Why JFK?” Travelocity.com had routed my choice of flights through Atlanta.

“Mel wants everyone on the same flight coming into Rome. We’ve leased minivans to meet us at the airport and take us to the hotel.” I bowed to the inevitable, and Tom gave me the connecting flight number and time. “Got your passport?”

“Not yet,” I admitted.

“Well, get it fast. You’ve only got six weeks, and you can’t book your hotel room without it.”

That, I had not realized. I managed to expedite everything needed to get my passport on time, and my panic settled down to roiling anxiety. Bad enough to be the only woman traveling solo in our group; our European colleagues expected a presentation team in formal business wear, representing the best of America’s nuclear professionals. Instead, they’d be getting a short, overweight, middle-aged woman with only one engineering degree, travel anxiety issues, and nothing to wear.

I managed to find two plus-sized tailored business ensembles at Dillard’s. My passport came through, and I faxed the necessary pages to the hotel in Rome. I’d fly out of Phoenix at 6:15 am on Friday, October 30, and meet up with the conference team at the John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York.

Thursday night, it took me three hours to pack. I finally moved my suitcase from our bedroom to the dining room table so Robert could get some sleep. Maxi, our miniature dachshund, spent the evening staring woefully at me. He knew that big red suitcase meant I’d be gone for at least a week. Packing done, I let him curl up next to me on the bed to apologize for my imminent desertion and spent the next three hours trying to doze off. Robert never stirred.

We woke up and got moving at 3:00 am. I did a last-minute check before we left the house: laptop, cell phone, camera, and cables; adaptors for European power outlets; passport, with extra copies in my purse; personal care items and medication; and the emergency contact numbers for the conference team. I gave him a copy of that last item, “just in case,” and cuddled Maxi for a few minutes. We drove to the airport in silence. When we reached Sky Harbor, Robert set my luggage and laptop case on the curb and hugged me.

“Next time,” I told him, “you’re getting your passport and coming with me. I don’t care if we have to charge the tickets.”

My amiable husband finally caught on. Travel went with my job, and I usually relished it. This time, he could see it was a miserable chore. “We’ll do something special when you get back, okay?” I nodded and hugged him back, and he kissed me goodbye. It helped. I reached the Delta ticket counter and handed over my e-ticket and passport.

“Vacation?” The ticket agent asked, perking up when she noticed my destination.

“Just business.”

The quick check-in left me with a bit of extra time, and a book at Hudson Booksellers caught my eye. The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss. I bought the book, wedged it into my laptop case, and headed for the gate.

Tom Laubaum and his wife, Debbie, met me at the international gate at JFK. Both were dressed casually for warmth and comfort and excited about this trip. Debbie showed me a paperback labeled Pocket Rome.

“It’s a travel guide by Rick Steves,” she enthused. “He’s great. I’m using this one to plan our tours in Rome. You packed walking shoes?”

I nodded. Then I spotted Mel Arey, who introduced me to his wife, Kathy. Behind them came Tony Nowinowski, our project manager, and his wife, Dee, who I’d met at other conferences. Everyone but me was excited about our upcoming flight and destination. None of them, I thought grumpily, had been up at 3:00 am to make it to the airport.

Despite my lack of sleep, Rothfuss’s novel kept me awake for most of the flight. The plane was half-empty, and I had an entire row to myself. Around midnight, eastern time, I moved to the window seat and peered into the darkness below. The lights of several cargo ships were visible through a thin curtain of clouds.

By the time we set down at Rome’s Fiumicino International Airport, made it through customs, and piled into the waiting minivans, I’d been up for twenty hours with barely three hours’ sleep. I’d collapse as soon as we reached the hotel, checked in, and I could drag body, laptop, and luggage up to my room.

Our ride ended atop a massive hill where the Marriott Grand Flora held court like some Grande Dame out of the past century. I stared at the neoclassic pink and white building and looked across the road at a looming, red brick wall, perhaps 40 feet in height and 10 feet thick. Sports cars passed through its ancient arches. Mel tipped our drivers generously, and one of them insisted on moving my suitcase to the hotel’s lobby. I nodded at the wall.

“How old?”

The driver smiled, pleased at my interest. “The Aurelian Walls? They were built in the third century, but that road goes back to before the time of the Christ.” He pointed to one of the arches. “The Porta Pinciana, the gate that welcomed travelers to ancient Rome.”

I studied the wall, reluctantly impressed. “And the hotel?”

“The Grand Flora? Perhaps one hundred years.” He gestured grandly at its topmost level. “There is no finer view. From the terrace, you can see the Tiber River and the Basilica.” He rolled my suitcase into the lobby and refused an additional tip.

I wanted to head up to the terrace to check out that view before collapsing in my room like a dead woman, but Mel had other plans. After check-in, he granted us a mere 30 minutes to settle into our rooms before reporting to the lobby. I unpacked and managed a quick shower before changing into fresh casual clothes and those ‘sturdy walking shoes.’

Once everyone returned to the lobby, Mel eyed us like a general reviewing his troops. “We’re going to take a walk and grab some lunch along the way,” he announced. “It will help everyone switch to local time.” No one groaned — quite. “First stop is the Spanish Steps. After that, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and –” Mel waved his hands, a bit maniacally. “Other stuff!” He nodded to the Laubaums. “Debbie’s our tour guide,” Debbie dutifully raised her copy of Pocket Rome, “and at the end of our walk, there’s a little surprise.”

I quickly discovered why we needed those “sturdy walking shoes.” In Rome, the older streets and sidewalks are made of dark, volcanic rock carved into sharp-edged, cube-shaped cobblestones. They’re set just far enough apart to catch a narrow heel and twist an ankle.

I could easily tell the local women from the tourists; they were the slim, agile females navigating the cobblestones with surreal ease — in 4-inch spiked heels! Few of them smiled, though. Navigating those stones took every scrap of their attention.

We reached the Steps at noon, having stopped for paninis along the way. The sun flooded the plaza below us with light. To the west, the Tiber River passed smoothly under Holy Angel Bridge, sparkling under a vivid blue sky. Farther west, St. Peter’s Basilica rose above Vatican City. To the south, I glimpsed the ruins of the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. I turned to Mel, who was grinning like a kid.

“So. Tours?” I gestured toward the distant Colosseum.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “but that’s for tomorrow. We also have tickets for the Borghese Museum, right after breakfast. It’s a short walk,” he added, “and after lunch, we’ll take the metro to the Colosseum and the Forum.” Mel looked toward the Trinità dei Monti church rising majestically above the Spanish Steps. “You might want some souvenirs,” he suggested.

I followed his gaze to the street vendors clustered in front of the church. Paintings, giclée canvas reproductions, and watercolor prints abounded. Mel’s wife, Kathy, was already exploring the offerings. I moved toward some prints, matted, signed, and ready for framing, gestured to the artist for permission to browse, and pointed at a large watercolor of St. Peter’s Basilica, gleaming in the sun above the Tiber River.

“Thirty euros, Senora.” Kathy heard, caught my eye, and mouthed, too much. Thirty euros was a lot. I smiled at the artist but shook my head and picked up a smaller print. “Ten euros.” I shook my head again but set it beside the larger print. Next, I selected a small print of the Pantheon. The artist said nothing, only waited. Finally, I picked up a small print of the Colosseum, adding it to the others, and looked at him. ‘Sixty euros, Senora.’ I sighed and walked away. “Forty euros?”

I rummaged in my purse for my personal funds and thrust forty euros into his hands. He bagged my purchases and passed them over, and we smiled together in perfect understanding. Speaking Italian was easier than I thought.

The rest of our group made its way down the Spanish Steps. I followed, my mood lifting. The Trevi Fountain waited down there somewhere, and the Pantheon, and doubtless, more … stuff, as Mel would say. Rome, in all her glory. I might never pass this way again. So don’t waste it.

At the end of that walk, and a visual feast of famous statues, buildings, fountains, and plazas, we finally reached Mel’s surprise: the minivans, waiting to haul our exhausted legs and throbbing feet back up the Via Veneto to our hotel.

We ate dinner that night family-style, at a casual restaurant within a short walk of the Grand Flora, and Dee Nowinoski introduced me to limoncellos by way of therapy for sore, tired feet. I studied the spousal contingent as we sampled the sweet, lemon-flavored drink. Plain and simple, the ladies accepted me as one of their own. We passed cameras around and compared our digital bounty collected during the day’s wanderings. My mood lifted. Maybe it was the limoncello.

“The trick,” Dee said, tapping her glass against mine, “is to have a great time in Rome, take a ton of pictures to make Robert jealous he’s not here, and get his passport ordered early next year so he won’t have an excuse to beg off.” Debbie and Kathy nodded in unison.

“Coming along on these conferences is our reward for putting up with all the guys’ other business travel.” Dee rolled her eyes toward Tony, her husband, and wrinkled her nose. “Robert just needs a bit of prodding. Next year, we’re in Barcelona.” All three women looked at me expectantly.

I nodded, a little embarrassed to be read so easily. “Thank you. We’ll be there.” I looked down at my camera, my heart suddenly lighter. I had allies. I’d managed to snap over 200 pictures in less than four hours, and some were actually frame-worthy. I emailed the best of them home that night but refrained from adding any sub-text. The pictures spoke for themselves.

The next morning found us walking to the nearby Borghese Museum. Cardinal Borghese had built his palatial home to serve as an art mecca during the Italian Renais­sance, and it contained some of the finest paintings and sculptures of that era. Dee and I spent entirely too much time staring at a magnificent marble sculpture, the La Dea Paolina Bonaparte, a life-sized rendition of a young noblewoman reclining on a sumptuous bed of marble. Gracefully undraped in a portrayal of Venus, she held the apple awarded to her by Paris, whose decision to accept her bribe had destroyed ancient Troy.

“Nice boobs,” I finally commented, “but she obviously didn’t do Pilates.” Dee turned beet red, trying to strangle the laughter that threatened to erupt in the crowded gallery. It wouldn’t do for us to be thrown out!

That afternoon we visited Old Rome and toured the Colosseum. It was oddly peaceful and filled, incongruously, with grace notes of verdant grass and wildflowers. All that bloody history had aged it into a vast serenity. From the Colosseum, we hiked to the Roman Forum and wandered through stone ruins, bereft now of the bright paint and red tile roofs that had been a hallmark of the place in its prime.

Dinner that night was at yet another “traditional” Italian restaurant. Near the end of the meal, Mel signaled for the staff to bring the desserts. He ordered two of each, served family-style — my introduction to tiramisu.

When I returned to my room, it was 10:00 pm in Rome but only 12:00 pm in Arizona, and the caffeine in the tiramisu had me wide awake. Robert answered on the first ring.

“Maxi misses you,” he told me.

“Is he okay?” I hadn’t thought of Maxi or Robert for most of the day.

“I took him to the vet. No fever, but he lost his appetite and moped for two days. The vet said he’s fine, though. He spends most of his time on my lap when I’m home.”
This was news. Robert and Maxi usually just tolerated each other. The image of Robert and Maxi sitting huddled on the couch in our TV room made me smile.

“I miss you,” I offered.

“I miss you too. Got your pictures. Send me some more, okay?”

Our final day of sightseeing began with everyone meeting in the lobby at 6:00 am, passports in hand, for a van ride to Vatican City and a private tour of the Sistine Chapel. The docent who escorted us waited until we stood beneath Michelangelo’s greatest painting before gesturing to the nearby Swiss Guards, who smiled and said, “No flash.” For this brief window of time, the prohibition on photography was rescinded.

For forty-five minutes, we lay on the floor like children, taking pictures of the Chapel’s ceiling and walls. The rest of the morning was a guided tour through the museums and galleries of the Vatican until we found ourselves inside Saint Peter’s Basilica, overwhelmed by the transcendent beauty of Michelangelo’s Pieta. We wandered through the massive structure, marveling at its incredible artistry and detail until Dee decided we should walk up the three hundred steps to the top of the great dome. At that point, I begged off and caught a taxi back to the Grand Flora for a hot soak and an early dinner.

The conference itself passed in a blur. Mel and the rest of the team seemed happy with my presentations, and several attendees spoke with me during the evening reception. “Next year’s conference? Rome again?” They seemed to think I had influence in the choice of our conference location.

“Barcelona,” I told them. “Maybe Rome the following year.”

My flight home wasn’t until noon, local time, so I joined the team for one last breakfast. Dee, Kathy, Debbie, and I all hugged each other.

“Next year?” Debbie asked. I nodded and gave her another hug.

“You bring the Pocket wherever.”

“And you bring Robert!”

I nodded again and wiped at my eyes. I didn’t want to go.

I headed back to the airport, checked in, and browsed through Rothfuss’s novel while I waited for the call to board. One passage caught my attention.

He stepped to the edge, looked down, and without a second thought he stepped out into the open air… So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him…

I’d known, after all, how to make this journey. I would not fear the wind a second time.

“Mom, I’m thinking of getting a dog.”

I studied my youngest child with a bit of trepidation. We’d been carpooling together for several months, and it was his turn to drive. Both of us worked at the Palo Verde Generating Station, about 60 miles west of downtown Phoenix, Arizona. Robert was 28, single, and known to friends and family as level-headed, practical, and fiercely independent. He was also more than a bit stubborn. He might ask for advice, but was easily irritated if it was offered unsolicited, especially from me.

My “advice gear” tends to get stuck in fast forward when it comes to my sons, and conversations with Robert on the commute to and from work could get lively. I invariably tried to steer him around life’s pitfalls, even as he insisted he no longer needed unsolicited, maternal advice.

Robert believed in acquiring wisdom via self-study and the “school of hard knocks.” It stuck better that way. Me, I shifted between pride and frustration at this competent human being we’d raised, and my gut instinct that he still needed the occasional bit of parental guidance. Just a smidge! Any maternal advice, however, had to be given surreptitiously.

“A dog?” I kept it casual.

“Yeah.”

Robert had purchased his first home in the aftermath of the 2008 housing bust that dragged thousands of homes in the greater Phoenix area into foreclosure. He’d saved the down payment by sharing living expenses with Steven, his older brother. They’d found a no-frills, two-bedroom apartment near Luke Air Force Base and moved in together, splitting rent, chores, utilities, and groceries. Carpooling with me saved each of us about $80 a month. In two years, Robert had saved enough for a down payment on his own, move-in ready, three-bedroom gem in Avondale, just off Interstate 10.

Both of our sons missed having a dog. One big draw of that three-bedroom starter home had been the fenced-in backyard.

“Something like Max?” I asked as we turned onto the westbound ramp of Interstate 10. Max, short for Maximus, was my own rescue dog, a feisty, miniature dachshund weighing in at 11 pounds, with the attitude of a Rottweiler.

Robert snorted. “I want a man’s dog, Mom. Maybe an English Bulldog.”

“Those are pretty expensive,” I offered. Robert frowned. “Really. Probably $2000, maybe more.” His frown became a scowl. “They don’t live very long either,” I added.

“I liked the one next to our old apartment,” he said stubbornly. Yup, his advice alarm was on yellow alert.

I tried a new tack. “Are they smart?” The scowl eased. Mom apparently didn’t know everything.

“I’ll find out,” he said and gave me the look. “Don’t you be running any online searches,” he warned. “It’s my dog.”

A bulldog, I reflected, might be a good match for my youngest spawn; gruff, territorial, and stubborn.

“How goes the dog hunt?” We were carpooling again, and it was my week to drive.

“Looking at Boston Terriers now,” my taciturn youngest finally shared. “They’ll live 15 years, maybe more. Smart. Good jogging dogs.”

The bulldog crisis seemed to have passed, but I dug a bit deeper. “What about the vet bills?”

Robert quirked a suspicious brow at me. “Not bad. Not as bad as bulldogs.” He sighed. “I asked my neighbor, back at the apartments. The vet bills on her bulldog are pretty steep — bad teeth, hip dysplasia, skin and eye infections, and they only live about nine years.” There was a suspicious gleam in his eye, though.

Not another word, Mom. I let the silence build, and after a moment, he spilled the rest of the story; the big adopt-a-pet fair was coming up in Avondale this weekend.

“Sounds good,” I ventured.

“You’re not invited.” Robert grinned to take the sting out. “My dog, Mom, I can handle it. Already installed a dog door off the back patio, a one size fits all. We added ramps for Max, though.” The boys occasionally watched Maxi for us when my husband’s travel schedule and mine coincided. He put back the passenger seat and pulled his cap down over his eyes. There is a sacred rule among nuclear plant workers — no talking when your carpool mate is napping, so I shut up. Still, ramps for Maxi? Just how big was this doggy door?

Our morning commute the following week brought more tidbits of information. The adopt-a-pet fair had featured, count ‘em, ten Boston Terriers. One of them met all of Robert’s criteria — male, about two years old, house-trained, healthy, smart, and friendly. This particular dog was in high demand, but Robert filled out an application for him anyway.

The agency rep had perked up a bit when she sized Robert up and reviewed his information. Healthy, active homeowner, no other pets, no kids, a quiet neighborhood with jogging trails, a block-fence back yard. Ample character references (yes, animal rescue shelters want references). In short, Robert seemed ideal for an energetic young dog in need of attention and playtime. They’d let him know in a few days.

Robert left that agency’s adoption booth to continue his search for his “man’s dog.” There were a lot of agencies, and a lot of dogs up for adoption. He was circling back toward the parking lot to leave when he saw the “Beast.” Aldo was four months old, with paws the size of saucers and white markings on a grey face from out of the Wild. A Husky or Malamute — or a wolf hybrid. He stopped to pet the creature and got half his face licked off in an enthusiasm of puppy love.

This agency rep promptly extolled the pup’s virtues, which Robert dutifully — and a little smugly — shared with me. “Aldo” was indeed part Malamute — extra-large for the breed, and likely to top out at 100 pounds. Friendly and intelligent, he would probably live 15 years. I stayed silent, envisioning 15 years of pet-sitting this monster when our sons were on campouts with their dad. All of my guys are Royal Ranger commanders. In Arizona, that means supervising frequent boys’ campouts in the summer and participating in ‘manly’ winter campouts disguised as leader training programs. Would Aldo eat Maxi? My future grandkids?

My husband and I stopped by Robert’s house over the weekend in hopes of meeting the new family pet. The extra-large dog door made Robert’s preference for a larger animal obvious, but his new “man’s dog” was nowhere in sight. It turned out that both agencies had called, and Robert was being offered both dogs, but with a catch. Each would have to be kenneled whenever he left the house.

At this point, Robert’s stubborn streak surfaced. It made no sense to kennel a dog when his perfectly good dog door, installed with his own hands, would allow the animal egress to a fenced-in yard to “do his business.” That wasn’t the point, both agency reps had explained. Kenneling kept the dog out of the summer heat whenever it was left unsupervised. A dog door didn’t count.

“What? He’s expected to stay cooped up for 13 hours until I get home from work?” One rep suggested that a friend or neighbor stop by to let the dog out, briefly, during workdays. Visions of imposing on friends and neighbors — for 15 years — triggered outright rebellion. It never occurred to my painfully honest son to tell a little white lie, and agree to their terms.

“I expect my dog to know enough to come in out of the heat!”

That declaration had not been well received. Nor had one rep’s opinion that his parents might have been a tad irresponsible. Letting our dogs use a doggy door to “do their business,” for the 27 years we’d raised boys and dogs in the rural outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, was irresponsible?

Robert had ended both agencies’ calls with an exasperated, “I’ll get back to you.” He was still mulling over his options when we met up at church on Wednesday night.

“Picked one yet?” I asked.

Robert shrugged. “Change of plan. Tim and Liberty need a new home for their dog.” Tim and Liberty Turnipseed were our youth pastors and good friends of Robert’s. “He’s a two-year-old mixed breed. Turns out one of their kids has a dog allergy.” I winced in sympathy. Hard to give away a family pet, especially when the kids are attached. After the evening service, I saw Robert talking to Tim. Now was my chance.

I moved to stand beside Liberty, careful to stay out of Robert’s line of sight. “This dog? How big is it?”

Liberty smiled, clearly pleased with Robert’s interest. “Not too big.” She bent and gestured. “About knee-high. The kids were really excited when they heard Robert was looking for a dog.”

“The boys are in Royal Rangers?” I could see where this was going.

“That they are,” Liberty replied happily. She had a pretty fair understanding of her boys — and of mine. A good commander doesn’t let his men — that is, boys, down. A portion of the Ranger motto floated through my mind, “Ready. Ready to serve…” and I knew neither of those shelter dogs would be joining our family, not in the face of a young boy’s confidence in his commander to do the right thing. Robert agreed to come by and check out the dog. By Thursday evening, it was a done deal.

We didn’t carpool Friday so that Robert could pick up his new dog directly after work. Our paths didn’t cross over the weekend, either, but by the following Tuesday I was anxious for an update. This week it was his turn to drive. We made it to the interstate before I broke down and asked.

“So, what kind of dog is he?”

Robert shrugged. “Just a mutt.”

“No, really, what breed?”

He ducked his head. “Half spaniel.”

Spaniels were good; I’d had one as a kid. “What else?”

He turned red and mumbled something.

“I didn’t get that?”

“Chihuahua.” Robert finally looked at me, his eyes twinkling.

I tried to keep a straight face. “You adopted a Chihuahua mix?”

“Yeah.”

“Liberty’s boys got to you.”

“Yeah.”

“He needed a good home.”

“Pretty much.”

“This is your ‘man’s dog’?”

“Yes, Mom.” By now, he was red-faced and grinning, while I pictured a flop-eared, “rat” dog with a bad case of Parkinson’s. I envisioned my strapping young man out jogging with this creature. The mind boggled. My evil spawn let me stew all morning. He finally stopped by my desk around lunchtime and offered me his cell phone.

On the screen was a small, long-legged dog that looked uncannily like a miniature border collie. Black and white, with long curly hair, perked ears — and a bulldog underbite that would do Winston Churchill proud. Slightly oversized, round eyes and a broad, high forehead gave the animal an intelligent and slightly arrogant expression.

I couldn’t help myself. “He’s so cute!” Robert was grinning.

“That he is. Not bad chick bait, either.”

“What’s his name?”

“Buckminster — Bucky for short. It takes him a bit to warm up to you, but he’s friendly. He’ll put up with a leash, but he really loves to run on his own.”

A good match, after all, for my stubborn, practical son.