NOLA: February 2012

...also known as The Big Easy, The Crescent City, or Nawlins. Kate and I just returned from a two-day New Orleans getaway, and I'm here to report that we can't wait for a chance to go back.

We chose a wonderful time to visit. The first Mardi Gras parades were scheduled to begin on the day we were leaving; as a result we were able to experience much of the excitement and anticipation of Mardi Gras with very little of the accompanying vomit and random puddles of urine.

Seriously, the town fathers of this unique city have had to find a way to clean the streets of any number of objectionable liquids during this month-long hedonistic celebration. Each morning specially equipped street cleaning trucks make their way through the French Quarter spraying a lemony substance that washes away the previous night's deposits and leaves the Quarter fresh, clean, and ready for another evening assault by thousands of people who enjoy the good ol' American value of three-for-one drink specials offered by many of the bars during Happy Hour.

Last year I was one of them and came perilously close to mistaking the hotel coat closet for the bathroom. Thankfully, the tiny area of rationality left in my brain was, at the last possible moment, able to determine the difference between the two (one of them is used to hang coats) and tragedy was narrowly averted.

Let's call it a rookie mistake.

This year I swore an oath to moderation and had none of those close calls.

NOLA is an easy 4-5 hour drive from our place in Florida along amazing Interstate 10. I say amazing because this highway runs from the Atlantic to the Pacific and there are NO CURVES. It's kind of the Twiggy of Interstates. It's 75 MPH all the way through places like Mobile and Biloxi and the next thing you know you're crossing the Pontchartrain causeway to New Orleans.

We stayed right in the middle of the Quarter, one block off Bourbon on Conti Street at the Prince Conti hotel. We had stayed there last year and felt it was a nice, clean place that offered good value. Unfortunately, our first night's room faced the street which was filled with revelers right through the night. Here's a little clue to all people who drink too much: LOUD ISN'T FUNNY! We were able to switch to an interior room for the second night and weren't bothered by the madness outside.

The main New Orleans attraction for Kate and me was the opportunity to hear all kinds of live music. Over the space of two nights we heard the following: the fabulous house band at Preservation Hall playing traditional New Orleans jazz, a trio of operatic singers performing in the lounge of the Ramada, an absolutely kick-ass R and B ensemble, complete with a three-piece horn section and a spectacular lead singer, ripping it up at Fat Catz on Bourbon, a smooth, late night piano player/vocalist coolly performing Cole Porter and other standards at the Bombay Lounge, right beside our hotel, a fiddle-guitar-washboard trio dedicated to "ol' timey" music from the twenties and thirties playing at the Three Muses on Frenchman Street, a phenomenal house pianist who could and would play absolutely anything at the same location, and, finally, to our amazement, the youngest Marsalis sibling, Jason, playing first rate vibes with a brilliant guitarist and piano player back at the Bombay Lounge. This last act was an absolute wonder. It was the type of jazz that I've loved since I was 15 years old. Songs like Stardust, Willow Weep for Me, Whisper Not, Peace and others played lovingly and intelligently by masters of their instruments. What conversations there were were subdued in deference to the music. It was magnificent ensemble playing with the whole being very much greater than the sum of its parts. Pure magic.

And it was free.

Food is another NOLA specialty, and we were not disappointed. One of the gentlemen who works at my golf club comes from New Orleans and had a few restaurant recommendations for us, not the least of which was the Central Grocery, the home of the original muffaletta sandwich. Don't worry, I didn't know what it was either; however, I am here to tell y'all that it is a real treat. Other than salami, I don't know what's in it but, man, was it delicious. One of the best sandwiches this chubby traveler has ever et, and that includes the hard salami from the G&G and the Italian sub from Go Go's in Hanover! High praise indeed.

We took the delightful St Charles streetcar through the garden district to the Audubon Zoo, directly across the street from Loyola and Tulane. What a treat it was to stroll around this excellent park, watch the two Asian elephants get their exercise, see the nastiest, hugest Anaconda ever, stare down a menacing Silverback gorilla and assert my dominance over him,(Actually it was Kate who stared him down; I was hiding.) witness two beautiful, massive white tigers lounging in the sun, and laugh at the derring-do of a baby orangutan joyfully climbing and leaping at impossible heights.

Great music, great food, and a delightful zoo.

Now I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Ain't life grand?
J

On Turning 65: February 2012

Recently, I celebrated my 65th birthday.

I'm not blogging about this in some cheesy, pathetic attempt to get all of you to send birthday greetings (jagetman@yahoo.com) or golf-related presents (102 Fern Way, Santa Rosa Beach, FL, 32459).

No, I only mention this because on the morning of my 65th birthday I played a round of golf and would have shot my age if I had been born in 1933!

I make a little joke.

So what does this birthday really mean to me? Clearly, the most important aspect of being 65 is that I am now enrolled in Medicare. As a matter of fact, because my birthday falls on the first of the month, my eligibility began a month before my actual birthday. Having proudly flashed my medicare card, I've already had a physical, blood tests, and prescription fill-ups.

I'm happy to report that all of this, the enrollment, the office visit, the prescriptions, went off without a hitch. No six-month wait, no death panels, no nuthin'. Three-month quantities of six different prescriptions came to a total of $28. Thanks to all of you out there who are still working and paying taxes in an effort to keep me alive.

You know who you are. Don't think I don't appreciate it.

So here, in no particular order, are some of my personal baby-booming highlights, reflections, and recollections, both grand and tiny, accrued during the 65 years I have spent on this planet. I apologize in advance to those of you who didn't have the good fortune to grow up in Boston, since many of these are Hub-centric.

...watching Big Brother Bob Emery toast President Eisenhower every day at noon on channel 4

...Boom-Boom-Boomtown

...Jackie Jensen refusing to fly

...Red Sox goofballs Gene Conley and Pumpsie Green trying to fly to Israel during a three-day bender

...at 14 or 15, purchasing Miles Davis' "Porgy and Bess" and listening to it almost non-stop for a week, definitely one of the "fork in the road" moments in my life

...seeing and, especially, hearing a child who was encased in an "iron lung" during the polio scare

...acting on the recommendation of friend and fellow Aardvark Martin Bickman and reading a Robert Heinlein novel; the rest as they say is history

...sitting nervously as a seventh grader in the Boston Latin School auditorium for the first time and being told that it was only a matter of time before my true ignorant nature would be discovered whereupon I would be exiled in shame to Boston English High School

...fooling those bastards for six years

...finding out I was funny

...passing my driving test on the first try despite being forced to make a three-point turn on a hill in a standard shift car, undoubtedly my finest driving moment

...hitchhiking to Montreal with fellow Aardvark Andrew Razin in search of that famous mythical creature, the "loose" Quebec Catholic girl; despite our determined efforts, we never were able to locate this fabulous but elusive being

...accompanied by Marvin "Knuck" Lehrer, attending a weekday matinee Celtics game in February, 1959 against the Minneapolis Lakers; final score: Celtics 173 Minneapolis 139; you could look it up

...witnessing both of my sons deliver beautiful, inspiring speeches and/or performances during Ada's wonderful memorial gathering

...learning geometry as a 10th grader under the tutelage of Mr. Salvucci, an excellent teacher and a nice man; I believe it was about this time that I decided I might not be a complete idiot

...seeing an undiscovered John Pizzarelli perform in a small club at the Montreal Jazz Festival and knowing that he would soon become something quite special

...similarly, seeing Stephane Grappelli, well over 80, barely able to walk on stage, magically become 60 years younger the second he started to play his jazz violin for an adoring jazz festival audience; it would be one of his last performances

...after several awkward phone calls, taking Ada Ernest on our first date, a double feature at the Morton Theater on Blue Hill Avenue; again, the rest is history

On the morning of my 65th birthday I was presented with a magnificent ice cream cake.I'm going to eat it even if it means I don't make it to my 70th.

Ain't life grand?
J

My Nickname: January 2012

I've decided to seek out a nickname. I think of a nickname in the same way that women think of scarves or handbags.

It's the perfect accessory and, at 65, I'm finally ready to accessorize.

Like most of you, I've had nicknames in the past. When I was in high school, most of my friends called me "Get". Of course that's just a diminuation of my actual name. Not much imagination there. It lacks the essential quality of any worthwhile, bona fide nickname: panache.

During my teaching career many students referred to me as "Mr. G." I'm quite sure there were scores of kids who had other nicknames for me, many of which ended in "---hole." While Mr. G. connotes a warm informality, which was, I hope, an accurate portrayal of my attitude in class, it also lacks imagination and duende.

I need me some duende.

During my long and almost distinguished tennis career, I was often referred to as "lefty," which was strange because I'm not left-handed. Of course I'm just kidding, but again this nickname is simply a literal description of my handedness and not the kind of imaginative sobriquet I'm seeking.

There are lots of "lefties" out there, but only one...what?

One of my sons has long referred to me as "Bub" or "Bubster". I'm not sure of the derivation here but, while I am more than happy to answer to it, this nickname contains no flowery or heroic imagery. If he could possibly place "The Great" or "Number One" in front of Bubster, we might have something. Alas, I fear that after reading this, he may choose to go with something in the "---hole" category.

As they say, "The devil you know..."

For a brief period, within the confines of 33 Foxtail Road in Hanover, Massachusetts, I was known as "Chief Five Tails." This colorful Native American nickname was bestowed upon me as a result of a particular act of tremendous bravery on my part. With all appropriate modesty, I would like to relate the events that led to my being called Chief Five Tails:

Our home in Hanover had become infested by field mice. Not a day went by without one of us becoming terrorized by these huge, disgusting beasts. No one was safe. It fell upon me, the alleged man of the house, to solve the problem. I tried many different approaches including "have-a-heart" traps and yelling, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, I decided to go old school and bought a number of traditional Tom and Jerry type mousetraps.

Each evening I would strategically place a couple of the wonderfully inventive mousetraps, baited with a chunk of delightful Jarlsberg cheese, and sleep fitfully, listening with one ear for the telltale snap or click that all Native Americans know so well.

In the mornings no one would approach the kitchen until I had made my rounds and given the all-clear signal. Lo and behold for five mornings in a row, a rather stiff example of the American fieldus mousus species would be peacefully at rest in the trap. It fell upon me, brave warrior Chief Five Tails to gingerly remove the newly departed from the trap and deposit him/her somewhere in the back yard.

I was proud of this noble nickname and would have been happy to carry it forward the rest of my life, but word must have spread among the savage beasts and we were not tormented by their kind any more. Thus did The name "Chief Five Tails" become a quickly forgotten footnote in the annals of our little family.

From time to time I have looked to the world of sport to find a suitable nickname. Unfortunately, my two greatest sporting heroes, Bill Russell and Ted Williams, could not assist me in my quest. Williams was known as "The Kid" or "The Splendid Splinter". I'm certainly no Kid and never in my life, not for one second, has anyone looked at me and been reminded of something as slender as a splinter. As for Russell, he was simply known as "Big" as in Big Bill Russell. While I sadly qualify as Big, I'd prefer not to be reminded of it too often.

Also, I'm hoping to stay away from the ironic nickname. Over the years, unbeknownst to them, I have bestowed ironic nicknames upon various acquaintances and co-workers. Thanks to me, one member of the hotel staff in New Hampshire was known by one and all as "The Genius". Needless to say, he wasn't one. I see now that maybe it wasn't my finest hour and I'm hoping to avoid karmic retribution at this time in my life.

So that eliminates the following: Slim, Muscles, and Mr. No Ear Wax.

Recently I bought a new Odyssey putter and noticed that the putter cover had the name "White Ice" stitched on it. I immediately began lobbying my golf group to make this my nickname. After all, it contains my race and my favorite additive to a gin and tonic. A perfect nickname I thought.

My bubble was burst when one of the group questioned, "Does this mean that we'll have to stop using our old nickname for you, ---hole?"

I hate it when there is someone more clever than me in the room.

So I leave it up to you, faithful followers of these meanderings. I eagerly await your suggestions. Please stay away from vulgarity and irony.

Thanking you in advance,

Joel "The Moyle" Getman
(I'm Jewish and I have a tendency to slice...)

Ain't life grand?
J

Lyrics: December 2011

Recently, during an extensive automobile trip, I had occasion to listen to either my car radio or my Ipod for long stretches. It occurred to me that I have never understood the meaning of the lyrics in many of the songs that I have been listening to for years. Perhaps you can enlighten me.

For example, who is Rikki and why shouldn't he/she lose that number? Why would mailing it to oneself be preferable to writing it down somewhere and sticking it in one's back pocket? Isn't there some mnemonic device that would allow Rikki to remember it? Is this song really about how dumb Rikki is? I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Why is Bruce Cockburn wondering where the lions are? Is this really a mystery? I mean aren't they primarily on the Serengeti or in zoos? There used to be a real old scrawny one in Franklin Park. Maybe there is the odd one or two in some rapper's penthouse, but I think we have a pretty good handle on the rest of them.

Why does some North Ontario town leave Neil Young feeling helpless? What does a town have to do with it? Could it have anything to do with some of Cockburn's lions on the loose? Don't they offer any self-help programs up there in North Ontario? What about Canada's vaunted health care system? I mean it seems to me that Neil could be a good candidate for a little pick-me-up.

What good would sending in the clowns do? If there is one character on the ground and one in the air, how would a bunch of clowns help? Wouldn't a ladder be more useful? By the way, does Sondheim mean real clowns or a bunch of goofballs like my golfing buddies?

Why is it such a big deal that James Taylor has seen fire and rain? Who hasn't? I've personally seen both of those things as well as mud, granite, and lava. I don't go around bragging about it, though. By the way, I've also ridden the full length of the Massachusetts Turnpike as far as that goes; gave the guy exact change too!

How come Lyle Lovett feels he needs both a pony and a boat? I mean, neither one would be particularly helpful on, say, the Massachusetts Turnpike. Wouldn't most people be happy with one or the other? It seems a bit greedy to ask for both. Maybe he intends to give one of them to Neil Young to make him feel better.

While I absolutely love every song he ever wrote, I must admit that I don't understand a single thing Leonard Cohen is singing about. Chinese tea and oranges? Traveling blind? Dancing to the end of love? How 'bout dancing to the end of the song? What is a drunk doing in a midnight choir? How did he make it past the audition? And so forth...

Of course none of this confusion is apparent in those older, wonderful songs from the Great American Songbook. I mean "I've Got You Under My Skin" is obviously about a case of poison ivy, "But Not For Me," is about my attempts to win Powerball, and "My One and Only Love" is about Tim Thomas of the Boston Bruins.

Well, despite my confusion, the long and the short of it is I will keep listening whether I know what they're talking about or not.

It's the same approach I take with my financial adviser.

Ain't music grand?
J

My New Planet: December 2011

Perhaps you read about the discovery, in a "nearby" solar system, of a possibly habitable planet called Kepler-22B. I've decided to get in on the ground floor of this baby and have recently purchased the left half of this planet for a song. Actually, I purchased just a little bit more than the left half, which gives me naming rights.

I'm naming the planet, "Joel." I think we were all tired of all those ancient gods anyway.

I purchased this real estate from an agent named Marge at a local Century 21 office. When I asked if she had any pictures of the property, she indicated that it would be 2068 before they could be developed. I probably should have been more skeptical, but I'm the trusting sort.

I guess this makes me the ultimate speculator.

I chose the left half of Joel because that half has a southern exposure. At least I think it does. There seems to be some question about where the sun is in that solar system.

I am determined that my half of the planet will be open for business to any and all regardless of race, creed, national origin or baseball team affiliation. I envision a half-planet with all the conveniences of the 21st century combined with the charm and innocence of the 1950's.

Steve Jobs meets Ozzie Nelson.

Of course as the only land-owner, I do feel it is within my rights to set up a few, shall we say, zoning restrictions on my half of Joel. I don't think any of these would be considered onerous or would offend anyone's libertarian sensibilities. If they do, you could always go live on the other half!

1. No one will be allowed to start a business or enterprise that begins with the letter "E"...you can't send e-cards or e-bills, e-manifestos or e-sermons. There will be no e-updates. I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a new letter.

2. There will be no reality television allowed. The Kardashians, Atlanta housewives, and Dr. Phils will all have to go get real jobs. If Rachel Ray wants to cook, she can damn well work at a restaurant. How about one called "Planet Joel"? It has a nice ring to it...like Saturn! Of course there will be plenty of other employment opportunities on my planet. If you're good at making maps, I could use you right now.

3. Everyone will have to take Latin. I know it's irrational, but it's nostalgic for me.

4. All restaurants will have to be slow-food establishments. One of the hamburger joints will have a sign that reads, "Over 12 served."

Maybe the other investors and I will get together and work out the rest of the details, but this does provide an interesting premise: If we could start over with a ready-made planet, what changes would we make? How would we avoid the mistakes we and our ancestors have made on this one: wars, famine, genocide and religious intolerance, the NFL overtime rules, Paula Abdul, Newt Gingrich.

If we had a totally clean slate, would we end up any better than we are now? Is "human nature" such a powerful force that any new planet would eventually become substantially a clone of the one we have now?

I'm anxious to find out. If you're interested in a quarter or third of a planet, send me an e-mai...oops...

Call me.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Last Picture Show: November 2011

Whatever happened to movies? There was a time in my life that going to the movies was almost a weekly event. Now I go to the movies maybe once or twice a year. Sure some of that has to do with DVD's and Netflix and On Demand and the like.

But a lot of it has to do with the premise of this entry: Movies suck now!

Of course this is just my opinion, but it seems to me that somewhere along the way the vast majority of movies stopped being anything that you could take seriously and became mere marketing opportunities or special effects smorgasbords or demographic exercises.

It seems to me that it goes something like this: If we make this movie about robots who turn evil and take over the world, we can get this many teenage males and this many 20-somethings and this many Europeans which will equal a ticket sale of whatever.

Sorry, but I'm just not interested. Instead of a special effect, I'd rather see a special performance, something that touches me in a real, human way. Those are quite rare these days and are very hard to discover because they are buried under too many explosions, squealing tires, and absurdly huge firearms.

Certainly there are exceptions. I think the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy was the perfect blend of special effects, acting, and storytelling. But that was ten years ago. That's a long time between boxes of popcorn.

Living in the Boston area gave me an unfair advantage when it came to movies. There were so many "art houses," in the Boston-Cambridge area, that it was always possible to see some of those little, independent films that are usually about performance and not just eye candy. Down here on the panhandle, there are no intimate one or two screen theaters; just those gigantic mega-theater-sound system-arcade-mall-multi-screened behemoths which only play the latest, loudest, studio nonsense. I miss the days of the Nickelodeon, the Orson Welles, the Harvard Square, even the little Dedham Cinema with the art gallery downstairs. I didn't love every movie I saw at these and other small theaters. Sometimes I thought there was a lot of hype or buzz over an independent movie that I thought was just average or worse. ("Sideways" comes to mind) But at least these movies had integrity, a vision, a reason for being beyond ticket sales.

Of course not every "big" Hollywood movie is terrible. The first two "Godfathers" come to mind. "The Natural" and "Field of Dreams" would be called mainstream movies that I think are both filled with great performances and beautiful stories. There are many others I could mention. The point here is that I think movies like the ones above are being made much less often than they used to be.

So not for nuthin', in no particular order, here's a list of 10 of my all-time "small" favorites:

10. Bang the Drum Slowly, 1973. With De Niro, Michael Moriarty, and Vincent Gardenia. A great "baseball" movie about all sorts of things other than baseball.

9. Big Night, 1996. With Stanley Tucci and Tony Shalhoub. The perfect little movie in my opinion. Great performances up and down the line.

8. Sling Blade, 1996. With Billy Bob Thornton and, especially, Lucas Black as the kid. Completely original and weirdly believable.

7. Tender Mercies, 1983. With Robert Duvall and Tess Harper. I guess I could do nothing but list Robert Duvall films here. I've chosen two for this list. He always does something unexpected or interesting. What a lovely, quiet, redemptive film.

6. Scarecrow, 1973. With Al Pacino and Gene Hackman. Wonderfully acted, beautifully sad movie.

5. Broadway Danny Rose, 1984. With Woody Allen and Mia Farrow. To me, this is Woody Allen at his best as a director, a storyteller, and a performer. Funny and sad at the same time.

4. 'Round Midnight, 1986. All time great tenor player Dexter Gordon playing a version of himself. This little movie had musical integrity and a lovely, heartwarming story as well.

3. Glengarry Glen Ross, 1992. What an ensemble and what a delight listening to David Mamet's peculiar patois. The brief Alec Baldwin bit is still one of the best five minute segments of any movie ever.

2. The Apostle, 1997. Another Duvall performance that mesmerized me. I actually think I would have contributed to his church.

1. Cinema Paradiso, 1988. Still the champion as far as I am concerned. A movie that loves movies in the same nostalgic, wistful way that I once did. Whenever I need a jolt or a taste of how magical movies once were in my life, I kick back with some chianti (hold the fava beans, please) and cry my way through this wonderful film. The Ennio Morricone score alone would be enough to qualify this incredibly humane film.

So there you have it. Some of my all time favorite "little" movies. I'm sure there are others I've neglected to mention, but each of these resonated in some meaningful way with me.

I doubt any of them were made with any thought about what kinds of action figures they would spawn.

I'll have a medium popcorn, no butter.

Weren't movies once grand?
J

Dim Sum: November 2011

A little of this...a little of that:

Cain not Able:

Herman, we hardly knew ye.

What a horrible, cowardly man! Here is what he is asking the country to believe: One time at a meeting of the National Restaurant Association board, he innocently mentioned to a woman employee that she was the same height as his wife. Cain insists that that sweet remark was enough to cause the woman to file a sexual harassment claim against him. Now, here's the thing: instead of firing this miserable, slandering woman and fighting her ridiculous claim in a court of law, Cain and the lawyers of the National Restaurant Association saw fit to pay her handsomely and have her accept a confidentiality agreement.

What? Huh? People, if you can't believe that, then you can't believe any of the other stuff he claims. That's how it works in these cases.

You want me to vote for a man who would go along with something like that? I'm sorry but I'd like to think that my President would have a little backbone and fight for what is right, even if it means getting a little bloody in the process.

Of course, there is another possibility. Herman Cain may just be guilty of the piggish behavior that, so far, four woman have accused him of. He may actually be that horrible cliche: the Chairman of the Board who actually thinks his power allows him to behave to women in any way he sees fit. A man like that would definitely need a Board that is willing to pay people off to keep quiet.

Obviously, I don't want that guy to be my President either.

So here's how I see it: if everything Herman has been saying is true, then he has no backbone and no principles and should be ashamed to parade himself out there to represent us. If everything Herman says is a lie, then he is little better than a predator, using his base of power to garner sexual concessions from women who are powerless to stop him.

President? Please tell me we haven't sunk this low yet.

Nick's

The other night Kate and I decided to go out for dinner and watch the Alabama-LSU football game, a very big deal in these parts. We decided to go to Nick's, a local place on scenic Rt 30A. Here is a true accounting of what the two of us ate and drank:

three margaritas, three glasses of chardonnay, a huge bowl of delicious homemade chili concocted with a real roux base lovingly prepared by an authentic Loosiana Cajun chef, an order of sweet potato fries, and an incredibly huge double cheeseburger with more sweet potato fries

The bill totaled $24.00.

Aside from wondering how on earth two people can eat and/or drink that much, can you believe the price? And everything was perfectly delicious.

Needless to say it looks like Nick's will become "our" place sooner rather than later.

Friends

I have been blessed to have many friends. Some, like Kate, I've only met since I moved to Florida. Some became friends during our teaching careers. As a matter of fact, Kate and I will be attending the Boston wedding of a daughter of one of those wonderful teacher friends this weekend. I also had the privilege of attending the wedding of another teacher friend's daughter last month. I was thrilled to have been invited to both affairs and feel so happy for all the parents involved. Both "matches" seem quite magical to me.

Some of the friends go back to teenage days at Boston Latin School or in Dorchester. I'm truly grateful for all the laughter we've shared over the years and I look forward to every occasion that brings us back together.

I have one set of friends from another country. They are the Davidson family pictured above. That's Steve, Carol, and son Jamie. I have been friends with Steve for over 35 years. We met in 1974 at Camp Androscoggin in Wayne, Maine. (The Rain in Wayne stays...you get the idea) Steve was a young math teacher from England who served as the head of soccer at camp. I was the head of tennis. We hit it off quickly, especially when Steve told me he'd like to learn more about the game of baseball. I told him I'd be happy to try and explain the nuances of the wonderful game as long as he promised to become a Red Sox fan. Steve said he'd be happy to do that as long as I would join the "Toon Army" which is how the fans of Newcastle United of the English Premier League identify themselves.

It was a trade that helped both teams, as they say.

It was because of Steve (alone at first, then joined by his wonderful wife Carol and eventually the amazing Jamie) that Ada, I and the boys were able to tour England. He generously arranged free lodging for us at his school and gave us the use of his car during our stay. What a fabulous time we all had, notwithstanding the damage I inflicted on Steve's beloved Renault.

Later, Ada and I were able to travel to France, Norway, and Spain in the company of all three Davidsons who were and still are brilliant travel companions.

Of course we were always eager to host them during their many trips to America. This included one sad last trip they made to visit us in New Hampshire when Ada was beginning to fail. They stayed with a New Hampshire friend for a week just on the chance that Ada would feel well enough for a visit. They were grateful for even the briefest time with her. Even now, I well up when I think of their patience and dedication.

It was wonderful to be able to host this fine crew last week here in Florida. Their "situations" are about to change dramatically. Steve is soon to retire after a long and incredibly positive stint as the Headmaster of Bradford Grammar School in West Yorkshire. Jamie is soon to enter university. I know we will be in each other's company from time to time and I look forward to it.

So there you have it. A little Dim Sum on this lovely fall evening.

Ain't life grand?
J