Yes Virginia...there are nice people...just like Santa



Saturday night I opened my Gmail to find an unsolicited message telling me that until a few years ago, Gavin had worked at the U.S. Army's National Training Center and was an avid collector of field artillery memorabilia. He had acquired a yearbook from the U.S. Army's 172d Field Artillery Brigade, from 1941.  The original owner of the book was a Corporal Colin J. Andrews. 

He bought the book and prised it. In recent years, however, he began to feel that the book needed to be returned to the family of Corporal Andrews.  He found me through Face book.  "If  you are not the Corporal's daughter," he wrote, "Please let me know, and I will not contact you again."  If I was, he would send it to me.  He didn't want money .He wanted it to be with the family.   "I noticed on your blog that you have grandchildren," he explained. "They should see that their great-grandfather was a hero."

Refusing to believe this was a ruse, I emailed him and called the number he had given in the email. No one answered, so I left a message saying, "Yes. I would like the yearbook."  Two days ago, Gavin called.  After telling him a bit about Dad and sharing parallel experiences of  our fathers not wanting to talk about the war,  I asked how he found the yearbook.

 "EBay," he said. "Just EBay.  I've been looking for your family for almost 10 years."  I smiled into the phone and thanked him for the effort, saying that I was looking forward to receiving the book.   I will place the yearbook with the handmade french cuff and collar lace and silk handkerchief that the returning Major Colin J. Andrews gave his wife upon his return from Europe in 1946.  Sometimes people come into your life who are just plain nice. Thank you, Gavin.

Life without Television

Humidity was rising.  The temperature was exceeding 95. Storms threatened. Instead of having our 60 foot mast rising above the bay water to capture lightening as it etched the sky, we decided to stay home for the weekend. After a thundering burst of energy to clean the condo, we viewed Chris Martin's "Big Painting" at the Corcoran, then drove to DuPont Circle to a favorite Bistro Du Coin for a late afternoon lunch.

"What if we didn't watch TV for a week or so?" I asked, slipping a perfectly delectable pomme frite into my mouth after dabbing it in a bit mayonnaise.

"Why, I  don't know." John replied, looking at me, knowing I had a new project in mind.  He sighed but continued to smile at me, knowing that resistance was futile.

"I'm thinking that we've lost touch with just plain living," I replied, dipping a piece of crusty french bread into the shallot, garlic and white wine broth of the mussels pot. " I don't seem to find time to write the blog at home any more; the newspapers are left unread, and our weekly New Yorker magazines are piling up without us even browsing through them backwards to read the cartoons."

John sipped the rest of his wine. He said no more. I said no more.  We finished our mussels  and prepared ourselves to leave for the movie--the conclusion to the Harry Potter saga.  It still hadn't rained as promised. 

After the movie, at home, we played cards while we mellowed out to Rod Stewart singing classic standards -- a wise gift from my daughter several years ago. We happily listened to the rain pounding the streets and our balcony.  One thing led to another and by the next morning we realized we hadn't turned on the TV.  Was this a start?

On Sunday morning I exhausted myself aerobically at the gym. At home in the afternoon, we chopped an armful of freash basil from our pot garden and made two huge batches of fresh pesto.  We then splurged on cavatelli smothered in the fresh pesto for dinner.  Again, no TV.  Could it be that it would soon become just tv?

It's Monday night now.  I read the paper while John prepared a light salad with roasted pine nuts and sun drenched fragrant tomatoes from a colleague's garden.  The heat has subsided so we sit on the balcony. A halo moon hangs above us and a plane swoons around the building, making its way to National Airport.  I write. John snoozes. Music plays in the living room, drowned by the traffic still snaking its way up rout 50 headed west to the suburbs. Children play seven floors below us. Their voices echo between the buildings. I think I'll do a crossword puzzle, then head to bed -- or head to bed and do a crossword puzzle. Another night without tv.  Pleasant; but like all change, a bit unsettling.

The test is tomorrow when our favorite programs air -- NCIS and White Collar. We can record them, but can or will we watch them and when?