Chestnut Street at lunchtime, 27 years later

We were almost there - from the west coast of Canada to San Francisco - the city which had captured both our hearts and fused them together a generation ago - time which has passed as quickly as a snap of the fingers. He had been an illustrator from Canada. I, a Southern Californian who had recently switched from PR to acting. We'd met in an Improv class.

Usually I'm on orange alert when I travel, but seven years post 911 in the first week of September, I was holding the city close to my heart like an old friend, and I let my guard down.

Change was in the air, as it usually is come fall. With recession warning bells ringing, the price of gas in the ozone, banks collapsing, I wanted to cherish every detail, from the fog unexpectedly rolling up over the hills to the mini gardens planted around the bases of the small sidewalk trees.

Because maybe we are on the brink of big social change. Who knows how long this kind of easy, affordable travel will be available to the middle class? In Canada, the Prime Minister had just put the word out on a fall election; in the U.S. Sarah Palin had just created a small fortune for the designer of her specs, and my step daughter and son-in-law scrambled daily to flick on the television and hear the latest political gossip. Although the reason for the trip -- my husband's first grandchild - was less than 2 years old, I wanted the city -impermeable to age - to speak to me, to suggest something transcendent and meaningful as my eyesight blurs, my skin thins and the days melt at the horizon in what seems to be the time it takes to blink.

As we sped up 280 in the back of a cab, one of my San Francisco incarnations flashed back at me - six years of city living when I was in my twenties, young, supple skinned and probably beautiful, like they all are at that age.

A billboard to our right and I recalled my days as Ad & Promo Manager for NBC's KYUU radio. The phone call from San Francisco Magazine; I had been chosen as one of the city's most eligible bachelorettes to be featured in an upcoming issue, and all I could reply was, "I'm married." There it was: I had been giving off ‘single’ signals. It was my wake up call, a first step towards my big love, who now shared the cabbie with me as we took the circuitous route to the apartment where we were staying some twenty seven years later.

Looking back, it's reasonable that I was swindled, as our visit held other attractions which made me feel at home here:


I have three nephews in the Bay Area, a few good friends, and the granddaughter has laid claim to my heart.


We have history here. During Jimmy Carter's presidency, I met my sister and her firstborn moments after she gave birth to him at Moffet Hospital. At KCBS News Radio in the Embarcadero where I worked in the Promotions Department, I stood in my office looking out on the bay when George Moscone and Harvey Milk were assassinated. I lifted my shirt to reveal bare breasts on a tipsy dare in a restaurant in the Outer Richmond with my sister and her husband. I kissed my big love under a noon sun on Union Street, plotted a pie-in-the face surprise for him with his preteen daughter in an apartment on the corner of Broderick and Hayes (whose walls were pocked with bullet holes). After quitting my job in radio, I performed improvisation and dramatic theater at Fort Mason. After moving out of my marriage, I lived in a studio apartment above a grocery store in Pacific Heights. In a flat just off Clement an earthquake woke me, and again one morning during the six months we lived on Lombard when our son was two. When our film had its U.S. debut at the Mill Valley Film Festival, we attended a screening at The Roxy Theatre in The Mission.



This time, we both flew in from our home in Canada to celebrate my fifty-something birthday before hunkering down with our next creative project: a huge art installation for the 2010 Olympic Winter Games.

So I wasn't paying attention when I accidentally handed the cabbie two fifty dollar bills for a $36.50 airport cab fare. This isn't a story about honesty, and our Bay Cab driver (#37485, car #1098) didn't miss a beat, stepping out of his automobile on the corner of the hill at 21st and Dolores, as a warm wind blew some relief from the 80 degree heat. Coming from The Great White North where the bills are different colors, and sitting in the back seat without my glasses, I contemplated the tip he took for himself from what I assumed were two $20 bills, as Gord unloaded the bags from the trunk.

Then the question, after the cab sped away, after I counted my change and tallied the loss: should I try to get retribution? I'd noted the cab number because he was speeding wildly on the 280 (75-80 mph), but I knew I risked annoying myself with the predictable frustrations.



It's funny how this kind of thing stands out. I've forgotten a lot of things over the years but was suddenly reminded of a similar sting up Seventh Avenue from 42nd Street in New York City coming home from a show on Thanksgiving night, called A Bonzo Christmas Carol ( a satire in which I played Nancy Reagan, and was reviewed favorably in the New York Daily News). It was near 11:30 PM; the cabbie had just driven us past the billboards of naked women in the porn theatre district; the car idled in front of my apartment building on 54th street (later to be used in Broadway Danny Rose), as I handed the cabbie a $20 bill. He had the audacity to ask for more when I expected change. At first I was puzzled. But outside the cab, I realized I'd been had. Those were my single woman rube days when I spoke openly to anyone and everyone I encountered traveling, as if each person sitting next to me on a train or handing over a baguette had been sent to me as my personal tour guide.


So, I decided to let it go. In an Sensitive New Age kind of situation, we were staying at my husband's ex-wife's house while she mixed business with pleasure in some other city. Hers is a fabulous urban apartment exquisitely designed, with one little wrinkle: we, non-dog owners, had to dog-sit, which to me, meant we'd have to grab doggie do-do with a bare hand encased in plastic at least once per day. This is the one reason I don't own a dog.


Of course Muffin turned out to be a sweet rescue mutt, contributing 'small jewels' on her daily outings, a bit insecure but not as needy as most, although she looks like a cross between a bullfrog, a bulldog, and a gremlin from a Stephen Spielberg movie.


Our excursions allowed me to observe the life of a typical San Franciscan on the end of a leash.



Daily the city spoke to me.



Where we live silence is palpable, broken now and again by ferry traffic or at this time of year, birds getting drunk on the fermented orange berries of the mountain ash. An eagle's cry, the occasional bark of a dog, the wind through the trees, rain pelting the skylight. Here, city sounds echoed loudly: banging garbage trucks, splashing street cleaners, slamming doors reverberating on attached walls, sirens, neighbors voices.


Every morning we ventured down the big grassy hill of Dolores Park to Dolores Park Cafe or further down Guerrero to Tartine, a fabulous feast of the breakfast senses. Where croissants have a month's worth of butter, where even low fat lattes fill the palate with a creamy taste and texture. The place doesn't even have a sign with it's name on it, but there is always a line stretching out the door.


Inside - blasting cacophony which passes for music that young people can't get enough of, churning coffee grinder, voices shouting from the kitchen over the din. The weather was hot enough to sit at one of the sidewalk tables in shirt sleeves, but the decibel levels weren't much better there - as gear grinding trucks make Guerrero their thoroughfare.



But the unquenchable vibrancy and diversity of the city's inhabitants passed us daily in Dolores Park. The sweep of green is a destination unto itself -- where you get a stunning view of the San Francisco skyline and people watching is both a sport and an art.



The baking hot weekend featured the neighborhood Party on Block 18: a pig on a stick, preschool performers singing nursery rhymes into a microphone with a back-up band -- and bare skin, tattoos, skimpy frocks, bare chested men, skateboards and frisbees.



A homeless man pushing a stuffed grocery cart sat relaxed in its shade under the open sun as families picnicked on all sides. We watched lean youngsters walk a tightrope strung between two palm trees, small barbecues feed extended families. Dogs of every size and breed shared grass on the earth underfoot with babies, guitars and bicycles. At an impromptu sidewalk display - the urban garage sale - I bought a blue plate and bowl for one dollar and was as grateful as the seller.




In a place where so many live in sight of each other, much is visible and contradictory in the human daily march: consumption, need, greed, attitude, wealth, mental illness, poverty, and grace: just a short list. Art has its expression in San Francisco on almost every person - the color of their skin, the individual expression through hairstyle and clothing - while not always fashion, is fabulously diverse.



The Mission is proud of its brightly colored murals and rightly so, we only saw a few;




Recycling and composting is definitely advanced (you can eat with disposable forks and knives which are fully compostable) but I was surprised that when Dolores Park is watered, a lot of that precious liquid is wasted on cement.



On a commercial strip in Noe Valley, a troop of workers arrived one morning to clean the sidewalk in that uniquely California way - spraying it clean with water.


As they hooked up to the fire hydrant (!) and I remembered my southern California childhood summers when we hosed the driveway clean of leaves; also the drought years in the Bay Area. On the plus side, a cement truck outside Tartine actually turned off its engine to wait for the light and the whole churning thing shut down for a couple minutes.

Every day after the coffee, we hit the ball around on one of the five tennis courts at the bottom of the park until it became too hot.



Then, since the trip was all about bonding, we'd shower and head up over the Golden Gate bridge to San Rafael and just hang out with the girl and her mom. And I was ready for that - just hanging out.


Of course, in San Francisco, once you drive there is always the business with the car. The ex graciously offered her stick shift Audi, but the parking space is only slightly wider than the car and on a steep incline which ends abruptly at the garage door. So we took our chances on the street. Which means circling the block, gazing longingly at curb spaces too small for a grocery cart, and sitting up abruptly in the midst of anything with,



"The car! It's Wednesday! What time is it? Have they towed?" And then running out after it. When I lived here a quarter of a century ago, someone shot his neighbor over a parking space. This time, a sign in their front window said it all: "The last car parked here is still missing."

Where we live, salmon swim back to their place of birth to spawn at this time of year. So it seemed right that although my sister raised her family in Southern California, the nephew born in Moffet Hospital in August 1977 made San Francisco his home. Josh excels in Sales; previously he was a chef; every time we visit he takes us to a different local restaurant where he's on a first name basis with the owner.


This time I asked him to cook for my birthday celebration. One hour before the guests were to arrive, I called him, "I have no idea what I'm going to make," he said, "but don't worry, I'll go shopping now." He was picking up his cousin, Jesus, who is in 2nd year at SFU.


Later, during the chopping and wine drinking and supping on Josh's delicious impromptu feast, we pondered the world we live in with Jesus, Lori and Patrick.



When the time came to ante up for the groceries, Josh offered to pay. The amount? $60. So the cab robbery ended up being neutralized by a gift from a beloved nephew. Down to the penny.


Ten days is enough time for a lot in San Francisco, but we only made it to The Legion for the Impressionist exhibit, the french Le Zinc and Delphina's Pizza.


And a kite outing with our little grand-family.





A few days later, we strolled the streets of Cow Hollow and The Marina looking for, and not finding, Chestnut Street Bar & Grill, the cafe across whose table we kissed so many years ago; for Cartoons, a restaurant where we lunched often with Gord's daughter, and with crayons made drawings on tables covered with butcher paper. And yet there we were, at lunchtime twenty seven years later in this city which had brought us together, this iconic city which had only changed in the way a garden evolves from year to year.

This September, we came to her in an altered state, the sum of our lives standing with us on Chestnut Street at lunchtime. To someone whose dreams have not faded, been realized or changed, who has never divorced, whose parents are both alive, who has not seen friends die -- the world is a circus and you can be a star.

That's who we were when we fell in love in San Francisco more than quarter of a century ago - we were young, and the world was a spring flower, waiting only for the sun to warm it open.

The day before we left, Gord had his meeting with the Exploratorium to present Paintings Below Zero in a science-friendly context for a potential future installation. We came early, to watch the next generation thrill to the unexpected, the mysteries of the universe.


We could only watch, smiling.



And love her. Because through all the moments which have passed in between, love doesn't age, it is still as fresh and glorious as a new morning in San Francisco.

Siobhan's beautiful wedding, August 23, 2008

We met at the airport without the crutch of a cell phone. Mitch (unbelievably) doesn't own one, and I didn't want to activate mine -( too expensive). I waited by the luggage carousel, wondering just how did we manage the doubts in the olden days, heard a tap on the window, and we were away, in a brand-spanking new white PT Cruiser, (Mitch is the Fleet Manager for La Brea Chrysler Jeep). Blue skies, a freshness to the air and a drive onto freeways. Whoo-ee! So Cal!



At Marina del Rey, we walked where pelicans and seals fished alongside boats under piercing sunshine. Talk too small to adequately bridge the thirty-something gap of years that have passed since we knew each other at The Loyolan, our university newspaper, but I can tell he's on the verge of a change in his life.

After lunch (I accidentally ate butter as an appetizer, thinking it was some kind of soft cheese), Mitch drove the long way around Pacific Palisades, (beautiful enough to be a 'ride' at Disneyland), past the Port of Los Angeles and finally into Long Beach, where the air was thicker, the heat dry, the sidewalks dusty. We told each other stories of our lives since then, without enough time to ask all the questions.



The American flag flapped in a breeze outside my brother Christopher's small house on California Street. There is a bench on that front lawn, and Caroline and her sister, Lynn were sitting, the two of them, looking a bit stunned to see me. Lynn, with a book in her lap, Caroline, a cigarette in her hand. I hugged Mitch thank you, he had been such a generous host, and crossed the street.


Into Family Land. That strange place where everyone knows way too much about you, and where anyone has the ability to inflict pain in a millisecond. I have lived in Canada for most of my adult life. Even though we're now just beyond Seattle to the north, it's a magic border. People get The Willies when they think about visiting. It's a boundary they respect. One good thing about it though -- because I almost never see anyone, when I do, I'm so glad to see them! In spite of the punishment. That's everyone -- all my brothers and sisters -- except for Therese -- on good behavior for the camera. Call me a masochist.


I had flown down by myself on Air Canada. Hate the inspections, the taking off and putting on of clothes and shoes, the seat belting and sitting in close quarters with complete strangers, the potential disaster scenarios, but imagined the softness of the heat, the quality of the light, the California je ne sais quois. I grew up here. It's in my blood.


Gord hasn't signed the contract for the Richmond 2010 Olympics gig yet, we don't know how far what money we have left will last us. We're within range of paying down our mortgage, but still helping Jaz monthly, ( he's just getting his graphic design freelance business going and it's all about cash flow). Gord wanted to play in the Gibsons tennis tournament; last year we'd missed it for Joe and Tracy Milbury's wedding. He was ranked #4 on the coast, designed their t-shirt and played tennis daily with the best coast players (most in their thirties), beating everyone he'd ever have to play, with the exception of Chris Wales, who always wins. The $5,000 estimated cost for the three of us to go together deterred me from pressing; and I remembered all the laughing I did the last time I traveled solo to visit Mary. My Owen Wilson accent gave me excellent timing, and we were frequently in tears. There's nothing like that kind of giddiness.

There I was on the crispy lawn at 3 pm under a hot sun. A little white dog growled at the base of the screen door as I walked up with my tattered lime green bag. A Maltese lapdog with a personality; I trembled in my sandals.



The deal was this: Mary & I were partners in this So Cal sojourn. She's broke these days - she had bought 22 acres about a year prior to our father's death on Japatul in Alpine but had to cash in her capital gains (as no bank would give her a mortgage because there is no house on the property), and then she had to pay a whopping $65k in taxes). With Caroline's sister Lynn here to visit, there was no room in the Inn-at-Christophers for Mary or me. I agreed to pay for the hotels (using Priceline name your price) and Mary agreed to drive us around, thus saving me the cost of a rental car, and her the cost of accommodation.



When I got there, she was penned in the back yard with her two dogs, Ashwin and Nishi, surrounded by yellow and orange flowers in buckets. She sat in the shade of the garage, snipping, and she graciously got up and posed with Chris for this photo. Mary has a history in the family of 'doing the flowers' for the weddings. The whole deal. She 'did' my first wedding with Jim Hallock, (gorgeous purple roses) and by then she was already a pro.


Gramma Ester Prudell had shown Mary the secrets of flower arranging at Bernadette & Jim Milbury's wedding - and Mary has added her artistry to create these beautiful bouquets for many Hicks' weddings ever since. She goes to the L.A. Flower Mart early morning several days prior (enough days in advance to have the flowers open in time for the ceremony & reception). It's a big job, and lasts days .... I made one ribbon, snipped thorns off some roses and felt very accomplished!



Now I have to speak generally about the weekend. Most of the time was spent in the front room at Chris & Cee's with the gynormous tv screen flashing the faces of way-too-young and beautiful Hollywood actors in make-believe urgent situations, while Chris played solitaire on the computer at the dining room table, or was out on one of the many loose-ends errands. I suppose it was a blessing that the sound was mostly off. I found this visual blasting of youth and beauty a bit discouraging as we are all fifty somethings and growing older by the minute. We were often interrupted in our conversational meanderings by the circus-tent antics of the chiming clock on the wall, which Caroline gave to Christopher for some anniversary or birthday, and which Christopher had vowed to give to Caroline, but she beat him to it. The clock is shiny and wonderfully entertaining and sits kitty corner from a framed picture of George W. (At some point during the weekend, George was put in the corner for a sorely needed 'time out'.)

There are two brown easy chairs chairs in the living room, facing the huge screen: the kind that lean back and let you put your feet up on them. One for Chris, one for Caroline. From here, they reign. Caroline loves angels and has a number of flying nymphs hanging from fixtures around the house and you can't help but lift your face to the moving picture which takes up half that side of the room. Altogether, it has a shrine-like feel to it.

Never far away was Lynn, Caroline's Dean-Koontz-reading sister, usually sitting on the far end of the couch with a novel and a Derry accent (as in Northern Ireland) and some wickedly funny sayings which simply pepper her conversation. One such: "Serious as a heart attack." Another, "My body is built for pleasure not for punishment", "Mizzling" (pronounced "muzzling"), meaning weather condition combining "mist" and "drizzle" (obviously not a Southern California term).



Sitting on the couch in the garage, just having finished my one yellow ribbon for Philomena & Jaime's bouquet, I stopped too long to admire my own work:

"What are ye?" she reprimanded. " Just an ornament? That sits pretty on the couch? Get yer wee arse up and over here." Not fast enough. "You're not very motivated! You've got two speeds, Dead Slow and Stop." Caroline and Lynn say 'wee' a lot, as in 'wee dog, wee gerlfriend, wee snit. "Are you complainin'? Yer just a wee moanin' minnie." I was her "new best mucker" meaning new best friend, although I conferred the honor on myself.

It was an exciting and fast-paced visit. First, the confusion between Christopher (my brother, father of the bride) and Kristopher, the bride's child, very much in the lives of grandparents Chris and Caroline. He's now 15 and a strapping young football player. At home everyone calls him "Kristopher" and my brother "Chris".

Chris.


Kristopher.


Once we got that sorted out, we received a call from the NRA soliciting donations. Mary said, "Don't call back, my husband was shot!" We had a wee giggle, after which Caroline went out onto the front porch to have her 16th cigarette of the day. Apparently she quit for four months (that would be January to May 1st 2008), but is now back in the thick of it, and plans to quit come next January. She gives herself a lot of notice, because she really likes smoking, and wouldn't quit if there weren't so many proven, documented ill effects of the evil weed. She's been under a wee bit of stress lately, what with Siobhan's wedding and all.

Then, the Maltese, Jonah. A $1,200 bargain bought by the bride-to-be a few years back when he fit into the palm of her hand. Now he guards the house. He's so -- springy -- and energetic, and he eats vegetables off the floor, so naturally he became the object of some anthropomorphic humor. Christopher likes to goad him by poking his fingers about six inches from his face until he barks and leaps off Caroline's lap.



But the business with the squeaky toy is worth the price of admission. He bites on it - squeak-squeak-squeak, then growls, throwing his little head from side to side as it squeaks for mercy -- and he waits for anyone to wrestle it from his grip and throw it down the hall into the dark.



The thing is, you just have to do it. When he holds the yellow toy down with those fiercesome choppers, you have to grab it. It's compulsive. Then you have to laugh and you have to cry and the tears have to stream wet all over your face as that little guy comes trotting proudly back into the center of the room with that yellow plastic toy squeaking. Life doesn't get much better.

On Friday, my college room mate, Althea drove me to Claire's at the Museum on the Long Beach waterfront where we met Anne and sat under an umbrella on the deck catching up on our 30-some year separation. It was 'Free Friday' at the museum and we took in an exhibit of stunning clayworks and a few Raushenbergs!



Anne said "that's not art, they're taking advantage of us" referring to a couple of pieces of ripped up cardboard pasted onto a board. I'm married to an artist. I love hearing people say "I could do that." There we are, under the umbrellas and all that sun. It was really great to spend some time with them.

Back at the house, more flower arranging in the heat. I made friends with Mary's rescue dog, Nishi, who limps around with her tail between her legs, looking meek and pathetic, sad evidence of her former abused life before Mary. She shot straight to my heart, as I usually go for the under dog. I talked softly to her and she wagged her tail a bit. It was a wee moment.



Mary's van was another adventure altogether. I don't judge a van by it's mud, or cat paws on the windshield, I don't. Let's just say she had to clean off the front shotgun seat before I could sit down. First, throwing some indescribable things in the back. Then, I think she swept it and blew on it. I could tell it used to be a velvet sort of fabric. But the smell in that van made me forget everything. You just have to breathe into your sleeve, hoping the ride doesn't take too long. At first I thought it was straw, because two years ago when I smelled that van, Mary said it was the straw she'd recently stuffed into it. I can tell you now, it's not straw. It's a strong, acrid smell which is . . . how can I describe? An old folks' home with the heater blowing. And then I found out the dogs sleep in there on a blanket. So they won't get bit by the rattlesnakes at Japatul. Mary doesn't have health insurance, either, one of the dogs was bit by a rattlesnake and it cost $1,500 for the antidote. I worry about her, tooling around in that van with the dogs - and living by herself on that big property.

Another thing about the drive: I'm usually behind the wheel at 50 klicks (31 miles) per hour in my sleepy hamlet of Roberts Creek on the West coast of Canada.. We drive the Lower Road to Gibsons or Sechelt. There is a highway but I'd rather not have the pressure of others on my tail upping the ante. Top speed: about 50 miles per hour. So sitting shotgun roaring around at 70 MPH was a bit of a white knuckle experience.



I know I used to drive like that when I lived in California, up close to the bumper in front, weaving in and out of lanes, but I've been in gumboot land for too long. Towards the end, (Sunday morning) I found myself BRACING before stepping in. First the smell, then the speed. I'm not a believer in superstition, but I crossed myself, hoping I could travel in a more, ahem, modern car, or maybe just one which is sent to the cleaners more often. No offense to Mary! I love her. But I had to console myself that there is no comedy without the suffering of the low status character, so that means me and Nishi.



I'd arrived all summery in white pants, feeling proud of myself that I had just the right touch of international, casual, warm & cool (it was raining in Vancovuer and 80 degrees in So Cal). Usually I wear black as it goes with anything, and Mary said,

"Patricia, you've got to toss those pants. The waist is too high." Then she announced with a finality I couldn't resist, "You need a fashion intervention."

At first we thought our three star hotel by the Long Beach airport was a steal at $75 on Priceline. Upon closer examination, it was only a 2.5 star; there were plastic bug traps in the corners under counters to lure bed bugs -- and it was definitely NOT by the airport. That meant minimum five miles farther. Each way. On city streets. In that van.

Anyway the first morning she showed me her favorite websites(free wireless at the hotel) and one is a fashionsita site (Style Bubble) with a really hip, young woman who combines the most outlandish items with other articles of clothing. Anything seems to go. She stands in front of the mirror looking shy and cute (Mary really likes her and I have to admit, I felt a warmth for her flair) . . . and takes a photo of herself and posts it on her hip-talking site where you can put tablecloths over top of your pants and wear chiffon over a bra and claim success!, the more the merrier. I could see where this was leading, but I was putty in her big sisterly hands. I didn't have much to work with (again I was proud I'd packed light) but at the last minute I stepped into my skanky pj top and wore it as a skirt! Here's what I looked like when I went to lunch with my long lost roommates at swishy Claire's:



Another try with my private designer behind me:



We loaded up the van with the centerpieces, drove to The Petroleum Club and began to assemble them on the guest tables. In the glass vases gold fish were to swim under candles; we were all quite skeptical, but in the end, it looked good.

Siobhan stopped by the night before the wedding. We learned about the five offers on other properties which fell through (one was due to Realtor Fraud), and about the 5 acre property which should close on Friday the 29th. The whole new family (Ralph, (hubby to be), and three children from his first wife will move together to this estate property (5 bdrms, 4 baths, newly renovated) in hot tooley-ville, California. Seriously, I think they are going to be happy together - and I felt really privileged to understand the story of their wedding - the stakes for all of them as Raphael and Siobhan marry. Here's Siobhan with Jonah.



The next morning (day of the wedding) all the goldfish were dead. They hadn't waited long enough for the chlorine to clear from the water. Chris was dispatched to fix the problem, and when he got back I was waiting to drive to Home Depot (where the bride & groom were registered!!) to pick up a gift.

Home Depot is not a fun place to shop for a wedding gift, but there it was, a list of their preferences, down to the serial numbers. We marched up to a shelf of garden hoses and garden hose holders, and while I fell for all the other models, Chris waited patiently until I came to my senses and bought the ugly grey plastic model they'd chosen. There's just no accounting for people's taste. When we got to the reception, we noticed there was another hose-roller-upper, apparently a hot item. (It turned out that Frannie had bought the other one, but she had the sense to get a return-gift card for hers.) Here's Chris holding the thing outside Home Depot.



Now for the wedding. I had landed a four star hotel for Saturday night for an extra $5, realizing afterwards that Long Beach in the middle of summer is not anyone's preferred destination. Mary and I suited up swiftly in the swish room and got back into that smelly van. We arrived in scorching heat. My little camera was practically useless, but I did get a few pix. Frances and Tom also contributed. I think Phillip and Peter were 'official' photographers.

Matthew Milbury, his bride Heidi, Jim and Bernadette outside the church.













Here's Bernadette and Philomena's daughter, Nena, whom I haven't seen in ... well, a year, and who has blossomed into an absolutely drop dead goregous gal!



Look at these young women! Good God! Gregory and Young Boon's Jennifer, and again Nena; for flat-out youth and pulchritude, they stole the show.



Gregory's Kristina and Nena.



The whole Greg & Youngboon family, with Andrew and Nena.


Keelin didn't like her dress, but being the bride's sister, she had no choice. However, here she is, doing her best to make it look great.


Peter recited the first reading, "a woman is made from the rib of a man". Philomena's scriptural reference was how the wife is subordinate to the husband, and the sermon covered bridezillas, momzillas and the stubbornness of the man getting in the way.


"It's lost in our culture that the husband is the spiritual leader of the family," the priest said in his role as expert, "Although sometimes the wife has to jump in because the husband doesn't have a clue." I puzzled at all this discussion (I'm assuming Siobhan chose the scripture?) as my recently gained knowledge that Siobhan is effectively, the chef of this new little family contradicted all these gathered reminders, but the men in the room must have felt somewhat reassured. Still, the vows got me all choked up, and they were spoken so softly - as if the couple wanted some privacy in this public ceremony.


I always think of Mother at these weddings. She had a special devotion to the Blessed Mother, and there is a ceremony at the end, where the bride and groom consecrate themselves to her at the side the altar, with candles. I think they did this on this day.


Here's Lynn Ward Hegarty and Caroline Ward Hicks (mother of the bride) at the church.


Philomena and Anthony (in the foreground). Michelle (Anthony's wife and Jaime Romo, Philomena's husband) at the church.


Then, the reception at The Petroleum Club, the same venue as Joe and Tracy's wedding last year. The bride arrives with her entourage:


Bernadette and Siobhan at the entrance to The Petroleum Club.


Four sisters: Frannie, me, Bernadette and Mary:


3 brothers: Andrew, Greg and Phillip. Greg is on dialysis two times per week. He drove down with his family from San Jose, and drove back the night of the wedding. They stayed at our hotel - he bid $70 for a room -- and got it!

















Siobhan and Rafael before the wedding toast.



Father of the bride, giving a toast to the newlyweds.



Here's Katherine, Anthony's firstborn, and Jaime Romo, Philomena's handsome husband.


I got to hold Tom's youngest, Elizabeth, but not for long. She had waken up.


She's squirming to get out of my arms right now!



Look how pretty Mary looks, and Bernadette. Those brown eyes.



Andrew, me and Chris.


Tim and Judy.



Phillip and his family with Frances.



Here are Phillip & Debi's boys: Stephen (the golfer) and James.


Jessica (Tom's eldest) and Isabella (Phillip's 2nd daughter)


The little one in the front with the big smile is Michelle, Gregory & Young Boon's youngest. Her 10th birthday fell on the Thursday after the wedding. I didn't get any photos of Peter and Romy, or Tim & Judy's family.


Below, Philomena and Jaime after receiving the announcement and bouquet in congratulations of their 22nd anniversary. The DJ had the idea to ask the band to play their favorite song, and Mary asked Jaime what that song was, so when it came on, Philomena was thrilled. See that, tears down her cheeks.


We're cheap dates. We laugh, we cry at the slightest thing.