MUSING #35

It’s happened, folks. Early this morning, a few minutes after midnight, on October 19th, I officially hit the Big 80!

I don’t feel a day older, in fact, I feel great.

This has been an unbelievable weekend, full of love, laughs and lots of family and good friends. Actually, it all started more than a week ago when my daughter Andrea arrived to celebrate her 40th high school reunion. That started the trip down memory lane that extended right through this morning when I delivered my friend Judy to the airport for her return trip to Connecticut. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

Andrea and I kept reconnecting with different periods in our lives. Hers started with her two day high school reunion, meeting up with people she actually hadn’t seen in 40 years. According to her old friend, Paul Goeld, she rated in the “Top Five” of all the female returnees. Three women, two of whom she didn’t remember, informed her she had been “mean to them in high school because she never talked to them,” and five graying and balding men confessed to having mad crushes on her in those years. Andrea protested to the women that she was not mean and her aloofness was because she was very shy. A likely story. As for the men. . you’ll have to ask her.

On Tuesday evening Benard, Andrea and I gathered at the bar in my apartment to practice making my favorite drink, the Sour Apple Martini. I was determined to serve
them at the cocktail party we were throwing for a few hundred of Andrea’s and Adam’s old friends on Friday evening. Since Benard was to be the designated bartender at the party, we felt it was necessary to perfect the recipe before springing the concoction on our guests. It took three separate batches to get the drink exactly right after which three very bombed “tasters” went their separate ways: Andrea immediately fell asleep. Benard went to his condo board meeting and doesn’t remember what he voted on, and I have no recollection of what I did. I believe it was the stems on the maraschino cherries that did us in.

Friday afternoon, Adam and Amy arrived from Jacksonville with great-grand-dog Layla. Grove Isle doesn’t allow dogs over 25 lbs on the island and Layla, while svelte and girlish, is definitely pushing the envelope in that department. Fortunately, on my "approved list " of non-terrorist types in the gatehouse computer, Layla Anker - small dog, is listed right under Adam and Amy Anker. When Adam patiently pointed this out to the guard at the gate, who initially refused them admittance, they were whisked through without further ado. The good news is that the only person the guard could complain to about her obvious non-small size was the condo’s head of security. . .who just happens to be Benard. Also arriving on Friday afternoon, my very special friend Judy, who has celebrated birthdays with me since we met at the age of six.

Friday night’s cocktail party was a total hoot and I don’t mind telling you that the Sour Apple Martini’s were such a giant hit that Benard had to eventually post a “sold out” sign when we ran out of Pucker, the stuff that makes them green. Adam reconnected with his friend Andy from high school days. Amongst the throng of guests was one delicious six month old baby, courtesy of the Forman family, one adorable four year old great-grand niece courtesy of parents Ana and Craig, one very well behaved, slightly overwhelmed dog and two dumbfounded cats who never came out of the closet, not to mention approximately 25 others including Amy’s parents, Al and Robyn, who drove down from Fort Lauderdale. Everyone talked like crazy, drank and ate up a storm until late in the evening. The vibe was excellent.

Saturday dawned and late morning we assembled out by the Grove Isle waterfront for the family photo shoot, with Benard wielding the camera and Judy in charge of Layla (when she wasn't in the pictures). When the 90 degree heat proved impossible, we retired to our building lobby and finished up the shoot there. Good results! See photos above.

OK. It’s Saturday evening and time for "Queen For A Day" to have her moment. And what a moment it was. Hosted by Benard, Andrea, Adam and Amy, and held in a private room at a wonderful restaurant in downtown Miami called “Dolores But You Can Call Me Lolita”, we were 24 in number and it was a spectacular evening. . .first lots of drinks and tapas, then a sit down dinner. Andrea acted as MC with Amy and Adam joining her to note my penchant for writing poems for every family occasion, and turning the tables by writing an “ode” to me. It was hilarious and I loved every second.

After the main course it was Benard’s turn to toast (or roast?), I’m not sure exactly which. He was equally terrific, noting at one point my insistence during the early years of our relationship that he learn to love pro football and particularly the Miami Dolphins. When I patiently tried to explain what a tight end was, he thought I was talking dirty. He also noted we will be celebrating 15 years together on November 2nd. Wow! Time flies when you are having fun.

OK, enough. Thanks, everyone, for your good wishes and great comments. This is the last of the blogs under this heading. I can’t believe I started this more than 6 months ago when I really was 79 ½. Don’t give up on me. . .I’ll probably be back. . it’s been great fun.
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Photo captions: One of the family photos. / The birthday girl with her tiara and wand, a gift from the Sandstroms.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #34

Volunteering has its ups and downs. Mostly it is very satisfactory, but sometimes it leaves you shaking your head in wonderment. I had one of those days on Saturday.

Both the 'significant other' and I have been guiding at Vizcaya Museum and Gardens on Friday afternoons for many years. We both love this fabulous 100 year old home that belonged to industrialist James Deering and sits on Biscayne Bay just a few blocks north of where we live. Like most guides, we pride ourselves on knowing the contents of the home extremely well and love to tell all the wonderful stories about life at the mansion in the early 1900s.

But back to my experience on Saturday. Earlier in the week an e-mail had arrived from a member of Vizcaya’s staff, desperate for a volunteer to lead a reserved tour on Saturday morning at 11am. “Reserved tours”, we are taught, mean the group has paid in advance and usually gets preferred treatment.

Benard was out of town and since I had nothing special planned, I volunteered to take the tour. On Friday, when I was at Vizcaya for my regular tour, I ran up to the administrative offices to find out something about the Saturday group so I could be fully prepared. Not so easy. No one had any information other than the unpronounceable name of the group which seemed to be very French and had something to do with a saint. I worriedly mentioned that I don’t speak French, and was assured that they would have a translator with them.

Saturday morning I showed up several minutes early to read up on any thing of French provenance in the house, with emphasis on any items that smacked of Louis XV. Primed to impress with all my wonderful francophile knowledge, I felt reasonably sure I was good to go despite any language barrier. Promptly at 11am the guard at the front entrance informed me my tour had arrived and were on their way in. I muttered “Bonjeur, mesdames et monsieurs” a few times under my breath, the absolute limit of my French, and walked out to the entrance foyer to greet the group which I envisioned had just arrived from Paris via Air France.

Actually, they hadn’t come from quite that far. What they had done was come by bus from the area in Miami known as Little Haiti, about ten miles north of Vizcaya, and they were a group of 21 middle aged-to-senior citizen ladies and one or two gentlemen, all dressed in their Sunday-go-to-church best. They only spoke Creole, the language of Haiti, with a severely limited knowledge of English, and there was no translator. I had a feeling I was in deep trouble.

Forty five minutes later, I was exhausted and strangely exhilarated. I didn’t understand them very well and they certainly didn’t really understand me, but they were having a wonderful time. I found that if I spoke very slowly, did a lot of pointing, and enunciated like mad, about half of them could follow along. The rest just looked around in awe as we marched through the house. For some ungodly reason, one little lady sidled up to me at one point and asked me in pigeon English, "Meester. . .he Jewish?". I’m not sure what she saw in the house that made her ask that, but I stifled a giggle and responded that he was a good Presbyterian, of impeccable Scotch/English ancestry. I could literally hear Mr. D. turning over in his grave at that question.

Bottom line, it was a learning experience for all of us. Haitian refugees all, now living and working in Miami, they were on a wonderful church outing to an absolutely beautiful waterfront mansion unlike anything any of them had ever experienced before. I found myself wanting desperately to make the visit memorable for them, and hopefully I did.

As I said goodbye to the group at the end of the tour, the woman who seemed to have the best command of the English language stepped forward, smiled at me, and said in a soft but clear voice, “Lovely presentation.”

I’ve never had a better compliment in all my years of guiding.
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Photo caption: Magnificent Vizcaya, circa 1916