The Adventures of Jenny and Jody…..and Edna

My eyes danced from head to head, stopping for a second on each brunette. Finally, I saw her sitting there, my Jenny girl, reading a book in the airport lobby.

“Edna is waiting outside!” she quipped as she pulled my suitcase toward the door.

I was there to take part in her latest adventure. The first stop was New Orleans, where she attended nursing school. Oh how I loved the visits to The Big Easy and our walks through the French Quarter, the trolley rides, the gumbo, crab boils, gator cruises, and a fishing drip in the bayou. I must confess that I miss those drive-up daiquiris. Where else can you pull in and order a fully loaded, frosty cold beverage to go?

Then came Hotlanta, home of Margaret Mitchell and Scarlett O’ Hara. Hot it was, as we toured the plantations, took in a few ballgames and meandered our way down Peachtree Street. Sweat tea and Georgia peaches provided a break from the heat.

After she married, she settled in to work as a trauma nurse and provided aid to the sickest of patients in this southern city. She worked and she worked and she worked and she bought all of those things that were supposed to fulfill the coveted American dream. The problem was that even when we keep our parts of the bargain, others in our lives do not always do the same. It is an unfortunate fact of life that people will do the darndest things and not feel a grain of remorse, as the bells of entitlement ring in their ugly heads. Because, frankly my dear, they just don’t give a damn.

She has had some hard knocks lately, this daughter of mine, but she does what we do. We curl up for a while and lick our wounds, then get up and get on with it. So she packed up her belongings and hit the road for Canton, Connecticut, the plan being to better herself and move on to bigger things. And she will.

Jenny has always been a car person. She loves the shiny chrome and that new car smell, and the feel of a well made vehicle as it cruises down the highway. Her decision to trade in the shiny silver sports car for Old Edna, a sun blotched, brown, 1993 Chrysler Lebaron, was no small sacrifice. We giggled a bit as we loaded my bags into the spacious trunk. I sunk into the surprisingly comfortable, worn leather seats and we set off down the road.

Now Old Edna isn’t pretty and she creaked and groaned a bit here and there as we wound through the beautiful New England landscape. We coasted on into Captain Scott’s Lobster Dock for a bit of bisque under the stars. We were cruising in comfort as we bopped on into the Junk Store in Canton and trolled the greenhouses and antiques stores along the way. Old Edna made us feel a little bit safer when a wrong turn took us into the heart of the Hartford hood. We sailed through block after block of gangsta territory and noone batted an eye. Old Edna does not command much in the way of attention.

We spent our last day together as we tracked back to New London. There we located the apartment building that was the first home of my parents, Jenny’s grandparents, located in a romantic little neighborhood. This was where it all started, this 55 year love affair. They don’t make’em this way anymore. It seemed appropriate that she should end up here, rebuilding her life not far from this place.

When it came time to go home, we piled into Old Edna once more, as the tears lurked just below the surface. It is not such a sad thing to leave behind a loved one, when you know in your heart that they are there for the right reasons and that the goals they seek will carry them farther in life that any automobile ever could. I so miss her and I know the next several years will be busy ones, and that her graduate studies will make it more difficult for her to come home. So we will talk on the phone and text and e-mail the details of our days, until the next time that we reunite to take up our adventures with Old Edna there to carry us, wherever we may go.

Woman on the Hunt

Women are by nature gatherers. For centuries we have searched for things with which to fill our cooking  pots and to feather our nests. This fundamental need to collect and adorn the hearth and hall is not to be taken lightly. For many of us cooking is a means of therapy. We can create and nurture at the same time. Our kitchens provide an outlet for rejuvenating ourselves while sharing with others. The recent demands of the economy have reduced the rate at which we indulge ourselves, but we all need a little TLC now and then. Women can’t exist on Wonder Bread alone and if we are going to splurge a bit, it may as well be in the kitchen.

A funny thing about the fifty something era of life, is that I get excited about things like this. I can spend an hour in a spice store perusing the selections from basic to exotic. The smell of coffee beans is at times, as pleasing as that of perfume. Triumphs of shopping trips past may have revolved around the clothing boutique, but more recently an excursion to the cooking store is now equally, if not more fun.

A recent visit to The Peppercorn in Boulder, Colorado, the western queen of kitchen stores, further stoked this passion and my head was spinning after just a few minutes of being inside. “We may as well just let her go,” my husband remarked to the rest of our shopping party. “This could take awhile.”

They wandered off and left me alone for an hour or so. I formulated my game plan and walked the aisles in an attempt to scout the floor to ceiling treasures for items of special interest. My eyes glazed over as I eyed the gadgets, the cookware, the delicacies and the cookbooks. My heart went pitter pat, as I ogled the vast array of dishware, flatware and linens. So many napkin rings and so little time!

As I descended the staircase after a quick view of the items on the top tier, I was greeted by the voice of a strange woman looking up at me.

“Oh my god, you mean there is more up there?” she asked.

I saw the look in her eyes and I recognized it as a combination of excitement and exhilaration, bordering on hysteria, that look we women sometimes get when we find ourselves in the midst of the mother load with limited time.

“Yes, there is lots more up there,” I answered, “It’s almost overwhelming isn’t it, but in oh so such a good way?”

I stepped aside as she lunged for the stairway and quick climbed the stairs with the wild eyed look of a woman on the hunt.

“Deep breath, focus,” I told myself and I continued my quest.

I ran my fingers over the pottery, picked up the plates, and stroked the tablecloths. I sipped the coffee samples while reading labels and handling jar after jar before finally settling on a few saucy additions to our culinary routine. I selected linen napkins with delicate imprints of herbs and olives and some simple but elegant napkin rings. Frivolous, maybe, but fun, you bet!

Too soon, my patient shopping companions returned and feigned interest in my treasures and nodded politely as I rambled on about the platters and possibilities that remained there.

I glided out of the store onto Pearl Street, to be greeted by the street performers and the swell of shoppers and lookers on, all on some mission of their own that day. For me the mission had been fulfilled and I picked up my stride with a look of a fifty something female who was packing pure pleasure in a paper bag.

I came! I shopped! I conquered!