My Little Brother on the Biden Campaign Trail, Wilmington, DE- 1972
“Joe Biden, He understands what’s happening today.”
My little brother called. He rarely calls. Excitedly he says “This isn’t about politics, I don’t even know your politics and don’t need to know; but do you remember when we lived in Wilmington and Joe Biden was running for his first senate seat?”
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to remind you that I worked for his first campaign that year, an unpaid volunteer!”
“You were 12 or 13!”
“Yes, remember my friends Bill and Bob? Their Dad was a Biden supporter and he came home and handed us all the campaign leaflets and told us, ‘Now, go and hand these out at every door’!”
“Oh that’s a great memory, Biden was running that campaign on a shoe string and his youth!”
Now he’s counting on those same voters who elected one of the youngest senators ever to become the oldest elected president of the USA.
‘Joe Biden, He understands what’s happening today.’ That was his campaign tag line in 1972.
It’s late September and the weather has already cooled . It will get warmer before winter is here but today presents a chilly warning.
The hummingbirds are still here, a dozen of them. They know I’m their human and they’re quick to let me know when the feeders are empty. They’re on a feeding frenzy right now – chattering loudly and their wings are pounding like drum beats. They’re keeping me busy filling the feeders. The mornings are when I talk to them.
Today: “ What time is your flight out? It’s getting cooler and you’re getting fatter. The geese are honking and headed south. When do you need to leave?” and now they tell me about Villahermosa, their winter home in Mexico, and Marisol. Marisol, their human who lives there and feeds them well during the warm winter in their own tiny corner of Mexico. They think she looks like me. Travel dreaming lives here, in this tiny corner of north Texas.
Welcome to my Alabama… come outside and play in the gulf and the sand..Heron- Gulf Shores, AL
And we return to this shore to unplug, refresh and strengthen our spirit. The gulf water, the sun, and the sand here are relaxing. It’s our place to refuel, reenergize.
Once upon a time, far, far away in a quiet garden along the banks of the Arkansas River she waits. The dancer poised in her graceful and delicate performance. She stands perfectly balanced, arms lifted, one foot on the hoop and one foot high in the air. Her bronzed figure, frozen in motion, in her timeless “infinite dance”. Enjoy the slower pace among the whimsical and the calming sculptures in the Volger Schwartz Sculpture Garden.
Artist Carol Gold: #116, “Infinite Dance”, 2018: Volger Schwartz Sculpture Garden, Little Rock, AR.
Forty-Seven Years
ago, in the middle of March, my Mother began her Italian adventure. I have her travel
journal. This, my treasure among her things. I love to travel, I love my
Mother, I loved traveling with her. On this trip, she was traveling with a
friend and with her twenty-seven year old niece, Linda.
Recently I read the journal, and found seeing my Mother’s
pen comforting, the familiar cursive writing. Momma, it is so good to see you
there on these pages.
ROME: Friday March 17, 1972: “6:00 AM Up and at’ Em” – Jammed pack day the first full day in Italy, after a good night’s rest….”.breakfast at 7:00” … “bus tour 8:45”…a full itinerary. Tours of the sites of Rome; Vatican City … “Morning at St Peter’s Basilica…the pictures don’t prepare you for the size of it.” ….“the Swiss Guards were something to see.”… “Saw everything on the itinerary!”, “Florence tomorrow”.
Mother didn’t list the full itinerary. What she did write touches to the heart of her. She expresses the things she wanted to remember, the daily happenings in Rome, about the people, about what she found so interesting. The monuments of Rome will always be in the travel guides. These. The moments she wanted to remember.
“Strolling through the
buildings seeing the patios and the
beautiful flower gardens.” She
savors the smell of the blossoms as they open and show their shiny faces to the
sun, capturing the image of their colors as they glow. “People hanging out the windows to get some fresh air.”….
“ Laundry hanging out the windows to dry. The sheets drying in the sun are so white” … she wants to remember this and she hears – the flick of the laundry on the clothes line as the wind helps them to dry…”wonder what detergent they use?”.
Later that afternoon, another site seeing tour ends, the
bus leaves them just below the Spanish Steps at the Plaza di Spagna. They roam the area admiring the sites, the Plaza and its fountain Fontana della Barcaccia. The Spanish
steps and the rise to the Plaza Trinità dei Monti,
with its church at the top.
“Linda had her portrait painted by an artist at the
Spanish Steps.”. “Might get mine done, if we can find our way back”… “The streets are crammed with cars and they
drive like maniacs.”…
“ Funny- I haven’t seen a dent fender.”… “All
the cars are small-mostly Fiats. I saw one large car and it had a California
license plate.”
They wind their way through the streets, immersed in the
city, feeling the breath of the people, the breath of the city, to relish the
place. People watching at sidewalk cafes, cappuccinos, “bought charms for my bracelet and a flower for Kaycee”; the flower for her youngest daughter, Kaycee…a
glass rose.
A taxi ride back to the hotel. “The taxi driver wants to take Linda out on a date ..says he’ll call
her after we get back from Naples”… “Florence tomorrow, at 7 AM”… then
Naples, Pompeii, Sorento before we return to Rome.
Momma, Becky and Linda. Buckled Up on the Plane to Rome.
It is late afternoon in early July.
Lightning bolt streaks through the sky, thunder claps.
Large drops of rain blow in from the windows and the doorway.
Hail, larger than a pea, smaller than a marble- smack the windows,
Hail, bounces off the roof and the ground.
The rain slows and then begins again forcefully, but now only the rain falls.
Steam rises off the ground, like grey clouds trying to return to the sky.
Gutters spill over and out, rain turns into waterfalls.
Ripened apricots are shaken and fall freely to the ground.
The rain slows; the once booming thunder now only rumbles.
Fifteen minutes have passed since it began.
Rain ends nearly as abruptly as it started.
The sky brightens and returns to its brilliant blue.
The apricot tree, now drenched, is heavy with wet foliage and wet fruit.
Its limbs lowered, offering its ripened fruit at its feet and in its arms.
To Bake:
16 Fresh Apricots – pitted and halved
1 cup Brown Sugar
1/3 box Club Crackers (about 40 crackers)
Grease the bottom of a small baking pan. (8” x 8”)
Line ½ the apricots in pan. Sprinkle ½ of sugar and ½ of crackers.
Dot top with butter
Repeat layers ending with butter.
Bake uncovered -325* F – about 40 minutes. Serve warm plain or with vanilla ice cream.
