People are often given gifts. I am often given gifts. Especially as a teacher, I frequently find myself the recipient of a gift of one kind or another. Just this semester, I’ve been given some interesting candy from Iran and some yummy ripe avocados from someone’s garden. And both of these surprised me because I took over this class in the third week of the semester after another teacher quit having accepted a full time job elsewhere. I was delighted because my own class had been canceled and I was facing unemployment and a very tight budget, but I had been a bit worried that the class would not warm to me. Nobody likes changes. The gifts made me feel as if I’d passed some unwritten exam students always give teachers, especially a teacher who replaces another.
Sometimes, the gifts we are given are a bit off in one sense or another. Last semester, for instance, I was given a great blouse. It was black and white with a nice pattern. I don’t remember if it was for my birthday or just because. The problem was it was really, really big. I felt bad that I never wore it and just hope my student, an older woman, didn’t notice. She would have felt worse, I think, if I had tried to explain that it didn’t fit especially as the language barrier might have meant that I couldn’t really explain the situation very well.
That same semester, another woman also gave me a blouse. It was from her country – a cute sleeveless summer number, white with blue embroidery. Sadly, though, this gift was in memory of her sister who had just passed away. Unfortunately, that blouse was way too small. Recently, I gave the big one to the Goodwill in a bag with other things that didn’t fit, but I kept this one. Maybe someday it will fit me.
I hung it in my closet next to a couple of other gifts – both dresses and both given to me some years ago. One is a blue and white yukata, the informal dress of Japan. The other is a bright pink kimono, the formal traditional dress for women.
They remind me of my first visit to Japan. It was during the 1980s and though I knew the Japanese were very “westernized,” I had expected to see kimonos on the street. I’d at least thought that the older women, maybe the grandmothers, would still wear traditional outfits, but I didn’t see one. Everyone was dressed in western clothes from the bustling sophisticated capital of Tokyo to the little mountain towns in northern Honshu. No one wore a kimono.
I was given many gifts during that trip to Japan and I was happy to regift several of them. It’s not something I like to do, and it wasn’t done very often back then, but how many pairs of chopsticks can one use?
I love to receive gifts, but I confess that I don’t really like to give them unless I’m sure what the person wants or needs or, at least, would be pleased with. I often give my students silly, little gifts and they always act pleased, but I wouldn’t try to give them a real gift – like for a birthday. Besides the fact that I couldn’t afford to give every student a birthday gift, I’d be afraid that it wouldn’t fit or it wouldn’t work or it wouldn’t be used for one reason or another.
Case in point. One of my students a year or so ago, gave me a very colorful serving dish set. There was a good sized bowl with a lid to keep tortillas warm and a couple of smaller bowls for salsa or guacamole. I really liked the bright warm colors and, as I’m married to a Mexican, I do often have tortillas on the table. And this set was cute. The handle of the lid was an upright jalapeno pepper, but I had been going through a season of downsizing – trying to just get rid of things I didn’t need or absolutely love. So, I just didn’t want it. How does one say that? Well, of course, you don’t. You just add it to a shelf already brimming with knick knacks and bric-a-brac. In this case, I compromised. I kept the two little bowls and donated the tortilla warmer. I’m sure someone saw it and loved it. The truth, though, is that I haven’t the smaller bowls either.
Once in a while, though, a gift is perfect.
A few years ago, I began reading The Winds of War. It’s a fictionalized account of the events leading up to WWII. I’d always had a passing interest in the great war, and I had read several accounts of the Holocaust and some about Pearl Harbor, but this book really opened up that interest and I’ve read several books since and become something of a history buff.
Anyway, when I started with this work of Herman Wouk I knew that there was a second volume called War and Remembrance. And I started it sometime after reading the first book not realizing that this book I was reading was actually the second volume of a two book set – a compliment to the author. His characters were so well developed that I jumped right in to the story which took place several years later with barely a hiccup.
I don’t remember how nor when I realized that I was reading Volume II and that there was a Volume I, but when I discovered it, I was really disappointed. Here I was essentially reading the third part of a trilogy without having read the middle. And I shared my disappointment with a fellow teacher as we talked over lunch one day.
Meanwhile, I tried to find the “missing” volume which turned out to be quite a chore. Everyone that was selling a copy was, of course, selling it along with the companion book. Duh? I tried on-line, Amazon and ebay, I dug thru stacks of musty books on many a used book store’s shelves, and I spent several Saturdays combing through garage sale finds. Eventually, I put it out of my mind.
It was easy enough to find the book to read - thanks to the public library, but I wanted a copy for my personal library. I don’t keep very many books really, and I had been culling what I had but I was sure I wanted this set, especially now that I knew it was a set. Thus, I was thrilled when my friend, Dr. C, quite casually gave me a copy that she’d found in a thrift store. It even had a matching dust jacket. I was tickled. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t expected. It wasn’t even anticipated, but it was perfect. Knowing how to give that kind of gift is a gift. Thank you!

March roared in like a lion bringing record breaking temperature thru much of the state and I took advantage of the high temps to take my first swim of the year. As I’d invited a couple of the grandkids to go along, I went during visitors’ swim hours and found lots of young uns accompanying their grandparents, splashing around and having a good time. Amid the laughter, I did my 20 minutes, wrapped myself in a towel and headed to the car.
This week the temperatures are back to their normal low 70s, but as soon as the clouds passed over yesterday, I was off to the pool. And even tho I’d invited the youngest grandson to go with, he opted out, but I still found myself at the pool during visitors' swim time. Happily, though, this time I found myself alone.
I’m lucky to have two pools here, one is heated and one is not, and the unheated one doesn’t warm up until well into August in my mind, so I pretty much stick to the heated one and this was no exception. The only other folks were taking some sun near the water of the colder pool, which was separated from me by a concrete patio and a big storage box where the pool cover for “my” pool is kept. Thus, I couldn’t really see the older gent and the young woman was facing the other direction. Life, I thought to myself, really doesn’t get any better.
The water was clean. Last week, it hadn’t looked as nice and I’d fought with lots of bees for space in the deeper end. I explain to the creatures who invade us here that I don’t mind sharing space, but this is mine and that – somewhere, almost anywhere else - is theirs. But this week, the bees must have been busy elsewhere because I didn’t see a one.
One lap walking, one lap jogging, and yet another actually swimming. First the breast stroke, then the side stroke, and finally lazily the back stroke. Seriously, is there anything better that floating in warm water basking in the warm sun of a late spring morning?
As a beach person, I suppose there really is something better, but the water in the Pacific didn’t get the memo from the sun that it’s been hotter than hell on the ground, so it still feels frigid. So, for now, the heated pool. Thank you.
A few stretches at the wall, some more lazy laps – punch the arms down, swing them from side to side – get this full body thing going. And then the glorious lazy lap on my back. Wishing the pool was longer, although I think it’s regulation size, I could have floated on forever.
Not once did I think about my grueling schedule at work. Not once did I think about my impossible retirement situation. Not once did I think about my crazy ass husband and what he might be up to. I just let my mind drift along with my body and we sank ever so slightly into the womb of water.
After my 20 minutes, I admitted that I wasn’t even beginning to feel tired, so I opted for 5 minutes more. After 25 minutes, I decided to go for a half hour. And I was loving every minute. How could this be called exercise? How could this divine sensation actually be good for you?
OK! 30+ minutes, let’s get out. And I reluctantly floated over to the stairs and pulled myself out of the water, walked over to the lawn chair where I’d left my towel and wrapped it around me noticing as I did that the older fellow had moved into the shade off to my left.
A few minutes earlier, I had heard a loud splash and thought that either he or the young woman had decided to take a dip, but he looked dry and the woman was still prone face down. Putting on my glasses, I saw that we did have a guest and I said so to the older fellow. He didn’t hear me. He’s probably a bit hard of hearing. Many people are in this old folks community where I live. So, raised my voice and said again, “It looks like we have a guest.”
“Oh, you mean the duck?”
“Yes.” I replied although I wasn’t altogether sure it was a duck. We have a lot of bird species here on this bluff near the ocean and rabbits by the ton and coyotes in packs, but I’d never seen any ducks before. Hmmm.
“Well, he visited with you first, but as you ignored him, he left and went into the other pool.”
I looked again wishing I'd had my camera as he went gliding past the 8 foot marker. “Oh." I answered thinking that I hadn't even had to explain to him that this is my space.

The Luck o’ the Irish
My mother was brought up in a Catholic boarding school and most of the kids went home for the holidays, and some didn’t. My mother and her sister, Alice, were two that stayed on throughout the year.
And despite her sadness my mother had some funny stories to tell that would make the “The Trouble of Angels” seem boring in contrast. One of my favorites is the story of going to confession. Apparently one of the older priests was very hard of hearing, and thus the privacy of the confessional was broken when he’d asked: You did what? With whom? My mother said she’d wait in much longer lines to avoid going to him, but sometimes the nuns would step in and redistribute the reticent sinners.
Apparently the nuns wore their rosary beads around their waists, so you could hear them coming from quite far off. That saved my mom’s neck a time or two from being caught in what I’m sure were venial sins.
Coming of age there as she did, she knew nothing about the facts of life. She only knew that the older girls were cloistered periodically. Of course, she later realized it must have been when they were having their periods, but at the time, she thought they’d done something awfully bad. When she herself started, she thought she was dying and had somehow brought it upon herself, so she was afraid to tell anyone.
My mother’s parents were both Portuguese. My grandmother was from the Azores and my grandfather was from Cape Verde. And given Cape Verde’s history, it is highly likely that he had a Black ancestor or two. Of course, when I was growing up in the 60s that would have been a taboo admission, so my mother never ever told me. In fact, she always emphasized the fact that he had blue eyes. Nonetheless, my two older sisters looked like pickaninny dolls. I inherited my father’s coloring, however, and as a result thought I must have been adopted.
Somehow, my mother was a great cook although she didn’t know anything about Portuguese food. She cooked Italian. She learned to cook Southern for my Dad who was from Texas, and because there were a fair share of Irish priests, she learned to cook a corned beef that was to die for. My Dad was Irish and he loved her Irish meals.
After I grew up, I figured I would be able to just wander into the kitchen as she had and wander out with a meal. But being a cook isn’t hereditary, and my exploits in the kitchen were often disasters.
Not long after I got married, I tried my hand with a corned beef brisket. I cut the potatoes and peeled the carrots and shredded the cabbage. And it smelled terrific, but by the time I thought it was done, it was harder than the blarney stone. You literally could not cut it with a knife. Nor was there any simply pulling off onto your plate.
My husband thought it was funny and would regale future guests for some time with the story of my St. Patrick’s Day disaster. He even went so far as to give it to the dog who wouldn’t eat it either. Of course, he shared that part of the story, too. The dog was named Kitty, though, so one can’t pay any attention to his tastes.
My husband and I were married for over 20 years, and separated for 10 or so more before he passed away at age 50. And in the nearly 20 years since, I have never again tried my hand at a St. Patrick’s Day meal.
As I am much smarter than any dog named Kitty, I have instead made friends with several folks of Irish descent who kindly invite me to share their lovely meals. And I had the good fortune to have a smart son who married an Irish lass who can cook a St. Patrick’s Day meal to die for.
Yesterday, on 3/16, one of my dearest friends, invited me to her house for an early St. Patrick’s Day dinner. And it was wonderful. Another Irish lass brought soda bread. Oh my. I was stuffed on my way home, but I woke up this morning with a taste for Ireland lingering.
So, I got up and went to the store and bought a brisket. I came home and found a recipe for a slow cooker that seemed similar to the one Ally used. She said the special flavor came from the Guiness. And perhaps it did.
I quartered the small red potatoes, cut the carrots into fairly uniform-sized pieces, and added the 4 cups of water. Then I placed the corned beef on top of the vegetables and poured six ounces of Imported Extra Stout Guiness over it. And then sprinkled the seasonings on top of that. I put the lid on and turned the slow cooker on high as the recipe suggested. I cooked it for 8 and a half hours only opening the pot an hour before to put in the shredded cabbage.
About an hour ago, I sat down to eat. And it was wonderful. After 50 some years, Danny Boy, I finally had the courage to try it again. Faith and Begorrah! I know there are Irish eyes smiling and I hear the bagpipes calling.