Mornings & Pigs' Ears

In the midst of getting the kids to school on time and thinking about my endless list of stuff to do, I tend to talk myself into my day while driving the kids to their points of destination in the morning. Our daily driving route puts us from El Dorado Hills to Placerville every day of the week. My three have gotten so used to it, they just assume that Tammy number 2 is figuring it all out and they hardly respond to my morning utterances anymore. We are not exactly morning people. I think all of us were born under the sign that blinks “Open all night”, because we all tend to solve the world’s problems after 5 PM. The first thing on my mind in the morning is where I can plug myself into IV drip of caffeine. I know every café from Town Centre El Dorado Hills to Main Street Placerville. I know all the Goth kids at Habit, hang out at ‘It’s a Grind’ in Cameron Park, and have ran into a few Tibetans at Cozmic Café. But mostly, I know where good coffee reigns supreme and where free internet access can be found. I’m that old lady in the corner with the pink laptop who can easily do 5 shots of espresso, but am desperately trying to cut back.

One particular diatribe with my interior self found me on South Shingle Road, picking up lunches for Conor and Birdy and passing by Lee’s Feed. “Remind me to pick up some pig’s ears for Conor!” Huh? That engendered a few giggles. “Ugh, I mean for Skipper.” Skipper is our dog. But I’m sure you can deduce that without me. Brain death approaching, I catch myself. Why can’t I get these kids’ names straight? Thinking about Conor chewing on pig ears really lit up the day. I’ve caught that contagion of my parents’ own brain damage. I remember the litany of names called out by Bob and Sally when they were thinking about something else, but wanted our attention; Deep in a place obviously somewhere else but trying to be present, it’d go a little something like this: “Tammy, Terry, Tricia, Teddy Bear? Whatsurname?” Drat. We’d give my mom the same blank stare. “Ugh, that’s the dog, mom, I’m the oldest…Tammy…remember?” “I know that!” she’d reply in exasperation. “I just get so mixed up sometimes!” It’s not exasperation. I know for a fact that until the caffeine is pulsing through my arterial system, I’m just not gonna make any sense in the AM and the kids’ names are gonna be fair game before 5 PM because in the real world of middle age, the brain synapses are just beginning to fire around dinner time. I honestly think the profitability of the entire nation would go through the roof, if our day started around noon.

Last weekend, I was inducted into the honor society at Folsom Lake College and the president of the college called us “the brightest of the bright”, my kids were choking back the loud chortles, while my husband held back tears. I could just hear him thinking out loud “so that’s why the housework is a little behind, and I cook more than she does now.” Honestly, it was embarrassing. I wanted to congratulate the other 4 people standing with me (who were all under the age of 21) except there was two other people around my age and I wanted to ask them, “Do you forget your kids’ names ever?” I just stood there, thinking I hadn’t yet had my morning coffee and I was starting to fade. It’s tough. Maintaining a high grade point average doesn’t always mean perfection in the day to day. I’m always a work in progress.

I’m convinced that the answer to this early dementia is to play more cards on line. It is an idea that I got from my Life Span class, learning about the Mankato nuns and the brain studies they’ve done on them. Apparently, they’ve avoided dementia and Alzheimer’s by playing cards, doing puzzles and crosswords. I really like spades. I also will indulge in a little Sudoku now and again. Today, while on Yahoo games, my card partner hurled some insult at me and I laughed. “Yeah, go eat some pig ears…I haven’t had my coffee yet.” That shut her up.

Arrivederci Cugini

Pictured: (Elena, Papa Maher, MoMaher, Matteo, Francesca & Fulvio)
We all gathered for MoMaher & Papa’s Golden Wedding Jubilee last weekend. The cousins from Italy surprised MoMaher by flying into SFO under stealth conditions. Family came from all around the country to celebrate the occasion and the pictures tell a story of what family means after 50 years of wedded bliss. The theme for me was Cugini or “cousins” – surely the spot light of the weekend. As mom and dad celebrated their milestone, one of my nephews was packing to leave for the U.S. Air Force. I am proud of him. Another nephew is headed to Dominican College in the Fall, a niece to a Design School in Seattle, and another taking first place with her crew team at Lake Natomas over the weekend. Having said all that, it seems like yesterday that they were all kids. Where do the years go? All these young adults springing into their lives faster than I remember them growing up…oy vey! These are cousins who have lived apart for most of their lives, but firmly bonded in this family of Joseph Luzzi and William Maher

JD spent several days on the video we showed at the party of people who were at the wedding 50 years ago. A junior bridesmaid, another cousin, hasn’t seen MoMaher since the wedding and they spoke over the weekend on the phone. Hopefully these long lost cousins will reunite in person soon.

Aunt MaryElla’s mother passed away the morning of the party and her funeral is tomorrow. She lived into her late 90’s...leaving a legacy of children, grandchildren and great children. She left a large family, filled with cousins and they took care of her until her last day.

Having had a late night supper with the Lake Como contigency on Tuesday night, seeing the young cugini ‘girls’ JD visited in 1995, now having children of their own, it’s amazing how time has passed. The laughter and stories are the same. Two year old Matteo delighted us all with his charm and sweet disposition. Fulvio, Francesca and Elena honored everyone with their presence, and knowing that it won’t be long until we see each other again, we simply hug and kiss our farewells all the way out the door, ciao caro, ciao cugini..buon viaggio! Ricordarmi! Remember me... Fulvio & MoMaher

The weekend was filled with local cousins, Italian cousins, and out of state cousins. Some had surprising and good news, a very special one was recovering from surgery (thankfully with very good news), some were a little too far away and sorely missed. We wish them much love; and to those who spent a little time with us this last week, we say simply “Arrividerci Cugini… Finché incontriamo ancora…Dio la benedice! ” Farewell Cousins, until we meet again, God bless you!

Golden Jubilees & white dress shoes

My sister-in-law, Cindy, has a birthday today. I wonder if she knows how much I miss her. She lives out of state with JD’s brother, Pat and their two daughters. It was sad when they moved from Sacramento years ago; both having careers closely connected with engineering and government contracts. When they first started out their married life together, we lived about 5 miles away from them and our oldest girls were just starting school. I have so many great memories from that time. There is something magical in the beginnings of family life. I remember the window of opportunity, encouraging Pat to travel to South Dakota to propose to Cindy and the telephone call he made to us on that same trip telling us that they had eloped or in his words “gone to Deadwood.” I’ve missed the years of cooking dinners, coffee klatching and wine tasting, but life has a way of taking families on journeys. The joys now are found in the cross roads when you come together to celebrate family milestones. Speaking of which...

It was a little over 21 years ago that JD proposed to me at the Cliff House in San Francisco. We were having dinner with a couple who were celebrating their Golden Wedding Jubilee. I always wondered about the special luck and blessing it was for us as a young couple to celebrate the night of our engagement with two people who had already spent half a century together. They were a couple crazy kids; teenagers really, who were married by a Justice of the Peace in 1937 in Deadwood, South Dakota. Reflecting on that a little further, I wonder if there was something in that South Dakota water, given that JD’s brother did the exact same thing almost 60 years later! It was simply amazing to hear the story of how Gene and Delores swept away in the middle of the night to get married. If Delores were alive today, they’d be married 71 years this September 25th. I remember them dancing at our wedding. There was a lot about that wonderful day that is a blur to me now, given that 20 years has come and gone. However, rock crystal clear in my mind, was Gene, all decked out in his white dress shoes and driving the red Cadillac; his wife of half a century next to him, still very much remembering Deadwood, but a thousand miles and 50 years away.

Next week, JD’s parents are celebrating their own 50^th wedding anniversary. I’ve known them almost half their marriage. The day will be crowned by an amazing party to celebrate the occasion with many family and friends coming from all over to celebrate the milestone of a half century of marriage. It’s the occasion that one has to see as a blessing... in counting the years like bars of Gold; because marriage to one person for half a century is a rare achievement nowadays. The ear-marks of such rarity being the memories; of joys and sorrows that sharing your life brings, like an investment that has had its ups and downs, shortfalls and yields. Most importantly, marking something irrevocably sacred and meaningful.

MoMaher, 50 years ago, April 12, 1958

The Golden Wedding Jubilee bring people together to celebrate a part of life that few couples ever reach, the half century mark. Considering that I’m not even half way there yet, I will be watching the days closely and taking notes. The South Dakota contingent will be there. It’ll be nice to wish Cindy a belated Happy Birthday in person and I am looking forward to seeing Gene again after all these years, hoping beyond hope that he’s wearing those white dress shoes and saving a hug for me.

Tammy Maher is columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Small things

My son seems to know when my moods are down. His bear hugs are the reward for the nights spent in the glider chair, rocking him back to sleep when he was a baby. My two daughters clean up around the house, knowing that when I walk through the door, it makes me feel better just knowing that there is some order around the house; no doubt a generous return of a few small motherly moments of taxi cab service, meals and laundry. I hope their memories of me will always bring smiles. It’s hard being in the midst of small things, completely cheerful all the time; and that is where my husband comes in- he’s provided miles and years of small thoughtful things. So despite my mood swings, they are always there for me. I think my patron saint, Therese, would be scolding me right now, knowing that it’s only in the smallness of being, that we find real love.

That’s nothing really and yet it’s everything. The small things add up to days and months and years of small great things that when the sum of them is counted at the end of the audit, a treasure is revealed; of sacrifice and love. It’s easy to buy someone something-a card or token of affection that says ‘I love you’, but it’s the day to day that counts in the end. It’s the getting up every day and going to work, day after day, year after year that says from a parent to a child “You matter and I am taking care of you.” It’s making meals, folding socks, driving hither and yon, listening. I don’t do all these things well, but I try. I certainly appreciate the amazing women in my life, my mom, my sisters, my aunts and my grandmothers, first setting the example for me; they are legends. I trudge along after them hoping to fill in part of their footprints.

I am a person of relative insignificance, except that I matter to my husband and kids and they show this to me every day in small ways. I don’t need to be famous, perfect or satisfied; I think I’ve always just wanted to be needed and in that, I have all that is necessary and every good thing. I have a few close friends who have stuck with me, despite myself and my failings. I tend to wander to and fro from this to that, disappointed when I miss my mark but keenly aware of where I fall short. Self-deprecating, is how an acquaintance described me last year and she’s right. Call it meno-maudlin-madness, I fit in and yet I don’t anymore. I wish I could skip this middle part and jump to the wisdom and insight of my parents and grandparents who don’t sweat the small stuff anymore. It’s hard to look back and look ahead at the same time, wondering to myself, “Will the small things be enough?”

So on the sunny side of things, this is a typical Thursday; yet it’s not. It’s Maundy Thursday or Holy Thursday; probably one of the most hopeful days of the year besides Easter Sunday. I will go to church with my family tonight and try to straighten this all out before Easter, this ‘out of sorts- funk’ I’ve been in, and when Sunday comes, it will be better. I know this because some things are just reliable, like the love of a husband of 20 years and three of the greatest kids ever. The narcissus bloomed last month, right on time, their little yellow heads popping up to say hello, having been planted in secret by my Dad and youngest daughter three years ago, the year that literally changed my life. It’s funny that they planted them right where I would see them, next to the front walkway steps, next to the front porch. I think that Pop planted those with Birdy for her benefit, doing a small thing with and for his granddaughter. I don’t think those two realize or know how much those flowers mean to me, when I see them pop up every year; they are small reminders of people I love and in the smallness of them, I know why I am here.

Happy Easter!

Tammy Maher is a columnist for the Mt. Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Shower her with roses

When some people give to others, it seems to come so naturally to them that they go through life almost unnoticed because those who routinely give so generously hardly draw attention to themselves; their minds resting easily on the needs of others. This week, one of those wonderful people has passed away after a courageous battle with a complicated cancer, and the hole she seemingly left in the world is vast. However, never to let anything go undone, she left it filled with a legacy of love.

When I first met Jonan and her husband, Bill, at church several years back, I marveled at their ability to balance their life together. I never saw one without the other. They took on several volunteer projects. Both gave of their time greatly by taking on the tasks of cleaning the church (not just surface cleaning, but deep cleaning the inside and outer buildings, including the bathrooms. As if that wasn’t enough, she was the person who beautifully decorated the interior of the church with fresh flowers each week. She and her husband were taking on retirement by going to work; the example they set for those of us in the middle of our lives left an indelible impression. Together they worked with the zest and zeal of artisans who also happened to have the hearts of Clydesdales; happy and cheerful, knowing they were serving a higher and more important need, not only for others, but for God. She was always about the business of cheerfully staying busy, stopping occasionally to chat about the most important people in her life, her family; comprised of eight children and over 30 grandchildren. You would never know that she came from a life of hardship and loss. Jonan was a woman who listened, rather than complained and was willing to offer advice if you asked her for it, never imposing herself on others. She was simply a woman of grace.

In the greatness of small things, she was creative. Whether it was sewing, crafts, entertaining or arranging flowers; her talents were wide reaching. Always, the mother and grandmother; she embodied the woman of Proverbs 31, reminiscent so much of my Aunt Carol; both women to be emulated. Many women live their lives honorably and justly, few do so in seeming anonymity. When she first was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, it was humbling to watch both she and Bill tackle the business of fighting the cancer, much in the way that they cleaned the church or she arranged the flowers; with great tenacity and grace, always seeking the will of God, surrounding themselves with those they loved and even unto the end, she had her mind on others.

When JD & I stopped by to see her a few days ago in her final days; she seemed to grow ever more beautiful, taking on her youthful countenance again. Cancer may have robbed her of a certain quantity of days, but it would not deprive of her of the quality of them, because as she suffered through those last few days, love seemed to grow ever more present in her home, with her husband and children near her side day and night. I have been very few places where I felt an overwhelming sense of love; but never so much as was in their home the night we visited her. Wanting to reassure her, she reassured me. Wanting to tell her not to be afraid, she trusted in God’s will all the while asking after the kids who resided in her heart. As a Proverbs 31 woman, she has lived with dignity and goodness. It was an honor and privilege to have known her. My prayer is that she be showered by the saints with roses as she enters the heavenly gates.

“Who shall find a valiant woman? far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her...with the fruit of her hands she hath planted a vineyard....She hath put out her hand to strong things, and her fingers have taken hold of the spindle…She hath opened her hand to the needy, and stretched out her hands to the poor...She shall not fear for her house in the cold of snow: for all her domestics are clothed with double garments…Strength and beauty are her clothing, and she shall laugh in the latter day…Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her. Many daughters have gathered together riches: thou hast surpassed them all. Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: the woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised…Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.”

Tammy Maher is a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Pop's 7th Inning Stretch

Dad turned 70 years-old January 29^th and for all the hype that milestone birthdays bring, it’s no wonder that people plan parties, reflect on decades of living, achievement and the legacy that life brings when you have a portfolio 7 decades long.

My dad, AKA 'Pop-Pop' was born in New Jersey 7 innings ago, as Robert Howard Maher (yeah, with the same surname as yours truly). During that month, Franklin Delano Roosevelt established the March of Dimes. Benny Goodman performed in Carnegie Hall in New York City and the first ski tow opened in Vermont. So much has happened in the world since then; some were milestones and others are black marks on history.

For instance, the year 1938 was marked by several important historical events pertaining to the Nazi holocaust. German troops entered Austria, the Mauthausen and other concentration camps opened, Winston Churchill condemned Hitler in response to the Munich agreement, which allowed for German occupation of Czechoslovakia, and November’s Kristallnacht occurred (being the first night of large-scale violence against Jews by the Nazi regime). These dark spots on the year 1938 were only precursors to the darker years ahead marking the economic hardships of the Great Depression and the sorrows plaguing the emergence of World War II.

On the lighter side of history, in entertainment, 1938 saw the debut of Porky Pig, Daffy Duck & Bugs Bunny. Disney’s version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs premiered. BBC’s production of the first science fiction program for television aired and RCA & NBC were born. Baseball introduced helmets for all batters at the plate, Pearl S. Buck won the Nobel prize for Literature, and Orson Welles’ version of H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” was broadcast on the radio, creating a national state of chaos and panic. 1938 also marked the first time that Kate Smith sang her infamous “God Bless America” live on the radio.

Invention and innovation entered the world stage in 1938 with the discovery of oil in Saudi Arabia, DuPont's marketing of the first nylon toothbrush, Douglas’ test flight of the DC-4 airplane, and the maiden voyage of the Queen Elizabeth out of Glasgow. The Thousand Islands Bridge, connecting the US and Canada over the St. Lawrence River was dedicated by thenPresident Roosevelt.

It was also the year that a 450 metric ton meteorite struke an empty field in Chicora, Pennsylvania, Howard Hughes achieved a world record by completing a 91 hour airplane flight around the world and the Mallard steam train broke a record speed of 126 mph. Transportation changed all around the world in 1938. My... how things have changed throughout the world in 70 years' time!

At the age of seventy, one has lived to see many things both personally and historically. Like a consecutive tri-marathon, or a very long baseball game, Pop has endured being a child of the Great Depression who was the oldest of seven children. He survived a two-year stint in the US Army, a 30+ year career with the same employer, the tedious raising of three precocious daughters and marriage to the same woman for 42 years. As a result of the endurance, his legacy boasts eight grandchildren and a treasure chest of friends. He has enjoyed tenure as a high school tennis coach, a hobbyist who loves working with his hands, and a resume of rebuilding vintage sports cars and fixing a lot of stuff. His landmarks in the community include being a volunteer all his adult life. He is a member of the Knights of Columbus and the Elks. He is a Catholic who prays everyday and loves his family. For all that and so much more; Pop, you owe yourself a couple victory laps.

Congratulations on batting a 1000 and Happy 7th inning stretch. Let's party...woo hoo!

There ought to be a law

October 1980 marked a significant month that has since returned to haunt me. It was the last month I was eligible to take the SAT exam prior to college application deadlines. I remember the day well because it was the bleakest day of the year. Reluctantly, (I say this because I knew I was setting myself up) I stayed out late with friends the night before, succumbing to peer pressures to stay up late…stupid. Oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. As a result of staying out late, I was tired, rushed and late for my SAT exam. Consequently, I didn’t eat anything, felt a cold coming on and could barely see the road in front of me driving to Sonoma State University to take the exam (it was so memorable, I hardly remember checking in, with barely a pencil to my name). This one day and the scores that ultimately resulted from it set the course of my future in ways I never expected. My scores were laughably average in so many ways. They told the story of the night before, being late and the terrible October weather. They told the story of a student who had storm going on in her brain because the questions might as well have been in Greek.

I was an AP student at a private high school. When the scores showed up, my parents asked what the numbers meant and in my head I responded “well, they mean that I will be applying to the junior college and maybe a state school; however Notre Dame is just going to have to wait.” “These aren’t too bad” was what I actually said. My epiphany in the experience of taking the SAT exam was simply this; standardized testing had nothing at all to do with intelligence. It has everything to do with how much money one spends on fancy test prep books, test prep courses and sheer luck. Of course, the sleep factor is important, as well sharpened #2 pencils, good bubble technique and a clear head. Good weather helps too. I hated that test and have since developed a strong opinion on standardized testing as a way to single out clever people who may possess little if any common sense. I worked in my careers with people who were book smart, but bad managers. They may have scored high on their HS SATs but they had little sense about people or good business decisions. Ah, but I digress.

I know there are many people who are largely Einsteinean, attended Ivy League schools on the heels of their awesome SAT scores and I congratulate them all. Good for you. Please don’t take offense at my disdain for standardized testing. It obviously has measured many things; but it doesn’t measure ability, character or the willingness to work hard and achieve greatness in themselves or motivate others.

It’s been a long time since 1980. Middle agers returning to school (that would be me) want to be nurses. We’ve had a lot of life experience. We’ve raised families. In the midst of this we returned to schools and enrolled in hard science classes. We studied hard, often late and into a state of exhaustion, in some cases to the detriment of our real lives. Knowing that hard work pays off, lo and behold we earned high grades. We are so excited about the possibility of becoming nurses, helping to ease the pain and suffering of those who need our compassion and knowledge, our caring and concern, and our smarts, we earnestly apply to wonderful, local accredited nursing programs, where we know the training will be excellent and the experience worthwhile….but wait! No, say it isn’t so…there is a little test we need you to take. It’s called the TEAS test. Huh? It’s just a little assessment test. I thought I just took a whole bunch of tests (you know the ones that I took in chemistry, microbiology and anatomy and physiology)?

Sacramento State University has decided that if one desires to obtain a 2nd bachelor’s degree, one now needs to take a Graduate school record examination (the GRE exam- the exam that kids take to get into Master and Doctoral programs) Excellent grades simply aren’t enough. Standardized tests carry as much weight as the grades and the performance of a single exam on a given day (in a single testing environment) will determine whether or not you will be admitted to a nursing program. I thought that’s what the boards were all about. I was expecting the NCLEX, but not this, not now. I thought I put this behind me 28 years ago. So history repeats itself once again and as I stare at my GRE scores in disbelief and anticipate the TEAS test this week, I study hard but I’m not sure it will be enough.

The weather is better this time. I don’t succumb to peer-pressure anymore, not since turning 40, and I have plenty of #2 pencils. My eraser is 6 inches long and I am mad as hell. My hypothetical patient, Mr. Johnson, is waiting in the wings for me to scale this Everest. Ok. I'll try Mr. Johnson, only for you. Standardized tests don’t define the kind of nurse I will be. There ought to be a law.

Let's get it started now

2008 marks twenty years for us as a family and as I watch the years go by, I feel like the first years of raising our kids were in super slow motion and the later years can only be described as the “don’t blink, you might miss it” years. That toddler who was a King in the epiphany pageant is about to enter high school in the Fall, the little girl with the long flowing hair is gearing up to drive a car and the baby girl is gearing up for the middle school years. I’ve been so busy trying to catch up with the backlog of laundry that I hardly notice that all three kids are about to surpass me in height. Our discussions are longer, the topics more interesting, and the disagreements a little more heated, but the years of parenting are golden. I hardly can imagine what it will be like when they are on their own. When my son wraps his arms around me, it’s a bittersweet reminder that it wasn’t that long ago that I was rocking him to sleep in the glider chair with my arms encircling him. The time between then and now is a quick blur. On New Year’s Eve my son turned 14 years old and Bird turns 11 today. My kids are growing up. I’m so happy and yet it hurts so much.

We haven’t had a real baby in our house for 11 years so every time I lay eyes on a little infant, that old longing comes back “I wish we had more”. These sandwich years are difficult because in a sense we are fast tracked towards trying to launch our kids into adulthood, while noting new concerns about the health and wellbeing of parents who are getting up in the later years of life. Every year JD and I remark on how the year has been for us; both the good and the bad and the surprises that each year brings whether they are setbacks or success, sorrows or joys; there is nothing that can prepare us for the changes we encounter year to year, only the expectation that whatever comes our way, we’ll handle it but by the grace of God. Usually when we talk about these things, it’s late on New Year’s Eve after all the reverie has died down, and the conversation starts out a little bit like this, “Did you ever think that this year we’d (fill in the blank) or that (fill in the blank) would happen?”

Uncertainty about the future, the economy, politics, education, coupled with the nuances of life and death; these are the things that prompt us to face the New Year with not only a slight trepidation, but renewed energy, recommitment and hope. Knowing that as we enter the first months of 2008, some of the people we know and love will not be with us by this time next year and there will be new relationships around the bend, people we have yet to meet. Perhaps the coming year will involve finding and rekindling friendships with old friends we haven’t seen in many years, who really knows what’s around the corner for 2008?

More than anything, we see 2008 as the year we prepare for the changes in our own lives, including the kids getting ready for college and high school, helping our parents when and where we are needed and seeking our own vocational goals. Becoming a nursing student at this stage in my life has opened my eyes to the importance of life long learning. It’s never too late to go back to school, to learn something new; to start over again.

So in these uncertain times, it’s better not to know what the future holds, rather it’s a time to start over, in a sense and make changes, while holding fast to the important things such as faith, family and friends, knowing that while some things are just passing, the important things are everlasting, no matter what year it is. Let’s get it started now…Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas Clare

Clare was born in February of 2001, a day we never forget, because on the day that she came into the world, JD’s brother died suddenly of a heart attack. Clare is our goddaughter, a gift from heaven, and as a small side note, she was born with cystic fibrosis. When Clare came into the world, we had no idea that she would be afflicted with this chronic disease. Her older siblings were all perfectly healthy however cystic fibrosis is an inherited condition that causes a mutation on chromosome number 7 and its protein product. If both parents carry the gene, the odds are greater that the child will inherit it, even though it’s a recessive gene. Genetics are the recipe of us, our phenotype is our characteristics or flavors that make us all unique. From our coloring to our size, our physical characteristics, genetic pre-dispositions; even our flat feet; these are all what makes us super special. If everyone was the same, well, life simply would be a little boring. Clare is one of the funniest little personalities I’ve ever met. I just adore her. She is bubbly, energetic and cute as button. This Christmas, her Auntie Tam wants to tell her truly special she is, so I am writing this open letter to her and sharing it with readers who might also know someone with CF.

Dear Clare:

You are growing up so fast. I hardly believe it every time I see you! Your smile is so infectious, it makes me smile too. I know you know a lot of things because you are a super smart little girl; but I had to tell you this Christmas how much you are loved by us all. I guess the lesson with living with CF is realizing that each day is important and life is a precious gift. Discipline is important too, because when you live with a chronic condition like CF, you have daily routines that involve taking medications that help keep the bad bugs away. Your mom and dad work so hard to make sure these things stay away, and as you grow up, you will see how important your daily routine is to your health.

I don’t want you to ever be too discouraged. I hope you have lots of strength and courage to see you through the bad days, plus I hope you always have laughter to make your good days even better. It’s important to stay happy Clare because it’s part of who you are and why you bring so much joy to others. I know how much joy you bring to your brothers and sisters and all who know you.

People are more than numbers and statistics Clare, so when someone tries to fit you into a box, I want you to tell them that God broke the mold when he made you. Each person has a trial to go through or little setbacks here and there; even the healthiest person has bad days too. When your bad days come, never forget that these things are passing and do not define who we truly are on the inside. All your sparkles inside you make up who you are. You are a special child created by God who has so much to give to those around you. I expect that like other people you will finish school, maybe have a family of your own someday or do something else that God has called you to, but the most important thing for you to hang onto and hold fast to, is your beautiful faith, because that is what will sustain you in every thing. I know you pray a lot and I hope you pray for me.

This Christmas I wish you joy Clare. Your life is a gift from the little Infant whose birthday we celebrate. One day when you are able to go out into the world on your own, I hope your share your joy and zest for life with others who might need a little light. You make me laugh. I love you. Merry Christmas Clare!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

"John Hewitt's pupils do pretty well.."

Twenty five years ago, this was the tag line of a news package reported and written by Mike Hegedus, a reporter for the CBS station in San Francisco, KPIX. Mike is now a feature reporter for CNBC. Back then, while still reporting feature news for KPIX, he reported a story about a college professor working at San Francisco State University in the Broadcast Communication Arts Department (at least that’s what it was called back then.), an extraordinary man teaching broadcast journalism. Hegedus’ report went behind the scenes of our college campus television station, interviewing the professor, observing his students in action at school and around San Francisco as they worked “in the business” in paid positions and in internships. Many of these students are well known television and radio producers, writers, editors, anchors and reporters today, and so the tag line goes…

I am not sure if we fully appreciated back then, the impact Professor John Hewitt would have on our lives both professionally and personally. What endeared him to us was his candor, humor and honesty. John Hewitt was one of those professors in college you never forget. I never saw him particularly angry; except for the time I put together a package on Pier 39 that could have been a movie of the week in three parts. He was patiently serious about television news, about how carefully crafted it was written, its’ accuracy and relevance. In the midst of the seriousness, he was able to laugh with us and at us. He was the sculptor and criticism of technique and none of us wanted to miss his class. It’s the course where we put in more hours than was required. It was the class where we shot stories on huge cameras we lugged on our shoulders, with microphones bigger than our hands, hopefully covered with windscreens that looked like koosh balls. Our tapes were ¾’’Beta and the editing decks were these huge monstrosities that you had to reserve time to work on. When we checked out equipment from the “cage”, we signed our lives away and all our cords had to be coiled a certain way “or else!” It wasn’t just the cameras we checked out. With that, we needed to lug light kits and batteries. Yeah, I learned how to coil cords at State. When we were at State, the studio cameras were still black and white and sat on these huge ‘Ed Sullivan Theater’ pedestals. Lord, in today’s digital world, it seems downright ancient.

A graduate of U.S.F and Columbia University, Professor Hewitt taught for over 30 years at San Francisco State University, scattering his students far and wide into television markets all over the world. He's authored several books, is a television journalist, documentary writer/producer and Emmy award winner. One can say that on a professional level, he prepared his students for the hype and insanity of little garage news operations to major market newsrooms, but I’d like to think that he taught us to look at the world objectively with fresh eyes, both for what was newsworthy and hard hitting, versus what was sensational and sheer fluff. His experience wasn’t something he kept to himself; he shared it greatly and generously.

John and his wife Annette put on an annual Christmas party at his home in Marin County for his students; a tradition that started not long before my class graduated in 1985. Going back to John’s house the year after I graduated was like going home to see old friends, and it was at that party that I met J.D. 22 years ago. We were married almost three years later and his presence at our wedding was important to us. I have no idea how many of his students married and started families, but I know of two from the classes of 85 and 86, including ours. He was a professor who was a mentor and vicariously a part-time yenta, only because we spent so much time together.

We haven’t seen John or Annette since our wedding and we recently received word that he is now retiring, officially. A part of me is sad to hear this news, since he is really an icon of what is now known as the BECA (Broadcast Electronic Communication Arts) department at SFSU. We are grateful that we will be able to be part of this celebration, one in which a man’s legacy in education, his professional and personal impact on a small group of kids spans over three decades. Our good friends from college were all his students; people we still love to keep in touch with after 20+ years. Wishing him well as he retires and thanking him for all he has done for us will be an honor for those of us who were his students. His courses, although spanning only a few semesters for us, was such an integral part of sending us out into the world, and as the old Hegedus addage goes, “John Hewitt’s pupils do pretty well.”

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Sisters & sneezes

My great Aunt Agatha was an enigma to me. I can only picture her as the nun with a black habit and Whipple that circled her soft smiling face. She had the same smile my grandpa Chet and Great Uncle Horace had, being that they were all siblings. If any three kids looked alike, they did, being completely and totally Irish. All three of them are buried in the family cemetery in Alliance, Nebraska. My memories of them involve only childhood flashbacks of her black habit, Grandpa’s old car, Horace’s small house in Alliance that he shared with his wife Agnes. Every single one of them was short in height but I didn’t notice because I was a kid and I was short too.

Sister Agatha must have been smart as a tack because she was a nurse anesthetist back in the day when they were rare. I think of her while I study and I wonder if I will ever get close to being the kind of nurse she was. One of the most irresponsible things I ever did without my parent’s permission, was give away her habit rosary that encircled her waist. When I was around 11 years old, I gave it to this little old lady named Rose, who used to attend daily Mass at St. Vincent de Paul church, because I felt sorry for her. She had severe arthritis in her hips which made it hard for her to sit, stand and kneel. I figured if she had Aunt Agatha’s rosary, maybe she would feel better. I am sure someone in this person’s family is wondering where Rose got that really big rosary. I did stupid things like that when I was a kid.

I never would have been accepted into Catholic school had it not been for Great Aunt Sr. Agatha. She was visiting us at the time my parents were trying to enroll us at the school (without much success), and apparently she went down to the school and mud wrestled Sr. Nan, the principal, for a 5th grade slot for me. I learned about the discipline of Catholic schools the very first day of school. Sr. Mary Antonilda, my 5th grade teacher, threatened to cut off my tongue with a pair of scissors if I didn’t turn around in my seat and stop chatting with another girl named Tammy, sitting behind me. I swear I thought she had scissors for this purpose and I never talked to my neighbor again while she was teaching us. I loved Sr. Antonilda. She was this wonderful short little nun who had this silvery wig and this incredible sense of humor. Whenever someone in the class sneezed, she would pace the floor in the classroom asking in a sergeant’s voice “WHO sneezed?” and when no one in the first row answered she would mimic “machine gunning” the first row on down until she got to the person who finally admitted they were the one who sneezed. Then, she would smile and say “God bless you!” Every time she did this, we would all burst out in a fit of laughter and couldn’t wait for the next time someone in the class sneezed.

Sr. Mary Antonilda allowed us to go to daily mass during Lent in lieu of lunch. I would walk down the hill to church and watch old lady Rose in her pew struggling to get up and down. I finally got the courage to sit next to her (every day) and dutifully helped her stand, sit and kneel with the crook of my arm. When my classmate, “Murph” noticed what I was doing, he used to race down to the church ahead of me to snatch up Old Rose before I could get to her, and when I snitched on him to Sr. Antonilda, she admonished "Murph" to find another old lady to help (in those words exactly because when I told on "Murph", I told Sr. A that he stole my old lady). I still laugh remembering those days in catholic school; the impression all these nuns made on me and how they fostered my sense of responsibility and my faith.

I hope that Great Aunt Sister Agatha realizes that the day she mud wrestled or negotiated for her precocious niece to go to Catholic school was the day that started a long journey to becoming a nurse, just like her, and but for the discipline and drill imparted by Sr. Mary Antonilda, I would not be the kind of student I am now; and when someone sneezes, a little stern voice with "a slight twinkle to it," goes off in my head and it makes me smile.

"Bella" A film...a story about real love

There is an independent film showing in theaters in Roseville for the next few weeks that is worth seeing because its message permeates dismal cynicism is ways most films never touch. It tells a story that is universal but hardly acknowledged. Its reverberating heartbeat sounds off like a clanging bell waking Hollywood out of its collective mediocrity. Yeah, it’s good. You should see it.

“Bella” favors the audience and leaves its critics scrambling for a reason not to like it. When a filmmaker decides to make a film that is artistic, delivers a positive message, a happy ending while touching at the heart and emotions of human conflict, Hollywood is generally not too interested, which is why the Toronto Film Festival awarded its “People’s Choice” award to the production and every other national film festival followed along with their collective thumbs up.

Despite its PG-13 rating, it’s a film that the whole family should share together and discuss. Much in the genre of “Life is Beautiful”, the film examines the beauty of why we are here, despite all the bad stuff that happens to us. The film makers decided that they wanted to make something worth seeing and worth sharing. A true cinematic gift comes along with this film. Isn’t a nice to see something on screen that speaks to the heart of the audience and not the “business” of films?

Press reports indicate that the momentum of the film is truly independent of the press it has not received. Truly, the internet and word of mouth has lent a hand toward ensuring that people see this movie and because of that, you know it has to be a really fine film.

Director Alejandro Monteverde weaves an emotional tale of self-discovery. Eduardo Verastegui (Chasing Papi) and Emmy award winning Tammy Blanchard (The Good Shepherd) deliver performances worthy of Oscar (even though we know that Hollywood won’t like them very much- reminiscent of Jim Cavaziel’s performance in another well known movie) but who cares, the ovations of the viewing audience as the credits roll are satisfactory enough. Those who experience “Bella” get it, even if Hollywood doesn’t. We haven’t seen the last of this cast or this director. It’s what makes the idea of Indy films truly a breath of fresh air.

A film that examines two people whose lives are changed forever in a single day in New York City, this film is about a simple discovery. Perhaps losing it all is what one needs to finally appreciate the things that truly matter.

Bella is a heartwarming story about life, family, relationships and the capacity for real love in the face of the unexpected. It’s playing at the Century 14 Theaters, off Eureka Blvd. in Roseville. Go see it this weekend and don’t forget to bring those you love and a box of Kleenex, I might need some.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare,blogspot.com/

Leave it to Birdy

I had to smile listening to my 11 year old daughter laugh while watching Season One of “Leave it to Beaver”, the original classic television show starring Jerry Mathers, as the Beaver. She’s hooked. I was too as a kid. Eddie Haskell’s monologues and digs remind of a child I know at my kids’ school. The themes in this show are as timeless as human nature. Birdy likes this show…No wonder at all. She’s my “lemonade stand” kid.
I asked Birdy what some of her favorite dialogues were from the show. She just loves the main character. He is sweet. Beaver is the epitome of 'purity of thought' in childhood. Come to think of it Theodore Cleaver reminds me a lot of my 11 year old. Beaver’s formal name is Theodore. Birdy’s name is Bridget (but we call her The Bird). One of the first episodes features some kids teasing Theodore when he goes to school about his nickname and they asked him who named him “Beaver”. In his little boy voice, he replied “yeah…my brother Wally named me that and it kinda stuck.”
No one is more hilarious than Eddie Haskell’s multiple brown-nosing comments to Mrs. Cleaver “Hello Mrs. Cleaver, you look lovely today. Your hair is particularly beautiful. Where do you get it done?” and in the same breath he punches Beaver in the stomach and mutters under his breath “Scram dog breath or get lost in traffic you little squirt!"

Birdy has her own ‘Eddie Haskell’ at school; a real ‘chumster‘ who also happens to be equally charming whenever I visit the school. What would the world be without the Eddie Haskell’s, the Lumpys, Whiteys, Tooeys, Chesters and Larry Mondellos…Everyone knows a Larry Mondello….Moreover, where would we be without the moral dilemmas of the Cleaver clan. Any fan of the series will remember great episodes like Captain Jack, Beaver gets ‘spelled, Water anyone, Wally’s girl trouble, New neighbors, and the all-time great “The Haircut” and “Short pants”. The series spanned 234 episodes…I readily admit that I never get tired of watching them, aw shucks.

June and Ward Cleaver are a sociological study all by themselves. The show’s repetitive moral messages would stand up easily today: obey/trust your parents, tell the truth, develop self-esteem, have pride in your family, help (or don't hurt) others, and accept responsibility for your actions. The parenting techniques incorporated in the series writing were right out of Dr. Spock’s “Baby & Child Care” handbook. The show was completely built around the importance of family, occupation, marriage and education. Ward wasn’t the only family sage. Wally had his words of wisdom for his little brother occasionally. One of my favorites was the following Wally speech from the episode, “Miss Landers’ Fiance”: Said to Beaver in a serious tone…while folding his sweater carefully on his bed.

“In a couple of years, you'll go to high school, and then you'll go to college and meet a whole bunch of girls. You'll probably marry one. Then you'll have a whole bunch of kids and a job and everything.”

Wally was master and commander of great words like "stuff, neat, gee whiz, golly, scram" words that definitely need to be resurrected and soon.

However, nothing could be as eloquent as Beaver’s ad in the paper for a dog he found:

I found a dog. The dog is brownish with no hair. I got the dog from my friend Larry but it was not his because Whitey found him in his garbage pail. If the dog you lost is the one I found, I'm the one who found it. Signed Beaver Cleaver

As we watch for the rest of the series to be released on DVD, I am sure Birdy will be watching much more of 'Leave it Beaver'…because so much of it smacks right in the middle of her 11 year old chops. The nice thing is that it is completely predictable. Ward is always home on time for dinner. Dinner is always on the table. Ward and June always agree. June is perfectly coiffed , Ward always wears his tie to work, the boys manage to get their homework done, their prayers said and their teeth brushed and the Cleavers will always come out on top, no matter what, because they have each other. Finally, kids will be kids forever and the toils and struggles of kids are what make adults. Thank God for that.

Tammy Maher is resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@scbglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Halftime

Let’s say my life expectancy is 88 years old. That’s a nice number. Double digits, couple of eight balls. Not exactly 90, a little after 85. I like it. I think my life will come to a final curtain when I’m 88. If I’m thinking in these terms, then this Tuesday, I’m at the halfway mark. In the immortal words of the pastor who called the Sunday night bingo games, in his thick Irish brogue, “G- farty-far….G-farty-far, does anyone have that lucky number?” I’m about to be officially 44 (farty far) years old. It’s halftime. Where does the time go? Death isn’t something I think about much. Maybe I should. If I did, I’d make some special requests for the end of the game, if possible.

If I had a choice, I’d order a nice early bed-time, a cup of Chamomile with honey, a soft warm blanket; my rosary and I would simply fall asleep after saying my prayers and never wake up. Hopefully I would die with a smile on my face after dreaming something really wonderful. I would recall when my kids were born, or when J.D. and I were married…these would all bring back great memories that would make me smile. But perhaps, at that age, I would be dreaming about the day my grandchildren were born and the very first time they called me “Nanny.” But we don’t really know the day or the hour, do we? I’m just speculating on all this because in my ‘Life Span’ class I had to take a life expectancy test this week, and based on my lifestyle and my medical history, the test told me that I would live to be 91 years old! I find that incredible. The double eights make much more sense. I never thought I’d live that long. When I was in the insurance business, the tables always told me I was checking out around 74. That’s entirely unacceptable. That’s young!

I was amazed to realize that as we are getting older, the whole population seems to be living longer, much longer than the generation of my great grandparents. My dad’s parents are still alive, both of them and he will be 70 in January! That’s phenomenal and it should take into consideration several things, not the least of them, advances in modern medicine, fitness, diet and nutritional advances.

As I enter the halftime, I can’t believe the changes that are ahead. Going back to school gave me new perspective on how beneficial life long learning is, especially in the aging population. There is nothing more encouraging than to see people in my parent’s generation returning to school and learning for the sheer joy of it. Most of the women in my study groups for organic chemistry and anatomy and physiology are my age or younger. The conversations at home are a little more intellectual now that Mom is in school too. It makes us all think a little more about the world around us.

As I age, I find that the older I get, the younger the old folks appear to me, not only physically, but emotionally too. The conversations get more interesting with the life perspective broadening. When I was young, I used to laugh at the silliness of my grandmother and all her mannerisms. I can still hear her voice like it was yesterday. She had a simple life, but I think it was rich because she shared so much of herself with others. I hope I achieve that kind of openness and willingness to meet people where they are at. I hope when I am 88, I can look back on my life and say, “everything’s just fine” and then slowly step into the next life, with God’s grace. If I’m meant to suffer, I hope I can still have that smile.

The first half of life was a great. The game was full of touchdowns and setbacks but, since its only halftime, I guess I’ve got a little more time left. In the meantime, I’ll get on with it. There is still so much to see, so much work to do and at least farty far more in the bag.

Wood whittlers & Communists

Robert was born in 1938, four years before Vladimir’s family was slaughtered by the communists occupying Slovenia. Robert will be 70 years old in January. Vladimir is living as a retired priest in Pine Grove and is close to 90 years old. Vladimir came from a family of 12 children. He lives with and takes care of his sister Draga who is also in her later years of life. Vladimir and Draga were present when the communists broke into their home and killed their parents and handicapped brother, leaving their bodies brutalized in the basement of their home in Zapotok. One week prior to the house invasion, Vladimir’s brother Frank was killed because he was a Catholic lay leader and resisted joining the communist party. The story of Vladimir’s experience with communism is told in his book “Communism as I know it” by Vladimir Kozina. It’s currently in its eighth printing. It’s a book I’ve asked my children to read, after they read “Animal Farm.” His life’s sorrows and joys are carefully etched in his face. He is a beautiful soul.

Robert was born in New Jersey and ultimately settled in California raising a family. I am his oldest daughter. He always earned a living but was constantly crafting things with his hands. For my birthday this year, I received a wood carving of St. Francis with five birds. It’s prominently sitting at my front door. I love it. My Dad’s heart is in that wooden St. Francis. I will always treasure the labor of his knife, the paint, and sandpaper the softened the edges of the wood.

Piero is JD’s second cousin. He is in his 60’s and living in Como, Italy. He is known for making homemade nativity scenes out of something as small as a walnut, to as large as a hollowed out television set. His life hobby is working with his hands and honoring God at the time of His incarnation. Piero is a gentle soul. I just love him and am so honored to know him. Some of my heartiest laughs have been around his kitchen table.

Joseph was born in Germany and came to the United States speaking no English, he settled in Alabama as a Benedictine Monk. Joseph Zoettel spent 50 years crafting cement, stones and junk into a miniature city of the world's most important religious structures. Born in 1878 in Bavaria, he was maimed in an accident that gave him a hunchback, but miraculously did not impair his ability to bend over and build tiny things. Brother Joe died in 1961, and all 125 of his buildings still stand, protectively nestled on the campus of St. Bernard Abbey in a place called Ave Maria Grotto. You cannot visit that place without feeling the love of Brother Joe. Brother Joe feels like a member of my family. He created his wonderful grotto with 4 crude tools. He was a man constantly in pain but constantly expressing his joy with his art. His life of toiling and prayer are testament to his artwork. There wasn’t anything lovelier to me than walking amongst his creations in his grotto, where he left the pain of the world behind. He knew the horrors of communism such that he never saw his family again after his arrival in the United States. Below is a picture of his replica "Vatican City" in miniature. It was created from the junk he refused to throw away.



Today, Vladimir is a retired priest whose life was spared miraculously during the home invasion of 1942 because he parents and siblings refused to tell the communists where he was hiding. At the time of their murder, he was lying prostrate in the attic of his house, listening to the torture of his family beneath him. I’ve known Father Kozina for the last nine years. He is man who not only has a deep abiding faith, but he is a man who works with his hands, created beautiful wood sculptures and religious tributes. He uses common “junk” and makes creations that move and are gloriously lit up with common house bulbs, Christmas lights and thingamajigs.

Nothing is junk to these four men. They all have come from lives of hardship, pain and joy. Their creations speak volumes about their faith. I often imagine Father Kozina praying or whistling as he works, Brother Joseph doing the same. I often wonder what my Dad or Piero might be thinking as they assemble their creations. As long as the communists are far away, I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Papa's Heart

J.D.’s dad is a generous soul who likes to shop; but more than that he enjoys the giving and the gifting. He has his favorite haunts where he shops in his spare time and many people, whether family or friend, find themselves the lucky recipients of his generosity. He has a good memory for the interests and activities of others and he particularly bears this in mind while he investigates his favorite shops and warehouses.

He’s always been that way. I’ve known Patrick for over two decades. Whether it’s a book he thinks you might be interested in reading, or whether he is hosting a rehearsal dinner to welcome you to his large family, he gets a twinkle in his eye when he knows “he got you.” I suppose “Papa’s” heart of generosity was born from not having everything when he was young, much like my own parents and their generation. He had Irish immigrant parents who worked hard and scraped together a “living” to raise their family during the Great Depression.

I’ve watched Pat’s generosity through the years with friends and acquaintances and he has never changed. He has a soft spot for the down trodden and has “adopted” people into his extended family with financial as well as philosophical support. He is generous with advice, concern and support. Both of J.D.’s parents are huge advocates of the power of education and encouraged their family to pursue all their educational objectives. Pat loves to write. His hobbies are writing, history, politics, religion and giving. He is certainly one of those special people who should always have a pedestal. He has a lot to share with others.

You would think that this is a Father’s Day tribute to J.D.’s dad, and in a way, it is a very belated one, but as I sit and write this column, Pat is being prepared for heart bypass surgery. I remember writing a column such as this almost two years ago November for my own dad. I was scared to death and so was my family. This isn’t any different. Pat has been “Dad” to me as long as J.D. & I have been together. In essence, he has been a huge part of my life and I can hardly remember the years before him because as the years go on, he has been part of my family, as much as I’ve been part of his. Parents shape who we are as people. Pat’s influence is so broad, there isn’t a canvas large enough or broad enough to encompass the lives he has touched.

These are the times when we wish we could adequately express what a person has meant to us, the times when we feel certain vulnerability about them and their well-being. They only serve as reminders that when we are loved so much and generously by people with big hearts, it’s easy to forget to say “You are important and loved in return!”

Dad Maher, this is one of those times. We are praying for you, the skill of your surgeons, your recovery and the health of your new arteries and for the strength you will need in the days ahead to come home. God bless you and MoMaher and give you a speedy recovery.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Saint Barth's & Bella Vista Bed & Breakfast

Almost 20 years ago, J.D. & I were married. Looking at the pictures I see a couple of kids with a beat up old Ford Tempo and a two bedroom apartment. After our wedding reception, we took off in the old Ford to San Francisco to spend our first night at the Portman Hotel (now known as the Pan Pacific). If you haven’t stayed at this hotel, we highly recommend it, as one of the very best hotels in San Francisco, even to this day.

For the rest of our honeymoon, we flew out of the country to a little island in the French West Indies, called Saint Barthélemy. It was a little nerve wracking to fly in a little four-seater Piper plane over a large ocean and landing on a driveway on a small island. I guess it was the wedded bliss that veiled the fear of flying with a pilot who looked like Captain Bligh, hung over after a late night binge. He boarded us while carrying a steel case marked “Emergency tool kit” and we boarded the plane anyway. It was like being in a small sports car in the sky.

St. Barth’s is an island only realized in one’s dream. We had reservations at the Hotel Le Manapany, situated prettily on the north shore’s secluded Anse des Cayes. We had our own cottage and access to a private beach. I still don’t remember how we afforded it, but we had an excellent travel agent at the time. She put the whole deal in a honeymoon package that cost roughly $3,000 including airfare, meals and a Mini Moke car (think golf cart) which easily transported us around the small island paradise. Isle de St. Barthélemy is located in the northeastern corner of the Caribbean Sea, 4400 miles from Paris, 1700 miles from New York, 125 miles east from Puerto Rico, and 15 miles southeast from St. Maarten. A little more than eight square miles, its steep hills divide the island into several valleys, usually open on one side to the sea. Each valley is distinctive, with unique variations of topography, flora, density of settlement, and character of architecture. I remember driving our Mini Moke up one peak where we noticed a yield sign for air craft coming over the hill into the airport.

Since the island was name for St. Barthelemy (St. Bartolomeo), the feast day celebration is a big deal August 24, so we were lucky to be around on that day. The French Navy also docks there on such occasions and you see them wander around the village, where natives and visitors come into contact daily. The native peoples resemble Dutch sheep herders. I know it all seems so surreal. The primary languages spoken on the island are French and English, although most residents come from France and Portugal. We spent ten days there absorbing the wonderful cuisine and people of St. Barth’s vowing that someday we would return.

For this nineteenth wedding anniversary, we opted for a local getaway that I wanted to share with readers as a beautiful way to celebrate a wedding anniversary or special birthday. Once you are there, you feel like you are truly “away” and we only traveled 20 minutes. Some wisdom just comes with age and experience.

Our destination was a new bed and breakfast that opened in Placerville off Cold Springs Road near Coloma. Bella Vista Bed & Breakfast sits on an oasis overlooking the Coloma valley on carefully landscaped grounds. The owners Bob & Kathleen Ash are the perfect hosts in a lovely home that they’ve created for their guests to enjoy. Just down the hill from Gold Hill and David Girard Wineries, this was a wonderful getaway that allowed us to feel as if we had gone away, much in the way we did for our honeymoon. Kathleen and Bob take very good care of their guests and treat them like family. Each room is tastefully decorated, with no detail left to chance. The evening wine and appetizers made us want to stay in for dinner.

The next day we took our whole family to brunch at Sequoia Restaurant, another local treasure situated in Placerville on Bee Street that boasts a lovely atmosphere in an old historic mansion and a chef who keeps the brunch and dinner menu very interesting and delicious.

You don’t have to fly out of the country to celebrate special occasions; sometimes the romance and the ambiance can be found in your own backyard! We wish Bob & Kathleen every success with Bella Vista; it’s truly a beautiful view and one of Placerville’s newest “hot spots”.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com