Peace and Quiet

This was our year for all the kids and grandkids to be with us for Thanksgiving: our three daughters, son-in-law, grandkids Will, Catie, Jack, Autumn and Ada, plus friends Paul and Nancy. In all, thirteen for dinner, but only nine spending the night. And only seven spending the weekend.

I love this truism about the joy of hosting your grown children and their kids: The sweetest sight in the world is their car turning into the driveway, and the second sweetest is the same car backing out when the visit is over.

Post Thanksgiving, I can appreciate that wisdom. Sure, the toys are back in the toy closet; the dishwasher has been run and emptied one more time; four loads of sheets and towels are laundered; the craft paint spots have been eradicated from the kitchen table and tile. On the other hand, I don’t have anyone with whom to read a bedtime story. Or delight in the immense depth of the bath water in the spa tub. Or sing me a song about ballerinas. (Don’t tell me Curt can fill in; he had to catch a plane for Canada this afternoon. And while he likes deep bathtubs, he knows diddly squat about ballerinas.)

In the midst of all the “I’m hungry,” and “Can we make a gingerbread house,” and “Where’s the kitty?” and “I want to play with that!” and “Come and watch me,” interspersed with shrieks and laughter and mittens and shoelaces and toilet needs, it’s apparent from this vantage point why nature has determined that human beings have their offspring while the parents are still relatively young. I’m amazed to realize that Curt and I also once handled all the tumult of a young family with such aplomb, and I have new admiration for grandparents who are called upon to raise their grandchildren.

Still, I already miss the wild enthusiasm of Will, age 6, whose favorite expression is “Who doesn’t love (fill in the blank)!” As in, “Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving dinner!” even though he doesn’t really love most of what was served at Thanksgiving dinner. His favorites were the grape tomatoes on the appetizer platter, the sparkling juice, and the dinner rolls. His assessment of the star attraction as it was prepared to go into the oven: “That’s a live turkey!” His sister Catie, age 3, decided in that one look that she no longer likes turkey. Can’t say I blame them; that’s basically why I’m vegetarian myself. Even so, at the dinner table Will marveled, “Grandma, you made all of this!”

And I love the way they make me laugh. Catie’s dad Dave remarked, “When you get older, Catie, you’ll be able to get me coffee.” Catie’s response: “I’m free and free-quarters, and I can get all the drinks I want for myself.” Let Daddy get his own damn coffee.

But then again, I have only myself to please at dinner tonight. I’ll go for slightly past-its-prime leftover pasta, Chex mix and Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips. I can’t look at stuffing or sweet potato casserole right now. Please. Though they’re still buried in the fridge somewhere.

So, let me see. Tonight:

Gramps the cat dozing blissfully, check.

Everything in its rightful place, check.

Me with my feet up and a good book, check.

Troll books and ballerinas, no check.

Conclusion: Peace and quiet is both marvelous and overrated. At least I have some new Christmas ornaments—snowmen and stars freshly painted in muddy blue and gray tones because too many colors were applied, all signed illegibly on the back. I’m sure they’ll look great hanging on the tree next to the ones their mom and aunts painted 25 years ago.

Besides, the whole clan will be back in four weeks for Christmas. Life is good.

Viva Las Vegas

As an Iowa schoolgirl, I and my schoolmates were treated to annual assemblies featuring the world travels of Al Bell. In outlandish costumes, bringing artifacts and animals and showing films from places like Newfoundland and Egypt, Mr. Bell introduced a generation of landlocked middle-American children to the reality of a vast world.

But did this impressionable pre-adolescent girl get bit with the Indonesia bug? No, it was that great philosopher of the Twentieth Century, Elvis Presley, who first stirred my travel dreams. His melodic extolling of the beckoning allure of Las Vegas just sounded so upbeat and happenin’:

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire,
… turnin’ day into nighttime, turnin’ night into daytime…
If you see it once you’ll never be the same again.

Not being the kind of place I wanted to vacation with my parents, I quietly added it to my bucket list under the heading “Someday.” As a churchgoing young mother of three, I hid that list under a pile of laundry, schoolwork and choir practices. At various times over the years, I’d drop hints to friends, sisters and/or daughters that we might plan a trip together. (My husband wasn’t interested, so I needed a traveling partner.) But I soon found that, like Curt, not everyone shared my dream of visiting Sin City, even with the tales of drinks flowing freely and cheaply; 99-cent prime rib buffets stretching endlessly; and hotels practically giving away their rooms in return for our coins in their slot machines.

Me, Juli and Mary in front of Caesar's Palace

So I bided my time, and my patience was rewarded this past summer when I met two new friends who eagerly agreed to join me in checking this item off my bucket list. Mary and Juli had both been to Vegas before and were game to give it another go. Since our acquaintance was based on four hours together while under the influence of a couple of martinis apiece, as we traded emails planning the trip I reasonably began to question the wisdom of committing a weekend to traveling with them. They had known each other for years; would I be the odd man out? Were they regretting that they’d agreed to include me? On the fun-loving spectrum, would they turn out to be rowdy, devil-may-care hedonists, or prim, early-to-bed schoolmarms? I know which end of that spectrum I fall on, much as I like to pretend it were the other.

The view from my room at night

The three of us met up at the Paris hotel, where we checked into lovely rooms on the 30th floor overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Bellagio fountains. With temperatures in the low 80’s, we ambled along the Strip, having lunch outdoors and shopping at Caesar's Palace. A seafood dinner at Aquaknox was followed by a show at The Mirage, Cirque du Soleil’s Love, with seats in the seventh row. I don’t want to review the show here, but let me just say that this Beatles extravaganza was probably the most amazing live performance I’ve ever attended, barring even the Bavarian accordionist on the riverboat last month.

The three of us with the backdrop
of the water wall at SW

The next day we got a tour of the fabulous Wynn and Encore casino resorts, with dinner at SW overlooking a manmade lake featuring a colorfully lit water wall. That night we saw another Cirque-type show, Le Reve, featuring diving, feats of strength and special effects over a million-gallon water setting. This one was Mary’s favorite, while I had become a bit blasé from the sensory overload by this time.


Speaking of sensory overload, that’s a pretty fair two-word summary of the Vegas experience. Street performers—one of which scared the pants off me when the “statue” moved—and huge themed hotels with sculptures and structures and waterfalls and fountains, and Elvis’s lights and the ubiquitous hum of the casinos, incomparable people-watching for those who enjoy that sport, the free-flowing food and drink. However, from those early days Las Vegas has evolved into an expensive, upscale destination with nary a 99-cent buffet in sight, and drinks running $13 a pop. Lucky for us that Mary provided lots of perks, compliments of her connections in the travel industry.

Now that I’ve covered the niceties, the reader might be left to wonder about the parts I’ve left out—those in-between-dinners-and-shows times. What about the debauchery? What about the gambling? What about the SIN, for crying out loud?

As it turns out, the very best way to visit Las Vegas is with someone who has no prior expectations of how you’ll behave. I highly recommend it. Next year, maybe Newfoundland.