Under the Hyacinth

In the middle of the night, Mom’s eyes flew wide; she had remembered Uncle Ding’s ashes. The tiny parcel allotted to Mom was in a brown plastic box inside a white cardboard box stored in the dining room under the sideboard, amidst the boxes for Dad’s antique toys. The ashes had been there since Uncle Ding’s beloved Sheila brought them to Mom in October, five months ago. Mom had not yet carried out Uncle Ding’s wishes that they be buried with his mother, my grandmother Byeo, in the cemetery of the local church.

Actually, Uncle Ding wanted to be dispersed several places. His first cousin was given a portion to sprinkle on my grandfather’s grave in St. Louis, and my cousins, Ding’s daughters, have kept small packets. In addition, in a shipboard ceremony, Sheila had flung some of the ashes into the seas of the Caribbean and saved a small parcel for herself. That inspired Mom to keep a bit of Dad nearby, and two months after his death, some of his ashes remain in a tin on the end table by his side of the bed. “Sometimes I talk to him,” Mom says.  

 

Anyway, what caused Mom’s alarm that night was a mental image of Uncle Ding’s ashes spilled and set flying by an auction company packer chancing upon Uncle Ding by mistake while searching for just the right box for one of Dad’s toys. 

 

For, day after tomorrow, Dad’s toy collection will be packed up and taken away for auction. While my mother has been astonishing in maintaining her composure in the weeks following my father’s passing, she can’t talk about this step, the loss of Dad’s collection, without tears. “It’ll be like another death,” she says. 

When Dad was alive, his toy room, formerly a den, was his joy. A colorful parade of tin and wrought iron replicas of past modes of transportation filled the shelves above the antique dry sink. Dad used to arrange and re-arrange the cars, trains, paddle boats, steamers, airplanes, zeppelins, and tiny people. He dusted, catalogued, and photographed them. He showed them off to any willing visitor. This was Dad’s room. When he was dying, my daughter Casey and husband Dave fled there to sit in Dad’s red chair to desperately toast his health. When he died, we all gathered there, each of us wearing one of his ties, jackets, or sweaters, trying to sense his presence while taking in his preferred cocktail-hour view of his prized collection. 

 

Once the toys are gone, Mom plans to paint the room a vibrant rose, no, make that blue…wait, perhaps beige? She has changed her mind many times, so the final color will be a surprise. Mom is going to hang posters, display family photos, and arrange the few toys she loves enough to keep. It will look great, but it won’t be Dad’s toy room anymore. Hm. Having said that though, I think it always will be.

 

So. Back to the ashes. First thing the morning after Mom mentally glimpsed the cloud that was her brother billowing in the dining room after an accidental opening, she went down and moved the box to the stairs. Having seen items remain in that spot for days, I said, “Let’s just take care of this, Mom, so you don’t have to worry about it.” 

 

We discussed the possibility of any legal issues that might surround unofficial placement of ashes in a graveyard. We thought there probably were. Technically, we were adding a smidge of the essence of another person to the family plot. What with the other Uncle Ding dispersals around the country, there weren’t many ashes left, but still, what if there was a glitch, and we were caught?

 

At the time, Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table in the white plastic chairs my mother favors, eating English muffins topped with fried eggs cooked on the 1938 Roper stove that had been in the house when my parents bought it in 1963. Beneath our feet curled the faux red brick linoleum that could not be removed because of an asbestos layer. I love that about my parents’ house, the house where I grew up: things haven’t changed much. Well, they hadn’t until Dad died.

 

I noticed a hyacinth plant on the windowsill, the leaves still green and succulent, the pink blossoms peaked and wilted, but cheery. “I’ve got it, Mom. We can pretend we’re planting bulbs on Byeo’s grave.” Perfect. She liked the idea, and it was decided.  

 

Still, the “what if” of illegality remained which prompted a giddy review of potential headlines. “’Mainline matron’… no, make that ‘Mainline Widow,’” said Mom. “’Mainline Widow Arrested for Illegal Dig in Graveyard.’” We rehearsed our dialogue with any imaginary sextons, reverends, or cops who might happen by. “Oh, we’re just planting hyacinths. They’ll be lovely in the spring. This? Oh. Fertilizer. Just a nice, powdered fertilizer.” We thought we were hysterical. And, for two ardent rule-followers, daring.

 

Mom dressed for the caper, or… ceremony, in a white turtleneck, beige cardigan with gold buttons, camel coat, black trousers and a matching black hairband to hold her silver hair. She looked beautiful. I was in jeans and Mom’s purple parka.  

 

I took the plastic bag of ashes from its box and put it in a plain brown bag; less obvious, I thought. Mom fetched a shovel and trowel from the garage, and of course, we had the hyacinth in its black wire holder and bed of moss.

 

Our outlaw sense of euphoria carried us to the churchyard. The playground swings hung empty by the parish house. One white suburban was parked in the lot. If any souls were near, we couldn’t see them. Might there be a few loved ones about, though? Dad? Byeo? Are you here?   

 

The church is a handsome stone edifice encircled with the kind of cemetery in which anyone would be pleased to dwell for eternity. Granite headstones nestle in the grass yard among the massive trunks of towering oaks, centuries old. Now that Dad has joined his brother Henry and my grandmother there, it is a friendly, welcoming place. 

 

Dad’s and Byeo’s graves are near the driveway, so we parked, gathered our supplies –plus Uncle Ding - and walked the short distance. Dad’s headstone was not ready yet, and in the few months since his funeral, when my nephew lowered the small box of ashes into the ground, all signs of Dad’s moving in had vanished.

 

Mom stood by – and stood watch – holding the hyacinth as I jammed the shovel into the earth. I felt the oddness of the act, the sense of disturbance. Yet I knew Byeo would be thrilled to pieces, as she would have said, to welcome her son.

 

I dug down about eight inches. “Maybe a little deeper?” Mom suggested, so I scooped a few more shovels full. I was nowhere close to tapping the tiny box that held Byeo, still, I was aware of it down there.

 

While untwisting the wire tie, I kept the plastic bag of ashes concealed within the brown bag, then poured the fine gray powder into the hole and sprinkled it with a layer of soil. Mom loosened the hyacinth from its container and placed it in the earth. I shoveled in the remaining dirt, patted it down, and watered. 

 

Mom and I stood back and smiled. We had not been arrested, and Uncle Ding was with his mother. A loving request fulfilled. “Should we sing something?” I asked. We considered some possibilities. I was thinking “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” but since Uncle Ding was an old Yale Whiffenpoof, Mom opted for the Whiffenpoof song. I don’t know many of the words, so I put my arm around my mother’s shoulder and joined in where I could. “We are poor little lambs who have lost our way. Baa. Baa. Baa.” At the end of the song, we grinned and applauded. We were both teary, but happy, too. 

                     

 

 

 

That Never Used to Happen

“Hello Stranger! Here for your annual visit? ” Ji-ho grinned as he pressed a button  to rotate the racks. After a soft whir and swish of plastic sheeting, shirts, dresses, and slacks came to rest, and Ji-ho plucked off the hangers bearing Dave’s clothes.

“How’re things?" I asked. 

“Surviving,” he said with a sigh as he handed me a slip and said, “Sign here.”

In the past, I would’ve taken his response as being as reflexive as my habitual question but not now, not given current events.

“Surviving? That doesn’t sound good. What’s up?” 

“Since Covid, I’ve lost over half my business. He pressed the button to spin the racks and gestured at an empty stretch. “That never used to happen. The racks were always full.” Together we gazed in discouragement at the span of bare hooks. He continued, “People work from home or go to the office twice a week. They don’t have to dress up anymore, and sweatshirts don’t need dry cleaning.” He smiled ruefully. “And then, there’s people like you. Good customers, but people retire.”

He was right. When Dave and I were working, we’d drop clothes at the dry cleaner every two weeks or so. Ji-ho knew our names, numbers, and addresses; he never had to ask.  We’d walk in for a pick-up, he’d see us, smile, and spin the racks to our order. It was nice to have that familiarity.   

“So much has happened... since Covid, since Trump. The country’s upended," I said. “My sister called last week, and she’s a mess, furious and nervous, because ICE has leased a facility less than two miles from her house. That’s a whole other horrible situation.”

Ji-ho nodded. “Yeah. Things have changed. People look at me differently. I never got looks like these before.” 

“What do you mean ‘looks’?” 

“Recently I was at the deli counter at Stop & Shop to get some ham. At first, the person working there pretended not to see me. When I finally forced his attention and asked for Boar’s Head ham, he said, “What? I can’t understand you.”

“So, I repeated myself, but still he snapped that he had no idea what I was saying. That happened a couple more times.”

Ji-ho is Korean, an American citizen, and has owned his business for 26 years. His accent is barely discernible.  

He continued. “So. I typed ‘Boar’s Head ham’ on my phone and held it up for the guy to see. He shook his head and said, ‘we don’t have any.’ And of course, they did. I could see it in the case. But I just walked away. Didn’t want to deal with him.”

“Oh Ji-ho. I hate hearing this.”

“Yeah. That never used to happen. Now, my wife and I know we have to be careful.”

We looked at each other sadly. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked.

He hung his head, shuffled around the side of the counter, and I hugged him.   

Things have changed. But we can do something about it. 

 

 

    

Yearning to Get it Back

Snow whirled outside shrouding shrubs, steps, stone walls, and cars as I snuggled in before the TV and a cozy fire. In a gentle rise and fall of white, snow smooths over life’s hurry and softens distinctions between Nature’s creations and those of man. This was the winter I’d yearned for, the kind of winter my parents recalled from their youth when Dad skated on ponds frozen for months and Mom rode her sled from her backyard through the woods and into the fields beyond. Given the turmoil of world events, I welcomed the escape of snow and a movie.

Dave had gone to bed, and I was watching “The Adam Project.” Time travel, past and future co-existing, and the deceased lending a hand are not Dave’s thing. They are absolutely mine. 

Onscreen, two versions of Adam, the protagonist, have traveled back in time in search of their father. Twelve-year-old Adam is a scrawny smart-aleck who is bullied at school. He is thrilled to meet his 40-year-old self – Ryan Reynolds - who is muscular, handsome, equipped with futuristic weapons, and still a smart aleck. Their father is a professor and inventor killed two years before– in his sons’ experience - in a car accident. Yet he is the only one who can solve the chaos of the present.

When the boys find him, he is giving a lecture, cracking jokes with his students, his hair disheveled, his sport coat rumpled. His sons are transfixed. There he is. It’s a regular day at work, and the man they have ached for is… so alive.

At that, my throat tightened as I stifled a sob, not because of the scene so much as the pang I felt in imagining the poignancy of seeing Mom and Dad or my grandmother, Byeo, once more. I could feel it; the gift of getting that chance again. To see Mom on her bed, perusing the pages of her beloved Majesty magazine. To have Dad take my hand to show me an addition to his antique toy collection. To see Byeo in her blue robe flipping silver dollar pancakes on the stove. Nothing special… just the extraordinary blessing of ordinary times. 

Years ago, I clipped out and saved a Family Circus comic by Bil Keane. The strip, in full color, depicted the father gesturing to his mother, wife, and daughter to stand closer together for a picture. The caption read something like, “I want a photo of all my girls.” Appearing as white outlines next to “his girls” were the women who’d come before… the flapper, the suffragette, the Victorian, and so on… a sustaining line of women, hand in hand, leading up to Dolly, the little girl of the family. The present can be hard, and the thought, the hope, of ancestral support is comforting. 

How long ago did that cartoon appear? Which of my journals holds it within its pages? I want to find it. There are days when I want to know that my women, the grandmothers and great-grandmothers, are near, outlined in white or in whatever form they might have on the Other Side. It will be a challenge to leaf through 51 journals on that hunt. I know I’ll bog down reading entries that inspire smiles, tears, or gratitude. It could take days to find that clipping while I relive whatever transpired in whatever year, on whatever day. I know my chest will ache with yearning for some of those times. 

And here I am now, at the dining room table in February of 2026, with a snowy woodland vista beyond the window and Dave rustling papers as he prepares our taxes. Some future day, I’ll come across this piece, and yearn, with my heart aching, to get this moment back.  

 

  

 

 

3:00 PM Curse

Is it smart, in mid-winter, to set out for a hike in late afternoon? No, but Dave and I love our leisurely mornings, snug in a sunny spot on our green couch, sipping coffee while scrolling through emails or practicing Italian with Duolingo. Then, there are bills, laundry, projects, and phone calls, and time passes, ever more quickly the older we get. As a result, plans for a brisk walk around noon get pushed forward, and as dark settles in, we’re still out in the woods. 

So, I was mindful when we set out last month around 3:00ish. We should know, by now, to be wary of that time. 

But this is the winter I have been yearning for! Snow deep on the ground, trees black-ink-bare, and the tops of ancient thrown walls mere stepping stones through white-washed woods up to a ridge. Lasting cold that freezes ponds and rivers. Lacy patterns etched in the snow by deer, skunk, fox, and coyote searching for food. Icicle daggers glinting from gutters. 3:00 or not, we were bound to go. 

While we walked, Dave nibbled pistachio nuts and, with thumb and forefinger, flipped the shells, striving to land them on the yellow line down the middle of the road. “Yeah! Got one! Check it out!” 

As we approached a hill, we noticed tire tracks carved into the snowbank flanking the street; someone had parked there since last night’s storm. Thankfully, hunting season was over, and we were curious, drawn by the solid set of boot prints that led through a break in the stone wall.

“Want to follow them for a bit?” Dave asked.

“Sure. I’m up for it.”  

We’ve explored these woods before and know where the stream widens and splashes in a frothy tumble over a series of waterfalls before flowing into the reservoir beyond. The water was running fast and high after the autumn rains and recent snow melt, so we expected this jaunt to be quick, curtailed when we reached the stream. But after brushing through thorny brambles and clambering over fallen branches, we saw that someone – our boot-shod leader perhaps – had thrown down two wide planks to form a bridge. He or she had come prepared.

“Eleanor would love this,” said Dave as we crossed over. Our granddaughter is ever curious and loves an adventure. She’d be bright-eyed and animated as she postulated theories about Mr. Boots and whatever his hike might have held. 

Came a point where the boot prints angled toward the reservoir, and it was time to head home. We branched off in what felt to be the right direction. It was still light, but I was mindful of the hour as I recalled a walk on Jump Hill years ago with our wolfish Alaskan Malamute, Kodiak. I’d heard the trail there was about a mile long, just right since we were late in starting, again around 3:00. 

Turned out, I had the distance wrong, and when the sun set and the painted trail blazes on trees disappeared in the darkness, we were too far along to double back. We’d stumbled on, gingerly feeling forward with sneakered feet before each step in order to avoid rocks, wetlands, and downed tree limbs. Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are you nervous?” His reassuring answer always calmed me, but I was on the town’s Conservation Commission and kept imagining search parties and humiliating headlines in the Easton Courier: “Commissioner lost in the woods.” Ultimately, however, we were able to situate ourselves using Orion’s stars, our sense of where the sun went down, and Kodiak’s instincts. We vowed that from then on, we would bring water and a compass on every hike. 

That wasn’t the only time we turned a walk into a foolhardy adventure. Once while staying at the Mohonk Mountain House, Dave and I set out for a stroll. Need I tell you the time? Yes, around 3:00. Did we bring water and a compass? No. We skirted the lake, enjoying the sound of cheery youthful voices above us and out of sight beyond a wall of tumbled boulders. A painted yellow arrow on a nearby rock pointed upwards, an invitation. We grinned at each other: a short scramble would add rock climbing – which has a nice risky ring to it - to our list of Mohonk forays. 

For a while, it was fun, a wonderful challenge to find toeholds and reach for the next rock, always led upwards by occasional yellow arrows and the chatter of young voices ahead. But the afternoon was passing; it was dusky; we were relying more on feel than sight; and again, it was too late to turn back. Suddenly the kids’ commentary stopped short, and we heard a girl say, “No F-ing way I’m doing that.”

Not a good sign. 

By then, we’d been calling back and forth, and Dave yelled, “What is it?”

“Ladders! A series of ladders up through a narrow crevice in the rocks! It’s pitch black in there!” 

“Is there another way around?” 

“Nope. We saw signs early on for the ‘Lemon Squeezer.’ This must be it. It’s gonna be tight.” As we clambered closer, we could hear the muffled grunts, curses, and exclamations punctuating their efforts.  

It was full-on dark when we reached the Lemon Squeezer, and the kids had kindly, wisely, waited above the crevice and shone their phone flashlights through the opening at the top to ease our ascent. 

The wooden ladders were steep and rustic. Head back, I gazed up the rock face; it would be quite a climb. Still, I knew we were closing in on the road near Skytop, a stone tower on the highest point overlooking the lake. The kids were waiting for us, and we would not spend a chilly night huddled in the shelter of a ledge, a recurring mental image I’d tried to block earlier. So, as I grasped the rungs and started up, I was exhilarated more than afraid. And you can imagine the triumphant babble of Lemon Squeezer survivors when we met up with our fellow adventurers and all but skipped down the dark road to the Mountain House together.  

So, on this recent January day, I was mindful; 3:00ish start times had proved tricky. Also, having reveled in spotting bobcats and bears in our yard, I had no wish for a close encounter, although these days, I worry more about dangers posed by humans than our woodland friends. Still, I picked up a sturdy stick to wield, just in case. 

Dave was confident we were on course to meet up with a familiar trail, but I thought we’d been angling too deep into the woods for that. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned that we’d brought neither water nor compass with us. So much for that vow.  

“If the trail’s not over that ridge,” I said, pointing to a stone wall that crested the rise ahead, “we should turn back so we can still see to follow our tracks.” 

The snow was deep enough that the uphill climb was laborious, and our exchanges were turning testy. 

Suddenly Dave said, “There’s the road!” and gestured to the left.

I scanned the expanse of snow, rock outcrops, and trees and saw nothing promising. “How do you know?” I said, my voice verging on snarky.

“I saw car lights.” 

Well, I hadn’t… but he was right. We tromped further, met up with the road, and were home before dark. Perhaps the 3:00 curse has been broken. 

     

 

Going Viral

Now children on their way home from pre-school are fair game. It is only right that they be herded into fenced detention areas by masked agents in black garb. And don’t go soft over that anxious little face beneath the blue woolen cap with white bunny ears.  

What a clever plan. Use five-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos as bait to nab his father. Totally worth terrorizing a small child to get his dad, never mind that Liam’s family had been “following the legal process perfectly, from presenting themselves at the border to applying for asylum and waiting for the process to go through,” according to the Ramos’s lawyer. Yes, definitely detain Liam despite the pleas of other adults in the house to care for him.

And kudos to ICE for rousing – with guns drawn - a Minneapolis man from his afternoon nap and hustling him, bare-chested, out of his home into subfreezing weather. What an optic: a circle of federal agents, some heavily armed, some in camo uniforms and helmets, surrounding a graying grandfather in his underwear. As embarrassing to the country and the military as it is horrific, it would make a punchline for a terrible joke: How many U.S. agents does it take to round up a half-naked man? Awkward for Trump, Vance, Miller & Co. that the campaign was a mistake: Chongly “Scott” Thao is a citizen.  

Who are the people behind those masks? 

Didn’t Trump say he was unleashing ICE to round up the “worst of the worst”? So why are ICE agents in Minneapolis harassing random people of color, demanding to see their papers? Again, it doesn’t bode well when among those targeted are off-duty police officers, citizens all. 

And then there’s Renee Goode, white, mother of three, shot and killed while retreating in her car, and Alex Pretti, an ICU nurse for the VA, shot multiple times, after filming ICE activities with his phone and trying to help a woman who’d been knocked down. 

How often has ICE victimized innocents and American citizens, but we, bowled over by the barrage of bad news, screened it out? Based on U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement data as of November 2025, the Cato Institute reports that 73% of ICE detainees have no criminal convictions, and in 2025, over 170 American citizens were mistakenly arrested and detained. Ironic that an administration so bent on rooting out “illegals” has so flagrantly defied the law.   

Have the protections and rights of the Constitution been abandoned by this administration? Looks it. Government diligence in discerning “the worst” is lacking.  

Is this what Trump voters had in mind? Do Republicans in Congress think this is acceptable? Have they read the Constitution they vowed to uphold? Perhaps we, The People, need to remind them: the Fifth Amendment assures that no person shall be “deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law,” and the Fourth Amendment guarantees “the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”

Generations before us fought, bled, and died to ensure American rights. Naively, I thought that battle had been won. Now it is up to us. If you abhor the cruelty and injustice of lawless ICE actions, call or write your congress people. Tell them to vote NO on funding to the Department of Homeland Security and expansion of ICE. 

 

 

 

Close Up Taste of the News

An evening at Speakeasy Magick awaited, and Carey, Don, Dave and I had taken the train to Grand Central. As we headed to the Ace Hotel, we felt lucky to get a taxi so easily and with such an affable driver. 

Muhammed was chatty and personable. We asked the usual questions: how long had he lived in New York? Where was he from? Where would he live if he could live anywhere? He’d been in the city for 10 years, hailed from Bangladesh, and would prefer to live in California, but was daunted by the cost. He was sympathetic and made some helpful suggestions when he learned Don had forgotten his phone – and the speakeasy tickets it held – in his truck. 

New York’s congestion – the cars, humans, garbage, and buildings – blows me away, alien territory compared to our home in the woods, but I was tucked in the back seat with Dave and Carey, engaged in conversation and paying little attention to the crowds and bustle surrounding the taxi.

Until a police officer waved us over. 

Muhammed pulled to the curb, and we assumed a large vehicle needed room to pass. But the cop gestured for Muhammed to roll down his window.

“You cut off a pedestrian back there,” said the cop, his tone curt. “Your license, please.”  

“What? No, I didn’t,” Muhammed said as he dug in his pocket for his wallet. 

“Yes. You did. At the corner.”

“No. I didn’t! I didn’t do anything wrong!” his voice rose, his amazement and concern evident. My own stomach tightened as I tried to make myself smaller, shrinking into my seat and sensed a collective clench as we, the formerly cheerful passengers, waited. “Did you all see anything like that?” he asked, his eyes darting from Don beside him to us in the back seat.

“No.” A chorus of nos. We’d seen nothing like that, and our protests mounted as the cop countered them then walked to the back of the cab and started scribbling in his notebook. He was joined by a female officer who adjusted her cap as they stood, a blue wall, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the back window, hemming us in. 

In the taxi, Muhammed was increasingly frantic. Understandably frantic. This is not the America of a few years back. This is the America of ICE, of deportation not for criminal actions, but to meet quotas. The officer was a policeman, not a member of ICE, but due process and a Constitution to count on have been tossed, and this cop could cause Muhammed serious grief. 

“I have to video you. I might need your testimony for the judge,” Muhammed said. He turned in his seat, held up his phone, and panned the four of us as we repeated our statements about his innocence.

The cop returned to Muhammed’s window, flipped a page of his pad, and said, “So. I see that you’ve been in 28 accidents and incurred numerous infractions.”

“WHAT?” Muhammed’s shock was explosive. “That’s not true! 28 accidents? What are you talking about? I’m taking YOU to court!”

“And I’m giving you a ticket,” said the cop, handing Muhammed a yellow sheet from his pad. 

“You… You’re a….” Muhammed growled as we, his allies and passengers, murmured, “Shh. Shh. Don’t provoke him.”

“I’m what?” said the cop. “What? You were about to say something?”

Again, we, the car chorus, entreated, “Shhh. Say nothing. It won’t help.” 

Muhammed glanced at the yellow carbon copy in his hand and did a double-take. “This is illegible! I can’t even read this!”

“Can I see it?” I asked, and he handed the sheet back to me.

It was blank. Blank but for the barest of marks. No visible words. No record for Muhammed of the accusations against him. 

What must he have felt? I felt sick. Sick for him. Sick for the immigrants. Sick for people of color who face bullies - official bullies - bullies encouraged and empowered by Stephen Miller, by Trump, and by all those who remain silent.  

“Driving while brown…” Dave murmured.  “Odd that he hasn’t asked for your registration. That’s usually standard along with the license.”  

Eventually the cop released us, allowed this supposedly reckless driver with his alleged history of accidents and infractions to continue on with his hapless passengers. 

Talk in the taxi was rushed and furious, a cascade of encouragement, as we pulled away, each of us adding opinions and pointers. 

“Muhammed. If he’d really found that you had a record like that, he would’ve told us to leave the car. If you had a record like that, the taxi company wouldn’t have given you a job. There's a camera on the front of your cab and on almost every street corner. You’ll be able to sort this out. Write everything down while it’s fresh.”

“I just hope I get a nice judge who will listen to me.”

“The cop’s meeting a quota,” said Dave. “He won’t bother to show up in court, and they’ll throw out the case.” 

“Hopefully. But at the very least, I miss a day of work and a paycheck.”  

A taste. While in a taxi on our way to a fun night in the city, we were given a taste of what we've read in the news. And we, the privileged white people, could continue on to our hotel, this unfortunate incident behind us. 

But what will happen to Muhammed?

 

  

 

 

 

  

Back to the Bookstore

Paul was enacting a battle between toy monsters on the floor in the corner while Lexi and I perused craft kits. Dave was trying to decide which of the “Bad Guys” books Paul might like best, and a customer in the adjacent room above the spiral staircase had taken a seat at the grand piano and was delighting all with a rousing ragtime melody.  Yes, we would get to the cathedral and the old town with its cobblestone streets, but for two afternoons, being with the kids at the Indigo Bookstore was exactly where we wanted to be. 

Dave and I were in Montreal, there for a stolen visit with grandkids Paul (9), Lexi (7), and our son Tucker… whenever - and if - his work released him. He had called a few months before to tell us he would be in Montreal for a conference, and if we were willing to meet up, Lisa would bring the kids. Hurray! Now that they live in Zurich, the possibility of a spontaneous visit was a blessing. We could extend our time away after Vermont, and drive to Canada from Dorset.

Given our decades of perspective on the dips and dances the Universe might take in choreographing our journey, we hoped for the best. During the Covid shutdown, we missed pivotal months with Paul and Lexi when they were tiny and living in Boston. In 2022, Dave’s Covid onset cut short our stay at the Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge, my surprise 70^thbirthday present to him.  And last spring, my double pneumonia kept us from the 250^th anniversary reenactment of the battle of Lexington and Concord, an excursion two years in the planning. So, we were in fingers-crossed mode as the trip to Canada approached. What might disrupt this unexpected joy?

Lisa taking a tumble and breaking her foot in three places, is what. Noooo! She was in pain and down for the count, her foot propped on pillows per doctor’s orders. International flights were out. Would Tucker brave the 8-hour flight with two kids?

Yes! They made the trip without incident, and we met with shrieks of welcome and too-tight hugs in the lobby of the Renaissance Hotel. 

Prior to our arrival, however, I wasn’t sure we’d get as far as customs given our past record and Trump’s goodwill musings about annexing Canada. So, I’d done only cursory research on must-see sites in Montreal. I knew there was a cathedral, a botanical garden, and an old section with cobblestone streets somewhere, but the view from our 6^th floor room of the Renaissance was a canyon of concrete and glass as far as we could see, with little change in color, texture, or materials. The Montreal our friends raved about was out there, but time with the kids was our priority. It was chilly, the kids could not have cared less, and we were content to stay close. Hence our bookstore sojourn.  

That first day, after a breakfast of Renaissance Pancakes Classique - thick corn cakes with whipped cream, syrup, and strawberries – we walked the two blocks to the mall and arcade. 

The kids would’ve been thrilled to spend the day playing skee ball, whack-a-mole, and you’ll-never-ever-grab-a stuffed-animal-no-matter-how-many tokens-you-feed-the-giant-claw game. But after a pizza lunch in the food court, we moved on to Indigo. 

October it was, but the store was in the process of consolidating Halloween items on tables tucked to the side and setting up displays of Christmas mugs and cozy blankets tied with red ribbons. It felt good to be in this welcoming place, browsing through books with our grandkids, picking up a few Christmas gifts, and sneaking them down to checkout without the kids noticing. We bought a Bad Guys book for Paul and a sketchbook and markers for Lexi. Her 7^thbirthday was three days away, which added weight to her every request or yearning look. That night, Tucker had a work dinner, so we returned to the mall’s food court for more pizza. 

The next day, the kids were eager for a reprise of Day One. Books and skee ball but a block or two away! The cold weather had continued, and Dave and I were happy to accommodate their wishes. After all, we were there to be with them - and Tucker, when we could catch a glimpse.

During breakfast, I received a text from our daughter Casey asking how we liked Montreal. A succession of exclamation points and question marks indicated her expectation of an interesting report. When I texted back about the arcade and Indigo, she responded, “OMG MOM!” (Note: all-caps.) “DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME THERE! MONTREAL IS SUPPOSED TO BE REALLY COOL! IF IT IS COLD, OR TOO FAR TO WALK TO THE OLD TOWN, GET AN UBER OR SOMETHING!” 

Hm. She was right. Duly chastened, I checked my short list of attractions, and we decided on the Jardin Botanique de Montreal. Dave called an Uber, and off we went… the kids a little miffed that we weren’t going to the arcade. 

The Jardin was further than I’d thought, and the drive was through rundown neighborhoods and homeless encampments. Still, we were intrigued when we passed a swooping, white monolith of a building that turned out to be the 1976 Olympics stadium. 

And the Jardin Botanique was a discovery. A special exhibit for Halloween led us down walkways that snaked past carnivorous plants, eerie trees, and gourds transformed into spooky creatures with bulging eyes and sinuous tongues. 

Thus inspired, the kids were invited by docents to a classroom where they could create their own monsters using play dough, pine needles, pumpkin seeds, and dried grasses. They loved it, and for close to an hour dug into their craft, fingers arched, lower lips tucked between teeth, eyes bright. Lexi produced a multi-tentacled purple monster while Paul labored on his orange Godzilla look-alike. 

Strange beings were the theme of the day, and a “Nature Spirit” garbed in flowing green robes, twigs, and twisted vines greeted us and gestured toward his papier maché cave. Lexi and I accepted his offer and snuggled on pillows with a few books from a nearby shelf. 

My French is limited, but I was able to translate enough to convey the plots. And, much as I purchase wines by the artistry of the label, my strategy in selecting children’s books is essentially the same: the illustrations are the lure. We were enchanted by “La  Sorciere Trop Petite” (The Littlest Witch) by Brandi Dougherty, illustrated by Jamie Pogue, and “Je ne fais pas si peur” (I’m not so scary) about a lonely bat, written and illustrated by Raahat Kaduji. Lexi thought they’d make great gifts for her cousin, Eleanor, and we hoped to find them later at the Indigo.

*

But, we were in Montreal, for heaven’s sake, and as Casey had insisted, we needed to venture further. So, the next day, we took an Uber to the Grand Quay, a wide pier with a long history and plenty of room for the kids to run. They scampered the length of the pier, up and down stairs, and raced a grassy stretch bordering the harbor. Came a point, though, when Paul was pooped and Lexi pouting, so it was time to move on. Surely more sight-seeing would be just the thing?

Surprisingly, it was. The soaring, neo-Gothic Notre Dame Basilica of Montreal was so awe-inspiring that Paul, international traveler that he is, pronounced it “smaller, but way cooler” than Notre Dame in Paris. 

While the kids enjoyed lighting candles and shimmying up smooth stone pillars, their fascination with the cathedral lasted only so long. Ultimately, Paul drooped, slumped in a pew, his head cradled in his arm. Plus, Tucker’s warning that the kids would be hungry every two hours proved accurate, and a round of sweet crepes was in order. After 15 minutes of false starts, frustration, and weary circling, we returned to a café we’d discovered the day before … which, as it turned out, was right next to the cathedral. If only we’d turned right instead of left! 

For Lexi, every day leading up to her birthday held anticipation, and crepes with Nutella, strawberries and whipped cream were a worthy celebration…as was the Indigo and its offerings. 

So, we returned to the bookstore the next day and successfully sought the stories we’d loved of the too-small witch and timid bat, as well as stuffed baby foxes for Eleanor and the birthday girl. During quiet hours back at the room, Lexi worked in her sketchbook, depicting images that pleased her with captions written in a secret code. 

The cathedral and quay didn’t make her book, nor did the arcade for that matter. She drew pictures of Eleanor, her baby fox, and the monsters she and Paul had created. For the kids, as for us, Montreal hadn’t been the draw; it was always about being together. And that night, for Lexi’s birthday, we got our wish: Tucker was finally free to join us.