Cooking is an Art

Looking back on the summer, I am actually quite pleased about what I accomplished. Of course, finishing Coyote Smart ranks up there as feat number one, but I also managed to cook a fair amount of nice dishes for friends and family.

As I have mentioned before, I like to cook, especially recipes that call for more than grease and flour, which I was accustomed to growing up. (Or was it lard?) My mother was a wonderful “comfort cook,” but I like to take it a step further and treat the whole process as art, followed by a social event.

Bless her heart, she didn’t have time for art; she had three kids and a husband to feed, not to mention work…etc. And as far as a social event, I’m sure she was glad when the table was cleared, the conversations over, and the dishes washed.  I’m also certain that grocery shopping was not her favorite past time either. (She did like to iron!!! Go figure! That is one task she didn’t pass down to me on an “I enjoy” list).

I truly like everything that goes into cooking—reading cooking magazines and cook books, watching the cooking channel, grocery shopping, planning, and the list goes on.

Of course, I love cooking with wine, and as the saying goes… occasionally I put a little of it into the food! A trip to the farmer’s market is a treat, and even walking the aisles at Sam’s is fun to me.

So it’s no wonder that I’ve gained weight over the summer and loved every minute of it until I stepped on the scales this week! Guess I’ll put cooking on the back burner for awhile. Besides I’m going on a cruise later this fall, so I need to lose those pounds before I go so I have room to grow—again!!

Border Fence

Today is a big day as I introduce you to book three—Coyote Smart. I don’t think there could be a timelier subject than human smuggling. The book is not a political statement, but simply a novel about those touched by the issue, and once again how the resilience and grace of the human spirit envelops each of us. Here’s a little enticer!!

The dying season begins each spring along the 2,000 mile stretch of the United States and Mexico border, but the term is not used in reference to the parched land or the animal carcasses that waste in the dry gulches and deep gullies littered with cans, bottles, clothing and syringes.

Instead it applies to human beings:  poor, desperate people in search of a dream.  In many cases, the dream turns into a deadly nightmare because of men like Maxwell Collin Ridgeway III, kingpin of the largest smuggling organization in the United States.

Ridgeway is COYOTE SMART, a fact that would be easy to miss by his humble beginnings as the son of an illegal alien. Turning against his own people, he is determined to be powerfully rich and inhumanly brutal, and he is successful at both —until he meets a young lawyer named Faith O’Brien England, who sees him as the most despicable, vile human being she has ever met.

Their encounter may be brief, but what it brings, changes his life …and eventually hers.

Chapter 9 Part VII

Cindy Bradford
Patrick stood looking to the west as the light from the golden ball oozed into the glistening water surrounded by the dark green landscape. Within minutes the sky had turned to crimson with just a few streaks of turquoise.

“This is, indeed, heaven on earth,” he smiled, looking directly at Carmella. “It is going to be difficult to leave.”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t, but I do hope you will have me back.”

“Patrico, you are welcome here anytime. When the studies are weighing you down or you are lonesome, whatever the case may be, you jump on a train. You know it is quite inexpensive and even after your classes on Friday you can probably arrive in time to watch the sunset with us.”

“You have to promise to come at least once every month. There is always something special. In September, we hunt for the wild mushrooms, and then of course we harvest the grapes in October. November is when the olives are picked; December is then a time when we slow down after the busy fall and enjoy the sights and smells of the holidays. Carmen and Claudia make the most wonderful sweets. The whole house smells of gingerbread and juniper. Enrico and Stefano find the biggest tree available, and we decorate it in the great room. We have twinkling lights and candles everywhere. You cannot miss that.”

“There is a true rhythm to life here,” Patrick mused.

“Yes, and it is rewarding and fulfilling because we do so much of it ourselves,” Stefano added. “In the winter months, Claudia spins wool and makes some beautiful accessories, which she often sells at the markets in Florence. Now she is teaching Carmen. Enrico and I cure our own prosciutto in January and in the spring we pick the vegetables and fruits right here. The women make the most tasty pecorino cheese during a rare, slow time in March. Life is busy here, so we never get bored. Speaking of busy, I must start the steaks if you two will go with me to the courtyard.”

“I will follow you anywhere for a steak,” said Patrick.

As Stefano readied the grill he said, smiling, “You thought only Americans grilled, huh?”

“Honestly, yes, I never thought about that in Italy.”

“Tonight is my night to cook, so this is what I do best.”

He left for a moment and returned with antipasta of bruschetta al pomodoro. He poured the three of them a glass of red wine.

“This is one of the more robust wines to go with our bistecca al fiorentina. Everything tonight is from our land, Patrico.”

“That has to give you a great deal of satisfaction. But, I haven’t seen any cattle.”

“But tomorrow you will see my pride and joys, my Chianina.”

“Is that a breed of cattle just in Italy? I have never heard of them.”

“Correct. They are probably the oldest breed in the world. They have even been the models for Roman sculptures. Just since World War II, has the United States known about them, although some have been in Canada. The U.S. government will only allow the semen to be imported, and it was only this year that a half-blood Chianina and Angus/Holstein bull calf was born in California. There is speculation that this year or next, Italian full-bloods will be exported from Canada into the U.S.”

“Why can’t you export them?”

“We have had a few documented cases of foot and mouth disease here in Italy, so we are prohibited from exporting cattle to the U.S. I think that will change soon, however.”

“I am anxious to see what they look like.”

“They are bigger here than most parts of Italy, even bigger up toward Arezzo and Siena.”

“Can you two think of something else to talk about before dinner?” Carmella asked, smiling.

“You mean like bubble baths,” Patrick grinned.

Carmella hit him with her paschima and laughed.

“We will eat in the courtyard if that is all right. I had Carmen set it up for us before she left work today.”

“That is cheating,” Carmella said.

“Yes, dear, but that is the only cheating I do!”

“Well then, I will overlook this tonight, besides the steaks smell good,” she added.

After dinner, Carmella said, “Tomorrow my baby girl will be here. I am so very excited.”

“Yes, I am also, but first I have to show Patrick the olives and the cattle and then he will have seen most of everything.”

“I will be earlier tomorrow,” Patrick promised, “So now I must get some sleep. The dinner was fantastic; my compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you. Did you tell Patrico that tomorrow night is his night to cook?” he teased.

“I need to make friends quickly with Carmen, but it is not going to be easy with my English and her Italian.”

“Goodnight, Patrico.”

“Goodnight all.”

As planned, Patrick was up early and waiting for Stefano when he came in singing, his deep rich voice reverberating off the richly appointed walls of the dining room.

“I must have my coffee and then we will see the olives. I don’t guess there is a big hurry; many of the trees have been here over a hundred years, and they will most assuredly be here another.”

“Enrico and some of the other workers are pruning many of the trees today. I usually supervise, but he knows how as well as I. We cannot let the trees get too tall so we prune annually. It is a long process since we have more than 200 trees.”

Pausing to fill his cup with more coffee, Stefano asked, “Are you ready? Do you want to take some with you?”

“No, I’m finished. Carmen made me a cappuccino, actually.”

“She is spoiling you, huh?

They drove slowly, looking at the trees, planted up and down terraced hillsides.

“It looks as though it would be hard to work on slopes so steep.”

“Yes, the terrain here is harsh, so harsh that all of Tuscany is responsible for only about four per cent of the olive oil production. The climate is also difficult because the trees are particularly vulnerable to frost. Olive trees in other regions yield twenty times as many olives, but the good news is our olives are a concentrate of flavor and aroma which makes the oil more pronounced than anywhere else in Italy.”

“Do you pick these by hand?”

“Well, yes and no. We don’t use machines if that is what you mean. We hand pick what we can from the ground and then set up scaffolding. If all else fails we use bamboo canes and tap the branches, but I don’t like to resort to that because the olives can get bruised. But, one way or another, every olive is caught in the nets we use to carpet the grove. I doubt that anyone thinks this is as much fun as the grape crush. This is hard work. That is why it is the ‘cash crop’ as you say in the States. But after all the hard work, the men and I head for the woods to hunt wild boar, so we look forward to that.”

After they had driven along the hillside for what seemed like miles Stefano said, with pride, “I am very proud of our oil. I think it is the best in all of Italy. There they are,” he said, stopping the vehicle. Cattle roamed everywhere. “They have a very distinctive look, don’t they?”

“Yes, the shoulders, back and rear quarters are especially well formed,” Patrick noted.

“Now you have seen the farm. Oh, there are a few chickens over by Enrico’s. He takes care of them. Carmen gathers the eggs every morning. No need to see them. I’m sure you have seen chickens,” he laughed. “After lunch, you are on your own again. Elisabette and Guliano will be here around five o’clock, so drinks will be ready at six.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting them. I think I’ll read and enjoy the patio of my bungalow until then.”

After a lunch on the terrace, Stefano said, “See you at six”.

Even with the gulf breeze, the temps are beginning to wear on me, but I know I am not alone. Everywhere I go, I hear folks complaining—so misery does love company. Of course, I have a great deal to be thankful for since hurricane season has been relatively quiet since ALEX.

Actually, I have much more than that to be grateful for, and that was never more noticeable than last week when I went with a friend who was having a blood treatment in Harlingen. Because of the regime, her treatments are given in the same room as those receiving chemo and similar drugs. Looking around, I shamed myself for complaining about the little things—like the weather and gaining a couple of pounds. These people, many with balding heads and weighing much less than they should, would be so lucky to have the temperature outside their only worry. They would love to gain what I want to lose. Right now, many are fighting their biggest battle ever—just to hold on for a little while longer.

Sometimes I have to be hit right in the face to understand how blessed I am.

Book #3

My goal was to complete book three this summer, and I did just that—well almost. The actual draft is complete, but now I am making minor adjustments and editing. Writing is the fun part, and as you have heard me say before, editing is a real drag. The good thing is that I didn’t have to move any chapters around; the entire manuscript pretty much flowed as I wrote, and the characters came to life easily.

This book, named COYOTE SMART, is actually quite different from the first two, but I will let you decide whether that’s good or bad. Personally, I think it is my best writing, but I don’t want to sway your opinion. Well, maybe just a little.

Hopefully, I have your interest piqued! Just wait until next Monday, and I’ll share more information about just who is COYOTE SMART.

Chapter 9 Part VI

Cindy Bradford
Patrick drove up and down dusty roads through the hills, looking at the wonders of this beautiful region. The old farm houses were fascinating, many looking as though they had been there more than a hundred years. After awhile he stopped the bike and sat under an olive tree for more than an hour, just studying the twisted and gnarled old tree and thinking about the life ahead of him.

He could not help but think of Sue and how he wished she could see this. Then he stopped himself. He had made his decision and it did not include her. It was times like this that he questioned his choice. He knew he had to stop thinking like this, but he had loved her, his first real love.

Closing his eyes, he dozed for a short time. When he awoke, he quickly looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. I must get back and freshen up, he thought as he jumped on the scooter. Although he had tried to study the roads, he quickly realized he might be lost. He paused to think about a few mental markers he had made and then using the sun as his guide, he found the right road, arriving back with plenty of time for a shower and change of clothing.

At exactly six o’clock, he knocked on the front door. “Come in, Patrico,” Stefano called. “I see you did not get lost.”

“No, but I thought I might be for a few minutes.”

“Come with me; I promised to show you my cellar.”

The two descended a long stairway down to a basement. Patrick was expecting it to be a little musty and stale, with a furnace and the other practical items stored in it as some of the basements in New England. When they opened the door they were in a giant space with walls of beautifully carved wood. A large table and eight chairs sat in the center. Hundreds of bottles of wine lined the room.

“These are my collectibles,” he said, selecting one; a great Bordeaux with a 1948 vintage. “We will have one of these wines tomorrow night at dinner when the children arrive.”

“Now, over here are the whites from last year and the reds from the last several years are here. This is my Vin Santo, or holy wine, that we will use to bless the harvest this year.”

“I meant to ask you today, while we were in the vineyard, how do you know when the grapes are ripe?”

“I walk through and taste the grapes. Sometimes Enrico will taste and also Carmella. I like to get another opinion, but when the grapes are ripe, they taste ripe; your mouth will not pucker. It is romance, but it is also science. The sugar, acid and tannin all have to be in balance. The tannins must not be green or tough; the sugars need to have climbed and the acids cannot have fallen. If I pick too soon, before the sugar rises, the wine will be weaker and have too much acid, but if I wait too long it is just as bad, no structure to balance the fruit.”

“It sounds awfully complicated.”

“It can be since the weather plays a big role, but generally I can get close to when they will be ripe by counting the days from the time of flowering. Each variety ripens a little differently, but I look back at my records from the year before and predict it to within a few days.”

“You are truly an interesting man, Stefano.”

“I am a blessed man; I have many things to make me happy; everyone does not have that good fortune. I am thankful and so is Carmella. That is why we like to share this place with people like you. It is too much for just us.”

As they ascended the steps, the men could hear Carmella saying loudly, “My turn, my turn. I want to show you the entire house Patrico,” now taking him by the hand and leading him into the great room. He had been able to get a glimpse of it a couple of times, but he had never gone inside.

“This is magnificent!” he exclaimed. Like the wine cellar, the room was paneled in dark mahogany with extensive carvings. A thick, rich border of wood molding encircled the chandelier which looked to be of real gold. Light shone through crystal pendants as if they were diamonds. But it was the fireplace that really caught Patrick’s attention. It was big enough for a person to walk in, with the enormous black andirons that held oversized split logs, ready to be lighted with the first chill of autumn.

“I don’t have words for all this, Carmella; it is like nothing I have ever seen in a house before,” remembering his own boyhood home, with the multi-colored afghan his mother had crocheted to cover the worn spots on the couch, the curtains ordered from a Sears catalog and the swing set that rusted in the backyard. He could almost see his mother sitting at her sewing machine in the corner of his parent’s bedroom, stitching the dresses she made for his sisters because there wasn’t money for store bought ones.

“We will go quickly through the remainder,” as she took him from room to room filled with lavish tapestries and murals on the walls, satin drapes that reached and spilled over onto the terrazzo floors.

“This was once the nursery. I have not changed it much because, hopefully, Elisabette and Guliano will fill it up for me with lots of noisy little bambinos,” she said, happily. “This entire wing is Elisabette’s.”

“So, this is where the famous baths are taken,” Patrick teased, as he looked at the round marble tub. Actually, there was marble everywhere he looked.

“That is Stefano’s,” she remarked, pointing to an enormous marble and glass walk-in shower. The mirrors looked centuries old, true renaissance marvels. The canopy over the bed matched the drapes and the stacks of pillows that lined the velvet duvet. Frescoed ceilings added more mystery to the setting.

“I love this room,” Carmella gushed. “This is where I read,” pointing to a chaise in the corner by another, yet smaller fireplace.

“You are getting the grand tour,” Stefano said, handing each of them a glass of champagne. “Just a little something bubbly, as if Carmella is not enough,” Stefano teased as he kissed her gently. “Now you two had better finish this fairly soon if you are going to have time to relax before I cook the steaks.”

“Just a few more rooms and we will be finished, Darling, tilting her glass to him as if to toast his request.

When Patrick and Carmella walked through one of the brick arches onto the terrace, the sun was beginning to set.

“Hurry, Patrico, the sun is going to melt right over those hills and you will see the reflection on our lake.”

School Days

School days, school days, dear old wonderful school days. I can hear the bells ringing, and so glad I don’t have to be there! This time every year, I always say a little prayer of gratitude that those days are behind me.

And this past Monday, when I knew that teachers all over Texas were returning for staff development, I couldn’t help but think about how many days I had sat and listened to motivational speakers and in-service presenters. I could just visualize a room full of teachers, some engaged, a few enthusiastically, and others dreaming about the first holiday.

Of course, I was always one of those enthusiastically engrossed individuals whose full attention was on the presenter! Since those early days, I have actually been the presenter so I know full well the feeling on both sides of the lectern.

In some ways, I couldn’t blame them for thinking about all the other things they needed to be doing, but I did get a bit frustrated if I were competing with the morning newspaper! Good thing that teachers like doughnuts almost as well as police officers, so most of the time attention spans lasted a few extra minutes with the help of caffeine and sugar.

Next Monday, the real reason for school starting goes into full swing as kids of all sizes and shapes take to the halls. The first day is, without a doubt, fun to watch unfold. Between back-to-school fashion statements, new haircuts or lack thereof and stories of summer adventures, it is probably a lost cause in terms of instruction, but a great day for re-uniting friendships and catching up on news.

The first football game will be right around the corner in spite of 100 degree weather. Yep, there are some excellent reasons for retirement, and that is just one of them. So good luck to all the educators reading this blog, which are probably few, unless of course, the speaker is really dull. Hope you have a wonderful year. I’ll be thinking of you!

Do you have questions for me about my writing, my books, my thoughts on life? Send them through the Contact form and I’ll answer them here.

Do you have a sense of where the publishing industry is headed, and what impact will it have in the near future on those aspiring authors who want to be published?

Oh, I probably shouldn’t get started because it is so frustrating to me. It seems like the only people who ever get a break are those who are already rich and famous. I do think we will see less and less print copies and more e-books, Kindle books, etc. That is just the way this fast-paced society appears to be going. I still like to hold my books in my hand, but I love my Kindle, too.

What advice do you have advice for aspiring writers?

Be very patient and persistent! And above all else, just keep writing. Remember, it is not a book until it is finished.

Chapter 9 Part V

Cindy Bradford
The next morning Patrick slept until 9:30 a.m. When he saw the clock, he jumped out of bed and hurried to the bath for a shower. Although he remembered that Carmella had said it didn’t matter when he arrived for breakfast, he did not want them to think him lazy. By ten o’clock, he was dressed and walking briskly to the main house, when he saw Stefano pulling up and waving. Stefano waited and slapped Patrick on the back as he arrived.

“Good morning, life too difficult for you here in the Tuscan hills?”

Patrick smiled, feeling a flush on his cheeks.

“Don’t feel bad. I have been out since 5:00 a.m., but my lovely wife is still in the bubble bath, I am sure. When I came by about thirty minutes ago, she was just getting in so I know if today is true to form, the bubbles are still bubbling. The woman does love her lavender salts, beads and milk baths. Provence has nothing compared to this woman. Her collection of lavender rivals the south of France,” he laughed, thinking about this beautiful woman covered with gleaming white, frothy bubbles up to her soft black hair that she let down for her bath.

“This is one time that she admits to enjoying the lap of luxury,” he said, winking at Patrick.

Patrick laughed. Here was this big bear of a man, with the loud, gruff voice, who worked daily in the heat of the Tuscan sun, side by side with his men, talking softly about his wife’s bubble bath. I am sure my college English professors could make something poetic or symbolic about all this, Patrick thought.

“Let me grab a cup of coffee and we can go,” Patrick offered.

“Absolutely not, you enjoy your breakfast. We have plenty of time. Those grapes and olives are not going anywhere, anytime soon.”

“After last night, I didn’t think I would ever be hungry again, but I must admit that looks good, eyeing the huge platter of fresh fruit and pastries.”

Carmen spoke to Stefano in Italian.

“Carmen wants to know if you would like some prosciutto and cheese as well.”

“No. This is more than enough.”

Each man filled his plate and drank espresso. When they finished Stefano filled a thermos and grabbed two cups. He talked to Carmen in Italian and then asked Patrick if he was ready.

“Ready. But, will you thank Carmen for my breakfast and ask her to tell Carmella good morning?”

Stefano gave Carmen the messages in Italian, and they were off to view the olives and grapes.

“It is warm this morning. Did you not bring short pants, Patrico?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know for sure if they would be appropriate.”

“Certainly, let’s stop and you can change. It is especially hot under the trees and in the vineyards so you need to be comfortable. In the summer months I wear shorts most of the time. Only yesterday I did not, so I suppose you wondered.”

Patrick ran into the bungalow and quickly changed into shorts and a tee-shirt, immediately feeling more comfortable.

Looking first to one side of the road and then the other, Patrick said, “The vineyards are beautiful, Stefano.”

“Thank you; I never get tired of coming out here. I have a certain peaceful feeling when I walk down these rows. You must come back in October for Crush.”

“Is that harvest?”

“Yes. Crush is the time during harvest season when grapes are picked and crushed, which means the grapes are quickly broken open so yeasts can get into the grapes and begin fermenting the sweet juice.”

“Do you pick by hand or use machinery?”

“Since this is a labor of love, we pick by hand, a lot of hands. When I started, Enrico and I did most of the picking, but as you can see, I have added many vines. I always get the word out if I need extra assistance, but I have four or five men who have helped for years. They cut off individual bunches of grapes with a hooked-tip knife and put them in containers. They know to look for the ripest bunches. An experienced picker can harvest over a ton of fruit in a day so it really does not take that long. We make it a fun time, too. We have lunch out here both days and when we finish we have a big party for the pickers and their families on the second night. Usually a lot of friends show up for the picking and the party.”

“That does sound like fun. I would love to be a part.”

“Then you must come.”

“After you pick then what?”

“That is when the machines come in. We will drive to the building where the crusher-stemmers are kept. Don’t worry, you will not have to roll up your cuffs and stomp. That is all mechanized now,” he laughed. “Plus, I like to get the grapes to the crushers as soon as possible after they are picked, so none will rot.”

“How many tons does this area usually yield?”

“It varies from year to year, of course, but lately about five or six tons, much too much for a hobby. Either I am going to have to begin selling some or acquire a lot more friends.”

“If you harvest five tons of grapes, about how many bottles of wine would that make?”

“Around 3,500,” Stefano grinned. “See what I mean? But, I pay the pickers in wine, not money so that generally takes care of about 1,000 bottles and then what we do not keep for ourselves, we give away. I also barter some with the wine if I need new equipment or help working on a machine, plus the bottlers get paid the same way.”

“I am very generous with my wine because it is my passion.” He looked at his watch. It is past time for lunch. I begin talking about my grapes and lose all focus of time.”

“This is the building where we crush and bottle. You’ll see it better when you come back in October,” Stefano said, pointing.

When they arrived at the house, Carmella was waiting on the veranda, a huge smile on her face. “Elisabette and Guliano are coming Friday. He must return on the night train Saturday, but she is staying a week,” she said excitedly.

“That is wonderful, you two together will weaken my wallet, I am afraid, in that amount of time,” he teased.

“Patrico, you are going to love Elisabette and Guliano. I told her about you and she is anxious to meet you.”

“Carmella, I really should leave here tomorrow,” Patrick said, not wanting to wear out his welcome.”

“No! Patrico,” she said, looking downcast. “You must stay, at least until Saturday. I know you want to get on with your travels, but you really must stay to meet our children.”

Stefano turned and smiled at Patrick. “The woman is quite persuasive. Don’t disappoint her or she will never forgive you.”

“I would like very much to stay, but I just don’t want to be a bother.”

Carmella reached over and put her fingers to Patrick’s mouth. “Shhh… It is settled. If you want to leave Saturday, we will check the train schedule to Florence, and Stefano, Enrico, or someone, will take you to the train. Besides, Guliano will need to go also. On Friday morning, bring your laundry to Carmen and she will have it ready for you to pack on Friday evening.”

“You are very good to me.”

“Then you will come back soon?”

“He is coming to Crush!”

“Oh, Patrico, you will love that. We have so much fun.”

The three sat down to a light lunch of crusty bread and pappa al pomodoro, a thick soup made from tomatoes and drizzled with olive oil. A platter of cheeses, pears, olives, prosciutto and mushrooms sat untouched until Carmella noticed. “We’ve been talking so much I almost forgot,” as she passed the plate to Patrick.

“Here I go again,” Patrick said as he began to fill up on the lunch. Putting his hand on his stomach he said, “Stefano, maybe we should walk through the olive groves,” knowing they went for miles and miles.

“You see, I was once as thin as you. I told you before, time and Carmella made me like this,” he said, grinning.

“Since you are staying until Saturday, why don’t we see the groves tomorrow and you can have the afternoon free. There is a scooter in the back which I will get for you if you would like to look around some on your own.”

“That sounds great, plus that would give you some time to do things you need to do.”

“I am fine and everything that I need to be doing you can do with me. I thought you might like exploring some by yourself.”

“Yes, that sounds like fun.”

“I will pull the scooter around,” Stefano said, excusing himself from the table. He stopped to kiss Carmella on the cheek. “Nice bubble bath? You do smell wonderful.”

“Isn’t he terrible?” she said, obviously loving the attention.

“Patrico, if you take the same road we came in on, you will see a great many lesser roads. If you take any of those, you will be able to see much of the countryside. If you get lost, just stop and ask anyone and they will be able to tell you how to get back. Have fun but be back for cocktails at 6:00 p.m.”

“Thank you, Carmella. I am having such a good time,” as he excused himself from lunch and met Stefano outside.

“I am sure Carmella has already given you your instructions.”

“Yes. I’m to stop if I get lost and be back by six o’clock.”

“Be careful and enjoy the afternoon,” Stefano called and waved as Patrick stepped on the gas pedal and took off.

Summertime at Wal-Mart

I love summer, partly because it reminds me of happy times as a kid when vacation meant sleeping late, riding my bike all over the neighborhood, playing softball at the vacant lot around the corner, and going on a trip with my parents.

Summer feels like freedom and lack of responsibility, and although we are never far from that these days, summer just seems less stressful—a time when we can be outside, jump in the pool, or simply curl up and read a good book (I have a suggestion or two—like Keeping Faith or Promises Kept—I hear they are spectacular!!)

Since I live at the beach, I get to watch a lot of other folks enjoy their summer. Sometimes that is good; other times a real pain in the “you know where” because the island gets super busy. I think that going to the grocery store is the biggest issue because for some reason people think they should take everything out of the cart or basket, as we say down here, and put each item directly into a cooler for the beach while others are trying to park or simply drive through to get out of the mayhem.

Afterwards, all the trash is then left to blow around the parking lot.  And putting the basket in the proper place is totally out of the question.

Today, I was at Wal-Mart, of course, and looking for something in the console, which made me slow to get out of my car. Just as I looked up, the group next to me—six kids and two adults squeezed through and left the oldest kid, who appeared to be about 10 or 11, to put all their packages in the trunk.

I remained in the car to watch because this seemed like a comedy act as he wedged all manner of stuff in between towels, a cooler, beach toys, etc. Then, in all his wisdom, he moved the cart back about a foot until it was directly in back of his mother’s Suburban, and jumped in the back seat.

As the driver started the car and proceeded to put it in reverse, I could stand it no longer. I jumped out of the car and grabbed the cart, just before it was a flat shred of wire. What was this kid thinking??? Geez, he needs to be in summer school instead of at the beach!! What’s worse, he’ll be in charge of watching the little ones!!