My bags are packed. . .

And I'm ready to go.

I'll be at "A Night of Literary Feasts," in beautiful (but chilly) Lexington, Ky. until Sunday. Y'all be good while I'm gone, and if you can't be good, be interesting. (Never a challenge for this crowd!) The coffee shop will remain open, so make yourselves at home.

Meaningful intersections?

Sometimes, you just have to wonder.

When my son played soccer, there was one set of team parents that he and I both particularly liked, but we never socialized outside of the games. My son stopped playing after high school. More than five years have passed since then. The next time I saw that mom was last spring at the funeral of a young man who'd played on that team. At the reception, she and I made noises about getting together, and then quite a few months later, she sent me an email, suggesting that we meet for a chat.

It took me another couple of months to get back to her.

Two weekends ago we met for coffee. She talked at some length about her dad who seemed to be descending with devastating suddenness into dementia. I confided that my dad had died in a nursing home for Alzheimer's patients, and so we talked at length about the whole sad and challenging process.

Two days later, early on a Monday morning, she called me, saying, "Could you call me back as soon as possible? We just got an official diagnosis on my dad, and we need to get him into a nursing home as soon as we can." She wanted to verify the name of the nursing home where my dad had been. When I called her back, and she answered on her cell phone, she was at that moment walking into that very nursing home.

I think that's kind of remarkable. I hadn't talked to her for five years. We had never met socially before. We knew nothing about each other's personal lives. My dad had died years before I met her. But when we finally did get together again, I was able to reassure her about putting her dad into a nursing home, and I could recommend to her a home--two days before she would find out that she needed one immediately for her own father. I'm tempted to write, "But when we did finally get together again, it was so I could reassure her and tell her about the nursing home."

I believe she had an intuition that prompted us to get together at just the right time, so she could have a conversation with another daughter--me-- who had been through the same thing with her father.

I haven't heard from her since. I'll send her an email soon, and ask how things are going. But it may be that we have already transacted our "business," on the day we were drawn together at the coffee shop.

I'll see you inside at OUR coffee and tea shop, which is ALWAYS a meaningful intersection!

Name This Photograph

Quick! Somebody give me a good headline or caption for this lovely photo by Andif. Aren't the colors subtle and beautiful? The instant I saw it I thought it "looked like" a poem, though I haven't stopped to figure out why it strikes me thus. Am I grateful for her photos on these days when I have absolutely nothing to say? Why, yes I am, thank you for asking. I'm guessing you guys will have fascinating, hilarious, friendly, or creative things to say, so I'll see you in the comments.

Monday. . . It's a new baby week

Speaking of new babys, here's a photo of Charlie, the coyote that an amazing young woman in Wyoming adopted when he was orphaned. It was either take him home with her, or see him drowned in a water tank. She records his exploits at her blog, The Daily Coyote. I know I've mentioned them before, but I just have to keep coming back in case you'd like to check their progress.

Here's a more recent picture of Charlie:


What a handsome fellow. He's finally growing into his ears.

Bluuue skies, smilin' at you. . .

Nothin' but blue skies, doobedoo.

Photo by a photographer who stands tall: Andif.

You can't see me, right?

Photo by Andif from her very own window.

For Maryb from Stlouey

Buon journo.
The other day when you guys flew to Paris for coffee and croissants, Maryb said the only thing that would be better would be if the cafe were in Italy. Voila! (Or however you say, here you go! in Italian.) We're in Florence on a sunny day. That bald guy in the blue shirt needs sunblock. I need a cappuchino. I have a feeling we'll be here all day, long past the point at which they start bringing out the platters of fish, the pasta, the bottles of Pinot Grigio and Chianti . . .

Also for your delectation, here's a bit more of Billy Collins to start off la dolce vita Friday--three stanzas from his poem, "Care and Feeding". . .

Because tomorrow

I will turn 420 in dog years,

I have decided to take myself

for a long walk on the path around the lake

( )

Then I will make three circles

and lie down on the wood floor at my feet

and close my eyes

as I type all morning and into the afternoon,

checking every once in a while

to make sure I am still there,

reaching down with one hand

to stroke my furry, esteemed, venerable head.

Salut!