Well it’s here kiddo, the big SIX-oh my goodness!! Sixty. Six-zed. Sessanta. Soixante.
Sesenta. Vatzoun. 60. 70 minus 10. LX. No matter how you slice it—10+50, 20+40,
30+30, 59+1, 61-1 (for those in denial)—it’s still X
.
X
.
X
.
X
.
X
.
X. Look at the bright side;
that’s a lot of X’s, and X’s stand for kisses. Don’t look now, but AARP already has you
in their sights, Social Security is diminishing in value, and Medicare is knocking at your
door. But, on the bright side, just think of the benefits. As a “senior” you can now go the
movies for a buck less. That’s found money which will come in handy when you
purchase adult diapers, Fix-O-Dent, Ex-Lax, prunes, reading glasses, or chicken soup.
But, rather than getting lost in the wonders of Pharmacyland, or even engaged in a
discussion of your promising alternative career as a greeter at Wal-Mart, let’s take a
moment to recall a few impressions of you, the youngest harse, now the Grand Mama
Wendy.
What can one say of a truly accomplished woman: super-wife, super-mom, super-quilter,
super-Trojan, super-football fanatic, super-game girl? Really nothing. It’s all been said,
all noted, and all no exaggeration. The old man is well managed, content, always smiling,
and appreciative. The kids are out of college without police records, modestly well
behaved and mildly amusing. What more can one want? Your quilts are inventive,
extraordinary, and made with love and care. They have become an art form to be envied.
Trojan blood runs through your veins, little USC chickadee. A more able defender of the
Cardinal and Gold and energetic cheer leader of everything Trojan we may not find
again. Never mind what people say behind your back. They’re probably envious Bruins,
and no one in Pasadena listens to them anyway.
Yet, you have such unexpected (unappreciated) talents. Early on, we (the extended
family) were all relaxing and enjoying a tranquil evening (actually the silent night before
Christmas) at your warm home when the solemnity of the moment was pierced by an
extra-terrestrial shrill. Perplexed, we thought someone had accidentally stepped on one of
your squirrel-dogs, or some other small animal had errantly wandered unnoticed into
your Cuisinart. No, indeed, it was emanating from you, as you were calling your brood
like a farmer summons his pigs to slop. And the amazing thing was that they all came a’
running. That now trademark cuckle caught us all off guard at first. Actually, it catches us
off guard every time, and every next time. Year after year, seemingly out of nowhere this
high-pitched sound shatters not only every conversation of the moment, but also most
likely your most delicate crystal, which is probably why Mike bought you the heftier,
shatter-proof Baccarat. Lucky you. Presents from heaven.
But, there have always been more memorable moments in the warmth of the Christmas
season at your house. On Christmas Eve, then Christmas Eve-Eve when the former was
hijacked, there was always some new piece recently quilted, needle pointed, or crafted to
our amazement. You have a gift. These heirloom treasures would become a most admired
backdrop to accompany the highly anticipated and never disappointing prime rib and
Yorkshire pudding, collegiality, scripture reading, and carol singing. Collectively, this
special moment produced a great sense of family, and the gift of this annual, much
anticipated gathering has been woven into the very fabric of our larger family tapestry.
We have you to thank for this starting this hallowed tradition.
It seems I spend most of my Easter Sundays photographing the ever-growing family
clusters, trying with some effort to pose groupings in an artful way so that generations
later their gentle maturity will be measured year against year. With some concerted effort
I try to position each person to achieve a Renaissance composition so as to create a
dignified portrait. Truthfully, I don’t know if it is Mike or you, Wendy, who always
seems to initiate cutting up during your annual Easter family picture shoot. (Don’t blame
it on the kids.) There you all are, with mischief in your eyes just waiting for me to get set,
and then someone would whisper something and you would all loose it completely. And
you get such pleasure out of it. It is infectious. In my thirty something years as court
photographer, I cannot remember a time when your family didn’t give the impression that
just as the camera snapped one of you farted—loud, long and melodiously. Come to think
of it, I now kinda look forward to that moment, as your eruptions are seemingly beyond
your collective control. You know how to live life to the fullest and to laugh.
I recall coming over to your house for some occasion where Mike was outside at the
barbeque and you were in the kitchen cooking up a storm. You were always preparing
something special using your wonderful repertoire of cutlery, gadgets, and pans.
Someone mentioned that Mrs. Potts was in the kitchen, and I thought they were referring
to you. Only then did I come to understand that Mrs. Potts was your overgrown mop dog.
Yet, ever since that moment I’ve come to think of you as Mrs. Potts n’ Pans.
Wendy, you have enjoyed many blessings in life—the love of a good and faithful man,
four adoring children, a grandchild to write home about, a wonderful craftsman home, an
idyllic mountain family retreat, exciting travel, many friendships, support of those around
you, the ability to laugh, and the hand of God when needed most. But you have shared
your blessings with the rest of us as well. For those blessings we are most appreciative.
We pray God’s continued grace to fall upon you, and wish you the happiest of birthdays
on this special day. May you enjoy many more such days in the company of those who
bring special meaning to your life. Fight on! Just don’t forget where you left your teeth.
Love,
Ron
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