Another Gift from the Sea

In Chicken Soup for the Soul's Time to Thrive, I wrote about my lifelong love affair with the Pacific Ocean in my story "Right Back Where I Started From." Now Denise Bossarte, in her quietly delightful volume of poems, rekindles my affection not only for the ocean itself, but also for the shore. In Dreams of the Turtle King, Bossarte catalogs what she finds when she visits the south Florida beaches: people, animals, things and thoughts.

My favorite poem, "Flock of Pelicans," brought a smile to my daughter-in-law's face last week. I read her the poem and showed her the delicate illustration by Nancy Standlee of a pelican in flight. Though she's in critical condition in a local hospital, the mention of pelicans elicited a strong response. A while back, Mari Lou, as a "Pelican Partner," actually released a baby pelican back into the wild through a program sponsored by International Bird Rescue, in exchange for a $500 donation to that wildlife agency. This was her 50th birthday gift from my son. https://52906.thankyou4caring.org/Donate

Since these are unsettling days for me, I, too, am deriving great pleasure from opening this book at random each night before I turn off the bedside lamp. Last night I read "Boy Digging." It brought back memories of one afternoon in my childhood, where I dug nearly to China in the sands near San Francisco's old Playland at the Beach. In those years I didn't worry about tracking sand into the house, since somebody else would have to clean it up...not me. And I dug and dug and dug until I could nearly hear the rattle of rickshaws, the image the mention of China evoked in me when I was eight years old.

Bossarte and Standlee have paired to produce a book that will stir up pleasant memories for anybody who treasures the memories of carefree treks to the beach.

This book is available for nature lovers in paperback or on Kindle at Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/Dreams-Turtle-King-Inspired-Florida/dp/1492841943

Learn more about Bossarte and Standlee here:
http://www.dreamsoftheturtleking.com/

Whatever Happened to All That Jazz?

When I was growing up in Los Angeles in the fifties, one of my joys was to stand outside The Lighthouse Cafe in Hermosa Beach on Sunday afternoons, listening to the wonderful music created by Howard Rumsey's Lighthouse All Stars, sometimes featuring Bob Cooper on tenor sax as well as others who formerly had played with Stan Kenton. When I returned to Southern California last fall, I'd hoped there'd be jazz clubs near my new home in Orange County to I could rekindle my love for the art.

If there are, I haven't found them. But, thanks to a piano teacher friend from the local branch of AAUW (American Association of University Women), I discovered Keyboard Concepts. Who would guess that a piano outlet in an industrial area of Fountain Valley would present world class jazz artists on Sunday afternoons...with free admission and complementary wine, cheese and desserts?

Last month I heard keyboard artist Dan Delaney team up with saxophonist Chris Stewart for a couple of hours of lyrical jazz standards, and even a rambunctious riff they composed on the spot. Stewart offered a couple of albums for those who contributed to the donation jar, and I snagged one that had his superb take on "Stars Fell on Alabama."

This past Sunday I arrived at Keyboard Concepts a bit early...I'd been in the neighborhood on other business. How fortunate that I was the first to arrive. I sat down on a folding chair near the rear, seeking to remain unobtrusive, while Delaney was warming up on the Yamaha 9 ft. concert grand. I didn't want to be a distraction. But when Delaney finished his piece, he got up and walked right over to me and asked if I was there for the 5 o'clock concert.

I explained I'd been there before, loved hearing him with Stewart, and remarked at what a great job Stewart had done on "Stars Fell on Alabama."

Delaney laughed. "I was in a restaurant somewhere in Arizona, where I now live," he said, "and I heard this fantastic rendition of that song. I thought to myself, wow, they're good. Just as I was about to mention this to my friend, I realized that I was hearing me, playing along with Doc Stewart and a rhythm section."

Delaney went on to say that jazz artists find few venues to play these days. Whether it's been karaoke or pop or rap that's driven it underground, not too many places feature traditional jazz any more. Keyboard Concepts, he added, is doing its utmost to reawaken a jazz scene in Orange County, with its end-of-the-month Sunday afternoon Sunday concerts.

Delaney believes that anybody can learn to play the piano, no matter how advanced in years. Consequently, he's been conducting a course at Keyboard Concepts, which he'll continue on Saturday mornings at Keyboard Concepts via Skype in coming months. He has put together a book, "Learn to Play Piano in Six Weeks or Less." It's described thusly on Amazon:

Many people wish they could sit down at the piano and simply play, their hands flying over the keys as melodies pour out. With this simple, achievable program that’s possible…in just six weeks. Using Dan Delaney’s innovative chord playing techniques, as opposed to more classical methods, musical newcomers and lapsed musicians can quickly and easily gain skills. Each of the six weeks’ worth of lessons contains several exercises. The classes build on each other, becoming progressively more difficult as the player’s ability improves, and every lesson includes sheet music, practice advice, and an evaluation at the end. Plus, MP3 audios of the lessons will be available for free on Delaney’s website.

At this past Sunday's concert the Dan Delaney Trio, featuring Sinclair Lott on drums and Roger Shew on bass. Aside from opening with "Eleanor Rigby," the rest of the program consisted of Delaney's original compositions. 

Here's the Dan Delaney Trio jazzing up the Beatles classic:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ee9NAoNqPeU

And here they are with one of my favorites..."My Romance."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZPOtQygEBE


According to Delaney, the exceptionally talented pianist Chris Dawson from Santa Monica will appear on Sunday, September 27, at 5:00 pm, doors opening at 4:30. Those who want to attend should call  (714) 544-0088 for further information or to RSVP. Here's Dawson in a stride version of  "All of Me."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFPWZpoOxP8

Keyboard Concepts - Fountain Valley

18285 Euclid Ave., Fountain Valley, CA 92708 (Exit the 405 at Euclid)
Ph (714) 544-0088
Fx (714) 544-2706
Toll Free (800) 22-PIANO

Purpose, Passion, Perseverance...and Ambrose Bierce

Just released...my 26th story in 23 Chicken Soup books!

It's been a bit over a hundred years ago that journalist and satirist Ambrose Bierce mysteriously disappeared while reportedly traveling with rebel troops during the Mexican Revolution. Few these days may remember his short stories, his columns in the San Francisco Examiner or the satirical The Devil's Dictionary. Thanks to Project Gutenberg, I have the latter on my Kindle.

Back in the early sixties, when I taught high school journalism, I used to ask students to choose famous news stories from the past for classroom term project presentations. I'd provide a list of suggestions...disasters such as the sinking of the Titanic, the explosion of the Hindenberg, the Lindbergh kidnapping, the Snopes Monkey Trial, the Sacco and Vanzetti case...and I'd tuck in the names of noted journalists as well, always taking care to mention Bierce.

I've been invited to submit a guest blog on perseverance to a website that features tips for writers. The hostess suggested I might want to write on perseverance, since my true stories have appeared in well over a hundred anthologies in less than a decade. It's been a busy morning for me, and I've not yet written the piece. I've browsed through my own posts, though, and note I've written three previous entries that address the topic. I'll use some of these thoughts as springboards for the new piece.
   
 I opened my Kindle to see if he had included a definition of it in his dictionary. He had.

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce, 1842-1914(?)

"Perseverance, n. a lowly virtue whereby mediocrity achieves an inglorious success."--Ambrose Bierce

(He also had something to say about plagiarism: "Plagiarism, n. A literary coincidence compounded of a discreditable priority and an honorable subsequence.")

I'm still laughing. Yes, perseverance enabled me to fill a bookcase with books that include my stories. Is this a credible achievement? Should I give myself a pat on the back?

I remember my lofty ambitions as a high school journalism student. I'd planned a career as a writer...I'd hoped to combine journalism and novel writing...I'd be a modern distaff Hemingway. I'd win accolades...maybe a Pulitzer or even a Nobel. There'd be no stopping me.

Something did stop me, though...and it was life. My life took other turns. Though I continued to write and edit, I never made a career of it. I'm delighted that my son, Steve Elders, copy chief for the Los Angeles Times Sunday Calendar, has. He's lived my dream of devoting a life to the fourth estate.

I've done other things, though. And I write about some of these for such anthology series as Chicken Soup for the Soul and Publishing Syndicate's Not Your Mother's Book. Among those other things...I've a long history of volunteering.

So I'm thrilled that one of my stories about a volunteer activity made this latest book...Chicken Soup for the Soul: Volunteering and Giving Back. I need some inspiration today...so I'm going to read a few of these stories before I write that blog on perseverance.

Though Bierce makes me laugh, Nelson Mandela gives me words that spur me on:

“It always seems impossible until it's done.” --Nelson Mandela
 

Enigmatic vs. Explicit: Cryptic vs. Cookie Cutter?

Sunflower...a lifelike portrayal

"Chaos is order yet undeciphered"--opening message of Villeneuve's Enemy.

Sunflowers, through an artist's lens

Last night a friend and I watched Jake Gyllenhaal in another riveting performance...or should I say two. He plays dual doppelganger roles in the 2014 much-lauded Canadian film, the psychological thriller, Enemy. After the movie, my friend, an actor and director himself, had a discussion about why he hated the film, and why I found it mesmerizing. At the heart of our discussion lay the huge difference between us when it comes to thinking about art.

He's a realist, who readily admits that the paintings that adorn his walls are nearly photographic portrayals of scenes depicting the American west. He took a moment to tour my living room. Nothing could be mistaken for a photograph.

"The horses in my paintings are anatomically correct...very true to life," he explained.

I laughed. "The unicorns in my paintings don't vary much from the actual beasts," I countered.

About Enemy. Are the identical men two sides of one man? Do Anthony and his pregnant wife represent an earlier affair of Adam's? One reviewer on Internet Movie Data Base sums it up with the caption, "Kafka Meets Lynch."

Here's the core issue. My friend proved to be unfamiliar with Kafka's Metamorphosis, which I had likened the story line to. I didn't mention Eraserhead, David Lynch's equally disturbing film. When I made the allusion, he grinned.

"Hey, basicallly I'm a handshake guy in a fist-bump world."


I do enjoy my friend's wry humor, and his ability to laugh at himself.

I mentioned that I knew the movie had been adapted by director Denis Villeneuve from a novel, The Double. My friend shook his head dismissively. He didn't seem interested in reading it. This morning I put a hold request on the book with my Orange County branch library. Last night I didn't add that the author, Jose Saramago, was a brilliant and thought-provoking Portuguese novelist, a 1998 Nobel Prize Winner. 

One comment about the movie on the IMDB thread resonated with me. "For those who prefer linear story lines of everyday possibilities the film will likely not find an appreciative audience. This is a film that demands the full attention of the viewer and the acceptance of alternative ways of viewing reality and alternative reality."

When I was a graduate student in English, focusing on late nineteenth century American and British literature, I based my Master's thesis on the role of women in the novels of William Dean Howells. Howells was known as the champion of realism. At the same time I fell under the spell of Henry James, known also for realism, but whose later novels had much in common with the school of impressionism.

I loved both of their works. I admire realism. I admire abstract impressionism. I am fortunate to enjoy the best of both worlds. I even have no problem with imaginative riffs on real people's lives. This next week I plan to watch Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus. 

Are such films pretentious artsy garbage? Indeed, are imagery and symbolism mere smoke and mirrors purposely tossed out to anger those who believe that some artists simply are trying to act intellectually superior? Is it all right ever to distort reality?

Lewis Carroll wrote a bit about that:

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.'

Do we always have to call a spade a spade? Do we always need to solve the riddle that is life, or how we perceive it? Is it all right sometimes to remember that life is but a dream? 

All's Fair in Orange County

It's true that a writer can be sidetracked by the siren songs of summer events in Southern California. Especially, perhaps, if that writer for eons has been cloistered far from their lure. Now that I'm home once more in the Southland, I'd planned long uninterrupted days of fashioning fiction. Instead I'm out dancing to the hypnotic beat of the summertime.

This past week I sat in on what used to be called "dress rehearsal," but is now "final dress," for the Westminster Community Playhouse season opener, Sabrina Fair. The 1953 Broadway production served as the basis for the film, "Sabrina," which starred Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart and William Holden. The latter, directed by Billy Wilder, differed in great detail from the original play, which lead the author, Samuel A. Taylor, to divorce himself from the production. A remake in 1995 featured Harrison Ford, Julia Ormond and Greg Kinnear.

Though I loved the Hepburn film, mostly because she sang the haunting "La Vie en Rose" in French, the local play production enchanted me. I could imagine basking in the walled garden by the terrace of the Long Island mansion, lounging in the lawn chairs, sipping cocktails and gazing at the stars overhead, just as did the cast.

Other pluses include the ebullient performance of Tiffany Berg as Sabrina. The women's costumes, from seamed hosiery to matching belts and heels, and elegant hairstyles set me right back into the Eisenhower era. I even had owned a polka dot dress similar to one worn by Alison Mattiza, playing Aunt Julia in this production.

Run dates and times for this production are Fridays and Saturdays at 8 and Sunday matinees at 2, through August 23. Tickets information can be found here: www.wctstage.org. Reservations: 714-893-8626.

 The Orange County Fair continues its "One Big Party" to celebrate its 125th year of operation, with a closing date of August 16. I went on a Friday, taking advantage of mild temperatures and a senior admission special, plus the $2 sampler snacks, featured by nearly every food vendor. Highlights for me in the crafts pavilion included the wonderful woodworking displays or handcarved guitars, a crocheted wedding dress, and quilts featuring nursery rhymes.

I admired a miniature horse snacking on grass for a buck a peek, cashed in on a free ride on the ferris wheel (a Catalina view was obscured by the marine layer), and sampled mint chocolate chip gelato, chicken fajitas and polish sausage on grilled french bread. I said a wholehearted "no" though, to chocolate-covered pork rinds or bacon, and even bypassed the deep fried pineapple.

This next week I'll be writing...I promise myself I'll finally finish the story inspired by my spring trip to the Wildacres writing retreat. I generally fare well with promises.

More information on the Orange County Fair: 
http://www.ocfair.com/2015/generalinformation/Fairhours.asp

Bowled Over

Last night at the Hollywood Bowl an assortment of musicians and vocalists paid tribute to the 100th birthday of Frank Sinatra. Our attending AAUW group consisted of two carloads of women of a certain age...accompanied by a couple of nieces of one of the members. As we wandered around the Bowl's museum before the concert, one of the teens asked, "What exactly did Frank Sinatra sing? Would I ever have heard any of the songs?"

I was a child in the early '40s, too young to be one of the bobbysoxers who swooned at the crooner's appearances. Nonetheless, the question gave me pause...and throughout the evening I reflected on the fleetingness of fame.

Even as a teen I knew about the performers my grandparents and parents idolized...from Rudy Vallee to Billie Holiday. In junior high, we learned to dance in our PE classes to the swing music of Glenn Miller, even though he'd been more of an icon of our parents than ourselves. By high school we were into Patti Page, Les Paul and Mary Ford, Tony Bennett, but we still swayed to the music of Sinatra when we felt particularly romantic.

The summer I got married, 1955, my husband and I listened to the Hi Lo's, The Four Freshmen and June Christy...but we still loved Sinatra, even when Elvis Presley entered the pop music picture. By the sixties and the British Invasion, I was teaching high school journalism. My students divided their loyalties between the Beach Boys and the Beatles.They alluded to the songs of balladeers and crooners as "wrinkle music." Nonetheless I took one of them to a Sinatra concert in Long Beach, a fundraiser for the Police Officers Association Widows and Orphans Fund...and fifty years later she wrote to me that she never forgot that special event.

So last night, at the tribute, I expected to be blown away, even though other than the Count Basie Orchestra and Seth McFarland I didn't recognize the names of the performers:

Kurt Elling, special guest

José James , special guest

Seu Jorge, special guest

Seth MacFarlane, special guest

John Pizzarelli, special guest

Luciana Souza, special guest

Christian McBride, musical director

The Count Basie Orchestra

Carmen Bradford, special guest

They all were good...but for me the rich baritone of Family Guy creator McFarland was the event's surprise sleeper. Others in my group were familiar with the Scottish man from Connecticut's vocal abilities...he'd studied with Sinatra's vocal coaches...but my only prior exposure to his singing had been an uncomfortable few moments at the 2013 Academy Awards when he sang "We Saw Your Boobs," paying homage to female nominees.

Last night he captured the true Sinatra flavor, the swinging hipness that epitomized the Chairman of the Board,,,the others not so much, though I needed reminding that Sinatra indeed could swing a mean bossa nova.

Sinatra's history at the Bowl, for those who may question if they've ever heard of him, or if they'd recognize one of his songs, is provided on the Bowl's website: http://www.hollywoodbowl.com/philpedia/frank-sinatra

Sinatra made his Hollywood Bowl debut in 1943. Last night's tribute was a sellout for the Bowl. Old Blue Eyes still packs them in.

Late Bloomer: Three Days, Three Gifts

Carnations Thursday,  Sunflowers Friday

Thursday afternoon, as I sat by the pool of my apartment complex, I heard murmurs, "Flowers, somebody's getting flowers," from the BBQ pit behind me. I craned my head around to the left to see who was bringing posies to a lucky someone, just as a bouquet appeared over my right shoulder. One of the people at my table had been practicing "Besame Mucho" on his guitar, and the others began to laugh. "A romantic song and a romantic gesture." It was. It's been many years since a gentleman gave me flowers. I'd invited a friend who to dinner that night and to watch a video. He'd meant to show up at my doorstep with the flowers. Instead, he spotted me on the patio and knew there was no way he could ease his way past me on the way to his building with the flowers without me spying him.

Friday afternoon when I arrived at my apartment door, I found another bouquet fastened to my doorknob. Just that morning I'd given a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Young at Heart to a resident in my building. She'd read my story, "The Bet," about how I met my late husband. Then a few hours later, as she left her physical therapist's office, she spotted a flower vender hawking freshly cut sunflowers and decided she had to get some for me. My story, that relates the role sunflowers played in the early days of my relationship with Ken Wilson, is pasted below.

This morning I met with one of the Los Angeles County Peace Corps recruiters, who is recruiting her own mother and her mother's close friend, a professor at East Los Angeles College. The women wanted to talk with someone who had served as an older Volunteer. Since I was 50 when I joined back in 1987, Tiffany Tai thought of me, so we rendezvoused at a nearby Spires. Tiffany brought me dragon fruit and Dr. Shirley Huang Batman brought me a handmade pinwheel pen, with a butterfly jewel from Lukang, Changwa, Taiwan.

I never tire of learning...and today I have learned about both a fruit and a town previously unknown to me. Here's some facts about each:

Quick facts about Lugang:

• It's one of Taiwan's oldest towns,
  
• Lukang means "Deer Harbor",
• it was central Taiwan's most populous city until the 20th century,
• Lukang's port used to bustle with immigrants and trading junks from mainland China (during the Qing Dynasty),
• the town is well known for having the most gorgeous temples on the island, curiously curved streets and fine traditional handicrafts.

Quick facts about Dragon Fruit:

• Pitahaya has edible miniscule black seeds, similar to a kiwi's.
• The skin is NOT edible.
• Indigenous to Central America, it is also grown and exported from several Southeast Asian countries, such as Thailand and Vietnam. 
•  While it may seem a little strange at first, it's easy to get to the fruit. Simply slice lengthwise and either scoop out the flesh, or quarter it and peel back the leathery skin.
• Dragon fruit provides health benefits, from a strengthened immune system and faster healing of bruises and wounds to fewer respiratory problems.

The Bet

(from Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for the Young at Heart)

Why not go out on a limb? Isn’t that where the fruit is?
~Frank Scully

At 62 I didn’t expect to find love. But on New Year’s Eve, l998, when online dating still was considered more risky than routine, I resolved to try Socialnet.com. Long divorced and just returned from a decade overseas with Peace Corps, I worked in Little Rock, far from my California origins. Dateless for eons, I pictured casual Saturday outings to view Renoirs at the Arts Center or to share fried chicken and a hike at Pinnacle Mountain State Park. Love was for others. I’d settle for companionship.

So masquerading as “Dumpling,” I posted my online bio and personal preferences, and prepared to review my matches. My inbox promptly began to fill with a list of potential dates’ screen names and the distance they lived from my Arkansas home. To learn more, I’d have to click on the profile. Sometimes I sighed at the quirkiness of the computer matchmaker. One match, Bettor, I left unopened…the man lived over 2,000 miles away. Not a good bet for Saturdays in the park.

Those nearby didn’t always prove to be good bets, either. A Kentucky widower wrote that if I helped him raise his four teenage sons he’d provide me with a new washing machine. I passed. A Wichita Falls adventurer invited me on a rafting excursion on the notoriously challenging Cossatot River. We’d have to wait, though, until he convinced his wife that he deserved a weekend away. I declined. An Oklahoman declared he loved my moniker, Dumpling. He bet that I was one enticing fat mama. I didn’t respond.

I finally agreed to meet one local widower for supper at Cajun’s Wharf. The riverside setting, though, reminded him of the seafood dishes his late wife had prepared. Soon he was sobbing into his devilled crab as he recounted her technique with halibut, trout and flounder. By the time he began to wail about her bouillabaisse, I’d finished with my barbecued shrimp…and our date.

Then one day at work my admin assistant, Bev, asked how Social.net worked. I pulled up my list, which for months had been headed by Bettor’s unopened profile.

I ran my cursor over his name. “I’ve never written this guy because he’s too far away,” I explained. “And with a name like Bettor, I suspect he’s a gambler. But let’s peek.” 

I clicked on his profile and quickly scanned it. Hmmm. Like me, he appreciated jazz, art, books, dogs, cooking, and travel. What’s more…he sounded sane.

I glanced up at Bev. “I’ve been to the ends of the earth with Peace Corps, so what’s two thousand miles?” I pounded out a quick paragraph introducing myself.

Bev eyed me. “What if he turns out to be The One?”

The next morning I had a response in my inbox.

“My name’s Ken and I think I’m in love,” I read. “I value a coherent message. Bettor is my Nissan’s vanity plate, which amuses friends here in Reno. I deal poker at Circus Circus, but don’t gamble myself, as my three boys will attest.” He added a link to his domain page, dubbed Sunflower.

I hesitated before clicking on it. I didn’t want any kinky surprises. So I was delighted to find that he’d filled his webpage with photos of his three grown sons and assorted grandkids.

 “You and your sons each are more handsome than the others,” I wrote back.

We corresponded with caution, gradually building trust, and then shared our private e-mail addresses. Eventually we traded phone numbers. Friends warned about ax murderers, but I believed in Ken’s sincerity. “I don’t even own a tiny hatchet,” he’d assured me.

Sunday mornings, home from his graveyard shift, Ken would phone. He e-mailed jokes to start my day, and sent gifts, a wooden car, a casino chip, framed photos. Then one day I opened a small box to find a ring with a diamond sunflower. It had belonged to his mother, he wrote.

In turn, I mailed cards with sunflower motifs and a motion-activated potted sunflower that played “You Are My Sunshine,” the only song he claimed he knew the words to, aside from the theme from “Paladin.” We debated how and where we could meet in person, beginning to realize we were falling in love. “I’ve never had a doubt,” Ken swore.

I decided to attend my high school reunion in California and then visit my father’s widow in Napa. Ken drove from Reno to her place to meet me, and we toured the nearby wineries. When we paused for supper that first evening, the waiters all buzzed around after we described our long Internet romance. They produced a bottle of Chardonnay on the house, gazing at us with sappy smiles. We billed and cooed like aging lovebirds.

Weeks later I flew back to Reno for his son’s annual mystery party. I sported a feather boa and toted a stuffed wirehaired terrier, and Ken looked dapper in his rented tuxedo, as we impersonated detectives Nick and Nora Charles from the “Thin Man” movies.

I returned for the holidays, suitcase stuffed with Christmas gifts and decorations, and Ken provided a little tree. His son joined us for Christmas dinner and presented us with a mouse pad that featured us in our “Thin Man” costumes.

On New Year’s Eve afternoon Ken taught me some poker basics so that I could accompany him to work that night. Because of the Y2K fright, though, the card room crowd was sparser than anticipated so he got a phone call from the manager offering him the night off. We rushed out to rent videos, grabbed a bottle of champagne and ordered a pizza.

At midnight we toasted the millennium and made a joint resolution to marry. On July 1, 2000, we wed at his son’s home in Reno. Socialnet.com sent us a gift of a Waterford crystal photo frame. It holds a picture of us cutting our cake and sits today on the top shelf of a china cabinet in the living room.

Together Ken and I cruised the Mediterranean, the Baltic, and the Alaska Inner Passage. We hoisted steins in Munich at Oktoberfest. We searched for Nessie in Inverness, and pub-crawled in Dublin. We gardened, played a running gin game, watched “Jeopardy,” and spoiled our two dogs and three cats. I never quite mastered Texas Hold ‘Em. For nine years Ken e-mailed me those daily jokes. We survived surgeries, spats, falls and fractures. We wandered those art galleries and picnicked on fried chicken, just as I had envisioned. I confess that Ken sauntered, rather than hiked.

After a lingering illness, my sweet Bettor died last spring. But opening his profile proved to be my best bet ever. He indeed turned out to be The One, my sunshine, my love. He’s left me with a myriad of precious memories.

You can bet that I adore technology. Who knew that it would lead me to companionship…and to love?