Smatterings

     So there were moments in my weekend that collided with the best of times when four cohorts of my extended family from the East Coast came billowing in with the clouds of my untrained and quite often brain roulette of my mind and dazzled me to the point of sophmoric imagery.
       We danced with the culinary traditions of the Child and Mortensen homestead, lingered in the Ukrainian traditions of downing shots of Vodka, and with the help of Carl, the glass blower on our trip down the Rhine, which was represented by his glass blown napkin holder that doubled as a shot glass and Vladimir, our newest philanderer of life, who had entered the front door of the Child family by marrying Lauren, the youngest of the Mike and Anita Child clan of the family tree, we traveled down other avenues of life, for moments at a time.
Along with Carl, Vladimir, brought his own heritage into our perception, cordially admonishing Joyce when she attended the conclusion of  leaving the empty bottle of Vodka (Stoli) on the table, by pronouncing to the conclave of travelers and homesteaders around the dining table that tradition demanded it go on the floor instead.  The significance of this, mind you, was to telegraph to the participants at hand, that unfortunately, the bottle itself had died a glorious death.
         From there purchases of snapshots of Sonoma County were consumed with the beautiful landscapes, baked goods and seafood, and I, by request from Anita, brought the sun out to frolic as we parted ways.  Later, upon request by Lauren, while in Big Sur, for Vladimir, I again brought the sun out to frolic, since by all accounts, it was going to be a windy and rainy experience.  It doesn't always go so well when I am so far away, and yet Mother Nature had heeded my pleas that day.
          Then our niece Sierra came to solicit her birthday wishes on a grateful Joyce, while filling us both in on her next phases of life, pursuing her academic wishes and dreams of a life well fulfilled and deserved.
          The last smatter of existence of our homestead arrived in the form of friends day, an iconoclastic and eclectic collection of Joyce's women friends gathered to celebrate their sharing in her life.  I, though in the prescence of such royalty, pretty much kept to other regions of our home and to finishing the cooking off of the Aebleskivers and washing the first round of dishes so Joyce could join in on the collective frivolty.  
          All and all quite the couple of weeks for what we call our luck in living in this glorious part of the world.  Though, for me, being a long time interloper with appropriate appreciation, while Joyce who had gathered the creativity and moss from being a native, we tended to make this a rather poetic colloboration of shared events.
          It has become perfectly clear, through our smatterings and our additions to the strings that the Universe has dangled in front of our noses, that we are still headed out on the Highway, looking for new adventures, and so gladly willing to accept the consequences of our choices.  I bid you a wonderful and glorious and fond farewell, for now.