Being There, Instead of Being Here.....

 There was this thought of being there, the destination, the patterns of time and space, the nuances of peace and quiet time spent for no good reason except you were no longer here, but There.
Joyce had upon inception thought of a way to reminisce about her father, Harry and a way to conceptualize the Birth of her mother in a place that they could coexist with their surroundings once a year, where the family together was not able to accomplish during the time spent as a nuclear family, and there was where it was at.

 Now Bob, being a photo journalist, had the paintings on the wall come out as the glorious visuals as the Sun, in all it's glorious magnificence, stroked the horizon of both here and there. As one leaves the sequences of time in a day, memories can only hold onto their permanence in some sort of impressionistic collage, putting the protocols of the events of the day into the blinks of an eye, forever graffiti on the subway walls of the prophets memory, without any words having to be spoken.

 Now the idea that not all the participants were going to fit into this 13th annual event as the expansion of the extended family burst onto the coming of the tribal gathering, though they were all there in spirit, one gets the inner glows of the ones that did sit around what might be called the round table of existence of the being we have all come to be beholding to for some odd years, culminating in a celebration of 87 years of her own Private Sonoma County Existence. We all owe in a debt of gratitude that no one will ever pay back with the interest of Adele.

 Now besides the stamina and perseverance of Joyce, their in lies the fullness of Margie, the other blessed creative female soul conceived by Harry and Adele. While they sat upon a lone sand dune, musing, their beneath the waves, walked the bits and pieces of extended fortitude, in the grassy knoll and the incoming tides gently going to and fro from the scrabble board of families. Adele later told me the nakedness of the great grandchildren didn't stop at the ocean   floor, but found it's way back to the domicile of the home they all had started from earlier.

As the little Hamlets of Island homes pervaded the visual landscape that surrounded the iridescent waves crashing one upon another at Mother Nature's doormat called the shore, the panoramic views provided a kaleidoscope of fancy dancing images that burst forth to commemorate the coming of being There with Adele and not the lonely feeling that our spirits missed out on such benign musings from ship to shore upon the gracious moments shared with one another, here.      
As for me, though I was here, rather than there for the meeting of the tribal council of the Mortensen Clan, the night before I shared the precious moments with Adele and Joyce partaking the culinary flavor profiles of the Chicken Pot Pie, silent, yet auditory company of our friends the Gladiolus and the frivolity of the Birthday Party Hats that rested upon the mantle of the fireplace. The moonlit cloud formations around the moonscape that night pervaded into my sleepless night and caused my early retreat from the Maddening Crowd that was to follow in my undetectable footsteps, leaving the scene of the Celebratory Happenings.