Over the Moon

My trip to Houston has brought me to new heights. Last night we visited our daughter-in-law's office which is on the 62nd floor of her building! I didn't realize how high it was until I started asking my son after we were already getting on the elevator. He said he hadn't told me because he was afraid I wouldn't go, since I don't like heights.

Although the view from her office was amazing, and the family pictures on her wall were heartwarming, I was glad to get my feet back on good old terra firma. "Mom, come here and look," Jamie called me from around the corner at the base of the building. "Look how high you were," he said as he pointed toward the top of the shining structure, but my head would hardly tilt back far enough to see the top! I didn't realize I had been that high!

Every day has been a new adventure on this vacation. Yesterday I went along as Jamie, kids in tow, including baby, took his father to a guitar center, where Howard strummed on and fantasized over several of the beautiful instruments. The next order of the day was to go to a place for lunch called the "Pot Belly." Somehow it wasn't exactly where our host remembered it, but we did pass a store I love, to which we would return after we had found and eaten at the "Pot Belly."

Each excursion starts with baby Isaac, four months, calmly looking around in his car seat until he realizes where he is, then a frown creases his brow and little spurts of discontentment are heard. I distract him by rattling a tin of breath mints, which works for a few minutes, then a suspicious look comes over his countenance. Immediately his cherubic face crumples into a full-fledged temper fit admirable in its length and fury. He hates the instrument of torture he is strapped into and forced to endure until the car stops, when he again becomes his angelic self.

Yesterday I walked around the backyard with my little granddaughters who wanted to show me some purple flowers they had discovered in the grass. The tiny blossoms had disappeared, but we found some that were yellow, as well as white clover blooms on slender stems. They picked a handful, and we tried to make a garland of them for Maddie's hair. Alas, our efforts at weaving failed, but I did manage to stick a few of them in a fat braid I plaited in the 4-year-old's gorgeous, titian tresses. When they fell out, the miniature bouquet made a sweet accent in a 3-ounce paper cup on the kitchen table.

They were still there this morning when we were served a breakfast of golden french toast topped with the freshest strawberries and vanilla-laced mounds of whipped cream cheese, accompanied by strips of crisp, oven-baked bacon. Did I mention I am at new heights?