Could it be--hair?

The good news: I woke up one day last week to discover the sudden reappearance of my eyebrows! A peek under my night cap showed a downy covering of black fuzz there, too--imagine. Now if I can just ask one more small favor of the Great Provider: could my hair not return as the kind that sticks straight out--the electrified model--but instead, something cute and curly?

Joyful news: as you may know, the kids were all home this past week on a work/play retreat that stood in for a trip to Europe, or even one to New York. We saw a play--the farce "A Flea in her Ear." Went out for a great dinner with a guest appearance by brother Alex and sister-in-law Mary from Eastern Oregon. Had professional massages and a night of music provided by Nathan on fiddle, Jesse on my old guitar from student days in Mexico. We made cherry pie--the passing on of a family tradition and lots of tasty, colorful feasts which I enjoyed with my eyes, mostly.

Then came the work part. As my dad would say, there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Talk about take-charge kids. Boxes were dragged from the basement, contents hurled into piles according to each person's separate value system, while I frantically tried to save whatever treasures might be cowering among the junk. Now that everyone's gone home, we still have, uhumm, several minor mountain ranges traversing the plains of our major living areas.

Most importantly, though, we sorted through our thoughts and hopes on end-of-life issues--not in a morbid way--to be sure we were in agreement and can move on to enjoy the months or years ahead. We laughed, we cried, we appreciated each other as never before. Two months from now we'll know if the current drug has successfully stormed the fort and can maintain me for a decent stretch. In the meantime things are likely to continue rocky. That is, more time spent on the fighting rail of the track than on the scenic one.

As for Magda, the Divine, she impatiently awaits her writer's hand, having been left in the middle of announcing to her daughter Silvia that she was marrying the gringo, Sr. Karl, whom she has known six days:

"You're not going to be a Mexican anymore?" Silvia looked horrified.
"I suppose not," said Magda. "But in my heart, I will always be."
"You don't even speak English! How are you going to communicate with that man?"
Magda wanted to explain how Sr. Karl had used sign language to encourage her to go parasailing and how she had felt when he put his speechless arm across her shoulders. She was just the right height to fit under it. She wanted to say that words were of less importance when you were matching spirits—you understood each other instinctively, while if you were mismatched, no quantity of words could bridge the gap.

Have loved hearing from you. May spring be sunny and greening wherever you are.

Diane