Devonne Brown

I flew to The Bay Area to meet my high school sweetheart’s father a couple of years ago. My high school sweetheart died when I was a senior in college, so the importance of the visit was interesting. I’d never met his father; he found me a few years ago on facebook. I could tell where his son got his wonderful sense of humor and delight with the world. Our banter led to an invitation to a visit with him and his wife. Bruce and Gail, lovely humans in the California Bay area with a picture window that overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge. Total Luxury.

Do you know how many movies have that very view of the Bridge in them? For four days, I had the privilege of looking out that window whenever I felt like it, except when we went to the beach to see the seals, or the market, or some other awesome luxury. California is full of them.

Once we went to a street to see miniature houses people made for no apparent reason other than to make beautiful miniatures of houses and stores, one was called the “Mayor’s House.” They were all so detailed and beautiful, well kept. Most folks don’t keep the houses they live in so beautifully. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

We drove to Inverness to their cabin in the woods with their dogs Beebee and Findley. Beebee was an elegant, well mannered standard poodle and Findley barked a lot. He stayed in the car for the wine tasting at the winery and olive oil grove. He was more comfortable barking from the back seat, while Beebee was more comfortable lying on the mat by our chairs enjoying the cool air and those portable chimney things that heat up outside areas where you need them. It seemed to be always cold in California.

My trip ended too quickly, but before it did, I made a crucial but wonderful mistake. I exchanged my return ticket for a first class one. I had never flown first class, and thought that this trip would be the perfect time to do so. The excursion had been one elegance upon another. Did I mention we shucked oysters and had champagne for lunch at the cabin? It would have been morally wrong to fly back any other way. 

So, I booked my flight and sat next to a retired Cornell professor and we discussed the role of Shakespeare’s Dark Lady in the Sonnets, why Ophelia killed herself over Hamlet’s sorry ass, and why in the world Shakespeare was such a shit in general. It was either riveting or we’d had too much champagne, either way, we both loved and hated Shakespeare. “Cheers!” and it was Chicago already.

There was no connecting first class flight to Charleston, WV, so I said goodbye to my friend. I climbed aboard the puddle jumper to West Virginia-land where folks didn’t wash fresh oysters down with champagne, nor would there be talk be of the Dark Lady, Ophelia, or Shakespeare in general.