Monthly Archives: November 2009

Lillian, my newest granddaughter, seeing your name for the first time immediately brought to mind the great-great-grandmother you are named for. She was a large, pillowy woman. One of the family stories described the time your grandfather, as a little boy, snuggled into her generous soft bosom and told her, "Grandma, you have such big hearts."

She did have a big heart. Her life held ample hardships, but also ample love. Her gift to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren was warm approval and unconditional love. She had a special bond with your grandfather, who was her first grandchild. Your father and his little sister loved to visit her; you certainly would have, too.

Part of what is miraculous about a newborn baby like you, granddaughter, is the wonder of getting to know a complete, unique person who wasn't here yesterday. Making that acquaintance from a distance isn't the same, of course, as doing so in person.

Yet, thanks to technology—a miracle in itself, even if it isn't anywhere close to the miracle of a brand-new human being—you, only hours old, were right there on the computer screen. It was possible to marvel at your delicate fingers, smile at how tiny you looked in your father's arms, and try to figure out who you looked like (yourself, mostly, at this point).

You were indignant in your first few minutes in the world, but observing it thoughtfully by your second day. You'll need both that indignation and that contemplation to thrive here. It's a challenging as well as a delightful world you've been born into.

You'll also need the love of people with big hearts. And that is one thing you already have. Welcome, little Lillian. It's wonderful to have you here.

In a Western movie, he would have been one of the bad guys. Not quite the worst bad guy—the leader of the outlaw gang or the iron-fisted landowner trying to take over the entire valley and marry the small rancher's pretty daughter against her will. No, he'd have been the chief sidekick or the hired gun, the one who never said much but who was always there, a figure of quiet menace looming in the background.

He looked the part, from his wide-brimmed black cowboy hat, to the black denim duster over his black jeans, to his polished black boots. The holster on his belt was black leather ornamented with metal studs. The only light things about him were the blond hair that curled past his shoulders and the three-day growth of whiskers that added an outlaw touch to his weathered face.

He shouldered through the door, pausing for a heartbeat while everyone in the place pretended not to look at him. When he located his target, he started across the room with the slow, deliberate stride of a predator. Each step was punctuated by the thump of a boot heel; only the jangle of long-roweled spurs was missing.

The woman he was after was at the far end of the room. She was tall in her boots and jeans, and slim—hard-work lean rather than fashion-model slender. Her straight brown hair, tied at her neck, hung nearly to her waist. The man in black spoke to her. She nodded and began to follow him toward the door.

As they walked, she showed him what she had in her cart. She had found a pattern, she told him, and the gauzy white fabric and silver wire trim were just what she needed to make angel wings for the church Christmas program.

While she paid for her angel-crafting supplies, he waited near the checkout counter, one hand resting casually on his cell phone in its leather holster. They walked out of the fabric store together, got into a bright yellow Jeep, and drove away.

Western drama just isn't what it used to be.