Los Angeles

We reached Dick and Val's place in Los Angeles in time to drop off our stuff, which now included some circa 1990 Dynastar skis, which we were relocating from my brother's garage in Crested Butte to the ceiling of the Fox Den at Foxfire Ranch in North Mississippi. The skis left no room in the back seat for people, which was going to be needed to go to dinner with my uncle Adam. After a Sierra Nevada and my first introduction to Addy Bell, we were on our way. Now I hear that there are ugly babies, but I have never met one. At five months, Addy is not only beautiful, but one of the calmest, good-natured babies I have met. She has her dad's blue eyes (and big thighs) and her mom's peaceful demeanor. We spent three days there and I don't think I heard the baby cry once.

Time with my uncle Adam required a bit more fortitude. He is my mom's younger brother by nine years, whom I haven't seen since 2004. He suffers from Parkinson's and Asperger's, although the diagnoses seem to periodically shift. I hadn't seen him since my mom died 15 months ago, almost to the day. My dad has been talking regularly on the phone with him, doing what he can to support him from New York. I was surprised both at my uncle's clarity of mind and his poor physical health.

He led us to Junior's, a Jewish deli with a disappointing pastrami on rye sandwich (the universal measure of quality for all Jewish delis). He ordered the Manhattan clam chowder and lapped it up while Annette and I struggle for conversation starters. As I fumbled for questions, Adam apologized for his one-wordiness, "sorry I don't have better answers to your questions."

He told me my smile reminds him of Vicki's (my mom's) and his face broke down like a two year-old who just fell down hard on the floor and realized it hurts. Before the tears flowed, he recovered, "I suppose this is no place to cry. I will save that for later." Once he had told me I sit at the table like my mother, I was able to muscle out a question that got some traction, "What do you do in your primal therapy sessions?" That led to a good 20 minutes of conversation with plenty of branches to talk down.

By the time we left him at his place on Crescent Heights in West L.A., we had committed our Memorial Day Monday to helping him unpack. He lives ina  room witha mattress on the floor and about 18 boxes spread across the floor. As we learned on Monday after seven hours of unpacking, decorating, cleaning, and setting up his phonograph, 85% of the boxes are 45s, 33s, CDs and cassette tapes. His collection is incredible - from Harry Belafonte records to Dirty Dozen Brass Band CDs to NWA's "Express Yourself" cassette single.

The weekend was punctuated by an L.A. crawfish boil in which LA folks ate crawfish like they were from Louisiana, and a Mary J. Blige and Prince concert at the Forum that kept me on my feet the whole evening. Prince is an incredible entertainer. He had Maceo Parker sit in on the sax and combined Hendrix-esque guitar with Michael Jackson dance moves and Lady Gaga stage theatrics. There were several costume changes - all of which included Prince's signature silk blouse/kimono/cape and a few sets of high heels and ample sequins and sparkles. We also got in a great barbecue with old friends and new friends. And a punch of fruit picking and fresh juice from backyard fruit trees - lemons, grapefruits, oranges. There were great visits with Dick and Val and Addy Bell and Sara and Ramin and Etan. And the periods at the end of the sentences each day were nights on Dick's porch sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks in rocking chairs. Porch sitting for hours. Dick has kept plenty of Nashville as he builds his family in South Pasadena.

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