A Schwan Song for Jen

Idaho's February skies were relentlessly gray when my brother called to say a two-week vacancy existed in his Arizona triplex and I was welcome to use it. Fortuitous indeed, as my local 17-year-old granddaughter was experiencing some life difficulty and my feet, as always, were itching.

With the pretense of extending our self life... I grabbed the kid, a tank of gas and a few carrot sticks to tide us over. We hit the road to learn we needed to stop more often for chocolate than gas.

Anxious to see a real roadrunner, Jen took the wheel when I wearied that first night out and drove the under-construction highway through Salt Lake City as if she were on the Autobahn. In a very short time, we arrived at our destination.

The gorgeous unit was fully furnished and, of course, the kitchen was stocked by my thoughtful brother and sister-in-law with fresh fruit, coffee, milk, and cereal but not enough chocolate. Perhaps there can never be enough chocolate. The nearby grocery had additional provisions.

On a day near the end of this interlude, we basked on the patio while Jen did pre-assigned schoolwork and I watercolored. Jen prepared an artful and tasty lunch. We munched while chatting and watching golfers, the purple Superstition range, roadrunners, burrowing owls, mourning doves and bouncing bunnies.

'Perfect,' said I, 'except we have no dessert. Today, we have no ice cream, no chocolate. Poor we.'

'Yeah,' said she. And the doorbell rang. I opened the door to that well-known door marketer, complete with food catalog, order form and a small bag of sample. We talked for a minute or so before he went his way.

Returning to the patio, I opened the gift bag to find two (can you believe this?), two vanilla ice cream bars smothered in chocolate. High-fives and a thank you preceded the miracle of one more perfection.