Car, Pay Diem

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“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”

“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”

“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.

Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.

Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.

A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.

Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.

Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.

Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.

As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?

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Maybe I Could Be "Just" a Wife

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Mr. Wright had an important meeting today. Very important. I set aside my own work to channel Tammy Wynette and "stand by my man," making sure everything he and his colleague could possibly need during the four-hour meeting was anticipated, and delivered with the grace and skill of Martha Stewart.

First, I made sure the bathroom was spotless, and free of the usual clutter that plagues lavatories in homes of families as large as ours. I even washed the toilet "behind the ears." You know the back of the pedestal no one sees? It was clean, clean, clean, my friends.

Next, I prepared a tea platter, with a wide assortment of teas to offer. When the important colleague arrived, I wanted to be able to offer not only English Breakfast and chamomile, but also ginger, white plum, double chai, blueberry, apple spice, green tea with pomegranate, white pear, oolong, rooibos, and at least three other teas I can't pronounce. When you're served tea in the Gonzo house, it's an event.

Then, I started a batch of Peanut Butter Oat Chocolate Chip cookies baking. I read somewhere that men respond positively to the smell of fresh-baked goods, and I wanted Mr. Wright to have every advantage as he headed in to talk business. I also put on a few dabs of my pheromone-based fragrance, knowing I would be the one greeting the fellow when he arrived.

I made a pitcher of ice water, and meticulously sliced bright green apples on my mandoline to add color and flavor. Anyone can make ice water, but not all ice water makes an impression. I wanted this guy to know that Mr. Wright's business means business - with special attention to details.

The cookies came out of the oven just as the meeting started, perfectly browned with gooey melted chocolate chips. I even packed a personalized paper sack with half a dozen for the guy to take home after the meeting, so he'd still be thinking of Mr. Wright when he left.

I poured the tea and checked in a few times to make sure the men had enough hot water, tea bags, and cookies - attempting to hit that perfect level of "attentive" that didn't overreach to "annoying." I spent enough years waiting tables to know the difference, and I performed exquisitely, thank you very much.

When the meeting ended, I had spicy, steaming, homemade soup waiting for my husband - with lots of beans and legumes to keep his protein levels high for brain function. I listened attentively while he summarized the meeting, and asked appropriate questions. I stroked his hair a few times, because I know his "love language" is physical touch.

In short, I kicked butt at wifedom today.

I was the fabulous woman behind the successful man, and I did all the right things to make sure my husband was "respected at the city gate, where he (shall take) his seat among the elders of the land." (Proverbs 31:23) It felt good. Really, really good.

It got me thinking… Maybe I could be happy just lifting my husband up, and throwing myself into his success. Maybe I could spend my days vacuuming and baking. Maybe I could even learn how to iron. Or, at least, how to set up the ironing board. Maybe, just maybe, I could be the steel that sharpens his steel, and it would all work out.

Then, I opened the door to the laundry room. Suddenly, I remembered why it's so important for me to work in my own field. I can sharpen steel all day long, but until Mr. Wright is successful enough to hire a laundress for me, I'm going to feel justified in having a little career on the side.

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I’ve Adopted an Eighth Child, and My Husband Doesn’t Know

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I've “known” for a while there’s another kid intended for the Gonzo clan. I don’t know the sex of the child, the age, or where the little blessing is coming from, but I do know the name.

Asher.



That’s the name I hear, over and over again, during my prayers, my dreams, my most peaceful moments, and my most chaotic crises. “Asher,” I hear. Surely, this child is on his or her way to our family. I just don’t know how, yet. Or when.

In the meantime, I’ve taken the preliminary steps to securing the munchkin. That is, I said to my friend, Mike, who runs an adoption agency, “Hey, if you come across any kids named Asher, give me a call.” Mike asked if there were any other pre-adoption screening requirements, and I said, “No, just the name.”

“Does it have to be a given name, or can it be a kid whose name we can change to Asher?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet. Let me get back to you.”

I’ve been periodically checking the “children waiting” website for our state—you know, just in case—but have yet to see the name pop up. It’s silly, really, since we haven’t completed a new home study, submitted any paperwork, or taken any other steps to show our preparedness to welcome a new child into our home.

No matter. I’m way ahead of the game. In fact, I’ve already incorporated Asher into our lives. When I shop, I check out the baby department. If an incredible sale pops up, I want to be ready to stock up on sleepers and burp cloths.

That may be awkward if Asher turns out to be eight years old.

I envision the football games we’ll attend, cheering Asher on to victory. True, Asher may be a girl. That’s where my back-up vision comes in—dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. Maybe Asher will have special needs, so I’m reading more blogs by special needs parents. I’m also reading more blogs on food allergies. Asher may have special dietary requirements, you know.

I find myself preparing larger quantities of food these days. Asher has a large appetite, and is in the middle of a growth spurt. I marveled the other day how hot dogs—although I don’t eat them or feed them to my children—come in packages of eight. Surely, that’s a sign. What happens to the extra hot dog, if a family only has seven children?

When we’re headed somewhere as a family, I find myself counting Asher’s among the cabooses we need to seat. Since we only have five kids at home, now, we’re still doing okay with our eight-passenger vehicle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Asher is part of a sibling group.

Every fairy tale princess knows someday, her prince will come. I, too, “know” someday, Asher will come. Just as those princesses are too busy trying to survive wicked stepmothers and evil witches to actively pursue said princes, I’m far too busy raising the kids I already have to worry much about how the next one will find us. Some days, that’s on par with escaping evil witches.

Let’s not forget, dear readers, that Mr. Wright and I were minding our own business when we accidentally adopted the last two. These things have a way of working themselves out.

Until that time, I’ll continue to dress, feed and house my imaginary eighth child (Asher is so cute when he/she is sleeping!), while trying to figure out a way to break the news to Mr. Wright.

“Honey, we’re expecting.”

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The Unhappiest Place on Earth and Other Vacation Tales

Curlytop is NOT down with Disney.

For children with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), Disneyland may not be the carefree wonderland promoters would have parents believe. In fact, for some SPD kids, it may be something closer to one giant house of horrors.

We weren’t thinking about that when we forked over a month’s worth of grocery money at the hallowed gates of the theme park. We were thinking about the memories we were creating with our children.

Memories, indeed.

I’ll never forget Curlytop and Snugglebug screaming in terror at the sweet face of the wooden puppet who came to life during a gently ambling journey through a darkened ride which featured a blissfully beautiful good fairy and a kindly old man. Snugglebug reviewed the Pinocchio ride with carefully-crafted restraint. “It was scary, and I hated it.”

Next up was a ride so sweet and mild, adults dread it and children adore it. After all, it really is a small, small world, and if the syrupy song doesn’t give you a toothache, the angelic faces of children from around the globe certainly will.

Unfortunately, our mid-November visit meant the ride was outfitted for Christmas, and played not only that most-dreaded song but a Christmas carol in alternating blasts—and sometimes in tandem. The usually charming children were all but hidden behind blinking, glimmering, aggressively-featured holiday decorations. Add all that visual and audio busyness to chilling blasts of air to simulate snowfall, and it’s the perfect recipe for SPD meltdowns.

Oh, yes. We were “that family” on the Small World ride. The family with the shrieking kid who just won’t shut up? That’s us.

I got Curlytop to agree to board a carousel—on the condition that we’d sit on a bench, not a moving horse—only to have her burst into tears as the music started, resulting in an emergency disembarkation.

The crowds, smells, larger-than-life cartoon characters, noise, lights and general chaos of Disneyland must have felt like the equivalent of a straight-to-video horror flick for my girls. I’m ashamed to say I drank the Disney kool-aid, and never considered my children would be anything but thrilled to see Mickey’s stomping grounds.

The next day of our vacation was exceptional, by comparison. We hit Knott’s Berry Farm, with its old-school, carnival-type rides and games. The park lacks the hologram-filled adventure rides of Disneyland, but Curlytop and Snugglebug loved “driving” race cars and semi-trucks around a tiny track without sensory assault, and were perfectly content to hang at Camp Snoopy for hours.

Plus? It’s half the price of Disneyland.

While the little girls played with Mr. Wright, the older girls and I embarked on a quest to ride every rollercoaster in the park. While Princess loves a good ‘coaster, she’s a bit more selective than the rest of us—no vertical drops, and no rocket launches.

That put her on snack patrol with Curlytop and Snugglebug, while Mr. Wright begrudgingly agreed to be my seatmate while Pepper rode with GirlWonder on the Xcelerator—a ‘coaster which starts like a pinball machine, pulling the car back, then launching it at 82 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds to a height of 205 feet, then drops essentially straight down before hitting two overbanked turns and gliding to a stop. To top it off, it’s pink. It looks for all the world like the Barbie Dream ‘Coaster—not an encouraging thought.

Xcelerator at dusk.

It was amazing, and no one soiled their pants.

The coup de grâce was the notorious GhostRider wooden rollercoaster, which my fellow junkies and I waited two hours in line to board, due to a sudden cloudburst. Apparently, the ride can’t be run in the rain and, while we love a good shot of adrenaline, we’re more than happy to leave such judgments to the professionals. We’d like to stay on the track, and make it to the end in one piece, thank you very much.

It was dark by the time we finally boarded our car. Riding the rails in the dark made the experience even more exhilarating, and sealed our status as Knott’s devotees.

The drive back home to Washington featured a near-brawl in a supermarket parking lot, a highway flooded with spilled port-a-potties, sing-a-longs to Fleetwood Mac, carsickness, drive-thrus, and 1,100 miles of memories I wouldn’t trade for a month of Disney.

Eat your heart out, Mickey… The happiest place on earth is where is my family is.

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Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

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*Admittedly, this post was supposed to go up last Wednesday, but I was on my way to California with my main squeeze and my kiddos. Ah... Glorious distraction!


As a vegan, I’m aware my diet is different from others. Still, it’s always perplexed me that when I’m invited to dinner, my dietary restrictions seem to boggle the minds of people who are accustomed to preparing “normal” food. I prepare vegan meals for my family every single day, and don’t bat an eyelash. It’s not difficult, so what’s all the hubbub, Bub?

Myself excluded, I’ve never planned a meal for someone with a special diet. All that changed last week, when Mr. and Mrs. Editor came for dinner.

I consider the Editors a couple of fine and discerning taste. They are, after all, friends with me. So I was thrilled to have an opportunity to showcase my not insignificant culinary skills by pulling them away from the chaos and busyness of running a newspaper, and giving them a chance to relax and enjoy a fine meal and a drink or two.

As is my custom, I contacted my guests, asking if they had any food allergies. Mr. Editor replied, indicating no food allergies, and a preference for “only fruit for dessert.” Talk about crushing news! I’m writing a vegan dessert cookbook, and my guests don’t want dessert? Not satisfied with the idea of a peel-your-own course, I created a delicious cherry balsamic reduction to serve with fresh sliced Pink Lady apples from the tree in our little orchard. Not terribly gourmet, but a little fancier than just plain fruit.

I planned a delicious Eggplant Pomodoro as the main course, and Mr. Wright insisted on cooking off a hunk of organic dead cow. He calls it “prime rib.” I call it “carnage.”

A couple days before the big day, I spoke with Mrs. Editor, who informed me her husband wasn’t exactly accurate in his report that any old food would be fine. Turns out the Big Guy was in the middle of a bout of elevated blood sugar, brought on perhaps—and this is only a guess—by a night of imbibing glorious cocktails with his favorite columnist. Okay, I’m guilty. But his blood sugar levels meant certain foods were strictly off the table, so to speak, including wheat, beans, tomatoes, sugar, and a whole host of other things I can’t imagine living – or cooking – without.

“You’d better cook a double portion of that carnage,” I told Mr. Wright.

I know healthy food. I don’t always choose it, but I know it. I have a pantry full of brown rice, quinoa, millet, couscous and other healthy grains. Turns out they, too, were off the menu, along with the fresh fruit. I decided to leave feeding Mr. Editor to my husband. Mrs. Editor, the kids, and I would enjoy the scratch-baked dinner rolls, Eggplant Pomodoro, and dressed-up apples.

That day—like so many, when you run a newspaper—wasn’t an easy one for my friends. That afternoon, I said, “The dinner rolls are rising, the carnage is thawing, and it’s peaceful here. Come enjoy it.”

Maybe I was stretching the truth a bit on the “peaceful” part. Twenty minutes before our guests arrived, the eggplant was crisping in the oven, the warm rolls nested in a pretty wicker basket, the carnage was nearly roasted to the Department of Health’s “safe” temperature, and fresh, pretty apples waited on the counter to be sliced for dessert. I decided to grab a diet soda from the cooler in my office.

Big mistake.

Mr. Wright was at his desk, trying to get some last-minute work done. Boy, howdy—there’s nothing more attractive than a man providing for his family. I took a minute to flirt a little with him, and he took five minutes to flirt back, and I took...

Fifteen minutes later, I sashayed back into the kitchen to find smoke filling the oven, rolling off the charred, blackened slices of eggplant. A brawl broke out between Curlytop and Snugglebug over a cheap metal bit of jewelry. I began yelling out ingredients for Mr. Wright to fetch for my “meatless balls,” which would have to replace the eggplant over the pasta, while alternately yelling at the little ones to stop yelling. Just as the situation reached an honest-to-goodness riot level, the doorbell rang.

It was the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.

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Things I Accidentally Taught My Kids

Curlytop, age 15 months
"Shhhh, Mama... you've said enough, already."

I’m the proud mother of two of the best little mimics on the planet. That means Curlytop and Snugglebug say, “No, thank you,” when they actually mean, “Not if my life depended on it,” and “Bless you,” for coughs as well as sneezes—because their mother believes a coughing body needs as many blessings as a sneezing one. Instead of “I hate that,” they dutifully respond, “That’s not my favorite,” when offered a food they don’t care for.

Unfortunately, they’ve also picked up some rather curious lingual patterns.

They’ve confused more than one waitress by expressly requesting a “cow burger,” because I feel it’s important for them to know hamburgers are made from cows, not from ham. They’ll also vocalize their preference for either “cow milk” or “soy milk,” depending on the kid, the day, or the mood.

Neither of my darlings actually knows how to “pet” an animal, but they routinely ask, “May I ‘softly’ the kitty?” due to my repeated cries of “Softly! Softly!” every time they reach for an animal.

I had no idea how deeply my chronic migraines were affecting my kids until I asked Curlytop to pick her dirty clothes up from the floor and she refused, claiming, “I need to lie down in the dark, ‘cause my head is making me sick. You just need to leave me alone and be quiet, okay?”

Ever vigilant of the girls’ sensitivity to food dye, I had a proud moment a few weeks ago when Curlytop refused a red lollipop from a bank teller, saying, “I’m allergic to Red Dye 40. Do you have a yellow one?”

This morning, Snugglebug disagreed with me about the best use of her time. I suggested she put her dirty cup in the sink, before she wanted to play outside. Tears ensued. “That makes me very, very serious,” she insisted. This, my friends, was the moment I realized I only say, “Listen to me—I’m serious!” when I am, in fact, running out of patience and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. My poor kid thinks “serious” is a synonym for “ticked off, and about to boil in my own rage.”

I got another dose of my own medicine the other day when I denied Curlytop a sixth gumdrop, and the enraged kindergartner fired my own words back at me—“Don’t you tell me ‘no.’ That’s not a nice way to talk!” In my defense, I was a bartender for years, and I’m well aware of the signs of over-service. The kid had reached her gumdrop limit, and probably should have been cut off after the third.

Some kids relish the thought of an adventure, but no phrase will ruin Snugglebug’s day like hearing, “You’re going on an adventure with Daddy!” Somewhere along the way, she figured out “adventure” is code for “a very long day, cooped up in the car while Daddy takes pictures of property for his real estate business.” I’m a fan of deductive reasoning, but do they have to learn so quickly?

I overheard Curlytop cry, “Are you kidding me?!” the other day when a crayon broke while she was coloring. I’ll confess to being the source of that phrase of frustration—one I adopted only after Mr. Wright insisted I stop using more colorful exclamations within earshot of the children.

Last week the girls were playing with their dolls in an adjacent room, and I heard the sounds of an imagined family scene—a mother making food, a father working, children playing… It wasn’t long before the mother doll’s “voice” instructed the children, “You don’t have to like your food, but you do have to eat TWO BITES before you can leave the table,” closely followed by, “I am NOT impressed with that behavior.”

It turns out I’m not the only role model around here.

A couple weeks ago, Snugglebug said, “When I get big, I want to have a big, big tummy… Just like Daddy!”

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Seven Reasons I Need a Clone

July 5, 1996 marked the birth of the first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. She was a sheep, cloned by scientists at Roslin Institute near Edinburgh, Scotland, and named “Dolly.” The cloned donor cell was taken from a mammary gland, and, as one of the scientists explained, “Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s.”

Which just goes to show, I suppose, that you can lead a man to science, but you can’t evolve his thinking.

I remember having serious concerns about the project, wondering if the cloning of humans could be far behind. I tend to agree with bioethicist Leon Kass, who opined back in the 1960s that “the programmed reproduction of man will, in fact, dehumanize him.”

Still, there are times I wish I had a double to fill in or give a little help during my busiest moments. Ethics aside, I can’t deny the allure of being able to be two places at once, or getting twice as much work done in my limited time, or perhaps training a clone to do the chores I detest the most. For example:

1. Parent-Teacher Conferences: While we only have five kids at home now, those twice-yearly conferences add up. In the past, we’ve tried the “divide and conquer” technique, scheduling conferences at the same time and sending Mr. Wright to one, while I attended another. The problem is, I’m too much of detail-oriented gal to accept “fine” as an answer when I ask how Mr. Wright’s conference went. Details, man! I need details!

2. Sports Season: Has it ever occurred to athletic directors and administrators that having a house full of ambitious children is particularly straining on parents? Having soccer, football and junior high volleyball seasons occur concurrently has certainly made our calendar full, and try as we might, we can’t attend every single game or match.

3. Work-at-Home Mom; Stay-at-Home Kid: I know I’m asking a lot for Snugglebug to happily entertain herself with educational materials while I work on a deadline, but if she’d just stop trying to climb the six-foot fence to get into the pool, I’d get a lot more done. This is where I ask for my clone to have a Mary Poppins gene or two inserted.

4. The 6:15 A.M. Alarm: I’m a night owl by nature, and that alarm does little but tick me off and make me want to throw things—namely, the alarm clock. If I could program my clone to do the morning kids-to-school bustle, I could sleep in, making me a grateful, cheerful mama instead of a cranky, sleepwalking beast.

5. An Extra Lap: When you have kids with Sensory Processing Disorder, you double as a jungle gym. Those sensory-seeking kids need constant touch, and they always seem to be climbing, sprawling, or rubbing on you. Such is my life with Curlytop and Snugglebug, and all too often, fights over who gets to sit on Mama break out. Imagine two mamas, with two laps!

6. Aviation Advocate: Somewhere along the way, I developed an unrealistic fear of flying. A few times a year, Mr. Wright gives me a sedative and pours me into a too-small seat on some enormous aircraft to fly to some wonderful place to attend some important event on his blessed arm. Once my clone arrives, I’ll be sending her. I’ll even spring for first-class seats, if it means I don’t have to get on an airplane.

7. Church Versus Deadline: Due to an illness I’m sure my clone would have been immune to, I had to ask for an extended deadline this week. Now, instead of attending church with my family, I’m eking out this column—and Mr. Wright didn’t spare me his look and oration of disapproval.

I’m convinced… bring in the clones!

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My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

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What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

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Project 2,996: Remember Christian Adams

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Christian Adams, 37, was a resident of Biebelsheim, Germany and a well-known authority in the wine industry. Christian served as the deputy director of the German Wine Institute and director of its export department. He was father to Lukas, 7 in 2001, and Theresa, 5 in 2001, and husband to Silke.

Colleagues described Christian as quiet and thoughtful; a man who thought no job was beneath him. He'd worked his way up in the wine industry, and he was known for doing whatever job needed to be done, without hesitation - whether it was hefting cases of wine or uncorking bottles. Carol Sullivan, friend and colleague, said, "One of the things that impressed us most was his depth of knowledge."

Indeed, Christian was revered as an authority on wine, and he'd worked hard to gain his knowledge, obtaining a degree in winemaking and grape-growing from a German university and going on to earn a degree in marketing at University of California, Davis. It was at a German Wine Society convention in Los Angeles that Sullivan, director of the German Wine Information Bureau in New York, met Christian in 1989. Wine Institute officials were so impressed with him, they asked him to help with a symposium on Riesling grapes later that year. He met the director of the Institute at that event, who hired Christian to work in the export division. Christian worked his way up to deputy director in 1995.

Dedicated to keeping fit, Christian enjoyed playing and watching volleyball and basketball and - while known for his quiet demeanor - he enjoyed a good laugh or joke with friends.

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Christian also ran a winery owned by his wife's family, and September was a busy time for winemaking. Still, the calendar of holidays allowed him to break away from his obligations to attend two wine events in the United States in 2001 - one in New York, which ended September 10, and the other in San Francisco, scheduled to begin on the 13th. It was the second event Christian was headed for when he boarded United Flight 93 on September 11, 2001.

Flight 93 was hijacked by terrorists and crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania after an attempt by crew and passengers to reclaim control of the plane.

Today, I'm asking you join me in remembering the quiet, motivated young husband and father who was Christian Adams. Please say a prayer for his family and loved ones. Christian, you are not forgotten.

This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

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Project 2,996: Remember Zandra Cooper Ploger

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Zandra Cooper Ploger, a 48-year old resident of Annandale, Virginia on September 11, 2001, was a manager at IBM for over 20 years. She was dedicated to her work, loved her two adult daughters, reading, and hosting parties. In fact, she was busy planning a birthday party for her new husband, Robert, who would turn 60 in December.

Zandra and Robert had married on May 12, 2001, but their busy work schedules - Robert was a computer systems analyst for several different companies - prevented the couple from honeymooning right away. When they boarded American Airlines Flight 77, they were headed to finally enjoy that honeymoon, in Hawaii. Zandra was looking forward to not thinking about work for two relaxing weeks, and enjoying a break with her new husband.

Photo source

Friends called her "Z," and she was known for her ability to organize and throw parties which brought together her many loved ones. She was a devoted mother, attending sporting activities and school events for her daughters, and even helping to orchestrate their high school graduation ceremonies. Described as a self-starter, Zandra didn't sit around, waiting for life and opportunities to come to her. Rather, she seized every moment and threw her ambition into exceeding the goals she set for herself, whether it was a work issue, or planning a social event.

Zandra's older daughter, Zena, was born with a heart condition, and Zandra carefully loved and comforted her child through childhood and into adulthood while avidly supporting the American Heart Association. She was the sort of mother who taught her children they could accomplish anything in their lives, and when her younger daughter, Erin, wanted to make a big move, Zandra supported her choice. Even though the distance would be difficult for the two, they maintained a strong bond. In fact, both of Zandra's daughters continued to look to their mother for advice and wisdom, even after they reached adulthood.

Max, Zandra's cat, was a source of joy for her, and by all accounts, she pampered him. Her daughter, Zena, related:

I just remember that when Erin and I were younger, my mom told us we could get a cat. On the trip to pick it up, we were thinking of a name. By the time we got there, she had named it and it was just her cat ever since. Max would cuddle up with her. He slept with her. She would spoon-feed him. He got groomed once a month. One time my husband came to visit and [he] was going to shoo the cat out of the chair and my mom said, ‘Let me get you another chair.’ She just loved this cat, and she showed him a lot of affection.

Photo source

Flight 77 was hijacked by terrorists and crashed into the Pentagon at 09:37EDT, cutting short Zandra and Robert's much-awaited honeymoon.

Zandra leaves behind a legacy of love, friendship, laughter and inspiration to those who knew her. Please remember in your prayers Zandra, Robert, Zena, Erin, and all those whose lives were touched by this beautiful woman.

This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

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Project 2,996: Remember Rahma Salie

This post is honorably recycled from 9/11/09.


Project 2,996 volunteer Asher Styrsky wrote the following tribute to Rahma Salie, wife of Michael Theodoridis, on Facebook. Since only Asher’s friends can see this wonderful tribute, Asher asked me to copy and post it here, where Rahma’s tribute can be joined with Michael’s.

Here is Asher’s tribute to Rahma:


For several years now, I've participated in Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. This year, my assignment failed to come thru via email, but fortunately I was contacted by another participant last minute who got me on track.

The name ... Rahma Salie.
Rahma was of Sri Lanken descent, and grew up in Japan. It seems she considered her Muslim faith to be a very important part of her life, for her husband Michael Theodoridis converted to Islam just before their marriage in 1998. Soon after, Rahma discovered she was pregnant. Seven months later, she and Michael left their home on the outskirts of Boston and boarded a plane headed to California where they intended to attend a wedding. Tragically, the lives of Rahma, Michael, and their unborn child were taken from them by radical jihadists in an event that would change history.

As I searched online for information on Rahma ... trying to learn as much as possible about her ... I discovered an online collection of photos from her life, including childhood gymnastics and pictures from her wedding. A beautiful human being ... (look on the right under 'Tribute' for more photos) Also, please note that a tribute has been put together for Rahma's husband, Michael here.
Having never met her, I have no way to know first hand the type of woman that Rahma Salie was. And so I must rely on the words of those who knew her.

Common words used to describe her ... effervescent, smiling, joy, and kind.

"Rahma was a beautiful person, always smiling, always caring. I had the pleasure of working with Rahma only for a short time, but she made a distinct impression on my life.
~ Pam Sheen, Kingston, Massachusetts"

"Mmissing you rahma! and remembering you. i never got a chance to tell you just how much of a role model you were to me. thank you."

"I met Rahma when I became a teacher at the International School of the Sacred Heart in Tokyo in 1990. I'll always remember how welcome she made me feel. She was so friendly and warm. The following year I was lucky enough to be her International Relations teacher. We had lots of laughs in class. I was so proud when she majored in International Relations. When Rahma was killed she was seven months pregnant. My wife was seven months pregnant too. Our daughter is now five and a half years old and my love for her sometimes is a reminder of how lucky I am, and how Rahma and Mickey were robbed of their happiness. My deepest condolences to their parents.
~ Paul Doolan, Zürich"

May we never forget the lives that were taken so suddenly on September 11, 2001.

Today, I hug my wife and children a little tighter, remembering the life and tragic death of Rahma Salie, killed at age 28.


This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Michael Theodoridis

This post is honorably recycled from 9/11/09.


Michael Theodoridis, 32, and his wife, Rahma Salie, 28, were passengers on American Airlines Flight 11 on September 11, 2001. Rahma was seven months pregnant with their first child. The two were looking forward to being parents as they boarded the plane, intending to travel to California to attend a wedding.

Michael was of Greek descent and grew up in Switzerland. He graduated from Boston University and worked as a technical consultant in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It was difficult to find information about Michael's life, but many online memorial comments helped me to understand the kind of man he was, and how desperately missed he will be:

It's nearly 8 years later and I still vividly remember the day shortly after 9/11 when it went from being a national tragedy to also being a more personal tragedy for me after I found out that Micky and Rahma were on Flight 11. Each summer when my second son has another birthday, I think about Micky's unborn child being the same age as I remember Micky congratulating me and telling me how excited he was about his future as a father.

I pray that they both rest in peace and be granted a place in Heaven. Amen. - Abdullah Haydar


Micky:

I never forget your kindness and always positive outlook on life. I had a great time working with/for you at i-cube in Cambridge.

On this 7th anniversary of the attacks, I pray Rahma's, your kid's and your souls are blessed and somewhere special. - Rob Garcia


Sincere sympathy for the loss of my cousin Michael, rest in peace in God's hand. - John Pondelis


In a business culture full of people whom you forget and whom forget you the instant you part, both Micky and Rhama were anything but forgettable. I still remember Rhama asking me to do an imitation of her accent and it makes me laugh with the memory. Like someone else who commented on this site, it was also Michael's humour, patience and support that kept me going in a very difficult work situation. The world is a much colder place without these two stellar human beings. - Colin Owens


I worked with Mickey on multiple projects in i-Cube (Stuttgart, Germany; Phoenix, AZ and later in NYC). He was a great friend of mine in addition to being a professional colleague. He was very funny and used to crack me up at difficult times. He worked very hard and managed to keep his sense of humor. He and Rahma were made for each other. It is sad that they could not be together longer. It's so sad! My deepest condolences to his family and friends. - Jay Natarajan


America Cries
We see your sorrow-
and our hearts cry....
We can not erase your pain
but you do not have to face the anguish alone-for we-
-the American people-
are beside you.
We so desperately want to have the touch that brings you comfort,
the strength that gives you courage,
and the words to lighten your spirits.
And when we are left speechless
may the silence of our nation weave love into your hearts
to ease your sorrow.
May you find healing through our nation's strength as we-
-the American people-
face this difficult time together. Our hearts are with you. - Teresa Jahn

Please light a candle for Michael, his family and those who loved him. Say a prayer for the father-to-be, husband, and friend who lost his life on September 11, 2001.

Never forget.



This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Joseph DiPilato

This post was originally published on 9/11/09 on Citizen Gonzo. I've moved it here because I haven't blogged at Citizen Gonzo for a long, long time, and I get thousands more hits on this blog than on CG. I think Joseph deserves those thousands of views and more, don't you?


Electrician Joseph DiPilato, age 57, was working in Tower 2 of the World Trade Center when Tower 1 was struck on September 11, 2001. As he prepared to leave the building, he called his wife and childhood sweetheart, Maria, to tell her he was safe. He was last seen in an elevator, intending to evacuate.

Joseph was a romantic fellow who took his wife to dinner every Friday and held her hand as they spent summers strolling the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland. He took pride in maintaining his backyard, patio and swimming pool. He coached and managed his sons' Little League team. He was, above all else, a husband and father.

Neighbors like Mrs. Phyllis Buono grew to appreciate the blooms Joseph planted and look forward to the seeing the flowers he would select each season. "He set that yard up like it was a resort," Mrs. Buono said. "In the spring the flower pots would explode with blossoms." Phyllis's husband, Mike Buono, enjoyed working on cars with Joseph.

Maria and Joseph grew up together in Little Italy, where Joseph's childhood friends gave him the nickname "Joey Brillo," a nod to his short, wiry hair.

I didn't know Joseph DiPilato, but I am touched by the words of those who did:

"He would do anything for me. He cared about me and I always came first," said his wife, Maria.

"We loved him more than anything and he's going to be missed by a lot of people," said his son, Joseph. "He just meant everything to us."

"I remember Brillo as a kid, a year older than me. He was the best basketball player in Columbus Park on Mulberry Street. He gave me great pointers on getting the ball through the hoop. Everyone in the neighborhood loved Brillo. He was a great role model in a tough neighborhood. A natural athlete, terrific sense of humor and a decent human being. A guy like him is surely missed by many," said childhood friend Anthony Venturato

And this, dated August 19, 2008, from his daughter-in-law, Andrea:

Dearest Dad,

It has been almost 7 years since you have been with us. We miss you tremendously. Something wonderful happened yesterday that I wanted to share. Your granddaughter Olivia typed in what she thought was her brothers name & brought up this website. As soon as she saw your picture she screamed with such excitement and said, "Mommy hurry come see Grandpa on the computer". It stopped me in my tracks & touched my heart more than you could ever know. All I could think about was how much you could not wait to be a grandfather. And little did we know on the last night that I was with you, I was already pregnant with your first grandchild. Leo & I would have given anything to be able to tell you in person you were going to finally be a Grandpa.

Olivia talks about her "Grandpa in heaven" all the time. She wishes she could have known you. You would be so blown away by Olivia. She has such a huge heart just as you did.

As Olivia & Joseph grow up they will know everything there is to know about their very special "Grandpa in heaven". We all miss you terribly!

All our Love to you in Heaven, Leo, Andrea, Olivia & Joseph

Please light a candle for Joseph, his family and those who loved him. Say a prayer for the father, husband, neighbor and friend who lost his life on September 11, 2001.

Never forget.



This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Deborah Merrick

Mr. Wright originally wrote this tribute for Deborah on 9/11/09. He posted it on a blog we set up for our business, but never ended up using. Therefore, it gets relatively no traffic. I wanted to move Deborah's tribute here, where thousands can stumble upon it and say a prayer in her memory.


Deborah Merrick
45 years old
Resident of New York
Worked for the Port Authority
Victim of World Trade Center Attack 9/11
Appears to have passed away subsequent to 9/11

I looked and searched for details of your death. I looked and searched for details of your life. Unfortunately, not much was to be found.

Forty-five years old is too young to die, but certainly there was time to live.

There must be a story there. There must be a story to tell.

I wonder: What if...?

What if your story is never told?

Then it occurs to me...

How many other stories never get told?

Deborah, I want to recognize you.

In the end, you are not a story. You are not a statistic. You are not a name. You are a person; you have a soul. You had a life and that life was cut short because of 9/11.

Deborah Merrick, we remember you by name. As we remember your death, we remember to celebrate life.



This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Kenneth Watson

This post is honorably recycled from September 11, 2010.

Kenneth Watson was laid to rest on November 9, 2001 - almost two months after terrorists decimated the World Trade Center, where his body was finally found. He served as a firefighter with Engine Company 214.

Engine Company 214 responded to the devastation caused when the towers were struck. By mid-day, several members of the crew were missing. Kenneth was among them. The company's remaining men searched through the rubble and chaos with their bare hands - they had no tools.

In the days and weeks that followed, Engine 214 members continued to search for their fallen comrades, and became part of the bucket brigade, filling and passing buckets of debris from the wreckage along a line to be dumped into trucks, then hauled off to Staten Island.

By early October, there was still no sign or information about the fallen members of Engine Company 214. Then, the crew received word that a shield badge from a 214 helmet (belonging to Lieutenant Christopher Sullivan) had been found - but no body was recovered to go along with it.

October 31, the body of one of the company's men (Michael Roberts) was recovered, along with shields from two more 214 helmets (belonging to Carl Bedigian and John Florio).

By this time, enough rubble had been cleared that recovery crews were finally able to get to where Engine 214's men had been - on the first floor near the elevator, waiting to go up to rescue people.

The surviving members of Engine 214 dug and tunneled and worked, moving the debris, concrete, blocks of marble and ash, until they recovered each of their fallen, the last being Kenneth Watson.

It is a long-held tradition that each company recovers their own men. It is a tradition of honor, of pride, of sacrifice, of brotherhood.

Each of the fallen heroes of Engine 214 deserve so much more than respect and honor. They deserve for their stories to be remembered and told again and again.

For Kenneth's story, I looked to the people who knew and loved him, and their comments on his tribute page.

Kenneth was a loving husband to Susan, and devoted father to his five children. Friends and family describe him as brave, generous, and heroic.

Attempts to find more, more details, more stories, more specifics about Kenneth's life fell short. It saddens me that somewhere, today, a wife and children grieve Kenneth's loss, and I can't share their story, can't tell how he met and married Susan, how he felt the first time he held each of his children, how he became so devoted to committing his life to serving others.

But, really, that's the enormity of it. 2,996 lives were lost on September 11, 2001. So, so many stories I'll never know, so many names I won't be able to remember, so many prayers left to say.

Never forget.




This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Matthew Gerard Leonard

This post is honorably recycled from September 11, 2010.


Please note: I was heartbreakingly unable to find a photo of Matthew Gerard Leonard. If any friends or family stop by to read this post, first, I hope you'll read in the following words my respect, care and admiration for such a wonderful man. Secondly, if you have a photo you wish to donate to this post, please contact me at mama@thegonzomama.com so I may add Mr. Leonard's image to this tribute.

Matthew Gerard Leonard was a 38-year-old lawyer working as director of litigation at Cantor Fitzgerald in the South Tower of the World Trade Center when tragedy struck on September 11, 2001. He was husband to Yolanda, brother to Helen, and father to Christina, seven months old at the time.

Matthew was a devout Catholic, steadfastly involved in his church. He was compassionate attorney, with an extensive history of pro bono work for those who could not afford legal help. A good singer, he sang Christmas carols in the hallways of his office and with the homeless on the streets of New York.

He was an early riser - always wanting to get started on work before the busyness of the day set in, and September 11, 2001 was no exception. He awakened, got ready for work, and headed out the door. His wife, Yolanda, looked at the clock as he left. It read 7:11 a.m.

How could Yolanda have known he wouldn't return that day?

People described Matthew as "kind," "a saint," "loving," "wonderful," and so much more. Remember Matthew Gerard Butler, a compassionate attorney, a loving husband, a doting father, a son, a brother, a friend. Let his memory, and the mark he made on the world, not be forgotten.

This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Andre G. Fletcher

This post is honorably recycled from September 11, 2010.

Andre G. Fletcher was a 37-year-old firefighter with Rescue 5, an emergency response unit with NYFD. Andre and his twin brother, Zack, also a firefighter, responded to the crisis on September 11, 2001. Andre was killed in the first tower collapse at the World Trade Center.

Zack described he and his brother as "type A-plus" personalities, thriving on action, adventure, danger and excitement. The brothers last spoke as Andre raced toward the burning towers. Zack told him he'd be there soon, to work alongside him, and not to do anything stupid - "Don't be a hero," he told his brother.

But Andre Fletcher was a hero, through and through. And he was a man of action. When he joined the fire department in 1994 and learned they didn't have a baseball team, he started one. He played on the department football team. I imagine him playing catch with his son, Blair, 12 years old in 2001.

I imagine, when Andre arrived on the scene at the World Trade Center, he never had a second thought about being a hero. It seemed to be what came naturally to him, and that, quite simply, is how I imagine him; a hero in death - and in life.

Say a prayer for Zack, who must certainly feel the loss of his twin each day. For Andre's parents, Lunsford and Monica, Jamaican immigrants who must be incredibly proud of their sons, but mourn the loss of one of the twins. For Blair, who lost a father at that all-important time of adolescence when a boy needs his father's guidance and patience. Say a prayer for the memory of Andre G. Fletcher, killed in the line of duty, doing what he lived for.

Never forget.



This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Shekhar Kumar

This post is honorable recycled from September 11, 2010.

Shekhar Kumar was a 30 year-old programmer analyst at Cantor Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. He'd been married in November 2000, and didn't have the opportunity to celebrate his first wedding anniversary.

A co-worker described Shekhar as "a gentle man with a great capacity for figuring our arcane problems, and who had a smile on his face and a way about him that when he asked you to move a mountain, you'd say, 'no problem.'"

On Shekhar's Legacy.com page, friends describe him as "a really great friend," "energetic, enthusiastic and optimistic."

Please say a prayer for Shekhar, his family, and the young widow left to grieve for him.

This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

Project 2,996: Remember Paige Farley-Hackel

Photo source

Paige Farley-Hackel of Newton, Massachusetts was a motivational speaker and writer, on the verge of her dreams. Her new radio program, "Spiritually Speaking," was preparing to hit the air, and she had lofty goals of appearing on the Oprah Winfrey Show - or of becoming Oprah's competition. She had a Master's degree in substance abuse counseling, and was a tireless advocate for the Salvation Army.

In keeping with her passion for spiritual growth, 46-year-old Paige was headed to California for a conference at Deepak Chopra's Center for Well Being on September 11, 2001. She was traveling with her best friend, Ruth Magdaline McCourt, and McCourt's four-year-old daughter, Juliana. Together, they'd celebrate Paige's certification at the Center for completion of the Debbie Ford Shadow Process and take Juliana ("Miss J") to Disneyland.

The group ended up flying out of Boston on different airlines through the use of frequent flier miles - Paige on American Airlines Flight 11, and Ruth and Miss J on United Flight 175.

Flight 11 crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center, followed by Flight 175's collision with the south tower, minutes later.

As USA Today noted, "Ruth Clifford McCourt and Paige Farley Hackel were inseparable in life. Tuesday, in a fluke of airline ticketing, they became inseparable in death."

Paige Farley-Hackel with Juliana and Ruth McCourt
Photo source

Family, friends, supporters and loved ones have not allowed Paige's untimely death to derail her passions. They've established the Paige Farley Hackel Free Care Fund, which provides addiction treatment at no cost to those most in need. In 2007, the Paige Farley Hackel Memorial Playground was dedicated at the Salvation Army Children's Learning Center in Dorchester, Massachusetts.

In my research on Paige Farley-Hackel, one of the most profound and all-encompassing statements was what she wrote in her 1973 yearbook:

There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.

Paige knew changing lives begins with changing oneself. She bettered herself to better the world. I am proud to remember Paige. Please say a prayer for her family and those she loved so dearly.


This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

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Project 2,996: Remember Pendyala "Vamsi" Vamsikrishna and Prasanna Kalahasthi - a Victim of Grief

Photo source

Pendyala Vamsikrishna, "Vamsi" to friends, was 30 years old on September 11, 2001. A project manager for the consulting firm of DTI, he was a talented software developer.

Vamsi and his wife, Prasanna Kalahasthi, like most young couples, had dreams and plans for their future. Both from India, they'd moved to the United States to pursue education and career opportunities - Vamsi to study engineering, and Prasanna to attend USC as a grad student in the International Student Program for Foreign-Trained Dentists. Brought together by an arranged marriage, the two were lucky enough to truly find love and devotion in one another, and had been married two and a half years in September 2001. They'd planned to start a family, had received their green cards, and dove into their pursuits in the U.S.

A devoted employee known for his strong work ethic, Vamsi had been in Boston for business and ended up staying an extra day, missing his original flight. On Tuesday, September 11, he left a voicemail for Prasanna, telling her he'd be home to Los Angeles soon:

Hi, sweetie, I've just boarded the flight, and I'll see you in Los Angeles this afternoon.

Vasmi never made it. His plane, American Airlines Flight 11, was the first to strike the World Trade Center, crashing into the north tower at 08:46:26.

Photo source

On October 19, 2001, Prasanna took her own life, leaving behind notes and an audio recording for her family, stating she just couldn't go on without her husband.

All I want is for you people to understand and respect me for what I'm doing. It's a lot, I know... But I'm responding to this in the only way I can bring peace to myself.

I chose Vasmi's name blindly from a list. Within minutes, I knew I had to include his young wife - and the tragic end to both beautiful, promising lives - in this tribute. Please, pray for the families and friends of Vasmi and Prasanna. Years may have passed, but this loving couple must not be forgotten.

This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.




"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!