Zoltan and I coordinated a late-summer visit to Club 223, christened for its D-Kid hospitality, in North Andover. Audrey, his not-short mamma, sure does love him. She had mowed the club's expansive lawn the day before due to Tom's recovery from knee surgery to repair a meniscus tear. Needless to say, she did it her way.
Mr. P, who lost Vedder, his longtime companion in early May, demanded to know how much time he had before the D-Kid invasion on Saturday.
Zoltan and I spent much of our quiet time catching up on his recent far-flung travels. They included a visit to a Sikh temple in Bihar, the "Alabama" of India, where his head gear looked familiar
. . . his second (!) now-that's-what-I-call-a-destination-wedding in Bangalore
. . . . and the Calgary Stampede with Seth, an ex-Army buddy almost as tall as he is. Inquiring minds in Canada wanted to know if they were wearing Confederacy cowboy hats. Thems fightin' words to these white boys. I drove through Alberta long before their birth on a road trip to Alaska with my father.
Zoltan's appetite has remained a defining characteristic. He still holds the record for consuming the most pancakes in the Pines.
We also took a quick walk to nearby Ridgewood Cemetery, which opened in 1850. He savors the history evoked by the dead; I go more for graveyard aesthetics. The bronze gates were added in 1909.
Thanks to Z, I learned this very meta symbol represents Freemasonry.
Josiah N. Brown and his survivors must have been wishful thinkers, counting on his ascent to heaven.
Veterans occupy a small section of the cemetery.
Zoltan's service as a U.S. Army officer after graduating from American University on an ROTC scholarship took him to Seattle. I attended his commissioning ceremony in 2012.
This enormous tombstone looked like a child's building blocks. The terse engraving (P. Stevens 1864) offers no clues to its meaning.
A twenty-something couple died a little more than a year apart in the late 19th century. For some reason, the wife's maiden name was engraved at the top of her headstone. There's a story there.
The cemetery is immaculately tended.
You don't often see metal tombstones.
A family plot like this one makes me wish I was eligible to be buried with my parents in Fort Bliss National Cemetery.
This mushroom boasted natural bas relief.
Quiet time ended as soon as we returned to Club 223 where Zoltan put his helicopter-blade arms to aquatic use with Dagny and Della.
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