She was back in town for wilderness first responder recertification and I was playing host – sort of recertifying my position as her mom and mentor. A road trip to get her here. Three days of intense training for her whilst I puttered about the apartment. The first evening I hiked to the top of the Sky Steps to meet her and we took a nature trail home together. The second night I ran up the Sky Steps and texted, “I’m at the chimes. Where are you?” A few minutes later she responded, “Bringing a couple classmates home for dinner. We are shuttling cars.” Oh my goodness, I would have to hurry. The only key was in my pocket. I met the three of them walking up the middle of the road, two blocks from the house. Two beefy outdoorsmen of her generation; one in hiking pants, the other in shorts and man-Uggs, looking pure Australian, but speaking Californian. Both had hair as long as my daughter’s. In fact, one had the exact same braid and hair color as my daughter. These were not the college sophomores of ten years ago, no, these were mature and rugged young men. Used to the out-of-doors, used to putting entire physical prowess and brain into every challenge, used to working with the public, guiding, being responsible.

My daughter served us popcorn as an hors d’oeuvres and then the young people headed out to grocery shop and see the town. The meal boded well to be fresh, cast-iron cooked, healthful – – and late.

I stole those solitary minutes as appropriate to play through a piano set and then moved on to guitar. Halfway through The Gambler the shoppers returned. Calistralia’s eyes lit as he entered and he gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I proceeded to Killing Me Softly With His Song. Wonder of wonders, he began to sing words – and harmony. In the kitchen, Andrea had scrubbed the sweet potatoes and started them to bake. Concluding my practice time, I turned to the young man and asked, “Do you play guitar?” “I have,” was his succinct reply. That reply told me volumes. Some reshuffling of dinner preparations occurred. We all pitched in. After that interruption, I stepped into the living room and handed him the guitar. Oh my heart, what beauty now emanated from those six strings. Rather than weep, I turned to the other ranger, “Do you play any instruments?” “I am a fire-dancer,” he said.

I tossed him the Remo Fruit Shakes from our china closet. Andrea picked up her mandolin. I moved to the keyboard. Dinner was almost ready. But first: music.