Salt Creek Beach

The paved pedestrian path that leads down the slope toward Salt Creek Beach is interesting in its own right. It passes beneath a concrete bridge that supports Ritz Carlton Drive, where a mural of blue dolphins and other sea creatures swim on the walls. A long sloping grassy hill flanks the path, overlooking the vast ocean and Catalina Island in the distance. At the foot of the hill one can see the breaking waves that come systematically one after the other.

Our family walks down the path carrying our towels, sunglasses, cameras—encumbered also with a helium canister and six red roses. We probably look out of place.

Well-dressed people leash up their high-end dogs for a walk to the beach. Surfers in black wet suits walk barefoot, with tether cords wrapped around their boards. A lone player shoots hoops on a basketball half-court at the bottom of the hill.

At last we reach a final flight of stairs to the beach. Salt Creek Beach is very beautiful. The white sand is as fine as any that I've seen. Large cliffs hanging with vegetation surround the beach. One cliff is more prominent than the rest and on top is the Ritz Carlton Hotel.  From our angle we can see a few tiny people leaning over a railing.

(I have a friend who once worked at the Ritz Carlton while living in Laguna Niguel. He was a valet, parking expensive cars for a cast of celebrities. He told of parking Ozzy Osbourne's car, and how he used a cane and walked like a crippled old man—hardly the same person seen on stage.)

The ocean water coming in off the waves is crystal clear. I feel like I could drink it. The water is shallow here, scarcely rising above the shins for several dozen feet. Beyond the shallow area, a cast of surfers bob up and down on the waves, looking for a bite.

We find our own spot on the beach and Jenelle sits down on the sand and removes the canister from the box and two bags of balloons. One by one she inflates the balloons with helium, ties them off, lashes a ribbon, cuts the string at about three feet, then hands them to me. In about ten minutes I am holding fourteen purple and three white balloons.

Jenelle sets up the tripod and we pose for a family portrait while Jordan holds all seventeen balloons in his left hand, fist clinched tight to keep the balloons from drifting away.

Then Jenelle hands the balloons out: three purple to Jordan, three purple to Kaitlyn, three purple to Jenna, three purple to Savanah, two purple to me, and keeps the three whites for herself.

Today represents three years that Brittany has been gone.

My wife and I have lost a daughter, and our kids have lost a sister. Fourteen purple balloons represent the fourteens amazing years that we spent with her on earth; three white balloons represent the three years she has lived in heaven.

Jenna and Savanah release their balloons first, and shortly after, Jordan and Kaitlyn. Jenelle is the last to release, and we all watch as the cluster of colored bubbles drifts high and inland, above the Laguna Cliffs and in a northeastern direction. The white balloons become difficult to follow, being a less prominent color and smaller than the purple. As we crane our necks, I'm sure we have the attention of others on the beach who are craning their necks also, curious of our little ceremony.

Once the balloons are out of sight, Jenelle hands a rose to each of the girls. There is nothing formal about the roses. It is a little something to remember Brittany. Savanah walks over to the edge of the lapping waves and tosses the flower into the water and watches it sucked up in the backwash, tossed inside the waves, and washed back to shore. The rose looks very pretty when it sits upon the heavy sand, laying on its side, the red petals resting gently on the sandy pillow.

A sad truth with death is that we must move on.

Jenna finds a section of the beach where a vertical strata of long black rocks protrude from the surface like spines of lava. Adjacent are a series of tide pools. Up against the shore where the waves have washed at high-tide is a layer of smooth black pebbles and sea shells. Many of the pebbles are pierced with perfectly smooth holes. The shells come in crazy shapes, some with wild growths that look like organ pipes. She is excited to tell us of her find.

Salt Creek Beach is a great people-watching place. There are swimmers, surfers, children building sand castles, photographers, sun bathers, and women pushing strollers.

Before we leave, I notice that the roses have been arranged around a conical mound with a moat surrounding it, and decorated somewhat elegantly. I ask Jenelle about it and she says that some little girls “found” them laying on the beach and decided to make a sand castle with them. I'll bet this made Brittany happy as she watched from above. She was always the imaginative type who loved to play with children. ♠

Capistrano Beach

Early morning on a beach always has a different feel to it. The pink hues of dawn peek over the ocean and although the world has been asleep overnight, the constant crashing of the waves continue against the shore, persisting as they will evermore.

I am walking along the southern shore at Doheny State Beach where a motor home is parked along the road next to a pair of palm trees, curtains drawn for privacy. Surely they are still asleep. The only other person I see is a man in a navy-blue jacket and holding a bag, collecting shells or stones from the sand. I am walking his direction, but we ignore each other, neither one wishing to talk with anyone else.

I watch a white pelican with her black-tipped wings and long pointed beak fly back and forth, parallel with shore, land on an undulating current, then fly away as soon as it breaks. By this time, the sun has risen just above the coast line, though still behind clouds and without symphony.

I continue walking along the shore, toward the rising sun, and past the man collecting items from the sand, and nearing Capistrano Beach Park. A homeless man rummages through a garbage can, gleaning what he can before the workers come to dump the trash. Beyond him on the pavement I see a cyclist with long black tights and a stocking cap over his ears.

Across the highway and perched upon high bluffs are large homes built right to the edge of the cliff. Lush vegetation grows on the bluff and it must be a beautiful place to live with an exceptional view of the ocean.

I arrive at the facilities at Capistrano Beach Park and see an elderly couple sitting on a bench watching the waves roll in. A white truck with two workers inside is parked adjacent to the sidewalk, door ajar, and cigarette smoke coming from the cab. They are probably deciding whether they want to begin cleaning, or just wait and watch the ocean.

I now come to a large wooden deck, and next to me is a basketball court. The fragrance of pine wafts up from the planks. I stop at a corner railing of the deck and spend a moment contemplating the situation. The waves wash up directly below the planks. A chilly morning breeze picks up.

Further up along the shore are a long line of multi-million dollar homes. How would it be to have a home just yards away from the Pacific Ocean? Do they know what they have, or do they take it for granted? For me, I'm lucky if I make it to the beach once a year. It is pure heaven every time I'm here.

Now it's time to walk back to the hotel and wake up my family. They don't know what they're missing.

So I ask, what would make a family travel 454 miles, just to visit the beach? We're not going to Disneyland or Sea World, and we're only here for the weekend.

From the balcony of our hotel you can look down and see the jacuzzi, and then look across the highway and see the tall waves coming in and breaking against the shore—a small tsunami of white rollers that create a crash so loud that the noise reverberates against the walls of the hotel.

The sun is now higher in the sky and with my family I make the walk over the pedestrian bridge that crosses the Pacific Coast Highway and a rail line for California Amtrak. Once on the other side we are on the beach and immediately there is a sign warning beach-goers of the steep beach face. “Strong shorebreak can knock you down and powerful backwash can pull you out into the deep water,” the sign warns.

We are back on the Doheny side of the coast. We take off our socks and shoes and roll up our pants, but the sand is rockier than most beaches, with medium-sized black pebbles that are smooth but still unpleasant to walk on. The places where the tide washes up over the sand is soft with few rocks and these are the places we seek out to wade in the water.

Jordan has brought his drone and is flying it over the shore. It is brand new and just last week he got it stuck in a tall tree, so I am sure he is hesitant to fly it too far over the ocean.

The kids have found a stick and are carving a cursive “Brittany” into the smooth part of the sand, just high enough where the waves won't touch it. It is interesting here that the waves seem to break closer to the shore, and appear larger and more violent than normal. This is probably due to the sudden depth of the water near the shore.

Jenelle and I decide to hold hands and take a walk along the beach away from the kids. I walk along the inside to take the brunt of any high washer that might strike us. Sometimes, when we are walking on a rocky patch, a wave comes in that covers our ankles and up to our shins in white foam, and I can feel a storm of pebbles pounding against my feet in a turbulent swirl like that of a washing machine, enduring painfully for about ten seconds, then subsiding as the wash reverts back to the ocean.

As we walk toward Dana Point, we pass a large berm that separates the water from a campground. Someone has propped a decorated Christmas tree into the sand on top of the berm and there are two empty lawn chairs next to it.

We arrive at the point of the beach where San Juan Creek runs into the ocean. Sometimes at high tide there is more water, but now it is low. We stop and sit on the berm and contemplate to ourselves, saying very little in conversation.

This must be where the waves become better for surfers, as several are congregated here, and others are in the water to catch a roller. On the other side of the creek is a more popular beach that is closer to the harbor. 

It is on that beach that we took the family many years ago after a trip to Disneyland. They were young and I don't remember much about the beach other than we got lots of sand in the van and Kaitlyn may have lost a bucket in the water. I remember lots of seagulls and trying to get pictures of them.

But it was the fact that Brittany was with us on that beach that makes it special to me. I don't remember anything that she did that day, but I know that she was with us, a little girl about three or four years old at the time.

So, why would a family travel 454 miles just to go to the beach? This is why. To reconnect and remember Brittany.

Brittany loved the beach. Living so far away, we rarely went, but when we did she reveled in the moment, taking in the salty sea weed breeze, and walking barefoot along the sand, and letting the waves come in and immerse her feet. The last beach we ever went with her was Santa Monica Beach, and she played in the water until well after dusk.

After returning home to Utah she would always ask when we were going back to California. She really wanted to go to Disneyland, but the thing she wanted most was to go to the beach. “If the beach was the only place we went, Dad, I would be happy.”

Unfortunately, we never made it back. But about a year and a half before she died, Jenelle and I decided to go on vacation, and Brittany spent two weeks at our neighbor's house. It just happened that during that time they had a wedding in San Diego, so they took Brittany along. They spent a day at the beach in Oceanside and Brittany couldn't get enough.

Looking back, that was one of those tender mercies from God, giving one more opportunity to visit the beach before she passed on to the other side.

This trip is to honor her. Sometimes I feel bad that we have traveled to California and the beach far more times without her than we ever did when she was alive. But Jenelle reminds me that she is probably here with us and enjoying the beach in her own spiritual realm.

We make the long walk back to the kids and find them safe. I can see where Jenna attempted to write Brittany's name by placing pebbles into the contour of letters, but getting them washed away by the waves. Kaitlyn and Savanah built a sand turtle with a moat around it. Now all three play a game where they guess how far the waves will roll in by standing at that point. Sometimes they get drenched, sometimes they stay dry, and sometimes the water just barely touches their toes, and if that happens, they win.

Now it is near dusk, and after a day spent inland, we are back on the southern shores of Doheny Beach. I take half an hour to enjoy the sunset, this time leaving on my shoes.

I will admit that we smuggled firewood into California. Someone had told us that firewood is confiscated at the agricultural checkpoint, but we decided to chance it and no one ever stopped us.

I open the hatch of our Trailblazer and pull out three slabs of heavy juniper, with the furry bark still attached. Dotted along the beach are concrete fire-basins. I stack the wood like a tee pee and below insert three fire-starting logs that I bought at Wal-Mart. Within ten minutes the blaze has flared up, sending flames that can be seen over the rim of the basin.

Our meal isn't too elaborate. Just hot dogs, with a potato salad from Ralph's, and chips. We brought roasting sticks to cook the hot dogs over the flames. For desert I place a kettle of water over coals and we warm it up for hot chocolate. Then we drink the cocoa with Tim Tams, biting the tip off of each end of the cookie, using it as a straw to suck up the drink, then devouring the cookie with our mouth before it dissolves into nothing.

The night is getting cooler and it feels good to stand next to the flames, hold out hands, and feel the heat against the skin. The juniper burns strong and heavy. On the other side of the fence we can faintly hear the traffic from the Coast Highway, but it is overwhelmed by the breaking of the waves and the snapping of the fire. Every fifteen minutes an Amtrak train whizzes by.

Now that the meal is over, and the fire is still keeping us warm, Jenelle gets her laptop computer from the Trailblazer and sets it on a picnic table that we have dragged next to the fire pit. We all gather around, and for the next ten minutes we watch our Brittany video.

This is the same video that my brother-in-law, Jay, made for Brittany's funeral. It begins with her birth and pictures of Grandma and Grandpa holding her, then through her childhood and holding a fish that she caught with Uncle Brent, and as a teenager when she wore lipstick and mascara in the Middle School play, up to the whole family surrounding her bed at the hospital, only minutes from taking her final breath.

Of course, we can't help but to cry. I really miss my little Britt.

After wiping my eyes dry, I decide to take one last venture to the water. The lights have come on up the coastline at Dana Point, but looking seaward all is dark, except one lone flash on the horizon.

I am with Kaitlyn—the rest of the family staying by the fire which is about fifty yards away. The waves seem taller now, and more violent when they crash. Although the ocean is a very dark black, the whitewater on the waves shows up well. Sometimes a wave will come in and break like a fuse being lit, crashing right to left, like a giant zipper pulling closed—then a resounding boom!

We stand at the shore and watch the white foam wash toward our feet, but never quite reaching. ♠

Across the River

We stepped up to the rim of the canyon and peered over the edge. Below and across the sandy hill, our gaze met the slithering flow of the river, with sheer sandstone cliffs on the opposite bank. The late November sun slanted low at midday, casting longer shadows than normal, but lighting well the face of the cliff. A swarm of black birds fluttered in arabesque sweeps through the air, then landed on a lone cottonwood tree next to the river.

This was the feeling of isolation.

Any misstep out here, and your body may never be found.

Jordan and I found a section along the rim where the rock slope was angled not so steeply, that we were able to walk down. We descended to the next level, then found a gully that twisted along the southern edge of the sandy hill. We nimbly maneuvered around prickly pear cactus before coming to a high bank that gave us a front-row seat above the river.

“That's a lot wider than I thought it would be,” I commented to Jordan. The river appeared shallow, not all of it with flowing water, but mud that stretched far to the other side.

“Isn't it going to be cold?” asked Jordan, finally with the realization that we would be crossing in our bare feet.

“Probably,” I replied, “but it's only supposed to be ankle deep.”

We found a small break in the tall bank that allowed us to descend to the level of the water where we stopped at a large bend in the river on a sandy shore.

Anxious to get across, I sat down and unlaced my shoes, then pulled off my socks and stuffed them into the toes of the shoes. With my small day pack back on my shoulders, and my shoes in hand, I set out to test the water.

I became discouraged when I noticed a small sheet of frozen water on the shaded edge of the bank. Then I watched as two chunks of ice floated down the main channel of the river.

Still determined, I stepped into the water and took five steps, then felt a jolt of pain and panic seize my body when the ice-cold fluid took hold. Quickly I backed out, my feet feeling the beginning stages of numbness.

“Aye, aye, aye!” I said as I walked around in delirium for a few seconds. “That is freezing!”

At the moment, I began to rethink my plan. I should have come better prepared, perhaps with a second pair of shoes, or maybe good bags to wear over my feet.

During my ten seconds in the river, however, I discovered a new obstacle—mud. I wouldn't have thought of mud as an obstacle before, but while in the water, it felt as if I was walking on jello, and with one of my steps my foot began to sink. I now feared sinking into a sludge of quicksand.

Jordan, in the meantime, while watching my foray into the water, decided that crossing the river wasn't for him. He would just wait here on the bank. That was fine with me.

After regaining the feeling in my feet, I decided to give it one more try. “If it doesn't work this time,” I told myself, “then we will turn around and go back.” (I knew that we still had a long drive to get home.)

“Jordan, I want you to make sure that you watch me when I cross . . . just in case I start sinking!”

That truly was my fear now—getting half way across the river and then sinking down to my chest in a mud bar.

I stepped one foot into the water, and then another. My right foot began to sink, but I quickly continued to move, and soon I was through the main channel (which only went up to my shin), and standing on a jiggly bar of mud. I trotted to the top of the bar, leaving gashes in the mud, then skipped over a small rivulet of bronze-colored water to another mud bar. I repeated this process two more times, making my way over the multiple strands of stray water that flowed outside the main channel. With one last dash to the opposite bank, I stepped onto the final bar of mud, and instantly my right leg sank down to my knee. In a panic, I lunged to the bank, and used my arms to pull myself from the mud. Finally, I sat safely on the other side.

“Did you see that? I about sank to my death in mud!” I spoke to Jordan, who sat watching me far away on the opposite bank. I used a voice slightly louder than normal, but certainly not a yell. When Jordan spoke back, it sounded as if he were next to me. The acoustics at this bend in the river, with the large sandstone wall that hung over the water, was amazing.

I sat on flattened grass and damp sand and noticed fresh coyote tracks imprinted on the wet mud in front of me. I pulled a water bottle from my pack (the only one I had with me) and drizzled clean liquid over my muddy feet. They didn't become completely clean, but clean enough to then take a t-shirt from my pack and wipe the rest of the mud off. Then I replaced my socks and shoes and was ready to go.

My location on the opposite bank was far from ideal. I still had a jungle of tamarisk to fight with. I began forging my way through, pushing the small but rigid branches forward and stepping through. Hooks on the branches snagged the leg of my jeans, ripping a new hole, and twisting them around my thigh. I couldn't see the ground below me because of the tangle of grass and branches. I prayed that there wasn't a hole in the ground like the tiger pits that you see in the movies.

I made my way to the base of the cliff, hoping to find some sort of trail, or way out of this mess. Twice I found a place where an animal had burrowed himself a hiding spot. Nearby a piece of coyote scat lay on a rock. 

After ten minutes of fighting through the tangle of tamarisk, the thicket cleared and at last I was on open ground. I now walked freely, closely examining the face of the cliff on my right, and admiring the seclusion of where I now roamed.

In another hundred yards, I found what I had come to find.

Pecked into the outer layer of the ocher-colored cliff, I saw two bighorn sheep next to a trapezoidal human figure with an insect-like face. There were others of these trapezoidal figures, most with a different style of head, and some with stick arms and stick legs coming from the corners. Others had no arms or legs at all. I didn't know if these represented different gods, or perhaps a shaman.

I counted six bighorn sheep, one of them with a ring of dots surrounding the animal's feet, tail, and horns, appearing (to me) as if there was a magic aura associated with this ring. Off to the side was a lone deer or elk with what looked like a third growth of antlers, or perhaps an arrow, or a club coming from his head. A human-like figure with feet and antennas stood near the tail of the deer, looking the other way.

A line with seven bends in its projection was carved into the rock, at the left-side terminus there being a dot. This line looked like it could be a profile of a rocky hill or mountain, or perhaps this very descent to the river. At the bottom was the depiction of another bighorn sheep. Was this their hunting grounds?

I found it interesting that many of the figures on the panel came all the way down to the sandy ground and abruptly halted—many of the drawings cut directly in half. It made me wonder if the ground was much lower back then, and perhaps there are more carvings buried beneath the sand.

I stepped back from the petroglyphs and considered for a moment where I was—a place so isolated and so removed from modern civilization that humans rarely step foot upon it. Yet it was a place called home by Indians nearly a thousand years ago. They probably hunted by these very river banks, built fires next to these cliffs, and told stories of gods and skinwalkers next to the fire.

Now it is home to the coyote, the crow, and the lonely flowing river.

Christmas Box Angel Statue—Las Vegas

We were lucky to even get there at all.

We showed up at what we thought was the right place, with just ten minutes to spare. But with no other cars in the parking lot at Palms Mortuary, we became suspicious. After a phone call and quick internet search, we learned there are two Palm Mortuaries on Jones Boulevard in Las Vegas, and we were at the wrong one. The other was ten miles away!

After a couple of miscues with Google Navigator and twenty minutes of u-turns, left turns, right turns, and straining to see street signs, we finally made it to the correct locale. (Ironically, the quickest was to the other mortuary on Jones Boulevard was not a straight line.)

The funeral home is on the same lot as the cemetery. My first surprise was the number of cars in the parking lot. All the stalls were occupied and we had to find a spot next to the exit lane of the cemetery. I expected there might be a couple dozen people, but now I guessed there were probably several hundred.

When we entered the mortuary, it looked more like an airport terminal. People lounged in soft chairs, walked around sipping hot chocolate, and chit-chatted among themselves. A few dressed in Sunday attire, but the majority in casual dress such as jeans and t-shirt. As for me, I was the only one in shorts—we had just come from the beach.

We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that the Palm Mortuary was having a Tree of Memory Ceremony on December 6^th, and we just happened to be passing through Las Vegas at that time. (Many cemeteries have a similar ritual on this date, all inspired by the Richard Paul Evans novella, The Christmas Box, that tells the story of an elderly lady who, after losing a child, wrote her letters that she kept in a beautifully carved Christmas Box. At the cemetery where the child is buried there is a great stone angel next to the headstone.)

I noticed that a devotional of some sort was being broadcast to a television in the lobby. A choir was on screen singing “Let There be Peace on Earth,” but I couldn't see too well because we were further back. I asked one of the ladies if the program was almost over and she pointed out to me on the program that there were still two more songs.

With a little more observation, I noticed that through a door to the right of the television, there was a chapel full of people. “Is that where the program is being filmed?” I asked the lady. She smiled and nodded her head.

Quietly, I tip-toed to the doorway and peeked inside the chapel. The pews were full and the congregation watched intently the performance on stage. The organist played from the back of the chapel.

After a final congregational hymn, I found an empty seat on the back row and listened to the remarks of a man standing at the pulpit. I couldn't see him well, so I can't describe what he looked like. There was no closing prayer. Instead, we were instructed to proceed out the south door and onto the lawn for the tree dedication and lighting.

I found my family and we walked together to the lawn where two ladies handed out white roses to each person. Almost all wore heavy coats and stocking caps. Las Vegas can be cold on a December night.

The tree was a very tall pine tree that scaled several stories tall. It had been decorated with large ornamental balls that must have been placed with an extremely tall ladder or crane. Several people came up and placed their own decorations on the tree, each representing the loved one that they had lost. They were all hung on the bottom branches, as those were the only ones they could reach. Being unprepared, we didn't have an ornament for Brittany.

While people were still hanging their trinkets, a small choir from a local high school began singing hymns. The choir dressed in old English attire, the gentleman in dark suits with black satin hats, and the ladies wore red shawls that made them look like Little Red Riding Hood from behind. They sang in a small circle and their voices seemed to be a perfect compliment to the cold December air.

Next, we made our way to the Christmas Box Angel statue on the other side of the cemetery. On the way there, in the parking lot, we found a table that offered free hot chocolate to the freezing visitor. My kids happily accepted.

The path to the statue was lit up by white paper bags with dirt in the bottom and a light on top of the dirt, creating an ethereal glow. At the statue, overhead lamps illuminated the general area. People gathered around the angel with an air of solemnity.

I have always believed in angels, but since Brittany died, I have pondered them much more. It makes sense to me that there are angels all around who help us more than we realize. From a close study of the bible we learn that angels were very much involved with the life of the Savior. Angels appeared to Zacharias, Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds before his birth. In Gethsemane, an angel appeared to Jesus and strengthened him. After his resurrection, when Mary Magdalene came to the sepulcher, “the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, an sat upon it. His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow.”

The Qur'an teaches that “[God] sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you. Then are all men restored to God, their true Lord.” And, “For every soul there is a guardian watching it.”

In 1986, a sinister couple held 136 children and 18 adults hostage at an elementary school in Cokeville, Wyoming, with intents of blowing up the school. The bomb went off prematurely, and miraculously the only people killed in the incident were the two hostage-takers. Many of the children reported seeing people “dressed in white” that instructed them what to do and then protected them at the time of the explosion. Some of these angels were later identified as close ancestors of the children.

Since Brittany's passing, my wife and I have had a few of our own sacred experiences when we knew there was divine intervention at a time when help was crucial. It would make sense that this help came from guardian angels, and it makes even more sense that one of these guardian angels would be my very own daughter!

It is interesting that before Brittany passed away, she loved to doodle many things, including Eiffel Towers, poodles, teenage girls, and angels. Once she drew an angel sitting on a plush cloud beside a crescent moon for her friend, Lauren. When Lauren showed us the picture shortly after Brittany died, we loved it so much that we had a semblance of it engraved onto her headstone.

Our first witness that our daughter was alive and well on the other side came during the graveside ceremony at the cemetery. It was been a typical cold day for December, with occasional snow flurries and a completely overcast sky. The sun hadn't been out all day.

Just before the dedication of the grave, we sang the hymn Silent Night, of which I had fond memories from singing it at my great-grandmother's December funeral in 1978. Now, as we sang the third verse, and precisely the words, Son of God, loves pure light, radiant beams from thy holy face . . . the sun came out from behind the clouds and radiated brightly and warmly for about fifteen seconds. I excitedly squeezed Jenelle's hand. That was our sign! By the time the verse was over, it moved back behind the clouds, never to come back out for the rest of the day.

There are over 120 Christmas Box Angels throughout the world, and as far as I know, the ceremony is always held on December 6, which is the same day that the little girl died in the Richard Paul Evans novel. This makes it even more special for us, because it is also the day that Brittany died.

The angel statue in Las Vegas stands upon a marble pedestal, with her arms held in front of her and a contemplative gaze toward the heavens. The Reverend Mary Bredlau made a few brief comments, and then turned time over to us (the people) to lay down our white roses, either in the arms of the angel, or at the feet.

Quietly and reverently, those who had lost children walked up to the statue and placed their white rose next to it. Some broke down in tears when they stepped away, obviously ripped with emotion for their loved one. One by one, I and my four kids placed our roses at the feet of the angel. Then Jenelle placed hers in the angel's arms.

We stepped back and watched others come forward. Next to me a black lady dressed in a pink coat and amber-colored stocking cap, stood with her toddler daughter. She knelt down, and began to encourage her to walk to the angel, explaining, “We give the angel a rose for -------, and then we say a prayer for him.”

While waiting, I discreetly slipped out and wandered through the nearby headstones. I noticed the grave of a twelve-year old girl. “How fortunate,” I thought, “that this girl is buried next to the angel statue.” But as I glanced around, I realized that there were many headstones for little children.

I leaned up to one of the ladies from the mortuary and asked her if this whole section belonged to children. “Yes,” she replied. “Over there,” she pointed to the other side of the statue, “is our baby section. Over here are those between the ages of two and eighteen who have died in innocence.”

As we spoke, the choir had been singing and were circled about, off to the side of the statue, close enough that we could hear them, but distant enough to not draw attention to themselves. They brought a soothing spirit to the gathering.

Then they sang their final carol of the night. My back quivered when I heard the melodic words of Silent Night come from their lips. Wrapped in my coat, with my kids at my side, I listened intently to the words of this sacred hymn. Then came the final verse:

Silent night! Holy night!

Son of God, loves pure light.

Radiant beams from thy holy face,

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord at thy birth; Jesus, Lord at thy birth.

Venice Beach

When I think of Venice Beach, Fletch comes to mind, roving the boardwalk on roller blades, wearing a long Middle-Eastern robe and beard. Some of the scenes in that Chevy Chase movie were filmed between Venice and Santa Monica Beaches, which are only a couple of miles apart. Chevy played an undercover newspaper reporter that was following the drug traffic near the beach.

Now that I've been to Venice Beach, I don't believe that the movie was too far off—people walking dogs, punks on roller blades, and African's hawking their music. The boardwalk is alive. This is definitely a people-watching place.

We were excited to see the infamous Muscle Beach. When we walked by during the early morning, the workout arena was virtually empty, except for a lone black-man, his shirt off, captivated in his own process of pumping iron, the veins in his shoulders and biceps bulging out with the rest of his arm. Muscle Beach is a good five hundred feet from the water and is enclosed by a low blue fence. A small semi-circle of bleachers provides a viewing area for anyone to watch.

Nearby is an outdoor basketball court and next to that, a tennis court. My impression of the day was that all the tall colored people played at the basketball court, while the rich white boys and girls from Santa Monica contested on the tennis court. Not to be stereotypical, but that's how it seemed.

The boardwalk extends about a mile, with a variety of shops on one side, and on the other, there is grass, then sand, then the Pacific Ocean. That combination may vary as there may be a taco stand or racquetball court in the mixture. The shops sell churros, henna tattoos, sunglasses, souvenirs, and yes, medical marijuana. I wasn't expecting that one. “Come and get high,” they advertised.

Artists speckled the boardwalk—some painting, others playing an instrument. One such musician caught my attention. A swarthy man, dressed with a tall turban upon his head and wrapped in a robe (just like Fletch), played the electric guitar. This guy was perfect for a picture—the quintessential Venice Beachite. But he was one step ahead of me. I lifted my camera to my eye and instantly he pulled a black t-shirt from behind his guitar, unfolded it and lifted it up to cover his face, and began a rant that I can't even remember. I just walked away, disappointed that I didn't get my picture, and feeling dumb for getting had.

I should mention that I was with my family this day, and we worked our way away from the boardwalk and toward the beach. We stopped at the waterfront for at least half an hour and watched the surfers as they paddled into the ocean and attempted to catch a wave. They all wore black wet suits and appeared as if they did this every day. Some, I noticed, even rode here on their bikes.

My kids did their usual thing: run into the waves, let the water lap against their legs, then run back to the shore in a frantic trot when the splash became too high.

But the pier is where we intended to go. Nothing fancy about this one. It is no Santa Monica Pier. No roller coaster, no Bubba Gump restaurant, no cotton candy booths. Just a long walk over the ocean on planks of pine wood. An occasional fisherman. Others were strolling to smell the scent of the ocean breeze beneath them.

We reached the end of the pier, where my wife and daughter each pulled out a bottle enclosed with a message. Inside the glass was a handwritten letter to Brittany. One at a time, they launched them westward. We watched for at least twenty minutes at the small glistening objects floating atop a vast blue sea, bobbing up and down, yet surely being carried outward, becoming smaller and smaller by the minute.

Hunting Pine Nuts

The sun beat high in the autumn sky and the deer were no longer moving around. The dirt road we traveled on was miles from anywhere, the mesa stretching far on either side with its pungent sage brush and sappy pinyon pines. We decided it was a good time to take a break and start hunting pine nuts.

Dad stopped the truck right in the middle of the two-rut path and we all jumped out, garbed in full camouflaged clothing, hunting knives, and possible bags on our belts. I pulled a wide blue tarpaulin from the back of the truck and we went to work.

None of us were experts at collecting pinyon nuts. Usually there isn't much of a harvest, but every few years the trees become full of seed-bearing nuts. This was one of those years.

We found a large pinyon tree, heavy with woody brown cones. Its branches spread wide enough over the ground for me to spread the tarp directly beneath it.

Once the tarp was flattened end to end, thirteen year old Josh climbed halfway up the tree, just to the point where he could reach out and grab the branch that over-hung directly above the tarp. With both hands he shook the branch as vigorously as he could. For five seconds, pine nuts, pine cones, pines needles, and twigs fell from the tree, most landing on the tarp, but some landing just outside. Others hit the tarp and bounced off.

We gathered the tarp up at the corners and carefully funneled our booty into a plastic bag. We would sort through it later.

Now that I look back on it, it is ironic that Josh was the one to shake the branch. He is half-Navajo. Although Navajo culture is big on gathering pine nuts, it is taboo to shake the branch and force the nuts to fall. They believe this will create an early winter, thus shortening the opportunity to harvest the nuts.

Many people don't bother shaking the tree and just collect the nuts that have naturally fallen to the ground. The darker brown the shell is, the more likely there will be a nut inside.

Sometimes, the better nuts will not come loose from the cones, so a person must pick up an entire cone and knock the nuts out, or use a twig to pry them free. This usually proves to be a sticky proposition, resulting in sap all over the hands—but nothing that a good washing with peanut butter won't cure.

We spent about an hour collecting pine nuts during that warm September afternoon of the deer hunt. I took my plastic bag home where I separated the nuts from the debris.

After washing, I sprinkled them with salt and other seasonings, then roasted them in the oven on a cookie sheet.

Now, a bowl of tasty pine nuts sits on my kitchen bar for the kids to pick at. They love it when they crack open a shell and find a perfect white nut inside.

Next time, I hope to bring them with me.