... you try, try, try, and try again ... until you get it right.  C'est si bon!

Last weekend some dear friends in Hickory, North Carolina, took TG and me out to eat at an Italian ristorante named DaVinci's. Excellent. Unlike Olive Garden, they don't put garlic in the water. In my book that is a definite plus.

Also a happy circumstance at DaVinci's (besides the warm bread, the impeccable service, and my perfect baked ziti, that is) was the thoroughly unexpected strolling string trio! Just like in the movies! I'd never actually experienced a wandering string trio so this was a milestone for me. TG, I, and our friends were enjoying delightful postprandial conversation when the talented triumvirate seemed to drift out of nowhere to serenade us and our fellow diners.

Laugh; have fun. Life is short.

One on mandolin, one on guitar, and one on violin, the mobile musicians started out with the classic O Sole Mio ... and progressed to some lively tarantella or another that I recognized but cannot name. It was charming and much appreciated.  Bellissimo!

Speaking of Italian, music, and O Sole Mio, check out these three young men ... with the emphasis on young ... or is the emphasis on music? You decide. They may be barely of the age to fully appreciate being introduced on nazionale television by a woman who is apparently Italy's answer to Dolly Parton. Be that as it may, they seem to have already attracted some pretty female fans!

Regardless, these boys could very well be channeling (in a masculine way) Sophia Loren who famously said: "Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."

The oldest of the three -- Piero Barone, the one wearing glasses who might be good if he took a voice lesson or two -- has seen only fifteen summers. His equally stellar amici, Gianluca Ginoble and Ignazio Boschetto, are each only fourteen. Move over, Il Divo! Mercy. So much talent; so little time.  Sew these boys into some Armani tuxes and get Simon Cowell's peeps on the horn, chop chop!

(While the couture tailors are at it may I have one one of those blouses like the lady orchestra members are wearing? I think I'd look adorable in a blouse with cream silk rosettes decorating the neckline and black lace on the sleeves. Thanks ever so.)

I wish Piero, Gianluca, and Ignazio the best and hope they are not spoiled by the fame and fortune that is undoubtedly within their reach. Ciao! Grazie tante!

This next one is for the birds ... literally. Hey, PeTA ... it's just a cartoon; 'k? No birds were harmed or stripped or defeathered or fricasseed or pecked or dislodged or embarrassed in the making of this hysterically funny film. Keep after President Obama for his singularly brutal murder of that fly, though. You have my blessing on that one.

As to the birds: watch their eyes. Listen to their chatter. Laugh; have fun. Life is short.

Although it probably should be, June is not my favorite month; that would be October. For reasons unknown to me, I am enamored of autumn above all other seasons. But on a recent evening as I walked in the humid gloaming, I considered the many faces and the sure fate of comely June. 

June traces the lightning bug's glimmer, the cicada's whir, and the susurrus of warm wind in full-leafed overreaching branches to where time lapses into a pink-hued memory of effortless days. June at its coolest is a languid float in sparkling water; June at its hottest is the ronron of the pool pump and the clack of busy squirrels in tall pines.

June of all the months casts the tenderest, most wistful glance backward, and does it with dewy singing eyes. Sequestered in the soul of June is all the poignancy of all the love that ever was. Its roses, its moons, its skies, its blossom-scented air, its very existence summons belief in the all-wise God who put into motion all of June's excesses and all of its romances.

In June's going is the first peeking tendril of winter.

My Savior found me on a June night in 1971 at Camp Stallion in St. Helena Parish, Louisiana. I had never heard the gospel presented until the moment when Brother Miller, Youth Director of Weller Avenue Baptist Church in Baton Rouge, told the group of teenagers assembled around a marshmallow-roasting fire of The One Who had died to take away their sins.

I don't remember if anyone besides me believed on Him that night; I only know that I did.

When June moved on, so did our fractured little family ... to Atlanta, that is, where at Forrest Hills Baptist Church I was baptized in obedience to Christ's command. On June 16, 1979, I became a happy bride only a few feet from the baptismal waters where I had professed my faith eight years before.

For thirty Junes it has been my privilege to be the wife of a precious Christian man ... and the fortunate mother of our four children, who serve the Lord even as adults. June, the midpoint of every swift-footed twelvemonth, distinctly reminds me of something I cannot afford to forget: the miraculous goodness and longsuffering of God.

And so to me, June's beauty and grace softens the calumnies of mankind ... if only for a moment. In an untouched June morning resides the clear light of forgiveness. June with its eager ambivalence embodies the siren call of wanderlust, the promise of adventure, the happy fact of a lengthy journey completed.

A June dawn beckons. A June day bestows. A June evening blesses. A June night beams. June's outrageous lambency and utter truthfulness increases flagging faith and soothes the bitter gall of heartbreak.

June's plangent song rides smoothly on its own fragrant breezes, heavy with nostalgia. June coos to its infants, laughs with its children, whispers to its brides, counsels courage to its aged, mourns with its dying. June inspires the poet, the lover, the artist, the builder, the naturalist, and the child of God.

When June at last languishes it lays to rest a measure of summer's innocence. June is a trembling novice, a brave knowing soul, a seasoned conspirator. June's gentle advances tune our beings to July's intemperate excesses, prepare us for August's overbearing and overlong contention.

June remembered is an unhurried embrace, a beseeching look, the final caress of a departing love. June forgotten is still, silent bells and an empty shell-strewn shore.

In June's going is the first peeking tendril of winter. Where Junes go, down light paths and dark, we follow.

And the glorious beauty, which is on the head of the fat valley, shall be a fading flower, and as the hasty fruit before the summer; which when he that looketh upon it seeth, while it is yet in his hand he eateth it up. In that day shall the LORD of hosts be for a crown of glory, and for a diadem of beauty, unto the residue of his people. ~Isaiah 28:4-5

As a recent blog post revealed, I still roam the Earth without benefit of an electronic global positioning system. I pretty much live by the credo "Wherever you go, there you are." When that's not quite enough, I have found MapQuest to be invaluable as I navigate the Palmetto State and points beyond.

Sometimes I even go by road signs.

Be that as it may, our techno-savvy eldest daughter and son-in-law have added GPS to their ever-growing repertoire of non-human helps. As they were packing up to leave our house after Memorial Day festivities, I checked out the gizmo where it perched on their dash like an exotic -- if squarish -- bird, its lengthy power cord resembling a licorice shoestring.

By and large the grownups' lingo was arcane to our ears.

I had some questions and my daughter was eager to answer them. She showed me how, by simply touching the bright screen, one can map a route from here to there while pinpointing the location of fueling centers, retail outlets, lodging chains, and fast food joints along the way. Hungry? The GPS will tell you in an audible voice how far you are from the next Happy Meal.

When I was growing up we spent a lot of time on the road. Most days you were happy just to have a meal.

Whether for a ten-block or a ten-hour trip, my grandchildren are strapped like jet pilots into government-regulation car seats from which they are not supposed to be removed as long as the car is in Drive. Their father is a pastor.

My sister and I spent a significant portion of our young lives rattling around in a stolen (yes, stolen ... instead of GPS we had GTA) baby blue Nash Rambler driven by a criminal. The getaway car, as it were. I often used the back window as a bed. I was long and thin; on a sudden stop I resembled a pencil falling off a ledge.

Not only was our vehicle hot; its interior was also an un-airconditioned environment. On too-warm days while wearing shorts your bare thigh-backs stuck peskily to the vinyl of the backseat, but you were mercifully unrestrained. In the free and relatively innocent America of my unconventional childhood, the breeze through Mama and Daddy's wing vents was scented with dreams.

My grandchildren, who have never ventured west of the Mississippi, are driven hither and yon in a Nissan the color of cranberries. In addition to the voice of the GPS telling Daddy and Mommy where to turn, as likely as not a road trip will include listening to either or both parents chatting on mobile phones to one relative, friend, or parishioner or another.

My sister and I tried (with limited success) to keep from fighting on our extended "vacations" while watching the backs of Mama and Daddy's heads for any signs we were in trouble. By and large the grownups' lingo was arcane to our ears, but I in particular listened for Mama to mention stopping at an A&P where we could buy a Spanish Bar Cake and maybe a soda pop to share.

At any rate, whatever level of conversation existed within our automobile's cozy environ was exchanged between persons entirely present. Repartee was often punctuated by the skitch! of a match on a tiny sandpaper strip as Mama or Daddy lit up. My nostrils loved the aroma of the first sweetish puffs before the smoke turned acrid, and my eyes loved watching the cigarette's tip glow neon orange as a parental unit inhaled.

I long for the America I remember.

The perky GPS provides clues to my son-in-law regarding the available places to purchase gasoline. The huge, shiny C-stores and string of computerized fueling islands are so unlike the dinky filling stations we frequented. I can still hear the dull ding ... ding ... ding of the Sinclair Dino pump as our Rambler hungrily nursed, and I still love the smell of idling engine exhaust.

We had maps. Folded like elaborate fans into flat, space-saving oblongs, when unfurled they became half-acre charts to anywhere. Their many shapes of pastel green, yellow, and blue, splayed with red veins and chockablock with infinitesimal words and symbols, were fascinating to me. I can still imagine the feel of the cool indifferent paper and see the furry seams where they had been creased one time too many.

And as our sturdy tires carried us, untethered, from town to town, county to county, state to state, region to region, from one landscape to the next, there was the certainty of adventure and the possibility of rich experience. Come weal or woe, the road afforded deft deliverance and life concealed a glowing ruby beneath its tongue.

I fear for my grandchildren's future. They have security and a birthright and access to truth that I did not have, but I am beginning to wonder if they will enjoy the personal liberties I have never been asked to live without. As technology waxes, what good is it if freedoms wane?

One of my favorite things to say is, "You can never go back ... and why would you want to?" I'm going to stop saying that. I want to go back to the America I knew as a child. Unborn children were safer there. We had problems but we worked them out without apologizing for what our beloved country was all about in the first place.

I long for the pre-GPS America that I remember, and I want it back for my grandchildren. I know it's a silly dream, but then I've always been a dreamer.

Peeps, I've been uncommonly busy but I'm working on a real, actual blog post for you! Until then, here's a little something that made me grin today.

Think about that in a few years when you're driving an electric tin can around town, thanks to the Obamination.

Let's have the courage to stand up for the little babies at every opportunity.

If you like airplanes and nostalgia, you'll love this short film.

Happy Memorial Day!