Back again at Grandma and Grandpa Rue’s house in sunny Southern California, for our seemingly annual summer outing. As relics of the World War II generation, my grandparents lived in their own partly perfect paradise. My Grandfather was a pilot in the Air Force and Man of the Land while my Grandmother was a so-called Irish War Bride. They bought this piece of land in the 1950s, and made on it their own multi-generational American dream for life to live and family to frolic.

Rewinding back to a time when there were VHS tapes to rewind and games on Gameboys to be played, there was an everlasting joy on those endless afternoon days. The cool thing was that this feeling could also be amplified when a certain set of parameters came into the mix. A) My older cousin Julian was also in town. This meant more pool, ball, and adventure. B) Dad decided to come over. Although he preferred to have some distance with his Irish War Bride mother-in-law, his icebreakers and schmoozing were legendary. C) The whole family was there. On rare occasions, aunts, uncles, and even my paternal grandparents would grace us with their wells of wisdom.

Staying at this place when I was still just a “Silly Nilly,” my worries ran thin. From wondering when the barbecued squirt chicken would be ready to not getting sprayed by Grandpa with the pool noodle or stubbing my toe on his marvelously meticulous brick masonry paths. However as the years rolled on, this space held by my ancestors would help transform, mold, and guide me on my ongoing jaunting journey.

The stories I listened to as a child became the roots I used to trace our long lost lineages. My dark night of the soul went on to be the catalyst igniting in me the purpose of continuing the work of our heritage. So when the world prepared for an ominous end on December 21, 2012, and I had booked a one-way ticket to Tanzania, this partly perfect paradise sent me off with a multitude of blessings to commence a new cycle of my “Silly Nilly” life.