Let's see. I'd say the crystal chandeliers beneath the ceiling of the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles in France, dazzle. Closer to home, sunset over the Gulf of Mexico on most nights does it for me, too.

The Amalie Arena in Tampa scored as the place where the Lightning ice hockey team dazzled Florida fans to dizzying heights in their 2015 Stanley Cup dreams.

But wait! The arena also served as the venue for the third of 32 engagements in entertainer Bette Midler's 2015 tour. She is Bette. She is Midler. As she will continue to remind hundreds of thousands of fans in June and July, she is the dazzling, Divine Miss M.

Midler's June calendar crisscrosses the map of the United States. In July, she moves on to adoring fans in the United Kingdom. By chance before the Tampa show, we met and chatted in an arena lounge with two residents of Wales on holiday in Florida, who very merrily got a jump on waiting U.K. fans. We all proved to be animated Boomers, savoring the delicious anticipation of seeing Bette live.

At show time, flashing our Christmas gift tickets, my husband and I joined approximately 10,000 people streaming to their seats surrounding the stage, to be utterly mesmerized by the non-stop dancing, singing and bawdy Mae West joking of the Divine Miss M.

At 5'1" tall and with 69 years on the planet - nearly 50 years onstage - Bette Midler is the consummate entertainer. In Tampa during two hours of snappy costume and mood changes, Bette showed what perfect timing means, easily driving us to uproarious laughter and tears.

Dressed in a slinky, shimmering red gown, she poured her being out in the song Stay with Me. I didn't recall hearing it before. A torch song begging a guy not to leave, it is on the sad side to be sure. But then, Bette paused in her singing to speak of all the loved ones in her life she never dreamed would die and who are now just ghosts over her head. Suddenly, the aching refrain, "Stay with Me, Stay with Me, Stay with Me," was being song to them, a powerful turn in the arena for anyone who has experienced loss. We were putty in her hands.

As you might expect, Midler brought the house down with the favorites, The Rose and Wind beneath My Wings and rightly so. What a voice! What a delivery! We were honored to be there.

And, after the show, we were delighted to bump into that couple from Wales. Now, this sort of re-encounter doesn't happen in most crowded arenas. All of us were intrigued by it as we talked excitedly about the show and moved along with 10,000 people; we four strangers, including two from the famously reserved U.K., parting with hugs and kisses under the Tampa night sky.

As the lyrics say in another Midler favorite, "From a Distance," written by composer Julie Gold:

"From a distance we are instruments marching in a common band. Playing songs of hope, playing songs of peace. They're the songs of every man."

Even a brief experience of Bette's immense goodwill is worth the price of admission. Thank you, brave, bawdy, inimitable Bette. From a distance and close up, you certainly represent the dazzling to us, as you did to your parents when they sang to you, Bei Mir Bist Du Schon

Review: Bette Midler as vivacious (and bawdy!) as ever at Tampa's Amalie Arena

 Bette's foundation.

In the 1960s, my contemporary history professor spoke of the rising expectations we should expect from those around the world exposed to Western "luxuries" beginning with the 20th Century world wars and continuing to the present.

Yes, as our soldiers served tours in war-torn areas and handed out chocolates and other goodies, people have been exposed to our luxuries; clean drinking water; indoor plumbing and the housing around it, access to medical care, food, clothing and an education. In what corner of the globe are people today in the dark about this bounty? Even one episode of the 1950s "I Love Lucy Show" would bowl them over.

As to all who gave their lives in service, we cannot thank them enough. In the wake of destruction, soldiers who survived built infrastructure, roads and schools. After military service, some would return to lands where they fought and introduce more advancements. One American who fought in the Vietnam War invented a bicycle-powered computer near the turn of this century that he had in mind for use in Laotian and Cambodian villages. By 2003, the invention attracted the interest of 40 other countries.

* * *

The aftermath of World War II brought changes here. Zig Ziglar, a motivational speaker who died in 2012, was long affiliated with the self-improvement publisher Nightingale Conant. He regaled his audiences recalling his 1950s door-to-door sales prowess. Zig said he would always walk briskly up to a prospective new customer's door, carrying his case of kitchen ware and sure of a sale since, "I've got your pots, and you've got my money."

Zig grew up in the South and said he did not know he was poor because he always had enough. How did he know? As a boy, after he had gobbled up the food on his dinner plate and reached for the serving spoon for more, his father would tap his hand mid-air and solemnly say, "You've had enough."

As a child, I was "encouraged" each Sunday to donate alms for the poor, never clear on why anyone thought I had coins to spare. I was simply informed - like little Zig at the dinner table - that I had enough. So, I fed the coins into the metal poor box by the church door, each clang tolling for a candy bar I wouldn't be buying that week.

Today, I'm grateful to have been raised to live with compassion; yet at times, I find the world's misery overwhelming. No way do I have enough coins to surmount the troubles meted out helter skelter across the globe.

And if, with all we have in developed nations, we still don't feel we have enough, there's so much more to want. Like the charmed families of the 1950s who bought pots from Zig Ziglar, suddenly emotionally attached to kitchenware they never knew had to be theirs. Like today's Shopping Network viewer or Amazon browser. Like the forlorn little boy I bumped into at a store one holiday season as he rounded the aisle in a bustling toy department and wailed to his mother, "I want it all!"

* * *

This century's savvy marketers (and compassionate ones) see the prospects in an enormous global market for goods and services; upending the pyramid model where the people of a few nations are served to focus on the broad base of new consumers - billions in emerging nations. Some global giants have focused on the poorest of these consumers. Articles in Harvard Business Review, Stanford University and the Wall Street Journal tackle the challenges of moving forward with workable business models to sell U.S. products.   

Wheels turn in places that never knew about factories, and that revolution brings with it a challenge for the planet itself. It seems we cannot move fast enough to protect worker rights and the environment and ensure a level field for trading the world's goods.

Ironically, we find ourselves back with Zig, knocking on new virtual doors, displaying products people don't know they need. Seems like a good time to be in sales and water purification and renewable energy and engineering and labor law and safety and ...

If you are lucky, you'll notice the perfect days in your life. Three of my prime days: May 21, 22 and 23, 2001. I make a point of remembering them. Here's why.

As my travel journal recounts from dateline Italy: After a whirlwind first tour of Rome and Pompeii, on May 21, my husband and I boarded a motor coach for a drive along a stunning Lattari Mountains road to Sorrento. In our brief time in a flowerful city, one that seems draped on the edge of the sea, we shopped for local crafts and sat on a bench, eating gelato and people watching on a busy street. Next, we took a high-speed hydrofoil to the nearby Isle of Capri.

The rugged, four-mile island of limestone rises to more than 1,900 feet above the Tyrrhenian Sea. We had figured a two-night stay here would be a pleasant interlude between the tour's more acclaimed destinations. It turned into my all-time favorite place on the tour, as it had been for ancient Greeks and Romans, some who witnessed the devastating eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. that had wiped out Pompeii. Over the centuries, more travelers would fall under the spell of Capri; notably artists, poets and writers who could not bring themselves to leave.

The steep funicular sweeping us up from the Marina Grande dock spills crowds into the town of Capri with its plaza full of sidewalk cafes and line of alluring shops. In such a luminous setting, it seems a short walk to the tour group's assigned Hotel Regina Cristina with balconies facing a courtyard of flowers and wall fountain and the sea.  

The next morning we skipped what seemed would be a perfunctory peek at the Blue Grotto and instead took a boat tour around the island. As we bounced in a motor launch along the craggy coastline, I told fellow passengers it was local custom to kiss a loved one while passing between the towering Faraglioni pinnacles. I had made up the custom, but passengers dutifully kissed.

Back at Marina Grande, we tasted (and purchased) lemoncello liqueur and boarded a minivan to the island's highest elevation town, Ana Capri. Hopping onto a chairlift, my husband snapped a photo study of the unfolding landscape to serve as a reference for his painting, "Ah, Capri!" Lunch at San Michele Hotel added to our awe of Ana Capri's sheer, jaw-dropping views.

In the afternoon, we took a leisurely tour of gardens and ancient ruins before setting out for a swim. The pool at a sister hotel was set on the terraced hillside facing the sea and yet more Roman ruins. Being a pool connoisseur, I determined to swim in the chill pool and even savor this departure from my temperature comfort zone. Savor I did. As I swam and we lounged in the sun, we were lolled by the song of Capri's robins, blackbirds and sparrows.

Early evening, we set out with two other touring couples for dinner at the Fodor-recommended, Ristorante Terrazza Brunella overlooking Marina Piccola to the south. For enchantment, the glowing sunset view of the harbor and mountains rivaled our excellent seafood pasta with its clams, mussels and king prawns, our wine and congenial company. We strolled Via Tragara to the hotel under a moonlit sky and ended the night relaxing in the hotel Jacuzzi.

Certainly, other wonderful days rate my attention, and I remember them with gratitude: Gathered with family over a leisurely breakfast, making plans for kayaking, an outing or a walk in the woods. The vividness of such moments seems to slow time and trump all woes.

Fast-forward to September 25, 2014: On the deck of a cruise ship leaving Naples after a tour of the Amalfi Coast, we watched the Isle of Capri fade from sight and recalled our stay there with affection. Given the gift of such exquisite journeys, we brushed aside the woes accumulating in the world since 2001, even a momentary grip of fear for those who might be risking their lives to cross these waters on rickety vessels. 

Margaret Fuller, the mid-19th Century foreign correspondent covering Italy's civil war and society for Horace Greeley's New York newspaper, reported spotting sentimental tourists in her Italian travels. Like a robin or a sparrow, I am a commonplace sighting among centuries of travelers. All I can sing is, "Ah, Capri!"

Writing in the April 2015 Vanity Fair, A.A. Gill issued a fair warning of things to come (or not come) with the article, "Goodbye to Hello," because the phone is dead and, at best, being replaced by text, sometimes spruced up with emoticons, the graphics of "those grins, winks and dangling tongues ... a lexicon of our cavemen ancestors ..."

So, how does this communications development affect Mother's Day, that admittedly commercialized day to express love to one who nurtured you?

Happily, the trend didn't stop my children from calling me on Sunday, and, as always, it was great fun talking with them. Each year, I am touched when I hear them say, "Thank you for having me."

In Florida, one can overhear passing remarks in the nail spa and hair salon. It seems retirees are learning not to expect much in the way of mail, email or phone calls on any given day and also how to interpret the shorthand in texts that may shoot our way. Best not to expect too much. As writer Anne Lamott said, “Expectations are resentments under construction,” and who wants to go there? 

The May day continues to celebrate the new mother with some fanfare; The one photographed in profile with a baby bump - and then, next thing you know, holding that bundle of joy: The mother who is invariably sleep deprived, overbooked, pressured to be a perfect mate and parent, hanging on every word of a good mommy blogger's site. The one who advances nonstop as the planning center of her solar system up to the moment the band plays, "Pomp and Circumstance" for her last child.

Face it, if you were good at your job, the kids long ago flew out of the house, screen door slamming - to make the most of life - from school to work to relationships and adventures, all we had wished for them and more.  

Still, comics score points with guilt jokes centered on having to call, "Ma." Advertisers sell products mocking this back seat driver of our lives. Eyes roll in conversations about her exasperating expectations or habits or characteristic signs of aging. Yes, one day, mother, you discover you're a joke on the comedy circuit.

"Whatever!" I say to the chuckling comics on the screen and direct my energies to the moment and place in which I exist. I thank my mother in my thoughts; the mother I haven't seen since her death when I was 31. Much as I loved my mother, I wasn't always there for her; not when I was sleep deprived, overbooked, pressured to be a perfect mate and parent, hanging on every word of a good mommy newspaper column.

Yet, she always sounded delighted when we did connect, and that was such a relief. So, I go on about life, and anytime I connect with my children, it is a delight. Reminds me of a shout out heard long ago on the prairie, "The stagecoach came to town and, Mercy Sake, look who's on it!"

That Waltons' view beats any irksome second guessing that can plague a mind between calls. Almost makes me want to rustle up a hog to roast, break open the canned pickles, and bake a cake. Or, it would if I were an old-fashioned mother. Fast forward: "How about I microwave something for you?"

These days, I get to apply my nurturing bent to spoiling our cat, who is suitably unimpressed, and to feeding a sapphire-blue beta fish, who, with an undulating, total body-wave, seems deliriously happy when I appear. I am content to water a hanging ivy, fanning schefflera and other houseplants that respond to my green thumb.

So, Ma, if your mailboxes (real and virtual) were empty and your phone was silent, if you deem yourself among the invisible despite the warnings about the death of the phone and all, I wish you a belated Happy Mother's Day. Remember our buzzword, "Whatever!" 

As we work in our Florida home office/studio these spring days, my artist husband and I listen to the screech of a young osprey flying over our condo complex.

This is a time of the year we've come to treasure as osprey parents occasionally move off their nests - set atop the tall lamps of neighborhood tennis courts across the street - to perch on a branch of a tree by our third-floor condo and nonchalantly groom or just kickback as their young take their first forays into the sky.

These are the same parents who for weeks had hunted what seemed to be continuously to feed their young before they were mature enough to set out from the nest and learn to fly. The parents returned to their nests with feasts - such as dazed snake dangling from their talons - to silence those babes who were peeping hungry, hungry, hungry.

A raptor parent's flight is ever silent, powerful and purposeful. To us, screeching newbies learning to fly sound a bit panicked. Or, maybe boasting, a continuous, "Look at me, Mom!" as their clarion call. Either way, to see them repeatedly try is divine comedy, the frantic flapping, the dropping like stones when they paused, the scheduled and unscheduled landings on this or that tree, then taking off again with a new round of flapping before they one day grasp the concept of letting a wind current do some heavy lifting. It seemed almost an "Aha" moment when they did glide on a current, and we responded with, "That's the trick, kiddo!"

With nine years of observation, we know the screeching fades day by day. The parents preen longer in our tree across from the tennis courts, ignoring any attempts at our chummy trans-species communication.

One day last year, as we bobbed in the condo pool, five osprey of all sizes appeared above the buildings and flew over the four-acre courtyard, forming a squadron, dipping and soaring in all directions with their impressive wing spans. It was a season's grand finale and dramatic display of flight. The days warmed. Our raptors were gone.

When we drive north to share the cooler climes with them, it is tempting to scout for osprey in flight and perched on towering poles along the Atlantic coast and wonder if they are ours - from our tree, our sky, our season. We think theirs is a special passage, and we equate it with all childhood- parenthood passages.

Yet, we never saw an osprey parent wringing its talons and fretting over outcomes of a day's flight lesson. Wish humans had the sense of an osprey to kick back while our children learned what they had to learn to succeed in life. Not much good for baby ospreys to know their parents can fly. Ultimately, everybody's got to fend for themselves. It would be comforting to have the wisdom to know when that moment has come. Nature teaches us if we will watch and listen - if for no other reason than sheer joy. 

April 27 is National Tell-a-Story Day in the United States. As you might suspect, that's my kind of holiday.

A quick story about the image on the right: Years ago, I was hiking with my young daughters in Malibu Creek State Park one spring day, and, as we came upon a little creek, I was so taken by the view of the mountains ahead, then and there I had to start sketching. The resulting drawing would serve as my business "cover letter," complete with the logo, "Have cursor, will travel." We later learned the mountainous area was the setting for the opening credits of "M.A.S.H." (both the movie and television series) with cameras rolling as a helicopter crossed the landscape.  

Cranking open a window to share your world view does take emotional muscle. What if your world view doesn't interest someone? What if you suffer from TMI and spill too much information, only to launch your audience into fits of coughing, checking the contents of their wallets, or otherwise body-language slamming you to, "Stop, please."

You could search for more tolerant friends. I listen closely to other people to discover what it is that makes good storytelling. For me, it is in the curious and the unexpected detail. I like moments that remind me, "When I woke this morning, I had no idea I'd experience this." It is surprise or excitement that moves a story along at a satisfying pace.

Easing children into learning to refine the story-telling skill takes a village. I've found listening to children as they share their unbridled observations often leads to revelations. Eons ago, a man named Art Linkletter amused television audiences in his conversations with children on "Kids Say the Darndest Things." They still do.  (Of course, that doesn't give us free rein to tell a lot of cute grandchildren stories.)

Since laughter is a special gift we offer each other, timing seems paramount to storytelling. In her 2012 breezy bio, "If You Ask me (And of Course You Won't)," actress Betty White (now 93-years old) attributes timing to her comedic success. In this slim book, she conveys her love of animals to promote pet projects with stories she might readily share at a fundraiser. The effect is charming.

I do enjoy being charmed, amused and engaged by stories of other people's lives. Whether you are a child or have survived several decades, you have stories to tell. Always, as the 19th Century writer Oscar Wilde said, "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”

For samples of my fiction stories and nonfiction, check this site's Short Story page and its Essays: Boom.

Among the more exciting finds of my collector's life occurred in the early 1970s at an evening auction at the former House of Weltz shop in Portchester, New York. Arriving with two friends familiar with the scene and with just enough time to score a numbered card to flash at the auctioneer, I squeezed into a seat at the back of the shop crowded with fellow bidders, craning my neck to see what was up for bid.

The quirky auctioneer packed the space to the ceiling with furniture for bidding. He sat on a chair (throne) perched on a dining table surround by more chairs and assorted tables. As the night's events unfolded, the Weltz' crew carted off pieces of the mountain of bidden and unbidden furniture to the back of the shop where other workers would stow the stuff and later collect our money and distribute the booty.

This was the setting when the auctioneer lifted a nearly three-foot plaster bust of William Shakespeare and held it up to the crowd. The response was silence.

"Can we start the bidding at $5?" sighed the auctioneer.

I looked around, stunned by the total lack of interest. More silence. Hmm, me thinks, "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," to quote Marcellus to Horatio in Hamlet (1.4). Recovering, I shot my card in the air.

"Sold!" came the cry, and I watched the crew hand off Shakespeare to be carted away.

A bust of Shakespeare for $5? How could that be? Even in the 1970s, he seemed worth far more. The poet who spoke so eloquently for the ages about human emotions; the playwright of the late 16th and early 17th centuries known around England's Globe Theatre and today the globe, deserved more.

Certainly, to quote Hamlet's Soliloquy, in this case he had suffered, "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." But, I was thrilled to think this Bard was mine. When my turn came to pay for the bust, and I discovered why he had been so scorned by the more knowing crowd who had seen items before the auction, I did not skip a beat - just paid for him and took him in my arms.

My plaster Shakespeare had a slightly broken nose. The handsome bust was otherwise unharmed - a bit dingy,  I'll grant you. But, mostly good to go. When I arrived home, I examined the damage like a prizefighter's trainer back in the locker room. Totally fixable. The next day, I purchased gesso and a modeling paste I applied to restore my Shakespeare to his marble-like luster.

He remains that way 40 years later, despite having changed residences five times (with utmost care). He is adorned at Christmas with a suitable red velvet bow tie and dusted year-round. Whatever the occasion, he seems to preside over happenings. Over the years, a half dozen cats never so much as brushed against him. The same is true of two children. And I've felt a writer's kinship - humble certainly, given his illustrious story.

Hearing my tale, Bill would probably not mind if I quoted him, "We are such stuff /As dreams are made on; and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep." (4.1.156-8), Prospero in The Tempest.

My dream includes a $5 bust of Shakespeare. Imagine that!

To mark this week of his birth (April 23. 1564), hear Happy Birthday, Bill Shakespeare from the Listening Booth.