The Bard of Avon himself coined a phrase that’s one of my favorites: &uot;All’s well that ends well.&uot; Sometimes the journeys of life will have you wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into.

If something positive comes from it all, I find I’m pretty happy.

Case in point: we visited my sister in Birmingham the first weekend in May for little Abbi’s (the adored and adorable blue-eyed great-grandbaby) first birthday.

My niece had a wonderful spread of tasty treats to sample that Sunday afternoon; after a night of rain and storms it had faired off a bit, and the youngsters in attendance were able to romp around on the swing set and teeter-totter and have a high old time.

The baby got enough toys and clothes to keep her covered and entertained until next year rolls around.

I also discovered Abbi, like her great-grandma, has never met a bag of Cheetos she didn’t like.

I have the photos to prove it: Cheetos in the left fist, Cheetos in the right, and one big cheese puff being slowly, rapturously sucked down by one little kid high on a processed cheese fix.

If the family tradition continues, she’ll be hitting the cheese in a can by her next birthday.

So, you are asking, what went wrong in the midst of all this family-and-friend togetherness?

Some insidious little bacteria apparently crept into one of those afore-mentioned treats. Was it the cocktail wienies, or the Crock-Pot barbecue?

The Ro-Tel dip or the fresh fruit dip?

Who can tell? All I know is, by Sunday night I was experiencing what I like to call &uot;Vulcan’s Revenge,&uot; and, soon enough, Benny was joining me. Turns out my sister, mother (who stayed for a longer visit in the Magic City), nephew, niece, niece’s husband and a few of their friends all came down with the same gut-wrenching, clock-cleaning malady.

Thankfully, nobody actually shuffled off their mortal coil. Mama’s case was light; Abbi escaped altogether. Those were the two I most worried about. Hey, all well that ends well.

By Wednesday, I was able to return to the office for a few hours and begin the process of playing catch-up. Thursday night, I had my first real meal since the food poisoning, and may I say the McKenzie QB Club prepares one heck of a good steak. A hunk of protein never tasted so fine to me.

Friday rolled around and it was time for Relay.

Relay reminds me of a sort of all-county reunion. I saw folks I know from Georgiana and Chapman as well as Greenville. There were folks who remembered me as &uot;that little girl with the long, long blonde hair.”

Kids I taught at FDA in their elementary school days, fast approaching adult status, called out hello.

Like life, Relay is a mixture of the happy and the sad.

I’m happy to see all the survivors who are able to take the track and make that victory lap; I’m saddened to hear the long list of names of those who didn’t make it, among them, my own dear grandmother, Sarah Belle Brewer Wood.

I teared up a little as I walked the track after the luminaria ceremony. I laughed in delight when one small and very good sport named Trip Richardson donned a pair of too-small pink cowboy boots, hair extensions and an heirloom dress and easily took the title of Miss Relay in the womanless beauty pageant.

I was tired by midnight, my bum knee aching in the cool night air, my middle age creeping up on me. I’m sure there were many who were far more weary. But all was ending well. The fundraising goal reached and exceeded, the community had enjoyed a night of good food, fun and games for a most worthy cause.

Not hard to put a positive spin on that.

Angie Long is Lifestyles reporter for The Greenville Advocate. She can be reached at 382-3111 ext. 132 or via email at angie.long@greenvilleadvocate.com.