Thanks to the fallen and to those who serve.

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USA Memorial Day

At Bitburg, Germany we met a man who, as a child, had helped his dad in food service and served General Patton. The General complimented this twelve-year old making a lasting impression on him. He glowed with pride and told us where to find Patton's grave. A fellow from our home community had been on the Color Guard for his burial.

At the American Cemetery and Memorial in Hamm, Luxemborg we stood at Patton's grave not set apart from his men, but with them as he wanted. It was a warm day. From a marble bench we prayed for and thanked them and left puddles of sweat. Our contribution would dry up, but theirs was permanent.

Solemnly we walked above the Normandy Beaches. Posted signs caution against walking below as there are still unexploded mines. This day all was silent, even the visitors. Back at our Auberge our host twisted up his face and said he'd seen more than he could talk about.

At Colleville Sur Mer the 170 acre American cemetery holds the remains of those who contributed their all to the cause of freedom. The American director said the perfectly aligned crosses are set in a trench of concrete.

At Dachau, Germany we spoke with the President of the Survivors. "He said he was there to be sure the ovens were never again lit for that purpose." To our surprise he was not a bitter man inspite of his parents and first wife dying while all were imprisoned. He married again and they had a son. The Press arrived to interview him. He laughed and said to watch him make a fool of himself.

Our bellies in our throats we walked through the crematorium trying not to imagine its horrors. Images surfaced anyway remembering the words of a fellow from our home that was here liberation day. "They were so emaciated we couldn't tell the men from the women. An American soldier threw a piece of candy that landed in the barbed-wire. Naked prisoners dove in risking deep cuts and scratches; anything for a bite of food."

My late husband was a generation older than I and a WWII veteran plagued with nightmares and bouts with malaria. When he passed on I hoped his meeting with the Creator would go like so:

Seen the horrors of war, dear one,

The man began to weep

No more, no more! the Good God cried

I'm granting you Grace and Peace

In death their souls have returned to God to be rewarded and made whole. Grace and Peace to all who have fought, and who do fight for freedom.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Homeless in Cape Girardeau

Two weeks without our RV refigerator working equals salvaged contents floating in a cooler of melted ice, even though we drain it daily and continually add more. Secretly I pretend I'm in Europe and "market" often. We grill meat or fry crappie with our neighbors in the evening, roast eggplant, fennel, potatoes and onions with olive oil and salt, toast garlic bread, have fresh strawberry shortcake and finish the evening by the bonfire. The full moon adds a touch of romance. We're doing okay.

Like those rousted from their home by fire, we took what we "thought" we would need for today when we left our RV at the shop. JB bought us Kentucky Fried Chicken we took to the park and ate with the ducks. Walking by the lake we noticed a chalk drawing on the sidewalk some talented artist had drawn of a pair of birds in God's hands. Would we have taken time for a picnic in the park otherwise? Pobably not.

Feeling like a displaced person, I remembered Grace's Cafe has Wi-Fi, sandwiches, salads, homemade desserts and a variety of Italian soda flavors and other hot and cold drinks. Over an iced latte Annette said she invented a salad today: watermelon, feta cheese, fresh mint leaves, red onion and olive oil. Sounds delicious. I wished I was hungry. Vintage clothes are to my left and comfortable couches that invite intimate conversation to my right. If our refer hadn't gone out, I might not have had the good fortune to spend the afternoon at Grace's.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Good Morning! 

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Knees Worth Noticing

Cedar trees hold branches close
Willow trees hang loose
Cypress trees stand, observe
showing off their knees

At a dead lake outside of Pascagoula, Mississippi, we fished for crappie. Sitting on the bank and looking across, the "knees" took on personalities. (I swear I was sober.) "In medieval garb a mother stood between two short ones. The girl had curls of Spanish moss. A woman with a scalloped cape held a child. The tall one in back had a large cross on its chest - High Priestess? A dozen nondescript ones stood in the middle, foot soldiers, or wet-foot soldiers. Up out of the water you'd think their complexion would improve. It hasn't.

A jerk on my line revealed I'd caught a two-pound crappie on a dead minnow. There's no accounting for some tastes.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Hike the Grand Canyon?

Over cinnamon tea my friend, Donna, invited me to the Grand Canyon. Of course I'd like to go. "Have toothbrush will travel," is my motto. Then she said she wanted to hike it. (gasp) My size eight foot was perfectly lodged in my size five mouth.

I was a behind the desk woman. I liked my heels and hose, my hair to stay in place, gourmet meals, air conditioning or I wouldn't go, did not like to perspire, and do like to park close. But when I gave my word I kept it.

(more later)

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Saint Teresa of the Child Jesus, The Little Flower

In Saint Peter's Cathedral at Lisieux, France I knelt at an old wooden pew to give thanks, pray, contemplate Saint Teresa's contribution to life, and wonder how saints are made. The air smelled damp, musty. The incense said, "You are in church."

I hoped something magical would happen, and it did. I opened my heart to soak up "the momentum of application," the energy of accumulated prayerful activity. Saint Teresa's gracious, loving presence came through. In my heart I felt, "Copy me. Make room for Him in your life, to live with and walk with you always, careful to stay positive so he can work with and through you for all. Trust God all the time. Love without exception."

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Goliath the Bridge

Our beloved Pastor Burton A. Knudsen was retiring after over thirty-years as the Pastor of our First Presbyterian Church. Staying in the community it would be look but don't touch. We needed a shift in our relationship. In Nashville, Tennessee and again in Des Moines, Iowa, I saw goats. It gave me an idea.

At his retirement I told him we were concerned he'd be lonely so we got him a pet. The audience of over 200 gasped, "she didn't!"

"In Mississippi we found a homeless pet Diane, the church secretary, named 'Goliath'. With a name like that can you imagine the appetite? Weaned and housebroken, it's diet requires 18% crude protein. "

Pastor guessed it was a catfish, opend the Fed-Ex box and did what any kid would do: took the angora, cloth, happy-faced fourteen-inch tall goat out of the box and hugged it. It's pail of 18% crude protein petfood just happened to be chocolate.

In Goliath we had a bridge that demanded nothing of Pastor. We could call and, "If Pat answers, just ask how the old goat, I mean Pastor is."

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Red Convertible Travel Series Inspiration

Mother loved the idea of traveling through life in a red convertible. It represented freedom, romance, class, fun, whimsy, a lighter side of life. She'd never even sat in one until, thanks to Harry, our local used car dealer, we borrowed one for the afternoon.

Mother drove my sister and I and her childhood friend, Ileta, all around town hoping people would "see us and talk." Five miles from home we stopped at a little cafe for homemade pie: rhubarb, strawnberry, raisin cream and coconut. She sat by the window so she could see who noticed "her" car.

Riding in this used red convertible, these two old friends in their late 70's glowed, over flowing with joy. They had it all. And their hair stayed in place under the plastic rain caps we thought were disgusting. My sister's and my free hair tied in knots.

The Red Convertible Travel Series is a collection of my life's inspirational moments.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Mid-wife Krys

Thank you Krys for mid-wifeing my blog. You did a great job.
Unlike you and your sister, this baby came with a manual.

Peace thru Parsley

The Red Convertible Travel Series is a collection of inspirational travel stories. Excerpts will be posted at least weekly. I am looking for a publisher.

From Peace thru Parsley: "In the delicious French sun of late July, we four lunched at the outdoor table with its red plaid plastic cover. My sister and I dined on fragrant, juicy, fresh peaches and skin-popping plums with Camembert, baguettes someone labored very early to bake and soft white wine. Their lunch included a bouquet of parsley. A pair of fenced-in donkeys stood close by staring at us."

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Good morning! 

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Before Mike Could Write

Our neighbor's young grandson was a frequent visitor. He'd knock at my door and ask if I could go for a walk. We'd work our way the two blocks to the local Museum. On the parked caboose we traveled the world, and had stories to tell when we got home. Our adventures were grand crossing the prairie, mountains, sea and flying, and we tasted the food. Buffalo cooked on an open fire was just okay, it needed ketchup.

When we weren't walking or picking up sticks and discarded cans at the Museum, we'd sit in my swing. He'd tell me stories he thought should be written. His mother listened and wrote them down for him before he could write. I wondered where he got them and asked where he was before he was born. Without hesitation four-year old Mike replied, "I was with God and He was so good to me."

This weekend he graduates from High School. He's still writing. In the fall he will go off to college to write some more. He wants to travel the world. Now he'll write his own adventures, and his mother will read them.

French Market Shopping

My sister and I rose early at our Auberge, slipped into summer slacks and shirts, and made our way to our host's large table with its red and white checkered-cloth. Always cheerful, he was bustling around serving his robust coffee in cups without handles. The smell of toast and warm croissants filled the air, dotted with whiffs of his homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. No one was in a hurry, this was no "drive-through."

Having been a baker most of his life, our host explained the complicated process of kneading butter into dough multiple times to create the flaky croissants. We were accustomed to popping the end result in the oven to warm. At his table we were learning a respect for food preparation we had only experienced as children on the farm with our stay-at-home mother. She loved to cook and bake like he did and it showed.

Satisfied that we'd "taken in " our French breakfast experience we gathered our mesh bags and headed for the "market experience."

No wonder people love food when fresh produce is in such abundance. The Market was a feast for the senses and dozens of people were enjoying it. The stacks of produce just pulled from the earth felt alive. They smelled of fresh soil and their own individual fragrance with an explosion of colors. We could buy a single item or a bag full. How sumptuous a meal would be, how nourishing. We wished we could shop daily for fresh at home, take the time to prepare it and sit down and enjoy it. Why are Americans in such a rush?

Vendors displayed their fresh meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables and more. What a shame we couldn't cook. All we needed was lunch. So many cheeses to choose from. We picked a soft cheese with walnuts. Baguettes with a crunchy outside sealed in the delicious flavor. How could I not love this bread? Fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, baby lettuce and a hard sausage would build a fine sandwich with a bottle of cider and blushing peaches.

Merci was the only French word we spoke, pointing worked. It was exciting to think we could be a part of this sensual experience today, and tomorrow do it all over again.

No table is complete without fresh flowers. We needed a large yellow sunflower like a hole in the head, but I could understand buying a flower rather than food. It feeds the soul. I have red sandals with porcelain painted heels that feed my soul: Giuseppe Zanotti's. I call them my red, happy, happy, hyacinth for the soul, in case of fire, grab the shoes, shoes.

Our first French market lunch on the outside table at the Auberge was the beginning of our love affair with French food.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Grocery List

for our American lunch:

bread
meat
cheese
something to drink

Good morning, world.