Toadstools: small thoughts rest
Picnic table: medium thoughts rest with green tea and chocolate pastry
High Plains of the Midwest: large thoughts move about in the continual breeze
Mountain tops: up reaching thoughts stand on end
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Remembering: Memorial Day 2006
... the day we officially remember family and friends who've passed. The cemetery at home is marked with a white cross for each deceased veteran. Our family's slim urns are filled with seasonal artificial flowers - they last, just as our thoughts of them do. As I stand at their graves I wonder who will tend them after we're gone. We are a small family.
In France Jani and I visited a cemetery with porcelain flowers that were purchased at the local feed store. Some graves were old, untended, and the ground around them had caved in. The horror movies had us worried about walking too close for fear a bony hand would reach up and grab our ankles.
In Germany and Switzerland the graves were decorated with growing flowers. It was a competetion between the mature women as to who had the best looking graves.
We've visited the Coptic Church and Cemetery in Cairo, Egypt. The grounds are locked. Small houses are built over the graves for the family of the deceased to accept visitors, share food and drink. The body is placed in a casket under the house where it will reside until another needs the box. Bones are left under the house and the casket recycled. With low humidity the only odors we noticed were exhaust fumes. Public cemeteries have a few benches, some covered. Beggars can be found living there.
We spend time building relationships. When someone passes, we spend time adjusting to the gap. The best thing I can do for someone who passes is to continue to love them. This is not goodbye, I'll see you later. They've changed form, but their life hasn't skipped a beat. I hope my family and friends will do the same for me. Formally I remember them today, but they are never more than a thought away ,and they live in my heart forever.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
In France Jani and I visited a cemetery with porcelain flowers that were purchased at the local feed store. Some graves were old, untended, and the ground around them had caved in. The horror movies had us worried about walking too close for fear a bony hand would reach up and grab our ankles.
In Germany and Switzerland the graves were decorated with growing flowers. It was a competetion between the mature women as to who had the best looking graves.
We've visited the Coptic Church and Cemetery in Cairo, Egypt. The grounds are locked. Small houses are built over the graves for the family of the deceased to accept visitors, share food and drink. The body is placed in a casket under the house where it will reside until another needs the box. Bones are left under the house and the casket recycled. With low humidity the only odors we noticed were exhaust fumes. Public cemeteries have a few benches, some covered. Beggars can be found living there.
We spend time building relationships. When someone passes, we spend time adjusting to the gap. The best thing I can do for someone who passes is to continue to love them. This is not goodbye, I'll see you later. They've changed form, but their life hasn't skipped a beat. I hope my family and friends will do the same for me. Formally I remember them today, but they are never more than a thought away ,and they live in my heart forever.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, May 14, 2006
MOTHER'S DAY - 2006
Happy Mother's Day to mothers, grandmothers, Mr. Moms, and all the rest who fill the role in our lives. Thank you. Whether near or far, in or out of skin, love binds hearts forever.
I remember my mom's graciousness to all, her cooking, good humor, pure, kind heart, and love of adventure. We irritated each other, but she's who I wanted when I was sick. I admired her most when she faced her death head-on.
Mom was a natural teacher. As soon as I could pull a chair up to the counter my cooking lessons began. Gingerbread was first. She measured, I mixed, and added a secret ingredient. The finished product wouldn't cut. My stirring spoon was baked in.
When traveling, two of my cooking favorites are deviled eggs and corn salad. Our first weekend in Waverly, Iowa, we had an everybody-brings-something fishfry with locals we just met. Walking downtown, a few days later, someone yelled, "Have you got anymore deviled eggs?"
My recipe ... Split hard-boiled eggs. Mash the yolks. Add white pepper, mustard, celery salt and mayonnaise to taste. Sweet or dill pickle relish is optional. I like it stiff enough to spoon, or pipe, back into the white. Place on an egg plate or arrange on lettuce leaves, sprinkle with paprika, and get out of the way.
I learned to make Corn Salad in the South. My basic recipe is two cans of Shoepeg corn to one can of Ro-tel seasoned tomatoes poured together in a strainer to drain off the liquid. Add black olives, and whatever fresh veggies are available: green onions, radishes, carrots, celery, and one tablespoon of mayonnaise - it goes a long way. Let all drain. Refrigerate in a covered bowl to chill and let the flavors marry, if you can wait that long.
God Bless mother's everywhere.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
I remember my mom's graciousness to all, her cooking, good humor, pure, kind heart, and love of adventure. We irritated each other, but she's who I wanted when I was sick. I admired her most when she faced her death head-on.
Mom was a natural teacher. As soon as I could pull a chair up to the counter my cooking lessons began. Gingerbread was first. She measured, I mixed, and added a secret ingredient. The finished product wouldn't cut. My stirring spoon was baked in.
When traveling, two of my cooking favorites are deviled eggs and corn salad. Our first weekend in Waverly, Iowa, we had an everybody-brings-something fishfry with locals we just met. Walking downtown, a few days later, someone yelled, "Have you got anymore deviled eggs?"
My recipe ... Split hard-boiled eggs. Mash the yolks. Add white pepper, mustard, celery salt and mayonnaise to taste. Sweet or dill pickle relish is optional. I like it stiff enough to spoon, or pipe, back into the white. Place on an egg plate or arrange on lettuce leaves, sprinkle with paprika, and get out of the way.
I learned to make Corn Salad in the South. My basic recipe is two cans of Shoepeg corn to one can of Ro-tel seasoned tomatoes poured together in a strainer to drain off the liquid. Add black olives, and whatever fresh veggies are available: green onions, radishes, carrots, celery, and one tablespoon of mayonnaise - it goes a long way. Let all drain. Refrigerate in a covered bowl to chill and let the flavors marry, if you can wait that long.
God Bless mother's everywhere.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, May 01, 2006
My Giuseppe Zanotti's...
two-strap dancing sandals with painted porcelain heels:
Red
happy, happy
hyacinth for the soul
in case of fire
grab the shoes
shoes
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Red
happy, happy
hyacinth for the soul
in case of fire
grab the shoes
shoes
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
NASCAR & the woman from MARS
"Baby, we're only 140 miles from Atlanta Motor Speedway, want to go to the race?"
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, April 15, 2006
MSN Photo.
Happy Spring! Happy Easter!
I love sheep and the smell of wet wool. The lanolin in the wool is healing to the hands. I bought a dyed purple sheepskin in Virginia that laid on the bed for years. We raised deserted lambs on the farm. It stunned us the mother would reject her own. Lambs have the prettiest face.
Friday, April 14, 2006
About Easter
This Easter we will walk across the street to the Methodist Church established in Friar's Point, MS, in 1834. Our Easter dinner will be a surprise later in the day on our way home. That's okay, we have lots of miles to cross.
Back home, Papa had to have a Lilly plant. Some families placed theirs in front of the church altar in memory of someone dear. Sneezes interjected the services.
Easter was sunrise youth services first, and then breakfast. The eleven o'clock service was a celebration in choir music. Lent was over. My Presbyterian background doesn't require giving anything up, but it keeps me in touch with the Passion. I didn't accomplish much giving up food, I did better working on giving up a bad habit. (Sometimes it took more than one Lent.)
The year I attended Easter services at the Assembly of God in Warner Robbins, GA, they put on a live performance of the Passion with a cast of dozens. The motion and commotion made further inroads in my belief bank, as does hearing the recorded voice of a deceased famous person.
Seeing the Passion Play at Spearfish, SD, made the whole business real and overwhelming; I forgot my childhood responsibility of keeping track of our family's dirty clothes. Several hundred miles later I confessed. Dad discovered his Masonic affiliation's worth when he went to buy us jackets. I don't remember he ever thanked me. Minnie liked my white imitation leather jacket better than hers. It had more colorful embroidery on it. She nagged me to look down knowing full well it would scare and sicken me. I liked mine too, and did not look down.
In Nashville, TN, the Easter service I attended was without piano or organ accompaniment. I was thankful they weren't relying on me to lead. Afterwards I learned it's their custom. Whatever works, there's no limiting God.
My daughters fondly remember new dresses, hats, white gloves, white straw purses, and paten-leather shoes for church, finding the marshmallow chicks under the front seat of the car and eating them, and hunting for the eggs they'd decorated.
Easter dinners involved the best dishes, linens, crystal, elaborate Ukrainian hand-decorated eggs displayed, and the ceramic rabbit pulling a cart filled with artificial grass and plastic eggs full of M&Ms - a lot of fuss.
We served Papa's homemade wine, ham, scalloped potatoes, asparagus or green beans, five-cup, Watergate or pretzel salad, deviled eggs, horn rolls, kolaches, and hot-cross buns. Dessert was angelfood cake with strawberries and whipped cream. One year a guest brought a cake in the shape of a lamb frosted white and covered with coconut. Yummy. And one more thing: all our guests, even those over eighty, hunted eggs. And a good time was had by all.
The times we did Easter brunch we used our clear purple dishes. They're springy. We bought service for eight at a fleamarket in Minnesota. Having left our boat motor at the lodge for fall fishing gave us just enough trunk space.
Our eyes were fed by the rich colors of the dishes, plump blueberries; cool green kiwi slices; juicy melon slivers; warm, buttery croissants, and Mexican eggs topped with hot Salsa. Dessert was a slice of Napoleon, the Lithuania tort made with custard and apricot between thin pastry layers.
We attend church and gather with family and friends to celebrate our Christian heritage. God's love and forgiveness for us, and Jesus Christ's cooperation with His plan for our benefit, is a knee bender. Thank you.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Back home, Papa had to have a Lilly plant. Some families placed theirs in front of the church altar in memory of someone dear. Sneezes interjected the services.
Easter was sunrise youth services first, and then breakfast. The eleven o'clock service was a celebration in choir music. Lent was over. My Presbyterian background doesn't require giving anything up, but it keeps me in touch with the Passion. I didn't accomplish much giving up food, I did better working on giving up a bad habit. (Sometimes it took more than one Lent.)
The year I attended Easter services at the Assembly of God in Warner Robbins, GA, they put on a live performance of the Passion with a cast of dozens. The motion and commotion made further inroads in my belief bank, as does hearing the recorded voice of a deceased famous person.
Seeing the Passion Play at Spearfish, SD, made the whole business real and overwhelming; I forgot my childhood responsibility of keeping track of our family's dirty clothes. Several hundred miles later I confessed. Dad discovered his Masonic affiliation's worth when he went to buy us jackets. I don't remember he ever thanked me. Minnie liked my white imitation leather jacket better than hers. It had more colorful embroidery on it. She nagged me to look down knowing full well it would scare and sicken me. I liked mine too, and did not look down.
In Nashville, TN, the Easter service I attended was without piano or organ accompaniment. I was thankful they weren't relying on me to lead. Afterwards I learned it's their custom. Whatever works, there's no limiting God.
My daughters fondly remember new dresses, hats, white gloves, white straw purses, and paten-leather shoes for church, finding the marshmallow chicks under the front seat of the car and eating them, and hunting for the eggs they'd decorated.
Easter dinners involved the best dishes, linens, crystal, elaborate Ukrainian hand-decorated eggs displayed, and the ceramic rabbit pulling a cart filled with artificial grass and plastic eggs full of M&Ms - a lot of fuss.
We served Papa's homemade wine, ham, scalloped potatoes, asparagus or green beans, five-cup, Watergate or pretzel salad, deviled eggs, horn rolls, kolaches, and hot-cross buns. Dessert was angelfood cake with strawberries and whipped cream. One year a guest brought a cake in the shape of a lamb frosted white and covered with coconut. Yummy. And one more thing: all our guests, even those over eighty, hunted eggs. And a good time was had by all.
The times we did Easter brunch we used our clear purple dishes. They're springy. We bought service for eight at a fleamarket in Minnesota. Having left our boat motor at the lodge for fall fishing gave us just enough trunk space.
Our eyes were fed by the rich colors of the dishes, plump blueberries; cool green kiwi slices; juicy melon slivers; warm, buttery croissants, and Mexican eggs topped with hot Salsa. Dessert was a slice of Napoleon, the Lithuania tort made with custard and apricot between thin pastry layers.
We attend church and gather with family and friends to celebrate our Christian heritage. God's love and forgiveness for us, and Jesus Christ's cooperation with His plan for our benefit, is a knee bender. Thank you.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Jax New Orleans Bistro
The scent of wisteria followed us to the center of Anderson, South Carolina. Thank God it's Friday! No more fast food or planned overs, it's "dine out" time. During the week I'd noticed outside tables at a place called Jax.
Perhaps it was a smidge too cool, the outside tables were empty. We opted for the lounge side where people could smoke and we could visit with other guests who felt chatty. Feathered masks decorate the wall behind the bar. Soft music. Low light.
Seated, JB took his glasses off and held them up, "Look at the scratches." Even in dim light they looked like he cleans them with sandpaper.
"Can you see anything without them?"
"I can see the "X" on the far wall."
"X"! It's crossed swords!"
Glasses on, he ordered New Orleans Style "Barbecue" Shrimp served over Maque Choux. Superb! The creamy corn tasted smokey, a perfect match with the shrimp. He didn't need glasses to know it was wonderful.
I ordered Crawfish Etoufee. I like mine shucked. Served on a square white plate with a molded mound of rice, four Haricot Vert, and wisps of green onion, the presentation was perfect. A bite of spice on the tip of my tongue, the rest on the back, convinced me it was New Orleans style. Wonderful!
For dessert I couldn't decide between a chocolate & pistachio tartlet or praline creme brulee, so I ordered a grasshopper. They made it with whipping cream and ice cream. Delicious. Our server, Lydia, tempted us with a sample of Beignet bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Super!
We'll be back. There's more to try: Duck Confit Salad, Blistered Corn and Crawfish Chowder, Chickory Coffee Seared Salmon, and Sunday Brunch for a few. The city of New Orleans may never be the same, but the food survives. Jax is doing it right, and it's no April Fool joke.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Perhaps it was a smidge too cool, the outside tables were empty. We opted for the lounge side where people could smoke and we could visit with other guests who felt chatty. Feathered masks decorate the wall behind the bar. Soft music. Low light.
Seated, JB took his glasses off and held them up, "Look at the scratches." Even in dim light they looked like he cleans them with sandpaper.
"Can you see anything without them?"
"I can see the "X" on the far wall."
"X"! It's crossed swords!"
Glasses on, he ordered New Orleans Style "Barbecue" Shrimp served over Maque Choux. Superb! The creamy corn tasted smokey, a perfect match with the shrimp. He didn't need glasses to know it was wonderful.
I ordered Crawfish Etoufee. I like mine shucked. Served on a square white plate with a molded mound of rice, four Haricot Vert, and wisps of green onion, the presentation was perfect. A bite of spice on the tip of my tongue, the rest on the back, convinced me it was New Orleans style. Wonderful!
For dessert I couldn't decide between a chocolate & pistachio tartlet or praline creme brulee, so I ordered a grasshopper. They made it with whipping cream and ice cream. Delicious. Our server, Lydia, tempted us with a sample of Beignet bread pudding with bourbon sauce. Super!
We'll be back. There's more to try: Duck Confit Salad, Blistered Corn and Crawfish Chowder, Chickory Coffee Seared Salmon, and Sunday Brunch for a few. The city of New Orleans may never be the same, but the food survives. Jax is doing it right, and it's no April Fool joke.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, March 17, 2006
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!
MSN photo
Ireland. Trees are rare as sunshine. Roads are twisted. Rocks a plenty. Hospitality warm. Willie Nelson music on St. Patrick's Day.
2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Ireland. Trees are rare as sunshine. Roads are twisted. Rocks a plenty. Hospitality warm. Willie Nelson music on St. Patrick's Day.
2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
For the love of green
My friend, Frances, is 91 going on 20. Small, she walks straight and tall. Her white hair waves up adding the illusion of height. There's an air of European royalty about her, and a twinkle in her eye. She's quick to laugh - fun to be with. People fight for her company. She's Irish, and as perpetually positive as Ireland is perpetually green. To quote her, "Oh, how I love the mystery of life."
Would that we could, I'd take her to Ireland. We'd drive on the left in a small car, manage the roundabouts, shake our heads at those paying no attention to the "Do Not Overtake" (don't pass signs), and puzzle over "Traffic Calming" (slow down).
This time of year the dewy air is scented with daffodils, pink and white blooms of flowering trees, yellow forsythia, and brightly colored primrose near the deep green ground cover, the deep green that is Ireland. On cloudy days the green is even darker.
Stacked white stones mark fence lines and gardens. Extracting stones from the ground is akin to dentistry, earth heaves them slowly. A miniature house of stone with a thatched room sits among the organized rocks testifying to a slow, labor intensive time. To some, the good old days.
Over shepherd's pie or Irish stew, lamb either way you look at it, and a pint at a local pub, we'd celebrate Saint Patrick's Day thankful he drove the snakes out. We'd see if they play Country Western to celebrate - Willie Nelson, or have gone strictly native this year. Either way, we'd have a bloody good time!
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Would that we could, I'd take her to Ireland. We'd drive on the left in a small car, manage the roundabouts, shake our heads at those paying no attention to the "Do Not Overtake" (don't pass signs), and puzzle over "Traffic Calming" (slow down).
This time of year the dewy air is scented with daffodils, pink and white blooms of flowering trees, yellow forsythia, and brightly colored primrose near the deep green ground cover, the deep green that is Ireland. On cloudy days the green is even darker.
Stacked white stones mark fence lines and gardens. Extracting stones from the ground is akin to dentistry, earth heaves them slowly. A miniature house of stone with a thatched room sits among the organized rocks testifying to a slow, labor intensive time. To some, the good old days.
Over shepherd's pie or Irish stew, lamb either way you look at it, and a pint at a local pub, we'd celebrate Saint Patrick's Day thankful he drove the snakes out. We'd see if they play Country Western to celebrate - Willie Nelson, or have gone strictly native this year. Either way, we'd have a bloody good time!
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A Quiet Hero:
unpretentious; more "heart" than most; pushes forward in spite of limitations - health or financial; goes beyond the extra mile - my friend, Lil.
The cat in the window watched its keeper open the door. Stepping inside my eyes popped. The homeowner noticed and laughed. “I have twenty-nine of them.” We have two. Twenty-nine I couldn’t imagine. They were everywhere, high and low. I chuckled at the longhaired white cat stretched out on her back on the kitchen table.
The moment Lil sat down one hopped on her lap for a pet. Another hopped on mine she tried to shoo off, but animals know I like them. Petting him soothed my longing for our pets back home. I smiled. He purred.
“How did you get so many?”
"People just drop them off. Each one has a story. This one (black and in her lap) was shot in Houston. He still has a bullet in his spine. Doc said he can't operate; it's too close to a nerve.” He jumped down satisfied. She smiled ready to welcome another. I imagined an invisible neon sign with a flashing arrow pointing down: homeless cats - stop here for food, shelter, and love.
Lil is a former Humane Society board member. But for her, they'd all be deceased. Her doctor said caring for them keeps her going. "Some of them sleep with me. I live alone."
"No you don't," I exclaimed. We both laughed.
"Do you have help with their maintenance?”
“Not really. I use coupons when I can. Basically, it comes out of my pocket. I have them neutered and spayed too."
Patron saint of the animals, Saint Frances of Assisi is remembered for his love and service to animals. I see the likes of him in Lil. God bless her.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The cat in the window watched its keeper open the door. Stepping inside my eyes popped. The homeowner noticed and laughed. “I have twenty-nine of them.” We have two. Twenty-nine I couldn’t imagine. They were everywhere, high and low. I chuckled at the longhaired white cat stretched out on her back on the kitchen table.
The moment Lil sat down one hopped on her lap for a pet. Another hopped on mine she tried to shoo off, but animals know I like them. Petting him soothed my longing for our pets back home. I smiled. He purred.
“How did you get so many?”
"People just drop them off. Each one has a story. This one (black and in her lap) was shot in Houston. He still has a bullet in his spine. Doc said he can't operate; it's too close to a nerve.” He jumped down satisfied. She smiled ready to welcome another. I imagined an invisible neon sign with a flashing arrow pointing down: homeless cats - stop here for food, shelter, and love.
Lil is a former Humane Society board member. But for her, they'd all be deceased. Her doctor said caring for them keeps her going. "Some of them sleep with me. I live alone."
"No you don't," I exclaimed. We both laughed.
"Do you have help with their maintenance?”
“Not really. I use coupons when I can. Basically, it comes out of my pocket. I have them neutered and spayed too."
Patron saint of the animals, Saint Frances of Assisi is remembered for his love and service to animals. I see the likes of him in Lil. God bless her.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Honeymoon & the Queen
South Carolina feels "English" today: gloomy, drizzly, not too cold. I'm sipping hot ginger tea and nibbling a yummy, chocolate-filled pastry at Panera's, grateful for their Wi-Fi, and wishing for a trip to some warm, exotic place. Thumbing through the archives of my soul, memories of Mexico City surface. Aaaahhhhh, the honeymoon.
Mexico City, Mexico - the final destination of our 1975 honeymoon. Amidst the ten million inhabitants and twenty-four hour construction, with scaffolding I wouldn't trust, we ventured here and there with our feet barely touching the ground; we were in love. The tour guide pointed out the "Zona Rosa," pink zone, for nighttime activity. We weren't interested, we had our own. I imagine we ate but don't remember what. Seafood? Probably. And chocolate. My sister would remember, but she wasn't along for obvious reasons.
Lunching at our hotel a motorcade passed. We did a double-take. A dark-haired woman wearing a small hat stood and waved - slightly. A tall man stood behind her. My eyes popped. "Is that Queen Elizabeth II?" I stammered. " Here?" Riding in her magic carriage wearing gown and crown, she paraded through my childhood living room on her 1953 Coronation Day. I was awed. A real Queen. She was so beautiful and looked kind. My mind wrapped around "Royalty," and decided she was "The Good Queen." I still think so.
Our server snapped us to the present, "The Crown Jewels are on display at the Museum." We couldn't get there fast enough.
Glass limited accessibility to the Crown Jewels, but their brilliance reached out to all in an explosion of color and light showing off nature and man's best work: gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, deep purple velvet, and more. The best of the best. A study in exquisite beauty and tradition. Thinking aloud I murmured, "The Crown is gorgeous. Huge. Heavy. My neck would hurt. What kind of shoes would I have to wear? I'd stumble. It'd tumble. What if jewels fell out?"
My honeymoon-husband put his arm around my shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry, you're not in line to wear it!"
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Mexico City, Mexico - the final destination of our 1975 honeymoon. Amidst the ten million inhabitants and twenty-four hour construction, with scaffolding I wouldn't trust, we ventured here and there with our feet barely touching the ground; we were in love. The tour guide pointed out the "Zona Rosa," pink zone, for nighttime activity. We weren't interested, we had our own. I imagine we ate but don't remember what. Seafood? Probably. And chocolate. My sister would remember, but she wasn't along for obvious reasons.
Lunching at our hotel a motorcade passed. We did a double-take. A dark-haired woman wearing a small hat stood and waved - slightly. A tall man stood behind her. My eyes popped. "Is that Queen Elizabeth II?" I stammered. " Here?" Riding in her magic carriage wearing gown and crown, she paraded through my childhood living room on her 1953 Coronation Day. I was awed. A real Queen. She was so beautiful and looked kind. My mind wrapped around "Royalty," and decided she was "The Good Queen." I still think so.
Our server snapped us to the present, "The Crown Jewels are on display at the Museum." We couldn't get there fast enough.
Glass limited accessibility to the Crown Jewels, but their brilliance reached out to all in an explosion of color and light showing off nature and man's best work: gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, deep purple velvet, and more. The best of the best. A study in exquisite beauty and tradition. Thinking aloud I murmured, "The Crown is gorgeous. Huge. Heavy. My neck would hurt. What kind of shoes would I have to wear? I'd stumble. It'd tumble. What if jewels fell out?"
My honeymoon-husband put his arm around my shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry, you're not in line to wear it!"
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Friday, February 03, 2006
Minnesota to Mexico Extremes
"The tour leaves at one from the dock. Wear shoes you can slip off." Minnie and I looked at the Mexican hotel clerk surprised. Visiting Mazatlan, Mexico in March we walked the city shops, dined by the sea, and I para-sailed. Today we planned to explore outside the city limits. A dozen of us gathered at the dock for the tour. Wearing black pants legs rolled up to the knee, our guide waded around the small fishing boats to steady them for us to board. Life jackets? None. Mini-motors sputtered. We headed up stream at a Mexican pace - slow.
Moving through the narrow tree-lined river we looked about for creatures in the water and didn't see any. Our guide headed for a cleared bank, cut the engine, jumped out, held the boat, and motioned for us to get out. Minnie said, "Ah, this is where our shoes come off and our pants legs roll up."
Children came from a stick hut to greet us. "The vertical sticks are spaced so pigs and chickens can come and go," our guide explained. The young toothless mother came forward with an infant in her arms.
We were astounded at how they lived. We expect much more for ourselves. Was it a setup for money? Our guide gave them a little from our group, but the kids just wanted candy. Kids are kids. Their lifestyle hadn't changed in hundreds of years, or more. What is the mortality rate? Mouths agape, we stared at the footed sleeper with "Minnesota" embroidered on it, a gift from a church group in Minnesota. Extremes.
Silence ruled our return trip to the city. We didn't know what to make of their situation, or if we were obligated to do something - the American dilemma. Perhaps the purpose was to remind us we have so much to appreciate and not take for granted.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Moving through the narrow tree-lined river we looked about for creatures in the water and didn't see any. Our guide headed for a cleared bank, cut the engine, jumped out, held the boat, and motioned for us to get out. Minnie said, "Ah, this is where our shoes come off and our pants legs roll up."
Children came from a stick hut to greet us. "The vertical sticks are spaced so pigs and chickens can come and go," our guide explained. The young toothless mother came forward with an infant in her arms.
We were astounded at how they lived. We expect much more for ourselves. Was it a setup for money? Our guide gave them a little from our group, but the kids just wanted candy. Kids are kids. Their lifestyle hadn't changed in hundreds of years, or more. What is the mortality rate? Mouths agape, we stared at the footed sleeper with "Minnesota" embroidered on it, a gift from a church group in Minnesota. Extremes.
Silence ruled our return trip to the city. We didn't know what to make of their situation, or if we were obligated to do something - the American dilemma. Perhaps the purpose was to remind us we have so much to appreciate and not take for granted.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, January 20, 2006
Less than a dollar
On a bus tour of Mexico City, Mexico, our driver stopped at a curbside flower stand. Papa got up and got off. He returned handing me a single long-stemmed red rose. I felt loved, cherished. Its scent floated through the bus stimulating women’s desires. What followed was a study in relationships. Men who understood they could have the world by the tail for the small price of a rose got right up and bought one. Their women were delighted. Some men were elbowed to buy one, and did. A few women bought their own when their man wouldn't budge. Across the aisle a woman elbowed, begged, and offered her own money, but he still refused. They didn’t speak to each other the rest of the bus tour. Cost of the rose, less than a dollar. Feeling cherished, priceless.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Tummy Treasure
MSN photo
Papaya: tummy treasure. Imported we've seen them the size of a pear, and didn't buy any. Once in a while we find one that weighs a couple of pounds. The flavor is passable. In Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Mom, Dad, LBJ and I bought one that weighed 17 pounds. With ceremony we sliced into the two-inch flesh revealing a handful of black seeds in the womb-like space. We feasted on its smooth, soothing-to-the-tummy goodness for several days. Foods taste better close to their source.
Verse copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Shades of Blue
We've seen Minnesota lakes turned into cities with ice houses, snowmobiles, pickup trucks, and plowed roads with street signs. We didn't fish there, but we walked out on a small frozen lake to ice fish inside an ice house. Heavy clothes were in order, but we were out of the cold wind with the freedom to move around, drink coffee, eat sandwiches, play cards, and at the same time catch crappie, walleye and northern. Sweet.
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, December 31, 2005
MSN photoNew Years resolutions: playground for optimists.
I might be superstitious, but on the first maybe I should cook some blackeyed peas with ham for luck and fix Ro-tel cabbage salad for money.
The best to you and yours in 2006 and always.
Love,
MJ
Verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tracks, Cracks and Facts
It’s a fact gravity causes things to fall down not up. Rocks and a bolt fell and bounced into our windshield. We have the nicks and cracks to prove it. Last night the windshield was playground for something with four muddy feet. No, there wasn’t anything to eat in the car. The raccoon walked up the windshield and slid down, what fun!
It’s a fact Hoov’s a darn good cook. He cut a deer back strap into thin slices, dipped each in a wash of egg and water, dredged each in a mix of flour, seasoned salt, black pepper, leaf thyme, granulated garlic, and fried them in hot oil. Delicious. A smidge of Dietz & Watson’s Wasabi Mustard added a flash of fire reminding me of homegrown horseradish Mom caught me eating by the tablespoon full when I was a kid. My sister wouldn’t eat it at all. She said, “It smells like dirty jeans.”
Inside we microwaved mashed potatoes, their favorite green bean casserole, cornbread and oyster stuffing. Skipper brought his famous bean and ham hock soup. The radio station played Christmas music. Coyotes howled in the distance. We stood around the enclosed barrel stove in heavy cloths enjoying our feast. Wildlife watched and waited to dine on our leftovers after we went to bed.
Life in the deep woods: one afternoon a bobcat strolled through camp; a hunter videoed a brown bear not far from us, possibly on its way over the levee to visit the beehives; a pair of eagles return each year to nest; and every time we see a cardinal we make a secret wish.
Deer, turkey and wild hog are hunted. The trapper’s lament: nothing walked the road. The rack on the back of my Bravada once held a 250-pound tusked boar handcuffed cross-legged and bungee corded to the rack. That wasn’t the best part. I thought it was dead, and leaned close to have my picture taken. It wasn’t! Woofed! And I leaped away! That’s a fact!!!
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
It’s a fact Hoov’s a darn good cook. He cut a deer back strap into thin slices, dipped each in a wash of egg and water, dredged each in a mix of flour, seasoned salt, black pepper, leaf thyme, granulated garlic, and fried them in hot oil. Delicious. A smidge of Dietz & Watson’s Wasabi Mustard added a flash of fire reminding me of homegrown horseradish Mom caught me eating by the tablespoon full when I was a kid. My sister wouldn’t eat it at all. She said, “It smells like dirty jeans.”
Inside we microwaved mashed potatoes, their favorite green bean casserole, cornbread and oyster stuffing. Skipper brought his famous bean and ham hock soup. The radio station played Christmas music. Coyotes howled in the distance. We stood around the enclosed barrel stove in heavy cloths enjoying our feast. Wildlife watched and waited to dine on our leftovers after we went to bed.
Life in the deep woods: one afternoon a bobcat strolled through camp; a hunter videoed a brown bear not far from us, possibly on its way over the levee to visit the beehives; a pair of eagles return each year to nest; and every time we see a cardinal we make a secret wish.
Deer, turkey and wild hog are hunted. The trapper’s lament: nothing walked the road. The rack on the back of my Bravada once held a 250-pound tusked boar handcuffed cross-legged and bungee corded to the rack. That wasn’t the best part. I thought it was dead, and leaned close to have my picture taken. It wasn’t! Woofed! And I leaped away! That’s a fact!!!
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Holiday Feasts
From Thanksgiving to Christmas there’s a feeling of goodwill toward all. I want to do more than I have time. Who doesn’t? I’m sipping a cup of hot tea savoring a piece of dark chocolate biscotti with Ghiradelli buttons (chips), cinnamon, and Frangelico. I’ll add a smidge of cayenne to the next batch.
Memories: highlights of the past. Mom made enough divinity candy to cover the dining room table. I swiped samples all around the edge, the mint green ones were best. My girls swiped the refrigerator cookies of coconut, butter, and powdered sugar wrapped around a candied cherry … a confession of late.
Baking for family, friends and all who served blessed us twice: when the aroma filled our home, and when we shared our sweet dough tea rings, breads, cookies, candies and more.
Lillian, our dear Bohemian neighbor, taught me how to make houska: braided sweet dough with white raisins, almond slivers and bits of citron. Lithuanian friends shared a huge, scrumptious Napolean of apricot and custard between layers of wafers. I’ve always wondered about figgy pudding.
Papa laid pieces of fresh pine boughs on the basement space heater. They released their scent mingling with the baking aromas. Happy times. We sipped eggnog with fresh grated nutmeg from our silver Jefferson cups.
The nut cake was a family affair shelling mixed nuts to fill an angel food cake pan. A thin batter bound them and a few pieces of candied cherries and citron. Out of this world delicious, heavy, rich, and dense.
Our Swedish relatives liked rye bread, pickled herring, hard tack, Swedish brown beans, meatballs, cream sausage with cranberry sauce, apples cooked with cinnamon redhots, creamed onions, rice pudding with lingonberries, and plum pudding. The lutefisk cooked in cheesecloth smelled terrible. I thought it was tasteless, and needed the mustard sauce to make it edible. I must have missed the point.
Czech relatives prepared duck or turkey with liver dumplings. I loved pretzel salad with strawberries in jell-o and cream cheese mixed with whipped cream for topping. A hazelnut jellyroll with rum flavored whipped cream filling is one of my favorite desserts. Christmas Eve was oyster stew or chili. Cousin George loved oyster stew, but fed the oysters to the dog.
Pork chops and onions in red wine with heavy cream, mashed celeriac root, and chocolate mousse prepared the Suzanne Somers way made a satisfying, attractive meal on our Pistoulet dishes.
No matter what the menu, it was plentiful and a production. Grandma declared it might be the last Christmas we’d be together. True. That generation is gone. What do they eat in the hereafter?
We expanded our table with the leaves stored under the davenport. The white linen cloth was ironed, and the table set with the ivied Christmas dishes, the good silver, and goblets for Papa’s homemade wine. Henry, the three-legged cat, was reminded he was not the centerpiece.
Just when we thought we couldn’t be surprised, someone gave us a gift we hadn’t thought of but could use. Goodwill plus surprises equals Christmas.
We ate with gusto, laughed, reminisced, commented on the year past holding on to the best moments. What was to come no one knew. My silent prayer: that we’d all be together next year, same time, same place.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Memories: highlights of the past. Mom made enough divinity candy to cover the dining room table. I swiped samples all around the edge, the mint green ones were best. My girls swiped the refrigerator cookies of coconut, butter, and powdered sugar wrapped around a candied cherry … a confession of late.
Baking for family, friends and all who served blessed us twice: when the aroma filled our home, and when we shared our sweet dough tea rings, breads, cookies, candies and more.
Lillian, our dear Bohemian neighbor, taught me how to make houska: braided sweet dough with white raisins, almond slivers and bits of citron. Lithuanian friends shared a huge, scrumptious Napolean of apricot and custard between layers of wafers. I’ve always wondered about figgy pudding.
Papa laid pieces of fresh pine boughs on the basement space heater. They released their scent mingling with the baking aromas. Happy times. We sipped eggnog with fresh grated nutmeg from our silver Jefferson cups.
The nut cake was a family affair shelling mixed nuts to fill an angel food cake pan. A thin batter bound them and a few pieces of candied cherries and citron. Out of this world delicious, heavy, rich, and dense.
Our Swedish relatives liked rye bread, pickled herring, hard tack, Swedish brown beans, meatballs, cream sausage with cranberry sauce, apples cooked with cinnamon redhots, creamed onions, rice pudding with lingonberries, and plum pudding. The lutefisk cooked in cheesecloth smelled terrible. I thought it was tasteless, and needed the mustard sauce to make it edible. I must have missed the point.
Czech relatives prepared duck or turkey with liver dumplings. I loved pretzel salad with strawberries in jell-o and cream cheese mixed with whipped cream for topping. A hazelnut jellyroll with rum flavored whipped cream filling is one of my favorite desserts. Christmas Eve was oyster stew or chili. Cousin George loved oyster stew, but fed the oysters to the dog.
Pork chops and onions in red wine with heavy cream, mashed celeriac root, and chocolate mousse prepared the Suzanne Somers way made a satisfying, attractive meal on our Pistoulet dishes.
No matter what the menu, it was plentiful and a production. Grandma declared it might be the last Christmas we’d be together. True. That generation is gone. What do they eat in the hereafter?
We expanded our table with the leaves stored under the davenport. The white linen cloth was ironed, and the table set with the ivied Christmas dishes, the good silver, and goblets for Papa’s homemade wine. Henry, the three-legged cat, was reminded he was not the centerpiece.
Just when we thought we couldn’t be surprised, someone gave us a gift we hadn’t thought of but could use. Goodwill plus surprises equals Christmas.
We ate with gusto, laughed, reminisced, commented on the year past holding on to the best moments. What was to come no one knew. My silent prayer: that we’d all be together next year, same time, same place.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, December 24, 2005
The Magic of Oberndorf
Imagine preparing for Christmas Eve church services and discovering that morning that the pipe organ didn't work. What a dilemma for Pastor Joseph Mohr in 1818 at the Church of Saint Nicholas in Oberndorf, Austria.
According to Historian Bill Egan he walked to Choirmaster Franz Gruber’s home. Pastor Mohr had written a poem some years earlier, and asked Gruber to set it to music for the evening service. He did, and the rest is history. Their combined efforts blessed the world with Stille Nacht (Silent Night).
My sister and I visited the small octagonal Memorial Chapel on its mound. Climbing red roses grew up the sides of the Chapel. The inside might seat twenty-five people. Eight German Frauleins on a bike break, each holding a green apple, sang Stille Nacht acapella. We smiled thinking of the joy of Christ’s birth.
The Frauleins left. We heard music again we recognized. Two others from a different country did also. We four went out. Each in our own language, we sang together Amazing Grace. There’s still magic in Oberndorf.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
According to Historian Bill Egan he walked to Choirmaster Franz Gruber’s home. Pastor Mohr had written a poem some years earlier, and asked Gruber to set it to music for the evening service. He did, and the rest is history. Their combined efforts blessed the world with Stille Nacht (Silent Night).
My sister and I visited the small octagonal Memorial Chapel on its mound. Climbing red roses grew up the sides of the Chapel. The inside might seat twenty-five people. Eight German Frauleins on a bike break, each holding a green apple, sang Stille Nacht acapella. We smiled thinking of the joy of Christ’s birth.
The Frauleins left. We heard music again we recognized. Two others from a different country did also. We four went out. Each in our own language, we sang together Amazing Grace. There’s still magic in Oberndorf.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Marienplatz
The first Friday after the first Sunday of Advent the Lord Mayor of Munich, Germany, opens the outdoor Christmas Market at 5 pm in the Marienplatz, which means town center. In the cold darkness the near 100 foot tree is lit with 2,500 candles. Hot spiced wine, Gluehwein, scents the air. The Glockenspeil chimes and the magic of Christmas takes off in 140 stalls of candles, ceramics, ornaments, toys, clothes, foods, and much more, a tradition since the 14th century.
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
My love coat
This jacket caught my eye in a boutique window in Innsbruck Austria. Of red, boiled wool, the hearts are stitched with a continuous thread. If I could see love, this is what I think it would look like. After buying it, I traced the thread with my fingertip cementing the truth that whether my loved ones are beside me or away, even out of skin, we are still connected; love is not lost. With us through good and bad, love is all that lasts - forever. Love is all there is.Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, December 09, 2005
Neuchwanstein - New Swan Rock
MSN photo
What would the shy, reclusive, dreamy, fairy-tale, Mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria think if he knew that over 50 million people have visited his hide away since he passed away? He was so far ahead of his time, he's an inspiration to think outside the box. His castle is the inspiration for the Disney logo.Neuschwanstein is a romantic banquet for the senses: the Alps, lake, carved woodwork ceilings and furniture. Richard Wagner's operas are depicted on the walls and on linen in brilliant colors nourishing the soul and fueling imagination.
Fairy-tale King Ludwig II of Bavaria lived here in the mid 1880's. Not only did he bring fantasy to life in his surroundings, the castle was technologically advanced with hot and cold running water in the kitchen and a swan head faucet (I can just imagine the delicious fragrances of roasting game.), hot air central heating, flush toilets, lifts, and electricity. And plenty of help to keep track of his socks.
Nestled in the Alps, the castle approach is steep. Bundled in our winter coats and fur hats, Audrey and Sophia, we opted to ride the carriage up. The slow pace would give us time to fantasize our own Prince Charming whisking us away to the land of "no problems." But the horse drawing our carriage had a problem that sorely strained our dreaming. It passed more stinky gas than a whole campfire of bean-eating cowboys.
Holding our noses we vowed to not let reality steal our dreams.
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, December 05, 2005
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
December 6th is Saint Nicholas Day. Put your shoes out the night before with treats in them for him. If you've been good, he'll leave you fruit and nuts. If not, it's sticks or coal.
This is the beginning of the outdoor Christmas Markets in Europe. Lighting the incense in my snowman smoker, I’m reminded of the magic of slow falling snow in Munich, and mingling with people bundled in heavy coats, fur hats, and boots to experience tradition and test the universality of a smile.
Amidst scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice we looked over hand-crafted Nativity scenes and ornaments, tasted gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, carmelized almonds in paper cones, marzipan hearts dipped in chocolate, cutout cookies, Pfeffernusse and stollen. Carolers sang from balconies. The Glockenspiel chimed. Hot chocolate and hot Gluewhein were drunk standing up, and we kept the commemorative mug.
The Munich Philharmonic Mozart Concert was wonderful. Not at all tired, we stopped at a corner Bistro. A gentleman offered to order for us,"They need something to calm them up." We were served Chamomile tea with hot milk.
Alles gut.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
This is the beginning of the outdoor Christmas Markets in Europe. Lighting the incense in my snowman smoker, I’m reminded of the magic of slow falling snow in Munich, and mingling with people bundled in heavy coats, fur hats, and boots to experience tradition and test the universality of a smile.
Amidst scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice we looked over hand-crafted Nativity scenes and ornaments, tasted gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, carmelized almonds in paper cones, marzipan hearts dipped in chocolate, cutout cookies, Pfeffernusse and stollen. Carolers sang from balconies. The Glockenspiel chimed. Hot chocolate and hot Gluewhein were drunk standing up, and we kept the commemorative mug.
The Munich Philharmonic Mozart Concert was wonderful. Not at all tired, we stopped at a corner Bistro. A gentleman offered to order for us,"They need something to calm them up." We were served Chamomile tea with hot milk.
Alles gut.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, December 04, 2005
ARKANSAS: Bullets & Bay Leaves
We were invited to Arkansas for opening week of deer season. It was a warm, carefree, Huck Finn weekend fishing for trout in the clear, cold White River, and hiking the bank looking for deer tracks, trails, and scrapes. We found an old, abandoned still with clear glass bottles strewn around, observed wild hen turkeys, sneaked a peak at two gobblers secure in the brush, and witnessed a blitz cross our vision that was a roadrunner. Where was the coyote?
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Uh-oh
The road less traveled. Wait a minute, that's not the road, it's the retaining wall. That left rear wheel is up like a dog at a hydrant.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thankfulness
I am thankful for the good in my life. That’s easy. I don’t always feel gratitude for the bad and indifferent–until later. Life is tests and lessons–in that order. The ancients used to greet one another with, “…and may you pass the test today.”
My tests lead me to rely more on God and less on myself. The coordination of people, places, and events is unfathomable from my human perspective. I have to let go and let God. Letting go allows me to flow with life. It gets me out of my own way. What I want might be replaced with something better, or not for my good at all. So be it.
I’ve searched the world over
There’s so much to see
My most incredible journey
Getting to know Thee
Today I was reminded to not take myself too seriously when a pre-schooler asked me about my picture ID badge, “Did ja get that in jail?”
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
My tests lead me to rely more on God and less on myself. The coordination of people, places, and events is unfathomable from my human perspective. I have to let go and let God. Letting go allows me to flow with life. It gets me out of my own way. What I want might be replaced with something better, or not for my good at all. So be it.
I’ve searched the world over
There’s so much to see
My most incredible journey
Getting to know Thee
Today I was reminded to not take myself too seriously when a pre-schooler asked me about my picture ID badge, “Did ja get that in jail?”
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Ode to Celery
Cleaning out my refrigerator, I found a deceased stalk of celery. And I had such good intentions for its use: coarsely chopped and sauteed with green pepper and white onion in Louisiana gumbo; with green pepper and onion in chowder; in Hoover's potato salad with chopped dill pickles; with apples and walnuts in a Waldorf salad; eaten plain or stuffed with almond butter. Hoover says refrigerator drawers should be called "rotters." He's right!
In honor of all the celery I've sacrificed to the refrigerator, here's my
Ode to Celery
The refer knows
you're the one
that stays
until the end
others couldn't
pass the test
fickle
short-term
friends
copoyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
In honor of all the celery I've sacrificed to the refrigerator, here's my
Ode to Celery
The refer knows
you're the one
that stays
until the end
others couldn't
pass the test
fickle
short-term
friends
copoyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, November 04, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 7 1/2 - My Mission
4,000 feet above us, Rim dawn woke me at the bottom of “the ditch.” Curled in a ball and cold, stretching made the bare bed springs squeak. Donna didn’t move. I thought about staying put until she awoke, but I had a job to do. How could I get up without making a lot of squeaking noise? … roll off, make the noise all at one. I did. Donna didn’t move.
My stretched out body awoke for inventory: no headache, socks on my teeth, sore back, hands, arms, and fingers worked, feet moved, toes wiggled, blisters said, “hi,” and my knees shouted. Screamed is more like it.
Easing to a sitting position, I picked up my hiking boots and shook them. No scorpions had taken up residence. Boots on and laced, I eased to my knees to stand up, and made it, glad I didn’t have far to go. Gathering the walking stick, matches, and the prayer mail I’d collected over nine months, I opened the flap and went outside.
The cool, dry air was silent. From a distant camp the smell of coffee brewing confirmed other human life. Our pack was still high in the scrub brush where Donna had placed it - no overnight shoppers. Deer and ring-tail cats didn’t announce their presence, but I suspect they knew about us. Small creatures scurried for their breakfast.
On the floor of God’s magnificent creation, I raised my eyes skyward giving praise and thanks. One by one I lifted each unopened prayer letter up to God, with the hope that the effort made to get here added oomph.
Easing to the floor, I tore all the prayer letters into little pieces and struck a match. They had to be burned, and their ashes left here on earth’s great altar. I might never know if they were answered. It didn't matter. My job was to deliver them. The last shred of paper burned itself out. Before I could get up, peace flooded my soul; mission accomplished.
(more life at the bottom later)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
My stretched out body awoke for inventory: no headache, socks on my teeth, sore back, hands, arms, and fingers worked, feet moved, toes wiggled, blisters said, “hi,” and my knees shouted. Screamed is more like it.
Easing to a sitting position, I picked up my hiking boots and shook them. No scorpions had taken up residence. Boots on and laced, I eased to my knees to stand up, and made it, glad I didn’t have far to go. Gathering the walking stick, matches, and the prayer mail I’d collected over nine months, I opened the flap and went outside.
The cool, dry air was silent. From a distant camp the smell of coffee brewing confirmed other human life. Our pack was still high in the scrub brush where Donna had placed it - no overnight shoppers. Deer and ring-tail cats didn’t announce their presence, but I suspect they knew about us. Small creatures scurried for their breakfast.
On the floor of God’s magnificent creation, I raised my eyes skyward giving praise and thanks. One by one I lifted each unopened prayer letter up to God, with the hope that the effort made to get here added oomph.
Easing to the floor, I tore all the prayer letters into little pieces and struck a match. They had to be burned, and their ashes left here on earth’s great altar. I might never know if they were answered. It didn't matter. My job was to deliver them. The last shred of paper burned itself out. Before I could get up, peace flooded my soul; mission accomplished.
(more life at the bottom later)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, October 30, 2005
NANTUCKET: Ghosts and Gams
Wind rustling the leaves, mist, salt air, light fog, and set-stillers spell Halloween on Nantucket. I dressed for the occasion in my black tights with little white ghosts, black boots, skirt, four-ply cashmere sweater, and painted a tiny ghost on my face.
At the Whaling Museum's Ghost Gam we sat amidst whaling artifacts and under the skeleton of an eighty-foot whale with jaws that could have absorbed a car – Moby Dick material.
We brought a bag of chocolate-covered cranberries to nibble while a reader read Cornish ghost tales accompanied by a harpist. The spookier the story, the faster we nibbled, and the more Minnie and I didn't want to walk alone back to our room at the Jared Coffin House. It has its own ghost. Shivers.
Locals told of walking by the cemetery and being chased by the ghosts that sit on the fence posts. Proper etiquette for approaching the 'setstillers' was discussed. If they were kindly acknowledged, would they still chase people? You check it out.
I got up and told of a house at home a ghost kept from selling. Her presence cooled it even on the hottest days of summer: supernatural air-conditioning. The house would sell, but the buyers would call within a day and back out. Through prayer and intuitive expertise, the ghost was encouraged to leave and take her baby with her. She did. Within a few days the house sold and stayed sold.
When the whalers were out to sea, a passing ship from home meant a Gam: exchanged mail, gossip, and booze: a party! I'll bet they wished they could have exchanged underwear.
Whalers were gone for months whaling the Atlantic. When it was fished out, they were gone years at a time whaling the Pacific. There was a story on display about a couple married fifteen years who had spent a total of fifteen months together. The women were left behind to run the farms and businesses. I could feel "woman power" in the air.
Fortified with lobster eggs Benedict and wrapped in warm coats, Minnie and I braced ourselves for the after-dark ghost walk. Our group stuck close together; no one wanted to be "left behind."
According to our guide, ghosts have been seen, and continue to be seen, going into the basement of a business to work on looms. Another climbs the stairs to sit by a window and rock. We looked with our eyes open and closed, felt the air for quivery cold, and were disappointed, sort of; we weren't sure we wanted to see them.
The ghosts are seen in period costumes. Maybe they don't know they're dead. At one location the energy felt dangerous raising the hair on the back of our necks. We shivered and moved quickly away. Our guide said ghosts are seen many more places, but the home owners don't want to be included in the tour. We concluded there are ghosts everywhere but on the census.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN wherever you are. Don't let the ghosts get you.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At the Whaling Museum's Ghost Gam we sat amidst whaling artifacts and under the skeleton of an eighty-foot whale with jaws that could have absorbed a car – Moby Dick material.
We brought a bag of chocolate-covered cranberries to nibble while a reader read Cornish ghost tales accompanied by a harpist. The spookier the story, the faster we nibbled, and the more Minnie and I didn't want to walk alone back to our room at the Jared Coffin House. It has its own ghost. Shivers.
Locals told of walking by the cemetery and being chased by the ghosts that sit on the fence posts. Proper etiquette for approaching the 'setstillers' was discussed. If they were kindly acknowledged, would they still chase people? You check it out.
I got up and told of a house at home a ghost kept from selling. Her presence cooled it even on the hottest days of summer: supernatural air-conditioning. The house would sell, but the buyers would call within a day and back out. Through prayer and intuitive expertise, the ghost was encouraged to leave and take her baby with her. She did. Within a few days the house sold and stayed sold.
When the whalers were out to sea, a passing ship from home meant a Gam: exchanged mail, gossip, and booze: a party! I'll bet they wished they could have exchanged underwear.
Whalers were gone for months whaling the Atlantic. When it was fished out, they were gone years at a time whaling the Pacific. There was a story on display about a couple married fifteen years who had spent a total of fifteen months together. The women were left behind to run the farms and businesses. I could feel "woman power" in the air.
Fortified with lobster eggs Benedict and wrapped in warm coats, Minnie and I braced ourselves for the after-dark ghost walk. Our group stuck close together; no one wanted to be "left behind."
According to our guide, ghosts have been seen, and continue to be seen, going into the basement of a business to work on looms. Another climbs the stairs to sit by a window and rock. We looked with our eyes open and closed, felt the air for quivery cold, and were disappointed, sort of; we weren't sure we wanted to see them.
The ghosts are seen in period costumes. Maybe they don't know they're dead. At one location the energy felt dangerous raising the hair on the back of our necks. We shivered and moved quickly away. Our guide said ghosts are seen many more places, but the home owners don't want to be included in the tour. We concluded there are ghosts everywhere but on the census.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN wherever you are. Don't let the ghosts get you.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Scottish Parade
It’s a Scottish kind of day: chilly, gray, gloomy, rainy. They apologized for it. We expected it. Minnie and I felt at home in Scotland, even though our Scotch heritage is minimal.
I’m thousands of miles away, but I can pretend with a cup of tea and some butter biscuits. Scones, clotted cream and jam would be better - and with my sister. I’d go for a drive, but it wouldn’t be the same driving on the right. She’d say, “Left! Drive left,” and “Look at those white stones on the green, … or are those sheep?”
Hot tea invites memories to tumble and parade. The wee drop of Scotch blood in me says, ‘Oh,lassie, come stroll the glens with me shadow’. Give me a tartan plaid to wrap in, and we'll talk.
Gooseberries: with yogurt, pureed with scones, jam with orange marmalade for toast, but not all at the same meal. When we were children, no matter what pie anyone made, Dad said it would have been better if it were gooseberry. You guessed it. A neighbor made him a gooseberry pie, and stood there while he ate it. He said it was good, and never mentioned gooseberries again.
Charlie and Eleanor’s overflow, unadvertised B&B near Aberdeen: We were weary from weeks of road travel and gloomy weather. They welcomed us with hot tea and warm conversation, just as interested in us as we were in them. Collecting friends is my ideal. They worked some for a titled family and spoke highly of them.
After an hour I asked for directions to a pub or restaurant for dinner. Eleanor replied, “You’re sinking. The fresh fish truck came today. There’s a piece of fish and a boiled potato for each of you.” At their kitchen table she gave up her piece of white fish for one of us, and her home-canned pickled beets gave up their juice coloring my potato. We were family.
Talked out, I headed up to our room, and found a lump in my bed. Uncertain, I hovered my hand above it. It was warm. Was it alive? Quietly I opened the bedroom door, and grabbed a pillow off the other bed; one of us was going to run. On the count of three, I threw back the covers. The hot water bottle never moved.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
I’m thousands of miles away, but I can pretend with a cup of tea and some butter biscuits. Scones, clotted cream and jam would be better - and with my sister. I’d go for a drive, but it wouldn’t be the same driving on the right. She’d say, “Left! Drive left,” and “Look at those white stones on the green, … or are those sheep?”
Hot tea invites memories to tumble and parade. The wee drop of Scotch blood in me says, ‘Oh,lassie, come stroll the glens with me shadow’. Give me a tartan plaid to wrap in, and we'll talk.
Gooseberries: with yogurt, pureed with scones, jam with orange marmalade for toast, but not all at the same meal. When we were children, no matter what pie anyone made, Dad said it would have been better if it were gooseberry. You guessed it. A neighbor made him a gooseberry pie, and stood there while he ate it. He said it was good, and never mentioned gooseberries again.
Charlie and Eleanor’s overflow, unadvertised B&B near Aberdeen: We were weary from weeks of road travel and gloomy weather. They welcomed us with hot tea and warm conversation, just as interested in us as we were in them. Collecting friends is my ideal. They worked some for a titled family and spoke highly of them.
After an hour I asked for directions to a pub or restaurant for dinner. Eleanor replied, “You’re sinking. The fresh fish truck came today. There’s a piece of fish and a boiled potato for each of you.” At their kitchen table she gave up her piece of white fish for one of us, and her home-canned pickled beets gave up their juice coloring my potato. We were family.
Talked out, I headed up to our room, and found a lump in my bed. Uncertain, I hovered my hand above it. It was warm. Was it alive? Quietly I opened the bedroom door, and grabbed a pillow off the other bed; one of us was going to run. On the count of three, I threw back the covers. The hot water bottle never moved.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 7 - Life at the bottom
Before it grew completely dark on the floor of the African-looking Grand Canyon, we had to get out of the cold creek water, put our boots on, and setup camp. I wasn't much help. Donna worked at setting up the tent until she felt a hump in the floor. Peeking under with a flashlight she discovered an anthill. We had to move. As if on cue, a man came out of nowhere, helped her tear down the tent, move it, set it up, drag the bare bed springs from the creek to our camp and shove them inside. We thanked him. He disappeared.
All the topside planning we’d done for nourishing trail meals went out the window, or tent door. Too tired to light Sterno, we ate a bit of jerky. Donna hung our sealed packs as high as she could reach in the scrub brush to keep varmints out. Deer probably wouldn’t care, but ringtail cats and squirrels might want to shop.
The night air was growing cold. I’d left my sleeping bag at the Rim since it was a warm day, and now I regretted it. The thinsulate pad on the bare springs was too short. Cold and wearing all our clothes, we snuggled under Donna’s sleeping bag until she caught her hair and me a toe. As my sister-in-law was known to say, "If you want all the conveniences of home, stay there." But that wouldn’t be any fun. Making the only noises in the night, we giggled through untangling, until sleep stepped in and took over.
(more later - after we rest)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
All the topside planning we’d done for nourishing trail meals went out the window, or tent door. Too tired to light Sterno, we ate a bit of jerky. Donna hung our sealed packs as high as she could reach in the scrub brush to keep varmints out. Deer probably wouldn’t care, but ringtail cats and squirrels might want to shop.
The night air was growing cold. I’d left my sleeping bag at the Rim since it was a warm day, and now I regretted it. The thinsulate pad on the bare springs was too short. Cold and wearing all our clothes, we snuggled under Donna’s sleeping bag until she caught her hair and me a toe. As my sister-in-law was known to say, "If you want all the conveniences of home, stay there." But that wouldn’t be any fun. Making the only noises in the night, we giggled through untangling, until sleep stepped in and took over.
(more later - after we rest)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, October 16, 2005
I don't want to hike these mountains.
MSN photo
Are my glasses gooey? No, it's just a little fog. These mountains look unfriendly, now that I've become a MS Delta flat-lander.verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
ITALY, lost......us, not it
Around and around and around the roundabout I drove not knowing when or where to get off. Caught in our circles, a frustrated driver rolled his window down and shouted in English, "Just pick one. Get off!"
We'd flown into Geneva, Switzerland, picked up a rental car, and headed to our resort destination Mount Campione, Italy. At late afternoon, we were lost and without a map. On the atlas it looked like a very short distance, not so, and I hadn't request a detailed map. My sister always takes care of the maps when we travel, but she wasn't on this trip.
As if a different driver could find our map-less way, nellie got behind the wheel. Driving in city circles we looked for help. At dusk she spotted a family leaving an apartment. The beautiful Italian lady spoke enough English to understand our predicament, and graciously offered to help. After numerous calls she found it and directions.
Angela translated our problem to her husband and two daughters who looked at us in amazement. 'If you won't leave home without American Express, how could you leave home without a map?' I'd already heard the complaint from my fellow travelers. At "dark-thirty", and without hesitation Angela and her family offered to lead us to our resort.
This was the off-season at Mount Campione. Skiing season is its peak. We drove for an hour to arrive at an empty lobby. On the front desk lay a key with my name on it; they were optimistic. Angela and her family helped us locate our room and unpack the car. Grateful for their kind assistance, we invited them to the bar for thank you
refreshments, and noticed it wasn't crowded.
In the daylight we learned specifics. The complex housed ten guests: we three American girls, an American couple and their daughter, two couples from Cape Town, South Africa, and no open restaurant.
Settled in, Dali did hand laundry wringing the clothes out in the extra sheets. Hung in our windows to dry, the laundry identified our quarters from a distance; a good idea considering there must have been 150 empty rooms. nellie took pictures of Dali in the window to add to Dali's "Woman in Window" collection from around the world.
The families from South Africa prepared our first dinner in Italy: spaghetti with a red sauce, garlic bread, green salad, and red wine. Sharing food and exhilarating conversation made for an international delight. I love collecting friends. One of the Cape Town gentlemen shared that he wears a suit to service expensive cars. They invited us to South Africa. We invited them to America. Who will get where first?
One of our trips down the mountain for groceries, Dali stuck her head out the backseat window. In her beautiful soprano voice she sang into the sunshine at the top of her lungs, "Don't Cry for Me Argentina." She blessed the mountaintops. I'll bet she was heard for miles.
Loving the outdoors, nellie, Dali, and I decided to hike the treeless mountaintops. Where we started we noticed a cow down in the valley with a wide leather neckband and enormous, burdensome bell.
For about an hour we hiked up and down, around crevices, and across the rounded tops enjoying the sun and distant scenery. Everything looked small, but the sound of the distant bulldozer carried. We sang and danced like kids, picnicked, and took lots of pictures.
All was well until the fog slipped in and over us. We were socked in, lost, afraid, had no sense of direction, and were all talking at once. Nobody knows we're here. We didn't see any people all afternoon. What will we do when it gets dark? It's getting cold. Those crevices we walked around, we might fall in now. If we get hurt, how will we get help?
Huddled together we prayed. What was that tiny sound? A cowbell. Since we'd seen just one cow, we decided to hike toward the sound. Holding hands we silently picked our way straining to hear and guarding our footsteps.
When the cowbell sounded farther away, we stopped. Were we going the wrong way or had she moved? Step by step we worked our way back ever mindful of the crevices we'd hiked around. After what seemed like hours, we made out the shape of the resort with the laundry in our windows and almost ran. We could have kissed the cow.
And were we hungry; bread, cheese, chunks of lunchmeat, plums, and chocolate with hazelnuts filled us. We didn't spend a lot of time on what might have been. Over big mugs of hot chocolate we looked ahead. We had places to go. "Venice, here we come!"
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We'd flown into Geneva, Switzerland, picked up a rental car, and headed to our resort destination Mount Campione, Italy. At late afternoon, we were lost and without a map. On the atlas it looked like a very short distance, not so, and I hadn't request a detailed map. My sister always takes care of the maps when we travel, but she wasn't on this trip.
As if a different driver could find our map-less way, nellie got behind the wheel. Driving in city circles we looked for help. At dusk she spotted a family leaving an apartment. The beautiful Italian lady spoke enough English to understand our predicament, and graciously offered to help. After numerous calls she found it and directions.
Angela translated our problem to her husband and two daughters who looked at us in amazement. 'If you won't leave home without American Express, how could you leave home without a map?' I'd already heard the complaint from my fellow travelers. At "dark-thirty", and without hesitation Angela and her family offered to lead us to our resort.
This was the off-season at Mount Campione. Skiing season is its peak. We drove for an hour to arrive at an empty lobby. On the front desk lay a key with my name on it; they were optimistic. Angela and her family helped us locate our room and unpack the car. Grateful for their kind assistance, we invited them to the bar for thank you
refreshments, and noticed it wasn't crowded.
In the daylight we learned specifics. The complex housed ten guests: we three American girls, an American couple and their daughter, two couples from Cape Town, South Africa, and no open restaurant.
Settled in, Dali did hand laundry wringing the clothes out in the extra sheets. Hung in our windows to dry, the laundry identified our quarters from a distance; a good idea considering there must have been 150 empty rooms. nellie took pictures of Dali in the window to add to Dali's "Woman in Window" collection from around the world.
The families from South Africa prepared our first dinner in Italy: spaghetti with a red sauce, garlic bread, green salad, and red wine. Sharing food and exhilarating conversation made for an international delight. I love collecting friends. One of the Cape Town gentlemen shared that he wears a suit to service expensive cars. They invited us to South Africa. We invited them to America. Who will get where first?
One of our trips down the mountain for groceries, Dali stuck her head out the backseat window. In her beautiful soprano voice she sang into the sunshine at the top of her lungs, "Don't Cry for Me Argentina." She blessed the mountaintops. I'll bet she was heard for miles.
Loving the outdoors, nellie, Dali, and I decided to hike the treeless mountaintops. Where we started we noticed a cow down in the valley with a wide leather neckband and enormous, burdensome bell.
For about an hour we hiked up and down, around crevices, and across the rounded tops enjoying the sun and distant scenery. Everything looked small, but the sound of the distant bulldozer carried. We sang and danced like kids, picnicked, and took lots of pictures.
All was well until the fog slipped in and over us. We were socked in, lost, afraid, had no sense of direction, and were all talking at once. Nobody knows we're here. We didn't see any people all afternoon. What will we do when it gets dark? It's getting cold. Those crevices we walked around, we might fall in now. If we get hurt, how will we get help?
Huddled together we prayed. What was that tiny sound? A cowbell. Since we'd seen just one cow, we decided to hike toward the sound. Holding hands we silently picked our way straining to hear and guarding our footsteps.
When the cowbell sounded farther away, we stopped. Were we going the wrong way or had she moved? Step by step we worked our way back ever mindful of the crevices we'd hiked around. After what seemed like hours, we made out the shape of the resort with the laundry in our windows and almost ran. We could have kissed the cow.
And were we hungry; bread, cheese, chunks of lunchmeat, plums, and chocolate with hazelnuts filled us. We didn't spend a lot of time on what might have been. Over big mugs of hot chocolate we looked ahead. We had places to go. "Venice, here we come!"
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, October 13, 2005
TOADSTOOLS
eruptions
from
an other-world
resting place
for
small thoughts
2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
from
an other-world
resting place
for
small thoughts
2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 6 1/2 - the rest of the way down
Into the fifth hour of hiking at a creep, I estimated I was half-way to the camp. Donna hiked with ease retracing her steps now and again to check on me. Few hikers were on the trail. One couple passed without speaking or breaking stride.
With ease, a couple came up the trail stopping long enough to say they were from a flat state, also. To condition, they'd put on their packs and climbed up and down a grain elevator. Why didn't I think of that?
The trail had a wide spot I stepped into, but looked before I leaned on the wall. Stretching my vision outward, the color changes in the distance were astounding. Mother Nature's paint-chip slide-show displayed pink, fuchsia, lavender, rose, yellow, orange, bronze, brown, turquoise, purple and more. A tiny lizard zipped across my boot; an eagle flew in the distance below the Rim.
Scrunching sounds came from the left. I waited off the trail. The sober mule train leader almost smiled. Maybe it was the heat. The temperature had progressed from the 60's this morning to the mid to high eighties. I didn't have to move to the outside this time, thank God. The seven passed without incident.
Thankful for the opportunity to see God's unusual, awesome creation first hand, and be in its innards, I stepped back on the trail. Two hikers coming up the trail stopped, smiled, and related they were grandfather and grandson hiking from Rim to Rim. The man said the most drag-outs are 18 to 25 and male; they don't know their pace. If a helicopter is needed, the cost is in the thousands. He was proud he and his grandson were able to make it on their own. Good for them. I hoped I would.
The moleskin on my feet helped, but I should have put some on the ends of my toes. My boots fit well with two pairs of socks, but with the steep grade, my toes were getting too friendly with the toe-end of my boots. That kind of toe-end closeness I reserve for my dancing shoes.
More scrunching from behind warned of a third mule train approaching. By now I was almost too tired to be scared to stand to the outside and face the mules, but not quite. The grumpy leader stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Just wait 'til you try to get out."
His words shot through me, hit my wall of determination, and brought back a red flag. My temper flared, but I didn't say a word. Silently I vowed I would not be a drag-out, so help me God! The eleven passed. I straightened up and stepped back on the trail fiercely determined to make it in and out on my own two feet. He wasn't getting a drag-out fee from me.
Donna made it to camp before I did, looked back and saw me bent over with my load. She couldn't see my tears, or know how hard I was working just to walk, or how many hundred times I'd said, "I think I can." My mission was keeping me going.
Daylight was leaving the Canyon floor making room for dark, I had to keep moving. At 6:30 pm a young man came up the trail and asked my name. I complied. A search party of one, he frowned and said, "You should have been in camp by now. Could I take your pack for you?" Too exhausted to speak, I nodded.
Arriving at Cottonwood Campground I thought I was in Africa: scrub brush, big rocks, and powdery, sandy, flat earth, and I couldn't fall off. Donna helped me to the outhouse-sized First-Aid station for knee bandages, Gatorade, and, as if I didn't know, instructions to stay off my feet. We had hiked down 4,000 feet of elevation over seven miles.
Leaning together we crept to the creek, rolled up our jeans, took off our boots, and plunged our feet into the cold water. Oh, it felt good. I remembered all I'd eaten since breakfast was one energy bar - no appetite. My canteen was empty, and I had sweat out every drop of waste.
Donna bust out laughing. Short on humor and with effort, my eyes followed where she pointed. It was funny. In the creek were double-bed bed-springs.
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
With ease, a couple came up the trail stopping long enough to say they were from a flat state, also. To condition, they'd put on their packs and climbed up and down a grain elevator. Why didn't I think of that?
The trail had a wide spot I stepped into, but looked before I leaned on the wall. Stretching my vision outward, the color changes in the distance were astounding. Mother Nature's paint-chip slide-show displayed pink, fuchsia, lavender, rose, yellow, orange, bronze, brown, turquoise, purple and more. A tiny lizard zipped across my boot; an eagle flew in the distance below the Rim.
Scrunching sounds came from the left. I waited off the trail. The sober mule train leader almost smiled. Maybe it was the heat. The temperature had progressed from the 60's this morning to the mid to high eighties. I didn't have to move to the outside this time, thank God. The seven passed without incident.
Thankful for the opportunity to see God's unusual, awesome creation first hand, and be in its innards, I stepped back on the trail. Two hikers coming up the trail stopped, smiled, and related they were grandfather and grandson hiking from Rim to Rim. The man said the most drag-outs are 18 to 25 and male; they don't know their pace. If a helicopter is needed, the cost is in the thousands. He was proud he and his grandson were able to make it on their own. Good for them. I hoped I would.
The moleskin on my feet helped, but I should have put some on the ends of my toes. My boots fit well with two pairs of socks, but with the steep grade, my toes were getting too friendly with the toe-end of my boots. That kind of toe-end closeness I reserve for my dancing shoes.
More scrunching from behind warned of a third mule train approaching. By now I was almost too tired to be scared to stand to the outside and face the mules, but not quite. The grumpy leader stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Just wait 'til you try to get out."
His words shot through me, hit my wall of determination, and brought back a red flag. My temper flared, but I didn't say a word. Silently I vowed I would not be a drag-out, so help me God! The eleven passed. I straightened up and stepped back on the trail fiercely determined to make it in and out on my own two feet. He wasn't getting a drag-out fee from me.
Donna made it to camp before I did, looked back and saw me bent over with my load. She couldn't see my tears, or know how hard I was working just to walk, or how many hundred times I'd said, "I think I can." My mission was keeping me going.
Daylight was leaving the Canyon floor making room for dark, I had to keep moving. At 6:30 pm a young man came up the trail and asked my name. I complied. A search party of one, he frowned and said, "You should have been in camp by now. Could I take your pack for you?" Too exhausted to speak, I nodded.
Arriving at Cottonwood Campground I thought I was in Africa: scrub brush, big rocks, and powdery, sandy, flat earth, and I couldn't fall off. Donna helped me to the outhouse-sized First-Aid station for knee bandages, Gatorade, and, as if I didn't know, instructions to stay off my feet. We had hiked down 4,000 feet of elevation over seven miles.
Leaning together we crept to the creek, rolled up our jeans, took off our boots, and plunged our feet into the cold water. Oh, it felt good. I remembered all I'd eaten since breakfast was one energy bar - no appetite. My canteen was empty, and I had sweat out every drop of waste.
Donna bust out laughing. Short on humor and with effort, my eyes followed where she pointed. It was funny. In the creek were double-bed bed-springs.
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, September 29, 2005
90,000 baby chicks and a 100 head of dairy cows
"You have how many baby chicks?" Minnie asked the farmer at Hereford, England.
"90,000. That's 30,000 in each of these three buildings."
You know we had to look, and he was proud to show us.
Feed and water were suspended from the ceiling so nothing could be knocked over. I asked what the bedding was. He reached into the six-inch depth, and grabbed a fistful of shredded English paper money with silver threads glistening here and there. "When the chicks are removed after 39 or a few more days, these buildings will be cleaned out and scrubbed; you could eat off the floor."
When we were kids our family raised 100 fryers each spring under a heat lamp in a brooder house. We'd rush home from school to play with them. To hold a baby chick to our ear and hear it cheep was worth the all day wait. If it didn't cheep (talk), we'd report it to our parents as sick, and they'd come investigate. Once the chicks grew feathers they weren't as much fun, or as easy to catch, and their beaks were weapons.
Dad checked on our new brood every couple of hours day and night for the first few weeks. Fire was a concern. The heat-lamp could catch the straw and newspaper bedding on fire. Our new friend had a couple of farm hands, but the ultimate responsibility for the care of the chicks was his. I'd call it "FIC": Fowl Intensive Care. And he had a dairy operation with 100 Holstein cows. I think the B&B was for some outside company. They were too busy to get away.
"When the chicks arrived two girls sorted them by the shape of their wing feathers, tossing pullets one direction and roosters the other. Pullets are kept a different number of days from roosters," so said our new friend.
Because we were interested, he told us of a peculiar situation he'd had with one new batch of chicks. They wouldn't drink water. The "why not" was a mystery. Three-day-olds aren't much more than a cotton-ball with feet and a beak, they need hydration.
Puzzled, he held one chick at the water-er tapping it's head so it's beak touched the water. The other 89,999 waited for the verdict. Our friend couldn't give up, too much was at stake. After several minutes, whatever blocked the idea dissolved, and the chick took a drink. Instantly, the message transmitted to the rest, and they all took a drink, thank goodness.
Gracious hosts, they fed us well in the mornings - the King's Breakfast: meat, eggs, bread fried and toast, grilled tomatoes, cheeses, and tea; whatever we wanted. Then we took day trips, but that's another story. In the evening they invited us for brandy and a visit. Their home was new-built to look like the old black and whites. Timbers for their blacks were more than 250 years old and came from an old ship. That's recycling.
We never thought of any consequences for visiting the chicken operation, but back in the States, Customs intended confiscating our shoes until we convinced them we wouldn't be on a farm at home.
Minnie says I can't say we stayed at "the chicken ranch," but what would you call a farm with 90,000 chickens?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"90,000. That's 30,000 in each of these three buildings."
You know we had to look, and he was proud to show us.
Feed and water were suspended from the ceiling so nothing could be knocked over. I asked what the bedding was. He reached into the six-inch depth, and grabbed a fistful of shredded English paper money with silver threads glistening here and there. "When the chicks are removed after 39 or a few more days, these buildings will be cleaned out and scrubbed; you could eat off the floor."
When we were kids our family raised 100 fryers each spring under a heat lamp in a brooder house. We'd rush home from school to play with them. To hold a baby chick to our ear and hear it cheep was worth the all day wait. If it didn't cheep (talk), we'd report it to our parents as sick, and they'd come investigate. Once the chicks grew feathers they weren't as much fun, or as easy to catch, and their beaks were weapons.
Dad checked on our new brood every couple of hours day and night for the first few weeks. Fire was a concern. The heat-lamp could catch the straw and newspaper bedding on fire. Our new friend had a couple of farm hands, but the ultimate responsibility for the care of the chicks was his. I'd call it "FIC": Fowl Intensive Care. And he had a dairy operation with 100 Holstein cows. I think the B&B was for some outside company. They were too busy to get away.
"When the chicks arrived two girls sorted them by the shape of their wing feathers, tossing pullets one direction and roosters the other. Pullets are kept a different number of days from roosters," so said our new friend.
Because we were interested, he told us of a peculiar situation he'd had with one new batch of chicks. They wouldn't drink water. The "why not" was a mystery. Three-day-olds aren't much more than a cotton-ball with feet and a beak, they need hydration.
Puzzled, he held one chick at the water-er tapping it's head so it's beak touched the water. The other 89,999 waited for the verdict. Our friend couldn't give up, too much was at stake. After several minutes, whatever blocked the idea dissolved, and the chick took a drink. Instantly, the message transmitted to the rest, and they all took a drink, thank goodness.
Gracious hosts, they fed us well in the mornings - the King's Breakfast: meat, eggs, bread fried and toast, grilled tomatoes, cheeses, and tea; whatever we wanted. Then we took day trips, but that's another story. In the evening they invited us for brandy and a visit. Their home was new-built to look like the old black and whites. Timbers for their blacks were more than 250 years old and came from an old ship. That's recycling.
We never thought of any consequences for visiting the chicken operation, but back in the States, Customs intended confiscating our shoes until we convinced them we wouldn't be on a farm at home.
Minnie says I can't say we stayed at "the chicken ranch," but what would you call a farm with 90,000 chickens?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, September 26, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 6 - Down the trail
Breakfast under our belts and our packs on our backs, we tested each other for pack stability; a shift could cause a fall. Smile, it's the "before" picture. We clasped hands, prayed, and said together the two rules of the Canyon, "Never look down and never give up." With shade on our path, we put one foot ahead of the other, Donna first.
My walking stick made the hike possible. The 21% grade is steep. The narrowness, loose pebbles, puddles of water, mule dodo, and water bars (logs across to slow traffic and erosion) held my attention. Over and over and over I said, "I think I can."
An hour into the hike I felt enough adaptation to the groove to notice the wall on my right. Donna's words came to mind, "Don't touch the wall. A snake might be hot-rock napping on a tiny ledge." That made sense. Our cats like a warm nap place in the morning and a cool nap place in the afternoon.
Hiking down knees don't lock. Mine trembled, progressed to whining, and within two hours screamed pain. The longer we walked, the further apart our feet spread - the Grand Canyon shuffle. Hikers and mule riders look the same at the end.
I heard a scrunching noise, stopped, turned, and saw a mule train approaching from behind. My heart raced. I stepped to the outside without looking down, faced the mules, and stood stock still. The leader tipped his hat. Six mules with riders passed. My heart in my throat, and my knees shaking, I stepped back on the trail adrenalin soaked.
Needing to fix my eyes on something solid, I paused and studied the wall. Like a magic cupboard the layers of strata hold shelves of fossils. I finger-felt seashell fossils wondering when they were alive. About eight feet below I finger-felt flower fossils. Back and forth the contents of the shelves changed proving the world's axis have shifted many times.
The hiking a little easier, I nibbled an energy bar and thought of home. Today Nebraska is farmland. Thousands of years ago it was under water and it was desert. Near Orchard, Nebraska, people could have safaried until an Idaho volcano erupted with more force than Mt. Saint Helen. The sky fell and took the air with it - the end of the world as they knew it.
Something wasn't right. The trail was getting steeper, the puddles wider, the rocks bigger with slanted rocks sticking up, it felt haunted, and ended. NO!!! I'm miles from the bottom. This can't be the end. Everyone that passed me had to go somewhere. Where's Donna? But not a hint of trail was visible in the distance. My heart pounded and I broke out in a sweat. I couldn't make tea like the English do in times of stress, but I could think like a Marine: adapt, overcome, and improvise. I sipped from my canteen and thought.
Deep-breathing I contemplated options. One misstep would tumble me over the edge. Don't look down. I couldn't do it on hands and knees. On my booty I scooted inch by inch around the puddles, flicked off the loose rocks, dismissed the ghosts, but wondered when the people went over the edge. At the end of the trail I leaned over my knees, peeked around the corner, and saw trail. Thank God! I stood up, brushed off, and stepped out with confidence saying aloud, "I know I can."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
My walking stick made the hike possible. The 21% grade is steep. The narrowness, loose pebbles, puddles of water, mule dodo, and water bars (logs across to slow traffic and erosion) held my attention. Over and over and over I said, "I think I can."
An hour into the hike I felt enough adaptation to the groove to notice the wall on my right. Donna's words came to mind, "Don't touch the wall. A snake might be hot-rock napping on a tiny ledge." That made sense. Our cats like a warm nap place in the morning and a cool nap place in the afternoon.
Hiking down knees don't lock. Mine trembled, progressed to whining, and within two hours screamed pain. The longer we walked, the further apart our feet spread - the Grand Canyon shuffle. Hikers and mule riders look the same at the end.
I heard a scrunching noise, stopped, turned, and saw a mule train approaching from behind. My heart raced. I stepped to the outside without looking down, faced the mules, and stood stock still. The leader tipped his hat. Six mules with riders passed. My heart in my throat, and my knees shaking, I stepped back on the trail adrenalin soaked.
Needing to fix my eyes on something solid, I paused and studied the wall. Like a magic cupboard the layers of strata hold shelves of fossils. I finger-felt seashell fossils wondering when they were alive. About eight feet below I finger-felt flower fossils. Back and forth the contents of the shelves changed proving the world's axis have shifted many times.
The hiking a little easier, I nibbled an energy bar and thought of home. Today Nebraska is farmland. Thousands of years ago it was under water and it was desert. Near Orchard, Nebraska, people could have safaried until an Idaho volcano erupted with more force than Mt. Saint Helen. The sky fell and took the air with it - the end of the world as they knew it.
Something wasn't right. The trail was getting steeper, the puddles wider, the rocks bigger with slanted rocks sticking up, it felt haunted, and ended. NO!!! I'm miles from the bottom. This can't be the end. Everyone that passed me had to go somewhere. Where's Donna? But not a hint of trail was visible in the distance. My heart pounded and I broke out in a sweat. I couldn't make tea like the English do in times of stress, but I could think like a Marine: adapt, overcome, and improvise. I sipped from my canteen and thought.
Deep-breathing I contemplated options. One misstep would tumble me over the edge. Don't look down. I couldn't do it on hands and knees. On my booty I scooted inch by inch around the puddles, flicked off the loose rocks, dismissed the ghosts, but wondered when the people went over the edge. At the end of the trail I leaned over my knees, peeked around the corner, and saw trail. Thank God! I stood up, brushed off, and stepped out with confidence saying aloud, "I know I can."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Urgent recommendations
Dear President Bush,
Congratulations on the handling of our Hurricane Rita disaster.
Urgent Recommendations:
...Use environmental engineers to retrieve and cultivate the Louisiana coastal wetlands
...Accept the offer of Dutch engineers to rebuild New Orleans
...See that it becomes law that animals can accompany their owners into shelters
...Redistribute the oil production away from the cluster of the Gulf
...Vigorously pursue and release to the public alternate energy sources
...Put the wide-open spaces of the upper midwest to use for energy production
...Stay on the alert for terror attacks that would ride the tail of these disasters
...Drive oil and gas prices down so we don't have to have an "imaginary Christmas"
Respectfully submitted,
MJ
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Congratulations on the handling of our Hurricane Rita disaster.
Urgent Recommendations:
...Use environmental engineers to retrieve and cultivate the Louisiana coastal wetlands
...Accept the offer of Dutch engineers to rebuild New Orleans
...See that it becomes law that animals can accompany their owners into shelters
...Redistribute the oil production away from the cluster of the Gulf
...Vigorously pursue and release to the public alternate energy sources
...Put the wide-open spaces of the upper midwest to use for energy production
...Stay on the alert for terror attacks that would ride the tail of these disasters
...Drive oil and gas prices down so we don't have to have an "imaginary Christmas"
Respectfully submitted,
MJ
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Upon the Kindness of Strangers: Texas Good Guys - Tall and Small
Returning from Tucson, Arizona, I was ahead towing JB's car. Crossing I20 east in sparsely populated west Texas, a pickup truck pulled up on my left, but wouldn't pass. It unnerved me. I couldn't see JB with the motorhome, but knew he wasn't far behind. Anxious, I shot a glance. A little boy waved for me to stop, as if it wasn't an option.
As I eased off the road, the male driver and two little boys came running to tell me I had a tire going down on the tow dolly. If it had gone flat, it could have been ruined. I thanked them. It was a long way between towns, and it was Saturday. The man suggested a wider, flatter place just ahead to pull off.
To my relief, JB arrived and pulled the motorhome over at the wide spot. The Texas stranger helped him take the tire off, then took him and it to a garage he knew was open. The boys and I stayed with the motorhome. Oreos and milk and travel talk occupied our time. Traveling in our moving house fascinated them. Disney World was where they wanted to go. No, I hadn't been there - yet. They said their dad was always on the lookout for people on the road in need.
The men returned with the repaired tire and had it back on the tow dolly in minutes. We thanked him again. The Texan smiled and nodded a "your welcome," called the boys to his truck, waved, and went on down the road. God Bless them. Goodness strikes again.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
As I eased off the road, the male driver and two little boys came running to tell me I had a tire going down on the tow dolly. If it had gone flat, it could have been ruined. I thanked them. It was a long way between towns, and it was Saturday. The man suggested a wider, flatter place just ahead to pull off.
To my relief, JB arrived and pulled the motorhome over at the wide spot. The Texas stranger helped him take the tire off, then took him and it to a garage he knew was open. The boys and I stayed with the motorhome. Oreos and milk and travel talk occupied our time. Traveling in our moving house fascinated them. Disney World was where they wanted to go. No, I hadn't been there - yet. They said their dad was always on the lookout for people on the road in need.
The men returned with the repaired tire and had it back on the tow dolly in minutes. We thanked him again. The Texan smiled and nodded a "your welcome," called the boys to his truck, waved, and went on down the road. God Bless them. Goodness strikes again.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, September 18, 2005
BLOGSHARES
I was pleasantly surprised today when I discovered that my link to Bacon Press has resulted in Blogshares trading my blog.
Here I thought I’d been writing into a black hole in space. Thank you!!! I look forward to learning more about Blogshares.
Here I thought I’d been writing into a black hole in space. Thank you!!! I look forward to learning more about Blogshares.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 5 - Zigzagging to the Canyon
On the bus ride from Denver to Saguache, Colorado, I met a young woman from England with three thirty-day bus passes to tour the USA. Her passion was photographing rainbows. When I bought her lunch, she said people felt sorry for her, not me. I admired her for living her dream and told her so. After our visit she went on to hike the Canyon from Rim to Rim.
Donna met me at the station with a mile-wide grin and a bear hug - her strength reassuring. She couldn't wait for me to taste her homemade pizza. I said it was good, but that wasn't enough. "It's elk meat pizza!" she exclaimed. This girl is full of surprises.
Early the next morning we drove south parallelling the Sangre De Cristo Mountains. Donna pointed out Crestone Peak at over 14,000 feet, and related several instances when a climber made it to the top, and fell off. Was it the wind, disorientation, or something else?
My secret fantasy is to ride a purple Harley with a long-nosed, big, black dog in the sidecar. I'd tie a white silk scarf around its neck several times so it wouldn't get caught in the wheels, but still have some "Snoopy" flutter. Together we'd ride down California's Highway 1. Calendar material, don't you think? My sister insists we should ride up it. "Stay to the inside," she cautions.
Instead of driving straight to the Grand Canyon, we zigzagged. At Lunchtime we zigged to Chimayo, New Mexico. Our green at home is in the landscape. Chimayo's green is less but painted on tiles. We don't often eat outside at home, the flies do. Here we sat on the patio without flies and enjoyed homemade chips and salsa, and enchiladas. Lively music made us want to dance, twirl, stomp our feet, and shout, "Ole!" Black-haired waitresses in long, dark skirts and white blouses contrasted with our brown hair, blue jeans and denim shirts.
It was the weekend of a Festival in Santa Fe, New Mexico - a bonus. Luckily we obtained a room as someone cancelled. Adobe buildings are puzzling. They remind me of crusty loaves of bread that ought to melt in the rain, but don't. They're sturdy.
We oohed and aahed our way through shops and galleries. The silence of the Catholic Church was punctuated by shuffling feet and coins dropped in the metal box at the vigil candles. The faithful lit them asking and expecting God to hear and take care of their concerns. My friend Frances says we need God in our "business." At 91 she ought to know.
Indians lined up around the Capitol displaying their finest wares; brightly colored clothes and baskets, foods, and shiny silver jewelry with brilliant hand set turquoise stones. Street vendors sold roasted sweetcorn in the husk. Peeled back it made a handle for our sweet, buttery,and spicy ear of corn. Delicious.
Day two we cut north at Gallup, New Mexico, to go through Window Rock, Arizona. It would save three and a half hours driving time. We didn't know Window Rock was celebrating with a parade. It took three and a half hours to travel three and a half miles through more pickup trucks than I've seen on a Texas car lot, and we didn't see a bit of the parade. Impatient drivers took off through the muddy ditch, and got stuck.
On the wide open spaces of the treeless Hopi Reservation two Indian women in long dark dresses and hats herded sheep. In the distance stood a lone adobe house without screens and with the door ajar - inviting. No, we couldn't stop for a visit today.
Late afternoon the pine scented breeze of the North Rim's Kaibab National Forest welcomed us. Ahhhhh. We've arrived. The Park clerk issued our three-day passes with a list of no-nonsense instructions:
"You have three days to go the seven miles to Cottonwood Campground on Bright Angel Creek and back, no deviation allowed.
"Leave no trace is the rule.
"What you carry in, you carry out, including empty cans, and used toilet paper.
"Feces must be buried 200 feet from water.
"Hikers must yield to mules by standing to the "outside."
"Do not feed the wildlife!
"If hikers aren't accounted for, a search party is sent out."
In unison we replied, "Yes, Ma'am."
"Let's have a look at our undertaking," Donna said eager to get a full view. Lodge ham and cheese sandwiches in hand, we headed for the Observation Deck. Left, right and ahead lay Canyon as far as we could see: deep, wide, multi-colored, drop-to-the-knees gorgeous, a fierce beauty, flat-out stunning. To survive we must bend to it.
No wonder over 4,000,000 visitors a year, many from overseas, make this a destination. It covers more than a million acres. The Colorado River flows through it over 300 miles. To say it's huge isn't enough. What have we gotten ourselves into? Papa was right, I'm nuts.
Foreigners looked through binoculars exclaiming over birds of prey. Come to think of it, we couldn't understand what they said, maybe it was something else. At dark I asked Donna if she was ready for our last supper? She nodded. Needing all the fortification we could get, we ordered hamburger steaks with potatoes and gravy, salad, and the two biggest pieces of chocolate cake.
As if nestled in the hollow of a big, old, safe tree that had endured all, our dark- wood paneled room coconned us. Prayers and sleep collided.
(next - the descent)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Donna met me at the station with a mile-wide grin and a bear hug - her strength reassuring. She couldn't wait for me to taste her homemade pizza. I said it was good, but that wasn't enough. "It's elk meat pizza!" she exclaimed. This girl is full of surprises.
Early the next morning we drove south parallelling the Sangre De Cristo Mountains. Donna pointed out Crestone Peak at over 14,000 feet, and related several instances when a climber made it to the top, and fell off. Was it the wind, disorientation, or something else?
My secret fantasy is to ride a purple Harley with a long-nosed, big, black dog in the sidecar. I'd tie a white silk scarf around its neck several times so it wouldn't get caught in the wheels, but still have some "Snoopy" flutter. Together we'd ride down California's Highway 1. Calendar material, don't you think? My sister insists we should ride up it. "Stay to the inside," she cautions.
Instead of driving straight to the Grand Canyon, we zigzagged. At Lunchtime we zigged to Chimayo, New Mexico. Our green at home is in the landscape. Chimayo's green is less but painted on tiles. We don't often eat outside at home, the flies do. Here we sat on the patio without flies and enjoyed homemade chips and salsa, and enchiladas. Lively music made us want to dance, twirl, stomp our feet, and shout, "Ole!" Black-haired waitresses in long, dark skirts and white blouses contrasted with our brown hair, blue jeans and denim shirts.
It was the weekend of a Festival in Santa Fe, New Mexico - a bonus. Luckily we obtained a room as someone cancelled. Adobe buildings are puzzling. They remind me of crusty loaves of bread that ought to melt in the rain, but don't. They're sturdy.
We oohed and aahed our way through shops and galleries. The silence of the Catholic Church was punctuated by shuffling feet and coins dropped in the metal box at the vigil candles. The faithful lit them asking and expecting God to hear and take care of their concerns. My friend Frances says we need God in our "business." At 91 she ought to know.
Indians lined up around the Capitol displaying their finest wares; brightly colored clothes and baskets, foods, and shiny silver jewelry with brilliant hand set turquoise stones. Street vendors sold roasted sweetcorn in the husk. Peeled back it made a handle for our sweet, buttery,and spicy ear of corn. Delicious.
Day two we cut north at Gallup, New Mexico, to go through Window Rock, Arizona. It would save three and a half hours driving time. We didn't know Window Rock was celebrating with a parade. It took three and a half hours to travel three and a half miles through more pickup trucks than I've seen on a Texas car lot, and we didn't see a bit of the parade. Impatient drivers took off through the muddy ditch, and got stuck.
On the wide open spaces of the treeless Hopi Reservation two Indian women in long dark dresses and hats herded sheep. In the distance stood a lone adobe house without screens and with the door ajar - inviting. No, we couldn't stop for a visit today.
Late afternoon the pine scented breeze of the North Rim's Kaibab National Forest welcomed us. Ahhhhh. We've arrived. The Park clerk issued our three-day passes with a list of no-nonsense instructions:
"You have three days to go the seven miles to Cottonwood Campground on Bright Angel Creek and back, no deviation allowed.
"Leave no trace is the rule.
"What you carry in, you carry out, including empty cans, and used toilet paper.
"Feces must be buried 200 feet from water.
"Hikers must yield to mules by standing to the "outside."
"Do not feed the wildlife!
"If hikers aren't accounted for, a search party is sent out."
In unison we replied, "Yes, Ma'am."
"Let's have a look at our undertaking," Donna said eager to get a full view. Lodge ham and cheese sandwiches in hand, we headed for the Observation Deck. Left, right and ahead lay Canyon as far as we could see: deep, wide, multi-colored, drop-to-the-knees gorgeous, a fierce beauty, flat-out stunning. To survive we must bend to it.
No wonder over 4,000,000 visitors a year, many from overseas, make this a destination. It covers more than a million acres. The Colorado River flows through it over 300 miles. To say it's huge isn't enough. What have we gotten ourselves into? Papa was right, I'm nuts.
Foreigners looked through binoculars exclaiming over birds of prey. Come to think of it, we couldn't understand what they said, maybe it was something else. At dark I asked Donna if she was ready for our last supper? She nodded. Needing all the fortification we could get, we ordered hamburger steaks with potatoes and gravy, salad, and the two biggest pieces of chocolate cake.
As if nestled in the hollow of a big, old, safe tree that had endured all, our dark- wood paneled room coconned us. Prayers and sleep collided.
(next - the descent)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Monet's Happy Work
MSN photo They were just water lilies, except to Monet, and I am so glad. Every time I look at my umbrella, I see what he saw, and sense his happiness. Monet's home in Giverny, France, is one of the happiest places I've ever visited. I would love to have a yellow kitchen like his with the blue Japanese art he collected. I'm working up to it. We painted egg yolk yellow on each of the five carved panels of our kitchen doors, and bright blue one-inch blocks on the base boards. Hey, it's a start.
I bought Monet's Table to study the menus and see pictures of his home and gardens. Oh, to have masses of fresh flowers to choose from would make my day. And the meals were a production, un-American. I'd like to have fresh game and produce prepared each day - mouth watering. I clutch my book and dream.
Monet's family made ice cream. We did too, and sometimes with clean snow. Today's snow is grimy, not even good for rubbing down with after a hot tub visit. Peaches were added to Monet's recipe. We're enjoying fresh peaches sliced and in cobblers. I'm thinking Baskin Robbins has the ice cream freezer. If they make peach, I could spread a blanket under our shade tree, eat peach ice cream, and think happy Monet thoughts; a perfect day.
Working as a cable lady, when I saw someone on a blanket in the yard reading or taking tea, I had to stop and visit. Sure enough, they were from another country. Outdoorsy, closer to nature, more natural in appearance and ways, Yugoslav refugees said nature alone remained familiar. In spite of the trauma of war, their minds were in tact. I did meet one who was here physically, but his mind didn't make the trip. God help him.
A collection of Monet's works from around the world were displayed at "The Art Institute of Chicago" in 1998. My sister, my daughter and I attended. Over 90% of what influences us is unseen. Monet's happiness flooded our souls uplifting us. When he started losing his sight, we could feel his frustration. His happy work convinced me that if I'd just do what I love, others could benefit from my happy: writing. I'm doing it. I'm doing it.
The day we crossed his little arched bridge, so did Japanese visitors. They'd come to admire his work as he had admired theirs. Peace through water lilies.
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, September 02, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Her Own Pit Crew - Part 3 & the end
I sat behind the wheel of our forty-foot motorhome looking ahead at 635 miles of unknown. All but the last verse of the 23rd Psalm had unfolded. I'd prayed myself blue, but was I "prayed up?" More support couldn't hurt. Calling to Jesus and Mary, Arch Angel Michael for protection, Lady Master Rowena to clear my path, and all my dead relatives and friends gave me a busload.
JB called, "I've got a plan. Tell me your mile marker and read me your gauges. I'll be able to follow you in case I have to come get you." NASCAR drivers have their Crew Chief, JB was mine. He'd see me through. I lightened up; this might be fun.
At six o'clock I waved goodbye to the shop guys and eased onto the road. Overwhelmed, I contemplated sleep. It was too early, and I was wound like a clock. Every step was another challenge. I needed gas. At a high and wide station it took 66 gallons to fill our 100 gallon tank.
Thinking I couldn't possibly stretch my mind or abilities further, I decided it was ridiculous to limit myself. How would I know what I could do with God's help, unless I quit heaving, sighing, and whining, and just do it.
As designated driver, my friends know not to give me more than one direction at a time. I could drive until I got tired, and it would be cooler in the evening. Satisifed my mind had a grasp on the project, I called my Crew Chief, "JB, let's go."
Without hesitation he replied, "Go for it."
I'd love to announce to the NASCAR drivers, "GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!!!!!!!"
Starting the biggest race of my life, I giggled, said it to myself, and took off west on I20. I'm going to win this one!
A glance at the dash rear view camera proved the rear end did follow. I smiled. The engine purred. My confidence started to bloom. JB called often for gauge and mile marker readings. I sang, prayed, and drove into the sunset hopeful.
9:30 pm. At Van Horn, Texas, I pulled off to sleep. My eyes closed but my mind wouldn't shut down. Should I or shouldn't I go on? Ask JB. "Go ahead, if you feel okay with it. I'll stay up all night to track you." His dedication tugged a tear.
"Thanks, JB, I love you." Another deep breath, and I headed into the dark and cell phone dead space.
On the long, quiet road, memories of my ancestors surfaced. Grandpa and Grandma Williamson traveled by covered wagon from Illinois to Kansas and Nebraska when they were children. A child died in each family. They returned to Illinois for commital, and got back on the trail without paving, a map, or A/C. I could do this.
Grandpa and Grandma made the best apple dumplings together. I could taste the crisp lard pie crust outside and soft apple inside with raisins, cinnamon, sugar and butter in the core. Their freezer was filled with the fall harvest we enjoyed all winter. Grandma, a Taurus, loved blue dresses. I tried to get her into red, but there's no waving red at a Taurus bull.
Aunt Bobbe had polio at age six. She grew up to drive the car with hand controls, and live and work away from home. An inspiration, she encouraged me to keep trying, "Don't give up," she would said.
Our dark-haired mother was so pretty. We loved to see her in the red nylon dress she made. Her passion for curiosity and travel inspired us. I would drive the family Ford tractor and two-wheeled trailer across the pasture. Twice around the lone tree in the far corner, and Jani and I were in California.
Over peanut butter and banana sandwiches, with a smidge of orange juice to keep all from sticking to the roof of our mouth, and a jug of water, we dreamed of travel as grownups, and suspected we'd never get as far as Kansas. We were sure the world ended at Fairbury because we didn't know anyone past there.
Mom was such a good cook, Dad never had trouble getting farm help. I wished I had a piece of her grasshopper pie made with creme de minte and ground oreos. The divinity she made at Christmas was perfect: dry on the outside and soft in the center. She said I could barely reach the edge of the table, but before she noticed, I'd sampled all the way around. Peppermint was my favorite. Mom was the best.
I imagined Papa's strong arms on my shoulders helping me drive. He loved mushroom hunting in the fall, and would walk miles to inspect a boxelder tree. Once I walked along, looked inside a hollow tree, and found five. He'd clean them, soak them in salt water, and I'd fry them with onions and potatoes. He was happy when we had enough to take to Minnesota for fall fishing.
I was alone, but I wasn't. The love, support, and prayers of many took me through the night. As soon as we could talk again, JB had me check all the gauges and the mile marker. "You're right where I calculated you'd be. Thank God." Yes, thank God.
JB cautioned that the Tucson exit is tricky. At 4:40 am I was the only vehicle headed west in El Paso, Texas. I couldn't decide which lane I needed to be in, and switched a couple of times. Blue lights flashed. The concerned patrolman asked, "Mam, are you okay?"
"I think so."
"Are you sure you aren't over-tired?"
"Why?"
"You're all over the road."
Oops, I didn't think it prudent to say I was just warming my tires. At the Tucson exit I stopped and took a nap.
"JB, I just passed an eighteen-wheeler on an uphill grade."
"Fantastic," he replied thrilled. Iowa has steeper hills, but Arizona has altitude. When Donna and I hiked the Grand Canyon, my confidence exploded. This trip it doubled. At a rest stop I felt pretty cocky until I saw a tiny, young woman hop into an eighteen-wheeler, and drive off as if it were a convertible.
JB called with the Tucson exit number. Waiting for the train we switched vehicles, hugged tight, and thanked God. He angled into our space at the RV Park, shut it off, and the radiator boiled over. So did the last verse of the 23rd psalm: And surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen. Thank you one and all.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
JB called, "I've got a plan. Tell me your mile marker and read me your gauges. I'll be able to follow you in case I have to come get you." NASCAR drivers have their Crew Chief, JB was mine. He'd see me through. I lightened up; this might be fun.
At six o'clock I waved goodbye to the shop guys and eased onto the road. Overwhelmed, I contemplated sleep. It was too early, and I was wound like a clock. Every step was another challenge. I needed gas. At a high and wide station it took 66 gallons to fill our 100 gallon tank.
Thinking I couldn't possibly stretch my mind or abilities further, I decided it was ridiculous to limit myself. How would I know what I could do with God's help, unless I quit heaving, sighing, and whining, and just do it.
As designated driver, my friends know not to give me more than one direction at a time. I could drive until I got tired, and it would be cooler in the evening. Satisifed my mind had a grasp on the project, I called my Crew Chief, "JB, let's go."
Without hesitation he replied, "Go for it."
I'd love to announce to the NASCAR drivers, "GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!!!!!!!"
Starting the biggest race of my life, I giggled, said it to myself, and took off west on I20. I'm going to win this one!
A glance at the dash rear view camera proved the rear end did follow. I smiled. The engine purred. My confidence started to bloom. JB called often for gauge and mile marker readings. I sang, prayed, and drove into the sunset hopeful.
9:30 pm. At Van Horn, Texas, I pulled off to sleep. My eyes closed but my mind wouldn't shut down. Should I or shouldn't I go on? Ask JB. "Go ahead, if you feel okay with it. I'll stay up all night to track you." His dedication tugged a tear.
"Thanks, JB, I love you." Another deep breath, and I headed into the dark and cell phone dead space.
On the long, quiet road, memories of my ancestors surfaced. Grandpa and Grandma Williamson traveled by covered wagon from Illinois to Kansas and Nebraska when they were children. A child died in each family. They returned to Illinois for commital, and got back on the trail without paving, a map, or A/C. I could do this.
Grandpa and Grandma made the best apple dumplings together. I could taste the crisp lard pie crust outside and soft apple inside with raisins, cinnamon, sugar and butter in the core. Their freezer was filled with the fall harvest we enjoyed all winter. Grandma, a Taurus, loved blue dresses. I tried to get her into red, but there's no waving red at a Taurus bull.
Aunt Bobbe had polio at age six. She grew up to drive the car with hand controls, and live and work away from home. An inspiration, she encouraged me to keep trying, "Don't give up," she would said.
Our dark-haired mother was so pretty. We loved to see her in the red nylon dress she made. Her passion for curiosity and travel inspired us. I would drive the family Ford tractor and two-wheeled trailer across the pasture. Twice around the lone tree in the far corner, and Jani and I were in California.
Over peanut butter and banana sandwiches, with a smidge of orange juice to keep all from sticking to the roof of our mouth, and a jug of water, we dreamed of travel as grownups, and suspected we'd never get as far as Kansas. We were sure the world ended at Fairbury because we didn't know anyone past there.
Mom was such a good cook, Dad never had trouble getting farm help. I wished I had a piece of her grasshopper pie made with creme de minte and ground oreos. The divinity she made at Christmas was perfect: dry on the outside and soft in the center. She said I could barely reach the edge of the table, but before she noticed, I'd sampled all the way around. Peppermint was my favorite. Mom was the best.
I imagined Papa's strong arms on my shoulders helping me drive. He loved mushroom hunting in the fall, and would walk miles to inspect a boxelder tree. Once I walked along, looked inside a hollow tree, and found five. He'd clean them, soak them in salt water, and I'd fry them with onions and potatoes. He was happy when we had enough to take to Minnesota for fall fishing.
I was alone, but I wasn't. The love, support, and prayers of many took me through the night. As soon as we could talk again, JB had me check all the gauges and the mile marker. "You're right where I calculated you'd be. Thank God." Yes, thank God.
JB cautioned that the Tucson exit is tricky. At 4:40 am I was the only vehicle headed west in El Paso, Texas. I couldn't decide which lane I needed to be in, and switched a couple of times. Blue lights flashed. The concerned patrolman asked, "Mam, are you okay?"
"I think so."
"Are you sure you aren't over-tired?"
"Why?"
"You're all over the road."
Oops, I didn't think it prudent to say I was just warming my tires. At the Tucson exit I stopped and took a nap.
"JB, I just passed an eighteen-wheeler on an uphill grade."
"Fantastic," he replied thrilled. Iowa has steeper hills, but Arizona has altitude. When Donna and I hiked the Grand Canyon, my confidence exploded. This trip it doubled. At a rest stop I felt pretty cocky until I saw a tiny, young woman hop into an eighteen-wheeler, and drive off as if it were a convertible.
JB called with the Tucson exit number. Waiting for the train we switched vehicles, hugged tight, and thanked God. He angled into our space at the RV Park, shut it off, and the radiator boiled over. So did the last verse of the 23rd psalm: And surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen. Thank you one and all.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, August 27, 2005
French Lavendar Field
Oh, I wish I were in the south of France to
smell the lavendar. I'd bring some home to use
in herb de Provence for cooking meats, for the
bath, to flavor cookies and cakes, with stems to
decorate my bathroom, to make sachets for my
closet and dresser drawers, and one for my pillow
to soothe me to sleep. Pleasant dreams.
MSN photo
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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