Ste. Quentin, France - No money, no room

Driving into France from the east we stopped at Ste. Quentin to exchange dollars for francs and find a room. We don't speak French, and we didn't recognize a bank name. At the Post a man held the door for Minnie. She thanked him. He responded, "You're welcome," in English.

"Stop! Please. We can't find a bank." He paused, looked us over, and asked if we'd follow him. We nodded. At the third bank, Credit Agriculture, he negotiated a VISA draw of dollars for francs. Thank God.

"Where are you staying?" he asked. We didn't have a reservation. "Oh, I can help with that." Taking charge, he called an Auberge near an American cemetery and reserved us a room. Thank God. He smiled, successful a second time.

"What do you plan to see and do?" We were open to suggestions. "You're traveling without destination too?" Shocked, his expression said 'you need a keeper'. Our go-with-the-flow philosophy needed explaining. Each day we put God first and let him lead us. That did it. He realized God was working through him to help us, smiled, took our map, spread it on the hood of our car, and pointed out places of interest. Thank God. Thank you three times Mr. Cache.

We bought him coffee and sat a spell. Between chocolate pastry bites, he shared that he liked visiting San Francisco. We all agreed this wasn't an accidental meeting. By putting God first, everything we needed was provided.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

This is what the cows see when they leave their village for their "summer home."

MSN photo
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Swiss Cows Summer Home

Our cows were underprivileged. They never went anywhere. Like the people of the Midwest United States they stayed put and worked. Our black and whites, Holsteins, provided us with plenty of fresh milk. Mom made butter from the cream. Over-whipped cream made "accidental" butter.

Brown Swiss cows summer in the Alps. With a twinkle in his eye, Papa said their legs were shorter on one side from walking the side of the mountain. Our B&B in Wattens (Vattens), Austria had an empty barn. Kati, our hostess, invited us to the "summer home" for their cows near the top of the Alps. Her husband had driven their dozen cows up the ten miles in May, would stay with them all summer, and drive them down in September wearing wreaths of wild flowers and maybe a small Christmas tree on the top of their head. The community will be so glad to have all the cows and keepers home they'll have a celebration.

So few miles up the mountain took thirty minutes. Where the road ran out we parked, gathered the groceries and walked a path through tall, dense, dark woods for ten minutes. The air was clear, clean, thin and quiet except for the rustle of our bags. In the clearing a rooster announced our arrival. Contented Brown Swiss cows chewed their cud lounging in a 1700's barn. The chalet from the same period had been replaced with a new knotty pine Alpine structure.

Ernst was thrilled to see Kati. Summer is lonesome. There are no near neighbors, and it's just mid-June. While our hostess made her promised cottage cheese pastry we visited with her husband, as best we could. German is their language. He showed us their gently sloping pasture and grazing land. We couldn't fall off or roll down here. Going to the mountain top and looking over didn't interest us. It's too high and steep. We'd need a guide, ropes, etc., but maybe some other time we'll do that.

The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and warm pastry drew us to their table. The dough was soft, the filling grandmotherly, soothing and delicious. We could see mountain tops for about 100 miles and Innsbruck in the Valley. If our flat-land cows were here, would they feel privileged or scared?

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

The Barefoot Pastor & His Bucket of Rocks

He's tall, long-legged and barefoot most of the time. In church he wears shoes, I think. It was his Children's Time presentation that stuck with me.

He folded his long legs to sit on the floor with the kids and dumped out a pail of rocks. The big one was the "God" rock. The smaller rocks all had names representing the different aspects of a person's life: work, play, family, friends, etc. He put the small rocks in first and the big "God" rock last. It didn't fit. It fell off. He dumped the pail out and started over showing them how to put the "God" rock in first then all the others rocks fit. "Life works best when we put God first," he said.

Here at St. Mark's Lutheran Church in Cape Girardeau, Interim Pastor Peter Rupprecht has his bare feet firmly planted in a working faith. I'm so glad he walked barefoot past our campsite and invited me to church.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Here, you have the first bite.

Cape Girardeau's farmer's market is held at the Arena on Wednesday's at 8 AM. I love outdoor markets. They remind me of the slower pace of the "old country." The produce is alive nourishing body and soul.

It's early in the season so I didn't expect much, but I'd been awake since 4 AM, took my mesh market bag, and arrived five minutes before they opened. Tables were spread in a large circle under shade. My first treasure was fresh leeks with six inches of white. Wow! The lady said it took lots of "mounding" like white asparagus does. Quart plastic bags held organized green beans - all lined up with their tips peeking out the top. Cold, sweating brown eggs were the gifts of free-thinking, free-roaming hens whose buffet was on the ground and in the air. I took them gratefully.

Huge Missouri apricots went into my bag. I missed the last box of black raspberries which reminded me I have homemade black raspberry wine in my cellar at home. Last weekend I went to Illers for homegrown blueberries. I'm parceling them out in two-serving batches of cobbler baked in the four-inch cast iron skillet - to die for.

A purple and a green pepper, zucchini and yellow squash, small cucumbers, mixed baby lettuces, vine-ripened tomatoes, and fresh basil filled my bag. We are going to eat like kings.

Four brownies for JB, four chocolate biscotti for me to have with hot tea, and organic pork chops rounded out my shopping. There were other goodies too: honey, soaps and home-grown loofas.

A four-inch, maroon sunflower for a dollar was a must. It's standing in a rootbeer mug on the kitchen counter leaning it's heavy head my way encouraging me to stop and sniff it's secret scent. Nature did good.

There were cookies, breads with herbs or cheese, cinnamon rolls and an angel food cake. An older gentleman was purchasing a sweetroll with cherry filling on top. It looked so good. I kidded him I almost took it out of his hand. With a wide, warm smile and without hesitation, he held it toward me, "Here, you have the first bite." I said no. He insisted. I did. It was a perfectly raised dough and not too sweet. Delicious. Kind sir, thank you for the first bite.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Peace thru fishing

MSN photo

Peace thru fishing.  It's a stock photo, but the guys look a lot like Papa in the front and Jim further out. A nice memory.

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Father's Day at the lake in Minnesota

It was a big deal. We lived all year for our June week of fishing in Minnesota. Good Friday Papa planted potatoes. Shortly thereafter he'd plant #9 peas, green onions, radishes and lettuce.

A backpack is about all I'd need to go around the world, but it took a boat load, literally, for a week of fishing. It's a sport that requires a lot of gear: tackle, life vests, and rain gear that got us wet. It was just a question of whether it was an inside or an outside job: sweat or rain. Papa's five-gallon bucket of earth and collected night crawlers wouldn't always make it. We'd forget and have to remind him they have bait in Minnesota.

I loved to cook at camp which necessitated cooking equipment and food stuffs like tuna, just in case. The perfect Father's Day dinner was new potatoes and peas in a creamed sauce with fresh dill weed, new lettuce with sweet dressing, green onions, fresh caught and fried walleye or crappie, local bakery rye bread and from scratch peach dumplings with ice cream for dessert.

Peach Dumpling Recipe

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

For a 9x13 dish, roll out pie dough and cut into roughly five inch squares. Lay slices of fresh or frozen peaches on each square and sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon. Bring the corners up. Place side by side in a deep baking dish.

Make a syrup of :
1 cup sugar
2 cups boiling water
1/2 cup butter
1 teaspoon almond flavoring
Pour it over the dumplings leaving the tops exposed to brown like a pie crust.
Sprinkle the top with a little cinnamon and sugar.

Bake 350 degrees until crust is golden and peaches tender, about 45 minutes. Serve warm with ice cream. When we could get country cream, that was the ultimate topping.

We joyfully gave Papa cards and presents. Satisified he was properly praised and appreciated, he'd smile, give thanks, hugs and kisses, and retire for a nap. Later we'd do whatever he wanted: cruise the lake, fish, play lawn darts, cards, or go for a ride, and of course, start planning next year's trip. The memory of it all is every bit as sweet as the trip was.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

The Ocean from On High

MSN photo

The view could be from a para-sail. I love the peace and silence suspended in space.

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Parasail With Me

Minnie and I watched a colorful sunset while we dined by the sea in Mazatlan, Mexico. Assorted seafood for two was cooked on a grill at our table and served with a twist of lime. Delicious. Our waiter suggested we go para-sailing, but before ten in the morning, "Once the wind comes up, it can be hazardous." I had to try.

Fastened in harness

rope tied to boat

to follow their instructions

was foolish hope

With giggles and tickles

sylphs lift me high

to music and angels

not heard below

Cut the engine

slack the line

pull the rope

I try, I try

Yells and screams

far below

pull, come down

before you blow

Oops, in the water

up to my knees

undines delighted

I paid their fees

Pulling the rope to let the air out of the parachute was harder than I thought, but to experience weightlessness was worth it.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

MSN photo

Good afternoon. 

He looks rather pleasant, but I've learned to never turn my back on his kind.

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Pantheistic

The dictionary states that "it is the belief in all or many deities." And for me, it's  my love of pots and pans I store in my motorhome oven.

One winter we rented a small apartment that had little kitchen cupboard space. Out of habit I stored the cast iron skillets, cookie sheets and cooking pots in the oven. Why not? A friend said his mother stored her empty refrigerator dishes in the refrigerator.

I mixed up cornbread. When I went to get the skillet out of the cold oven, I looked at those empty pots and pans that were used to being hot and left them where they were. The cornbread baked among them.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Marie Tussaud's London Wax Museum

In the cool semi-darkness of the Musuem, the "wax work" makes the Royals and other important people look alive. I expected them to unpose. Up close and personal they're not nearly as large as their importance had led me to believe.

Studying the semi-circle of African leaders I read each name and looked at each face. One, from a country I'd never heard of, grinned back at me. I gasped, turned to strangers beside me and asked if they'd noticed. They nodded equally shaken. Was he alive or was he wax? Even the pores of their skin have been replicated. Shocked, I had to sit down.

Dressed in my black hat, black coat and black boots I was collecting my thoughts when someone bent over to look in my face. I looked up. They gasped and jumped back. Gotcha!

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Louisiana Ditch Friends

My love and I sat on the curb with but an alligator between us, chopped up in little pieces and deep-fried; tastey.

Driving home we caught the full moon glistening off something shiny in the Interstate ditch. It moved. We turned, went back, and found three people milling around a van with a broken tie rod. No one was hurt.

We waited for the wrecker with our new "ditch friends" and were amazed at what we learned. Their hobby was African big game hunting, and they had the pictures to prove it. They were married in Africa, and invited us to go on their next hunt. It seems so far away, out of reach. But we could go sometime. We should. We could make more friends.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series