MSN photo
At Hereford, England, we stayed at a BnB that raised 90,000 chicks. Could this isolated hen comprehend that much cackling?.
verse 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
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