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
Sunday, October 30, 2005
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
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Do peahens sneeze?
Little sister's name is Janis, Jani, or Minnie. Driving us out of Austria over Brenner Pass into Italy she complained of fever and chills. I felt her forehead. She was burning up. At a rest stop where everyone stood for a cup of coffee, we asked for help, but couldn't make ourselves understood - we don't speak Italian.
At Trento an English speaking man directed us to a hospital, but it was an orthopedic. At 4 o'clock an ambulance transported her to the general hospital. I rode along worried about her and how we'd get back to our car.
X-rays revealed nothing. They frowned and shook their heads. Maybe it was the "fern," something to do with wind and altitude. At five they dismissed her with a prescription for penicillin, and orders to drink lots of water.
She wasn't in walking shape. We poked along. Not a straight line from the hospital to the car, we searched, stopped often so she could rest, and found it right were we'd left it, unlocked, but with nothing missing. Thank God.
Checking into a small hotel at Verona, I understood dinner was at seven. Jani went to bed. At seven I went to the dining room. No one was there. I wouldn't get veal parmesan and tiramisu tonight. Maybe the help went to dinner at seven. Oh, I wished I spoke Italian.
In our room we ate our leftover lunch of croissant sandwiches and an apple, and watched an old black and white Gregory Peck movie dubbed in Italian. A game show followed awarding mops and asparagus. With her eyes closed and her voice weak, Minnie said, "I hear it's pretty in Iowa this time of year." She gets homesick; I could gone on and on.
While the "big boots of penicillin" stomped out her fever, I prayed. I didn't want her to die here or anywhere, even if she is a pissant at times. Feeling guilty, I left to procure chicken soup.
After updating our travel diary, I washed socks and hung them on our portable line like the catch-of-the-day. Yes, they were keepers. I have a problem with socks. They disappear between the foot of the bed and the washing machine, in it, and else where. I suspect I'm a "sock-seeder." Is there a support group? JB says I should number them. Right, would #5 come when I call?
The second day her fever broke. She felt well enough to sit in the yard under the grape arbor, sip chicken soup, and watch the peacocks strut and fan their gorgeous tail feathers with the brilliant turquoise and blue iridescent eyes on the ends. Their dull brown peahen mates rolled on the ground to take a dust bath. Minnie asked, "Do peahens sneeze?"
Unusual questions run in the family. Minnie's four-year old son, Andy, asked his nine-year old brother, Sean, what the big truck was. Sean looked at the Mayflower Moving Van and replied, "That's who Columbus called when he wanted to move to America." They come by it honestly.
Day three Minnie got out of bed and showered. "How do you feel?"
"Good enough to sit in the back seat and kick the front."
"Time to go, pissant."
We still don't know if peahens sneeze.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At Trento an English speaking man directed us to a hospital, but it was an orthopedic. At 4 o'clock an ambulance transported her to the general hospital. I rode along worried about her and how we'd get back to our car.
X-rays revealed nothing. They frowned and shook their heads. Maybe it was the "fern," something to do with wind and altitude. At five they dismissed her with a prescription for penicillin, and orders to drink lots of water.
She wasn't in walking shape. We poked along. Not a straight line from the hospital to the car, we searched, stopped often so she could rest, and found it right were we'd left it, unlocked, but with nothing missing. Thank God.
Checking into a small hotel at Verona, I understood dinner was at seven. Jani went to bed. At seven I went to the dining room. No one was there. I wouldn't get veal parmesan and tiramisu tonight. Maybe the help went to dinner at seven. Oh, I wished I spoke Italian.
In our room we ate our leftover lunch of croissant sandwiches and an apple, and watched an old black and white Gregory Peck movie dubbed in Italian. A game show followed awarding mops and asparagus. With her eyes closed and her voice weak, Minnie said, "I hear it's pretty in Iowa this time of year." She gets homesick; I could gone on and on.
While the "big boots of penicillin" stomped out her fever, I prayed. I didn't want her to die here or anywhere, even if she is a pissant at times. Feeling guilty, I left to procure chicken soup.
After updating our travel diary, I washed socks and hung them on our portable line like the catch-of-the-day. Yes, they were keepers. I have a problem with socks. They disappear between the foot of the bed and the washing machine, in it, and else where. I suspect I'm a "sock-seeder." Is there a support group? JB says I should number them. Right, would #5 come when I call?
The second day her fever broke. She felt well enough to sit in the yard under the grape arbor, sip chicken soup, and watch the peacocks strut and fan their gorgeous tail feathers with the brilliant turquoise and blue iridescent eyes on the ends. Their dull brown peahen mates rolled on the ground to take a dust bath. Minnie asked, "Do peahens sneeze?"
Unusual questions run in the family. Minnie's four-year old son, Andy, asked his nine-year old brother, Sean, what the big truck was. Sean looked at the Mayflower Moving Van and replied, "That's who Columbus called when he wanted to move to America." They come by it honestly.
Day three Minnie got out of bed and showered. "How do you feel?"
"Good enough to sit in the back seat and kick the front."
"Time to go, pissant."
We still don't know if peahens sneeze.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 4 - Biscuits, Bullets'n Backpack
I like the unusual. When my girls were little they helped mix graham flour and honey, and spread it on a cookie sheet to bake. Cooled and ground we had grapenuts. We learned appreciation for the store-bought version.
For the hike, I packed freeze-dried meals and energy bars, but kept my options open to other foods. A friend told me about a recipe for biscuits Roman soldiers took into battle for nourishment.
Using the coffee grinder and blender, I pulverized the wheat George brought, added honey, mixed, and plopped mounds on a cookie sheet to bake. How long? Until I was satisfied. I felt primitive, excited to bring the past to life. Warm, we could eat them. Cold, they turned hard as bullets. We couldn't break a piece off, and we don't own a battle axe. I eased them into the trash, as if they'd go off. It didn't matter. I couldn't hit anything anyway. So much for that experiment.
To get a "feel" for the pack, I wore it empty around the house. When the snow and ice melted, I wore it walking. Each week I added gear. The full pack with sleeping bag and mat weighed twenty-five pounds, and my hiking boots weighed five. The whole "outfit" was hot and heavy, and this was flat land, but I had to condition. My kids looked puzzled and scared, "Mom, why are you doing this?"
"...because I said I would. Won't you be proud of me when I accomplish it?" They looked more pained than proud.
We heard people were betting for and against our success. Drag-out fees are expensive, especialy if a helicopter is needed. The 18 to 25 year-old males have the most problems. They don't know their pace. Not male, past 25, and not about to give up, I pre-addressed labels for the betters postcards, and prayed the losers would have to pay up.
Time to pack. I laid everything out on the bed that went in the backpack: large plastic bag to double as a raincoat, a change of clothes, chapstick, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, sunscreen, small plastic bags, a squashed roll of toilet paper, baby wipes, camera, film, diary, pen, mess kit, canteen, knife made from B52 and shield, dehydrated soups, energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, matches, two bottles of water, and prayers others asked me to carry to the Canyon floor. Donna would have the same plus the tent and firecrackers in case of emergency.
The list is so long, no wonder the pack is heavy. And I had a first aid kit, candles, flashlight, aspirin, and moleskin for those blisters.
Just for a picture, I put on all the gear and George's coonskin cap with horns and smiled. The pith helmet was too hot and heavy and I passed on the spats.
Papa and George took me to the Lincoln Airport in the rain. Papa said, "You're doing this backwards: fly, bus, drive, walk." We hugged and prayed. He fought tears. I bit my lip.
"I'll call you as soon as I get to Donna's." This was it. As I walked away, it hit me. What if I didn't make it back alive? I turned, went back, hugged Papa, and told him the words I wanted him to remember me by, "I love you."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
For the hike, I packed freeze-dried meals and energy bars, but kept my options open to other foods. A friend told me about a recipe for biscuits Roman soldiers took into battle for nourishment.
Using the coffee grinder and blender, I pulverized the wheat George brought, added honey, mixed, and plopped mounds on a cookie sheet to bake. How long? Until I was satisfied. I felt primitive, excited to bring the past to life. Warm, we could eat them. Cold, they turned hard as bullets. We couldn't break a piece off, and we don't own a battle axe. I eased them into the trash, as if they'd go off. It didn't matter. I couldn't hit anything anyway. So much for that experiment.
To get a "feel" for the pack, I wore it empty around the house. When the snow and ice melted, I wore it walking. Each week I added gear. The full pack with sleeping bag and mat weighed twenty-five pounds, and my hiking boots weighed five. The whole "outfit" was hot and heavy, and this was flat land, but I had to condition. My kids looked puzzled and scared, "Mom, why are you doing this?"
"...because I said I would. Won't you be proud of me when I accomplish it?" They looked more pained than proud.
We heard people were betting for and against our success. Drag-out fees are expensive, especialy if a helicopter is needed. The 18 to 25 year-old males have the most problems. They don't know their pace. Not male, past 25, and not about to give up, I pre-addressed labels for the betters postcards, and prayed the losers would have to pay up.
Time to pack. I laid everything out on the bed that went in the backpack: large plastic bag to double as a raincoat, a change of clothes, chapstick, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, sunscreen, small plastic bags, a squashed roll of toilet paper, baby wipes, camera, film, diary, pen, mess kit, canteen, knife made from B52 and shield, dehydrated soups, energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, matches, two bottles of water, and prayers others asked me to carry to the Canyon floor. Donna would have the same plus the tent and firecrackers in case of emergency.
The list is so long, no wonder the pack is heavy. And I had a first aid kit, candles, flashlight, aspirin, and moleskin for those blisters.
Just for a picture, I put on all the gear and George's coonskin cap with horns and smiled. The pith helmet was too hot and heavy and I passed on the spats.
Papa and George took me to the Lincoln Airport in the rain. Papa said, "You're doing this backwards: fly, bus, drive, walk." We hugged and prayed. He fought tears. I bit my lip.
"I'll call you as soon as I get to Donna's." This was it. As I walked away, it hit me. What if I didn't make it back alive? I turned, went back, hugged Papa, and told him the words I wanted him to remember me by, "I love you."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
'Go where the cars are, make "square prayer"
Although I was raised Presbyterian, when we're on the road, I dress up on Sunday and go where I see lots of cars. I love learning what's sacred to people, how they worship, and joining my voice with theirs in praise, thanks, and prayer.
One person praying is one person's energy. When two or more pray the number squares itself: square prayer. Three people's prayer energy equals nine; 9,000 people x 9,000 is 81,000,000.
In Presbyterian Sunday School I learned Jesus loves me. At the age of four I invited him into my life. I'd lay in bed with my arm raised, palm up, in hopes he'd touch me. It got all tingly. I think it just went to sleep.
Before I understood I could talk to God and Jesus anywhere, I felt lost when my church was locked. My Catholic friend's church was always open. I appreciated I could go to theirs to pray.
Catholic Saints and novenas help me. Saint Jude is the Saint of Impossible Situations (capitalized to specify really big problems). For his intercession, I gave up chocolate for nine days. Everything looked like chocolate, even my tires. Not eating my friend's chocolate birthday cake hurt her feelings. I wanted to, but I had to stay true to my novena. When I explained it to Lori, she understood. With Saint Jude's help my issue was resolved. Thanks again.
When my grandmother needed nursing home care, no space was available. On August 15th, Mother Mary's Day, I went to mass early with a friend. After lunch we got a call that space was available. Thank you.
Aug. 15th was my friend, Lee's birthday. I'd known him since he was twelve. Mom taught him in country school. He passed on last year, but I still hold his friendship dear. Happy Birthday Lee, you are still loved.
Through visiting other churches, I realized I was buttoned down. If I had a problem, I didn't want anyone to know. Once I accepted that everyone has problems, I understood it's okay to ask for help and other's prayers, and do the same for them; we're all in this together.
In the Deep South I found the people open, warmer, and friendly. A Louisiana Pastor invited us to come to the front with our problems so he and others could pray. I gave up trying to resolve mine with just my prayers, took it to the front, they prayed, and I waited, a bit skeptical. The very next day it resolved. Now I ask for and accept all the help I can get. Thank you all.
The most alive I've felt in any church was in Macon, Georgia. Maria invited me to sit in the front row. The music and spoken inspiration fueled us for five hours. At 2:30 pm the Bishop came to me with huge, soft eyes, and said, "MJ, God is watching over your writing. Your books will be published and you will prosper." I gasped. He put his hands on my head and asked the congregation to pray with him. Thank you one and all.
After church I had a call from my friend, Diane, in Idaho. "HRH, our pet name for each other, what's going on? I felt you clear out here."
"Prayer power." I related all and she was thrilled; we champion each other. When I had a death in my family she said, "Put Mother Mary to work. Ask her to wrap you in her Blue Cloak and give you comfort and peace." I did. Mother Mary did. Thank you. Now that I "know her," I put her to work for others.
Today is 8/15, Mother Mary's Day. I'm going to mass to celebrate her and ask her intercession to find you, Publisher. 'maeannj at alltel.net' All prayers for such are appreciated.
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
One person praying is one person's energy. When two or more pray the number squares itself: square prayer. Three people's prayer energy equals nine; 9,000 people x 9,000 is 81,000,000.
In Presbyterian Sunday School I learned Jesus loves me. At the age of four I invited him into my life. I'd lay in bed with my arm raised, palm up, in hopes he'd touch me. It got all tingly. I think it just went to sleep.
Before I understood I could talk to God and Jesus anywhere, I felt lost when my church was locked. My Catholic friend's church was always open. I appreciated I could go to theirs to pray.
Catholic Saints and novenas help me. Saint Jude is the Saint of Impossible Situations (capitalized to specify really big problems). For his intercession, I gave up chocolate for nine days. Everything looked like chocolate, even my tires. Not eating my friend's chocolate birthday cake hurt her feelings. I wanted to, but I had to stay true to my novena. When I explained it to Lori, she understood. With Saint Jude's help my issue was resolved. Thanks again.
When my grandmother needed nursing home care, no space was available. On August 15th, Mother Mary's Day, I went to mass early with a friend. After lunch we got a call that space was available. Thank you.
Aug. 15th was my friend, Lee's birthday. I'd known him since he was twelve. Mom taught him in country school. He passed on last year, but I still hold his friendship dear. Happy Birthday Lee, you are still loved.
Through visiting other churches, I realized I was buttoned down. If I had a problem, I didn't want anyone to know. Once I accepted that everyone has problems, I understood it's okay to ask for help and other's prayers, and do the same for them; we're all in this together.
In the Deep South I found the people open, warmer, and friendly. A Louisiana Pastor invited us to come to the front with our problems so he and others could pray. I gave up trying to resolve mine with just my prayers, took it to the front, they prayed, and I waited, a bit skeptical. The very next day it resolved. Now I ask for and accept all the help I can get. Thank you all.
The most alive I've felt in any church was in Macon, Georgia. Maria invited me to sit in the front row. The music and spoken inspiration fueled us for five hours. At 2:30 pm the Bishop came to me with huge, soft eyes, and said, "MJ, God is watching over your writing. Your books will be published and you will prosper." I gasped. He put his hands on my head and asked the congregation to pray with him. Thank you one and all.
After church I had a call from my friend, Diane, in Idaho. "HRH, our pet name for each other, what's going on? I felt you clear out here."
"Prayer power." I related all and she was thrilled; we champion each other. When I had a death in my family she said, "Put Mother Mary to work. Ask her to wrap you in her Blue Cloak and give you comfort and peace." I did. Mother Mary did. Thank you. Now that I "know her," I put her to work for others.
Today is 8/15, Mother Mary's Day. I'm going to mass to celebrate her and ask her intercession to find you, Publisher. 'maeannj at alltel.net' All prayers for such are appreciated.
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, August 13, 2005
50 cent Stage Coach Ride
A week at Fort Robinson in Northwest Nebraska topped our August vacation list every other year for twenty years. Stripped pine trees placed in a semi-circle inside a semi-circle, with the branches laid across the top, made shade - a squaw cooler the Indians used for sacred ceremonies. Seeing it standing made our nights eerie.
There's a lot to do. In the dark blue night Minnie and I gazed at the sky jam packed with stars. We took bumpy jeep rides to the top of the bluffs, rode horses through the pasture, watched the buffalo eat at their prairie buffet, took in the melodrama with boos and hisses, ate buffalo stew at the cookout by the creek, and laughed at the rodeo "hide ride:" a cowboy and his horse pulled a buffalo hide around the arena with little kids on it. They'd roll under it, but wouldn't let go - a great opportunity for a soap commercial.
The entertainer for the buffalo cookout invited us to his authentic Pine Ridge Indian teepee. Without street lights, the full moon guided us to it's silhouette on the prairie. Inside, he strummed his guitar and sang while his wife popped corn over the pit in the center the toddler stumbled around. We sang along. Timelessness shattered when she poured the popped corn into a plastic bowl.
We've stayed in the leather-smelling rooms at the lodge wishing the walls would talk. For Papa's August 13th birthday we stayed in an enlisted men's house in the center room. Everyone had to go through it to and from the bathroom, and everytime they did, they sang happy birthday.
The Officer's Quarters adobe duplexes have a hard wood central hall the officers used for dances. To keep up morale, keep them civilized, they made weekly visits to other officers. We didn't dance, but the kids had fun slidding in their stocking feet.
My sister's and my favorite activity involved the fifty-cent stage coach ride. We'd hang around the barn until passengers thinned out, then tip the driver to run the mules. He'd race across the prairie, through the creek, and back. We'd bounce around the springless-stage, and laugh so hard our bewildered family could hear us back at the barn. We had so much fun, and it felt so good when he stopped.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
There's a lot to do. In the dark blue night Minnie and I gazed at the sky jam packed with stars. We took bumpy jeep rides to the top of the bluffs, rode horses through the pasture, watched the buffalo eat at their prairie buffet, took in the melodrama with boos and hisses, ate buffalo stew at the cookout by the creek, and laughed at the rodeo "hide ride:" a cowboy and his horse pulled a buffalo hide around the arena with little kids on it. They'd roll under it, but wouldn't let go - a great opportunity for a soap commercial.
The entertainer for the buffalo cookout invited us to his authentic Pine Ridge Indian teepee. Without street lights, the full moon guided us to it's silhouette on the prairie. Inside, he strummed his guitar and sang while his wife popped corn over the pit in the center the toddler stumbled around. We sang along. Timelessness shattered when she poured the popped corn into a plastic bowl.
We've stayed in the leather-smelling rooms at the lodge wishing the walls would talk. For Papa's August 13th birthday we stayed in an enlisted men's house in the center room. Everyone had to go through it to and from the bathroom, and everytime they did, they sang happy birthday.
The Officer's Quarters adobe duplexes have a hard wood central hall the officers used for dances. To keep up morale, keep them civilized, they made weekly visits to other officers. We didn't dance, but the kids had fun slidding in their stocking feet.
My sister's and my favorite activity involved the fifty-cent stage coach ride. We'd hang around the barn until passengers thinned out, then tip the driver to run the mules. He'd race across the prairie, through the creek, and back. We'd bounce around the springless-stage, and laugh so hard our bewildered family could hear us back at the barn. We had so much fun, and it felt so good when he stopped.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Her Own Pit Crew - part 2 - MS fig jam & Iowa bread
Monday morning no one came to help me move the motorhome to the repairshop, but the 23rd Psalm continued to unfold. He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. I told myself not to waste time blaming or get crabby with the repairman. This is the hand I was dealt. Trust.
Behind the wheel, I eased onto the road thankful it was a short trip to the shop. The RV Manager put it in a bay to diagnose. It had more problems than a whole wagon train. For one, the vacuum pulley had frozen causing the brake problems. Ahha, it wasn't my imagination.
Learning the repairs would take a few days, I thought of the English: in times of stress, make tea; organize the kettle. I had fresh Mississippi figs in the refer. Dorothy had given me a box of JELL-O, and the shop secretary gave me 3 cups of sugar. I made jam rather than tea, and defrosted a loaf of homemade, whole-wheat bread I'd bought in Iowa, while the repairmen tore a bay window-sized hole in the engine. At afternoon break fresh jam and bread put a smile on everyone's face.
At closing the boss informed me I would spend the night in the Bounder Hotel locked in the shop. No! I panicked. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. I was alone, but I wasn't. JB said, "get busy with something."
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. The mouse, where's the mouse that adopted us in Iowa, and shows up from time to time dancing through the motorhome? Was it an enemy? Not really, more of a show-off. It could have escaped today, but I wanted company. Calmed by the Psalm and JB's words of encouragement, I did bookwork and my great-aunt Nora act: do everything early except die. And went to bed.
Early Tuesday morning I put shampoo in my hair before I remembered I didn't have any water. Thou annointest my head with oil. God has an answer for everything. At noon the secretary invited me to lunch with her and her husband. Thank you. Everyone was watching out for me. My cup runneth over.
Wednesday by 5:30 all parts were replaced without pieces left over. "Let's test drive it," the manager said. Everything worked, and now for the bill. If this was my grandparents wagon, they might have had to pay with Grandma's pearls. I used plastic and hoped it wouldn't take too long to pay off.
Behind the wheel, I eased onto the road thankful it was a short trip to the shop. The RV Manager put it in a bay to diagnose. It had more problems than a whole wagon train. For one, the vacuum pulley had frozen causing the brake problems. Ahha, it wasn't my imagination.
Learning the repairs would take a few days, I thought of the English: in times of stress, make tea; organize the kettle. I had fresh Mississippi figs in the refer. Dorothy had given me a box of JELL-O, and the shop secretary gave me 3 cups of sugar. I made jam rather than tea, and defrosted a loaf of homemade, whole-wheat bread I'd bought in Iowa, while the repairmen tore a bay window-sized hole in the engine. At afternoon break fresh jam and bread put a smile on everyone's face.
At closing the boss informed me I would spend the night in the Bounder Hotel locked in the shop. No! I panicked. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. I was alone, but I wasn't. JB said, "get busy with something."
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. The mouse, where's the mouse that adopted us in Iowa, and shows up from time to time dancing through the motorhome? Was it an enemy? Not really, more of a show-off. It could have escaped today, but I wanted company. Calmed by the Psalm and JB's words of encouragement, I did bookwork and my great-aunt Nora act: do everything early except die. And went to bed.
Early Tuesday morning I put shampoo in my hair before I remembered I didn't have any water. Thou annointest my head with oil. God has an answer for everything. At noon the secretary invited me to lunch with her and her husband. Thank you. Everyone was watching out for me. My cup runneth over.
Wednesday by 5:30 all parts were replaced without pieces left over. "Let's test drive it," the manager said. Everything worked, and now for the bill. If this was my grandparents wagon, they might have had to pay with Grandma's pearls. I used plastic and hoped it wouldn't take too long to pay off.
At 6 p.m. they turned me loose to fend for myself. I gave the Manager a jar of jam. He gave me a hug and a prayer. Behind the wheel, too scared to move, I wanted to stay, but God said no, you're needed in Tucson.
(watch for part 3)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Wiliamson's, those "rowdy" border folk
Leaving Cherbourg, France, we drove onto the ferry last. I'm told it's a five hour trip. I don't know, I took a nap.
We exited the ferry first at Portsmouth, England. It's true, if everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. "Left, drive left," my sister yelled as we clumsily emerged into traffic. Disoriented, I drove right through the middle of the first roundabout. Flat bricks in a circle didn't mean a thing. Fortunately the locals stopped.
Getting the hang of it, we made our way along the coast. The map says there is a place called "Land's End," but we didn't go that far. At home, "Land's End" is a clothing catalog.
Near Dorchester we found a thatched roof B&B. After stating our given names our hosts asked our family name. Being of mutt heritage, half Swedish and a mix of English and German, we haven't placed a lot of emphasis on our "family name," but the English do. It determines where a person can and can't go. We paused, thought, and said Grandpa's innocent name, " Williamson." Wrong! They were the rowdy border folk (between Scotland and England), always making trouble. (We wouldn't be "doing" the living room.)
Shocking! Our sweet, gentle, always ready to rescue us, Grandpa wasn't rowdy. He was fun, tricky, asking Grandma at every meal if she wanted milk. She hadn't drank it since childhood. At the table he swiped bread and jam from his neighbor, and felt disappointed if no one swiped his. His favorite trick was squeezing the cake in our hand, but rowdy he wasn't.
In spite of our "low birth," they invited us to stay, and made sure we always had a tea tray and water in our room. Our host served a breakfast of cereal, coffee, toast, jam and honey, and his wife graciously allowed us to do laundry. We did our best to stay mild-mannered, polite, and quiet in their home.
At the local pub we ate fish and chips and laughed with two English couples. They said, "You're a bit rowdy." Either there's no escaping our heritage, or they'd already heard about our "family name," maybe even thought it was a joke. Whatever, we're still proud of our Grandpa Williamson.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We exited the ferry first at Portsmouth, England. It's true, if everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. "Left, drive left," my sister yelled as we clumsily emerged into traffic. Disoriented, I drove right through the middle of the first roundabout. Flat bricks in a circle didn't mean a thing. Fortunately the locals stopped.
Getting the hang of it, we made our way along the coast. The map says there is a place called "Land's End," but we didn't go that far. At home, "Land's End" is a clothing catalog.
Near Dorchester we found a thatched roof B&B. After stating our given names our hosts asked our family name. Being of mutt heritage, half Swedish and a mix of English and German, we haven't placed a lot of emphasis on our "family name," but the English do. It determines where a person can and can't go. We paused, thought, and said Grandpa's innocent name, " Williamson." Wrong! They were the rowdy border folk (between Scotland and England), always making trouble. (We wouldn't be "doing" the living room.)
Shocking! Our sweet, gentle, always ready to rescue us, Grandpa wasn't rowdy. He was fun, tricky, asking Grandma at every meal if she wanted milk. She hadn't drank it since childhood. At the table he swiped bread and jam from his neighbor, and felt disappointed if no one swiped his. His favorite trick was squeezing the cake in our hand, but rowdy he wasn't.
In spite of our "low birth," they invited us to stay, and made sure we always had a tea tray and water in our room. Our host served a breakfast of cereal, coffee, toast, jam and honey, and his wife graciously allowed us to do laundry. We did our best to stay mild-mannered, polite, and quiet in their home.
At the local pub we ate fish and chips and laughed with two English couples. They said, "You're a bit rowdy." Either there's no escaping our heritage, or they'd already heard about our "family name," maybe even thought it was a joke. Whatever, we're still proud of our Grandpa Williamson.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, August 05, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 3 - a hole in one
Eastern Nebraska is flat with gentle rolling hills. I broke in my hiking boots walking in town in the winter. The first time I went out, I bundled up and promptly did the nasty: sweat. Thereafter, I layered. When the weather warmed up, I walked two miles to the cemetery to water the flowers. Papa came to pick me up, but hesitated telling anyone he went to the cemetery to collect his wife. In my fifteenth mile, I walked a hole in one sock.
Growing stronger by the day, I took to the countryside with the walking stick Papa made. A man from the area offered me a ride. I declined. "But, you're miles from anywhere."
"I know. It's where I need to be." I smiled and kept walking. He drove off shaking his head and muttering something about "women." I needed to strengthen my body and grow accustomed to solitary effort.
Donna's job with the Forest Service conditioned her. She applied for our permits in March. In the summer she received confirmation of three-day passes for September, and learned that people doing the mule ride make reservations up to two years in advance.
At a walking pace, I discovered a mouse house in a discarded pop can. Yellow, sweet-smelling wild flowers from the ditch graced our table and reminded us of the slower, sit-on-the-porch, way of life. I appreciated everything and everyone more.
Watching the sweetcorn grow from a sprout, I knew by the smell when it was ready to eat. The racoons did too and staged late-nite heists. If I'd walked at night, I could have heard the leaves twist and pop as the corn grew, but might not have heard the tricksters at work. Anticipating fresh corn for dinner, I picked up the pace back to town to shop at the Farmer's Market and also buy Lillian's fruit-filled kolaches.
My kolache recipe makes ninety and takes all day. Now I buy them from Lillian who's baked them for over seventy years. Her kitchen has yeast in the air which benefits each new batch. Author William Faulkner took his office doorknob with him when he went in to work. Lillian uses a doorknob to make the indentation in the dough for the filling.
Right now I wish I had a doorknob I could turn, write undisturbed, and eat kolaches to my heart's content: apricot, cherry, prune, poppyseed, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, cottage cheese and raisins, and peach. With some lunch meat, I could hole up for days.
It's not to be. I can't stop walking and write now, I'll do that after the trip. I must keep walking. I've darned my "hole-in-one" and another. We're at count-down. I leave for Donna's in ten days.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Growing stronger by the day, I took to the countryside with the walking stick Papa made. A man from the area offered me a ride. I declined. "But, you're miles from anywhere."
"I know. It's where I need to be." I smiled and kept walking. He drove off shaking his head and muttering something about "women." I needed to strengthen my body and grow accustomed to solitary effort.
Donna's job with the Forest Service conditioned her. She applied for our permits in March. In the summer she received confirmation of three-day passes for September, and learned that people doing the mule ride make reservations up to two years in advance.
At a walking pace, I discovered a mouse house in a discarded pop can. Yellow, sweet-smelling wild flowers from the ditch graced our table and reminded us of the slower, sit-on-the-porch, way of life. I appreciated everything and everyone more.
Watching the sweetcorn grow from a sprout, I knew by the smell when it was ready to eat. The racoons did too and staged late-nite heists. If I'd walked at night, I could have heard the leaves twist and pop as the corn grew, but might not have heard the tricksters at work. Anticipating fresh corn for dinner, I picked up the pace back to town to shop at the Farmer's Market and also buy Lillian's fruit-filled kolaches.
My kolache recipe makes ninety and takes all day. Now I buy them from Lillian who's baked them for over seventy years. Her kitchen has yeast in the air which benefits each new batch. Author William Faulkner took his office doorknob with him when he went in to work. Lillian uses a doorknob to make the indentation in the dough for the filling.
Right now I wish I had a doorknob I could turn, write undisturbed, and eat kolaches to my heart's content: apricot, cherry, prune, poppyseed, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, cottage cheese and raisins, and peach. With some lunch meat, I could hole up for days.
It's not to be. I can't stop walking and write now, I'll do that after the trip. I must keep walking. I've darned my "hole-in-one" and another. We're at count-down. I leave for Donna's in ten days.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Wales leeks
No, it doesn't have a hole in it, leeks are a vegetable. But what influence does a name have? My friend named her son Rusty before she knew he didn't have sweat glands. If she'd named him oil like they say it in the south, Earl, would his sweat glands have worked?
At Mold we drove to a rural B&B through a mass of thickets on a narrow, old road worn to a ditch five feet below the cleared fields. I don't know why they don't clear the road, Papa could help with his little Ford tractor.
In the Jones's huge farm kitchen we learned about leeks and fresh eggs on their counter. "If the eggs have never been refrigerated, we don't refrigerate them."
Over tea, our gracious hosts explained the high esteem for leeks. "It's our National Emblem along with the daffodil. Worn on the soldiers caps going into battle, it distinguished them from their foes, and they won. On St. David's Day leeks are worn and eaten raw. From the onion family, the white of the leek is the result of 'mounding' the soil around it which requires thorough washing before using. The small ones are the most tender."
The French call leeks "poor man's asparagus." In Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat, she shares a recipe for leek soup to shed pounds when their bodies can't pass the zipper test. And they have a piece of dark chocolate every day - my kind of menu.
Now that I've tried them, I like leeks raw and in place of onions, and I'm not even Welsh. In Suzanne Somers Fast & Easy she uses leeks with chicken for a stew with cream cheese - satisfying on a cold day.
Now remember, if you're asked a trivia question about a leek, if it's spelled "leak," it's a hole in something. If it's spelled "leek," it's the vegetable held in high regard by the Welsh.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At Mold we drove to a rural B&B through a mass of thickets on a narrow, old road worn to a ditch five feet below the cleared fields. I don't know why they don't clear the road, Papa could help with his little Ford tractor.
In the Jones's huge farm kitchen we learned about leeks and fresh eggs on their counter. "If the eggs have never been refrigerated, we don't refrigerate them."
Over tea, our gracious hosts explained the high esteem for leeks. "It's our National Emblem along with the daffodil. Worn on the soldiers caps going into battle, it distinguished them from their foes, and they won. On St. David's Day leeks are worn and eaten raw. From the onion family, the white of the leek is the result of 'mounding' the soil around it which requires thorough washing before using. The small ones are the most tender."
The French call leeks "poor man's asparagus." In Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat, she shares a recipe for leek soup to shed pounds when their bodies can't pass the zipper test. And they have a piece of dark chocolate every day - my kind of menu.
Now that I've tried them, I like leeks raw and in place of onions, and I'm not even Welsh. In Suzanne Somers Fast & Easy she uses leeks with chicken for a stew with cream cheese - satisfying on a cold day.
Now remember, if you're asked a trivia question about a leek, if it's spelled "leak," it's a hole in something. If it's spelled "leek," it's the vegetable held in high regard by the Welsh.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 29, 2005
Her Own Pit Crew - part 1
"We're doing it again, following a wrecker towing our motorhome. Ah, but the scenery is different: Mississippi was hot, humid and green; Texas is hot, dry and brown. Maybe we aren't prayed up?"
"Maybe we are. It could have been worse," JB replied from deep-thought mode. It's Saturday. Repairs can't begin until Monday. We need to be in Tucson, Arizona, Sunday evening by six - 635 miles away.
At Big Springs, Texas, the king-sized wrecker deposited our forty-footer, minus it's drive shaft with scattered bearings, at Rip Giffin's Texas-sized parking lot. Seeing no alternative, in his soft, Southern voice JB asked, "Could you stay behind, get it repaired, and drive it the rest of the way?"
I don't believe it! I've driven this forty-footer once with him in the passenger seat. Shocked, barely audible, I responded, "You want me to do what?"
"I'll come back and get you, if you can't," he assured.
With my guts in a knot, it took everything in me to say without choking, "I'll do my best."
Sunday morning, driving my car towing his, JB left for Tucson with a week's clothes, water, a can of smoked oysters, and some crackers. Left behind, I wilted knowing I couldn't do the job alone. When all else fails, consult the Master. While I prayed, the 23rd Psalm came apart: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Hmm, that's encouraging.
He makes me lie down in green pastures. I looked at His pasture: asphalt and light poles; the horizon interrupted by oil wells perched like greedy grasshoppers sucking rich black syrup; a humming Freightliner to my left radiating cow-calf security. Thank you.
Alone, a little housework , nonstop munching on cheese, crackers, lunch meat, apples, walnuts and cookies - anything not nailed down, and calling everybody I knew for support, I managed to make it through the afternoon, but nothing eased my panic.
The wrecker man replaced the drive shaft with new, well-behaved bearings. I called JB. He'd stopped for gas, and opened the can of oysters. I couldn't imagine eating them while driving and not spilling them, but he could better. "Just drive it around the parking lot to get a feel."
"You know it takes three-hundred pounds more than me to stop it." Terrified, I shook my head in disbelief that I could possibly drive it to Tucson.
I walked around it: forty-feet, eight-feet, forty-feet, and eight feet - a monster. "Put it in drive and look forward, the rear end will follow. Just go slow, and don't turn too fast or you could wipe out a lane of traffic." That's encouraging.
I crept around the parking lot like a low-slung cat stalking prey: once, twice, three times.
Yeah, I had a feel for it, but cherished parking next to the humming Freightliner. As I stood up from the seat, a woman drove by maneuvering an eighteen-wheeler. Well! If she can do it, so can I!
In quiet prayer more of the Psalm unfolded: He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. Feeling nudged to step off in faith, I let go surrendering all to God. In an instant peace settled on, in, and through me. Oh, why didn't I do that in the first place? Now I knew that with God in charge, it would work out okay, the how didn't matter, but I suspected it would be an adventure.
(watch for part 2)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"Maybe we are. It could have been worse," JB replied from deep-thought mode. It's Saturday. Repairs can't begin until Monday. We need to be in Tucson, Arizona, Sunday evening by six - 635 miles away.
At Big Springs, Texas, the king-sized wrecker deposited our forty-footer, minus it's drive shaft with scattered bearings, at Rip Giffin's Texas-sized parking lot. Seeing no alternative, in his soft, Southern voice JB asked, "Could you stay behind, get it repaired, and drive it the rest of the way?"
I don't believe it! I've driven this forty-footer once with him in the passenger seat. Shocked, barely audible, I responded, "You want me to do what?"
"I'll come back and get you, if you can't," he assured.
With my guts in a knot, it took everything in me to say without choking, "I'll do my best."
Sunday morning, driving my car towing his, JB left for Tucson with a week's clothes, water, a can of smoked oysters, and some crackers. Left behind, I wilted knowing I couldn't do the job alone. When all else fails, consult the Master. While I prayed, the 23rd Psalm came apart: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Hmm, that's encouraging.
He makes me lie down in green pastures. I looked at His pasture: asphalt and light poles; the horizon interrupted by oil wells perched like greedy grasshoppers sucking rich black syrup; a humming Freightliner to my left radiating cow-calf security. Thank you.
Alone, a little housework , nonstop munching on cheese, crackers, lunch meat, apples, walnuts and cookies - anything not nailed down, and calling everybody I knew for support, I managed to make it through the afternoon, but nothing eased my panic.
The wrecker man replaced the drive shaft with new, well-behaved bearings. I called JB. He'd stopped for gas, and opened the can of oysters. I couldn't imagine eating them while driving and not spilling them, but he could better. "Just drive it around the parking lot to get a feel."
"You know it takes three-hundred pounds more than me to stop it." Terrified, I shook my head in disbelief that I could possibly drive it to Tucson.
I walked around it: forty-feet, eight-feet, forty-feet, and eight feet - a monster. "Put it in drive and look forward, the rear end will follow. Just go slow, and don't turn too fast or you could wipe out a lane of traffic." That's encouraging.
I crept around the parking lot like a low-slung cat stalking prey: once, twice, three times.
Yeah, I had a feel for it, but cherished parking next to the humming Freightliner. As I stood up from the seat, a woman drove by maneuvering an eighteen-wheeler. Well! If she can do it, so can I!
In quiet prayer more of the Psalm unfolded: He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. Feeling nudged to step off in faith, I let go surrendering all to God. In an instant peace settled on, in, and through me. Oh, why didn't I do that in the first place? Now I knew that with God in charge, it would work out okay, the how didn't matter, but I suspected it would be an adventure.
(watch for part 2)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Dutch Loafers and Bed in a Box
Aunt Bobbe's Dutch wooden shoes fit me in fourth grade. I made lots of noise, stood up straight, and didn't bruise my clumsy feet.
Grandma grew red and white tulips. For science class I cross-pollinated them which created stripes the next year. Great-aunt Nora displayed the same bouquet of plastic red tulips on her dining room table our entire childhood and until she died. Holland's treasure influenced both of them. Driving from Germany into Holland we learned right off to stop and look at the flowers, and drive aware of bicyclers of all age - they have the right-of-way.
We wanted a vegetarian B&B with a washing machine. A visitor's center placed us at Dronten. According to their information, Dronten is on the manmade island that surfaced after the building of the dike in the 1950's. If the dike broke, 60% of Holland would be under water. A residential yard sign stated: "We're on our way!" ...to heaven or higher ground?
Our host had lived in Indonesia until he was twelve. Our hostess and a girlfriend hitchhiked through Egypt into the Sudan. Wow! Tell us more. They invited us to share their Indonesian dinner: rice, potatoes, and hard boiled egg slices in a peanut sauce, with a soup made of coconut milk - exotic, like the enormous houseplants they'd had for years that flourished in the natural humidity.
In the living room they served ice cream with mice (chocolate sprinkles), hazelnut liqueur, amaretto, and homemade wine. We shared life and learned about Holland. The tulips grow in "ghost-ground": earth, sand, and peat. People really did sleep in boxes and wooden shoes have been around since the 13th century.
Friendships forged, we parted with hugs, and promises to keep in touch, and backed out the wrong direction. Rob joked, "What will the neighbors say?"
"Tell them we're on our way."
We had to see a "bed in a box." The Zeiderzee Museum captured Dutch history with slanting, sinking houses that seemed miniature - the right size for tiny Holland. An enclosed horizontal closet with a door made a bed a box that kept the occupants warm. Beneath the bed drawers served for storage. Whatever works.
In the spring, when I look out at my blooming tulips, I smile, stop and look at Bobbe's wooden shoes on my bookshelves, and wonder what our Dutch friends are doing.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Grandma grew red and white tulips. For science class I cross-pollinated them which created stripes the next year. Great-aunt Nora displayed the same bouquet of plastic red tulips on her dining room table our entire childhood and until she died. Holland's treasure influenced both of them. Driving from Germany into Holland we learned right off to stop and look at the flowers, and drive aware of bicyclers of all age - they have the right-of-way.
We wanted a vegetarian B&B with a washing machine. A visitor's center placed us at Dronten. According to their information, Dronten is on the manmade island that surfaced after the building of the dike in the 1950's. If the dike broke, 60% of Holland would be under water. A residential yard sign stated: "We're on our way!" ...to heaven or higher ground?
Our host had lived in Indonesia until he was twelve. Our hostess and a girlfriend hitchhiked through Egypt into the Sudan. Wow! Tell us more. They invited us to share their Indonesian dinner: rice, potatoes, and hard boiled egg slices in a peanut sauce, with a soup made of coconut milk - exotic, like the enormous houseplants they'd had for years that flourished in the natural humidity.
In the living room they served ice cream with mice (chocolate sprinkles), hazelnut liqueur, amaretto, and homemade wine. We shared life and learned about Holland. The tulips grow in "ghost-ground": earth, sand, and peat. People really did sleep in boxes and wooden shoes have been around since the 13th century.
Friendships forged, we parted with hugs, and promises to keep in touch, and backed out the wrong direction. Rob joked, "What will the neighbors say?"
"Tell them we're on our way."
We had to see a "bed in a box." The Zeiderzee Museum captured Dutch history with slanting, sinking houses that seemed miniature - the right size for tiny Holland. An enclosed horizontal closet with a door made a bed a box that kept the occupants warm. Beneath the bed drawers served for storage. Whatever works.
In the spring, when I look out at my blooming tulips, I smile, stop and look at Bobbe's wooden shoes on my bookshelves, and wonder what our Dutch friends are doing.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 2 Coonskin cap and fresh wheat
I opened the National Geographic to a spread of the Grand Canyon wall, and scared myself. To get a grip, and keep my promise, I adopted the mantra, "I think I can."
As word of our hike spread throughout the community, gear appeared: a pith helmet, WWII spats, a knife made from a downed B52 bomber, an aluminum backpack, a canteen, a sleeping bag, and a thinsulate pad to put under it. Papa made my most valuable tool by stripping and shelacing a four-foot pine tree, affixing a rubber tip on one end, and a leather strap handle on the other.
Someone asked if I would carry a gun. What if we ran into a motorcycle gang? The trail is for hiking not biking. No, I wouldn't carry a gun. With a twinkle in his eye, a friend brought a coonskin cap complete with tail and horns and a small bag of wheat. The cap was a bear and buffalo repellent he'd had for years and it worked, but what about the wheat?
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
As word of our hike spread throughout the community, gear appeared: a pith helmet, WWII spats, a knife made from a downed B52 bomber, an aluminum backpack, a canteen, a sleeping bag, and a thinsulate pad to put under it. Papa made my most valuable tool by stripping and shelacing a four-foot pine tree, affixing a rubber tip on one end, and a leather strap handle on the other.
Someone asked if I would carry a gun. What if we ran into a motorcycle gang? The trail is for hiking not biking. No, I wouldn't carry a gun. With a twinkle in his eye, a friend brought a coonskin cap complete with tail and horns and a small bag of wheat. The cap was a bear and buffalo repellent he'd had for years and it worked, but what about the wheat?
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 15, 2005
I raced "The Big Brown Truck!"
UPS is the sponsor for NASCAR driver Dale Jarrett, #88.
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, July 11, 2005
Shadow Pictures & Applejack
Our parsley-eating, French friends invited us to an evening Sound & Light Show - he'd drive. Just before sunset they whisked us through the countryside to an outdoor performance. We joined other ground-sitting spectators on the terraced hillside overlooking the theatrical village.
At dark a surprise drizzle canceled the performance. Projection lights beaming from behind inspired our ever-ready imaginations to bend our fingers making giant rabbits appear on the stage.
Camille, our Normandy Auberge host, eagerly awaited our return. As we parked he came out with a bottle in hand, a skip in his step, his white hair bouncing, and an impish grin on his face. Proud of his homemade applejack (apple brandy), he stated he didn't share it with just anybody.
Our daytime outdoor table, with its red and white checkered cover, looked magical by candlelight with four tiny cups and a sugarcube perched on each saucer. With flair, Camille poured a short tablespoon in each cup with instructions to dip the sugarcube and suck it.
His eyes twinkled. "How is it?" Apples on fire! Unable to breathe, we sort of nodded approval, which I would regret later. (Hard liquor and I don't get along. I tried it at seventeen and thirty-seven, and gave up.)
Savoring each mini-sip, sharing our life's joys and sorrows gave our friendships time to blend and deepen. We went to bed smiling over this chapter of our French travels: shadow pictures and applejack.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At dark a surprise drizzle canceled the performance. Projection lights beaming from behind inspired our ever-ready imaginations to bend our fingers making giant rabbits appear on the stage.
Camille, our Normandy Auberge host, eagerly awaited our return. As we parked he came out with a bottle in hand, a skip in his step, his white hair bouncing, and an impish grin on his face. Proud of his homemade applejack (apple brandy), he stated he didn't share it with just anybody.
Our daytime outdoor table, with its red and white checkered cover, looked magical by candlelight with four tiny cups and a sugarcube perched on each saucer. With flair, Camille poured a short tablespoon in each cup with instructions to dip the sugarcube and suck it.
His eyes twinkled. "How is it?" Apples on fire! Unable to breathe, we sort of nodded approval, which I would regret later. (Hard liquor and I don't get along. I tried it at seventeen and thirty-seven, and gave up.)
Savoring each mini-sip, sharing our life's joys and sorrows gave our friendships time to blend and deepen. We went to bed smiling over this chapter of our French travels: shadow pictures and applejack.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Bulls and Onions
We have a working travel system: little sister navigates and I drive. She loves maps and can read them in a moving vehicle - I might upchuck. One Sunday we drove around Lake Como, Italy, over the Alps, and into Germany's Black Forest. When I asked our location she replied, "...north of the Alps and south of the construction."
Tucked into the tall, dense, dark forest, a 600 year-old Black Forest Inn stands long and two-story. At this remote location I doubted speaking English would get us a room. Using my long-ago high school German I asked for a room. The innkeeper looked puzzled, turned to the kitchen, and yelled to his wife, "Honey, come out here, some woman is trying to speak English."
Hungry, I decided to leave a room reservation until later, resorted to just plain English, requested two servings of deep-fried Camembert with cranberry sauce, and got it! It delighted our mouths with crunchy, soft, sweet, and tangy.
The Innkeeper explained the Inn's multi-purposes. Half of the structure houses bulls. When snow blows and piles up, they can get to them easily. The other half of the ground floor is the restaurant with rooms for rent overhead.
We found the upstairs room ample, complete with feather ticks to sleep under, and a tiny bowl of potpourri by the bed - a cover up for bulls or onions?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tucked into the tall, dense, dark forest, a 600 year-old Black Forest Inn stands long and two-story. At this remote location I doubted speaking English would get us a room. Using my long-ago high school German I asked for a room. The innkeeper looked puzzled, turned to the kitchen, and yelled to his wife, "Honey, come out here, some woman is trying to speak English."
Hungry, I decided to leave a room reservation until later, resorted to just plain English, requested two servings of deep-fried Camembert with cranberry sauce, and got it! It delighted our mouths with crunchy, soft, sweet, and tangy.
The Innkeeper explained the Inn's multi-purposes. Half of the structure houses bulls. When snow blows and piles up, they can get to them easily. The other half of the ground floor is the restaurant with rooms for rent overhead.
We found the upstairs room ample, complete with feather ticks to sleep under, and a tiny bowl of potpourri by the bed - a cover up for bulls or onions?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 01, 2005
No flag, no parade, no hotdogs
As American citizens we didn't know what was involved with clearing customs, until we returned from Mexico. Before computerization, US agents looked through a huge, worn book. If the passport name was found, the person could not enter the US.
As I stood in line in Texas, I raced through my past. I had nothing to report. Still, I broke out in a sweat. We couldn't leave to eat or use the restroom. What will we do if we can't get in? What will happen to our kids? Where will we go? I understood kissing home ground.
While the agent searched, I held my breath. Satisfied we weren't felons, he stamped our passports, and said, "Next." Thank God.
Minnie and I were in Germany one July 4th without a small American flag, and didn't see one anywhere. We felt "foreign," out of place, but we would make the best of the day.
Our childhood holidays meant picnics and celebrations with extended family and community unless the wheat needed to be harvested. Ripe, it was too fragile to leave in the field. We wrote our names with sparklers and lit black caps on the sidewalk to make messy worms. Until July 4th summer was up and coming. After, it was downhill to school and winter.
White asparagus with hollandaise replaced hotdogs. For that I could give up hotdogs. A quiet walk in the country replaced a noisey parade, but without people to watch. Wild red poppies looked like a sea of onlookers waving flags at passing floats. That put some life into it. We waved back.
A quiet game of Rummy replaced yelling at a ballgame. We missed Mom's after-the-game root beer floats and malts with the homemade rich, creamy ice cream we'd worked all afternoon taking turns cranking. I love the taste of malt powder. The texture reminds me of sawdust.
From a hilltop after dark we saw a few fireworks from an American base. We couldn't smell them, and no children or dogs complained about the noise.
Our low-key, lonely celebration put into perspective that the rest of the world does not revolve around the US. It did deepen our pride in America, and strengthen our love and loyalty to home and country.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
As I stood in line in Texas, I raced through my past. I had nothing to report. Still, I broke out in a sweat. We couldn't leave to eat or use the restroom. What will we do if we can't get in? What will happen to our kids? Where will we go? I understood kissing home ground.
While the agent searched, I held my breath. Satisfied we weren't felons, he stamped our passports, and said, "Next." Thank God.
Minnie and I were in Germany one July 4th without a small American flag, and didn't see one anywhere. We felt "foreign," out of place, but we would make the best of the day.
Our childhood holidays meant picnics and celebrations with extended family and community unless the wheat needed to be harvested. Ripe, it was too fragile to leave in the field. We wrote our names with sparklers and lit black caps on the sidewalk to make messy worms. Until July 4th summer was up and coming. After, it was downhill to school and winter.
White asparagus with hollandaise replaced hotdogs. For that I could give up hotdogs. A quiet walk in the country replaced a noisey parade, but without people to watch. Wild red poppies looked like a sea of onlookers waving flags at passing floats. That put some life into it. We waved back.
A quiet game of Rummy replaced yelling at a ballgame. We missed Mom's after-the-game root beer floats and malts with the homemade rich, creamy ice cream we'd worked all afternoon taking turns cranking. I love the taste of malt powder. The texture reminds me of sawdust.
From a hilltop after dark we saw a few fireworks from an American base. We couldn't smell them, and no children or dogs complained about the noise.
Our low-key, lonely celebration put into perspective that the rest of the world does not revolve around the US. It did deepen our pride in America, and strengthen our love and loyalty to home and country.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
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
"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
Friday, June 24, 2005
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
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
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
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
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
Monday, June 20, 2005
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
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
Thursday, June 16, 2005
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.verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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.
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
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
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Ocean from On High
MSN photo
The view could be from a para-sail. I love the peace and silence suspended in space.
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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
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