tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57005678564337241502024-03-17T20:03:41.653-07:00Lea SylvestroLeahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.comBlogger267125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-82708427546511712682024-02-20T16:09:00.000-08:002024-02-20T16:16:42.795-08:00Hurry!<p><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">The morning was a flurry of packing, rounding up snow pants, and snipping tags off new mittens and helmets as we prepared for an overnight in Flumersberg. After a week of Connecticut-comparable weather in Zurich, we were heading to snowy mountains, fir trees, and alpine chalets to experience calendar-Switzerland.</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">This trip required strategy as Lisa had enrolled Paul and Lexi in a weekly Sunday ski school, so we had the kids’ skis, poles, boots, and helmets to tote as well as our overnight bags. “And,” Lisa warned, her tone ominous, “we have to make several connections to get there.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Once all was ready, we waddled - fat in winter coats, dragging rolling bags, bristling with ski poles, and burdened with backpacks - to the tram stop. As usual, Dave and I were grateful and apologetic for our duckling status, dependent as we were on Tucker and Lisa for directions and tickets. When the tram rounded the curve, Paul and Lexi took their positions at the exact spot where the back doors opened, scrambled inside, and nabbed their favorite seats by the back window. We were off! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We arrived at the train station with enough time to buy lunch. The kids bee-lined for a booth selling warm, salty pretzel buns with a hole down the middle, just the right fit for a sausage or a generous portion of melted cheese. Delicious. We then located the correct track and sauntered its length before climbing on board. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Swiss trains heading to Flumersberg expect skiers among their passengers and provide stands near the doors to store equipment. Having discovered how tricky it was to pry loose a ski pole that slid and stuck behind the overhead rack when initially placed with our bags on the shelf, we moved the kids’ gear to those stands. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">After we’d settled into our seats, Lisa commanded our attention. Like a general preparing her troops, she said, “When we arrive at our stop, we have to be ready. We have one minute to catch the bus.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I know myself, and when making a connection, I want to avoid the wild-eyed anxiety of missing the next leg of my trip. I don’t mind an hour’s wait with plenty of time to read my book, stroll, or buy a snack. Naturally, I assumed one minute was an exaggeration.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Paul and Lexi bent their heads close over a video game while I gazed out at the landscape flying by. Rain streaked the window, artfully distorting glimpses of lakes, villages, and churches. Even so, I took pictures, hoping my iPhone would surprise me in freezing a few recognizable images. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQOuu73-40ul69IyGxufPv7a063X59zGwpox_So0Qb8NajTnPykcUeF6VkvScemvrUpgxlo8WLxvdUMcShBJdiUyXEfd0-Uw_qsupLDlkQXB4mZULMPjZ2ao4mYHWtMPvjilCbtx-ZaccD_-0oh4n_HRbcUVdckK_Fk5-xUD-nQxNss21lAN6Fzkr_UoH/s2112/IMG_1372.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="2112" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQOuu73-40ul69IyGxufPv7a063X59zGwpox_So0Qb8NajTnPykcUeF6VkvScemvrUpgxlo8WLxvdUMcShBJdiUyXEfd0-Uw_qsupLDlkQXB4mZULMPjZ2ao4mYHWtMPvjilCbtx-ZaccD_-0oh4n_HRbcUVdckK_Fk5-xUD-nQxNss21lAN6Fzkr_UoH/s320/IMG_1372.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3O9lBozHpGzFme_6K7d9jHYMxdwLHzyFRvaIEwN5aj63PDobWHW8zgQRbiaI7lmfu6sYuvAaKdDu3HbfqVdMgQxJOOPFnA7ptEhAthyphenhyphenXOUGZyOgoULTgLbPluMu_gfrYMOzfE0ROL3TCXBoPqWuG8jrkktxTY_kijye5fuFApE7CSKRvahvf2te2_xCv/s1812/IMG_1381-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1812" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3O9lBozHpGzFme_6K7d9jHYMxdwLHzyFRvaIEwN5aj63PDobWHW8zgQRbiaI7lmfu6sYuvAaKdDu3HbfqVdMgQxJOOPFnA7ptEhAthyphenhyphenXOUGZyOgoULTgLbPluMu_gfrYMOzfE0ROL3TCXBoPqWuG8jrkktxTY_kijye5fuFApE7CSKRvahvf2te2_xCv/s320/IMG_1381-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbBKIJDkneCM7dcsusJ1_232_I5GL01a2t6BsnDfTZO18ebdUmXuL4xYmLBNMLPxaAWLLknoyF6zKshSWbC5AF9JIRpAKmR4T10JnNgngJIbAbJ4h2jRyzGmT5OUfBp6mNkcalo2ak-qb7VgsvHqijlRgBMq9_laUsp72szaLvg7iuaMmf0nh5NsxLZOx/s1480/IMG_1385.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbBKIJDkneCM7dcsusJ1_232_I5GL01a2t6BsnDfTZO18ebdUmXuL4xYmLBNMLPxaAWLLknoyF6zKshSWbC5AF9JIRpAKmR4T10JnNgngJIbAbJ4h2jRyzGmT5OUfBp6mNkcalo2ak-qb7VgsvHqijlRgBMq9_laUsp72szaLvg7iuaMmf0nh5NsxLZOx/s320/IMG_1385.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">As we neared the station, Lisa gave the word, and we began to load up. ‘We have to move quickly,” she said. “I’m serious. We have one minute.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We shrugged on our coats and grabbed our bags from the racks and the ski equipment from the receptacles. The moment the train stopped and the doors slid open, we bolted. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">The bus was there, waiting on the far side of the tracks. “Hurry!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We ran! Grandparents and small children clumsy in boots and heavy coats, hurtling along the platform, backpacks bouncing, rolling bags clattering, skis and poles clanking! Down the stairs! Under the tracks! Up more stairs! “Hurry! Hurry!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Everyone clambered onto the bus, the doors closed, and the bus took off. There was not a moment of grace, not a glance from the driver to check for people on the platform or passengers safely in seats. No! Time to go! Schedules to keep! Good heavens! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Next, to the cable car. So many <i>literally</i> moving parts to this adventure, but this stretch, given all, was leisurely. The cable car was continually revolving for the next few hours, so we slipped into a general store to purchase a variety of chocolate snacks, then lugged our load up yet another flight of stairs. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">The cars swung around on a track, never stopping. The six of us gathered into a knot, tight as possible, so we could hustle onto the car as it slowed. Hurry! Skis and poles into the external holders! Shift over! Shift over! Everybody in! <i>Is</i> everybody in? Got the bags? Yes! Whew!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Relieved to have successfully reached the final leg of the trip, we slumped onto the hard bench seats as the car slid out of the station and rose over houses and expanses of green. Rain and fog enveloped us as we climbed. Gradually, up and ahead, we could see a distinct line where the temperature dropped and the rain… turned to snow. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wNQjlOclyoipYbFpiKqmBgIaYtxYzGCMkuOWf5qzJFjpR02Ktuk3IjqTkFgBCwcw4kIcmTN0Qj6Dm8fsXE_zCcvrtRzP2e4AKGOsMLgWOO-13QYv2jkZqKkL8aihh766u1J4NQI2DAC_W06_huNUgYxCuuoSaA_X0lolrcL69f9NGsaBi42PaSgfykkP/s2236/IMG_1455.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2236" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wNQjlOclyoipYbFpiKqmBgIaYtxYzGCMkuOWf5qzJFjpR02Ktuk3IjqTkFgBCwcw4kIcmTN0Qj6Dm8fsXE_zCcvrtRzP2e4AKGOsMLgWOO-13QYv2jkZqKkL8aihh766u1J4NQI2DAC_W06_huNUgYxCuuoSaA_X0lolrcL69f9NGsaBi42PaSgfykkP/s320/IMG_1455.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjyxdDpF64H1P54g41yXuExV9Y1MgfQ9IMqLllRinpZ7W9xQD8AvSlh6fzLK_7q9cvcKInd1i8wt5FgEtnMdkTseCCKUizLzDy4l3aB8ARLn366nfKaOufME94CQhhS6rys9frpulihZWM3wcYxDyHE3DU8rIxIIODOwc_HkmKtFTtQA4Zv4H8B5z6A97/s2248/IMG_1451.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2248" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjyxdDpF64H1P54g41yXuExV9Y1MgfQ9IMqLllRinpZ7W9xQD8AvSlh6fzLK_7q9cvcKInd1i8wt5FgEtnMdkTseCCKUizLzDy4l3aB8ARLn366nfKaOufME94CQhhS6rys9frpulihZWM3wcYxDyHE3DU8rIxIIODOwc_HkmKtFTtQA4Zv4H8B5z6A97/s320/IMG_1451.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-11191277751964007512024-02-07T17:01:00.000-08:002024-02-07T17:26:34.125-08:00Shoeless in Lucerne<p><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">With full hearts, apps, and online planners, Lisa and Tucker strove to convince us that their move to Switzerland really does have a silver lining. Perhaps an overnight stay in a palace in Lucerne would be persuasive? Worth a try.</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">After an easy one-hour train ride, we stowed our bags in a locker at the station and hopped a tram to the Museum of Transportation. Paul is a train enthusiast, and after two prior visits, this museum had become his favorite: a must-go, first-stop in Lucerne. For a time, Dave and I joined the kids in wandering among vintage steam engines and passenger cars, admiring massive cogs, beautiful wood paneling, and gleaming brass fittings. My father would have loved this place, but when Tucker said Paul and Lexi could spend hours there, I silently reflected that I, on the other hand, might prefer to do something else. My mind-reader of a son suggested that Dave and I take off and explore the historic sections of the city on our own for a few hours. Brilliant.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Absent apps and lacking comfort with public transportation, we opted to stroll the sidewalk that skirted Vierwaldstättersee, or Lake Lucerne. Heavy gray skies stained the water pewter, and low-slung clouds swathed the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the lake. As we passed beneath the gnarled limbs of ink-black trees, I became aware of a strange scratching sound that seemed to follow us. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMUrv3iKQj1En6Q7E1vATaRYZtvqKVsKb79r9un5XZ9DuKeEmoqYnER8aILfZjM1YwP6MRrhTuiKtjM17NgzWjv10jgxOZahIZ3f257MaiQk27LSY_QFX4-az1UaT9tNQX0bKbAaPXYUUKFM4zVWp-G9rqj2pOI4K0oWdQgokmL2R_IocBPk4rftolfkg/s1974/IMG_0997%20Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMUrv3iKQj1En6Q7E1vATaRYZtvqKVsKb79r9un5XZ9DuKeEmoqYnER8aILfZjM1YwP6MRrhTuiKtjM17NgzWjv10jgxOZahIZ3f257MaiQk27LSY_QFX4-az1UaT9tNQX0bKbAaPXYUUKFM4zVWp-G9rqj2pOI4K0oWdQgokmL2R_IocBPk4rftolfkg/s320/IMG_0997%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I turned to survey the scene behind me. Swans sailing along or butt up in the water. Boats shrouded and anchored for winter. Skeletal branches clawing the sky. Nothing to explain the odd noise. We continued on… and so did the sound, only it had morphed into a thwapping drumbeat. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><i>What the…? <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpWQm2jePHOjZw5Uxm7uRLQ10zQ6bYKiQqXpcSxoAc_Etxb5dXIdRN3YhX7mEQaBXIn3S1vDXzdjdXi3h9zNNVCFFHVuAFmEo7rSpQk_e6e5yIDJjOu9u4xS0bRViSbK2TPk8asEidWft_u6neArLZEIRloX9vl4_0BBeqKfq0pN32HmJ_2WlDniw4JFU/s1974/IMG_0995.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpWQm2jePHOjZw5Uxm7uRLQ10zQ6bYKiQqXpcSxoAc_Etxb5dXIdRN3YhX7mEQaBXIn3S1vDXzdjdXi3h9zNNVCFFHVuAFmEo7rSpQk_e6e5yIDJjOu9u4xS0bRViSbK2TPk8asEidWft_u6neArLZEIRloX9vl4_0BBeqKfq0pN32HmJ_2WlDniw4JFU/s320/IMG_0995.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">At some point, I thought to check my boot – formerly, Mom’s boot. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Packing for the trip to Zurich had required strategy. We needed to bring warm clothes, Christmas presents, and twelve boxes of Annie’s Mac N’ Cheese, beloved by the grandkids and unavailable in Switzerland. Shoes had presented a particular challenge. We knew one of the activities Tucker and Lisa had envisioned entailed an afternoon of sledding during an overnight in the mountains, so winter boots were a must. Given their bulk, they wouldn’t fit in our suitcases, so we’d be wearing those boots on the plane. I love my Lands End snow boots, but not on my feet while wedged in economy seating for eight hours.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Mom passed in 2018, and I had inherited her tall, black, fleece-lined, water-resistant boots. They were good-looking enough for evenings in Zurich, would suffice in snow, and were slim and comfortable enough for the plane ride. Thank you, Mom.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Who knows how old they were, or how often Mom had worn them? They looked to be in perfect condition, but, on this day, with hours of walking ahead, the sole of one boot had detached from the heel. Earlier, Lisa had mentioned that she thought stores were closed today due to the holidays. Great.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">As I clopped along, I wondered if we might find an open hardware store where we could buy twine to bind the sole to the shoe? Or maybe, the front desk of one of these grand, lakeside hotels would have some Gorilla Glue?<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxyW-FpQPZpl8IvTcE6cYfX_b71sXPGAqxU3r0t_W8vOzwx_x-SOOOYRyx2UkXLA2uwh5PGbUAWVFpEDMGwMiC8xhbBsL4UP_rpYFHfBk_W4EzoynxEFwH0_YV2vgE-Z9WFe5pt5KlZavJEzeb0GcHg5Ehxh9oG1qsiCLkK8cnuJAnUgHnU2nYBH_S1upM/s1480/IMG_0993.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxyW-FpQPZpl8IvTcE6cYfX_b71sXPGAqxU3r0t_W8vOzwx_x-SOOOYRyx2UkXLA2uwh5PGbUAWVFpEDMGwMiC8xhbBsL4UP_rpYFHfBk_W4EzoynxEFwH0_YV2vgE-Z9WFe5pt5KlZavJEzeb0GcHg5Ehxh9oG1qsiCLkK8cnuJAnUgHnU2nYBH_S1upM/s320/IMG_0993.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Aptos, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;">Eventually, the sole fell off, the clopping sound now replaced by a satisfying metallic click, like that of a tap shoe. So, we sang “Singin’ in the Rain” as I added a few jaunty dance moves to my lop-sided gait.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Seriously though, what to do? These were the only shoes I ‘d brought to Lucerne, and we were having a special dinner at Château Gütsch, the palace, that night. Already I felt self-conscious and literally out of step as passersby swept along in their chic overcoats and snappy, intact shoes. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Ultimately, we crossed a bridge and entered an alley we hoped would take us to the historic center of the city, the covered pedestrian bridge, the lion monument… and glue, twine, or shoes. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">A winding cobblestone street led past an ornately painted building, its fairytale façade aswirl in golden vines, urns, and a faux balcony from which gazed portraits of a young family. Across the alley, an elaborate sign in forest green and gold depicted a rampant lion and the dates 1334-1937. Mere steps from these ancient beauties, we spotted a shop window announcing a “Schuhmacher.” We don’t speak German, but there was no mistaking the meaning, the array of soles so cruelly within reach… nor the dark interior of a store clearly closed. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pMujXSvwrFD5Lys3QxElsHAT3waCbAaylh5CKW5as-RPAK0naknkuQyHP2NZ3NZTqk5UxhJRH_u645p2zUFIsS4ZUffhfEpUhkpUk4USJjHjPG3cXQy-FQtqp4oQ389NGp1CDWa2Fb-wd2F5ftTVOVwlZltrZsk-FgwDK_omQoXbv-UjoXUxYTRuvXGj/s1974/IMG_1011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pMujXSvwrFD5Lys3QxElsHAT3waCbAaylh5CKW5as-RPAK0naknkuQyHP2NZ3NZTqk5UxhJRH_u645p2zUFIsS4ZUffhfEpUhkpUk4USJjHjPG3cXQy-FQtqp4oQ389NGp1CDWa2Fb-wd2F5ftTVOVwlZltrZsk-FgwDK_omQoXbv-UjoXUxYTRuvXGj/s320/IMG_1011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZH0tpVQZK98Yjj3vCNnlCHUMxgX5rVUMpybbFU6RQc4gVZJYOI3a1e8lJSWdyI8RaKPBoP89msI0RVhv6wN9XlwRyu4yhNsxK9O15zJpwAijJh6aJAj_h1ceCkgPoKA2rX7_HLNMZ_LvT60vNIAwY7i06_ruZXxLv856x59EmZraw_AHjJKantbMU-lzZ/s1480/IMG_1012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZH0tpVQZK98Yjj3vCNnlCHUMxgX5rVUMpybbFU6RQc4gVZJYOI3a1e8lJSWdyI8RaKPBoP89msI0RVhv6wN9XlwRyu4yhNsxK9O15zJpwAijJh6aJAj_h1ceCkgPoKA2rX7_HLNMZ_LvT60vNIAwY7i06_ruZXxLv856x59EmZraw_AHjJKantbMU-lzZ/s320/IMG_1012.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Discouraged, we tapped on, but were soon enchanted by fountains and squares encircled by gabled buildings magical in color and design, all telling stories if we’d known how to read them. Still distracted by my Cinderella-esque, missing-shoe situation, I wondered what the denouement of my tale would be. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Zb1pMSDOW5hPX6y3Vtf_ai1NLbFkY9_n_NHPs0aFvL6MG7ryBiP4PVJaxidN3dpu03Is6kAdFjNPvJtgynpEuLKj-rshodMUbxgDLb73cDWzaeoLFfb-OQ-_LrEwg8aEvQqVvTy-cJkf5XOiGWdY2TIzkc2b8frhxLNeqcdfZAPY3Aey0wFkBEAqnOe0/s1974/IMG_1016.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Zb1pMSDOW5hPX6y3Vtf_ai1NLbFkY9_n_NHPs0aFvL6MG7ryBiP4PVJaxidN3dpu03Is6kAdFjNPvJtgynpEuLKj-rshodMUbxgDLb73cDWzaeoLFfb-OQ-_LrEwg8aEvQqVvTy-cJkf5XOiGWdY2TIzkc2b8frhxLNeqcdfZAPY3Aey0wFkBEAqnOe0/s320/IMG_1016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZ0wQhhpIdqHkUerBx63-cth9AdJnpk8v_90Wg6HPqB8zZu8whl7s97_rU8ta2jlHM_YChfsL9QFG93DO-MLxfSbcyucu_Om3zSFAnE3Z658ikTjNk-LmsERiIL6Xspg9dGCCmehQXzoVKChqMWp0zoJzBPSXGWiKAloCUNTHgc3deVv6uChFAdWCzNlA/s2242/IMG_1025.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2242" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZ0wQhhpIdqHkUerBx63-cth9AdJnpk8v_90Wg6HPqB8zZu8whl7s97_rU8ta2jlHM_YChfsL9QFG93DO-MLxfSbcyucu_Om3zSFAnE3Z658ikTjNk-LmsERiIL6Xspg9dGCCmehQXzoVKChqMWp0zoJzBPSXGWiKAloCUNTHgc3deVv6uChFAdWCzNlA/s320/IMG_1025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">As the afternoon wore on, lights shown amber from restaurants and cafès and - behold! – in rounding a corner, we spotted a department store. And it was open! </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I tap-limped inside and located the shoe department only to find rack upon rack of sneakers. I found a salesperson, gestured toward my foot, and sheepishly waved the orphan sole. She smiled encouragement and directed us to a store a block away. “Easy! And they’re having a sale!” she said. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Now, with a springy step to my tapping, I strode ahead of Dave to Dosenbach with its bountiful selection of shoes. In noticing my plight, another customer laughed and said, “The same thing happened to me in New York!” And there it is: while world events would have us think otherwise, kindness and common experience grace so many chance encounters.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Once I’d settled on not one, but two new pairs, a saleswoman scooped up Mom’s boots and said, “Should I dispose of them?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Why would I lug those traitors around? I was done with them and waved them away without a thought.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Until later. That night as I lay awake, I thought about the ease of repair and the connection to Mom, and wished I’d not been so hasty. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"> * * *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Comfortably shod and gleeful having successfully navigated our way back to the station after our solo excursion, Dave and I met up with the kids and retrieved our bags from the locker. We boarded a tram, and Lisa checked her phone for the location of the cable car up to our palace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Lisa’s parents have lived in Germany for years and with that, and a number of trips to Switzerland prior to their move, Paul and Lexi have evolved from the screaming babies on the plane that everyone dreads to the seasoned travelers they are now. When we descended from the tram and ran to the cable car, the kids cheerfully trotted to keep up, the backpacks carrying stuffed animals, pillows, and books bobbing on their backs.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We squeezed into the tiny cable car and ascended via an ever-so-steep track to the gleaming white turrets and spires of Château Gütsch. Enthroned high above Lucerne, the hotel welcomed us with heraldic lions, winged angels, and banners flying. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mL8ZvRUcLg7PKrajz7Z7EBLHcEuN-GqDlrFrBSNIX72NPm1wY8lBorN90XKAZIXA9MOAx4AEfV0mUzcvPm6E9LUwzumee5uezElZOvrZ35MxwzwtMnoSOAWP_omPthrcCIQ7c8IuIYBiSbDVOhr5_dJfLlLyWuosfgz5i732dcFfgUgRVGcpwzHtkrYf/s1974/IMG_1151.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mL8ZvRUcLg7PKrajz7Z7EBLHcEuN-GqDlrFrBSNIX72NPm1wY8lBorN90XKAZIXA9MOAx4AEfV0mUzcvPm6E9LUwzumee5uezElZOvrZ35MxwzwtMnoSOAWP_omPthrcCIQ7c8IuIYBiSbDVOhr5_dJfLlLyWuosfgz5i732dcFfgUgRVGcpwzHtkrYf/s320/IMG_1151.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Aptos, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;">What would be the décor of a 19</span><sup style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; text-align: left;">th </sup><span face="Aptos, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;">century palace? I had pictured ponderous rough-hewn doors and wrought-iron torches, and there were a few, tokens perhaps from the earliest structure, but overall, the interior was bright, sleek, and elegant. As we waited to check in at the reception desk, Lexi twirled with the excitement we all felt, and I wondered who had thought it wise to place a large porcelain vase on a delicate pedestal table so close by. Blessedly, there were no mishaps before we received our keys and headed through a ballroom, outside along a balcony overlooking a courtyard and the city below, back inside, down a hall, and into our rooms. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYiTNEUHVFtJwN6ZUwr92lz-lUj-rk3oDnRDOmU8UJFuoJt1Kb5fKcNH80wkP66czas6aUBg8ZTF8UyuB20f3qMql_tYkE11stNRL3hrl4J0uq2Y2vCE1YX3z2UUdazXoX48eIskESWY2O6NSmZh2CVobVm-2MF1r_Q7qFXeFA_K2Bvo9J8CuM4Id79il/s1974/IMG_1073.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYiTNEUHVFtJwN6ZUwr92lz-lUj-rk3oDnRDOmU8UJFuoJt1Kb5fKcNH80wkP66czas6aUBg8ZTF8UyuB20f3qMql_tYkE11stNRL3hrl4J0uq2Y2vCE1YX3z2UUdazXoX48eIskESWY2O6NSmZh2CVobVm-2MF1r_Q7qFXeFA_K2Bvo9J8CuM4Id79il/s320/IMG_1073.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Paul would be sleeping with Dave and me, and his cot was made up at the bottom of a twisting wooden stairway to our bedroom loft. After he freed Winnie the Pooh from his backpack and set him on his pillow, he scampered up to check things out and noted, as the stairs creaked with every step, “It sounds like your house!” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPHy9qzjINap5aXJBtPUB1ZKqL-35zlUFZXVj0vd5tX_pk5uZ-x7OcYKysTNDMZ00k2ajAyI2GuUM1TA-HpHCdgFjrgD4kFgLY-wSzNEQ6wv-ypiwLD4culSAEFsR5nW5krOqlHNQYtJKD9o43bsgvQ6iMiB0JzObXepSVKwrrkPi2TKJGUzxH15vvGBy/s1480/IMG_1066.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPHy9qzjINap5aXJBtPUB1ZKqL-35zlUFZXVj0vd5tX_pk5uZ-x7OcYKysTNDMZ00k2ajAyI2GuUM1TA-HpHCdgFjrgD4kFgLY-wSzNEQ6wv-ypiwLD4culSAEFsR5nW5krOqlHNQYtJKD9o43bsgvQ6iMiB0JzObXepSVKwrrkPi2TKJGUzxH15vvGBy/s320/IMG_1066.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">After we settled in, it was time to dress for dinner. New shoes or not, I was pretty sure my black sweater and herringbone slacks would be inadequate in such a setting. But so it would be. As it happened, there was only one other party in the spacious dining room when we were seated, and they did not seem bothered by what I was wearing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">With an eye to creating a garden ambience, the room was pale green, rose, and white lighted by ornate chandeliers - bouquets, really - of crystal flowers in pastel hues. Airy as it was, the room might have seemed cold but for a blazing fire in the massive fireplace. That proved irresistible, and Dave took the kids over to snuggle in front of that warmth for some stories while we waited for dinner to be served.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">In the interim, a large group entered the dining room. They were in great spirits, happy to be together and relishing, as we were, the treat of staying at Château Gütsch. And they were comfortably at ease in their well-worn sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Why had I worried? Times have changed. Mom is no longer looking me over and asking, “are you really going to wear that?” but old lessons die hard. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">And I wish I’d not discarded her boots. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-10940532912602808342024-01-26T11:29:00.000-08:002024-01-26T11:58:25.507-08:00Joy, but for the Apps<p><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">In July, my son Tucker, his wife Lisa, 8- year-old Paul, and 5-year-old Lexi moved to Switzerland. Dave and I had known this wrenching change was coming – Tucker had warned us years ago – still, it has created a sad void only partly eased by Facetime calls and wistful viewings of Google “This Time Last Year” slideshows. For all our efforts to treasure the</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">moments because “it goes so fast,” I’ve realized, it’s not just that it goes fast; the little kid years are</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif;">short</i><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">. Babies change from week to week, and then, well, kids are only</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif;">willing </i><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">to be “little” until what, age 9? My kids are in their forties and frankly, it seems a fiction that they were once the children pictured in our photo albums.</span><span face="Aptos, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We yearned to see Tucker and family, but waited six months and flew to Zurich in the end of December. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">It was the morning after a sleepless overnight flight, and Dave and I were still in bed. Dimly, I registered a whispered exchange, but dozing still seemed a good idea. I knew my grandchildren were just outside the door, and I smiled knowing they were close.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">It was impossible to miss Lexi’s stage whisper, “I just want to hug LeaLea!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">“No, you just want to <i>wake </i>her!<i>”</i> Paul insisted, conscious of parental instructions to let us sleep.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">What kind of grandmother am I that I did not leap up and hug those kids? But I was enjoying the repartee, and curious to see what came next.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">“<i>Lexi! No! Lexi!</i>” Would she heed her brother’s commanding sotto voce? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Apparently not, for, while I did not hear her tiptoe across the room, I felt her cheek laid gently on my hand. So soft, so precious. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">And <i>then</i>, I scooped her up. “Good morning, Sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here! Paul! Come snuggle with us!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Dave – “Tato” to his grandkids – is a tough act to follow. He has charmed nephews, nieces, students, and grandkids with his inexhaustible repertoire of inventive games, goofy jokes, energy, and imagination. I don’t try to compete; I’m not nearly as fun nor funny. Yet, inexplicably, Lexi has chosen me as her favorite. Dave chuckles in recalling Lexi’s honest, “I love you Tato. But I love LeaLea more.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">The four of us lay in bed for minutes only – Lexi is not one for lying around. She was up and demonstrating the paper backpack she’d made for us, a wonder embellished with swirling rainbows of Crayola colors. She then took stock of our already comfortable accommodations, and announced, “You need tissues on your bedside table.” That accomplished, she again surveyed the room with the critical eye of an experienced hostess and said, “You need wastebaskets. I’ll get them.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Over the course of our visit, Tucker and Lisa had planned a range of activities to give us a taste – often literally – of their new life. We went up to Uetliberg for the view and a liberal helping of melted raclette cheese. We went to Sprungli cafe for rich hot chocolate and the hedonistic array of tarts, pastries, and cakes. We went to a pop-up chalet for creamy fondue and crusty bread. And we went to the mountains for snow, but that came later. On this day, we were bound for downtown Zurich.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjWd41ItTnjRBOxmlUi8Hv0v0l29zjhxyVtxcWrgCcf-Lqrq1FmqCCi3fXp26hnG24HnLR21MvOBuk3JYPUs6rczYYn28TnFC_SkXOg6cgUPYn0PSf-Lx-HqARkGj8qPZZ0dnhZrHdynGJjTNKEqlyF7VSeRy1E0VGFV8fUG4iqQrIpYd2RIiSVqxmADC/s2726/IMG_0729.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2726" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjWd41ItTnjRBOxmlUi8Hv0v0l29zjhxyVtxcWrgCcf-Lqrq1FmqCCi3fXp26hnG24HnLR21MvOBuk3JYPUs6rczYYn28TnFC_SkXOg6cgUPYn0PSf-Lx-HqARkGj8qPZZ0dnhZrHdynGJjTNKEqlyF7VSeRy1E0VGFV8fUG4iqQrIpYd2RIiSVqxmADC/s320/IMG_0729.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTB7oEx1jQLpfIE3X56zkm4tW_Th9s0y2md1-WX-2LZcVGz9wSH5IdeSQ2jWR7rEnuzt4Z573YzM4eEiXZ2tg9tuDBESlgdj2ZpGvRqIRB3W_GqlRU-5_BQAp5cmk1LoU4pOTbx1gXTn5Pnja4asg69qCMhNohIrW4GgvTrL0Vs2zOSoO_V9ABLUL0XTjQ/s2120/IMG_1277.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2120" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTB7oEx1jQLpfIE3X56zkm4tW_Th9s0y2md1-WX-2LZcVGz9wSH5IdeSQ2jWR7rEnuzt4Z573YzM4eEiXZ2tg9tuDBESlgdj2ZpGvRqIRB3W_GqlRU-5_BQAp5cmk1LoU4pOTbx1gXTn5Pnja4asg69qCMhNohIrW4GgvTrL0Vs2zOSoO_V9ABLUL0XTjQ/s320/IMG_1277.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <div><span face="Aptos, sans-serif">Paul and Lexi are city kids accustomed to traveling by tram, T, and train. The stop is a five- minute walk from their house; the zoo, three minutes in the other direction. Helpful yellow giraffe footprints are painted on the sidewalk, and every kid I saw zig-zagged their way to the tram or zoo, leaping from print to print. </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I am not a city person and would have preferred to hold the kids’ hands, my body between them and the road. I would have liked to maintain a marked distance between the tram tracks and the children, but that is not their way. They know exactly how close they can get – closer than I’d like - and they scampered to the spot where the tram doors would open so they were first in line and could nab the coveted back seat. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir8jfJoqmJsCNZNGK2SAbEprNz4RAS5eb6TY2ANiNMM8Shn7azCRCbzhAq9aaxxx9JZRO_7MzuY5NSO69uR6biWJBvNHfWEw_s7FhLFjxV6Z5Y3v8K20-GHEn4Ww3XG2pW-aqTikcod2-sy3CcQa3DELozoUEi94VzumWDEYof8rC-z9Slfl1Hc4MrdbS3/s1480/IMG_0898.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir8jfJoqmJsCNZNGK2SAbEprNz4RAS5eb6TY2ANiNMM8Shn7azCRCbzhAq9aaxxx9JZRO_7MzuY5NSO69uR6biWJBvNHfWEw_s7FhLFjxV6Z5Y3v8K20-GHEn4Ww3XG2pW-aqTikcod2-sy3CcQa3DELozoUEi94VzumWDEYof8rC-z9Slfl1Hc4MrdbS3/s320/IMG_0898.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">While we waited, Tucker said, “Mom, give me your phone and I’ll set up the app for your train tickets.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">How could he know that the word “app” stills my soul? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">My boy came of age in a computer world and has lived in a city since college. Programming and coding are his interest and his work. Public transportation, routes, stops, and connections are second nature… as they are for Lexi and Paul.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Not so for me. When I handed him my phone, he tapped briskly then said, “What’s your Google password?” How could he know that question near brings me to tears, and invariably whatever I type elicits a curt “Invalid” and inaction in whatever task is attempted on whatever device I use? How could he know my string of failures with apps and passwords, my Pavlovian avoidance as a result? I am not exaggerating when I say my nose prickled at his question, as pathetic as that is.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">“I don’t have it with me. It’s written down at home.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">“Never mind, Mom. I’ve got it.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Sigh. Next time we come to Europe, I’ll know to bring passwords, although that’s no guarantee of success. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">After a quick, comfortable ride on the tram, we dismounted into a drizzly, then pouring, rain and hurriedly opened our umbrellas. This was not the snowy, alpine Switzerland of calendars. “We told you to come in October!” Tucker said. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpTgxoaMc9aKcXg6FKY3KrzqHG1QFTtgYRmgQmY2HgPfY_K_jxMo3ubO57T99s9yuW4ISxhjFlEcpDbwAa1xOtAUTdGMvp9Hlpw8uGX7HkQutvCoQBQqXxruHVUrJ30oHijG3HR6qyd-kAkddWnXGC1Cu1R9xXKcxORu1R0ickDtQagJfc11jM9ut12JW/s1974/IMG_0784.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpTgxoaMc9aKcXg6FKY3KrzqHG1QFTtgYRmgQmY2HgPfY_K_jxMo3ubO57T99s9yuW4ISxhjFlEcpDbwAa1xOtAUTdGMvp9Hlpw8uGX7HkQutvCoQBQqXxruHVUrJ30oHijG3HR6qyd-kAkddWnXGC1Cu1R9xXKcxORu1R0ickDtQagJfc11jM9ut12JW/s320/IMG_0784.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">If only it had been dry, much less sunny! For that day, Zurich hosted a food festival, and the scents of curry, cinnamon, fresh donuts, and pizza offered by dispirited vendors wafted from colorful, albeit bedraggled, booths. One could imagine the pleasure of a leisurely stroll along the river past soaring steeples and skeletal trees while sampling such offerings had we not been balancing dripping umbrellas. Still, donuts dipped in sugar and warm chocolate were too tempting to pass up, so we made our purchases and ran to a sheltering portico. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifB9UMIJRrt8b07pstLDhriFq3lygGunTYHzbi7SW3-8XV6JFViAs8um_cbHFVVT6tR2S4TOet3nbRR0WehvmohHkFr6ytT8uWFlSOoaGHHYvIPE07z6eVmDIShk6D7lr2etGWojWi4NANhcsvz-4QBKgFNxOCn5SIR2whdFwLsSJWI6I-Z9oKSeJ8FtGh/s2784/IMG_0780.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="2784" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifB9UMIJRrt8b07pstLDhriFq3lygGunTYHzbi7SW3-8XV6JFViAs8um_cbHFVVT6tR2S4TOet3nbRR0WehvmohHkFr6ytT8uWFlSOoaGHHYvIPE07z6eVmDIShk6D7lr2etGWojWi4NANhcsvz-4QBKgFNxOCn5SIR2whdFwLsSJWI6I-Z9oKSeJ8FtGh/s320/IMG_0780.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>* * * </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Come evening, the rain had stopped, and the lights of the city reflected off the river and still-wet streets. Lisa and I ventured forth, brushing off the fatigue that kept Tucker, Dave, and the kids at home. The Swiss celebrate the New Year over a period of days, and that night, Zurich was hosting an art show where different artists projected their work on the facades of iconic buildings. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7lpdsCusDJbK3YbM87QXgrhKqgGj8nN0X-KVmcdxNfzGC_XFsuOICy_PoHNPq6fcvxIH9oTnRdz7jp-s8BROOtMCl-NMRkCGJj2O8YeCytJmqPh2rFFk3qrdMbGVs_8f3N8sDkyYrWwfnEComoELFt9Dc74OHP0yP0M64AENMsA20zbMCHsH4rV57s3e/s1974/IMG_0796.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7lpdsCusDJbK3YbM87QXgrhKqgGj8nN0X-KVmcdxNfzGC_XFsuOICy_PoHNPq6fcvxIH9oTnRdz7jp-s8BROOtMCl-NMRkCGJj2O8YeCytJmqPh2rFFk3qrdMbGVs_8f3N8sDkyYrWwfnEComoELFt9Dc74OHP0yP0M64AENMsA20zbMCHsH4rV57s3e/s320/IMG_0796.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Dave and I live in the country, surrounded by the stillness of woods and stone walls. To be out in the vibrancy of the rain-washed night, chattering and striding along with my daughter-in-law, was exhilarating. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Our pace was brisk as we hoped to visit every site, re-tracing the route of our earlier walk, now festive with color bright against the darkness. The city itself was the artists’ canvas, the blues, yellows, and pinks on the buildings melting into the water and rippling across its surface. Brilliant webs of light stretched across streets illuminated by the glow from shop windows. On a corner, a vendor wrapped roasted chestnuts in paper cones, their smoky scent enveloping passersby. And if this were not joy enough, as we stood beneath a church awash with colors, its bells rang out, a resounding accompaniment to the sensory symphony. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb2MXPaL1NghmobtU0McVrryLfluHWCw8zZSQWAEgblQsiqg1u9Gm4YUtT593AlW5QMcZLSprj2je7spqyUvB1Oq6jCFZMZKIto27yI1pUL3jl7O2S7-6gkiCx8Y2BVJDdVIFOPikNuF16vvgpdfkPndwjsQY8opeMXRe9fzP308KnMUuepwZvNKSvohD/s1974/IMG_0809.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb2MXPaL1NghmobtU0McVrryLfluHWCw8zZSQWAEgblQsiqg1u9Gm4YUtT593AlW5QMcZLSprj2je7spqyUvB1Oq6jCFZMZKIto27yI1pUL3jl7O2S7-6gkiCx8Y2BVJDdVIFOPikNuF16vvgpdfkPndwjsQY8opeMXRe9fzP308KnMUuepwZvNKSvohD/s320/IMG_0809.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXSdHSjz21HSuZnvglawMEOPIdQUwpan3m6kWBWmRTY0Hcp2thjHRkgp5v3GOvwflsEnoR9caaTHkEWMGUl3DT5iLmln4hlcbs8rGR30e75S6SIpVuobirzqnYnSqobdNPZAsDl6uNkv2lfOIiBVI8dR6cT-S1pkTrwmHDhzZg0WGsF0et_oqA2dTFFhq/s1974/IMG_0826.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXSdHSjz21HSuZnvglawMEOPIdQUwpan3m6kWBWmRTY0Hcp2thjHRkgp5v3GOvwflsEnoR9caaTHkEWMGUl3DT5iLmln4hlcbs8rGR30e75S6SIpVuobirzqnYnSqobdNPZAsDl6uNkv2lfOIiBVI8dR6cT-S1pkTrwmHDhzZg0WGsF0et_oqA2dTFFhq/s320/IMG_0826.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-68657401311959351252023-12-05T16:35:00.000-08:002023-12-05T16:56:00.076-08:00A Christmas Mission and Memories<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">For decades, my sisters, Rita and Francie, my brother-in-law Matt, and their son, Campbell, had joined my parents in their annual holiday pilgrimage to family graves to lay wreaths. Given the distance from Connecticut and the frenzy of the season, Dave and I had never been able to go. This would be our first time. While my parents died years ago, Rita’s partner, Bill, and her son, Jared, would join us as well.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Rita’s van seated six, so it was a tight fit, but we wanted to travel together. Dave and Bill insisted on squeezing into the way-back, folding in knees and tucking toes under the seats in front of them. It was not a surprise when they launched into a convincing big brother/little brother performance.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> “He touched me!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No, I didn’t!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yes, you did!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Make him move!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You can’t make me!’<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sigh. Too easy for these two to pull it off. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The car was awash with laughter and the scent of pine as we made our way to our first stop, St. David’s. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Those who could, hopped out of the car. Extricating the two men from the third seat involved all manner of contortions: lifting legs, reaching hands, and angling butts. Dismount complete, Rita raised the hatch of her van, and we lifted out swags of greens and holly. After slipping off the cellophane sheaths, we twisted wires around the ends to affix red velvet bows. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The original church, built in 1715, still stands adjacent to the graveyard. Creeping ivy twines around the trunks of towering firs, their sheltering boughs swooping low over rows of granite headstones. More subdued now in this solemn place, we walked around a long stone wall freckled with pale lichens to the graves of my aunt, uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents and laid down our offerings. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrOYGzSF_7FNAGfiSE3vSjUf2d0YvNe01LSOCWJXZim758sPbNWSstqlPPMRM6QmrsNBaWKn_Vo-cRymFhzNkWGeZ612RzKNVWffr85el13M_hBfQ7IOpE8LoCrZNVqcsTZ38NA-SinAOJSG9Niql3Ye3LvHomu8F5c2WgvCSLO1_1KMYf81BpxWPbZw5/s1480/IMG_0408.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrOYGzSF_7FNAGfiSE3vSjUf2d0YvNe01LSOCWJXZim758sPbNWSstqlPPMRM6QmrsNBaWKn_Vo-cRymFhzNkWGeZ612RzKNVWffr85el13M_hBfQ7IOpE8LoCrZNVqcsTZ38NA-SinAOJSG9Niql3Ye3LvHomu8F5c2WgvCSLO1_1KMYf81BpxWPbZw5/s320/IMG_0408.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But… where was Hobie?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My grandmother, Gaga, lost her firstborn son when he was 18 months old. Spotting his bottles sterilizing on the stove, he had reached up to grab one and tipped the vat of boiling water over on himself. To us, her granddaughters, and perhaps to the children born after Hobie’s death, Gaga was kind but distant. That consuming love was a risk she would not take again. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Much as I sought to banish images of the accident, my thoughts invariably turned to my grandmother and her lost little one when my kids and grandchildren reached 18 months. It has been my comfort to think that Gaga and Hobie were reunited for eternity, and I’d assumed they rested together here, at St. David’s.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No. He’s in Penllyn with Granpa,” Francie said. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Of course. Hobie died long before my grandmother and was buried where they lived at that time, before my grandparents’ divorce. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Francie pointed to a grave partially hidden by ivy behind that of my great-grandparents. A stone cross marked that of another small boy, a child I’d not been aware of. Gaga’s mother had also lost an infant son. My heart ached at the shared agony the women before me had endured. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Despite long-ago sorrows, graveyards have always been a place of comfort for me. The sadness and stresses endured by those resting beneath blankets of grass and moss had been resolved, and I believed, I<i> hoped, </i>there was reunion and peace for them on the Other Side.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOeWFerzBZArA9M5Ap7ezjwq1SVKmSfMg1chMouOvM5UUzTiHXfllkHGNgPu_9y5GrhzuRQNuL6O2XNtGDpANx1S4RFolTPubZ-Ha4YtOA8mhC7kD7Y7N-1sHI9cd-CQ3q4mRbLM8GouAHzclT04FJk6I056PL1mPO4zwgZE4CSv-eNaOF938WV_T4Ra7f/s1974/IMG_0420.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOeWFerzBZArA9M5Ap7ezjwq1SVKmSfMg1chMouOvM5UUzTiHXfllkHGNgPu_9y5GrhzuRQNuL6O2XNtGDpANx1S4RFolTPubZ-Ha4YtOA8mhC7kD7Y7N-1sHI9cd-CQ3q4mRbLM8GouAHzclT04FJk6I056PL1mPO4zwgZE4CSv-eNaOF938WV_T4Ra7f/s320/IMG_0420.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Next, off to visit Mom, Dad, Uncle Henry, and my grandmother Byeo, mom’s mother, at the Church of the Redeemer. The last time I visited this site, my daughter, Casey, went with me. When I’d suggested the idea, Casey said, “Mom, it will make you cry.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No, it won’t. I’m in a great mood! Happy! I just want to visit.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So, we’d driven over and climbed the small rise to the graves. I said, “Hi Byeo. Hi Mom and Dad”… and burst into tears. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But this time, I felt only joy at being there. After placing the swags, we stood in a circle and sang, “We wish you a Merry Christmas.” I indulged myself in imagining those beloved spirits taking a seat on their stones, smiling at the circle of family. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1KeYfGX_pXr7c7_z-6U18AjjTLRkZ1hW3ki4e-yJzxW4bCV-4GNJov3iqSLjT9NWfP6DdxEZ4LCDbvsyV9mrzVb4nuv6fX2FGPCTKeyFMpcGVsO2pxc9qCkORIIGQQ4mv0o1-0icX0CMUcaklaKRih1O5wgcnlArzRrBi4-c73TizyKO3qBTM8a8SpY3/s1974/IMG_0433-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1KeYfGX_pXr7c7_z-6U18AjjTLRkZ1hW3ki4e-yJzxW4bCV-4GNJov3iqSLjT9NWfP6DdxEZ4LCDbvsyV9mrzVb4nuv6fX2FGPCTKeyFMpcGVsO2pxc9qCkORIIGQQ4mv0o1-0icX0CMUcaklaKRih1O5wgcnlArzRrBi4-c73TizyKO3qBTM8a8SpY3/s320/IMG_0433-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QxJ96sqxFidPF90RuJJ0nXX-rPoSYpLshxXrxpp9_XiJ0YzUg-t0ZJZ8PuLE-2JObbSsMCsEFOvcp5GBNyqEU-j9iIM_p1uNrtNeMlbqLFnc1sdgU9InISgmuiLMonMJKXA68brwWby42o0JHHrDI3y6sbDo6aPlgjeyZ8vZtS4zQGMkPWv2Oi81pcKn/s1974/IMG_0434.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1974" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QxJ96sqxFidPF90RuJJ0nXX-rPoSYpLshxXrxpp9_XiJ0YzUg-t0ZJZ8PuLE-2JObbSsMCsEFOvcp5GBNyqEU-j9iIM_p1uNrtNeMlbqLFnc1sdgU9InISgmuiLMonMJKXA68brwWby42o0JHHrDI3y6sbDo6aPlgjeyZ8vZtS4zQGMkPWv2Oi81pcKn/s320/IMG_0434.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Penllyn was a trek, a trek we’d made every other Sunday when I was young. We three girls would sit in the back seat - perhaps playing a bit of annoying “she touched me!” ourselves - wearing dresses, short white socks, and patten leather shoes. Luncheons with my grandfather, step-grandmother, and great-aunt-Anna had been formal affairs. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">An old red brick church stood watch over this graveyard. Francie directed my gaze to the steeple. “The bell tower was dedicated to Uncle Harry when he died in World War I.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Captain Harry Ingersoll was the revered young uncle my father never knew, but whose memory brought Dad to tears whenever his name was mentioned. He is buried in the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery in France, but a stone honors him in this place. Nearby lies his brother, my grandfather, and Ingersolls going back three generations. Here, also, is Hobie, nestled close to my step-grandmother. I bristled at this cozy set-up: Hobie should be with Gaga. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxNTrHbIhXwppYqFaIZ1i7a6w3N-4GGKaoMtd3IKszdUuoO90FiH01mBdRyn1GUWSEQd2fDrOZ0IJzpqQjt0qNE16YcS_mmFFUbkKVtTe5IgqemGgAgoLg6fs-e52Ja7W1r5L8mbwua4QyVc-QnI_hlHS39TYYv3IJo1aWk-hLSx-jTAXU0jgBjrrBjoo/s1480/IMG_0443.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxNTrHbIhXwppYqFaIZ1i7a6w3N-4GGKaoMtd3IKszdUuoO90FiH01mBdRyn1GUWSEQd2fDrOZ0IJzpqQjt0qNE16YcS_mmFFUbkKVtTe5IgqemGgAgoLg6fs-e52Ja7W1r5L8mbwua4QyVc-QnI_hlHS39TYYv3IJo1aWk-hLSx-jTAXU0jgBjrrBjoo/s320/IMG_0443.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I had not been to Penllyn in close to 50 years. The last time I can recall was to introduce my long-haired hippie boyfriend, Dave, to my very proper step-grandmother. For this momentous meeting, Dave had chosen to wear a flannel shirt and well-worn white carpenter overalls. We had barely entered the door when he leaned over and split the seam of his pants. Quickly, he tied his yellow rain slicker around his waist and politely refused every offer to hang it in the coat closet. Memorable indeed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Once all the swags had been laid and holiday greetings given, we headed home. As we drove past the white stucco Blue Bell Inn, I reminisced about exploring my grandparents’ barn and discovering the ancient coach they’d put back in service during the war, Aunt Anna’s Christmas parties, and the excitement of Santa’s appearance at the top of her stairs with presents for every child. I thought of the many early evening trips home on Sundays, snoozy in the dark of the back seat with my sisters, marveling as the moon seemed to travel the sky alongside us. I reflected that<i> I</i> am now the grandmother, the baton passed from one generation of women to the next. Children grown, little ones beaming, eyes bright at the aura of pine boughs laced with tiny lights, and the prospect of a kindly gentleman in a red suit delivering joy. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-9235380253009750022023-11-02T15:18:00.029-07:002023-11-02T16:02:33.932-07:00It will be a while...<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Paul and Lexi’s suitcase is packed and zipped, the outfits I’d chosen for them laid out on their beds. My son, Tucker, and his wife, Lisa, are home in Massachusetts, scurrying to empty the last cans and jars from their cupboards and ferrying final loads to the dump and Goodwill. After months of planning, acquiring Visas, squaring things up at work, and seeking renters, they are moving to Switzerland in two days. While I have dreaded this final step, delivering the kids to the airport, I am in departure mode, geared for the drive to Boston.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I don’t want to wear that!” Lexi whines. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Everything else is packed, Sweetie.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“But I don’t <i>want</i> that shirt!” she says as she flops on the bed, her face set. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Honestly!</i> I am not interested in a stupid squabble over clothes, and my impatience shows. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You like this shirt, Lexi. Just put it on.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I glower at her and prepare another stern salvo, when… wait. Stop. Some inner angel has the good sense to snag my attention. Am I really going to bicker over clothes with this precious four-year-old who is about to move far away from me? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No. Not for a second more. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I unzip the suitcase and pull her close. “Okay, Sweetie. Show me what you want to wear.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She shuffles through her clothes, rejecting a pink tee-shirt with a sequined heart, the rainbow leggings, and an orange “Bingo” jersey. “This,” she says, pulling out a dress she’s worn twice in the past week. Fine. She tugs it over her head and looks adorable. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Paul and Lexi have been with us for a week, and it’s been a whirl of playgrounds, Hide N’ Go Seek, crafts, and Candyland. Swimming, tea parties, “helicopter rides” and Red light/Green Light marathons with our daughter, Casey, and four-year-old Eleanor. Mornings with the kids in soft PJ’s, watching “Bluey” on T.V. over a breakfast of frozen waffles, fruit, and “LeaLea’s special yogurt.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg09koNAt8ErRSlIkwf2jBQRJzsQ1l14hBXzkUPxm_tJD800akWQvqiM0Zd8r1cYBtKLPO1HlISW59Yov0yhe6TLH0cztd_rDh9d9CdoIjstrPjGY8kymOyJ-fuX4pdItB5gOtOlAmpGT5ulXkd8D_VPlLk8x9YugMLJI3YkC7-5BVwQZpnMJ8gKy3P_1y/s1984/IMG_6396.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg09koNAt8ErRSlIkwf2jBQRJzsQ1l14hBXzkUPxm_tJD800akWQvqiM0Zd8r1cYBtKLPO1HlISW59Yov0yhe6TLH0cztd_rDh9d9CdoIjstrPjGY8kymOyJ-fuX4pdItB5gOtOlAmpGT5ulXkd8D_VPlLk8x9YugMLJI3YkC7-5BVwQZpnMJ8gKy3P_1y/s320/IMG_6396.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpoVagaQ3E0p1IEEU1KVqFWrDZjwoV97NLf018OipJlzoEbxU2-4WWkAfeNYA0j3iEi5EiaaENEBmhAf_kAhwc5NEZLCXWIm5DPS-UXtck8wzNi5RcDWuYF8cbiC9qBzUmQaRS1gc-Xaq5TZYv8v8lBsbqHgYHgI3MMc-vTfpOCLQsU8aA6CXzwCSNd-v/s1984/IMG_6762.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpoVagaQ3E0p1IEEU1KVqFWrDZjwoV97NLf018OipJlzoEbxU2-4WWkAfeNYA0j3iEi5EiaaENEBmhAf_kAhwc5NEZLCXWIm5DPS-UXtck8wzNi5RcDWuYF8cbiC9qBzUmQaRS1gc-Xaq5TZYv8v8lBsbqHgYHgI3MMc-vTfpOCLQsU8aA6CXzwCSNd-v/s320/IMG_6762.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShaUvwxZnE1O6YB9O0wV-PgyYfgC67STdlIKqhWVgO9BZIcECWKocA3IGRxpf8IfryqdBKHm7e4MfbtOWATsgIdIY41Q2cffnblscY1gIQa3FAt6i9LJ7tDftM7KCdTnzqtU4g_NpJ27x260XIzSM4vkWrO5hj23Qnq6IySb9lR-cflnYIk8dglhMrzh1/s1488/IMG_6465.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShaUvwxZnE1O6YB9O0wV-PgyYfgC67STdlIKqhWVgO9BZIcECWKocA3IGRxpf8IfryqdBKHm7e4MfbtOWATsgIdIY41Q2cffnblscY1gIQa3FAt6i9LJ7tDftM7KCdTnzqtU4g_NpJ27x260XIzSM4vkWrO5hj23Qnq6IySb9lR-cflnYIk8dglhMrzh1/s320/IMG_6465.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At ages seven and four, Paul and Lexi are up for anything: filling the bird feeders, vacuuming, husking corn, and baking. They want to be with us, no matter how mundane the errand. “I’m just going to put the clothes in the drier…”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’ll come with you!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’m just going to empty the compost out back…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’ll come with you!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’m just going to get my sunglasses out of the car…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’ll come with you!” And a little hand slips into mine for every jaunt or task. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While Paul or Lexi happily folds warm tee shirts stamped with unicorns and dinosaurs, my nose prickles, tears barely in check. While dumping the compost, I brush my eyes dry with the back of my hand. Behind my retrieved sunglasses, my eyes are damp. The little kid years are short, so very precious, so blessed with humor and snuggles, and Dave and I have basked in that light. We are keenly aware that it will be a while before the next visit. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Usually, Paul procrastinates and fidgets while getting dressed, but not today. He is quiet as he puts on the shorts and tee shirt I’ve selected, perhaps more conscious than his little sister of the momentous change ahead. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">His fingernails need a trim, so we go to the bathroom and fetch clippers and scissors. Paul sits on a wooden stool Casey made in middle school, and I sit on the floor. “I can do my left hand, but will you do the right?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Of course!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He is methodical and takes his time. Each nail requires several clips as he angles the clippers this way and that. It is all I can do not to hurry him along, to suppress a breezy, “How ‘bout I take it from there?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But again, thank heavens, I think, <i>wait.</i> Why rush this time together? It will be a while before the next visit. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When he’s ready, I take his right hand in mine and slowly snip while telling him how Byeo, <i>my </i>grandmother, did <i>my</i> nails. “She cut, filed, and buffed them to make them shiny. And then – this is interesting – she’d run a white pencil under the top of each nail.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Why?” asks Paul.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I guess she thought it looked nice. Isn’t it funny that I still remember that? I wonder if you’ll remember <i>this </i>when <i>you</i> are 70?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Paul doesn’t say anything, but he’s a thoughtful boy, and I can tell he’s thinking about it. And, again, my nose prickles… <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It’s one of the many gifts of time with Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor that memories of my kids’ childhood, as well as my own, are revived. While making drip castles with sand, playing “Birdie Dear,” or trotting a child on my knees for “This is the Way the Farmer Boy Rides,” I hope Byeo is watching these reruns of <i>her</i> games. And I hope she beams as much as I do when Lexi asks indignantly, “Why can’t it be a Farmer <i>Girl?”</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">All three kids like to paint, and a few days ago, I’d noticed one of Lexi’s pieces was particularly specific, hieroglyphic in appearance with squiggles and shapes paired with numbers. When I put her to bed that night, she pointed at one of the spindles on the headboard and said, “I tried to draw it, but it wasn’t very good.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Startled, I looked around. “Was your drawing this afternoon about your bed?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yes.” And I watched as she counted the carved arcs and spindles in the headboard, then pointed to one pillow, two sheets, and one blanket, all as drawn and numbered on her picture.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Wow, Lexi. Actually, it wasn’t just good, it was <i>amazing</i>!” Dave and I have marveled at so many signs of how much, and how quickly, our little ones are thinking, learning, and growing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It has been a throw-back week of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and remembering to pack changes of clothing and snacks no matter how short the excursion; of snuggling up with cozy stories; and splashing in the pool with Casey, Eleanor, and PJ. What a respite from my usual newsfeed doom scroll. What a gift to be immersed in unicorns, rainbows, dancing, and giggles. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRy1K9ZI808ldg-5Ag6EprDnDO3EEvbtFuImIxCrYJ3oCSUYStlFTHyidzDZAkunt6N6y2_nM9zW6ng5fPaY3BMl2foILX_bggBfo8XHnwuuW2g_pXp9S9ox2JJb41cRPL4iZqdGKLqiXTtBN6WNx1NJ4RCCBEFePvsXhlvH_8B08v4qZHJ_HWyJqeoBt/s1984/IMG_6433.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRy1K9ZI808ldg-5Ag6EprDnDO3EEvbtFuImIxCrYJ3oCSUYStlFTHyidzDZAkunt6N6y2_nM9zW6ng5fPaY3BMl2foILX_bggBfo8XHnwuuW2g_pXp9S9ox2JJb41cRPL4iZqdGKLqiXTtBN6WNx1NJ4RCCBEFePvsXhlvH_8B08v4qZHJ_HWyJqeoBt/s320/IMG_6433.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave has been gleeful in playing catch with his grandson, pulling up his former glory years as a pitcher in putting on Tucker’s old catcher’s mitt and a sports caster’s voice to call a play by play with Paul as the star. “And the crowd goes wild!” Dave would whoop when Paul delivered a solid pitch. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Every joyous moment is heightened, poignant, as we strive to freeze it. We know it will be a while until the next visit. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPxNy_TXY6l2YAj_uydtKI-ZfMdifpiiB8p0iC2a9AK0Ll-qxr9zzkw71zNV4sXJtArg8-ftfLpuPRGPb1EZFP5ZUQsVwFxBka3pqp53JToKkLRcrXZA_eW9FgyIHts4Av-RX04aBRwT_z-DJaQLp5SbSjYPRqHj0lR61KydxOOfJHuQT9Cs0Kw9yI1jY/s1984/IMG_6618-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPxNy_TXY6l2YAj_uydtKI-ZfMdifpiiB8p0iC2a9AK0Ll-qxr9zzkw71zNV4sXJtArg8-ftfLpuPRGPb1EZFP5ZUQsVwFxBka3pqp53JToKkLRcrXZA_eW9FgyIHts4Av-RX04aBRwT_z-DJaQLp5SbSjYPRqHj0lR61KydxOOfJHuQT9Cs0Kw9yI1jY/s320/IMG_6618-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Before we head out, we give the kids our phones to dash around the house and take pictures. Paul decides to video, and his is a heady ride of blue-sneakered feet and floorboards as he runs through the rooms for quick pans interspersed with extreme close-ups: my mother’s porcelain milkmaid; an air vent he helped Dave fix; the dragon-headed fireplace tools; and the springy flag on the Fischer Price castle.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Lexi’s going for stills. Hers are carefully composed, mostly in focus, some, surprisingly artistic. She takes several pictures of the items on my bureau: a card she made for me, and photos of 6-year-old Lea with Byeo. She captures vignettes in the guest room, a glimpse down the stairs, a shot of the suitcases and backpacks waiting by the back door. We are touched by what they choose to capture and wonder how much they'll remember.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0Ezqhn4ZTUtFGY7wH14YShSmEeWRtr7C81pS2ZMqKvyIu6X803tULQ9MD5sUbXWAHEAVBaPMdTBIJTV4tE2HSdcvbvEsNIdRvFv_DO_h75820PgkpFXPU8QB1KVpm6lkDhPS8mZDqmOD4eiikOvnFjjfpHv7ElAd6dyV_CjTbu0X8xRxloepY44agQFC/s1488/IMG_6838.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0Ezqhn4ZTUtFGY7wH14YShSmEeWRtr7C81pS2ZMqKvyIu6X803tULQ9MD5sUbXWAHEAVBaPMdTBIJTV4tE2HSdcvbvEsNIdRvFv_DO_h75820PgkpFXPU8QB1KVpm6lkDhPS8mZDqmOD4eiikOvnFjjfpHv7ElAd6dyV_CjTbu0X8xRxloepY44agQFC/s320/IMG_6838.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHfD6Qq7SxRQVcEUcZOlexP3UqJ1H0X1SZtisybm3Nr0cf8zGeEgYrO1d8RPE29SNH28QDg6UFZ-4dNjjkNZALSAUCBpeQSoaG7Zn2bO2F1VHH9RWF20gON4QuDtove1Y0I215pNTXHy_YOuf33meVGwwIcV4bENghZD7IT2caIZxSmUfAQpkC8nLpocz/s1488/IMG_6880.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHfD6Qq7SxRQVcEUcZOlexP3UqJ1H0X1SZtisybm3Nr0cf8zGeEgYrO1d8RPE29SNH28QDg6UFZ-4dNjjkNZALSAUCBpeQSoaG7Zn2bO2F1VHH9RWF20gON4QuDtove1Y0I215pNTXHy_YOuf33meVGwwIcV4bENghZD7IT2caIZxSmUfAQpkC8nLpocz/s320/IMG_6880.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc9SK1O7ZAVt9-AypuujUWONtRXpKlXnVTngb2DLhsPn2XcRM1HaHK36R7ZKY3DCFCIjQFFdbSPdCaLaj3GD6-frP87PcTg-SxzrT1iInVA-IgKXgOGiPsTzrfeHiPUAOBhApZVkAdOGonimpka17cpEJ_-ZUPwvuhgmRKgSJYnbpsqMGQ1DtpS72NNv4u/s1488/IMG_6893.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc9SK1O7ZAVt9-AypuujUWONtRXpKlXnVTngb2DLhsPn2XcRM1HaHK36R7ZKY3DCFCIjQFFdbSPdCaLaj3GD6-frP87PcTg-SxzrT1iInVA-IgKXgOGiPsTzrfeHiPUAOBhApZVkAdOGonimpka17cpEJ_-ZUPwvuhgmRKgSJYnbpsqMGQ1DtpS72NNv4u/s320/IMG_6893.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The ride to the airport hotel in Boston is uneventful, and when we arrive, Tucker and Lisa are waiting for us. Before they fly, we have one last day together to run races through the sky bridge, frolic in the hotel pool, play catch in our room, and Hide N’ Go Seek in the lobby. Their flight departs at 9:00 P.M. and the kids are remarkably cooperative given the late hour. They put on their pajamas in hopes they’ll sleep through the flight and slip on their backpacks. Then, our caravan of kids, carts, weary parents, and sorrowful grandparents sets off.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYcGIC0a7YsxlmWe73XqZXw-XZLpXPgTUUAHR_1epbMfWkOXlLfqxjxeaAGuy3sq-dywiKFKP11S79jq6UORTR2CPkdZF0lWyF7rDoHc4I9gCRANVYwLno8IRvG8eQeot1ElpRY27Sch5uXEaQbealixkiquba5smtvzXG0LoBE1C3n5B9jwFbOJdvnlo/s4032/C25C951C-83D3-46CC-8AA8-B18EA88DC10A.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYcGIC0a7YsxlmWe73XqZXw-XZLpXPgTUUAHR_1epbMfWkOXlLfqxjxeaAGuy3sq-dywiKFKP11S79jq6UORTR2CPkdZF0lWyF7rDoHc4I9gCRANVYwLno8IRvG8eQeot1ElpRY27Sch5uXEaQbealixkiquba5smtvzXG0LoBE1C3n5B9jwFbOJdvnlo/s320/C25C951C-83D3-46CC-8AA8-B18EA88DC10A.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sQEcHxFKWsofs0ayj5MVjS37XFPHS1UgaGKv-wIqYzi_EFyvmlfOWwbj-N4gKI9FhQ66iMD05GRKA8NPRlCJXqaTxOqiLEWPQwDn7POZFih89WQneMtYE4LlquJ65AmPqt2GIIZ8AWM3eX4tx8FRb5SyOfgNyhayf3LObcts1wkfhi5BakbOs5cBeQOC/s1488/IMG_7040.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="972" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sQEcHxFKWsofs0ayj5MVjS37XFPHS1UgaGKv-wIqYzi_EFyvmlfOWwbj-N4gKI9FhQ66iMD05GRKA8NPRlCJXqaTxOqiLEWPQwDn7POZFih89WQneMtYE4LlquJ65AmPqt2GIIZ8AWM3eX4tx8FRb5SyOfgNyhayf3LObcts1wkfhi5BakbOs5cBeQOC/s320/IMG_7040.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Tucker has scoped out the long and circuitous route to their gate from the hotel. He and Dave push carts loaded high with massive suitcases through corridors, across a parking lot, into an assortment of elevators, and down to the terminal while the kids scamper alongside. During his earlier reconnaissance, Tucker had met with the TAM Airways representative who would check them in, and she is an incredible help with the ungainly process of filling in forms and checking those bags. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUK7EH3n5KT2tW5-Vb0K8Vk_0VS7YFpvO7iIv9A8SKnM9HH37YEJgTI6u_VSDT5bpUpOR28-TvILFaNHb0orXYnqbku36MPgcEdIWnCg8_3JwKGPTvwLT1qryjN4YtBGMWlPPLjhe5jsBWC8aGxtBZiW-AfgsxfGT184pVyUQON3MrUZP2Qd0clK2jtJOU/s1488/IMG_7042.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUK7EH3n5KT2tW5-Vb0K8Vk_0VS7YFpvO7iIv9A8SKnM9HH37YEJgTI6u_VSDT5bpUpOR28-TvILFaNHb0orXYnqbku36MPgcEdIWnCg8_3JwKGPTvwLT1qryjN4YtBGMWlPPLjhe5jsBWC8aGxtBZiW-AfgsxfGT184pVyUQON3MrUZP2Qd0clK2jtJOU/s320/IMG_7042.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Finally, it’s time to say good-bye. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We’re not allowed to accompany them to the gate, and the airport employee who turns us away is kind and apologetic as we all hug and cry and cry and hug. Oh, this is hard. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We know it will be a while before the next visit. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IZCKbioHfasaa6yDtTxem998WZYn6kYLg4KkTJfXNetUCkcq30Xjy6Ffiw8bVfxUYWg9ojJiRwdut7dSgS6OuOC3JOG21Srm7cEpaLid0K-tY9yYu2IQq32s8qby_h-4rDtWGU5caK5ja-iuZ16hM5b-NiDdYKIE2XYQCiZGe0Yo8uIjUSIlua7oCuPO/s1488/IMG_7039-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IZCKbioHfasaa6yDtTxem998WZYn6kYLg4KkTJfXNetUCkcq30Xjy6Ffiw8bVfxUYWg9ojJiRwdut7dSgS6OuOC3JOG21Srm7cEpaLid0K-tY9yYu2IQq32s8qby_h-4rDtWGU5caK5ja-iuZ16hM5b-NiDdYKIE2XYQCiZGe0Yo8uIjUSIlua7oCuPO/s320/IMG_7039-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-46242956878415991142023-10-14T12:22:00.000-07:002023-10-14T12:22:15.285-07:00Trip West, Part VII: Majesty, Signs, and Stupidity<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">The guy standing next to me on the rim of the Grand Canyon had an aging hippie look but for his bookish, black-rimmed glasses. His gray hair was pulled back in a straggly ponytail and his eyes were blue and bright as, quietly, we urged the two condors hunkered on a rock far below to take wing. The giant birds were not listening and refused to show off their ten-foot wingspan.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EnT8Mj0ngsV3uHZuYSK3FUq2m4gIBE99a1XM1G5NoyjYFhyphenhyphen_YN0QI8X3hOY3huuf2PnGwWHXF37RNYDHtBI5t6Z_6CRncqyUXCq7VIZTfHgMFGkDI-b6Ufw40PGBUht7NIOCgReGcmuDkrN8OueQArguMeaGhHbezZpaqY-3uic_ORfk7dfeWgwFS5PO/s1488/IMG_4410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EnT8Mj0ngsV3uHZuYSK3FUq2m4gIBE99a1XM1G5NoyjYFhyphenhyphen_YN0QI8X3hOY3huuf2PnGwWHXF37RNYDHtBI5t6Z_6CRncqyUXCq7VIZTfHgMFGkDI-b6Ufw40PGBUht7NIOCgReGcmuDkrN8OueQArguMeaGhHbezZpaqY-3uic_ORfk7dfeWgwFS5PO/s320/IMG_4410.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">As was a ritual with everyone encountered on our trip, the man and I exchanged stories about our experiences at the parks we’d visited.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I told him about the condor expert in Zion and his plea to pass along word to any hunters that they switch to steel bullets since the commonly used lead shot was lethal to scavengers. Having chatted awhile, and feeling I was on reasonably safe ground, I murmured, sotto voce, "I'm not a fan of hunting."</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Me either,” he said. In fact, he was well aware of the perils facing wildlife from human activity given his work as a veterinary pathologist. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Ah. It must be hard to be immersed in the harm inflicted on creatures, whether intentional or not,” I said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yes. Certainly. But my hope is that my findings will make a difference by increasing awareness. The restoration of condor populations is one of conservation’s great success stories.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“We learned from that condor guy that their numbers had sunk to twelve breeding pairs. A near-miss in terms of extinction.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Truly.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /> “Speaking of, have you seen the sign over at The Lookout about not throwing coins into the canyon?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZPLT89ZIkMhyphenhyphenUu7MPrhed_K-VxMVmDqing4xUBATj3ZoougOKEeJ2-5pC5Jngu_Ovabdqm98V1ApCTKd2kVnXkzwTMb-TdCXpC0DAR16i6RvdXjKn7fSo2CeGfK7H7yGJZ6VwaCHjVZxbFb_yvkuUcDxPGZcIezTZaPDUcNccdbx8osq-eIHHKPdncwP/s1488/IMG_4489.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZPLT89ZIkMhyphenhyphenUu7MPrhed_K-VxMVmDqing4xUBATj3ZoougOKEeJ2-5pC5Jngu_Ovabdqm98V1ApCTKd2kVnXkzwTMb-TdCXpC0DAR16i6RvdXjKn7fSo2CeGfK7H7yGJZ6VwaCHjVZxbFb_yvkuUcDxPGZcIezTZaPDUcNccdbx8osq-eIHHKPdncwP/s320/IMG_4489.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yeah,” he said. “Obviously not safe to hikers passing below to throw <i>anything</i>, and again, condors are scavengers. They’ll go for the coins, and the zinc can poison them.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Exactly! Yet while I was reading that sign, a few feet away a kid was tossing stones over the side.” Incredulous, I looked at the pathologist. “They were stones, not coins, but still. What the hell? He was 11 or so, old enough to know better. I had to say something. In my nice –but-concerned-grown-up voice I said, ‘did you read this sign?’ Judging by his expression as he scurried away, he had.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We shook our heads. <i>Humans. </i>Sigh. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While some signs at the canyon offered alerts such as the one about coins and condors, others conjured… novel images. In one hotel restroom, a sign urged visitors not to drink the toilet water, and another insisted that guests not stand on the toilets. Hm. Surprising. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwFzElhemEJA2JOvjQ-0g9Wk_HD3AJAujsLm6tD2aXC3ncPgr6Nx0JEgmmzfewmq2N8W-hCD-I7XyyjjyJKHOdEKIUfxwOJWHwUEpM33eVJekAzX3uzHiKY8b6lFoieS1qa6Ckif2kgo088_bUAavbL6LYPlXULhyphenhyphenGdITIB1L3acp1000CY-Bhku-KekP/s2178/IMG_4416-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="2178" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwFzElhemEJA2JOvjQ-0g9Wk_HD3AJAujsLm6tD2aXC3ncPgr6Nx0JEgmmzfewmq2N8W-hCD-I7XyyjjyJKHOdEKIUfxwOJWHwUEpM33eVJekAzX3uzHiKY8b6lFoieS1qa6Ckif2kgo088_bUAavbL6LYPlXULhyphenhyphenGdITIB1L3acp1000CY-Bhku-KekP/s320/IMG_4416-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Along the popular Bright Angel Trail, the signs were cartoonish, but ominously clear: people have gone over the side. Dehydration creeps up on you. Pay attention. You could die here.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6YArebCuQoBFElyFcDB71OvnXzEgIik6FwkjrDzR9_vo83y4Og1JxeS-01QWZRRCsy4AQDebIsTJ7CQADb7uVd42i7pLqN3KDpRqbUOIt4BI6Bf08FomoIv0hf9k3mWFG_rHZUtvlUuGms5BUDGtLfCNT19LZuaCFuXY5GFZYH4hdCV8C25mBas4qveu/s1488/IMG_4400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6YArebCuQoBFElyFcDB71OvnXzEgIik6FwkjrDzR9_vo83y4Og1JxeS-01QWZRRCsy4AQDebIsTJ7CQADb7uVd42i7pLqN3KDpRqbUOIt4BI6Bf08FomoIv0hf9k3mWFG_rHZUtvlUuGms5BUDGtLfCNT19LZuaCFuXY5GFZYH4hdCV8C25mBas4qveu/s320/IMG_4400.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Personally, I needed no warning signs. The Bright Angel is narrow and sinuous, the soil, dry and sandy. It is well-traveled by seasoned hikers laden with enough equipment for a week and folks like me and Dave who just want a lovely experience of the canyon beyond the rim. I was mindful that an errant sneeze, a misplaced foot, or an inadvertent hip check from an overlarge passing backpack could mean a fatal plummet. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUx4ScYqWaHJO8tA0ZjjJz0O2JBPx1ow1UsAr5i3SqpnK1jJdzCpmAGPhMSksAE0Y60WHt4yM_pyl2n7OAZlUieuIMzW8GSPmqvUn2a0f3fzPNoT2BAObzVtXE6R66DEfmDGrtVsgwLCsm4QTEJkO46hLrXURbS57BtCTF-QaWJuAUU6SgBF2SREWiDtw/s1984/IMG_4371.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUx4ScYqWaHJO8tA0ZjjJz0O2JBPx1ow1UsAr5i3SqpnK1jJdzCpmAGPhMSksAE0Y60WHt4yM_pyl2n7OAZlUieuIMzW8GSPmqvUn2a0f3fzPNoT2BAObzVtXE6R66DEfmDGrtVsgwLCsm4QTEJkO46hLrXURbS57BtCTF-QaWJuAUU6SgBF2SREWiDtw/s320/IMG_4371.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The canyon is staggering in its immensity and vibrant hues. Rock faces layered in pink, white, and red plunge a mile to the shining ribbon of river below. Our human status as relative newcomers to the planet - perhaps with self-imposed, short-lived tenancy - felt evident while in the presence of this massive fissure in the enduring, still-evolving Earth.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK88r1s0UBIkVnMRri6G7hGaUvby38kiCuz8qbHGGb9dJz_3mFwiLSv1o_hthxAKx8jph8sfU2cIZbR6kn-k5yP7vGAbH0iOR01QNEjdYHXdvhXQJjBQsz00khZ1vB4kgHwRkOO9vKknArJOY0i9ledc7uO1RWD7h9dwYjHQOvnSPQKef4wG10S2zSuBHC/s1984/IMG_4460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK88r1s0UBIkVnMRri6G7hGaUvby38kiCuz8qbHGGb9dJz_3mFwiLSv1o_hthxAKx8jph8sfU2cIZbR6kn-k5yP7vGAbH0iOR01QNEjdYHXdvhXQJjBQsz00khZ1vB4kgHwRkOO9vKknArJOY0i9ledc7uO1RWD7h9dwYjHQOvnSPQKef4wG10S2zSuBHC/s320/IMG_4460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5ayyeH8G0ceni47iNx3dTcg7wSSaMOts59ya6PmQx1QdvbHgOu2gqzx6ZyFUhdZKilZpcVwfEI7KaiMHi12YXq4zaXowPTwYZkZME5N0CH1rv5RMTt72sfY62YFRHoYiSFrhrjleMt5ae0DsrPSfjb_KjwX8ZXMpJnPDBWDjJguYYXqoB0hNnpQfYkCo/s1488/4CE9DF01-A302-4EFB-A7E8-BDD2BE27E91F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5ayyeH8G0ceni47iNx3dTcg7wSSaMOts59ya6PmQx1QdvbHgOu2gqzx6ZyFUhdZKilZpcVwfEI7KaiMHi12YXq4zaXowPTwYZkZME5N0CH1rv5RMTt72sfY62YFRHoYiSFrhrjleMt5ae0DsrPSfjb_KjwX8ZXMpJnPDBWDjJguYYXqoB0hNnpQfYkCo/s320/4CE9DF01-A302-4EFB-A7E8-BDD2BE27E91F.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When first Dave and I hiked the trail, I hugged the cliff wall and crept with an old-lady caution that prompted a passerby to ask sympathetically, “Afraid of heights?”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No. Afraid of falling. The evening before, when I returned to the bus after a stunning sunset tour, I’d asked our guide how many people die in the canyon each year. He responded, “Maybe three or four? Not bad given the millions of people who visit annually.” As my eyes met those of my fellow passengers when I walked down the aisle to my seat, it was apparent that none of us liked those odds. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave and I had already witnessed some risky behavior: I’d had to resist the urge to hover around a toddler who was cheerfully collecting stones near the precipice while his parents enjoyed the view. And there was the couple we encountered while resting along the trail who were visiting with their teenage boys. “The twins have already run down to the bottom. If you see them on the way back, tell them you saw us and their dad’s still alive.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ha, ha, ha… but this pleasant fellow had had open heart surgery six weeks before. He was huffing and puffing and <i>needed</i> that rest stop. Was it really wise to hike the canyon so soon? I tell you, I was relieved to see him later in the gift store. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Then, there was the young man – dark hair, 25-ish, loose white shirt, jeans - we met on our way back up Bright Angel on another afternoon. He came prancing down at a solid clip … in bare feet. He had no water with him. After we chatted a bit – he had just arrived that day for a job working in one of the restaurants for the summer – I told him, again with the nice-but-concerned-grown-up voice, that sneakers and water were a must. He dismissed my worry with a laugh. We offered him one of our water bottles, but he turned it down. Then, he noticed a hat caught in some shrubs about 20 feet over the side. “Look! A cap! I’m gonna climb down and grab it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Ah, no. You’re not,” I said. My tone was light, but I meant it. Not on my watch was this foolish kid going scrabbling over the side. “You can come back and get it once I’m gone.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I know you’re thinking <i>who the hell is she to boss this guy around?</i> I totally get that, but if you’ve stood on that trail and gazed out over the vast majesty of the canyon and peered inches past your feet to the dead drop to the bottom, you know. The Grand Canyon is no place to mess around. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But it IS a place to glory in the elements that have shaped the Earth. A spectacular place of beauty where upheavals and erosion have banished seas, carved craters, and uplifted pinnacles. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A place where condors now swoop and soar. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRFGNmnOB0cCF1scMiBOV30dmzHLrFnpxjVePbi2KhMkrbvVjXDL2sHqr8P33BBvclOY2GKHHAWUcJbioJTuUue1iCmjS0LQ7lFlIg64gVv1Dtb0KP5hxb7u-snIA9G1cIEiInO-3CbUzAKRZR8AxRi5UTcnksLKdebQzHqx0_0bcDV7RHuIO7zaQwAnc/s1984/IMG_4530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRFGNmnOB0cCF1scMiBOV30dmzHLrFnpxjVePbi2KhMkrbvVjXDL2sHqr8P33BBvclOY2GKHHAWUcJbioJTuUue1iCmjS0LQ7lFlIg64gVv1Dtb0KP5hxb7u-snIA9G1cIEiInO-3CbUzAKRZR8AxRi5UTcnksLKdebQzHqx0_0bcDV7RHuIO7zaQwAnc/s320/IMG_4530.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-15245045643908252182023-09-11T10:19:00.017-07:002023-09-11T10:38:38.529-07:00Trip West, Part VI: We Ruin a Navajo's Day<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Dave and I have different approaches to fueling a car. He is comfortable running on fumes, while I see a half-tank as time to get gas. The drive from Arches National Park to the Grand Canyon was going to be our longest – over five hours - and I had no interest in a nightmare desert-stranding adventure. As we left Moab and passed through Blanding with its welcoming gas stations, I said, “Let’s be on the safe side and fill up.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Nah. We’re good,” said Dave. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A glance at the gauge indicated over half a tank, so, uncharacteristically, I didn’t argue, and off we went. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At first, the sky was unsettled, dark clouds competing for drama with snow-streaked mountains and windmills slicing the air with skeletal blades. We passed rundown homes, battered cars, and a dog running down the side of the road with a dead rabbit drooping from his jaws. Wild horses pranced across the plain, stirring dust clouds around their hooves. One broke away, galloped across the road in front of us, jumped the bank, and reared up upon encountering another horse. Whoa<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rrb5LkzOk1Na_vi7LZbI8H3Z7C6dXREk4L8uHTcb4ZnnvuiCb4n1CMbH26KShqzP7TOTweCgtqZ0LNVFCrTCznZnumF4JfXHJJ0ZZa4Y6Bz_EOh1ltMzqNM0buadRI6m6V8cBmtoTKL1_gUEgAMAC0cT6OFLFdW7CG9I73ROtYt25Yu4Bl6oihpKjc9t/s1816/IMG_4330.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rrb5LkzOk1Na_vi7LZbI8H3Z7C6dXREk4L8uHTcb4ZnnvuiCb4n1CMbH26KShqzP7TOTweCgtqZ0LNVFCrTCznZnumF4JfXHJJ0ZZa4Y6Bz_EOh1ltMzqNM0buadRI6m6V8cBmtoTKL1_gUEgAMAC0cT6OFLFdW7CG9I73ROtYt25Yu4Bl6oihpKjc9t/s320/IMG_4330.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It sounds stupid, but I had to remind myself that we were out west. <i>Out West!</i> After seeing video clips and posters at the Hollywood Museum, I should have needed no further convincing, but the National Parks seemed a category unto themselves. Now, in spotting riders on horseback trotting across scrubby land in the distance and a dead horse on the side of the road, it sunk in. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE99Ol0nn8g10GJe6El07ceYnZxVV2HVXZoKByj4eW0nEhNXM6Dwvi_VbF870TbjH3EKEQE1--LFMOs0ilzoJ37kLBNNP_zoJjmo93HdSV5T3HJFCrDRfLelyhDZJyG_8smL9JOar2m0sVjNkSKg265_gy7f4H80CKjstnUTDp2W7LKDlEcDpprAsR3nfK/s1816/IMG_4347.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE99Ol0nn8g10GJe6El07ceYnZxVV2HVXZoKByj4eW0nEhNXM6Dwvi_VbF870TbjH3EKEQE1--LFMOs0ilzoJ37kLBNNP_zoJjmo93HdSV5T3HJFCrDRfLelyhDZJyG_8smL9JOar2m0sVjNkSKg265_gy7f4H80CKjstnUTDp2W7LKDlEcDpprAsR3nfK/s320/IMG_4347.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The land stretched open and increasingly barren to either side of us as we neared Tuba City. Only an hour to go before we reached Maswik Lodge at the Grand Canyon, but I needed to pee and by this time, I was insistent about filling the tank. Dave agreed and pulled in at a pump behind a black pickup truck. In my race to the restroom, I had one leg out the door… when the truck backed into us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Shit. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A diminutive, graying woman climbed from the truck, her face crumpled in misery. “I’m sorry! So sorry! I didn’t see you there.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We got out of the car and walked around front to scrutinize the hood and fender. Fortunately, the damage was minor, but since the car was a rental, we had to get the woman’s insurance information.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She did not have it with her. Of course. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I went inside the service station to use the bathroom and call the police. Dave tried to calm and comfort the woman who was increasingly distraught as she called her son on her cell. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I returned to the car, Dave’s mouth was set in a thin line. He looked at me and grimly shook his head. The woman was still on her phone, one hand covering her eyes. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Her husband passed away a year ago, and she doesn’t know her passwords or how to get the insurance information,” said Dave. “Poor woman. This is the last thing she needs. If this were our car, I would forget about it and go. Ugh. What a drag.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We waited. The woman’s son, Jeremy, arrived, but no police. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and described what had happened. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, his hair cropped short, Jeremy was friendly, but serious. Like his mother, he was Navajo. While Dave and I had keyed into the bleak land, forlorn houses, and battered vehicles - the legacy of U.S. policy toward indigenous peoples – we’d not realized we were on the Navajo Reservation. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“How long have you been waiting for the police?” Jeremy asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Maybe half an hour?” said Dave.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Jeremy sighed, took out his phone, and tapped in a number. Within minutes, a white SUV emblazoned with “Navajo Nation” pulled in. Clearly, Jeremy had the juice. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPn33KjyhzCe9yI6l31_NKwL1e_EN9zVG3z9ccOI2G8AncaRNZ6KalslX0WkPoFnyt5tljxMwlzWAiFYNPgn9BcafVOSaE5-_m7ROoPqgwuwx0Sg-hDpArHXzyDJ02XXbOX58MENxgcfYp7-_UX0YwUU1jxVJGqRxSlSP0v0I4MNqav0VqnvgpYBIOavca/s1816/IMG_4355.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPn33KjyhzCe9yI6l31_NKwL1e_EN9zVG3z9ccOI2G8AncaRNZ6KalslX0WkPoFnyt5tljxMwlzWAiFYNPgn9BcafVOSaE5-_m7ROoPqgwuwx0Sg-hDpArHXzyDJ02XXbOX58MENxgcfYp7-_UX0YwUU1jxVJGqRxSlSP0v0I4MNqav0VqnvgpYBIOavca/s320/IMG_4355.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was quietly thrilled. “Dave,” I whispered. “Don’t be so discouraged. Think of it! When would we <i>ever </i>have a chance to talk with Navajos?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Jeremy, Dave and I greeted the officer and filled him in. He spoke to Jeremy’s mother, slipped into the cruiser, made a call, then returned to us. He handed Dave a scrap of lined paper torn from a notebook with several numbers scrawled on it representing the case, his badge, and a phone number. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’m not kidding. A scrap of paper. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sorry,” he said. “I’m out of forms. Use this when you turn in your rental. Call me if you need further information.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As weirdly unsatisfying as that was, we weren’t about to push an officer of the Navajo Nation. After staring with disbelief at the shred in his hand, Dave tucked it into his wallet. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My husband is a man of countless questions, and once the “paperwork” was finalized, he asked how the officer came to the police force. “It’s hard to keep young people here,” he said. “<i>I</i> left. After finishing school, I <i></i>found a job elsewhere. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt the pull to return to my people. To serve my community.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I asked about local schools, the quality of education, and whether there was adequate government funding in general. He said it was all good.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Hm. Really? I hoped so, but wondered, was he being protective or proud? Maybe keeping up a front for tourists? The website for “Partnership with Native Americans” says, “federal treaty obligations are often unmet and almost always underfunded, and many Native families are struggling.” Judging by history and the desolate lands and houses we’d seen, our officer was surprisingly positive. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Still, other than the woman’s distress and our travel delay, everything about this interlude was ... a blessing. Jeremy’s mom calmed down once her son and the officer arrived. The employees at the gas station were helpful and sympathetic. Jeremy and the policeman were kind. <i>We </i>were kind. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And we made it to Maswik in time for dinner having been given a chance to talk with Navajos.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-14777223418523699582023-08-23T09:24:00.015-07:002023-08-23T09:34:05.874-07:00Trip West, Part V: Once Upon a Time<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">On the radio, David Bowie sets Major Tom adrift in space as we drive through land as barren and red as Mars. We skirt expanses of gray sand and follow the road as it curls between cliffs, slopes, and swoops of rock seemingly frozen in cresting waves. We drive through snow fields as flurries whip the windshield. And in Capitol Reef National Park, we pull over to see petroglyphs painted on a rock face thousands of years ago. In life, it is the journey as much as the destination, and our trip west has proven that true.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12aoWzJSJvzl5B-eWQ8TyrCEjf8haEldybY_pLLUK1eiR7I6bD79r6Ts-XLpgrFgzAuMVPfSBe0mUEutNi_nYZ3gV2j6ufYXJU1EG7sl060MU23f4kd8yIytVU_3EP7YysoKuTCplhNDxIpG8pV4bjcYQuSa9XKjxh9pptUUixNfdYbrPTGVSDQ_tiZI7/s2422/DF0376D8-FFE0-4928-A651-262A8BE19957.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2422" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12aoWzJSJvzl5B-eWQ8TyrCEjf8haEldybY_pLLUK1eiR7I6bD79r6Ts-XLpgrFgzAuMVPfSBe0mUEutNi_nYZ3gV2j6ufYXJU1EG7sl060MU23f4kd8yIytVU_3EP7YysoKuTCplhNDxIpG8pV4bjcYQuSa9XKjxh9pptUUixNfdYbrPTGVSDQ_tiZI7/s320/DF0376D8-FFE0-4928-A651-262A8BE19957.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJN0L76Um-we8KJT4J3aWqc8oWq5HdadAS8yzIHtORnrlYDfM33Se3w26rpTsuH76Ec4Fgm5THNrTsWmDEWySgKto0M9fe77zbkKQzILIGFmZAzl2LcvlSopyTV0HzDM1RhI1Qf8jOugvMKCsxFo0Le9rWsskvN-pwkQvMXO--hMRbwJA9KiCBO8AUBZC/s2422/3D50BE41-3403-4E2F-BA7F-EDB1B90B978D.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2422" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJN0L76Um-we8KJT4J3aWqc8oWq5HdadAS8yzIHtORnrlYDfM33Se3w26rpTsuH76Ec4Fgm5THNrTsWmDEWySgKto0M9fe77zbkKQzILIGFmZAzl2LcvlSopyTV0HzDM1RhI1Qf8jOugvMKCsxFo0Le9rWsskvN-pwkQvMXO--hMRbwJA9KiCBO8AUBZC/s320/3D50BE41-3403-4E2F-BA7F-EDB1B90B978D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We are on our way to Arches National Park, hoping to snag an entry time despite being told none have been available for months. Every vista along our way steals breath at the work of wind, water, and shifting plates in sculpting the Earth over eons. With that, our fury at the possibility of being closed out has evaporated.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Still, I watch the clock as we close in on Moab. The visitor center at Arches closes at 6:00 and we were told that a few entry slots were released every day at that time. We pull into the parking lot at 5:55. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave says, “I’ll park! You run in and grab a reservation!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I scurry inside, envious of those strolling out with souvenir tee-shirts and water bottles having clearly wrapped up a day of hiking. A ranger at the counter glances at his watch as I approach and ask if he can give us a time for the next day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You can do that online, “ he says, “But go in now if you’d like.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Go in? To the park? Now?” I say.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sure. No reservations required after 4:00. Go on in! Enjoy it!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I head outside, Dave is sitting on a bench, head bent to his phone. “I’m almost finished,“ he says. “We have an 11:00 AM entry tomorrow.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sigh. There’s a lesson here. When I think of my simmering anger and worry on the rim of Bryce Canyon... such a waste. My front-of-mind mantra for years was “Have faith in the unfolding;” clearly, I need to brush it off for display on my mental dashboard. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>*</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">*<span> <span> <span> <span> <span> *</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After several stolen hours during our gift of an open-entry-past-6:00 at Arches, it was dark when we arrived at Red Cliffs Lodge. In my relief, I’d not noticed the prominent “Hollywood Museum” sign by the entrance. 14 miles off the main road had felt interminable given our serpentine route between rockslide-ready cliffs and a dead drop to the river. Did I have the right address? Did I have the right <i>place</i>? As we closed in, I saw only the blessed name of our lodging. So, it was a revelation when, while in search of a ladies room after dinner, I saw a sign to the museum and an arrow pointing to the lower level.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">John Wayne welcomed me at the foot of the stairs. Down the hall, the dummy that went over the cliff in a convertible instead of the real-life Geena Davis in <i>Thelma and Louise</i> looked as shocked as would be expected in such a plummet. Props and original posters from <i>Back to the Future III, City Slickers,</i> and <i>The Lone Ranger</i> as well as<i> </i>many iconic westerns going back to 1949<i> </i>filled display cases. A video loop ran clips of films and highlighted the spectacular locations around Moab where they’d been shot, some right at Red Cliffs Lodge. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSi7E0fxFvb9xLWnH8KACJfveZx6ToCTU-yZSdK2LR13NrS_M7OuVRA3dRL5Uklx6tRmvBk1kwnQYYXaQCVVsLQ-qnYunm1mx0DNuKgOHu21-xDNBkyQNlR1krgulGOHWCGOD37gASE-yJIWhbCeotb012A81Ytn8mYuSRSArNnmpVL1SA97sU280npBA/s1362/IMG_4193.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSi7E0fxFvb9xLWnH8KACJfveZx6ToCTU-yZSdK2LR13NrS_M7OuVRA3dRL5Uklx6tRmvBk1kwnQYYXaQCVVsLQ-qnYunm1mx0DNuKgOHu21-xDNBkyQNlR1krgulGOHWCGOD37gASE-yJIWhbCeotb012A81Ytn8mYuSRSArNnmpVL1SA97sU280npBA/s320/IMG_4193.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Much of the vintage footage was so familiar: when I was a kid growing up in the fifties and sixties, much of our TV fare was westerns. We idolized all those handsome cowboys with their square jaws and perfect white teeth: Wyatt Earp, Sugarfoot, Davy Crockett, and our favorite, Brett Maverick. There was no ambiguity about Good Guys and Bad Guys. When the Indians swarmed, whooping, over a ridge and across the plains, they were ferocious and savage, their faces painted and long, black hair streaming behind them. Battles were loud and furious, but virtually bloodless: the Trail of Tears and broken treaties were not in those scripts. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When preparing to travel, I focus on necessities. I Google distances and drive time between locations. I consult TripAdvisor for ratings in considering places to stay. For the most part, I don’t delve into area attractions until we arrive, which has generally worked out okay. It also leaves room for surprises, like encounters with John Wayne and Marty McFly. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWRXARoZ2zuzMLGmJ3Bi_aUgRyR5LNgATONcexTMIi5b1FKypVkTwvUNieWcR3OKIYBp41uXGxszTzgUUx7wswuHX_zPGdhuFtUQXu8XNULXCCY-YIJgyyaAtGEx1Dm_wABuZCRh2SdZLzOTdkWoRC-u74TOZoK5xaOMIMNHc2a5Q_nj5VaWlyuuQhYkM_/s1362/IMG_4195.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWRXARoZ2zuzMLGmJ3Bi_aUgRyR5LNgATONcexTMIi5b1FKypVkTwvUNieWcR3OKIYBp41uXGxszTzgUUx7wswuHX_zPGdhuFtUQXu8XNULXCCY-YIJgyyaAtGEx1Dm_wABuZCRh2SdZLzOTdkWoRC-u74TOZoK5xaOMIMNHc2a5Q_nj5VaWlyuuQhYkM_/s320/IMG_4195.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span>*</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">*</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> *</span></span></span></span></span> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">An athletic blond in a cropped top, short-shorts, and hiking boots sits next to me on a steep stretch to the opening of one of the Double Arches. In her youth, beauty, and skimpy garb, she is intimidating, but friendly and kind as she smiles at me and says, “You’re almost there. You can do it!” She, too, has paused on this incline. It’s convivial here beneath the arch as people aged 8 to 80 contemplate the remaining climb to the opening. A father encourages his son to go for it while the mom watches from below, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun as she warns, “Be careful! Maybe stop there!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxmobnCA5qVSQJtcTRsH9EYrmxG3hjQ0wsaprHlHMx7F_6yqN7iH59lqngXHLMTizDIL1fvyn6avUChdANF8F2x4DnQncGI8_XIlXn_K6gwF7XY2ZrcDtoA0xX4jUSNrh0JfFqQvt8vKFJr6UK0dEu9gyaJFdQg1GR80pLxbyqD73mNt20IgYnfgnSBj2/s1362/IMG_4216.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxmobnCA5qVSQJtcTRsH9EYrmxG3hjQ0wsaprHlHMx7F_6yqN7iH59lqngXHLMTizDIL1fvyn6avUChdANF8F2x4DnQncGI8_XIlXn_K6gwF7XY2ZrcDtoA0xX4jUSNrh0JfFqQvt8vKFJr6UK0dEu9gyaJFdQg1GR80pLxbyqD73mNt20IgYnfgnSBj2/s320/IMG_4216.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Like beads on a necklace, people perch along the curve of the arch. Dave has decided not to try and is taking a video as I reach for the tiniest hint of a fingerhold and inch my toes a bit higher in search of better footing. This is not as difficult as I’m making it sound, but always I am weighing the possibility of injury over triumph. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswLjVLOR-rUYTj7feKuej1MEwjgM4indImWKJomlRzPaKyIVpDyg6-RbJdkDZgnZp68bLpnJYyoNUtSAJ-jern8sQfV1XwuhS-DoCGlgiff5zenCZupP-eFfgsBPGRJZPLpUazqZBXXdWdJnMSNV0Ws6LojjMP5TritmZVqV5EhT7Za-NxsfE8v7MRDUS/s1362/IMG_4227.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswLjVLOR-rUYTj7feKuej1MEwjgM4indImWKJomlRzPaKyIVpDyg6-RbJdkDZgnZp68bLpnJYyoNUtSAJ-jern8sQfV1XwuhS-DoCGlgiff5zenCZupP-eFfgsBPGRJZPLpUazqZBXXdWdJnMSNV0Ws6LojjMP5TritmZVqV5EhT7Za-NxsfE8v7MRDUS/s320/IMG_4227.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“It’s a nice view – pretty dramatic,” says a man as he descends. “A dead drop on the other side.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dead drop. Hm. I take that under advisement. I <i>want </i>to make it up there and take in that view, but there are ample vistas in the park that don’t seem as risky. I back down and cheer on my blond friend as she scales the rock to the rim. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We felt this same camaraderie at Zion and Bryce in the shared joy of extraordinary experiences. Arches, though, has been unique in its accessibility to little hikers as well. <i>Really</i> little hikers. Toddlers of three can manage some of the short trails and easier inclines, and they are adorable with their “Junior Ranger” vests and walking sticks. Some intrepid souls carry babies in canopied backpacks. Several of the families we’ve spoken to are traveling in campers: having always loved the parks and hiking, they are infusing their children with a love of the Earth and the outdoors from early on.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At the other extreme is a practical woman who has taken a seat on a bench near the parking lot. She comments to her companions, “Really, the view of the arches is better from a distance. You go ahead. I’m staying here.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXloXGPFofJxvoziHL5eTYdql7DceikxctrX4P5XCqUr8f_Ul51HL_Ti5OL2qCgxvMpxYyRNlWXegzPATIxcg4h3BQ0VJvCmTS2309VFdqLHxOkd-LjYkZzyir1LE8oRx5GGfABbCPY1rpyZV_L3ZV9-El-t1LBmX70CPWF-kgUEcsCznP_DIcGTofm1rN/s1816/IMG_4212.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXloXGPFofJxvoziHL5eTYdql7DceikxctrX4P5XCqUr8f_Ul51HL_Ti5OL2qCgxvMpxYyRNlWXegzPATIxcg4h3BQ0VJvCmTS2309VFdqLHxOkd-LjYkZzyir1LE8oRx5GGfABbCPY1rpyZV_L3ZV9-El-t1LBmX70CPWF-kgUEcsCznP_DIcGTofm1rN/s320/IMG_4212.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-10549585030678907872023-08-03T10:08:00.012-07:002023-08-03T10:31:57.714-07:00Trip West, Part IV: Hell's Backbone Farm and Grill, the Anasazi, and Unintended Consequences<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">If ever I needed proof of avian communication, the conversation among the geese on the pond outside our room at Boulder Lodge would have convinced me. Such a heated give and take! Such honking and grousing! We were frustrated eavesdroppers in need of an interpreter.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPnPYYQAykNb6FBRVWfbj1JOSVAe3ldaaSSa9NhjXLSx7tjhos0bkqUWeBvbenEdcxADKhQY7znDdGhuvtJnRqQzGlAzqGGQpNpyxGAnjMBHAX_oRgB6AHtaWf_s5Lzv7ag9oOM4KEa_bqrfP5yEUsSZ1OXR-QeO9YS4dDmZA9lbJuBG-NwouO2acUdWI/s1816/IMG_4095.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPnPYYQAykNb6FBRVWfbj1JOSVAe3ldaaSSa9NhjXLSx7tjhos0bkqUWeBvbenEdcxADKhQY7znDdGhuvtJnRqQzGlAzqGGQpNpyxGAnjMBHAX_oRgB6AHtaWf_s5Lzv7ag9oOM4KEa_bqrfP5yEUsSZ1OXR-QeO9YS4dDmZA9lbJuBG-NwouO2acUdWI/s320/IMG_4095.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><p>After yesterday’s mood swings from anxious to uplifted in our ultimately successful search for the slot canyon, Boulder Lodge was a lovely haven. My friend Edie had suggested nearby Hell’s Backbone Grill and Farm for dinner but cautioned that we might not be able to get a reservation because it was one of the best restaurants in the country. I assumed that was hyperbole: what would the best restaurant in the country be doing here, in the middle of nowhere?</p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Because that’s how it felt. After settling in, Dave and I saw only trees, hillsides, and the occasional house when we took a leisurely drive to find the charming little western town I expected Boulder to be. We later learned that, while expansive in miles, the town center was basically Boulder Lodge, the post office, and the restaurant. Where, by the way, we <i>were</i> able to get a reservation. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We’d poked our heads in the door right after check-in and were warmly greeted at the desk by the hostess, Lacy, and one of the co- owners, Blake Spalding. When I related Edie’s rave review, Blake smiled and gestured to the wall behind the hostess stand, a wall crowded with James Beard awards. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whoa. We <i>were </i>lucky to get that reservation! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When we returned for dinner, Lacy greeted us and led us to a table by a window that looked out over the mountains. Best table in the place; thank you Lacy! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After perusing the menu and reading about the restaurant’s environmental goals and “No-Harm farm” that supplied the organic produce and grass-fed beef, we ordered roasted cauliflower with mint, toasted chickpeas, and a house-made spice rub so divine we bought two jars to bring home. For our main course, we tried the skillet-fried trout encrusted with blue corn, molasses and almonds; cilantro-pepita rice; and organic asparagus. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Delicious. James Beard was right.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbS-4iQcMxQFpSE6nZf77ejPjhyUPZByxdoCjADwiQxFBKbVkL_0cVEP09H_sJV2LPLAwEA-eaaH9VPRT6QUtsRZnr3ZC8tImGstIn_WXkAh6D71Wi5NBWyo_htvO9bMt-76fGEyixC6cwrn2b3PGjlcB39p1HnSVjUUHZlQ_5Z0Hv74JcywoPajN-cTe/s1362/IMG_7279.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="766" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbS-4iQcMxQFpSE6nZf77ejPjhyUPZByxdoCjADwiQxFBKbVkL_0cVEP09H_sJV2LPLAwEA-eaaH9VPRT6QUtsRZnr3ZC8tImGstIn_WXkAh6D71Wi5NBWyo_htvO9bMt-76fGEyixC6cwrn2b3PGjlcB39p1HnSVjUUHZlQ_5Z0Hv74JcywoPajN-cTe/s320/IMG_7279.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">* *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was a brisk November day in 2004 as David Holladay hiked the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah with his dog. When he spotted an arrowhead on the ground, he knew by its pinkish tone and craftsmanship that he’d discovered something extraordinary. He left it in place until he could return with the proper authorities. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wait. What? He <i>left </i>it there? Who would do that? If I spotted an arrowhead, I’d absolutely pick it up and pocket it. And, despite guilt being a default for me applicable in countless situations, I’d have felt no guilt. Why would I?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Turns out Mr. Holladay did the right thing. An artifact’s placement reveals significant information, and the Bureau of Land management asks that any such discovery be left in situ, and the BLM notified. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>But, but, but</i>… Mr. Holladay and the experts were unable to return to the site for<i> months</i> because of snow. So much could have happened in the interim! What if run-off or another hiker had carried the point away? What if the melting snow had changed the ground enough to leave the location unrecognizable? Seems to me Mr. Holladay took a risk with his good intentions, but in the absence of theft and unruly Nature, Mr. Holladay’s Clovis Point is now on display in the Anasazi State Park Museum, our primary reason for visiting Boulder, Utah. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While the archaeological dig of the Coombs Anasazi village site out back was intriguing, as were the displays depicting Anasazi dwellings and implements, it was our conversation with the docent that prolonged our stay. It began with my questions about the microscope that was broken, the interactive panels that didn’t work, and the items that were missing. While there was much to see and do, the theft and damaged exhibits were noticeable. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcogG39erh3WqvZrgOik9UqQ5lEiEEvebhdRIMwUM-um_yU66Aiq1EdZ2Cz1P8Ln_TIcTaEsiRdg2SeKfzrYTMew8ovTe5uLgrLSj48e1emuQylq6wqs9uw-bqv7_M8y3n6oYZdK6jDj2dBkGfJHDb4_NWyBgW_IXyW4Y0fb_8Ch2b3N8urCbGp_J7PKD1/s1816/IMG_4104.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcogG39erh3WqvZrgOik9UqQ5lEiEEvebhdRIMwUM-um_yU66Aiq1EdZ2Cz1P8Ln_TIcTaEsiRdg2SeKfzrYTMew8ovTe5uLgrLSj48e1emuQylq6wqs9uw-bqv7_M8y3n6oYZdK6jDj2dBkGfJHDb4_NWyBgW_IXyW4Y0fb_8Ch2b3N8urCbGp_J7PKD1/s320/IMG_4104.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Jamie, the docent - or was she the director? – acknowledged that these were concerns. Large school groups were hard to monitor as were the increasing numbers of tourists following the sequestered year of Covid. Jamie asked if we’d noticed the Clovis Point, which, to be honest, I’d seen, but breezed by. There were lots of pretty arrowheads on display, so why linger on one? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Because it’s between 8,000 – 11,000 years old. Because, to a point connoisseur, it was remarkable in workmanship. Because, well, it was displayed all by itself under a spotlight, so I should have known it was special. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave is curious and always bubbling with questions, and Jamie was delighted to have inquisitive visitors. She squired us around the museum, with particular attention to the reproduction Anasazi dwelling, tools, pigments, and sandals created by the same David Holladay who discovered the Clovis Point. There was also a beautiful fan-like array of arrowheads he’d made during demonstrations at the museum. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7PEMZ_OSem0wjqRNFeV5Fghwn5udNMRkKdVKRazcQKXg7avmTQxwtvkdlY6phfDkkzQZGteTcebt73Ho-pS-XkzEM4IUTniaxQenxvUYLLhagzizp5238YHoZKsRDq-pVuT9n_WoVZ-y_FH2qs0nkcpzYO-KxVrrM5tSe-XCm_-kpJV6IOoZFSEroLL6/s1362/IMG_4100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1362" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7PEMZ_OSem0wjqRNFeV5Fghwn5udNMRkKdVKRazcQKXg7avmTQxwtvkdlY6phfDkkzQZGteTcebt73Ho-pS-XkzEM4IUTniaxQenxvUYLLhagzizp5238YHoZKsRDq-pVuT9n_WoVZ-y_FH2qs0nkcpzYO-KxVrrM5tSe-XCm_-kpJV6IOoZFSEroLL6/s320/IMG_4100.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6lJNuJly-LRy68tMshtopGfnGkfqReoQfWFxgiUcAzQfwtn-Lop5wsBeEqK2Q1u8xQXIE6Qgr62Y15IlOM2G0nbgrSvFsOgVIvNhtkMaBEXkz1g2LVhs1iSULIl15vKXD_0IjLyv0fq5IyPhAbNZ2GpsuBKeFpGixlG-gICob9eM7tGl2GQ4d64seqOH/s1362/IMG_4097.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6lJNuJly-LRy68tMshtopGfnGkfqReoQfWFxgiUcAzQfwtn-Lop5wsBeEqK2Q1u8xQXIE6Qgr62Y15IlOM2G0nbgrSvFsOgVIvNhtkMaBEXkz1g2LVhs1iSULIl15vKXD_0IjLyv0fq5IyPhAbNZ2GpsuBKeFpGixlG-gICob9eM7tGl2GQ4d64seqOH/s320/IMG_4097.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Informative, and clearly an admirer of the Indigenous American jewelry bedecking her fingers, neck, and waist, Jamie was generous with her time. The tone of our exchange wavered some, dipping and rising in a diplomatic dance, when I asked her about Bears Ears National Monument.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In 2016, President Obama designated the Bears Ears buttes and 1,351, 849 acres as a National Monument. In 2017, former president Trump reduced the monument by 85%. In 2021, President Biden restored Bears Ears to the original acreage. Hm. Definitely some politics involved. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As a local, Jamie’s take was practical … and bitter. “I understand the need and wish to preserve lands in National Monument designations… but they don’t include funding nor anticipate the repercussions when lands previously left pretty much alone suddenly come to the public’s attention. People swoop down in droves…and there are no restrooms, no parking, no trails, no plan for garbage collection.” Her nostrils flared in disgust as she described the results of such omissions. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Federal protections in general led her to mention her sympathy for ranchers who’d lost livestock to wolves. We were treading in tricky territory. She was a local, no doubt had rancher friends, and was certainly far more knowledgeable than I, but I love wolves and if, like my canine friends, I had hackles, they would have been bristling. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wolves have been given a bum rap. Humans kill and eat innumerable animals, so vilifying wolves for doing the same in order to survive is sheer hypocrisy… but I tried to say that nicely. I asked if Jamie had seen the video “How the Wolves Saved Yellowstone” that demonstrates how wolf re-introduction had bolstered other animal species and restored riverbanks and shrubs. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She had. We agreed that these issues are complicated. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As if to graciously acknowledge my point, Jamie mentioned past efforts by farmers to eradicate beavers, believing that their dams diverted water from crops. To the satisfaction of the farmers, that effort, along with trapping for pelts, led to the near extinction of beavers in North America in the late 1800’s. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Jamie raised an eyebrow and said, “Well. That certainly backfired.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In the animals’ absence, farmers came to recognize, and miss, the ecological benefits of beaver activity in creating streams and pond systems. Now programs have worked to re-establish beaver populations in order to efficiently and inexpensively retain local water supplies, revive degraded wetlands, and support biodiversity. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Hm. Humans and the peril of unintended consequences: so many lessons, yet we are so slow to learn. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-78733406671179041382023-07-20T16:07:00.008-07:002023-07-21T12:16:22.298-07:00Trip West, Part III: Searching, Wandering, and Wary<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The sky was unsettled, somber and muscular with low-slung gray clouds that threatened rain. A flash flood warning was in effect, but we’d heard from hikers on the Mossy Cave Trail at Bryce that there was an unmarked slot canyon exactly 11.2 miles off Route 12 on a backway named Burr Trail. We were not sure what a slot canyon was, but given the hikers’ wide eyes and glowing description, we resolved to find it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A rusted truck and decrepit buildings marked the turn off the main road. Like the twisted dry driftwood still rooted along the sandy trails, they were haunting signs of a past life now defeated. Neither man nor beast disturbed the scene, and I waived images from the movie Deliverance to the back of my uneasy mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchoN7oJE9GLQ3Qh-bD3AMYz1hojjH3WZ5pOkSAmt5lK1GSKDAPcrk5Qp1EafNjhJLc_jl-3xthhb950jsyYZME9LOfBP3oHOGi9gLALJoiieoFP-1nWUQ-hilRcUaklyc6sxV1u3epOKEZYUD8uYZZMZh7miBgJms9uW0x2ybsUqlzcwXEDD6xvggztTH/s1838/IMG_3996.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1838" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchoN7oJE9GLQ3Qh-bD3AMYz1hojjH3WZ5pOkSAmt5lK1GSKDAPcrk5Qp1EafNjhJLc_jl-3xthhb950jsyYZME9LOfBP3oHOGi9gLALJoiieoFP-1nWUQ-hilRcUaklyc6sxV1u3epOKEZYUD8uYZZMZh7miBgJms9uW0x2ybsUqlzcwXEDD6xvggztTH/s320/IMG_3996.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave kept an eye on the mileage as well as the road as we snaked along a canyon. No guard rails, no shoulder, just head-swiveling drama as white mounds of rock, rippled as if by changing tides, gave way to towering red cliff walls, pocked and shaved by erosion and landslides. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Usually a one-hand-on-the-wheel driver, Dave clenched tight with both. Given the roadside littered with massive boulders, crumbled debris, and slabs sheared from the cliffs above, the signs indicating “Rockslide Area Ahead” were unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was silent in the car as Dave focused on the road. “You’re up for this, right? I’m not dragging you into it?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No. I want to see it too.” He assured me. But our directions, as exact as they were, were anything BUT exact, and we hoped for a cluster of cars or a turn-off to indicate the location. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This might be it,” said Dave as he pulled over and parked next to an empty, travel-worn RV. We climbed out of the car and went on the search. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Soft breezes stirred spring-green cottonwood trees and tiny flowers sprouted miraculously from soil so parched that spits of rain left no mark. We walked along a dry streambed bordered by soaring rock faces streaked black and red: the perfect place for a flash flood.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0sU8QfXHsCrU8j1sqqXxoe2kTcI5e0EfPTXOlZqb69vqTdIwqDqV9xkB0PAz_eb7xA0Ru37w-iawwZaXnV_znGNlAxyVNt9ee7TXOYbTGNmIGvHyTBpwEVDtcp_iW69NEQV2fe0Q-3f2sLUmCdo7qnm9KcoOkT2EaBExnA9_C6iDreAmPw1Pb3F55sj7/s1832/IMG_4024.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0sU8QfXHsCrU8j1sqqXxoe2kTcI5e0EfPTXOlZqb69vqTdIwqDqV9xkB0PAz_eb7xA0Ru37w-iawwZaXnV_znGNlAxyVNt9ee7TXOYbTGNmIGvHyTBpwEVDtcp_iW69NEQV2fe0Q-3f2sLUmCdo7qnm9KcoOkT2EaBExnA9_C6iDreAmPw1Pb3F55sj7/s320/IMG_4024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“This is it, the slot canyon,” Dave said definitively. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We <i>wanted </i>this to be it, and we didn’t want it to rain and kill us in a flash flood. We’d seen plenty of signs warning “Don’t get carried away,” the message hammered at every visitor center: you cannot outrun that rush of water. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Lovely as was this silent setting of ancient rock and surprising flora, we were unnerved and aware of possible dangers. Our server a few nights ago had mentioned that the restaurant’s maintenance man was in the hospital recovering from a rattlesnake bite. “So, remember to check under bushes and rocks when you’re hiking,” she’d said. The scrubby shrubs and rock outcroppings along our way looked ideal for snoozy snakes, so I was on serpent alert. And, by the way, who had parked that empty RV? Still, we wandered on, hoping that this dry riverbed aching for a flash flood would reveal a slot canyon around the next bend. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Cfvxqu4bF5iwqBeh-iaMPcz10_3rBdu0RWLUxL1gYNwYZalZrRT3rs-EH430xkdaTZgAvzl4U04Yyv-KltQTgfZdx7Lu-2CRorqLYNKbcejJfYUt25Ms2ORXbmdBzsWAb1fcv-t3OzdpChZFECVZlnVzFoXJln3aLZUDu3x74xDodW254AqFDAPLlfgu/s1832/IMG_4019.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Cfvxqu4bF5iwqBeh-iaMPcz10_3rBdu0RWLUxL1gYNwYZalZrRT3rs-EH430xkdaTZgAvzl4U04Yyv-KltQTgfZdx7Lu-2CRorqLYNKbcejJfYUt25Ms2ORXbmdBzsWAb1fcv-t3OzdpChZFECVZlnVzFoXJln3aLZUDu3x74xDodW254AqFDAPLlfgu/s320/IMG_4019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Eventually, images of racing water, snakes, and crazed survivalists turned us around, Dave still remarking that we’d seen what we came for. “But,” he said when we returned to the car, “let’s drive a little further, just in case.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maybe five minutes up the road, we passed a parked RV, and just beyond, a slash in the rock face. “Did you see that? I think that’s it! Turn around!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoZKg4rtRIfF5DXlcGVEY6SRIg-Wp0gSUvXJo5dHr3zEjYQldeZ6Aj2tOWo2eNz5aqXs17so7CpnSaTM1AiwvhVPGqnOHMX88xwQHhgTQlDfTwF4dUOwjfRJMsj78sBFr5c6j3RQ4JOq26NgXCYaJ1bjOcGCazZvcWy1PyQQXflNSclFkF1v-Y5ytbkpD/s1374/IMG_4072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoZKg4rtRIfF5DXlcGVEY6SRIg-Wp0gSUvXJo5dHr3zEjYQldeZ6Aj2tOWo2eNz5aqXs17so7CpnSaTM1AiwvhVPGqnOHMX88xwQHhgTQlDfTwF4dUOwjfRJMsj78sBFr5c6j3RQ4JOq26NgXCYaJ1bjOcGCazZvcWy1PyQQXflNSclFkF1v-Y5ytbkpD/s320/IMG_4072.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Not so easy on this winding descent. The state of Utah, or perhaps the National Park Service, has been wise and generous with timely pull-outs, overlooks, and restrooms, but this stretch of road offered none, so we drove on until clear sight lines allowed a five-point turn.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We parked behind the RV and walked down the bank into a sandy clearing just as a couple appeared. Faces alight, they gushed, “it’s gorgeous! We just happened on it by chance. And to be the only ones here… enchanting!” They wished us well, headed to their vehicle, and left the canyon to us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Breath held in wonder, we entered… the womb of the Earth. A cleft in the rock led to a narrow path between russet-red walls curving around and soaring high above us, echoing our voices as we wandered within. Euphoria erased fear as we marveled at the color and sweep that enveloped and dwarfed us. Through an act of grace, we had found the slot canyon. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ1eeNera2s64fOEJxR5lEqTM8vy5cROyscSuNLnTrYyRtLNFh5M6R7vSqzLTM6Y3xbIM-Wpnpe3ikkZwCeg-xp-VetJyTbj3Fa3o5zmoBlowHhSnJpxcjdZt0wUTN7MC46Bb4BRUFK4L2vEUdmWGv5I5wrLuEoEROs97vPPbvEp4Xn06rx7x4BBz1H4Q/s1374/IMG_4066.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ1eeNera2s64fOEJxR5lEqTM8vy5cROyscSuNLnTrYyRtLNFh5M6R7vSqzLTM6Y3xbIM-Wpnpe3ikkZwCeg-xp-VetJyTbj3Fa3o5zmoBlowHhSnJpxcjdZt0wUTN7MC46Bb4BRUFK4L2vEUdmWGv5I5wrLuEoEROs97vPPbvEp4Xn06rx7x4BBz1H4Q/s320/IMG_4066.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span> </p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-25914334514776108562023-07-07T12:07:00.003-07:002023-07-07T12:10:58.473-07:00Trip West, Part II: Late Shift<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">It was 1984. Having finished her shift at Ruby’s Inn and Restaurant, Sharon was home and in bed when the phone rang around midnight. She was half asleep when she picked up the receiver, but alarm banished any grogginess when she heard the tone in her mother’s voice.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“What’s wrong, Mom? Is Dad okay?”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yes, but I called to check on <i>you. </i>Ruby’s is on fire and I knew you worked the late shift.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The inn had been a fixture at Bryce Canyon since the 1920’s when Reuben “Ruby” Syrett and his wife, Minnie, expanded and moved their small “Tourist Rest Lodge” to the inn’s current location. Bryce Canyon had been designated a National Park, and the number of visitors had multiplied. Over the years, Ruby’s had become a destination in its own right as the Syretts added a post office, pool, gift shop, and restaurant. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sCaVPJkvOGv8AQQDmtFzuBZ6aghLkbROeQlc7IZXOFBmDgV57pScsAg0DObLEneFF5B-rNzjT41f9W_cj8PdLkZXbAvy_JOTadbyf365vLdFZMk0lKMsu6wVQO5OpyBFFOHUBr1ylhsueesiFDoOBR92ZkdwaZdzdhS9yfy2NUVHXVBDLgdiOvVQ_3Us/s1832/IMG_6014.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sCaVPJkvOGv8AQQDmtFzuBZ6aghLkbROeQlc7IZXOFBmDgV57pScsAg0DObLEneFF5B-rNzjT41f9W_cj8PdLkZXbAvy_JOTadbyf365vLdFZMk0lKMsu6wVQO5OpyBFFOHUBr1ylhsueesiFDoOBR92ZkdwaZdzdhS9yfy2NUVHXVBDLgdiOvVQ_3Us/s320/IMG_6014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">As Sharon cleared our dinner plates – she was still serving at Ruby’s over 40 years later – she said, “There’s no nicer or more hard-working family than the Syretts.” She gestured over her shoulder at a young woman taking orders a few tables down. “That’s Ruby and Minnie’s great-great-grandaughter. The family still runs the place.”</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sandra, our server at breakfast, was equally admiring of the inn’s owners. Like Sharon, she had worked at Ruby’s for over forty years, and had more to add about the Syretts.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“When the inn burned down, people came from all over to help with the clean-up and rebuilding. Locals brought food and opened their homes to the guests of the inn. Everyone loved the Syretts. I heard that, for years, travelers arriving late at night would find a note and a key to their room taped to the front door. ‘Course, it’s a different world now and you couldn’t do that, but that’s how welcoming they were. Didn’t want anyone stranded in the dark.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXtXRgZxeXAaZFp064HSHpSelRX3BWPAVLWSYpp7YYpFzAibc-RWe3mShHFnbtDzpjHTJgDOhTX_Loc-QFxeLKHa3sms6lMnPPgwW48c80rSO3t2M_ESFd9YT_AclGTWGOYEZOcsC8s5FJqxR6HwqFai9SWo3ZwK7ZahpOv2-L0rdmlpnwBhlwaROteEs/s1832/IMG_3888.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXtXRgZxeXAaZFp064HSHpSelRX3BWPAVLWSYpp7YYpFzAibc-RWe3mShHFnbtDzpjHTJgDOhTX_Loc-QFxeLKHa3sms6lMnPPgwW48c80rSO3t2M_ESFd9YT_AclGTWGOYEZOcsC8s5FJqxR6HwqFai9SWo3ZwK7ZahpOv2-L0rdmlpnwBhlwaROteEs/s320/IMG_3888.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ruby’s is about a mile’s drive from Bryce Canyon and met my two-fold standard in seeking accommodations: it was historic and convenient to the park entrance. After dinner and our chat with Sharon, we decided to make the easy drive to Sunset Point to see the stars. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Bryce is famous for spectacular stargazing as it is part of the “Dark Skies Initiative” which identifies places with minimal light pollution, but the empty parking lot was bright when we pulled in. On this night, it was Nature herself obscuring the constellations as a full moon lit our way to the canyon’s edge. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The vast amphitheater fell away before us, spires and towers seeming a shadowy city of sandstone drip castles rising below, whipped, as were we, by the wind. It is tempting to think all is as it will be, but millions of years ago, this was under water. The planet is ever-evolving, tectonic plates shifting, sea levels and temperatures rising. What will be here in a thousand years?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave and I were utterly alone. There was no light but that of the moon to outline the bones of the Earth below. Above and around us swept the expanse of the heavens. In the presence of the artistry of the Creator, I sought to radiate my awe and gratitude. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqafCaoMbOrBGlYvG82_yjKmiv1P2KUdLVIdtgJoz3cjzZtNP2ZnJ4TKeow_-BYtqMRApsRPtwUYzuk1wjHAe5phnyRSguVTZVebtxF9MHj6P7hFdqfYP9hUOcyB6jsc9lIV6ILdEayk4w3PB8TWz-2LP8NhDQdY0TO4t5t_ylBL7HLXvgDHgQRewNJJx/s1832/IMG_3740.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqafCaoMbOrBGlYvG82_yjKmiv1P2KUdLVIdtgJoz3cjzZtNP2ZnJ4TKeow_-BYtqMRApsRPtwUYzuk1wjHAe5phnyRSguVTZVebtxF9MHj6P7hFdqfYP9hUOcyB6jsc9lIV6ILdEayk4w3PB8TWz-2LP8NhDQdY0TO4t5t_ylBL7HLXvgDHgQRewNJJx/s320/IMG_3740.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">* *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On the rim of Bryce Canyon, within whispering distance of sandstone portals, temples, and hoo doos, we overheard a conversation. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You’re going to Arches tomorrow? Got a reservation? No? Well, get one. They require reserved entry times now. The lines had gotten too long.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>What?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In that sublime place, high above ravens gliding on air currents, my stomach clenched. <i>We</i> were going to Arches National Park in a few days, and <i>we</i> didn’t have a reservation.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Breathing deeply, I looked to the expanse of sky; the gnarled, ancient bristlecone pines; and the audience of watchful hoodoos in the ampitheater below to calm my Ingersoll urge that all be under control. Nowhere was the message to release that idle hope more evident than in these National Parks where millions of years of shifting plates, whipping winds, and persistent water have raised mountains, carved canyons, and dried seas. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RtibLz2ivv6OeTY0ZDwD6hajsmoy25CXB7DJULeriiZpRvsk2ZEQrk3qmp3Q6fuO_xidsCuMuJkkhwB5YcSK5x32jh5G5kRckkeZPypsnaO7wHuYLW-9PM66My3Go3OJFADbqG06ECMFz_c0okQtUKjq0eqyfR4gAvWRFf5Jbm-QOMPS5hzx0gm5g5v7/s1832/IMG_3859.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RtibLz2ivv6OeTY0ZDwD6hajsmoy25CXB7DJULeriiZpRvsk2ZEQrk3qmp3Q6fuO_xidsCuMuJkkhwB5YcSK5x32jh5G5kRckkeZPypsnaO7wHuYLW-9PM66My3Go3OJFADbqG06ECMFz_c0okQtUKjq0eqyfR4gAvWRFf5Jbm-QOMPS5hzx0gm5g5v7/s320/IMG_3859.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gyeAjsKcOCVZR_stjWeIDs0EKL-ePW-nUVBiiiEQMV8IL_a2017i4kTAinwIPtqF3ChOoa_1WX4tD5xo7siZCih1zTI-B7Kz2I3hDKX1q7d07LtEGTMqjUZiM5TsiHdaFeVyQYQoD4EuJwcW98BvC2Esh3lfjAgz4TdEgLoBYSpsHA7NOChFMtecDKfs/s1832/IMG_3721.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gyeAjsKcOCVZR_stjWeIDs0EKL-ePW-nUVBiiiEQMV8IL_a2017i4kTAinwIPtqF3ChOoa_1WX4tD5xo7siZCih1zTI-B7Kz2I3hDKX1q7d07LtEGTMqjUZiM5TsiHdaFeVyQYQoD4EuJwcW98BvC2Esh3lfjAgz4TdEgLoBYSpsHA7NOChFMtecDKfs/s320/IMG_3721.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>We’ll call our hotel in Moab later and figure it out. Let it go. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But a call later in the day confirmed what we’d heard. A moderately helpful representative at the park told us that times had been reserved months in advance, however some open slots were released every evening at 6:00. Unable to get our way and nail this down immediately, we were furious at Arches National Park. We had flown and driven thousands of miles to visit, for heaven’s sake!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For a short time, Arches joined Dale City and Breeze Airways on our shit list. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> <o:p></o:p></i></p></div>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-69134817450599345002023-07-01T19:07:00.000-07:002023-07-01T19:07:55.549-07:00Trip West, Part I: Ducklings Launched<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Our banana-yellow Spirit Airways plane is at the gate and ready to go. This sunshine shade seems today’s travel theme as we were delivered to the airport in a Prius of the same color. One would have thought the driver of such an eye-catching car would be equally bright and flashy, but no. Sour, smile-less and mum, even “hello” was a stretch for this guy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">What a contrast to our three days at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn! Unlike our Uber driver, McMenamin’s lifts the soul with art, humor, serenity, and food. Once a county poor farm, the long-abandoned buildings and campus were transformed when the two visionary McMenamin brothers purchased the property and sought artists, carpenters, chefs, brewers, gardeners, and vintners to reclaim it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The former power station now houses a restaurant and pub; the brick building that encased an incinerator is now a cozy, vine-shrouded bar. Paintings throughout the halls and rooms tell stories, some mystical, some poignant, in depicting the lives of those once compelled by age or poverty to live at the farm. Each room pays tribute to a former resident, their names and stories inscribed in murals that adorn the walls. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcOtOmy660zaehLuBGnuxPxvuyhOvfz5tcU_lRD7qb5HybGs-Y89ICOA63OyBmGFqdqsgro11qnoqKjqXfvWLnwy7BQOIY0qWu3ZG-Jq8k11nBkubJFlUDcDiURUQVBww2UIFOpMruZ3iP9y20pmUOVjulx1hve7kl9RyQW-Jh8VxPWy7CQourCX8kq6q/s1832/IMG_5475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcOtOmy660zaehLuBGnuxPxvuyhOvfz5tcU_lRD7qb5HybGs-Y89ICOA63OyBmGFqdqsgro11qnoqKjqXfvWLnwy7BQOIY0qWu3ZG-Jq8k11nBkubJFlUDcDiURUQVBww2UIFOpMruZ3iP9y20pmUOVjulx1hve7kl9RyQW-Jh8VxPWy7CQourCX8kq6q/s320/IMG_5475.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfmpnzp-ZybocHNWs9x1l_Cr3WZFcoYWim0Nt7OvsSFZEJmyfFynxGAti72MHUyC0FoGALcwIEtHN-zcPX_dUvK87cscJIWHmCsVaK85S4lCkQFPq2-acCMRHM0oXo6r0KoP_3WIhHQp9WTv4vxbozQF4IwZ8HsNs5ToKa8y5-tPgKANw4DS4jTJ3HBXR/s1832/IMG_5504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfmpnzp-ZybocHNWs9x1l_Cr3WZFcoYWim0Nt7OvsSFZEJmyfFynxGAti72MHUyC0FoGALcwIEtHN-zcPX_dUvK87cscJIWHmCsVaK85S4lCkQFPq2-acCMRHM0oXo6r0KoP_3WIhHQp9WTv4vxbozQF4IwZ8HsNs5ToKa8y5-tPgKANw4DS4jTJ3HBXR/s320/IMG_5504.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghviJLPx9Ue_RIgELb9-k4UYHZJs_US0eMVog4ElcyBZBHkFHSbyo23JZFvfJ017pkpUUtgkTfu6RE49_cV8IonuJsHI0Mo7xJy_5DO88QHzxCXM1zZp4rhTGAXNFoRZTB_2ZZ0PbNt_PbGVecKONdN3fUcL3n4FWAmytHVYup1HPkulIGs9jB-6ijRyBK/s1832/IMG_5521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghviJLPx9Ue_RIgELb9-k4UYHZJs_US0eMVog4ElcyBZBHkFHSbyo23JZFvfJ017pkpUUtgkTfu6RE49_cV8IonuJsHI0Mo7xJy_5DO88QHzxCXM1zZp4rhTGAXNFoRZTB_2ZZ0PbNt_PbGVecKONdN3fUcL3n4FWAmytHVYup1HPkulIGs9jB-6ijRyBK/s320/IMG_5521.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Edie, my friend-from-birth, and her husband, Dave, have been the spark to several of our greatest trips. In 2018, they recommended McMenamins, and this May, invited us back to celebrate their 70<sup>th</sup> birthday along with their sons and close friends. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While chatting at dinner and hiking along the Columbia River, Dave and I realized our lives were mundane and danger-free compared to those of this active and activist crew. We learned about Rick and Sue’s romantic meeting while in Africa with the Peace Corps, Bart’s photography trek on the Chisolm Trail, Shaun’s bone-breaking fall while rock climbing, Bob and Genevieve’s work with Greenpeace and Earthjustice, and Patty and Joe’s plummet over a waterfall while rafting. Lordy! In June, Edie herself flew to Denver to advocate for an assault weapons ban. She has knocked on doors, marched, and made calls, literally sacrificing her voice for justice and the planet following a surgery that was supposed to silence her for weeks. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgAm4dsbeDlV9UCIHZg9Oa9dtqP5YmQMlaYCJlFCslYYnTE8aXlRVcaYudqi__jItCjQIH3rHBrhLj1-TuLA_gcxjzRXGf5oIp17VgAFdWoSj2FX-po92jffx5nedYT56KkM-OAIzxRZHGxVmLOKrLZkznd9LRoyAcoH5UjsAXAv4X1FOGS6hr-Y_yDn7/s2442/IMG_6647_Original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="2442" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgAm4dsbeDlV9UCIHZg9Oa9dtqP5YmQMlaYCJlFCslYYnTE8aXlRVcaYudqi__jItCjQIH3rHBrhLj1-TuLA_gcxjzRXGf5oIp17VgAFdWoSj2FX-po92jffx5nedYT56KkM-OAIzxRZHGxVmLOKrLZkznd9LRoyAcoH5UjsAXAv4X1FOGS6hr-Y_yDn7/s320/IMG_6647_Original.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As they did in 2018, ably and safely guiding us up Misery Ridge Trail on Smith Rock, Edie and Dave led us, their ducklings, on a hike through mossy forest, past blooming white trillium and pink bleeding hearts, up, up, up to stunning views above the Columbia River. While but a stroll for many in this group, five miles was a feat worthy of pride for Lea and Dave. A soothing soak in the warm water pool back at the inn while sipping Cock n’ Bull ginger beer garnished with lime was our glorious reward.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8Jd-vVVLYFj-kmMRma8TwybG4b5YMfuRy-ne3bAC7ioCGUp6l3gg2fDKeqiqjByL4eJD70mps5wIc6w5MLxQ7UA9ERfgwUPxk4-cIw34w7U6-OekATg_e68tU8gGXWCX6Ak9GFyhxvnsOtKbzOLlXNp9dieeecZo6xIQ6qCJIc44jd2zpiV9ICg_ERu-/s2442/IMG_6603_Original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="2442" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8Jd-vVVLYFj-kmMRma8TwybG4b5YMfuRy-ne3bAC7ioCGUp6l3gg2fDKeqiqjByL4eJD70mps5wIc6w5MLxQ7UA9ERfgwUPxk4-cIw34w7U6-OekATg_e68tU8gGXWCX6Ak9GFyhxvnsOtKbzOLlXNp9dieeecZo6xIQ6qCJIc44jd2zpiV9ICg_ERu-/s320/IMG_6603_Original.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPbPFzhR2jAlVdK8d5-PPzH0TzRuW_6TxVRuUrKOPvxc4kQyp4b9_dB3g4cbQMCppxArbjcNkXrldj_UvGBIF0-hDZ9h6HP7hgDzOJirEPICVipUM1LDVDzMf3xOsMz28Xu9ucdOku7sCgeU3BA5c085AUJ2OQHaHOIwIg5OJZHUNRUW6wTkOlR9tnvUA/s1832/IMG_5523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPbPFzhR2jAlVdK8d5-PPzH0TzRuW_6TxVRuUrKOPvxc4kQyp4b9_dB3g4cbQMCppxArbjcNkXrldj_UvGBIF0-hDZ9h6HP7hgDzOJirEPICVipUM1LDVDzMf3xOsMz28Xu9ucdOku7sCgeU3BA5c085AUJ2OQHaHOIwIg5OJZHUNRUW6wTkOlR9tnvUA/s320/IMG_5523.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Now, here at the gate, I am feeling a little vulnerable, uncertain, a duckling launched. In our yellow plane, we fly from Edie and Dave’s care to Las Vegas, hoping there are no glitches in picking up our rental car to drive across the desert to the Driftwood Lodge near Zion National Park. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">* *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The delightful shady trail along the surging chocolate tumble of the Virgin River began to climb. Dave and I had just remarked on how nice it was to be able to look up at our stunning surroundings without constant focus on footing when loose sandstone on the steep incline returned focus on footing to top priority. Um, and focus on handholds too. The well-packed sandstone trail surface had surrendered to sand, <i>shifting</i> sand, like beach sand, and uplifted though I was by the magnificence around me, caution demanded eyes downcast to scan for roots to grasp or avoid. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">During stops to take pictures – and, let’s be honest, to rest and catch breath - the rewards were bountiful. Towering peaks layered in pink, red, and white thrust from the Earth like whale teeth, marking eons of change in colors and crags. Over millennia, the river had carved its way ever deeper, sculpting paths and crumbling seemingly solid rock faces. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9lS_7GyubYc8ob7AzZqaFMmrh8p___uOkg70ECz4dfSLINJGnxFoL_V1v6OBMAgv8TKB-KqFjSbuRGU5yZztGFTxvhNphc8O6Fh3LATwdj4VmeOCJFivQurCSCKM3PtAhR-I66PDmf-wcyqpEd79B9o6gelkBxxHEnj-Kj0IokCCAUPCSRIn_e4Zgf7s/s1374/IMG_3514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9lS_7GyubYc8ob7AzZqaFMmrh8p___uOkg70ECz4dfSLINJGnxFoL_V1v6OBMAgv8TKB-KqFjSbuRGU5yZztGFTxvhNphc8O6Fh3LATwdj4VmeOCJFivQurCSCKM3PtAhR-I66PDmf-wcyqpEd79B9o6gelkBxxHEnj-Kj0IokCCAUPCSRIn_e4Zgf7s/s320/IMG_3514.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While evidence of change and endurance were all around me, <i>I</i> was wilting. Panting, heart pounding, I considered the hateful mental worm whispering, <i>am I too old for this?</i> We had planned this trip thinking, <i>do it while we still can</i>. Had we, in fact, missed the window?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No! Virtually upon conception of these heinous reflections, my second wind kicked in. What <i>is </i>the biology behind that saving grace? Revived, relieved and elated as that miraculous breeze blew away thoughts of age, I strutted on. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We were hiking the Emerald Pools trails at Zion National Park at the recommendation of a helpful ranger at the Visitor Center. With three levels of varying difficulty, it was up to us to assess what we could handle, and with the blessing of that second wind, we made it to the topmost, with its waterfall cascade and pool. While Dave and I gratefully claimed a comfortable rock to relax and drink in the beauty, nimble teenagers – Dave dubbed them “the mountain goats” - leapt from rock to rock, scaling the rock face to stand beneath the tumbling water. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBJxJBLObDCq3N5byjZFLJqlZjCEbg3UbSSiByzOdU4eWlwdA4pKCiVphjv8hkBfXTJ3C4pvUrYmt6RKWqz7rjV9aP0vdqdRi-IuTJAAt7HJX7FXQ_lRcUwUkAKeAnlJz11V3y0Nh-PgmhkpU6yhWNOGx522IwazpEkwEWl5qI8Y3EI2PUpPmS4yv5qJI/s1374/IMG_3446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBJxJBLObDCq3N5byjZFLJqlZjCEbg3UbSSiByzOdU4eWlwdA4pKCiVphjv8hkBfXTJ3C4pvUrYmt6RKWqz7rjV9aP0vdqdRi-IuTJAAt7HJX7FXQ_lRcUwUkAKeAnlJz11V3y0Nh-PgmhkpU6yhWNOGx522IwazpEkwEWl5qI8Y3EI2PUpPmS4yv5qJI/s320/IMG_3446.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />With their wiry bodies, youthful energy, and no signs or guards to shoo them away, adventurous souls were free to thus scramble. The message was clear in each park we visited: individuals are responsible for their own safety. Still, we found that most everyone was mindful of others. In French, Italian, German, Ukrainian, Japanese, and English, camaraderie, conversation, and courtesy conveyed whatever was needed. People encouraged each other on challenging stretches, stepped aside and waited when the trail was perilously narrow, offered to take pictures where selfies were a stretch, and shared in the wonder with smiles and exclamations. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At one point, a ranger with condor expertise directed our gaze to the skies in search of those massive birds with wingspans up to ten feet. How I yearned to catch a glimpse! The ranger explained that in the 1980’s, the condor population was down to twelve breeding pairs due to poaching and lead poisoning from tainted carrion. While that is still an issue, population restoration has been successful, bringing the number up to 330 birds through zealous protection and monitoring. Condors are trapped twice a year to test their blood for lead: if the level is not too high, they can be treated and ultimately released. The ranger urged us to pass the word along, so, hear ye all hunters, make the change from lead bullets to steel.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgy_6bp3QA1N33ICqB1TvQDv7vWAVRpfC6jhucf6HLFvWp6XOAFi2wOW-VeqxRUm0uSfRCqhrYTkOI030PWhBG9oU-idc0WlH9EXeklI595VR6RQfXi7EzXj1JPaLkxSISK2e1P_TjWRlqAS2KHmWD9Qcs_EPpxs3Phef4--SyCdHkMqyhC9fw_1ogXsb/s1832/IMG_3510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgy_6bp3QA1N33ICqB1TvQDv7vWAVRpfC6jhucf6HLFvWp6XOAFi2wOW-VeqxRUm0uSfRCqhrYTkOI030PWhBG9oU-idc0WlH9EXeklI595VR6RQfXi7EzXj1JPaLkxSISK2e1P_TjWRlqAS2KHmWD9Qcs_EPpxs3Phef4--SyCdHkMqyhC9fw_1ogXsb/s320/IMG_3510.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-66376482470972544272023-05-16T13:23:00.007-07:002023-05-16T13:35:47.478-07:00 Fraught Flying and Dogged Driving – Williamsburg 2023<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">For once, the Merritt was free of traffic as Dave and I drove to Greenwich to meet our friends, the Tones. Our long-awaited plan to go to Williamsburg while their daughter, Maggie, was still at William & Mary had finally come to fruition.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Well, almost. Round about Norwalk, a cheery robo-text pinged in to say that our 8:00 p.m. Breeze Airways flight had been delayed until 9:30. When we arrived at Cathleen and Don’s house, the good folks at Breeze checked in again with news of a 12:40 departure. Since Budget Car Rental in Norfolk, VA closed at 12:30, this time was not going to work. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With the car rental a no-go, Don looked into Ubers, but oddly, no drivers were biting at the 2:30 a.m. drive from Norfolk to Williamsburg. Cathleen checked on the flight at its starting point in Vero Beach, and not only was it still on the ground, but it had been <i>cancelled.</i> The polite, patient gentleman who answered at Westchester Airport – a boon, certainly, that a <i>human </i>answered – admitted to noting the cancellation online, yet stated that on his end, the flight was still scheduled to depart. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Who to believe? What to do? What has become of the ease of flying the Friendly Skies?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On TV in the Tone living room, the golf course in Augusta, GA was lush, verdant, and celebratory as a young man in a lime green polo shirt won the Masters and was embraced by his aged grandmother and adorable wife. In Greenwich, however, the mood was pensive as we pondered our options. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave went to the bathroom, and Cathleen Googled Amtrak. There was a train at 12:30 from Stamford, but it would take 8 to 9 hours. Not appealing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wait. Bold idea. What if we <i>drove</i>? We’d arrive at 2:30 a.m., around the same time as the possibly-fictional flight would deliver us and our fellow We’ll-Never-Fly-Breeze-Again passengers. Let’s do it! Let’s drive!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When Dave joined us, he was surprised at the shift in focus from the means of travel to which car to take. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Our stalwart 2005 tank of a Volvo would be safe and willing but has logged 202,000 miles, and the trip to VA might be a push too far. The Tone’s son, PJ, would be remaining in Greenwich and needed the family car to get to school. We all felt the Tone truck would not be ideal. Hmmm. Perhaps, perhaps… Cathleen’s sister Meeghan would be willing to lend hers? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Have to say, <i>I </i>would not be excited about lending my car for a trip to Virginia. I like to think I’d ultimately agree, after much angst and reflection and guilt, to do such a favor, but… maybe not. Meeghan, however - wonderful, generous Meeghan - did not hesitate. “Hell yes!” she said when Cathleen called her. “It’s my gift to you.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Within ten minutes, she pulled up in her snappy, spotless, streamlined beauty of a silver Audi. The absence of clutter was remarkable. No crumpled re-usable tote bags. No ice scrapers, umbrellas, or baby wipes. No Very Hungry Caterpillars or Beany baby ponies for snoozy grandchildren to hold. And absolutely no torn receipts, leaf detritus, or sand. Such a chic, grown-up car! And yeah, I would never have lent it, but as she handed Cathleen the keys, Meeghan was cheery and breezy in a way our flight would never be. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With hugs and “Are you <i>sure’s?” </i>burbling from our lips, we packed up and drove away. We were grateful to Meeghan and giddy at our youthful spontaneity, at our “Yes we can!” vibe even as the Universe tested our resolve. But our beloved Maggie Tone awaited us at William & Mary, and we were bound to get to her. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After a stop at Glenville Pizza for sustenance, Cathleen slipped behind the wheel to take the first shift, a shift that lasted four hours. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We said, “How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as the Merritt merged with 95 South.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’m good!” she replied.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we watched the blinking lights of aircraft approaching Newark Airport.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Still good!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we whizzed by my usual auto-pilot turn toward home onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">"I’m fine! In the zone!” she said, indefatigable and steady of hand, her gaze fixed on the stretch of highway before us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Don wanted to get past DC and possibly Richmond before making a stop, but where the universal wish to stretch legs and pee was not compelling enough, ultimately, the need for gas <i>was.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dale City beckoned with broad well-lighted boulevards, a plethora of Chipotles and McDonalds, and the promise of food and fuel. At least, that’s what the signs on 95 said. <i>Liars.</i> For despite the <i>presence</i> of the aforementioned, everything was closed. A yellow Shell sign lured us in, the flirty, faithless tart, but spurned us with tanks that would not put out. Mobil, too, all bright and welcoming, proved to be closed and locked. Finally, thank heavens, we found an operational self-serve, but not a human in sight. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As for facilities, we would have welcomed a port-o-potty or even a secluded grove of trees, but no. A dumpster circled by a gray metal fence at the back of the lot had potential, but its moat of garbage was daunting. Desperate as we were, the shelter of two cars parked side by side under the glare of street-lights had to suffice. Despite the urge, it took supreme force of will to command the body to perform under such conditions, especially while giggling wildly at the prospect of some poor soul surveying the security camera tapes in the morning. So it was that Dale City joined Breeze Airways on our shit list.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave took over for the final leg, and we arrived at the Williamsburg Fairfield Inn right about the time our scheduled flight landed in Norfolk. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in; text-indent: 0.5in;">* * *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For Dave and me, this was our third visit to Williamsburg. We are consistent in our loves, for, while we <i>live</i> in a 1780’s house surrounded by wing back chairs, wrought iron fittings, beeswax candles, and the cozy scent of woodsmoke permeating beams and plank floors, our idea of a delightful getaway is to seek historic settings such as The Wayside in Sudbury, The Griswold in Essex, or … Virginia’s capital as it was in the 1780’s. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’ve wondered if this is a past life comfort zone or something, because despite my suspicion that I was accused of being a witch in the seventeenth century and should have an aversion to that period, I love pewter, massive fireplaces, and the warmth of wood burnished by many hands. We were all looking forward to immersing ourselves in history, architecture, and craftmanship, but on this trip, beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired Maggie was the main attraction.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After breakfast at the inn, we walked into the parking lot and out to Meeghan’s car. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wait a minute… what was that along the side? Oh no. Not just a scratch or scrape, but a dent. A significant dent. A dent we would have noticed if it had already been there. A dent Meeghan would have mentioned before we left. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But maybe not, right? Maybe we just hadn’t seen it? For the time being, best to tell ourselves this was an old injury and quell anxiety about revealing the damage to Meeghan. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Nonetheless, “I remember a white car parked next to us last night,” Cathleen said. “We’ll keep an eye out for it when we return this evening.” With only partial success, we shut Worry away for the time being and drove to William & Mary and Maggie.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Oh, to be a college kid again! I envied the piles of books by her bed, the posters on her walls, the collages of friends and campus parties, her excitement over courses and her a cappella singing group. When I was 20 and whining about work and exams, my dad said, “Lea. These are the best years of your life. Enjoy them.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My response was predictable, “OMG Dad! That’s so depressing!” Maybe those years weren’t totally the best ones, but they were pretty darn close. And here was Maggie, in the midst of them, in a place steeped in American history. I envied her that too: why hadn’t <i>I </i>thought to look at William & Mary?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Despite the deceptive spring pastels of daffodils and cherry blossoms, it was <i>cold,</i> so we were well bundled as Maggie led our tour of historic red brick academic buildings, her sorority, and her favorites: the bar, the coffee and muffin place, and the piano practice room that was her refuge and saving grace during Covid. We stopped for samples at each, as well as the joy of a Maggie mini-concert.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuapHF1j7Z-VYIPM7crBa95_asAdQrAvIT4tf5QOma1OCxiJfpIFL9HoNLdA6ZVPXivbCsJzi1EAfqikoOpWF5E7LowJhildRGVbO73amHLYs8MLGGduhBpbSAyPDLyj69ZOQ2i1tb8Q_gkCPgi1Lhh1viaO61hrdf-uN6cp749B5YAqEf-phJY8L1g/s2442/382A7783-554D-4561-B8E9-3DDC89A82D3C.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="2442" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuapHF1j7Z-VYIPM7crBa95_asAdQrAvIT4tf5QOma1OCxiJfpIFL9HoNLdA6ZVPXivbCsJzi1EAfqikoOpWF5E7LowJhildRGVbO73amHLYs8MLGGduhBpbSAyPDLyj69ZOQ2i1tb8Q_gkCPgi1Lhh1viaO61hrdf-uN6cp749B5YAqEf-phJY8L1g/s320/382A7783-554D-4561-B8E9-3DDC89A82D3C.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We spent the next day in eighteenth century Williamsburg, visiting the tinsmith, milliner, blacksmith, and weaver. At King’s Arms Tavern, we drank ale and supped upon the house specialty of peanut soup, stew, and Welsh rarebit at a table set with white linen and pewter. At the museum, we admired artwork, figureheads, furniture, and a dollhouse. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAJWRL61Z7n8QShCulfxnq3Cq0aq9bk0Z6f5fmSu9KbjCA4pcOqqW0EZ3SbGLiDKtU3_k94Tzjyxf_GCpb0Eh72XncjwgaAhZnB77RtQmHPzwO7XZsDqoaY8PmQYi2X9exc3hkPBTKckZ7ubIfsoGP-AmmArBiWjANxj825CzL5T4msrQWMhKqRjeJw/s1374/IMG_1583.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAJWRL61Z7n8QShCulfxnq3Cq0aq9bk0Z6f5fmSu9KbjCA4pcOqqW0EZ3SbGLiDKtU3_k94Tzjyxf_GCpb0Eh72XncjwgaAhZnB77RtQmHPzwO7XZsDqoaY8PmQYi2X9exc3hkPBTKckZ7ubIfsoGP-AmmArBiWjANxj825CzL5T4msrQWMhKqRjeJw/s320/IMG_1583.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz2UzTggtAOpOUVJ7PUr-oPhI5Uyyp98EDiKrnhPzLTn_Kvu1qw021Plo6_Y_CEjz0M0zpXj9Xi2pkJ0Eck7T-ZW35pgG92ltyz6nnbdjZGI3H_6ldIUsQ81pGFZRj61TWqv2zl94UI9aFWsw4O56JWsRNGwIZp-AdEFE2OzBBnGQBhHcWg4D05NtuQ/s1374/IMG_1581.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz2UzTggtAOpOUVJ7PUr-oPhI5Uyyp98EDiKrnhPzLTn_Kvu1qw021Plo6_Y_CEjz0M0zpXj9Xi2pkJ0Eck7T-ZW35pgG92ltyz6nnbdjZGI3H_6ldIUsQ81pGFZRj61TWqv2zl94UI9aFWsw4O56JWsRNGwIZp-AdEFE2OzBBnGQBhHcWg4D05NtuQ/s320/IMG_1581.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDlr9qG7OKGXzzvjnjT0ARW7reVs4RvU0LBLn61uGpLjOvYYTW9YhS95KwufLQWhfXwZyX8Q4wGYpuMNvhBP0eFaB80hkf7Q3uhlAAB8hs1KOEfK-2eY2baWDxM-yNXzIqTxTUBksk-k3suFSx5q8cueVlXie8eAlYms1E2QnBoUJVeLeeCYmSvrDnSg/s1832/IMG_1683.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDlr9qG7OKGXzzvjnjT0ARW7reVs4RvU0LBLn61uGpLjOvYYTW9YhS95KwufLQWhfXwZyX8Q4wGYpuMNvhBP0eFaB80hkf7Q3uhlAAB8hs1KOEfK-2eY2baWDxM-yNXzIqTxTUBksk-k3suFSx5q8cueVlXie8eAlYms1E2QnBoUJVeLeeCYmSvrDnSg/s320/IMG_1683.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMW7JPZID7aeKIL5orE_XoxvyxSTzUPPJ_vnH0L8auMxMcK-uAonxEp9SIIH-p8-CjQWUVMMAHpNvMgBreOlBndlqZKaE94yCtS1MSOgGspYlyu6dW7SP_LxkHIvciwg3pKtdoD9bZSCeHemi9ovN8HxFQDUhttlYhoTLhTPk6ka2V907L_dfYEoA8rg/s1832/IMG_1673.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMW7JPZID7aeKIL5orE_XoxvyxSTzUPPJ_vnH0L8auMxMcK-uAonxEp9SIIH-p8-CjQWUVMMAHpNvMgBreOlBndlqZKaE94yCtS1MSOgGspYlyu6dW7SP_LxkHIvciwg3pKtdoD9bZSCeHemi9ovN8HxFQDUhttlYhoTLhTPk6ka2V907L_dfYEoA8rg/s320/IMG_1673.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">All fascinating, but… I have written before about my love and the lessons of historic Williamsburg, and <i>this </i>account is about Maggie… and Meeghan’s car.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The joy of Maggie, her friends, and a few days of time travel were solid distractions, but inwardly, we’d been practicing our lines for when the time came to fess up to Meeghan. As we drew closer to Greenwich on our return trip, we tried out a variety of approaches:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sooo Meeghan, just before we left, we noticed this dent. When did you have the accident?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Or, “Luckily, we’re all okay so you don’t have to worry, but…there’s this little dent…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Or, “Let this be a lesson to you! Never lend your car to others!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Or, “OMG! Why didn’t you mention this dent so we didn’t have to worry this whole time?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Or, “We are so, so, so sorry, but there’s a dent in your car.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ugh. Poor Cathleen was in an anxious twist, and we just wanted to get the revelation over with. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Cathleen and Don’s son, PJ, was home when we arrived, and the round of hugs was barely complete when Cathleen blurted the news of the dent.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">PJ gave her a look and shook his head. “Yeah, Mom. I <i>know</i>. It’s been there since, like, February? I <i>told </i>you about it. Jeez, you really don’t listen to me, do you?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sigh...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-73611456236370610602023-04-05T15:55:00.013-07:002023-04-05T16:07:50.632-07:00What Matters to You Most?<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Piles of books beneath my bed beckon as I lie on the floor doing my morning exercises. Experience has proved that engrossing novels read at night are not conducive to sleep, so the under-bed books tend toward educational topics: memoirs, history, and Nature. They linger there, gathering an embarrassing blanket of dust, until my eye rests on a title and stops. A few weeks ago, my wandering gaze found</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Saving Us</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">by Katharine Hayhoe.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I don’t remember how the book found its way to the under-bed library – a gift? An NPR interview? A review in The Week? If anything, the title made me wary. Positive as it sounded, the need for “saving” indicates dire straits, and I already worry about the well-being of the planet and my fellow creatures. Did I really want my bedtime focus to be environmental crises? Sigh. Apparently so.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As it turned out, the book is fascinating and hopeful. As top climate scientist for The Nature Conservancy, Dr. Hayhoe is an optimist whose enthusiasm in describing solutions both possible and underway make for an informative read. It has been years since I underlined, starred, and dog-eared a book to such a degree.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dr. Hayhoe is realistic in documenting the causes and consequences of excess carbon in the atmosphere, but in <i>Saving Us</i>, she emphasizes successes and initiatives as well: planting trees and “green roofs” in urban settings to help reduce temperatures and absorb carbon; “cap and trade” programs that allow companies to work toward carbon reduction while buying or selling credits as needed; the addition of hybrid and electric vehicles to automakers’ offerings. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While a united <i>political </i>front lags, many towns and corporations recognize the economic implications of climate change and are taking action. Remarkably, in 2019, 70% of new electrical installations worldwide were clean energy, and in 2020, that percentage increased to 90%. In my town of Easton, we are fortunate - and grateful - that forward-thinking by the town’s Energy and Environment Task Force resulted in the installation of a solar field that offsets 100% of the elementary school’s energy use. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In <i>Saving Us</i>, Dr. Hayhoe stresses the importance of conversations about climate change as integral to meaningful action. She acknowledges that numbers, graphs, and scientific jargon can be overwhelming and, for some, serve only to harden their stance in dismissing the reality of the crisis. Instead, she advocates talking with (not at) people about what matters to them as the way to increase awareness. Whether they recognize it or not, most already <i>do</i> care: be it because of home, hobbies, interests, or loves, everyone has a stake in the planet’s health.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So, what do <i>you </i>like to do? Skiing? Skating? Scuba-diving? Personally, I miss Connecticut’s snowy winters. 40 years ago, Dave and I would skate the Mianus River, breezing along as far as our energy would take us before retreating inside for a well-earned hot chocolate. While some contend that temperatures have always fluctuated, Dr. Hayhoe makes clear that if that were the case, our experience would be of the planet <i>cooling. </i>Extreme storms, record summer temperatures, and wildfires have become increasingly common. The planet <i>is </i>warming, and skating on the Mianus is but a memory.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Where do you live? In low-lying coastal areas, rising seas and floods will prove hazardous. If you live out west or in arid areas, drought and water shortages are already an issue. Personal safety, food production, physical comfort, and stable economies all depend on a healthy planet, and ours is ailing and angry. As has been said, there is no Planet B… and why would we want one, given the glorious one we have? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyychqkJuUVe8ofwPZwzFoCZQ-CBPwhnBCkN8CyU6A5DJfQj3tQw7OYAIRFse6SqAHkZ_llRTmatlcZSQr8G-AK4eJxQ6O_bVe1b5B6SNimoO_L3g7k_1VkXcquipLY1B6h58rpzAwv4YexL7wZcYqqilM_LWFiOhb9t-HSCLu_39ibWCYH60P0W8gA/s1832/IMG_5817.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyychqkJuUVe8ofwPZwzFoCZQ-CBPwhnBCkN8CyU6A5DJfQj3tQw7OYAIRFse6SqAHkZ_llRTmatlcZSQr8G-AK4eJxQ6O_bVe1b5B6SNimoO_L3g7k_1VkXcquipLY1B6h58rpzAwv4YexL7wZcYqqilM_LWFiOhb9t-HSCLu_39ibWCYH60P0W8gA/s320/IMG_5817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Finally, what matters to you most? We humans seem to disagree on much these days, but we stand united in caring about our loved ones above all, and the future our kids and grandkids inherit depends on what we do now.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLU4gb66Agcn1WfdrS9QorH72h21ur8AbqK09k-9FFQtDZImyibp92M27dMCGrmG4tCki82h0ZZLJILwnq87i711b4guRJwkGKm_gp0VTn3lCqLAbWQ8u467v26e1gpaCAewaCqlvW4QPuam4kds0VzN7ayKfJX8fVNrrRobDjGf3_YKQFDbPm4GDzvg/s1832/IMG_9499.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLU4gb66Agcn1WfdrS9QorH72h21ur8AbqK09k-9FFQtDZImyibp92M27dMCGrmG4tCki82h0ZZLJILwnq87i711b4guRJwkGKm_gp0VTn3lCqLAbWQ8u467v26e1gpaCAewaCqlvW4QPuam4kds0VzN7ayKfJX8fVNrrRobDjGf3_YKQFDbPm4GDzvg/s320/IMG_9499.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With force and hope, Dr. Hayhoe says we still have the time and ability to make choices that will effect positive change. As climate scientist Peter Kalmus states, “We’re not fighting for a merely ‘livable’ planet. We’re fighting for a riotous, wild, gorgeous, miraculous, life-cradling planet that’s home to a society that works for everyone.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I highly recommend <i>Saving Us</i>, <i>A Climate Scientist’s Case for Hope and Healing in a Divided World</i> by Katharine Hayhoe. (One Signal Publishers/Atria, 2021)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPmHmFw-tYK25bI9ZO046nkfodN6KTUvZ3buAGBQv8JgVxyGxmjXk86op1QAD9i62f9Hu9ebt79a6Fq7cT462Yvz8Ep-bWTHxY8GRNTd-9A0d_SRUvvbuGtIMjHv3RAWpfyL8pMlnMqIGqk0Oe00_yQKpiGRVyKe-TivR0-27ctsC3jxLS3hULauV3Q/s4032/A0F73544-856E-4013-990E-A8DE39690083.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPmHmFw-tYK25bI9ZO046nkfodN6KTUvZ3buAGBQv8JgVxyGxmjXk86op1QAD9i62f9Hu9ebt79a6Fq7cT462Yvz8Ep-bWTHxY8GRNTd-9A0d_SRUvvbuGtIMjHv3RAWpfyL8pMlnMqIGqk0Oe00_yQKpiGRVyKe-TivR0-27ctsC3jxLS3hULauV3Q/s320/A0F73544-856E-4013-990E-A8DE39690083.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-39292586833379505312023-02-20T14:40:00.003-08:002023-02-20T14:40:28.348-08:00A Wistful, Wondrous Walk<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">It must’ve been a big night at the beach for the gulls, for those around me are sleeping it off. Soft feather rounds of white and cloud-gray, they curl their necks gracefully to tuck beaks beneath wings. Gentle ripples of lace-edged blue water brush the sand while flashes of sunshine dance on the Sound’s dips and peaks.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Over recent months, it’s been hard to quell heartache as the war in Ukraine grinds on, Tyre’s family mourns, and earthquakes devastate cities and families. But as I stroll the beach, the soft rumble of a song vibrates in my throat with no conscious direction on my part. I assume it’s a good sign to be moved to music, an indication that the drone of must-do’s and bad-news has quieted for this respite. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So, what has my heart punched in on my inner juke box? I don’t immediately know, have to let that rumble play on a bit while I process the rhythm. John Lennon. Recognition of the artist comes first, then the melody: “Love, love, love….” Pleased by my selection and the frame of mind reflected, I meander, admiring the scatter of shells and wedge-shaped prints of my seagull companions. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Milky jingle shells of peach, lemon, and cream, fragile in their flavorful colors, mingle with eggplant-purple mussels and brown and white slipper snails. I cup my hand and start a collection. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A flash of green catches my eye: beach glass, rare in this age of recycling. As a child during summers in Rhode Island, hours with my sisters and friends passed unnoticed as we scoured the shore for remnants of soft drink bottles and those of our fathers’ favorite beers. We’d call out the colors as we found them, “White! Brown! Aqua,” all those bottles of Schlitz, Miller, and Coke broken, tumbled, and rounded by rolling waves and shifting sand. Occasionally we’d happen upon gems of red, blue, or violet from Milk of Magnesia and old apothecary jars. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Laddered white lifeguard stands face the water seeming still to keep watch. A clutch of gulls, adolescents I think, gaze toward the horizon, contemplative as any beachgoer. With a keen sense of flow and design, Nature has painted their speckled feathers the same pattern and hues as the slipper snails. As I bend to pick up a snow-white clam shell, Lennon’s hopeful song of human harmony spools through my mind, and I step, splash, reach for a shell, step, splash, hum. “Love, love, love…” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Suddenly I stop, suffused with wonder. Someone – a child pausing from turning cartwheels? A smitten teen? An adult like me, moved by an inner song? – has spelled a word with shells in the sand: <b>LOVE.</b> Yes! Love! I can almost hear the heavenly horn section blaring a brassy accompaniment as the Universe smiles, and uplifted, I walk on. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-84297854455441839412023-01-21T11:23:00.005-08:002023-01-21T11:37:17.329-08:00HOW CAN I PART WITH THESE BOOKS?!<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore</i> tops the teetering tower, its neon yellow cover a beacon calling for a re-read. Can’t do it now; I’m here on a mission. I pick up Mr. Penumbra and search for any tiny gaps between the books on the shelves that might grant entry. No luck. I must purge before I can place it. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was thrilled when Dave attacked the area on his side of the bed, a dusty potpourri of paperwork and books. In his nightly enthusiasm for Words with Friends and Solitaire over reading, his backlog of books had multiplied to the point of obstruction. One fine day, he cleared it out and pointed proudly to the easy access he’d created. Well done!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That is, until I went to get a book from our tiny nook of a library and discovered where all those books had gone. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Truth is, we have too many books. Even if Dave had tried to put them away, he would have been foiled. When it’s time to organize and clear things out, I’m the one to do it. Order is my sanity.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zPjLl0jhq9QsIr6GSWxaU1_jjsV__TCaF06oYGbGxCvQYuKzlEFlgcKPjTSdHMrb7kc6YicUExhmzyzU3KKU6oNftos_glNlMjNu4ebvsMwbXbKXtA2Oecq_1Kdp1QmAvXCXdLjbX3JKAAZVnt2rtSGZUyRLC-VuSnaG7bhyfEew85X29YxkIR0aog/s707/IMG_1097.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zPjLl0jhq9QsIr6GSWxaU1_jjsV__TCaF06oYGbGxCvQYuKzlEFlgcKPjTSdHMrb7kc6YicUExhmzyzU3KKU6oNftos_glNlMjNu4ebvsMwbXbKXtA2Oecq_1Kdp1QmAvXCXdLjbX3JKAAZVnt2rtSGZUyRLC-VuSnaG7bhyfEew85X29YxkIR0aog/s320/IMG_1097.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I embark on this mission, I am guided by two precepts. First, would either of us ever read a given volume again? Second, we are not throwing books away, but donating them to the public library, a better use than limbo on the third floor. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With Mr. Penumbra put aside to accompany me downstairs, I address the rest of the pile. <i>Sudden Sea</i>, the story of the hurricane of ‘38, is a keeper. I’ve read it four times and will read it again. <i>Thanks, Obama,</i> a memoir by one of the president’s speechwriters, goes in the maybe pile. John Boehner’s <i>On the House</i> is a cutting peek into Republican politics that Dave might enjoy. Suddenly I realize that most of the books from Dave’s bedside migration are those I’d recommended once I finished them. Hence the prominence of Penumbra, a book I loved. Many are keepers that require homes on the shelves; better to start with benchwarmers that have occupied space for too long. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I said, order <i>is</i> my sanity, so I’m disciplined about rooting through things and hauling rejects to the dump or Goodwill. As I survey the fiction shelf, I realize there’s not going to be much give there; these shelves have been purged before. <i>Peace Like a River</i> and <i>A Gentleman in Moscow</i> are both on my list for a third reading, and I periodically cycle through the assortment of Dickens, Hiaasens, Irvings, and Austens. Better to take a crack at the history and children’s sections.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Hm. These volumes are history all right, but they represent <i>our</i> history as well. Adjacent to books by McCullough, Philbrick, and Goodwin are those studied by high school Lea. At 17, I’d envisioned a life sifting the sands of Egypt, striking a hard surface, spotting some hieroglyphs, and discovering a tomb. I tug out <i>When Egypt Ruled the East, Up the Nile,</i> and<i>The Conquest of Civilization </i>and flip through pages, turning them sideways to read the copious notes I’d scribbled in the margins. The Egypt shelf is crowded with titles<i> </i>I’ll never read again, but, oh the soft halo of memory in picturing myself so young, immersed in tales of Ramesses and Tutankhamen with my gift of a teacher, Miss Smedley. Do I hold on… or let go? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I pause and sit back. Survey the mess on the floor and the half-filled boxes. The shelves and piles still to go. I run my hands over my face, breathe deep, and blow out a long rush of air. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">HOW CAN I PART WITH THESE BOOKS?! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My inner harpy is firm: <i>Put them in the box! Think of Tucker and Casey’s dismay when they discover these books, floor to ceiling, and have to lug away this Egypt crap. And do you really need those near-shredded paperback Shakespeare plays from Doc Dando’s class? Or that yellow wall of National Geographics? By then, you might be living the high life on the Other Side, but do you want the kids stuck with this? <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No. Sigh. So, I compromise, for now asking myself only to reduce the number in each category. I select a few titles and authors to save, then fill a box with well-worn books I once cherished, underlined, and dog-eared. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Onward! Hm again. Books on crafts and quilts and country living carry me back to<i> </i>Lea of the eighties, a young mom with a sewing machine tuned and ready to make curtains, dolls, decorations, and crib bumpers. So much of my life then was intangible: hours spent picking up after the kids would be undone within minutes. But I could create a corduroy bear that might last decades… just like my mom’s childhood toy. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-8Z8Pob6LohslhJMgsVYi87Wn-TLQ7kbCYPcfJM1K7xIGNRraBrMCFRJYqSAFyyU7HcyIZjAJoUQ_2dAzOyjuQoTptfnAuLNK03nZKWdd9QiD6c3okzBgyYZEFzQobQW_geMFf4tOCZir2T8UDPkPNvsl_pXRQ04ix5biudVIGKwMEQnP2l28T_GAw/s943/IMG_1137.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-8Z8Pob6LohslhJMgsVYi87Wn-TLQ7kbCYPcfJM1K7xIGNRraBrMCFRJYqSAFyyU7HcyIZjAJoUQ_2dAzOyjuQoTptfnAuLNK03nZKWdd9QiD6c3okzBgyYZEFzQobQW_geMFf4tOCZir2T8UDPkPNvsl_pXRQ04ix5biudVIGKwMEQnP2l28T_GAw/s320/IMG_1137.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Almost 30 years have passed since then, and these voluminous full-color editions, complete with patterns, would better serve somebody else. My, they are heavy… and take up space. I pack a dozen into a box and smile to see some open room. With a swipe of a torn tee-shirt rag, I dust the shelf and move on.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Crockett’s Victory Garden, Back to Basics, Early Tools,</i> and Eric Sloane’s <i>Sketches of America Past </i>speak to our world and leanings in the 70’s and 80’s. We lived on a campus with like-minded souls dedicated to the well-being of children with learning disabilities and appreciative of the do-it-yourself orientation of that era. Dave built cupboards and benches we still use, and we scoured tag sales for old furniture to refinish. Weekends were scented with the acrid stench of Zip Strip and accompanied by a scratchy sandpaper soundtrack as we removed fifties favorites, lime and green paint, to reveal the honey-brown hues of raw pine. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Now that he’s retired, Dave spends more time in his basement workshop. When the sound of the band saw whines through the floorboards, I know he is happily at work. So, books by Sloane and his fellow carpenters will stay.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Several shelves are crammed with Dave’s professional resources and books about the Beatles, Rolling Stones, baseball, and guitars. These are his loves, his career, and our music. When Dave plays a slow version of “She loves me” on the piano or “Helplessly Hoping” on his guitar, I sit quietly on the stairs seeking to soak it in, freeze the moment, and store his voice on the spools of my mind. So, I give this section a cursory once-over and make a small pile of possible rejects. Dave told me he trusts me on this process of elimination, but I’ll grant him the ultimate yea or nay. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Four half-shelves hold my in-home therapists, a host of wise souls who, with friends and family, buoyed and guided me when life seemed ill-fitting and my path unclear. One’s forties can be tricky, and the likes of Wayne Dyer, Rachel Remen, Sarah Ban Breathnach, and Robert Fulghum provided healing counsel and company. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Idly, I pull out Rachel Remen’s <i>Kitchen Table Wisdom. </i>The pages are of heavy, cream-colored stock, and the lines are generously spaced. The book is a just-right length of 333 pages, not a tome, but long enough to get the feel of the author, to sense in her a friend. I understand the appeal of Kindles, but really, nothing is as soothing as a favorite book in hand. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I open to a dog-eared page. Rachel’s life wasn’t easy: she was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease at age 16 and fought her way through to a degree in medicine. When she wrote the book, she’d switched disciplines to counsel cancer patients. Her stories are about gratitude, recognizing the sacred in simple things, and the joy in strengthening and celebrating others. To me, she speaks truth: gratitude and connection lift the soul. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Next, the shelves holding Casey and Tucker’s childhood favorites. We have two copies of <i>Good Night Moon</i>, one torn and taped, so beloved by my little ones that we’d purchased a back-up in better condition. We also have a tattered copy of <i>The Tall Book of Make-Believe</i> that was mine as a child, plus another discovered at a library book sale. The choice should be obvious - throw the wrecked ones away! But those are the most precious, imbued with the prints of tiny hands and cozy nights with a toddler snug on my lap. They stay. These books are <i>us</i>, and it is as hard to part with them as it was to leave those life phases behind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRewQguCqTHg9FP5qqzJ-_bCSnKQ1UEkC_NGTXDo9fX-C-sZDTucYTQuZdJH84yk0eB0dAvYPSP51V5w99tyrBy_b35saIVDfLBKzKvzBknokrgahgfzA63i7KgOur788gZRgWQcJDop-lzIFjHEolF_L-MLGau1rxYXPrw6UhVs07NOzeYfj6glDJMA/s943/IMG_1138.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRewQguCqTHg9FP5qqzJ-_bCSnKQ1UEkC_NGTXDo9fX-C-sZDTucYTQuZdJH84yk0eB0dAvYPSP51V5w99tyrBy_b35saIVDfLBKzKvzBknokrgahgfzA63i7KgOur788gZRgWQcJDop-lzIFjHEolF_L-MLGau1rxYXPrw6UhVs07NOzeYfj6glDJMA/s320/IMG_1138.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And what of books inscribed “To Tucker on his 1<sup>st</sup> birthday,” or to Casey, “I loved this book when <i>I </i>was 4!” When the final dismantling of our library occurs, will my kids open to title pages and check for inscriptions? Probably not. They might be sad, pressed for time, and overwhelmed by the magnitude of their task. So, I reflect and decide not to purge the children’s books; my grandchildren might love these too. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My parents were avid readers and believed time with a book was well spent. I agree. But life gets busy, and Ted Lasso, Queen’s Gambit, and the Great British Baking Show steal evenings that might be passed reading. Once I load up 12 boxes and 4 bags of books to donate, order is restored, but the shelves remain full. In purging, I’ve been reminded of those I am keeping, and I can’t wait to read, or re-read, them all. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-kmX7n4vHOPMmhTC6jnXEcWza4T1RS5g1MSkdpole9AQss52Tj-a8gmgSkSbdODo6r2T7GYkZcnoicx9U6RyR90C1db7G8nuSSvPowsYhgXEtKrWdvyWy8lztEYmFryc7FkjNCbQAlF4GlUYEYB1ytfTc64awna1mB94fnh7If30EyfUdh0DCk1EJyg/s943/IMG_1136.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-kmX7n4vHOPMmhTC6jnXEcWza4T1RS5g1MSkdpole9AQss52Tj-a8gmgSkSbdODo6r2T7GYkZcnoicx9U6RyR90C1db7G8nuSSvPowsYhgXEtKrWdvyWy8lztEYmFryc7FkjNCbQAlF4GlUYEYB1ytfTc64awna1mB94fnh7If30EyfUdh0DCk1EJyg/s320/IMG_1136.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Authors not previously acknowledged: </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Breasted, James Henry: <i>The Conquest of Civilization<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Brown, Margaret Wise: <i>Good Night Moon</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Bull, Deborah & Donald Lorimer: <i>Up the Nile</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Crockett, Jim: <i>Crockett’s Victory Garden<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Litt, David: <i>Thanks, Obama<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Reader’s Digest, <i>Back to Basics<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Scotti, R.A.: <i>Sudden Sea<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Seele, Keith & George Steindorff: <i>When Egypt Ruled the East<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sloan, Robin: <i>Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Smith, Elmer: <i>Early Tools and Equipment<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Towles, Amor: <i>A Gentleman in Moscow</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Unger, Leif: <i>Peace Like a River</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Werner, Jane & illustrator (the pictures are the best part!) Garth Williams: <i>The Tall Book of Make -Believe <o:p></o:p></i></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-18295997140184357892023-01-07T14:56:00.020-08:002023-01-07T15:10:51.690-08:00Hardly Heartbreaking, but...<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When my dermatologist’s nurse called to report that a recent biopsy indicated that the red patches on my legs were psoriasis, I laughed and said, “Ah. The heartbreak of psoriasis!” With no prior connection to this skin condition, the catch phrase conceived by some 60’s ad man burbled to mind as easily as the old jingle for Pepsodent. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The patches were red and ugly but didn’t trouble me much. I just wanted to rule out skin cancer, and that done, I was relieved. “Hardly heart-breaking,” I thought. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As time has passed however, the affected areas have spread. A specialist told me, “Psoriasis hates the face,” and thank heavens for that, because it seems to have a fondness for everywhere else. Despite twice daily search and destroy missions aimed at treating every spot with a steroid cream, only my face has remained unscathed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">During the summer, sundresses were out of the question, and I wondered if it would be the last season where I could un-self-consciously wear a tee shirt in public. My need for a new wardrobe prompted a shopping trip with my daughter. So fun! Why don’t we do this more often? Perhaps because our mutual encouragement reaped such a staggering profusion of purchases? Thanks to TJ Maxx and Casey’s compliments, I now have a plethora of breezy, flowy pants to wear on hot days; still, I’m not quite ready to surrender my sundresses to Goodwill. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">During a reception while in Rome for our reunion, I sat next to a friend who was given a platter of gluten free appetizers rather than those served to the rest of us. He explained that a diet change had minimized the symptoms of his auto-immune disease. When I mentioned the psoriasis, he said he’d recommend some articles. Kind, concerned, and extraordinarily organized, he’d sent a line-up of links to my phone by the time I returned to the hotel.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While my dermatologist and most of the research say skipping alcohol might help, they claim diet makes no difference. Still, gluten affects enough people negatively that I thought it worth a try.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But not just then. We had two more weeks in Italy, and I was not about to abstain from the pasta, bread, and wine I was gleefully consuming in abundant amounts. The psoriasis was raging, inflamed and spreading, but minus the characteristic itching and burning. So, skin be damned! Pour the wine and pass the bread! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Once home however, Dave and I went all in on a diet change extravaganza: no gluten, minimal dairy, and for me, no alcohol. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As our primary chef and baker, Dave was excited by the challenge. He took to the internet for gluten-free bread recipes, and we have enjoyed the results. The loaves look beautiful – like real bread! – but a bit more crumbly than their glutinous counterparts. We also sought the wisdom of our local Kindred Spirits rep in guiding us to an alcohol-free wine that was not revolting in flavor. The brand recommended was “Win” followed by a flippit of vine which, cleverly, resembles an “e.” Dave did a Google search for “how to make fake wine less disgusting,” and, with the advised addition of a slice of lemon, I have found the beverage to be a reasonable stand-in. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqEowFNXQwDZrZ36Qsbg_4Gc8ZtWG9FrUK2Hx9qhIe469jVFc3w5rlMn6Z2ctck5CJcXGXzfRQ9C98GXQaPkxVMjfItQoMAdDcRk2t-AXdbY6C8Qn5yGjMtNGpHy5Q9LU39PRACHxcDiNekgwGWJFThxGYFklXl8N5N9eBAIouhc33jfCAM6oZL6xSg/s943/IMG_0920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqEowFNXQwDZrZ36Qsbg_4Gc8ZtWG9FrUK2Hx9qhIe469jVFc3w5rlMn6Z2ctck5CJcXGXzfRQ9C98GXQaPkxVMjfItQoMAdDcRk2t-AXdbY6C8Qn5yGjMtNGpHy5Q9LU39PRACHxcDiNekgwGWJFThxGYFklXl8N5N9eBAIouhc33jfCAM6oZL6xSg/s320/IMG_0920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For two months, I was a diligent denier of most things yummy. My skin improved some, but was that the magic new medicine? The lack of alcohol? Dave’s marvelous gluten free adaptions? The oat and almond dairy substitutes? I have no idea: we’ve not been scientific in our clean sweep approach.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Over the holidays, I gave myself permission to ease up on restrictions, but the new year will see us adding, subtracting, and taking note. In the meantime, I am at peace with my rebellious skin. At this age, most everyone I know deals with an affliction, some of them grievous, and I count myself lucky that psoriasis is mine. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-91695632386945527812022-11-20T11:57:00.001-08:002022-11-20T11:57:57.580-08:00 Rome Reunion Part III - E-Bike Elation on the Appian Way<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">To begin with, Dave and I were late. We were meeting the rest of the group at Top Bike Rentals on Via Labicana behind the Colosseum. We didn’t have WiFi, and by this time during our stay, I’d worn out several maps, and the creases and tears in the one I’d stuffed into my bag obscured the street we needed to locate. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A few nights ago, we came upon the Colosseum at sunset, the dying sun’s light seeming an orange blaze within the heart of the edifice summoning spectators once again. We lingered to marvel at the artistry of the heavens as backdrop to this iconic ruin. On this day, however, the Colosseum was but a landmark encircled by a tangle of roads, and we couldn’t spot the sign for Via Labicana. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvMoKec1CMlCRGXWJ5hflo3P_MZgz8etKwg4-Hh-0O9RzP0Y8uzhsggh3ZCxMFiMRJZLWQC_bb-_mJyqMR0fjFXK54_osRt8Em_Q8HGyNhQ5vQfE_1ISDlz4GaGeW0XmlPhSJRxcFaCvLcRxhgn4ELp1GJy9vHX5mAArHOEIRQknyIfpFrGgv-NG5rA/s943/IMG_8074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvMoKec1CMlCRGXWJ5hflo3P_MZgz8etKwg4-Hh-0O9RzP0Y8uzhsggh3ZCxMFiMRJZLWQC_bb-_mJyqMR0fjFXK54_osRt8Em_Q8HGyNhQ5vQfE_1ISDlz4GaGeW0XmlPhSJRxcFaCvLcRxhgn4ELp1GJy9vHX5mAArHOEIRQknyIfpFrGgv-NG5rA/s320/IMG_8074.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We asked a server at a café, but he didn’t know. We asked a nice man at an intersection who kindly pulled up the GPS on his phone and pointed the way… only it was the wrong way. A short while later, we asked a policewoman who sent us back the way we’d come. Aimless wandering is a lovely part of travel, but this was not the moment. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When we arrived at Top Bike, the rest of our friends were already there, bikes assigned and helmets tried, selected, and buckled on. This time, I couldn’t blame our tardiness on Dave, but no worries, no one seemed annoyed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When Bart, reunion organizer extraordinaire, first mentioned the idea of an E-bike tour on the Appia Antica, the old Roman road, I was hesitant. I remembered our motorbike ride along the same route in 1973. We were cocky, youthful immortals, but I remember the terror of winding through traffic to get out of the city, the choking fumes of diesel exhaust, and Dave’s craziness in standing on one foot on his bike seat while driving. I never want to beg off an adventure because of my age, but I thought this might be the time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave, however, was all in. “It’ll be fun, but <i>you </i>don’t have to go.” Bart, ever mindful of others’ concerns, spoke to the people at Top Bike and assured me that we’d travel back roads to reach the Appia Antica. So, we signed up.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Our guide, Elena, reviewed the use of the gears and the levels of the electric “assists:” eco, tour, sport, and turbo. “Above all,” Elena said, her accented English clear and definitive, “Do NOT use the left-hand brake by itself! The pistons will go down; the bike will stop dead; and you could go over the handlebars.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Good grief. Between remembering the gear instructions and this weird compulsion now in my head to squeeze that left break by itself, I was nervous. She also demonstrated the hand signals she would use when we came to major roads and had to “execute a maneuver” and cross “en mass.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I’ll go ahead and stop the traffic. You must cross as a group, quick, quick, quick!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Oh dear<i>. Maneuvers. </i>This sounded<i> </i>tricky and dangerous. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Okay! We all ready?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Maybe not…<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> “Let’s go!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Shouting instructions and encouragement over her shoulder, Elena forged ahead down narrow streets, under stone arches, and past the Colosseum, her troop of near septuagenarians peddling gamely behind. I, no doubt like every one of Elena’s ducklings, toyed with the gears and tested the varying speeds of the assists. I wanted no surprises when it was time to use them. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She stopped us often to identify points of interest and enlighten us as to their history and significance. At major roads, her unyielding glare commanded compliance of impatient drivers who honked their horns as she waved us safely across, her upraised hand and tiny body the shield between us and a phalanx of cars.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On the first steep hill, Elena yelled, “Set your gears to 1 and the assist at Turbo!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Agh! How fast would this be? I did as instructed and… <i>zipped</i> up the incline. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whoaaaaa! That was <i>fun</i>! What normally would have been a daunting bike walk was… exhilarating!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With Elena in the lead, and Bart as rear guard, ever solicitous, making sure no one was left behind, we merged with the Appia Antica. Increasingly confident, nay <i>emboldened</i> on our bikes, we bumped and swerved over ancient stones rutted by chariot wheels. While we passed many ruins that, at home, would have been closed to the public or carefully guarded within a museum, Elena halted our column only at sites of special interest. We dismounted to explore ancient walls, towers, a mausoleum, and a stadium. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNj-cQ2ZIUkVDa8tUXwV0brgApLEl-R8CaXb3EQ6cbs2z2_1DB6iLKIWAEY6xGEOPrvYB5mVK_Y67csm3bZtYeoPqFO20gDppyxJrPByr_OmyORYxnLo8inbid2n2JQSn__BO3jncbjqwEMP0T7rU0_YKBRsulR51JxDong6JcjTJnWoP0CKpk7viWvA/s707/IMG_8374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNj-cQ2ZIUkVDa8tUXwV0brgApLEl-R8CaXb3EQ6cbs2z2_1DB6iLKIWAEY6xGEOPrvYB5mVK_Y67csm3bZtYeoPqFO20gDppyxJrPByr_OmyORYxnLo8inbid2n2JQSn__BO3jncbjqwEMP0T7rU0_YKBRsulR51JxDong6JcjTJnWoP0CKpk7viWvA/s320/IMG_8374.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At one point, we pulled aside for a herd of goats. “You’ll see the farms soon,” Elena told us as we reached the end of the ancient road, crossed a <i>highway – </i>brave Elena protecting us with her arm outstretched - peddled through the parking lot of a strip mall that might have been anywhere, USA, and rode onto a vast expanse of parched soil and dry, brown grass. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxb-C7P1ughS_7UshV1AWKrjvGtMH9Oh005J02uYgT4-sEt57Knteu0xOgpupo7-Rdn2_OSF2UQWjn8VCTjIV3caY8kkF9sx4vquqgQI2Hw2_LSvPQQGrLSgLgEdjf1UFIpLrtUY68QVus8ZfJloYHbWxdaLWxsNplaB1hDPZERuEejCtUFEjATRShuQ/s707/IMG_8388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxb-C7P1ughS_7UshV1AWKrjvGtMH9Oh005J02uYgT4-sEt57Knteu0xOgpupo7-Rdn2_OSF2UQWjn8VCTjIV3caY8kkF9sx4vquqgQI2Hw2_LSvPQQGrLSgLgEdjf1UFIpLrtUY68QVus8ZfJloYHbWxdaLWxsNplaB1hDPZERuEejCtUFEjATRShuQ/s320/IMG_8388.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Simple shacks, feed troughs, and trammeled earth encircled by wire fences marked the goats’ home as we continued on. The day seemed suffused with light, with <i>lightness</i>, beyond that of the sun. Friend Fa Poco whipped by, and I had to whoop, “Is this the BEST or what?!” I felt strong and young as twenty-year-old Lea as I goosed my assist to turbo and sped, euphoric, to catch up with the others. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi2ppmuxTl0k3D_8dEB7Gx2A809LU9HHWoMp5CWFnsvQIZOCyRFRpUIpBqcgplAs21ylf4W4wtUX5reB_2-a1-l7Pq3EJJm-QoXTeYepODd3P6ycLN1jtQ-xTiri_WuI6umFuoNr3nOv02itGqy4BFkkMiN2NJKOMfVqd0KRRN6MLWGxjHPg8rfRNHQ/s943/IMG_8396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi2ppmuxTl0k3D_8dEB7Gx2A809LU9HHWoMp5CWFnsvQIZOCyRFRpUIpBqcgplAs21ylf4W4wtUX5reB_2-a1-l7Pq3EJJm-QoXTeYepODd3P6ycLN1jtQ-xTiri_WuI6umFuoNr3nOv02itGqy4BFkkMiN2NJKOMfVqd0KRRN6MLWGxjHPg8rfRNHQ/s320/IMG_8396.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Even Bart had gone ahead as there was no danger of getting lost in these open fields, and our destination, a series of massive stone arches, the aqueducts, stretched before us. Suddenly, I heard a shout. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dave in the dust, his bike on the ground, the front tire askew. I wheeled around and yelled, “Are you okay? What happened?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I stopped beside him, Dave was on his feet, shaking his head and wiping off bloody, dirt-encrusted cuts on his hands, knees, and elbows. “So stupid,” he grunted. “I was taking a video, just had to capture this: the farm, our friends, the aqueducts ahead, and you flying in front of me … and I hit a rock. I’m bummed I turned off the camera before I fell. <i>That</i> would’ve been a great shot! I just want to clean these cuts, what with the goats and flies and shit and all.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Since Covid, I carry alcohol wipes, so I tore open several packets and gingerly dabbed at his cuts. “I have some bandaids, too?” I offered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Nah. No. I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.” We checked to make sure the bike wasn’t damaged, and re-mounted to meet up with the group.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">By now, our friends were used to waiting for Dave in his quest for one more picture and had paused in the shadow of the aqueducts to rest and swig water. The chorus of friendly taunts swung to concern when they saw blood. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Oh no! What happened? I have things… First Aid! We can clean you up!” Elena hustled to open the saddlebag on her bike, and produced cleanser, antiseptic, and bandaids. Again, I admired her courage in taking on our aging, mostly E-bike-inexperienced troop. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Once Dave was swabbed and bandaged, we turned our attention to the engineering genius of the ancient Romans in building the aqueducts that towered above and beyond us, some of which still operate to serve the city. Rome offers many reminders of the evolution and demise of civilizations, and I wondered, in two thousand years, what might remain, much less function, as clues to life in 2022? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Our three-hour tour had stretched gloriously to five due to an extended lunch break and two more tumbles, yet the three spills did little to dampen our spirits. When the last of us wheeled back into Top Bike’s garage, Elena crowed about the fun she’d had with us. Still, I pictured her collapsing in relief later having seen her ducklings safely home. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And Dave and I are totally getting E-bikes for Christmas. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlJnEOg20crUORYG1IK6GOlMuLSM-JWlWTdf9WFGtaUvOND2GLY-SOGq_E5gt2O3gPCBhQyUUP1PesK0juvtrIAv5WD056Ob86YT657vvDFypxkPx39A1zegGrCJccV4omH0AHqJluCPqxNSaMyG7TyiQsVpA9Emfw-roLNYMkeV5eHsO9QhMW8PKGw/s943/IMG_3328_Original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlJnEOg20crUORYG1IK6GOlMuLSM-JWlWTdf9WFGtaUvOND2GLY-SOGq_E5gt2O3gPCBhQyUUP1PesK0juvtrIAv5WD056Ob86YT657vvDFypxkPx39A1zegGrCJccV4omH0AHqJluCPqxNSaMyG7TyiQsVpA9Emfw-roLNYMkeV5eHsO9QhMW8PKGw/s320/IMG_3328_Original.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-81029408196729228142022-11-12T15:53:00.002-08:002022-11-12T15:53:54.169-08:00Part II - Rome Campus Reunion: Layer Upon Layer<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">9:10 AM. Time to leave Hotel Pantheon for class. We close the shutters, buckle on fanny packs, and head downstairs past the marble reproduction of an armless, naked Venus. In the hall, Svetlana with her beautiful smile and heavy eyeliner pauses from folding linens to bid us <i>Buon giorno</i>. We say <i>ciao</i> to Roberto at the front desk and head out onto Via dei Pastini. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41eWYNJLCcUNLD7R-6ouMOkQykWOZ322I4_azqH9xlnNlNTLJnT0LInUz7lpWV3-qBnU1mEHxiCANSWiccGEY3LzoZg07qfzgCTv5S1wDaKM5zWy_eo_86UUkFHyjuDiK_vM6xr1HM5fGVVbz8MPi1nmf8N1HGTtVlvFafElDS7qOsSboGKg-6eb8gA/s707/IMG_7847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41eWYNJLCcUNLD7R-6ouMOkQykWOZ322I4_azqH9xlnNlNTLJnT0LInUz7lpWV3-qBnU1mEHxiCANSWiccGEY3LzoZg07qfzgCTv5S1wDaKM5zWy_eo_86UUkFHyjuDiK_vM6xr1HM5fGVVbz8MPi1nmf8N1HGTtVlvFafElDS7qOsSboGKg-6eb8gA/s320/IMG_7847.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>The street is nearly empty but for the homeless man who slumps against the wall in his usual spot near our hotel. His face is gaunt, one eye sunken and scarred, and a strip of hair runs along the crest of his shaved scalp. Despite the warm day, he wears a red vest and burgundy parka over his tattered jeans. He barks and grunts at passers-by, but most walk on without a glance, even when he lunges at them and punches the air. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For several days after our arrival, I was unnerved by his efforts to alarm and neglected my vow to let no one be invisible. Like everyone else, I averted my gaze despite the man’s desperate efforts to be <i>seen. </i>Lately, however, I’ve made a point of greeting him, and instead of growling, he nods and touches his forehead in salute<i>.</i> I hope one day to earn a smile.<i> </i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In a few hours, the restaurants along the street will open with a clatter of glasses and china as tables are set. Crowds of tourists on their way to the Pantheon will edge past the hosts standing in doorways striving to entice diners to pull up a seat. Strands of braided garlic and artful arrangements of eggplant and oranges add visual appeal to the alluring aroma of baking bread.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKELu3HJUbeo2Qw8WdH2wzm_vx_5dW-bL1_w0VNcRn-hJbaapo0KiwS5tqAx3B1wOETG72y4JJ30trJ39rcH2SRlLOtzKC0X_H1901HkBQwpEtKye82vkQgh6Vi0SnylmOL8RBpbtHsiQ-IZvbPLzVA52ie-Yr9s4pGEo6BCQF93jq1wytw58TMMStw/s707/IMG_7887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKELu3HJUbeo2Qw8WdH2wzm_vx_5dW-bL1_w0VNcRn-hJbaapo0KiwS5tqAx3B1wOETG72y4JJ30trJ39rcH2SRlLOtzKC0X_H1901HkBQwpEtKye82vkQgh6Vi0SnylmOL8RBpbtHsiQ-IZvbPLzVA52ie-Yr9s4pGEo6BCQF93jq1wytw58TMMStw/s320/IMG_7887.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We pause briefly so I can check my well-creased map, something I do countless times a day during our wanderings in Rome. Throughout the week of our reunion, some of the professors have generously included us in their tours and classes, and today, once we are oriented, Dave and I meet Professor Livio Pestilli and some of our TCRC 1973 classmates at Chiesa di Santa Maria in Piazza di Campitelli. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After a brief introduction, Professor Pestilli guides us from church to church, commenting on the significance of changes in architectural elements from one era to the next. Like the students we once were, we listen intently and lift our eyes as he points out the artistry of flowing draperies and trompe d’oeil shadows painted on ceilings arching high above us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrxwTV4flJWqNB4JvYVI-EmV6_rTs9vQnnMmX4F0xu3jDgHWyU7e3Stz3HZLyfiJFm0nOkTW-rHl9ITDUc373HjD-E4GLYbsSOgK9m8BszUGBjAZS0hTfFPuwiVwYC-L-I8OIueeAtmge8fvgorDtRGc6lS9Svd3wPFu2Dyepsn7xbq59d1Wj3Lyvog/s707/IMG_8220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrxwTV4flJWqNB4JvYVI-EmV6_rTs9vQnnMmX4F0xu3jDgHWyU7e3Stz3HZLyfiJFm0nOkTW-rHl9ITDUc373HjD-E4GLYbsSOgK9m8BszUGBjAZS0hTfFPuwiVwYC-L-I8OIueeAtmge8fvgorDtRGc6lS9Svd3wPFu2Dyepsn7xbq59d1Wj3Lyvog/s320/IMG_8220.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yCuyvEgrgoUauGC4JCetk4fmSHb6uKgyJLMxYFNVcsL7Y3u2oXMobE2EowkMti3YscC3g0VFNj3n_XoUqDVG6oH8XNectgLevkvHx682j29p4t1SCKv8MFqnLP0PW5sTwphIx78EFOWQJOM2XsPhf4hEUwNzlatCh9o8o_EIDM8MbJtjVGTOsgEvIg/s943/7E996C95-9E53-475E-8453-5A0E897F5880_Original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yCuyvEgrgoUauGC4JCetk4fmSHb6uKgyJLMxYFNVcsL7Y3u2oXMobE2EowkMti3YscC3g0VFNj3n_XoUqDVG6oH8XNectgLevkvHx682j29p4t1SCKv8MFqnLP0PW5sTwphIx78EFOWQJOM2XsPhf4hEUwNzlatCh9o8o_EIDM8MbJtjVGTOsgEvIg/s320/7E996C95-9E53-475E-8453-5A0E897F5880_Original.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">While different styles and techniques emerged over the centuries, some things never change. As the group waits outside the Chiesa di Sant’ Ignazio di Loyola, Dave does not appear. Friend Pamela assures me, “No one is concerned or angry except you, so don’t worry.” Having lived with the man for 47 years, I am not concerned, angry, <i>or </i>surprised… well, maybe a little annoyed. Kindly, she says, “I’ll go look for him.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She returns alone. Minutes tick by. I try texting my husband, but no response. I apologize to all and suggest we continue on. Dave is resourceful and this is familiar territory; I’m confident he’ll meet up with us eventually. Ours is a caring, forgiving crew however, and everyone insists we wait, but I know Professor Pestilli has an appointment at 1:00, and I’m starting to feel guilty about the delay. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sigh. “I’ll try to find him,” I mutter. <i>Honestly Dave!</i> But I have no more luck than Pamela as I dash across marble floors and dart between massive columns beneath extraordinary paintings of ecstatic encounters with the divine, ignoring all in my search for wild gray hair and a black polo shirt. I return to the group and convince them to move on. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At our final stop, Dave appears, abashed and apologetic. “I just went back for one more picture, and lost sight of time. Without WiFi, I couldn’t reach you.” As I said, familiar territory; Dave and Time have a fluid relationship. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The next day, we accompany Professor Cristiana Filippini and her students to the Basilica di Santa Sabina all’Aventino and her particular passion, San Clemente al Laterano.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As Professor Filippini leads us through the 12<sup>th</sup> century basilica down steep, rough-hewn stairs through a 4<sup>th</sup> century basilica, and then, to an even deeper level, her mounting excitement is contagious. At her direction, we peer through arches at vestiges of a 1<sup>st</sup> century house with running water, something only the very wealthy could afford. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Water continues to flow through troughs along the side, brought to the city by ancient aqueducts. Technology two thousand years old is still in operation, planned obsolescence a shameful invention of the future. I have been guilty of condescension in thinking <i>my, those Romans</i> <i>were advanced</i>, as if theirs was a primitive civilization that managed to exceed contemporary expectations. It is unnerving to consider the modernity of ancient Rome and the factors, increasingly frequent in today’s news, that led to its demise. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnrSntvptuqGSQx93M9o7g2JY6L80gK45BVc80tRwSXuxldFrBk8CRI2a2SaQJqaRGHD__g6dTQV-gPdNo5k6brymSqd-wpr9nbH2ItI_Dnm6JYFqU_HGhp8dl6IUGquO9BneC6bTjaDJ0YOtsiG5iaDllk-m2T37F7R3ZMRFNOB05pqkRlIoGqrkrA/s707/IMG_3159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnrSntvptuqGSQx93M9o7g2JY6L80gK45BVc80tRwSXuxldFrBk8CRI2a2SaQJqaRGHD__g6dTQV-gPdNo5k6brymSqd-wpr9nbH2ItI_Dnm6JYFqU_HGhp8dl6IUGquO9BneC6bTjaDJ0YOtsiG5iaDllk-m2T37F7R3ZMRFNOB05pqkRlIoGqrkrA/s320/IMG_3159.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Three levels below the street, the world of the present hushed above, walking a narrow passage in muted light, I feel the elation of exploration and discovery that so captivated me in my youth. I love this about ruins, about Rome. Almost every construction project stalls when excavation reveals the residue of long-ago lives. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“This is the lasagna that is Rome,” says Professor Filippini. “Layer upon layer upon layer…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span> </p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-39572354622061659472022-11-01T16:30:00.010-07:002022-11-01T16:46:58.053-07:00Part I - Home to the Convent <span face="Calibri, sans-serif">In my teens, I envisioned a career as an archaeologist. I was intrigued by the remnants of civilizations and their revelations about the rise and fall of ancient cultures and beliefs. Tucked in a library cubicle, absorbed in a book illustrated with photographs of faded frescoes and marble monuments, I would lose myself in the past, where all lives had been resolved. In a way, it made me feel safe: history held harsh lessons, but naively, I thought we’d learned them. </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In the fall of 1973, I left behind the ruins pictured in books and flew to Rome to explore them. With Dave and 44 other students, in the midst of a cholera outbreak and with terrorist violence on the horizon, I arrived in Italy to attend Trinity College Rome Campus (TCRC). <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The program was housed in the convent of the Suore Camaldolesi, a walled enclosure on the Aventine Hill. The nuns were cloistered, unseen, but their faith was evident in crucifixes above the beds in every sparely furnished room; an admonishment, no doubt, to discourage anything but sleep in those beds. The crucifix was disconcerting, and so were the sopping towels and wads of wet paper that had once been toilet tissue: bathrooms in the dorm offered sinks, toilets without seats, and shower heads, but no stall. Important to remember: remove dry items before spraying water. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkhf8o1yry2NQodaITgfJ7-QM_79T3Mj6eUO52Uj8qUhDxLMkYwhifp1Nf0N0dwXVZzeegUaVK9h4TbTKDIz4VQ6mqTTq7JDM85dzR8XR8iG1RC7pU0SrA6g23-oR_w3mrUiJ94t-mRxppQoBC_abu6S3fikHojZqBxQT_v_XSgdNVRbsAN5MySrpMw/s707/32c00d54-f41d-4b02-a0fc-1488e23fb5d0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="707" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkhf8o1yry2NQodaITgfJ7-QM_79T3Mj6eUO52Uj8qUhDxLMkYwhifp1Nf0N0dwXVZzeegUaVK9h4TbTKDIz4VQ6mqTTq7JDM85dzR8XR8iG1RC7pU0SrA6g23-oR_w3mrUiJ94t-mRxppQoBC_abu6S3fikHojZqBxQT_v_XSgdNVRbsAN5MySrpMw/s320/32c00d54-f41d-4b02-a0fc-1488e23fb5d0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My second-floor room overlooked a courtyard bordered in a U-configuration by the dorm, a classroom, and a wall, the dividing line between the school and the grounds of the convent. Palm tree fronds, rose-tinted stucco, and the red-tiled roof of the nuns’ living quarters were visible, but, for the most part, the land beyond the wall was as mysterious as the lives of the women who had chosen that seclusion. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We were given some cautions early on. While it was hoped the crucifixes would keep the American boys in line, we girls were drilled in saying <i>Lasciami stare,</i> or “Leave me be,” to deter aggressive Italian men. And, while we’d been required to have a battery of vaccinations before departure, we were warned not to eat seafood due to cholera concerns. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ah, the food. I was raised on basic ‘50’s American fare – hamburgers, meat loaf, Minute rice, potatoes, canned Le Sueur vegetables, and Cheerios or Captain Crunch for breakfast. My mother’s recipe for spaghetti sauce was browned ground beef with a can of tomato paste stirred into the drippings. It was yummy, but the meals at the convent were… what? How to adequately describe the leap in my gustatory experience from meat loaf to the divinely-inspired bacon and cheese blend in pasta carbonara? The fresh smell of summer in basil pesto? The richness of risotto infused with the earthy flavor of mushrooms? And at breakfast, a crusty roll laden with chocolate Nutella scooped from a great vat. I figured, who knows when I’ll get food like this again? I consumed seconds and thirds… and gained ten pounds. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT6gz7EoSxmLD8k_QUZRjN9TpmFME4qlEaY5d5Nb8zTBbOt3vJ72-e1uWqTbyvEmMt1BYd_150LR3eBuvZEVzWI3SguD0-VCwzO2x6P8N6qGndy6Q7aBHJ1JV22Hke4xaPCI6Q6Q3szn-YE_mrSCCx4KLolqqRE-5bhAcIZ3T_AP9aJk82t24ajFZnQ/s707/IMG_8168%20Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="427" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT6gz7EoSxmLD8k_QUZRjN9TpmFME4qlEaY5d5Nb8zTBbOt3vJ72-e1uWqTbyvEmMt1BYd_150LR3eBuvZEVzWI3SguD0-VCwzO2x6P8N6qGndy6Q7aBHJ1JV22Hke4xaPCI6Q6Q3szn-YE_mrSCCx4KLolqqRE-5bhAcIZ3T_AP9aJk82t24ajFZnQ/w161-h267/IMG_8168%20Copy.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Eventually, a group of us pried ourselves away from the convent to try dinner at a restaurant. Few spoke Italian, and while most menus in 2022 include English translations, that was not the case in ’73. We’d learned the phrase for “what is this?” and when Dave pointed to an item, fegatini di pollo, and asked, “Cos’é questo,” the server thumped his chest with both hands and clucked. Okay. Chicken breast. Sounds good. Frank, Dave’s roommate at Trinity, took a chance and ordered “Fritto Misto di Mare.” I played it safe and ordered lasagna. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Such a good choice. My dish was set before me, a vision of delicate pasta layered with creamy pink tomato sauce and just the right amount of cheese. Dave looked suspiciously at his plate. Hm. Apparently “fegatini” meant livers, with a few hearts and kidneys thrown in. And Frank’s? A generous portion of fried seafood. There was momentary silence at the table and then a burst of laughter as, Cholera be damned, Frank shrugged and took a bite. Well, if he was going down, we all would, and each of us reached over and speared a forkful. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The first weeks of the program were a giddy blur of exhaustion and excitement as we explored our surroundings. The Colosseum and Forum were within walking distance, and just down the hill, where chariots once raced, the boys played football in the Circus Maximus. We sampled billowy gelato, plenty of wine, and decided American pizza didn’t come close to the original. We visited catacombs, museums, and the Capuchin chapels decorated with the bones of 4000 monks. We stood in awe before Michelangelo’s Pieta in Saint Peter’s. Together, we experienced art, the sacred, the ancient, and the new: the wonder of a world opened through travel. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This September, almost 50 years later, 17 of us, some accompanied by spouses and adult kids, returned to Rome and the convent. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> * * *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In 1973, Umberto Todini, introduced us to the work of directors Frederico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, and Roberto Rosellini and the brooding power of Italian Neo-Realismo films. In 2019, our former professor traveled from Rome to Rhode Island to join us for a reunion among friend Lise’s artful gardens, fountains, and driftwood sculptures. It was there he insisted, “Next time, you must come to Rome!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Everyone agreed it was a great idea, but really, what were the odds? Yet, in 2020, initial plans were made, and then, Covid changed everything. So, there was a sense of the surreal as we gathered last month at La Panella, Umberto’s favorite restaurant, in Rome. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Allowing for changes in hair color and a few lines about the face, we all looked the same… didn’t we? Some had remained close, but for others, half a century had passed since we’d scrambled the dark corridors of the Mithraeum, marveled at the Monks’ bones of the Capuchin Monastery, harvested grapes, and dodged persistent Italian boys together. All those twenty-year old kids united again in Rome. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7IZ6qHG_WtGdymSjqNOHojthBjdMwvH7OfnW3JC7AukUdcr8D_w8t4hA9d5wKZZUQ1q6sC1SqPJ78M0kfhnGvPA_oOFnW536sVdZGpnee1hgZAH_pK8RbCC1P4NAJsKOEM29nwchdTrPPt5OZoKdojF3nS18V7kI0l9Q25Bw38L8De2cBzB009ixqw/s1072/IMG_9207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="1072" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7IZ6qHG_WtGdymSjqNOHojthBjdMwvH7OfnW3JC7AukUdcr8D_w8t4hA9d5wKZZUQ1q6sC1SqPJ78M0kfhnGvPA_oOFnW536sVdZGpnee1hgZAH_pK8RbCC1P4NAJsKOEM29nwchdTrPPt5OZoKdojF3nS18V7kI0l9Q25Bw38L8De2cBzB009ixqw/s320/IMG_9207.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As Umberto voiced in his welcome, “The fact that we are here means something by itself: memories, connections, fidelity to the experience, and the desire for knowledge… and for Rome.” He used the word “revival” rather than reunion, and as conversation buzzed around the table over beautiful bread baskets, wine, and canapés, indeed, the word applied. Nicknames from ‘73 resurfaced: Romala, FaPoco, Donovano, Francobolli, Bartolemeo, and Davido, and in the days that followed, we revived, as well, our roles as students and co-adventurers.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0pjMQv2hAs5N2Huvyp0hJx8nulRgQQty7nuw2noVAfzG8oiCZOiOtuOrFYcaA3y0Ap8WyNEob9o7xv5-KtPV3quRSj8m1QrIT4CPkGJWGDlOJbyOI-jQVWsYtodbs_H4NAJqN2GGN-9co0sHP5zdSl23Agv9l8kN1w-FfDlEne4ShtnSpave40iWCqg/s1040/4b043c1e-ebe4-43de-b927-6ee6d75f3165.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="1040" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0pjMQv2hAs5N2Huvyp0hJx8nulRgQQty7nuw2noVAfzG8oiCZOiOtuOrFYcaA3y0Ap8WyNEob9o7xv5-KtPV3quRSj8m1QrIT4CPkGJWGDlOJbyOI-jQVWsYtodbs_H4NAJqN2GGN-9co0sHP5zdSl23Agv9l8kN1w-FfDlEne4ShtnSpave40iWCqg/s320/4b043c1e-ebe4-43de-b927-6ee6d75f3165.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The following evening, at the invitation of Stephen Marth, the program’s director, we returned to the convent to join current students and staff for a panel, reception, and tour. “<i>That </i>will be quick,” I thought as I recalled our small campus. But in the years intervening, by papal decree, the religious orders had been required to increase their accessibility, and the terrain beyond the convent wall, formerly forbidden, was ours to meander. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W-xD97BMuCBX_EbVxY7J3D-0u2yDGvAoSmmxvKXRkx0NWxzKacWlb-A10Qw5uZlt6Wz7pAvW_Z53ZfxQVrpKvygJAI_xTUiLSWq2a1hBkGUs0ah30pMY6psWzvGHUAIGYrTnKuWpj0WI3Djb4RkOVNkcrdXA4bsj6-dOJfX8IDuReNGSKhzR7J8oiQ/s707/IMG_8173.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W-xD97BMuCBX_EbVxY7J3D-0u2yDGvAoSmmxvKXRkx0NWxzKacWlb-A10Qw5uZlt6Wz7pAvW_Z53ZfxQVrpKvygJAI_xTUiLSWq2a1hBkGUs0ah30pMY6psWzvGHUAIGYrTnKuWpj0WI3Djb4RkOVNkcrdXA4bsj6-dOJfX8IDuReNGSKhzR7J8oiQ/s320/IMG_8173.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNwiV2rotuQ-DEYpGOxUQF2Erg0X2t5E9Wr0izewJFQBbeDMzVv6rsQCr6lMl6Lk6BW4AHG9SrdcN_7TgJNLu_YvhAz_1TE8DVqT10NdvQ8SRO-IFe8LYCAsHzDRHXSVuPAwQzC2taCXRoJuE6kndU0QO_o6RCenfnKcwmT5i1tZniOnyDUkJ5-gc7Q/s943/IMG_8185.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNwiV2rotuQ-DEYpGOxUQF2Erg0X2t5E9Wr0izewJFQBbeDMzVv6rsQCr6lMl6Lk6BW4AHG9SrdcN_7TgJNLu_YvhAz_1TE8DVqT10NdvQ8SRO-IFe8LYCAsHzDRHXSVuPAwQzC2taCXRoJuE6kndU0QO_o6RCenfnKcwmT5i1tZniOnyDUkJ5-gc7Q/s320/IMG_8185.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As we strolled past gardens and gnarled trees beneath a trellis laden with vines heavy with fruit, we learned that one of the former nuns had been a student at Yale before choosing forty years here in solitude. What had happened to drive her into hiding? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">What a contrast to the convent’s role in <i>opening</i> the world to us, the students of 1973<i>. </i>And how different had been our limited life experiences from the kids studying here now. Dave had never been on a plane before our trip to Rome, and most of us had never been overseas. Our communications with home were sporadic, written on wispy blue aerograms – in pen, by hand! - and sent by Vatican mail, facts old-fashioned and alien to the students of ‘22, with their cell phones and prior travels.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was a jolt to realize that youthful as we felt ourselves to be, we could be these kids’ grandparents. So much for thinking we hadn’t changed! And as we have, so has the world. Dave mused about the course of a hundred years: in the half century before 1973, <i>our </i>parents and grandparents lived through the Great Depression and a world tragically well-versed in war and dictatorship. In the fifty years since, technology has transformed life, and with the warning voices of a generation traumatized by WW II waning, the danger of Fascism has risen again. What will be the reminiscences of the students of TCRC 2022 when they return to Rome for a reunion in 2072? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">To be continued… <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlslJFc-Pw1mkVR3C1rsiBcpgKYEed_DguP92S3UAQ2vBq_fa5PRYBoAeCTQL3BDImKiE4UjSsM6EayfzJ_Aiae9xOe8aLdEMpEoxRETnkWJZBQ3LRC3oS8QAxDFk-GzDRsj-N170rWau3HR6LSnteL5iLkfFHBp0e-oAYe-HKfHXooQqZp_flrfSA-Q/s924/IMG_9989.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="924" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlslJFc-Pw1mkVR3C1rsiBcpgKYEed_DguP92S3UAQ2vBq_fa5PRYBoAeCTQL3BDImKiE4UjSsM6EayfzJ_Aiae9xOe8aLdEMpEoxRETnkWJZBQ3LRC3oS8QAxDFk-GzDRsj-N170rWau3HR6LSnteL5iLkfFHBp0e-oAYe-HKfHXooQqZp_flrfSA-Q/w382-h292/IMG_9989.jpg" width="382" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span> </p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-79164589226034817112022-10-16T14:27:00.005-07:002022-10-16T17:23:24.649-07:00Supportive Strangers and Purple Lights<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The night is warm. The press and bustle of the daytime throng has thinned. The massive, majestic hulk of the Pantheon presides over the piazza, its presence a surreal remnant of ancient Rome. At</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Ristorante</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Ritorno al Passat</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i>o</i> – Return to the Past - Alo has welcomed us to the table we have adopted as our own. </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave and I have been in Rome for a week, drawn by a reunion with college friends and our love of this city. On our first night here, we ate dinner at this restaurant, one of the open-air establishments that circle the piazza. Attracted by the friendliness of the owner, Andrea, and the two servers, Camelia and Alo, we have returned for a meal or glass of limoncello every night before heading back to our hotel. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCS3G96pVqX2hsRDBki3rem620RbTqnCPYjCmsvAFmDuxaI5MdfYKC7eShTxsT6mflKZdwhMJOr8Pad8rH0u2zq9eIqYmnTBw2OUOdSSdQb3LBB2GJD2RK-fTvVZBZSKttwuNu80huyyQAPoscA9H5PsFyGt1ZiJFEwPuFqPE6SeClboZ28X3-8Q5GA/s943/IMG_7952.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCS3G96pVqX2hsRDBki3rem620RbTqnCPYjCmsvAFmDuxaI5MdfYKC7eShTxsT6mflKZdwhMJOr8Pad8rH0u2zq9eIqYmnTBw2OUOdSSdQb3LBB2GJD2RK-fTvVZBZSKttwuNu80huyyQAPoscA9H5PsFyGt1ZiJFEwPuFqPE6SeClboZ28X3-8Q5GA/s320/IMG_7952.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Andrea kindly indulges my flawed Italian and speaks slowly, articulating each word so I can understand him. To our amazement, we learned he is a doctor, the director of an assisted living facility as well as part owner of this restaurant. He tells us he and his servers make more money at the restaurant than he does in his day job. It seems the issue of skewed values as reflected in salaries is not unique to the U.S. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Camelia hails from Romania, but like so many servers here, speaks several languages, and her English is perfect. On slow nights, she has told us of her mother’s grace as she fought cancer before passing a year ago. Having not seen her sister since Christmas, Camelia is giddy because Corinna arrives in a few days. “We are all that’s left now. We have only each other.” And soon, they are going to Mykonos for a week.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Camelia has brought us small, stemmed glasses of icy limoncello. I glance at Dave as he leans back in his chair and gazes at the Pantheon, a serene baby-sloth smile on his face. It is an expression I cherish, especially when beamed my way. This evening, it encompasses everything within and around us. The ancient city, re-connection with old friends, the joy of new friends, and the fact that we are here together. The years and months preceding this trip held anxiety and obstacles – travel complications, Covid, creaky knees, world events – and yet, we are <i>here.</i> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A stocky, swarthy man appears at our table and says, “You buy?” With a hopeful grin, he places a stuffed green cactus with bulging eyes on the table. He flips a switch and it begins gyrating to a tinny tune. The perfect souvenir of a trip to Rome! What would Emperor Hadrian, the Pantheon’s builder, make of this absurd creature? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFp0G3wNKI568BmVbaOPL2n2N65Ncp30DbAtsV8k8l1RXIHvktmAbnZLltLIGwU17F9n0oMVDN8MDvr9ftih5EDv8GepylqE7Of-NoP8adtsrlvhI69k6AVZKSClanEALojv5cFOj63jNfgVdLLN7JHw-6s0pZXOFeDwE6cppkv7ghHtRRnUeKOZPRIg/s707/C82CA027-DAD1-4240-9BAC-90D771E69483.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFp0G3wNKI568BmVbaOPL2n2N65Ncp30DbAtsV8k8l1RXIHvktmAbnZLltLIGwU17F9n0oMVDN8MDvr9ftih5EDv8GepylqE7Of-NoP8adtsrlvhI69k6AVZKSClanEALojv5cFOj63jNfgVdLLN7JHw-6s0pZXOFeDwE6cppkv7ghHtRRnUeKOZPRIg/s320/C82CA027-DAD1-4240-9BAC-90D771E69483.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We shake our heads no, not interested. But perhaps we’d like a wiggling cat? A stuffed bull? The vendor makes another pitch and sends the bull hopping across our table. Who would want these weird items? Apparently, the man seated at an adjacent restaurant. We note he has purchased both a bull <i>and </i>a cactus. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Since our sabbatical in 2005, it has been our mantra to let no one be invisible. So, on this occasion, as he always does, Dave asks the vendor where he’s from. Like Alo, the vendor is from Bangladesh, and we ask about his family’s well-being having heard of the floods devastating his country. He shakes his head sorrowfully, says, “Is very bad,” and moves on in search of those who might want a dancing cactus. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave and I are wearing brightly beaded bracelets from another vendor, Ibrahim from Senegal. We’ve encountered him several times, and by now, greet him by name. We have purchased some wooden bowls, crafted, he claims, by his family, and in thanks, he gave us the bracelets. I wonder if they broadcast to all that we are suckers, possible buyers, but no matter, we like the bracelets and the bowls. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The piazza also hosts vendors who sell roses, glittery balloons, and neon UFO’s that sail into the sky, high as the Pantheon’s peaked pediment. What a bizarre, marvelous juxtaposition of the modern against the ancient, and as we follow their path into the darkness, we know Lexi, Paul, and Eleanor, our grandchildren, would love them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Having seen a graying matron about my age purchase and successfully launch a UFO, I approach the vendor and ask the price. “5 euros,” he says. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Hmm. No. Cool as they are, the UFOs are cheap plastic and won’t last long. “3,” I offer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He says, “4.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I stand firm, and for 3 euros, I own a UFO.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The matron is sitting with her family at a table nearby, and she gives me a thumbs up. “You inspired me,” I say. “It looked like your launch went higher than those of the rest of your family.” She nods modestly, and those around the table laugh and agree. Their wine glasses are half full, their plates empty. Life is good. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Try it!” she said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No, I feel self-conscious.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You can do it!” a friendly chorus rings out. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“What’s your name?” asks a handsome young man at the table, and I tell him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Water splashes in the fountain as a marble dolphin sprays a cascade. Utensils clatter as diners at the restaurants enjoy their pasta, aromatic with fresh basil and garlic. Lights cast a shining path across the cobblestones as the matron’s family members call out, “We’re here for you! Go Lea! Go Lea!” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">How can I not? I thread the rubber band around a small hook and adjust the wings of the fragile toy. In the shadow of the Pantheon, to the cheers of strangers, I pull back on a rubber band and launch a tiny, purple, pinpoint of light into the sky. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUZLvHby7drlpPHqS6ULGwk-om4OKQqDNP8c8dkk8OwlXcrxT76oKjETgycDyc278y0Bj3t5hPdpsQZXtjIzdaEBvdY6892cF3u6wPz2J5TY3I5gyGVzMIHnl3N7Tcrxocb-beHFmlh4LUpUxHD6kt5ysm-uO5eDsfwzNBeokA3yZemYzQ4g59qodYA/s707/IMG_7956.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUZLvHby7drlpPHqS6ULGwk-om4OKQqDNP8c8dkk8OwlXcrxT76oKjETgycDyc278y0Bj3t5hPdpsQZXtjIzdaEBvdY6892cF3u6wPz2J5TY3I5gyGVzMIHnl3N7Tcrxocb-beHFmlh4LUpUxHD6kt5ysm-uO5eDsfwzNBeokA3yZemYzQ4g59qodYA/s320/IMG_7956.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span> </p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-778536936726435702022-08-21T09:35:00.006-07:002022-08-21T09:39:02.547-07:00Lady Liberty, the Sylvestros, and the Littles<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Dave’s grandfather, Michael, was a boy when his uncle from Rome came for dinner at the family home in Caserta, Italy. Business was good, the uncle announced, and he needed another street vendor to help sell shirts. From the head of the table, Michael’s father surveyed his children until his gaze fell upon his eight -year-old son. “Take Michael,” he said. “He eats too much.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Perhaps, in part, it was that forced early independence that led Michael, like thousands of Italians in the early 20<sup>th</sup>century, to seek new opportunities in America a decade later. By the time the Statue of Liberty came into view, Michael had met his future wife, Lucia, on board. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Michael and Lucia settled in Worcester where he became a tanner preparing raw cow hides, while Lucia cooked, cleaned, and raised the family. As often happens, their children were staunchly American, and had little interest in the language and culture their parents left behind. However, beyond the barrier of their grandparents’ mystifying inability to speak like normal people, their grandchildren, Dave and Steve, found life at Nanny and Grampa’s house fascinating.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxDM0bf9Me_k07QvqnivV_vjX-f5jWop8rZWlhx9DalhYAZvi5we7NIbbMa19IXYmV9pwjBFR_xeT-VNzdy-ILfWnSFSbVGicysEbZ671X517dwOcap7ffDCBnNVMMGxMOsq8CTxchpaEiePd4Ppqo7z7XbjDcE9JSL90kiganJCseJmvettlBG-dTA/s960/thumbnail-5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="942" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxDM0bf9Me_k07QvqnivV_vjX-f5jWop8rZWlhx9DalhYAZvi5we7NIbbMa19IXYmV9pwjBFR_xeT-VNzdy-ILfWnSFSbVGicysEbZ671X517dwOcap7ffDCBnNVMMGxMOsq8CTxchpaEiePd4Ppqo7z7XbjDcE9JSL90kiganJCseJmvettlBG-dTA/s320/thumbnail-5.jpeg" width="314" /></a></div><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> Michael and Lucia Sylvestro</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There was Grampa’s homemade wine served in jelly jars, shelf upon shelf in the basement of canned vegetables from Uncle Jack’s garden, and Auntie Carmela’s heavenly pasta sprinkled with crumbled nuts. When Rinny, the family dog, brought home an unlucky rabbit, Nanny praised the pup, and served the rabbit for dinner. Nothing was ever wasted, much less perfectly good meat. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqkloQlRRHedX7fb5Oe5mKy7-3jHMlAh59NWeIFXTJWGCoHFmoc_qJdSCCTmUrNI12qLH29qdJsTFgNRxz5g1CKYRx48-SX-sE-y3n4zke7xZyqAtOI8vdk6R9B97wOId4ZfGHuGH-hvW0iRyldZAJk3tJIqIiY8LsGy9IPGKDYSiCroMUxYXnO-u7Q/s911/IMG_2298%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="911" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqkloQlRRHedX7fb5Oe5mKy7-3jHMlAh59NWeIFXTJWGCoHFmoc_qJdSCCTmUrNI12qLH29qdJsTFgNRxz5g1CKYRx48-SX-sE-y3n4zke7xZyqAtOI8vdk6R9B97wOId4ZfGHuGH-hvW0iRyldZAJk3tJIqIiY8LsGy9IPGKDYSiCroMUxYXnO-u7Q/s320/IMG_2298%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Auntie Carmela always told Dave he had the map of Italy all over his face, and when Trinity College offered a semester in Rome, it was a chance to find out. But when we departed in 1973, we flew, never glimpsing the statue that had welcomed Dave’s grandparents. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At age 69, I sheepishly confess, I’d never seen Lady Liberty up close. So, when our son Tucker invited us to join him, his wife Lisa, and our grandchildren Paul (6) and Lexi (3 ¾) on a visit this summer, Dave and I were all over it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Given their ages, it was unlikely the littles would be moved by the statue’s symbolism nor her impact on those escaping persecution and economic hardship as she seemingly rose from the sea in welcome. As yet, Paul and Lexi knew nothing of the Lady’s role in greeting their great-great grandparents, but we hoped the fun of the ferry ride, the whir of helicopters overhead, and a glimpse of massive toes would captivate the kids in ways that heritage, freedom, and opportunity would not. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was sweltering the day of our visit, and we were grateful Lisa had insisted on early morning tickets. For most of our time on the dock, we were shielded by an overhang, but before the ferry was even in sight, crew members waved, shouted, and hustled the prospective passengers, herding us like driven cattle onto the sun-baked dock to await transport. I wondered how similar this discourteous boarding might have been to the start of Michael and Lucia’s journey. They spoke no English, and all that awaited was unknown. What courage to endure the jostle and push, and the lengthy voyage over uncertain seas. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As we waited in the heat for the ferry to pull in, the kids were amazing. They really were. But despite our efforts to distract them with glimpses of ships, seagulls, and a treasure trove of coins tossed into gullies along the docks, Lexi and Paul were wilting. Dave hoisted Lexi onto his shoulders and when he tired, transferred her to Tucker’s. When she was finally set on her feet, she gave up and lay down, not whiney or grumpy, mind you, just ready to rest in the shadow of encircling grownups. True to form, Paul used his time constructively, playing chess on Tucker’s phone. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When the ferry arrived, the staff urged us forward. It was unnerving: the rocking of the boat, the shifting of the gangplank, the press of masked passengers, the unrelenting heat, and the insistent staff. “Keep moving, keep moving. Step up! Step Up!” Again, I imagined Michael and Lucia and all the anxious immigrants like them hoping this gamble <i>was </i>a move forward, a step up. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL5QddIFwysDwO8XK4PStz3AwV02gfOnlC_ARlrwZmqGfqhgJZCVRhrmOZ1jcIuPrYM1Dg-UWggN1TAIQOOFWbEkC7vevLoSKoAri2rwVFzLtvi8rfLCXUkjVhFLv7m9WVOKSJaoqSCY_7yi38GajN7T1MwkL_QR855NdQGA7EgAkIZiMmYvganto7IA/s707/IMG_6610.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL5QddIFwysDwO8XK4PStz3AwV02gfOnlC_ARlrwZmqGfqhgJZCVRhrmOZ1jcIuPrYM1Dg-UWggN1TAIQOOFWbEkC7vevLoSKoAri2rwVFzLtvi8rfLCXUkjVhFLv7m9WVOKSJaoqSCY_7yi38GajN7T1MwkL_QR855NdQGA7EgAkIZiMmYvganto7IA/s320/IMG_6610.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Blessedly, we found seats inside, out of the sun. The trip to the island was quick, and as we drew closer, despite my lifelong citizenship and lack of desperation, my first glimpse of Lady Liberty filled my heart with yearning. Unlike the waves of immigrants arriving at the Statue’s feet from 1886-1914, the pang in my heart grew from the beauty and poignancy of the Statue’s message, and America’s failures to meet her promise of refuge. Thoughts of Japanese internment camps; ships turned back to Nazi Europe; and most recently, caged, weeping children separated from their parents weighed on my mind. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Much as it is my way to sully pleasures with painful reflections, it is the kids’ way to find fun where they can. Soon after docking, we came upon a water system spraying droplets and mist over the brick walkway. A delightful respite on this steamy day! Visitors of every age, size, and color, speaking countless languages, frolicked, giggled, soaked, and took selfies in the sparkling shower of water. True to form, Paul was primarily intrigued by the hose hook-up. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwCp9KXkMAa-LFDKZbZapT9-Z0fqmP5FOR5MQxP0ITzCcpK7qeKAXr5__O9oIyp3BQ092cZ5RcdoOK-sxu56TzKCx-rfv8GrzIrHJ3ctd_SCgUqQZUzjeb4i6335yCtijY_nDuS1Zkyrf6zSSUZFsREvQdnbnAUoeeJ0p74y0u2G-0Sb54nSH2S2axg/s707/IMG_6584.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwCp9KXkMAa-LFDKZbZapT9-Z0fqmP5FOR5MQxP0ITzCcpK7qeKAXr5__O9oIyp3BQ092cZ5RcdoOK-sxu56TzKCx-rfv8GrzIrHJ3ctd_SCgUqQZUzjeb4i6335yCtijY_nDuS1Zkyrf6zSSUZFsREvQdnbnAUoeeJ0p74y0u2G-0Sb54nSH2S2axg/s320/IMG_6584.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whether it was mindfulness of the kids or the aging grandparents, Lisa, wisely, had not purchased tickets for the crown, and opted only for the pedestal. High enough! Dave and Lisa braved the 195 steps while Tucker, Paul, Lexi, and I waited in line for the elevator. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For Edouard de Laboulaye, the end of slavery and America’s Civil war signaled an inspirational turning point with potentially global implications. With sculptor Auguste Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, he set out to shine the light of freedom around the world with a gift to the newly re-United States in the form of this monumental statue. In October, 1886, “Liberty Enlightening the World” was re-assembled on Bedloe Island. As time passed, the statue came to mean something other than enlightenment. Her torch, her face, and the sunburst of her crown were beacons of freedom, signs of arrival in a safe place. Lady Liberty came to symbolize America itself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As it should be, the walkway around the pedestal is surrounded by a wall too high for Paul and Lexi to see beyond. So Tucker and Dave held them aloft while I fluttered about, anxious at mental images of a child going over the side. Better to keep our stay at the pedestal brief, and hustle along to the shelter of the air-conditioned museum.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKYltSYKBN1wQzAi-b4w4Rtjuj1OxKyzI0oHz0mSK9cAwivg0VzmBQU1KhS0c_oBEOtCIHW_bSVA0ANtK5CfBgjr7dDYx3pDPYPcR178ITxVJjcH1FcHUd-FJ4Eez4kVtC858UWFKUQzPxhCC234MEFXoZ5pixTNY7IAjSG00RyqqZCDrtyuqhWkNUg/s943/IMG_6602.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKYltSYKBN1wQzAi-b4w4Rtjuj1OxKyzI0oHz0mSK9cAwivg0VzmBQU1KhS0c_oBEOtCIHW_bSVA0ANtK5CfBgjr7dDYx3pDPYPcR178ITxVJjcH1FcHUd-FJ4Eez4kVtC858UWFKUQzPxhCC234MEFXoZ5pixTNY7IAjSG00RyqqZCDrtyuqhWkNUg/s320/IMG_6602.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Vintage souvenirs and posters, and a variety of artistic interpretations of the statue were on display. While Paul and Lexi were drawn to climb and probe massive models of the Lady’s face and foot, I searched for and found the original bronze plaque bearing Emma Lazarus’s poem. “The New Colossus” echoes the vision that motivated de Laboulaye and Bartholdi: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRATJcU6J9UkZuKUKO8mH7KEQRl_HyDDEXbJyoADp9mIo80_xOjBXtAab9U533O5DaBWhEH8sKV0lvMz_W_BGC5qMuIAC0WksxtTNC33lu3es7y8MxsgRYGwBZfj3se3jIOOeBWJrPkY2ElVFw6a4I3iFvRrHs7pmwycdj2ucqv2fX6QTg0Cnhb803w/s943/IMG_6606.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="943" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRATJcU6J9UkZuKUKO8mH7KEQRl_HyDDEXbJyoADp9mIo80_xOjBXtAab9U533O5DaBWhEH8sKV0lvMz_W_BGC5qMuIAC0WksxtTNC33lu3es7y8MxsgRYGwBZfj3se3jIOOeBWJrPkY2ElVFw6a4I3iFvRrHs7pmwycdj2ucqv2fX6QTg0Cnhb803w/s320/IMG_6606.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuzPIiLMMPp6DiVU3Y6k-2G61UzQPhLlee2ldv2rrhR5r20ebP-SueKcsA_xNBBAnE9FPutCN3hrnor4CJS0VBS0Dcu-uwW5DjWpOey2G8c1Xge4cwvgIXVhoNdWIBU5XvzsdcjuxeEUhpKCqTSF44ZGjLMdxsxCUmJhLrwYNho-WdCQh6M2W1FLl_w/s707/IMG_6611.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuzPIiLMMPp6DiVU3Y6k-2G61UzQPhLlee2ldv2rrhR5r20ebP-SueKcsA_xNBBAnE9FPutCN3hrnor4CJS0VBS0Dcu-uwW5DjWpOey2G8c1Xge4cwvgIXVhoNdWIBU5XvzsdcjuxeEUhpKCqTSF44ZGjLMdxsxCUmJhLrwYNho-WdCQh6M2W1FLl_w/s320/IMG_6611.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOc1SyJ6bAO_4sJjWKMVbOCTpZVmhCZlaOhS_6lYyPq55As1fe0kGrlQqZcdG2e0Jev1zN-0KYOD3MCj5wxXOrBLp1i-WFr2x82DZlaLKLplJJyb4xFvKUjBoPWpOha2au-2ilvcDFalWMwdTzdXxaB4wbD0NdNmAehHtsfyNY7Rj_reY16UamcxPg/s707/IMG_6620.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOc1SyJ6bAO_4sJjWKMVbOCTpZVmhCZlaOhS_6lYyPq55As1fe0kGrlQqZcdG2e0Jev1zN-0KYOD3MCj5wxXOrBLp1i-WFr2x82DZlaLKLplJJyb4xFvKUjBoPWpOha2au-2ilvcDFalWMwdTzdXxaB4wbD0NdNmAehHtsfyNY7Rj_reY16UamcxPg/s320/IMG_6620.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jNifAbsVf6NXlLXrkeUN-eLBsrqW6dkawhiu53m5bZvDN3sFqi05_EuWVI8uvtrcf6Ey96GhRVE2-p_00pgoRFsjxDNJQUwsoeBFMC8-Pi8c3YKbcP32Y-NlL7LmUbkoR-1nY6ObHhTaxM2cC8Zk5InFesXVKMjUQAy70fqHG7TZhwoVUMEQN-eOMg/s707/IMG_6630.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jNifAbsVf6NXlLXrkeUN-eLBsrqW6dkawhiu53m5bZvDN3sFqi05_EuWVI8uvtrcf6Ey96GhRVE2-p_00pgoRFsjxDNJQUwsoeBFMC8-Pi8c3YKbcP32Y-NlL7LmUbkoR-1nY6ObHhTaxM2cC8Zk5InFesXVKMjUQAy70fqHG7TZhwoVUMEQN-eOMg/s320/IMG_6630.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_joxzcodJBjTHmKR6eIPT5albhcgviNpDNT697QPi_kzjbnJFiujOlRq0CQ-1tGvqiT9g5MysOZRJFgFn40MEXiKcPNVggHYZQ55oyELDHJeI59phR1ORYR96NAm0JADAgOK6UUAUW2ts2d3F7fXLthPqHev3DM_WfSXh_rit3Egt5Qx8YQD-45rwg/s707/IMG_6642.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_joxzcodJBjTHmKR6eIPT5albhcgviNpDNT697QPi_kzjbnJFiujOlRq0CQ-1tGvqiT9g5MysOZRJFgFn40MEXiKcPNVggHYZQ55oyELDHJeI59phR1ORYR96NAm0JADAgOK6UUAUW2ts2d3F7fXLthPqHev3DM_WfSXh_rit3Egt5Qx8YQD-45rwg/s320/IMG_6642.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For our littles, and perhaps their adults as well, <i>sitting </i>was our current goal. Three darkened theaters, thoughtfully carpeted, offered the refuge <i>we</i> needed. Lexi sat in my lap and Paul snuggled with Tucker as we sat on the floor. Churning waves rolled across the screen as an audience of immigrants’ descendants listened to the story of the Statue of Liberty and her role in the lives of their ancestors. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisj70zRpwV99YISRy4EBkGJWELT02sPWWrAhJTPuraoEkuFwyPlGTTN702pSzdXNobtp2K1R0c8wNeORsw_o6bLq-WW_p5_VNexnKBHj9WyqKyTrF-j4lWUbiebpa7sTg_GWZ13U2qMRxROUJU-FJu-Z3HG-vLqUb-0wcrhLqBC_kCbPk-P9wVjCb_gg/s707/IMG_1521.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisj70zRpwV99YISRy4EBkGJWELT02sPWWrAhJTPuraoEkuFwyPlGTTN702pSzdXNobtp2K1R0c8wNeORsw_o6bLq-WW_p5_VNexnKBHj9WyqKyTrF-j4lWUbiebpa7sTg_GWZ13U2qMRxROUJU-FJu-Z3HG-vLqUb-0wcrhLqBC_kCbPk-P9wVjCb_gg/s320/IMG_1521.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-90311500493382221222022-07-11T15:40:00.000-07:002022-07-11T15:40:03.395-07:00My Grandfather's Choice<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In the early 1930’s, my grandmother was in labor, but something was wrong. A doctor came to my grandfather who was in the waiting room and asked, “Do you want to save the mother or the child?” Shocked by the question and terrified at the specter of losing his wife, my grandfather, Poppy, said, “The mother, of course!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The loss of this lovingly-awaited child in the second trimester was wrenching, as are all late term losses, but how much worse would have been the death of my grandmother for Poppy and my uncle, then a toddler. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My mother, the result of a later, successful pregnancy, told me this story. She would not have been here to do so had Poppy made another choice or not been given a choice. I would not be here either. Nor would my two sisters, their sons, my children, and three grandchildren. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ronna McDaniel, chair of the RNC crowed “Life wins!” at the overturn of Roe v. Wade. Another GOP leader spoke in glowing terms of family trees now free to flower with the babies that otherwise might have been lost to abortion. In my family, but for the termination of a pregnancy, the branch occupied by ten cherished people would not have sprouted. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">30-year-old Izabela Sajbor of Poland was excited about having a sibling for her daughter. When, at 14 weeks, the fetus was discovered to have severe abnormalities and would not likely survive, the family was heartbroken. That Izabela was made to carry it to term was torment. But at 22 weeks, she was admitted to the hospital because her water broke prematurely. She wound up developing a fever and convulsing, but due to Poland’s restrictive abortion laws, the doctors were more concerned about the continued fetal heartbeat than the woman slipping away before them. By the time the baby’s heartbeat stopped, septic shock had set in. It was too late to save Izabela. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The Conservatives touting Roe’s demise as a victory for life are choosing, yet again, to ignore history and the deaths that preceded the ruling, as well as the deaths that will surely follow. Beyond criminal sentencing for those seeking abortion, the states howling “No exceptions!” are sentencing women with ectopic pregnancies and women with botched abortions to death. They are sentencing rape and incest victims to compounded trauma. Celebrants of the evisceration of women’s rights over those of a fetus are also of the party that obstructs social programs to help the vulnerable women and children unwanted pregnancies will most affect. The “victors” are all about birth, but then they wash their hands. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Frantic at the removal of a fetus, but inadequately moved by the deaths of schoolchildren, these self-proclaimed pro-life advocates are the same people who turn bellicose in defending the right to own and brandish – thanks again, Supreme Court - murderous weapons. As grieving families bury their loved ones, the hypocrites turn away and vote no. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Life wins”? Not so. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-44989012091081188542022-06-30T18:31:00.007-07:002022-07-01T11:45:34.560-07:00Casey and Karis<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Casey and I should be sitting at a gate at JFK waiting for the announcement of our Air France flight. We should be imagining strolls down the streets of Paris anticipating dinner, good wine, and baguettes. We should be picturing ourselves in the sunshine in Nice, beaming as our Karis marries Dmitry. We should be visualizing the reception and dancing barefoot, pausing only to hug Karis and eat cake.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Hotel reservations and flights were nailed down a month ago. We updated our passports, applied for TSA Pre-Check, and indulged in a T.J. Maxx shopping extravaganza – the first, we realized, since the search for Casey’s wedding dress. Like any good mama bear, Casey has worried about leaving three-year-old Eleanor, but this would be a special time for the two of us, and Karis is a special friend.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7L2QAeXXz85cYtxEwGzvqpIcd1tj9cdaoF2XEQfn6L2lSdCKE21kcfW8QJPCw-dkpZED4QW56Ase1x-jbzQra9iP5xf5rmWgpGjOZDU8YTC4sAU7Sy5xfafg0P7Eqx7Os6LZubuup3-igo_Njg4H5rvQNMklti4jVKWTsgtgR8lGqGAsfTON4pE9Xw/s959/Attachment-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="959" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7L2QAeXXz85cYtxEwGzvqpIcd1tj9cdaoF2XEQfn6L2lSdCKE21kcfW8QJPCw-dkpZED4QW56Ase1x-jbzQra9iP5xf5rmWgpGjOZDU8YTC4sAU7Sy5xfafg0P7Eqx7Os6LZubuup3-igo_Njg4H5rvQNMklti4jVKWTsgtgR8lGqGAsfTON4pE9Xw/s320/Attachment-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8dnHHSphPWYurQRrn3E9GDMIWviQfBbcnRtyM6n5863ODzuWjHsbfmibAQ3v3PfKWTFHjDzLM8pX8p4QcpmNJajS7TF5-Ia38QOqoM83_uW631Dgp0GOgovDkC7P79sfa3BJ028xm7jLQ4OO4olm_1o4zYuahoP9ag51Lh0sIganKGmh7QXrCTQvgQ/s921/Attachment-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="921" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8dnHHSphPWYurQRrn3E9GDMIWviQfBbcnRtyM6n5863ODzuWjHsbfmibAQ3v3PfKWTFHjDzLM8pX8p4QcpmNJajS7TF5-Ia38QOqoM83_uW631Dgp0GOgovDkC7P79sfa3BJ028xm7jLQ4OO4olm_1o4zYuahoP9ag51Lh0sIganKGmh7QXrCTQvgQ/s320/Attachment-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The girls met in New York in 2007. Karis was training to become a Pilates instructor and needed a body on which to practice. Casey filled in as the body. They became close friends and roommates, and in 2011, to the horror of both girls’ parents, they decided to head to South-East Asia for a 4-month back-packing adventure. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Their destinations were terrifying for those who came of age during the sixties: Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos among them. For us, these names conjured napalm clouds, perilous jungles, guerrilla warfare, and exotic diseases. For Karis and Casey, only one of those words, <i>exotic</i>, applied.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Casey was 28, so it was not up to us, but what a leap of fearful faith it was to let our daughter go! Plus, things were a little shaky right from the start: while heading out the door to meet Karis and her father at JFK, I said, “Case, are you sure that’s the right airport?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“<i>Really</i>, Mom? Well, <i>yes</i>. But now you’ve made me nervous.” She called Karis who was already in the car, on her way… to Newark. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Throughout the four months of their trip, Casey posted pictures and a blog. She and Karis were the heroines of the story, and Dave and I couldn’t wait to read every installment. Hiking the Great Wall of China. Cruising the Mekong River with a sketchy crew. Sampling crickets in markets. Wading through rivers on elephants. There were alarming tales, too, which, thank heavens, we learned long after they happened: an inebriated night ride tubing down a river, a terrible case of food poisoning, and two robberies.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIKxpRDlO3LF5_xUuU6PD9DGSbWmEjX-zFQWG2-uer_Ev88ivMbR1NHqGSnAsujePLvSn8OcWespUxl2vp76H9mLjn8zAI0BaesXCveokm-tWOj8JjE60Qngqec5tA4h4q6Mlx79lMsRC_uYu9WTUhDHRV7d4eO6WM9XDMI4Qcn_x1VRKPoTcOIstlA/s600/i-bRgSQZ6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIKxpRDlO3LF5_xUuU6PD9DGSbWmEjX-zFQWG2-uer_Ev88ivMbR1NHqGSnAsujePLvSn8OcWespUxl2vp76H9mLjn8zAI0BaesXCveokm-tWOj8JjE60Qngqec5tA4h4q6Mlx79lMsRC_uYu9WTUhDHRV7d4eO6WM9XDMI4Qcn_x1VRKPoTcOIstlA/s320/i-bRgSQZ6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr1zJZn4SEUgOQZkXQe7qcGSkHetkD4IjEZQ1WMPmEGogUApt0vQ_Di9IOv1_sxRzil6kgD0bYhUUVyoPrzM2EyEaCAj-oUDNrWS3-WHHLhEwRv0fzN3rGbwqKOaJgqynuIM0h2mLd6EJLLPTgzqUFHrCnLa2hc-aAE9GnsAbmFSantDLVBbBWtdZKg/s450/i-PfXxKPS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="338" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr1zJZn4SEUgOQZkXQe7qcGSkHetkD4IjEZQ1WMPmEGogUApt0vQ_Di9IOv1_sxRzil6kgD0bYhUUVyoPrzM2EyEaCAj-oUDNrWS3-WHHLhEwRv0fzN3rGbwqKOaJgqynuIM0h2mLd6EJLLPTgzqUFHrCnLa2hc-aAE9GnsAbmFSantDLVBbBWtdZKg/s320/i-PfXxKPS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was agony to think they were half a world away, so, with their permission, Dave and I joined them in Thailand. As we rode elephants, caressed tigers, bathed in waterfalls, and hiked jungle paths with them, we, too, came to love adorable Karis. And now, 11 years later, Casey and I were going to France to revel in the happiness of her wedding. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ReYirHEtyopi63Wu6NdjJoJOlycx_s7-sRVsBpUnpP4jLQ975Ub68hRsoNTzQcMd13CFfIgQQe1zGHB8JFdCHweyZwGwHL9Mp40B1ODZITqbHJAmn8CG0GzUBpERxh57cRhWB1hIf6RWr7yVR3epxm8J5PnaRqQwjAlxQ985uCStZk6HN9r0KSt7fg/s600/i-zmkvndQ.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ReYirHEtyopi63Wu6NdjJoJOlycx_s7-sRVsBpUnpP4jLQ975Ub68hRsoNTzQcMd13CFfIgQQe1zGHB8JFdCHweyZwGwHL9Mp40B1ODZITqbHJAmn8CG0GzUBpERxh57cRhWB1hIf6RWr7yVR3epxm8J5PnaRqQwjAlxQ985uCStZk6HN9r0KSt7fg/s320/i-zmkvndQ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But the telephone rang at 7:30 this morning. Casey and Eleanor both tested positive for Covid, and PJ, Casey’s husband, didn’t feel well either. We couldn’t go. It was out of our hands.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As the day wore on, more signs emerged. Little Eleanor told PJ she’d dreamed of “a big airplane filled with water,” and spiked a fever of 103.9. Casey sent a picture of her sick little one asleep on the couch with the message, "This is the reason we're not going." My sister-in-law called and mentioned a minor collision the week before between two planes at JFK: one Alitalia, the other, Air France. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but now…” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcMqIeNa7h3EtAGMWC6kkEIXT5wRq71NaX9W70RmPOjVI-8VRgKWEyXi0tDwE1EUtNq8TzMVQa83HpcsU7RSpkCwOtlH69a9c0YBUR--dtEaGnrfcWYq7eJdWqM14OVg-H2a00R-daaYbP2lAPxAd-Tmloe3r5SbnCyH6RtwzK9JeNu7QhIJnzBTPmQ/s707/Attachment-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcMqIeNa7h3EtAGMWC6kkEIXT5wRq71NaX9W70RmPOjVI-8VRgKWEyXi0tDwE1EUtNq8TzMVQa83HpcsU7RSpkCwOtlH69a9c0YBUR--dtEaGnrfcWYq7eJdWqM14OVg-H2a00R-daaYbP2lAPxAd-Tmloe3r5SbnCyH6RtwzK9JeNu7QhIJnzBTPmQ/s320/Attachment-3.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As painful as this was, it was not meant to be, and we’ve tried to focus on the nightmare involved had we been in flight or in France when Casey and Eleanor became sick. Covid has taught us to make plans, but have no expectations, so we’ve been resigned, even grateful, that Covid cropped up before we took off. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But our beloved Karis is getting married, and we won’t be there with her. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uB1KFfhvKFBsp2KkzgJbIX5jNID2A5apRWEa3zy5aOpU4xWoJHFIvGOyMWlTlAYWBKr-WFlGaKnfEM1_ZKS0HxF4BIvrcQbqogwKHOVdiGKAo9H8lj9hCn7FF0mBybOjakkDnvMXOCdhr1_ZsfmOFm-S6_Nb-m8UPTL6j1zJMa8WukG5Nqculak_ig/s768/i-vL8JFSm-XL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uB1KFfhvKFBsp2KkzgJbIX5jNID2A5apRWEa3zy5aOpU4xWoJHFIvGOyMWlTlAYWBKr-WFlGaKnfEM1_ZKS0HxF4BIvrcQbqogwKHOVdiGKAo9H8lj9hCn7FF0mBybOjakkDnvMXOCdhr1_ZsfmOFm-S6_Nb-m8UPTL6j1zJMa8WukG5Nqculak_ig/s320/i-vL8JFSm-XL.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span> </p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5700567856433724150.post-42982092619702279742022-06-07T13:58:00.002-07:002022-06-07T16:33:51.576-07:00Lacking Conscience or Courage, What Toll?<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">My son, Tucker, appeared at the door of the bedroom where I’d snuggled him in for a nap but minutes before. He was three years old, and we were visiting a friend for the day. Clearly unnerved, he said, “There’s a gun in there.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I scooped him up and entered the room. A rifle was in the corner, leaning against the wall. How had I missed it? The gun was removed, and I lay down with my boy until he drifted off to sleep.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Not long before Tucker was born, one of my students died in a gun accident. He was thirteen, a bright kid, funny, kind, and promising. Having spent two years at a school for children with learning disabilities, he’d been accepted at a competitive, traditional school and was eager to commit to that challenge. Instead, he died. While playing with a gun, a friend of his shot him by mistake. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In the aftermath of that loss, I raised my children to have a gun aversion borne of my own. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In 2012, twenty children and the six adults striving to save them were shot at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a troubled young man with an AR-15. Dave and I live two towns away, and sometimes it’s a struggle to ban from my mind images of the carnage faced by first responders at Sandy Hook. And now, Uvalde. It stills my soul to think of the unfathomable grief of the victims' parents and loved ones. How does one live with such pain? Joe Garcia, husband of murdered Robb Elementary School teacher Irma Garcia, could not. He died of a heart attack the day after the shooting, leaving their four children orphaned. The ripples of tragedy fan wide, anger and sorrow sweeping parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, friends, neighbors… and those of us, far removed, who mourn for them. What will be the toll of this recurring trauma? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Mental health in America is a serious issue, but it is guns that are doing the killing. It is assault weapons that are slaughtering children, shoppers, and church-goers. Those who bellow, “You can take my gun only from my cold, dead hands” seem to think their rights, based on a willful application of an amendment written in the 18<sup>th</sup> century for militia men and musket owners, supersede those of the swelling ranks of deceased, injured, and bereaved.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">They are wrong, but for now, it seems Karma alone will settle these countless scores. Life-saving laws have idled for years as Congressional Republicans, absent conscience or courage, worry more about re-election than murdered children. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Since the Columbine High School shooting in 1999, 2000 Americans have been killed or wounded in mass shootings, and that does not include the thousands of individual gun deaths and suicides. As 50 Senators block H.R. 8, the Bi-Partisan Background Checks Act of 2021, the murders continue as Americans approach outings with wariness, and parents, fearfully, send their kids to school. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p>Leahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14658809113061483872noreply@blogger.com10