tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16608341518335377192024-03-14T02:09:59.704-07:00Walk Along the WayUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-77068432314963377372015-10-06T13:02:00.002-07:002015-10-06T13:15:03.104-07:00Stories and the Story<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This weekend I got to attend WOTS the Write on the Sound writers' conference in Edmonds. Something I love about conferences is the hashing apart and analysis of plot, structure and character. <i>What is the conflict in the story you are writing?</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At one workshop I attended the presenter listed five basic possible conflicts found in literature -- man versus man, man versus society, man versus himself, man versus nature and man versus technology. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At another workshop I attended a few years ago, these same conflicts showed up but that presenter also listed man versus God. But my favorite summary remains one I heard at that same conference: that all plots boil down to some variation of Girl Grows Up or Stranger Comes to Town. And when I stopped and analyzed my favorite books, I realized how true this was -- even if simplified. Scarlett O'Hara, Dorothy, Jane Eyre, Lucy Pevensie, Anne of Green Gables? Girl Grows Up. The Hobbit, Treasure Island, Pride and Prejudice? Stranger Comes to Town. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For years I've said that all stories are telling part of the One Story. So this weekend when I was thinking again about stories and the Girl Grows Up or Stranger Comes to Town model, I realized something. The history of the world - from creation to the fall and its aftermath - is the story of Girl Grows Up. Girl - creation - lost her innocence, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">became aware,</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">got into a predicament. And the story from the coming of Jesus until now is Stranger Comes to Town. Jesus shows up on stage, completely unlike anyone we've ever met before and now all the rules are about to change...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In essence, Stranger Came to Town because Girl Grew Up. It <i>is </i>all One Story.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-44781257791044812542014-07-20T16:57:00.000-07:002014-07-20T16:57:49.624-07:00Daddy's ShouldersYesterday in front of the library, I slowed down for a young family crossing the street. A dad, a small child and a mama. The toddler boy was up on his father's shoulders and as they crossed the roadway, his daddy held onto the boys' legs and bounced him wildly. The little boy was squealing with delight even while holding onto his daddy's head for dear life, up and down, up and down -- his face displaying simultaneous joy and terror as they covered territory.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me to wonder in how many of life circumstances do I look like that little boy. God has got a secure grip on me, and I know it. Sort of. I think. Up and down I go on the voyage of life; I'm terrified, I'm delighted. Do I look to God like that little boy looked to me? Don't I realize just how firmly He's holding us?<br />
<br />
Most of all, that little boy looked very alive and very in the moment. I hope I look that alive, squealing with delight about what My Father has done. I suppose I need to cling to Him all the more, and enjoy the ride.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-84042207839041890012014-05-02T17:49:00.002-07:002014-05-02T17:53:06.722-07:00In Pursuit of Light EnoughIn my second to last post, from only...say...six months ago. I wrote about stuff and the need to keep it light enough to travel. My mantra today is: Stay Light Enough to Travel and to Be a Blessing to Others. This is not as easy as it sounds.<br />
<br />
Since that post a number of significant things have happened. My mama did die, just a few weeks after the last blog post. That merits a series of blog posts in itself, and I kept writing them in my head, but time to sit and write was fleeting. Maybe they will stay there and ferment for awhile and then appear. My husband also got a job, which is rather life changing in a good kind of way -- Hooray income! And we also bought a new house and moved into it. With our stuff. And the stuff we shipped from Switzerland. And the stuff that waited patiently in our storage unit for three and a half years. It was fun to open boxes not sure which group this stuff would be from, find homes for things and then to see our old stuff sitting right next to our new old stuff. I was quite pleased to see how well it all blended -- like maybe I have an intrinsic decorating style after all!<br />
<br />
But still I thought often...Why did we keep all this stuff? For some things there's a good reason. I kept the crib my babies all slept in in hopes that one day I'll have a grandchild who can sleep in it and I can tell them stories of their mother or father. Other things I kept but in three years kids grow up. The toys that you play with when you are four aren't the same ones you play with when you are eight. Except for Duplos of course. We have a huuuuuge box full, and nothing one might say can convince the Papa that we shouldn't keep those for the grandchildren, too. So I kept thinking, well, in this large house that God has given us for now, there's room enough to get it all out and see what we're dealing with and then we can sort and move along.<br />
<br />
And then we added Grandma's stuff. Brother and his wife had been keeping it for the time being, but now they are preparing for a remodel. And we have the space. Woe betide those who have the space! So we have lots of boxes of rather vague contents. Lots of old family photographs and yearbooks. Some lovely old books. Lots of not lovely books. Family heirlooms and knick-knacks. Business correspondence from my great grandfather, the patriarch who got his entire family to move out from Vermont and set them up homesteading out in the San Juan Islands.<br />
<br />
Some of it is quite interesting, and I keep wondering if the germs for another novel are hidden there somewhere. I'm sure they are, but I also wonder, is that the novel I want to write? I'm not sure. Maybe I want to clear out this space in my storage room and in my head so I can finish and sell the novel I have written. Again, it's that feeling of gratitude just riding the edge of feeling bogged down by all the family history.<br />
<br />
In one box, there were some letters and papers all neatly tied together with string and with a label in my Grandma Leda's handwriting: "little red table." As they were letters addressed to her mother and given the date, I deduce that when her mother passed away, she tidied up and put those letters, neatly labeled into a box to sort later. Hmmm. As my husband said, "Well, now it's later." I can't help being a little miffed at the two generations before me who could have dealt with this sooner. It's not like I don't have more children than either of them did. What shall I do? I could just rewrap them up with another neatly written label, "From Grandma's Stuff -- to sort later -- like in 2050." But that just doesn't seem like the kindest thing to do if I love my children. And I do.<br />
<br />
So slowly and surely I will try to work my way through. It's hard though. Some things are museum worthy. Many are not. How to tell the difference and how much time to spend on it.<br />
<br />
But this afternoon I did manage to take four boxes to donation. Unless I'm mistaken, nothing museum-worthy there, but possibly real -ife-worthy to an intrepid thrift shopper. And that little accomplishment feels wonderful and makes me ready to sort some more.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-61300938508501890892013-11-27T18:48:00.000-08:002013-11-27T18:51:06.098-08:00Thanksgiving Tree version 2013<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUD9_FFWOf1u0FnUsvH5PpNQDnnn_h1YwmL-MYqw2NIF-ZXM_41QJIcmA27HAIp0bywt94m8GV3UWjEmB8eWkJX5gTFGv8kt2h2fvvlbQsa2NjocX5TbZs2Ak5w6j-8jkTHD_SG45QIc/s640/blogger-image--358640810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUD9_FFWOf1u0FnUsvH5PpNQDnnn_h1YwmL-MYqw2NIF-ZXM_41QJIcmA27HAIp0bywt94m8GV3UWjEmB8eWkJX5gTFGv8kt2h2fvvlbQsa2NjocX5TbZs2Ak5w6j-8jkTHD_SG45QIc/s640/blogger-image--358640810.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think maybe I need to take pictures with a better camera. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Voila, the 2013 version of our Tree of Thankfulness! Isn't it getting fancy? Dear People, long gone are the days of the taped construction paper brown tree with wonky leaves of all sizes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We almost didn't have a Tree of Thankfulness this year, because...to tell the truth...I was tired. And didn't think I could muster the leaves. But this curly-cue tree was one of the few items of decor that somehow wasn't trapped at the back of the storage unit, and it was already on the apartment wall. Because I like trees. Especially curly-cue ones.<br />
<br />
So the tree was already there. We just needed the leaves -- but as I say, I just wasn't sure that this year I could do all that tracing and cutting. Or at least the convincing of my minions to do it. And anyway, I thought, we we're not in our <i>real </i>house. Our apartment doesn't feel like home. One year without this tradition. Maybe it won't really matter. <br />
<br />
But I realized that it does. It does really matter. And when you are in transition -- and transition is one thing we seem to be getting a lot of practice at -- little traditions can really matter. A little tradition can remind you that even though circumstances around you are in a whirlwind, you -- and your family -- are <i>this </i>kind of people, who do <i>this </i>kind of thing. And so our Tree of Thankfulness is a reminder that our family is the kind of people who write little things they are grateful for on leaves through the month of November to remind ourselves of all we've been given.<br />
<br />
And in my opinion a tradition of thankfulness is an extremely important one! Studies have shown (now doesn't that sound official! -- don't ask me which ones) that people who are habitually thankful are generally happier. There is so much complaining all around everywhere. What if we were the people who could find something in every situation about which to be grateful? So the Tree of Thankfulness would have a 2013 incarnation.<br />
<br />
But there was still the problem of the leaves. With six leaves per day times thirty days plus extras for guests and extra thankful people, that adds up to a lot of tracing and cutting! But then...an inspiration. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/EK-Tools-Paper-Punch-Package/dp/B00DN6638G/ref=sr_1_1?s=arts-crafts&ie=UTF8&qid=1385607000&sr=1-1&keywords=leaf+punch" target="_blank">A leaf shaped punch!</a> Why did it take me so long to figure that one out? It arrived like a flash and away we punched and thankful we were. These die-punched leaves aren't enormous, so we can't be super-duper thankful at a time, but we can always be thankful serially. And boy, doesn't it look together? <br />
<br />
I took the picture earlier in the month -- don't worry, it's filled in quite a bit since. And at the end of Thanksgiving weekend we'll take the leaves off and read them one by one before throwing them into the fire. And on the foundation of gratitude we can begin Advent.<br />
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Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!<br />
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-90832264889806171132013-10-30T20:37:00.002-07:002013-10-30T20:37:21.949-07:00Light Enough to Travel<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Over the past few weeks, we've been engaging in the bittersweet
task of moving Grandma out of her apartment. Bitter because of the necessity
for much sorting and in doing so, trying to reconcile with many of her
decisions which while her own -- it was her life -- end up affecting me and
everyone else around her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My mother is
dying. After breaking her hip this summer, her health went into rapid free fall. We realized quickly there was no way she'd live on her own again. So she has stayed the past few months in the lovely facility where she was for rehab after her surgery. Because of her increasing decline and frailty hospice care was recommended several weeks ago. The hospice nurses are great and caring and helpful and the social
worker was very kind and listening on the day all the tears I'd been holding in
since our arrival back in the States started leaking out. And turning into a
dam break and ensuing flood. </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">For the present mom is declining stably. That is my term, and I'm
not sure quite what that means. Just that after weeks of leaving the care
facility wondering if she'd be there the next day, the descent has leveled out
a bit, and I find myself wondering if she won't outlast us all. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So with Grandma settled into her care facility we knew the time was coming to move her things out of her apartment. And in all the hardness, here is the sweet part of the bittersweet: after countless times of moving free-spirited Grandma around, this is the last time. We won't be sorting this stuff again. </span> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Anyway, Brother and I decided early in the month to give
notice for her apartment. Somehow I wasn't sure that was what my Life Change
Stress Level Processors most needed, but let's just deal and get it over with
we said. Okay. The kids are into the rythym of the schoolyear, I thought. I'm
not in a permanent house yet. Okay. We can do this. Yeah. Okay. By faith, We
Can Do This.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So we did. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We didn't try to keep it a secret from our mom, but with her state
of confusion, depending on the day it wasn't clear how much she understood. She
just asked sweetly once if we would be really good about labeling everything.
Yes, okay. Sure.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Other times, when she asked what I'd been doing that morning, I just
couldn't bring myself to say, "Well, I've been throwing all your old
magazines and newspaper clippings into the recycle bin, actually."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Because, you see, my mother was a pack rat, a clutterer, a
hoarder. Not quite ready to go on Oprah but almost. Mom always said it was because she was
raised during the Depression when everything was scarce and you never knew when
you might just need that random little empty plastic bottle. It sounded
reasonable for years until I'd met lots of other people who'd lived through the
Depression and didn't need to save every piece of string or the twist ties from
loaves of bread. And then she inherited all the family stuff her mother had saved
before her. And that my mom couldn’t bear to part with it. Some wonderful
things and a lot of it just junk.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I've heard it said that people who hoard things are unconsciously
trying to make up for a lack of real relationships in their lives. That is a
whole other topic but it does make one ponder. What are people trying to
keep when they keep too much stuff? Is it procrastination? Lack of
organization? Or is there something else going on? When does a family item
become an historical artifact? And just because two previous generations kept
it, does that mean I have to? </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The trouble is, I have the same underlying keeping-things gene
going on. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP614BToO2QIcgnEwjFPw6qziB74a3VzpN7LjGSH8UFiWVZ4zNIBlefvx1-JHLXca1WgCwKimyDV7nGx72sIMAlQK5bZASRvKA28HdZxFwG0kjaGuw_GpheZ_vTXX4Xn6wiuK9rr7LlxE/s1600/IMG_6237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP614BToO2QIcgnEwjFPw6qziB74a3VzpN7LjGSH8UFiWVZ4zNIBlefvx1-JHLXca1WgCwKimyDV7nGx72sIMAlQK5bZASRvKA28HdZxFwG0kjaGuw_GpheZ_vTXX4Xn6wiuK9rr7LlxE/s640/IMG_6237.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandmother (on the right) with her older sister. Grandma, why did you keep so much stuff??</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But I draw the line some places. In my mom’s stuff, I found two
copies of my great grandmother’s will. I believe she died when my mother was a
girl, so….that puts us in the 1940s or early 50s. Odds are good that any questions of
inheritance have been cleared up by now—since two other generations have also
come and nearly gone. Why are we keeping this?? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But now of course, it’s old. And kind of cool. And I am tempted just
to put it back in the box…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But my kids look at me with a kind of wildness behind their eyes: <i>NO, Mama! We ain’t dealing with all that
later on! Do NOT pass it on to us!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So…(sigh)… the buck will stop here. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I think my mom kept a lot of this stuff because her mother – who was
the family historian – kept it. Not necessarily because mom really liked it or
used it. Oh my, no. Most of it just stayed in boxes or Rubbermaid tubs. (My mind has begun working on a short story about some ancestral tea cups…) And I
think my mother always thought she was going to do something big and wonderful
with it all. But she never did, because it wasn’t her dream. It was her mother’s.
And too much of that hanging on to family stuff just because it is family stuff
can make you feel obliged to live in that other person’s life and not live your
own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And now it’s my turn to make decisions about it all. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And you know
what? I want to honor those who have gone before me and have made the effort to
preserve these things and the family history with them. I write this sitting at
my grandmother’s writing desk, probably built around the 1890s, and it's a sweet thing to imagine her sitting here writing her letters to my mother (which I've also found.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But you know what else? I want to live my own life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A little family history can give you ground to stand on. A little
more can tell you something about who you are. And too much can feel like being
buried alive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I want to live my own life. And I want my kids to live their own
lives. And that means parting with some things in order to make room for
others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Several years ago, a friend sang while packing to move, “Gotta keep it
light enough to travel.” When we packed up our house three years ago before our
Swiss adventure, that refrain kept running through my head. I can’t say I’ve
always lived it – we shipped back a container load of an Awful Lot of Stuff. But the refrain is back now.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Now is a new adventure. For the sake of everyone, gonna try to
keep it light enough to travel.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am worried that this post might sound angry or bitter or something. It's really not. And maybe if you've haven't sorted mom's newspaper clippings yourself, it just can't be understood. But here is the real point of the matter: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We gave the keys to mom’s apartment back on Monday. Three days early. I’m grateful that now I get
to spend less time with her stuff and more time with her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-66226191644613484032013-09-30T12:36:00.003-07:002013-09-30T13:36:56.231-07:00Salmon MigrationLast week Zarli and I visited the <a href="http://www.issaquahfish.org/" target="_blank">Salmon Hatchery in Issaquah</a> and were treated with seeing the first returns of this year's Chinook Salmon run. In the video you can see them jumping, but less well visible are the dozens of fish just hanging out in the water below the falls gathering strength for their turn.<br />
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<br />
<br />
We were a little discouraged at the lack of progress for these particular salmon until we got to join a tour and learn about how the hatchery manages the runs in order to promote the best possible conditions for spawning. It's better in the long haul for the salmon to remain in the well oxygenated creek jumping vainly than to go up the hatchery ladder too soon and hang out too long in the less oxygenated tank. It was very interesting and exciting to get splashed by strong salmon hopping up the ladder.<br />
<br />
But being around creatures that struggle so hard to go upstream just to spawn and die makes one philosophical, if one is of a philosophical bent, and it made me think of a poem I wrote a few years ago.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<u><i>Migration<o:p></o:p></i></u></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Falling and golden, the leaves and the light</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>As streaming below, silver streaks, bright. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>The flick of a fin on a red taillight<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>And we swerve to join the flow. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Upstream with the crowd up 405<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>We’re worn and weary but still alive<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Called by instinct, driven by drive<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>To pass on what we know.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>We swam in the deep, in the blue, crazy sea<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Gorging ourselves on modernity<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>When somewhere inside us rang mystery<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>and we knew it was time to go.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>We each find the road that smells of our birth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Of the very first time we swam on earth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Aching to know in the end it was worth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>This arduous journey home.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>At night in our houses, we lie in the sand<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Dreaming of everything else we had planned<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>And dying beginning to understand<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>The delicate seeds we sow.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-82405848441335395172013-05-10T12:56:00.000-07:002013-05-10T12:56:45.405-07:00Lilies and Windows<br />
<br />
Spring was late but it has now finally arrived. The Lily-of-the-Valley flowers - the <i>muguets </i>- are finally showing out of the ground and their tiny bells are turning white. On May Day, when people were out on the French roadsides selling a meagre bouquet for 3 euros, they were like premature babes, snatched from their beds before their time. I was tempted to stop and buy some just for the love of the traditional, but looking at them I knew that they would have no perfume, which is the whole point behind Lilies-of-the-Valley. So I didn't stop. But today, when I went to get the mail, I stooped down to the one that's finally gotten brave enough to bloom despite the chilly weather and was rewarded with the faintest hint of that delicious odor of spring. I was tempted to pick it and bring it inside, my own bouquet, ten days late and 3 euros cheaper, but it seemed kind of unfair. So it's still blooming out there, and I'll stoop to sniff again when I get the mail tomorrow.<br />
<br />
In other news, today we visited the town of Besancon, which has a lovely old town built on an oxbow of the Doubs river, which reportedly was first scoped out as a good spot by Julius Caesar way back when. Then Louis XIV had a massive fort built there to protect the city. The fort now holds a bunch of museums and a small zoo with monkeys galore. The girls visited the museums and the boys and their parents visited the animals. Then on the way back down we saw this:<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">Maybe someday, in my dreamland, I will build a house and it will have a window like this one.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-73441239088797165032013-03-18T04:00:00.000-07:002013-03-18T04:00:09.311-07:006:30 Train<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was in college, and even
later, when newly married, this train ride filled me with expectation, with
promise. Either the coming here to the valley of l’Allaine or leaving it. Now,
this morning, riding the rails through a frosty valley along a steaming river
under a crystalline sky of promise, I feel it again. Going off somewhere on an
adventure, off to chase something. While hopefully having learned the lesson
that the best adventures are also found close to home, hidden in the packaging
of everyday life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But sometimes, it is a good thing
to see something familiar from an unexpected perspective. And that is why I
like the train. The villages are all the same ones I drive through, but seen
from a different angle they take on a new charm. The sweep of the white touched
fields up to the neat rows of sleepy-eyed houses, smoke lining up out of
chimneys, and the gray tall forests beyond. Gray now and looking like if I
could brush my hand over the tops the trees would be soft, like the fuzz left
on a dandelion blossom, or the soft gray fur of my rabbit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In Courchavon there
is the cemetery chapel, perched up on the hill, three stories high, unlike any
other cemetery chapel I’ve ever seen, looking for all the world like a small
child craning up on his tip-toes to insist, don’t forget about me! I want to draw it each time I pass. This is
the closest I’ve gotten to that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In a few weeks all the mole hills
in the field will be plowed under, replaced instead by furrows as deep and dark
as chocolate cake that always make me hungry when I see them. The docile forest
will sprout springtime from the tips of its fingers and the soft gray give way
to green, first shy then in-your-face, in a “I am springtime, hear me roar”
kind of way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In Porrentruy even the half-torn up
railway barn looks beautiful in this light, and it makes me wonder why I don’t
opt for early morning all the time. The people getting off the train and
walking to their lives seem purposeful and beautiful too. Of course, the
weather helps. The world, and everything here has mutually agreed to begin
again. Not that we have much say in the matter, actually. Perhaps better said that God begins us again today
and we are closest to His intentions when we go along with it with an expectant
heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I am expectant right now, for
this day, for my life. Despite my last minute dready thing that I always do, I am
joyfully expectant about connecting to
my tribe of writers today in Geneva and trusting it will be worth the long haul and expense to get
there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The sun is now just peeking through
a gap in the mountains (I’ve learned to call them) behind Cornol. It’s going to
be a gorgeous day. The contrails of early
morning jets reflect the light and glow like pond skimmers on water's surface. Funny to think of the people
on those flights -- Flying from where to where? Not, obviously, to here, but travelling
like me, but with a completely different agenda. I could almost feel sad for
them because they won’t see the frosty Allaine in the morning light just before
sunrise, but it’s silly I know. They’ll see something else, and maybe today
their praise is in the grand, while mine will be in the small. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-86117714345977525512013-03-13T09:45:00.000-07:002013-03-13T09:45:34.640-07:00Late Nights with the PuzzleSince Christmas an enormous jigsaw puzzle has resided on our
dining room table. 3008 piece enormous. On the box it says 3000 pieces, but
when I opened it up, sitting on top of the jumble of minute jigsaw shapes was a
small notice reading in several languages: <i>Note: due to technical reasons this 3000 piece puzzle actually contains 3008 pieces.</i> I considered
returning it right then and there. 3000 pieces, yes, but 3008? That’s pushing
some limits, I’m telling you!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We began the puzzle early in January in those hazy post-Christmas
days. I like a jigsaw puzzle going in the winter to gather the family ‘round
and promote camaraderie ‘gainst the dark nights of winter. Or at least I like
the concept. The fact is, despite the strong efforts of the more dedicated
puzzle do-ers of the family, a 3008 puzzle is just <i>really</i> big. And full of pieces. And takes a loooong time to finish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But…piece by piece, the picture began to take shape. It’s a
picture of an old map of the world, back in the days of exploration when things
like Canada were still a bit sketchy and over the general area of Australia and
Antarctica is written in large black type “UKNOWNE LAND.” I love old maps –
what promise and danger those days and maps held! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So anyway, every day a few more pieces. And remarkable as it
seemed, slowly the pieces added on tipped the balance and there were more
pieces on the table than there were left in the box. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And somewhere along the way it seemed that the puzzle was a
metaphor for a year of homeschooling. Round about late January, a year of
homeschooling also seems like an insurmountable puzzle. Will our efforts ever
take us anywhere? Will it really amount to something if we do spelling lesson
12 today? And I thought. Yes. It does matter. Everyday a couple more pieces in
the puzzle and eventually the pieces add up. Bits of learning, however small
for each day, add up to the point where the pieces on the table, or already
under the bridge, to mix lots of metaphors, are more than those left to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this morning I prayed with the boys for courage for the
day, for motivation to put a few more pieces into our education, and mid-prayer
it occurred to me that maybe at the end of our homeschooling year, when all the
pieces are placed, we’ll finish with a beautiful map of the world! And all the
confusing bits that confounded us, like the piece with a top of a capital ‘A’
that turned out to actually be the top of a ‘U’ will make sense. Wouldn’t that
be wonderful?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or maybe we just get that map when we’ve put in all the
pieces into the puzzle of our lives. Or maybe we don’t get to see the map at
all. Maybe we’ll only see the big map when we get to heaven. Maybe when we take
our leave of God’s green earth all the puzzle pieces will still look like a big
jumbly mess in the box. I seem to be living long enough to see that things here
don’t always finish up tidily. Not everyone gets the time to place all the
puzzle pieces. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or even if they do, maybe they got the puzzle that isn’t a cool map,
just a kitchy picture of horses and flowers. (Why are there always so many
puzzles of horses?) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know. But I find that I can’t help always looking
and hoping and trying to understand the metaphor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the meantime…we are almost done and I’ll get soon my dining
room table back, and we’re also almost to the point where we can see the end of
the homeschool year, off there in the golden hazy distance. So until then…as Noelle's auntie would say, it’s
Late Nights with the Puzzle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRbNN9K3J9qKq_I_kfuG2JfdMLW0o2zltdFL5uUZ6UPMXO-G7ZlixsevOCSt5KjHukqpRSWdjU1wSigclNp0fpiZ5rqW6e9fgKU2zLZt2w1Hmnkp792Mb5z2E6TB-la1ainLmWbiFOaA/s640/blogger-image-1030682947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRbNN9K3J9qKq_I_kfuG2JfdMLW0o2zltdFL5uUZ6UPMXO-G7ZlixsevOCSt5KjHukqpRSWdjU1wSigclNp0fpiZ5rqW6e9fgKU2zLZt2w1Hmnkp792Mb5z2E6TB-la1ainLmWbiFOaA/s640/blogger-image-1030682947.jpg" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EFE-aJygmHfEhCyJyw_Vnknt2iHUwrkysI2fcU8uHd_bXLPLFG4iBBZ7lIihabKdc-jEss2Unhal9ZAtOSaX4rN2P35sId69dtjmMxOpYc2d61c_S7weLVx2Vsr0OY0nOh-GJDSDX8c/s640/blogger-image--1561796191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EFE-aJygmHfEhCyJyw_Vnknt2iHUwrkysI2fcU8uHd_bXLPLFG4iBBZ7lIihabKdc-jEss2Unhal9ZAtOSaX4rN2P35sId69dtjmMxOpYc2d61c_S7weLVx2Vsr0OY0nOh-GJDSDX8c/s640/blogger-image--1561796191.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somebody's getting a little OCD with the remaining pieces.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxhpMTy__Q__5FNNPHO_D4jccDNxtclgF6RDmpfwoM11ggAJI9XWl_hWHom5iZC7uW5q79BJfMQkWHIiLohaweLYBGE9VNHAEtuhqBuPQwQPSy3YXVYCOcxMvHcnUBhSDjdI2WWkjbmY/s640/blogger-image-1932203058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxhpMTy__Q__5FNNPHO_D4jccDNxtclgF6RDmpfwoM11ggAJI9XWl_hWHom5iZC7uW5q79BJfMQkWHIiLohaweLYBGE9VNHAEtuhqBuPQwQPSy3YXVYCOcxMvHcnUBhSDjdI2WWkjbmY/s640/blogger-image-1932203058.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Almost there.<br /></td></tr>
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</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-11378657915022904982013-02-20T12:04:00.001-08:002013-02-20T12:30:10.940-08:00Camp de Neige<br />
Ski Camp! Since Zeus and I started helping with the church middle school group this year, we were solicited to go along as counselors on the annual church youth ski/snow camp. Um...Okay! A week in the French Alps, on the Mont Blanc Massif - which you see behind the skiers in the photo. Fabulous bright sunshiny weather and fantastic snow 40 campers and 18 leaders.<br />
<br />
Zeus was in his element, getting kids set up with correct boots and bindings and he took the beginner group for two days, giving them Swiss chocolate when they started to flag - just the way I was taught 23 years ago by a great teacher named Peter at the Université de Genève. He had such a great time that although we (the parents) were only planning to stay 4 days, he opted to stay the rest of the week, while I meanwhile, have come home to a quiet house to get some home projects done and write blog posts.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTuwb7FKLWOidHmuYRMGRtlLQcElkEAi8RUSOT2XWDRdW9jxoXNvyNnWpdv4y9f0WAmjQzVgVzHUYESDr9dYLBbtSRM4DeZMehgJRUSInH92yxK0cFEeirTUp4SVovB103KbOWuG1Az4/s640/blogger-image--1740306701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTuwb7FKLWOidHmuYRMGRtlLQcElkEAi8RUSOT2XWDRdW9jxoXNvyNnWpdv4y9f0WAmjQzVgVzHUYESDr9dYLBbtSRM4DeZMehgJRUSInH92yxK0cFEeirTUp4SVovB103KbOWuG1Az4/s640/blogger-image--1740306701.jpg" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoPl_qDFbG60DA4hFkr1-d2zoEcIcbAD5becGgS6sjksuHvsEdg_BYxcFQMTRvNpF3k80h1H0KCaCTrQQKQISd1_lGq7w5i-0yE-nhN-fAWvekr1ATNOjhs-Jq_qiTXs_Wf01gZ7dxTw/s640/blogger-image--187338962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoPl_qDFbG60DA4hFkr1-d2zoEcIcbAD5becGgS6sjksuHvsEdg_BYxcFQMTRvNpF3k80h1H0KCaCTrQQKQISd1_lGq7w5i-0yE-nhN-fAWvekr1ATNOjhs-Jq_qiTXs_Wf01gZ7dxTw/s640/blogger-image--187338962.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Groupe confirmé</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWUn21Q8LeMqoHp8SIyYPr426MIFxeY9CfIuYGpJ52wyfwcFzO3JpJX15vD-HxjkeJzU6ukLk3mdjUF9y6vZuOkcYTWnY-xGrmgeW-FKB-OoVjXFTQGxEnzn87m8vaaF5ifsDVEdnVlSY/s640/blogger-image--964343984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWUn21Q8LeMqoHp8SIyYPr426MIFxeY9CfIuYGpJ52wyfwcFzO3JpJX15vD-HxjkeJzU6ukLk3mdjUF9y6vZuOkcYTWnY-xGrmgeW-FKB-OoVjXFTQGxEnzn87m8vaaF5ifsDVEdnVlSY/s640/blogger-image--964343984.jpg" /></a></div>
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Monday we were in charge of a Soirée Américaine. We fed the campers pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw with chocolate chip cookies for dessert. And then we taught them American folk dancing! Patty Cake Polka, Oh Susanna, and the Virginia Reel. There were many skeptical faces to begin with I told them that folk dancing is making a comeback in the USA and that it's really trendy. That helped, maybe. Anyway, by the end of the evening most were convinced and wore big grins as they skipped around the big circles. To get them to stop I had to promise we'd do more soon. Here's a link to a great website I found for <a href="http://geslisongroberg.com/music-downloads/hoedownpioneer-trek-music-and-dance-instruction-free-download/" target="_blank">learning the dances and downloading free music and instructions. </a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzNXAUkpEZvIMp-SJfm-sKP8NeoOqKFM1Eb43Js_R50LsHyD4HO4B8AlFoUGAitbMWal3T0najl46vHtFfhl81-fXIyQuiOPyMchJ-O8u4njyTKDQcKkDNzYQ2bbd1-5GYjZjJUmrBIs/s640/blogger-image--905156919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzNXAUkpEZvIMp-SJfm-sKP8NeoOqKFM1Eb43Js_R50LsHyD4HO4B8AlFoUGAitbMWal3T0najl46vHtFfhl81-fXIyQuiOPyMchJ-O8u4njyTKDQcKkDNzYQ2bbd1-5GYjZjJUmrBIs/s640/blogger-image--905156919.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calling with Laurence</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKAItCSJZWhZMMasp1cvjH7LzuD7vO-bOikNB7XuGPg6dreZ-0q6tfkUjPEslVNxy4mUdy9ttM6_yXHJPxwRaMNSiJQbWik8NRJdFN670B10Cm6-T45BJCIAFtV5qN8RMDPFEE_rJwnY/s640/blogger-image--472985701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKAItCSJZWhZMMasp1cvjH7LzuD7vO-bOikNB7XuGPg6dreZ-0q6tfkUjPEslVNxy4mUdy9ttM6_yXHJPxwRaMNSiJQbWik8NRJdFN670B10Cm6-T45BJCIAFtV5qN8RMDPFEE_rJwnY/s640/blogger-image--472985701.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dance partners</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqb6Zsn0vikbarD2TGzquqHMaKpuoZN3KO93FL__pLKELJ29_z0VnwRvl0wOXv1MLIBNefxm06j8M50RMWeKsdaNHy5t2BVSQkZh-a6GqFKYD2Disam6C_mvjBvpqLQZHkCPIMm62oTPw/s640/blogger-image--1115831889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqb6Zsn0vikbarD2TGzquqHMaKpuoZN3KO93FL__pLKELJ29_z0VnwRvl0wOXv1MLIBNefxm06j8M50RMWeKsdaNHy5t2BVSQkZh-a6GqFKYD2Disam6C_mvjBvpqLQZHkCPIMm62oTPw/s640/blogger-image--1115831889.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">learning the steps</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And here is something that was so much stereotype fulfillment that I had to take a picture: Cheese course - at ski camp!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lrwkv9v5fzYM3IIdRX_rivNEGo397NoLGj9A8RheobaYSC-9tIXvufClnG26sT8oQUpsoChKAb27P5G63WWVg7My0U3zMDG9XyY1v5iZo78SvVd1yTdGQeyKl46nsiE6-S1TEiY4I8s/s640/blogger-image-948645543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lrwkv9v5fzYM3IIdRX_rivNEGo397NoLGj9A8RheobaYSC-9tIXvufClnG26sT8oQUpsoChKAb27P5G63WWVg7My0U3zMDG9XyY1v5iZo78SvVd1yTdGQeyKl46nsiE6-S1TEiY4I8s/s640/blogger-image-948645543.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfzm4bcBG7M6kQW1oiykG66HT7hnUdaKtlBEfiZBSHStqYbhT0zEG2V_kc7XJzhNywUgirHfDdFotA05HG8wxqmaqTaSq7lcmE0-wFtYG1oxx_mmkfqLj6uP47Ur4rt2GgIErb92YW6U/s640/blogger-image--1396627513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfzm4bcBG7M6kQW1oiykG66HT7hnUdaKtlBEfiZBSHStqYbhT0zEG2V_kc7XJzhNywUgirHfDdFotA05HG8wxqmaqTaSq7lcmE0-wFtYG1oxx_mmkfqLj6uP47Ur4rt2GgIErb92YW6U/s640/blogger-image--1396627513.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-3108359594812415512012-11-30T23:58:00.000-08:002012-12-01T05:22:48.384-08:00Our Super Deluxe Trans-Border Thanksgiving Birthday Extravaganza!Our first Thanksgiving here we had two roast chickens because I couldn't find a turkey in the market and didn't have the guts to ask about one. Fortunately our good friends The Caramel Family were visiting and they shared their love and their sweet potato recipe which made up for the lack of turkey.<br />
<br />
Last year, I got brave and asked about a turkey at the market butcher counter and after calling around awhile, the man told me that I was too early. Whole turkeys could only be had for Christmas, and if one wanted one at any other time one must order very far in advance. With three days to go and no turkey, I shared my woes at our home group and Jean-Noel said, "No problem, I'll take care of it." I was relieved, but it sounded...well, a little mafioso.<br />
<br />
Jean-Noel manages a company in the Alsace that makes <i>charcuterie:</i> sausage and ham and paté and all kinds of the delicious kinds of things for which Americans get all excited about when they come to Europe. Sometimes at home group he regales us with stories of ordering thousands of kilometers of sausage casing and the like. To my knowledge, he doesn't deal a lot in turkeys, but from his tone and the look in his eye I imagined him calling up his "turkey man" to "take care of things."<br />
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He was true to his word, and with one day to spare we got our turkey. It was petite and delicious and we ate our Thanksgiving meal as a family and then it was done. Then Jean-Noel told me, "So next year, just let me know a little earlier and I'll get you whatever you want."<br />
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This year what I wanted was a bigger turkey. The whole conversation had piqued the curiosity of the other members of the home group. What is Thanksgiving, exactly? How do you celebrate it? If you are still here next year, we will celebrate it with you. <br />
<br />
November 1st of this year I said to Jean-Noel, "Okay, Thanksgiving's at the end of the month. We're still here, so I need a turkey."<br />
"No problem. How big?"<br />
"Bigger than last year."<br />
"How many kilos?"<br />
And there I had no idea. I still don't really think in kilos, especially when thinking about turkeys.<br />
"Uh, I dunno, kind of about this big," I said, gesturing about with my arms.<br />
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A couple weeks later, I reminded him about my turkey. The word came back: either a 3.5 kg turkey (7.7 pounds) or a 7 kg turkey (15.4 pounds). If I wanted two smaller ones I should order right away but the turkey man said that the 7 kg ones could be had whenever. By this time, we were going to be a total of 19 people, since Artemis had graciously consented to combine her birthday celebration with our Thanksgiving Feast. Okay, I'll go with the 7 kg anytime one. Still, Jean-Noel's wife Alia said, "A 7 kilo turkey!! That's enormous! I can't imagine it!!" <br />
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Closing in on Thanksgiving Day. I'd asked for turkey delivery on Thursday, since we were celebrating on Sunday. That gave me enough time to prepare and brine, though I was a little unsure where I'd put it in the meantime. The fridges are petite too.<br />
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Thursday morning Alia called me, her voice ringing with disbelief. "Jean-Noel called me. They delivered the turkey. But it's 11 kilos!!! He says he can bring you that one today or he can send it back and he'll get you the 7 kilo one tomorrow."<br />
I got out the tape measure and measured my petite oven.<br />
"Send it back! 11 kilos won't fit in the oven!"<br />
<br />
Later in the day, a text message: <i>Bad news is that there is no 7 kg turkey and the 11 kg turkey is at our house. Good news Jean-Noel thinks it might fit in our oven.</i><br />
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Thursday night I went to see it. I didn't know what to think. It was beautiful, but absolutely enormous, even by American standards. Alia kept calling it <i>la bête</i>, the beast.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"When I opened the trunk of the car, I almost fell over," said Alia.</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It was the neighborhood attraction! My friend called her children </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">over to see such a big turkey!" Even Jean-Noel admitted that his work </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">colleagues has laughed incredulously at such an enormous bird. "Those </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">crazy Americans," I imagined them saying, shaking their heads.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
It would never fit in our dainty Swiss oven. We could cut it up to roast it, but wouldn't that be a shame? I didn't take it home as planned because where would I put it? And anyway, it was over the limit of poultry meat to bring back into Switzerland. I would need another 3 people in the car.<br />
<br />
Our friends live only 10 minutes away, but they live over the border in France. Every person has the right to bring 3 kilos of poultry meat into Switzerland each day. To bring our turkey in legally we would need at least four warm bodies in the car. So our turkey, christened Thomas, spent the night alone in their extra refrigerator, after being visited by most of the home group, cracking jokes as they came about the Mr. Bean and the Turkey episode. Would it end up on someone's head?<br />
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Friday I spent most of the day in turkey denial. Towards evening I visited the turkey again and decided to take up Jean-Noel and Alia's offer of roasting it at their house. I went home and made the <a href="http://savorysweetlife.com/2010/11/how-to-brine-a-turkey/" target="_blank">brine roughly following this recipe. </a><br />
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Saturday dawned and I was still in turkey denial. Meanwhile I'd been diligently preparing other stuff: cranberry relish, gravy, sweet potatoes (following Mrs. Caramel's recipe!) and the girls were helping wonderfully with potato peeling and piecrusts. In the afternoon, we had a kids' club meeting at Jean-Noel and Alia's house and while the kids munched on crèpes in the other room, a turkey conference was held in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
Thomas the Turkey could just squeeze into their oven. But how to brine it? And stuff it? And roast it? And then transport it across the border when it was all done? I imagined the border guards asking if we had anything to declare while turkey aroma wafts out of the car. "Um, no...not really. Just this ginormous cooked turkey that we're taking out for a drive."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXijCprJwb_ovr8tL-_3Q325hyjBC3nhToBGHMPjyGZiUlhjGAl4F2fZVuxmXS7o_cfPrrxskKwXKTnrk3FV-TxECLaDoujZ-DY1ZkzPbVA70ZpNNRLPM8Q4OJXWzS6K1JyZLTT3USBc/s400/photo+2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It fits! (just barely)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: start;">I wondered aloud about coming over early the next morning to stuff the beast. I didn't want to stuff it the night before -- isn't that how people get salmonella?? Then Jean-Noel </span>offered to get up early to stuff the turkey and put it in the oven. </div>
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"Okay," I agreed, (somewhat reluctantly...would he do it <u>right</u>?) "It's kind of your fault, anyway," I said, "I didn't want a turkey that big," and he agreed. </div>
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And then, wh<span style="text-align: start;">ile sitting there on the floor with Alia taking pictures, I had a lovely feeling. This too, I told my friends, is part of Thanksgiving. All the fuss about the turkey, how will it fit? how will we cook everything else while it's in the oven? Working in community to make it all work out. That right there made it feel like Thanksgiving. </span></div>
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"After all," said Alia, "it's a story we can tell our grandchildren! We celebrated Thanksgiving with the Americans and had to transport the turkey over the border!" </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYW4PYWp3dRRXDRLOgfvPUjZzWYEyNXRp4TnMUwIv5y4M_EfNtrjM8hMaDSV1CA7MojdrxAb5uVeT2-qFo48NGiemk7TuJ9ZhIGwzmesamtmvKpw1Vj_zw4r7EgHoQyTl2Ehuj_aacV8Y/s1600/photo+3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYW4PYWp3dRRXDRLOgfvPUjZzWYEyNXRp4TnMUwIv5y4M_EfNtrjM8hMaDSV1CA7MojdrxAb5uVeT2-qFo48NGiemk7TuJ9ZhIGwzmesamtmvKpw1Vj_zw4r7EgHoQyTl2Ehuj_aacV8Y/s400/photo+3.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Brining in the garden bin.</i></td></tr>
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So I left Saturday night, leaving Thomas the Turkey in their capable hands and with a written set of instructions. And here, Dear Reader, is the beautiful part. 6:20 am Sunday morning, an SMS with no text, just this photo: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH_cBWdvezVajmibpUedouNZJAeAEKstCskW4kp-D0hotLEh6RDIBZecZ8ZhtClDWAE-0bDuIgNQSC5eYDa1HoC3ciQ2_Z4wyuFpqInw3SxM1vO7dC0F8Hnj050mk7epSaS-37CKaeGI/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH_cBWdvezVajmibpUedouNZJAeAEKstCskW4kp-D0hotLEh6RDIBZecZ8ZhtClDWAE-0bDuIgNQSC5eYDa1HoC3ciQ2_Z4wyuFpqInw3SxM1vO7dC0F8Hnj050mk7epSaS-37CKaeGI/s640/photo+5.JPG" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
Ah, the turkey was being stuffed! It would go in the oven on time! And do you know what I did then? I rolled over and went back to sleep! It was beautiful. Into my dreams came the <i>bing, bing</i> of another message...a photo of the turkey going into the oven. I rolled over and went back to sleep again.<br />
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The rest went like a dream...I got a few more text messages to prove that he was roasting well and being faithfully basted. I went over to visit once during the morning. And then after the others arrived from church, Turkey made his border crossing with no passport and no problem, wrapped in foil inside a couple industrial food crates.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAF04Dd6l5E2_elewV2qxDK1UeAQSVEbIoSkP2v_IQ8FmluTcTweNT0z5bniomlEg4HYOqkbVHtWEnk16CmVJ8JghYlGAZY6n3GeDRtwy-CS-gpQPQNR8rF9LlFrlqnjXEYovmco5gj_4/s1600/turkey+arrival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAF04Dd6l5E2_elewV2qxDK1UeAQSVEbIoSkP2v_IQ8FmluTcTweNT0z5bniomlEg4HYOqkbVHtWEnk16CmVJ8JghYlGAZY6n3GeDRtwy-CS-gpQPQNR8rF9LlFrlqnjXEYovmco5gj_4/s640/turkey+arrival.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oooh! Ahhh!</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvmr9Q5i_YkBIvESEUJt3GzELm1QMjMGNNwlC-pyZQBfwvsZWxTp7EdjaHV9jKSEFjh0D2JnNBt_3e8pNn0UA8h90jlCg_gdrGsNoYCTXNVAB0uxwp2DpXOcLw-DJkaiecFMmne4Lk5c/s1600/turkey+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvmr9Q5i_YkBIvESEUJt3GzELm1QMjMGNNwlC-pyZQBfwvsZWxTp7EdjaHV9jKSEFjh0D2JnNBt_3e8pNn0UA8h90jlCg_gdrGsNoYCTXNVAB0uxwp2DpXOcLw-DJkaiecFMmne4Lk5c/s640/turkey+table.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tables wait.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
With the tables waiting and the apéro drunk, the men were sent into the kitchen to carve up the beast in time honored fashion. Everyone else crowded in too, to watch and exclaim and to snitch preview bits of juicy turkey from the platter. And that too, felt like Thanksgiving. The beautiful turkey was, as several said, "just like in American films."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB36sqtX8Rfa1qJ4smkP2zSRX6km-vE2W0dAWPhANSMMjFEJyhcCrMPJgqKeZpSTBT6ZL3UidOT9qJB-JlooNdI5dfqEoiUOZBdT8cmbWjEQxJeg25ZGOppGM99m3z2eNN_gEBjO_I29c/s1600/turkey+men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB36sqtX8Rfa1qJ4smkP2zSRX6km-vE2W0dAWPhANSMMjFEJyhcCrMPJgqKeZpSTBT6ZL3UidOT9qJB-JlooNdI5dfqEoiUOZBdT8cmbWjEQxJeg25ZGOppGM99m3z2eNN_gEBjO_I29c/s640/turkey+men.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And it was absolutely delicious. I'm not sure if it was the happy French turkey or the brine or the combination of both or the collaborative effort, but I'm certain it was the tastiest turkey I have ever eaten. The rest of the day evolved in time-honored fashion...lots of eating, game playing, couch napping, a walk for some and a pick-up baseball game for others.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtC4YyxuSlAJ_1hnFHvmj_jLa-Uk6pBTKrvbOEobwMCXdbjv7_WxfbdQ98kUjEhzlHM8mntthwXJxJwczhFUK3lIPJdMPJrqs5F84HFVtcXfc_e22S7BZhtdq7Ca48h75QsB3Z3zMCuM/s1600/birthday+turkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtC4YyxuSlAJ_1hnFHvmj_jLa-Uk6pBTKrvbOEobwMCXdbjv7_WxfbdQ98kUjEhzlHM8mntthwXJxJwczhFUK3lIPJdMPJrqs5F84HFVtcXfc_e22S7BZhtdq7Ca48h75QsB3Z3zMCuM/s640/birthday+turkey.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>16 candles!</i></td></tr>
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Then dessert and "Happy Birthday" and eventually a guitar and Christmas carols. And at the end of the day, as our guests departed joyful, content and stuffed, it felt like Thanksgiving in my soul.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Now thank we all our God</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>With hearts and hands and voices</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Who wondrous things hath done,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In whom the world rejoices</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Who from our mothers' arms</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Hath blessed us on our way</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>With countless gifts of love</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And still is ours today.</i></div>
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<a href="http://inthefarcountry.blogspot.ch/2012/11/a-european-thanksgiving-celebration.html" target="_blank">If you would like to see more photos of our day, please go here.</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-5016906214478399842012-09-22T03:35:00.001-07:002012-09-22T03:35:43.653-07:00PrayerA few days ago, a friend here had her baby. And to celebrate I went for a sail, alone, on a little catamaran on a little nearby lake. I was alone with the water, the wind and God. And He and I talked.<br />
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Once, months ago, Marie and I talked about how being pregnant and feeling your baby moving around inside your belly, is like having two conversations at once, or like living in two separate worlds at the same time. All the while you are living your life, doing your shopping, talking with people, you are having a quieter but also very real conversation with your baby: <i>You're awake now. Ooo, that's a big stretch for such a little person. Why are you playing hopscotch on my bladder? </i>No one else hears, no one else knows, and there is nothing else quite like that sweet intimacy. The duality of those two simultaneous conversations, one very normal, one very private, is probably the one thing I miss about being pregnant.<br />
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So it struck me, as I was sailing around on the little lake, talking to God, that our life with Him can also be thought of in terms of the same metaphor. Prayer life, at its best, is a private conversation that I have with Him as I go through the normalcy of everyday life and have the conversations of every day. <i>Oh, Lord, thank you for that tree, it's so pretty. Lord, Help me speak a kind word to that person; I don't want to. Lord, I'm sleepy now, thank you for bringing me safely through another day. </i><br />
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I am like the little unborn baby, stretching my muscles, jostling, hiccuping, banging on the walls. And as I do, I am talking to my Father through all the moments, quietly
telling Him about stuff that no one else will hear. He listens, He loves me and He answers me quietly with words just for me. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-10207447459873851972012-02-10T13:30:00.000-08:002012-02-10T13:30:06.156-08:00Visit to London - with Literary Tints (Part 2)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All that walking, and it was still only 9:15 when I ended up at Westminster Abbey, which opens for visitors at 9:30. No photos are allowed inside, but even if I could have taken pictures there's no way it could do it justice. It's a magnificent building itself plus the fact that it has been the place of coronation of every English King since Edward the Confessor (right before William the Conqueror - 1066) and besides that Everybody who was Anybody in historical England seems to be buried there. I got to walk by the tomb of Elizabeth I who actually shares a tomb with her sister Mary! One can only imagine how they each feel about <i>that</i>. </div>
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In Poet's Corner there was a special surprise for me. Right under a large monument to Handel was this modest one to my namesake - or rather, I am hers. </div>
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<img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHnscCdtwkZfdxx2Jk38Pvq3o4cQ8lvHsUYSwCy0De84DLgjMgazYpam-7rIA3UMjZQlU6T1WHryW5GHEjjVEIy_HvsEZ55jWhV0s8YcNPFLA5tTLZD6wICDdiwFKxDYWub254Rj5ZHQ/s320/jennylind.jpg" width="320" /></div>
Then back outside and onto the Houses of Parliament and the Thames.<br />
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I was by now a little tired of walking and since there were river boats leaving from just in front of Big Ben and one just about to depart, I bought a ticket and hopped on. It turned out to be a very nice way to see the city.<br />
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<i>Barges, I would like to go with you</i><br />
<i>I would like to sail the ocean blue</i>.<br />
<i>Barges, have you treasures in your hold?</i><br />
<i>Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?</i><br />
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We passed Shakespeare's reconstructed Globe Theater.<br />
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And something else famous, which for the moment did not appear to be...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2bK86z_Afmw3RgSfDON-hTOuIY027bdEw13T3P2O7t8V5TkxCxoGG0Fs8rMMINrOqEiqtZ_hTxVB_KwAHdEkraUy44XWQS7bMgnhQrk0xAWfEozHPZcezBqqACl0MNxQMjAaCE19hbo/s1600/IMG_4328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2bK86z_Afmw3RgSfDON-hTOuIY027bdEw13T3P2O7t8V5TkxCxoGG0Fs8rMMINrOqEiqtZ_hTxVB_KwAHdEkraUy44XWQS7bMgnhQrk0xAWfEozHPZcezBqqACl0MNxQMjAaCE19hbo/s400/IMG_4328.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
...falling down.<br />
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We floated along until we came in sight of Tower Bridge...<br />
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and then London Tower itself.<br />
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The Tower of London surprised me by being more blockish and castle-y than tower-ish, but I suppose that back when the original bit was built, it towered over the scrappy little houses that stood nearby. The bit of arch that you can see in the left foreground is the Traitor's Gate, in fact the printing on the quay reads "Entry for the Traitor's Gate." All sorts of famous tragic characters came through there by boat, including Elizabeth I when her sister Mary (who now lies beneath her as previously noted) still was queen. <br />
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Judge me if you will, but I decided that after the unplanned large block of time I'd spent at Westminster Abbey, I just wasn't up for the 2 1/2 hour tour of the tower and the gory stories involved, even though it meant missing the Crown Jewels. (I do hope to go back some day.) At that point, what I really needed was some Lunch. So, after some sustaining potato leek soup in view of the entrance and a little visit to the gift shop, I began walking again. Walk, walk, walk, through old parts of London that I had floated past earlier. <br />
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I liked this sign: very English and to the point.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OJ95mm0ITOnOFDxipPVml_XOld74N7YS-1jkOO3DssowvcWUnab16CQRXtzJc6iDETiAH149SaKX-YQzfmPlHlvUKKwOjmCPtK7YEnfmQduRlJr0G3p5g0qXUg9ny64mU2uQgY22-1w/s1600/IMG_4342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuyRnVWC5G8keaIv8DbEbOe4I1QHNJbn8CzSME4q5k2JHand4UNWDULxyNfishYz2KfgUOkKW-8GWlkEg7STdxOXpSUXcV6VFPEscaPs3WmzR9VTB_aky1WbP49Xg_lS_yvg0jzo3F8M/s1600/IMG_4307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuyRnVWC5G8keaIv8DbEbOe4I1QHNJbn8CzSME4q5k2JHand4UNWDULxyNfishYz2KfgUOkKW-8GWlkEg7STdxOXpSUXcV6VFPEscaPs3WmzR9VTB_aky1WbP49Xg_lS_yvg0jzo3F8M/s400/IMG_4307.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
These helpful signs were painted on the streets wherever a hapless tourist might be crossing.<br />
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And then I was at St. Paul's Cathedral.</div>
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<i>All around the cathedral the saints and apostles </i></div>
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<i>Look down to the street far below</i></div>
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<i>Although you can't see them, you know that they're smiling, </i></div>
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<i>When somebody shows that they care.</i></div>
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<img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqOVkGoRiSWdJaQy9VJ0BWtggxWJiThTCCLfanzrCMFWd2YU-TehttYHd8b6y1oMuqpiGejpH6GMHBTJA7lzOXfb2in6ENd3CsWgyUcUfa6gZkX9Cv1Xw7jcdYRVjWnYzqh2MGfTytW4/s640/IMG_4350.JPG" width="480" /></div>
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<i>Feed the birds, tuppence a bag.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mary Poppins? Never 'eard of 'er!" -- Pigeon</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSfeCnffTTEN2z9jV7yLdIuCEf-tsGWtbHLOWMXBxJHxR8rpP5KoHb2hE3ZBoZgfzLXiyv52720OSEAAOH51QU0g1H7t770hzu3_3tlkcaixNGF7uOW4l-dDgjHZV9v5XhZgGhG7sqw0/s1600/IMG_4352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSfeCnffTTEN2z9jV7yLdIuCEf-tsGWtbHLOWMXBxJHxR8rpP5KoHb2hE3ZBoZgfzLXiyv52720OSEAAOH51QU0g1H7t770hzu3_3tlkcaixNGF7uOW4l-dDgjHZV9v5XhZgGhG7sqw0/s400/IMG_4352.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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A few more narrow streets and I came to the Old Bailey ~ for any Dickens readers.<br />
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Here's the inscription over the doorway.<br />
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Then I saw a bus that was more remarkable for its destination than its double-deckerness - the name of my old hometown! I did pop on a bus though around here for a short while and I sat upstairs and pretended that I know all about riding double-decker busses in London. <br />
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Then onto the British Museum - and my legs are about falling off here, but I made it. How could I not go when I could see - with my own eyes - <br />
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The Rosetta Stone!! oooooo!<br />
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There were also some astounding artifacts from the Assyrian Empire. Do you see those young whippersnappers on the left?? They were patting the winged creatures! Shocking! I tattletaled on them to a guard, and he kind of laughed and looked at me like I was some sort of busybody. Well, maybe I am, but....<i>they're really old!</i><br />
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Past the winged creature Assyrians, I came to the room with the other big attraction for me: the Pediment marbles that were originally on the Parthenon in Athens. They've been studied in every art history class ever since, including mine. <br />
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Look at the folds of fabric!! Carved out of stone!!<br />
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There was an interesting brochure defending the case for keeping these statues at the British Museum. Greece would rather like to have them back. But apparently, when the British guy who brought them back originally saw them, the Parthenon was being used as an old storage barn and the statues were falling apart. No body really cared about them. The guy, whose name escapes me, realized their artistic value and asked the authorities if he could take them down, which they quite willingly let him do. "And now," the brochure ended, "they remain in the British Museum where millions of visitors see them free of charge every year." Exactly how accurate the story is, I am not sure, but as it was right about then that Greece was having big riots, I was quite grateful that they were safe in the British Museum and that I was there looking at them.<br />
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Then it was time for me to hurry and take the underground and go meet Zeus to catch our taxi, train, and flight back home. But just before I left I took a picture of me with my twin sister. <br />
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A little bit like this one, that I took of a shop window the night before. A little bit...but not much.<br />
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This was very strange, actually. And has nothing to do with literature as far as I can tell. <br />
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So there it was... a wonderful, if very quick introduction to London and Great Britain. And strange nymph toilets aside, I do hope to return someday and visit a little more thoroughly. Maybe go to Jane Austen country or see where Poirot and Jeeves and Wooster lived, and Peter Wimsey, and Beatrix Potter, and.... <br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com5London, UK51.508129 -0.12800551.350007 -0.443862 51.666250999999995 0.187852tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-15599914920515801942012-01-29T09:10:00.000-08:002012-01-29T09:53:48.271-08:00Visit to London with Literary Tints - Part 1What would you do if you had 25 hours in London?<br />
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Here is what I did. <br />
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In October, Mr. Zeus had an overnight business trip to London, and so we found a cheap flight for me and I got to tag along. We landed at Heathrow Airport and took the express train into the city to Paddington Station. <br />
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At this point I couldn't quite believe that I was really in London. For all the to-ing and fro-ing between the States and Switzerland, I'd never been in London (or England that matter, if you don't count Heathrow airport and that was only this summer). <br />
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I grew up reading English children's literature and then English grown-up literature, so there is a lot of intellectual knowledge of England inside the brain, (or at least literary knowledge) but no experiential. When I saw the first London Underground sign from the train , I had that same feeling I had twenty years ago when I caught a very distance glimpse of Sacre Coeur from a bus window when I was arriving in Paris. <em>It really does exist! I'm really here! This wasn't at all what I expected it to look like! It is exactly what it is supposed to look like!</em> <br />
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So this is a picture of Zeus looking at his wife who has gone all giddy and young and adventuresome and picture happy. <br />
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We walked through Paddington Station and I kept looking around for the Mr. Brown and the bear. <br />
<br />Oh, here he is.<br />
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<br />From the station we walked through some well-to-do neighborhoods to Hyde Park. In between the main streets, there were the Mews, little alleyways that led back into what must have once been the gardens and stables back in the day, but have been converted into homes. It helped make sense of a lot of old books -- how Little Diamond could sleep over the stable for instance. <br />
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Hyde Park near Speaker's Corner</div>
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Look out, the Dementors will get you!!<br />
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I brave the Underground.<br />
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With Zeus settled into the hotel room to finish up some work, I ventured out on my own to explore. It felt crazy to be on the loose on my own in such a huge city filled with so many people! For about two minutes I felt a little scared. Then I changed my mind and decided to be adventurous! I managed to figure out the Underground with some help from my handy <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1598806653/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=ecolevieuxpin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399377&creativeASIN=1598806653%22%3ERick%20Steves%27%20London%202011%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=ecolevieuxpin-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1598806653&camp=217145&creative=399377%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E%3Clabel%20id=showTextCategoryLinkPreview_l1%3E%20%28See%20all%20%3C/label%3E%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/London-England-Great-Britain-Books/b/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=ecolevieuxpin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399385&creativeASIN=1598806653&ie=UTF8&node=67700%22%3ELondon%20Travel%20Guides%3C/a%3E%29%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=ecolevieuxpin-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1598806653&camp=217145&creative=399385%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1598806653/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=ecolevieuxpin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399377&creativeASIN=1598806653%22%3ERick%20Steves%27%20London%202011%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=ecolevieuxpin-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1598806653&camp=217145&creative=399377%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E%3Clabel%20id=showTextCategoryLinkPreview_l1%3E%20%28See%20all%20%3C/label%3E%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/London-England-Great-Britain-Books/b/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=ecolevieuxpin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399385&creativeASIN=1598806653&ie=UTF8&node=67700%22%3ELondon%20Travel%20Guides%3C/a%3E%29%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=ecolevieuxpin-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1598806653&camp=217145&creative=399385%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E">Rick Steve's London guidebook</a>. And I went here. Do you remember what happened here?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBV3QRHmIa2k20jK2feoOEk70-7NOhxmh2M2HtBk6PyYUW44VuMzaOpOiiEgGpZFQwyEo4oRmnKSBSrRfw-pBShjUiPCwyRZfGLTORMGtpBjyxxTQgd8ZuW4qiM0Zb-_O4ea-PxXvrQjE/s1600/IMG_4262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBV3QRHmIa2k20jK2feoOEk70-7NOhxmh2M2HtBk6PyYUW44VuMzaOpOiiEgGpZFQwyEo4oRmnKSBSrRfw-pBShjUiPCwyRZfGLTORMGtpBjyxxTQgd8ZuW4qiM0Zb-_O4ea-PxXvrQjE/s400/IMG_4262.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Of course you do!<br />
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They've set up a Platform 9 3/4 with a trolley disappearing into the wall for photo ops!<br />
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Then I walked to The British Library to see the Treasures Room. In that one room are a crazy amount of pivotal documents in history and the history of literature: The Magna Carta, the Gutenberg Bible, one of the first copies of the King James Bible, Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks, letters from Mary Queen of Scots to Elizabeth I, the <em>Canterbury Tales</em>, original libretto from Handel's <em>Messiah</em>, Jane Austen's writing desk, the Lindisfarne Gospels with illuminated manuscripts, scribblings of John Lennon and Paul McCartney on the backs of birthday cards of the lyrics of <em>Yesterday</em> and <em>She's Got a Ticket to Ride</em>, etc., and one of my personal favorites: the handwritten manuscript of <em>Jane Eyre</em> opened to the passage, "Reader, I married him." It was overwhelming, all the goodness in that one room.<br />
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But here is the thing that really took my breath away. The Codex Sinaiticus -- from the 3rd century -- the oldest manuscript of the entire Bible in existence. No photos are allowed, so I got this one off the web. Surrounded by other old manuscripts filled with color and decoration, of Hinduism, Judeaism, Islam, Buddhism and even later illuminated manuscripts of the Bible, the Codex Sinaiticus was beautiful to me in its simplicity. It's just Greek words on a page. Yet what Words! Even just thinkng about it now, I am thinking, "Where else can I go? Only You have the words of eternal life."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUP2TDiRx5qz0gIwfBn2tEA08SB6MZ7fGWjstz2Vx83HKK5jNrnGkMu2do5Qvx-ACmEkihDtKKDJ010n_fQ_vKqyFhortAt4sEi6wcmscx4W10o7v905hOZdr_zErIVaKs_bBhR43nu2Y/s1600/codex+sinaiticus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUP2TDiRx5qz0gIwfBn2tEA08SB6MZ7fGWjstz2Vx83HKK5jNrnGkMu2do5Qvx-ACmEkihDtKKDJ010n_fQ_vKqyFhortAt4sEi6wcmscx4W10o7v905hOZdr_zErIVaKs_bBhR43nu2Y/s400/codex+sinaiticus.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
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This book, this Bible, these words, this Word, is my life. There it was, in front of me in a glass case. I started crying for the sheer momentousness of it and the guard on duty started doing his circles a little more frequently. I moved away and blew my nose to show him that I wasn't about to do anything rash, and then I looked up on my phone the passage to which it was opened, Psalm 9: <br />
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<em>I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will recount all of your wonderful deeds. I will be glad and exult in you; I will sing praise to your name, O Most High.</em></blockquote>
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I thought of the scribe who carefully copied those words down sometime in the AD 200s with such gratitude. Did he have any idea what importance his work would have someday? Surely it was a painstaking task - no white out if you made a mistake. And here it is on display as one of the world's great treasures, beautiful in its faithfulness and simplicity. <br />
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Closing time at the British Library came too soon and I reluctantly left and made my way back to the underground in a London growing dusky. There was a delay on a subway line and I managed to backtrack and find an alternate route to...<br />
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...meet Zeus under Big Ben. I was later than planned because of the delay and Zeus had a policeman come check on him to make sure he was waiting for someone and not just waiting around Parliment nefariously plotting something a la Guy Fawkes.</div>
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There it is! Bong, Bong, Bong. Second star to the right and straight on til morning.</div>
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Then we walked and walked and walked, along the Thames, past the Ministry of Defense, through Trafalgar Square (which was smaller and more trafficky than I expected, but it was dark out and I was getting hungry, so maybe I didn't get the best view), on to Piccadilly Circus, past the Ministry of Silly Walks (!) and up Regent Street. By then I was really hungry and we'd already passed the cool looking Japanese restaurant with interactive menus in the table and the Lebanese restaurant where gluten-free options seemed plentiful. Finally we decided on a Moroccan restaurant - Momo's - in a courtyard just off of Regent Street. It was so atmospheric - I've never been to Morocco, but it felt like it might be authentic looking. Dinner at any rate was absolutely delicious: lamb tagine with pears, prunes and almonds and carmelized onions. I felt my strength returning! <br />
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The next morning we woke early, had coffee and then walked the half hour to the hotel where Zeus' meeting was held. He kept our overnight bags and then I was off on my own again! I was within walking distance of Buckingham Palace so I started off. I went through Wellington's Arch. See those two ladies at the bottom of the photo? They asked me to take their photo. As I walked through the arch and down the avenue, I was passed by innumberable cyclists and runners. I never got a picture of all the runners, but London seemed to be filled with them, running, no <em>sprinting</em>, to work, or back home again with backpacks on. It was rather impressive and gave one the impression that exercise is not something to be trifled with!<br />
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I walked and walked and began to wish that I'd rented a bicycle myself when I arrived at...Buckingham Palace. One of the funniest and most disconcerting things I found as I walked and walked and walked around was that while I had prepared myself to see cars on the left hand side of the road, I was unprepared for pedestrians following the same course of action. I kept finding myself on the right side of the sidewalk/underground tunnel/escalator heading into on-coming people, and having to scoot back left at the last minute. <br />
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<em><span style="font-size: medium;">They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -<br /> Christopher Robin went down with Alice.</span></em><br />
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(See the royal standard flying? that means the Queen is at home. I was surprised how close the street was! At least the Queen has a few other castles she can go to if she gets tired of the street noise.)</div>
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<em><span style="font-size: medium;">We saw a guard in a sentry-box.<br /> "One of the sergeants looks after their socks,"<br /> Says Alice.</span></em></div>
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(I think this one had itchy socks.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><em>They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -<br /> Christopher Robin went down with Alice.<br /> "Do you think the King knows all about me?"<br /> "Sure to, dear, but it's time for tea,"<br /> Says Alice.</em> </span><br />
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or coffee, in my case. I had some coffee and yogurt at a little cafe in St. James' Park with a lovely view back up to the palace. In the park I found this fancy drinking fountain. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnSFQtb_5caEpdCWEqWYe45X_GpR2ghoDuybOEtGMntub7GNSBbMERgeaFXwdiq5d08CIhYKmzmdlEKqB6-GkVvrbC0DZri54kELXQZ-_Zv_QUCpnBYvgh5e0qGsFt49L1dolBavZgrg/s1600/IMG_4287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnSFQtb_5caEpdCWEqWYe45X_GpR2ghoDuybOEtGMntub7GNSBbMERgeaFXwdiq5d08CIhYKmzmdlEKqB6-GkVvrbC0DZri54kELXQZ-_Zv_QUCpnBYvgh5e0qGsFt49L1dolBavZgrg/s320/IMG_4287.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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On the bottom is written: <strong>Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association</strong>, so I had to take a picture. Nearby, a group of three young women approached me. One of them was carrying a box and I was worried that they were going to try to sell me something. But no. They asked me for directions! <em>Ah! I thought, now I am satisfied; I can leave this city happy.</em> This bears going into in depth, but no time right now. Suffice it to say that I've been thinking for awhile about a blog post called <strong>A Face for Directions</strong> because that's what I seem to have<strong>.</strong> Even better is that I actually knew how to direct them.</div>
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At the end of the park was a sweet little house built, as the sign said, to look like a Swiss Chalet. It was built when the park was done over more naturally in the 1800s and this building was used as the gardener's house and veggie plot. Someone's been keeping Swiss Chard in it.</div>
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These duckies seem pretty underwhelmed by the fact that they live within view of the Sovereign of British Empire.<br />
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I walked past the duckies and on and on....to....? <br />
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To be continued...!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiFvXMoOzn_k5Qnwb5dccrxI17fhK7KLT-5ygczpezuEL_unKT3xZAtNixTXQSmNr0JObrr9uFGDn6Gxop0vnG5-dHhwMd8SgElrboMbLr9gBwOB7H4CxZYOL3v7EPICvMw-007qyKw8/s1600/IMG_4387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiFvXMoOzn_k5Qnwb5dccrxI17fhK7KLT-5ygczpezuEL_unKT3xZAtNixTXQSmNr0JObrr9uFGDn6Gxop0vnG5-dHhwMd8SgElrboMbLr9gBwOB7H4CxZYOL3v7EPICvMw-007qyKw8/s1600/IMG_4387.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com2Westminster, London, UK51.5001524 -0.126236251.1838419 -0.7579502 51.8164629 0.5054778tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-11540685333784653262011-12-03T01:34:00.001-08:002011-12-03T01:34:00.140-08:00Rome<p>The most meaningful things are always the hardest things to write about. Why is that? </p> <p>We (the three big kids, my mother-in-law Brida and I) got to spend a week in Rome, almost embarrassing to say, but true! And even though it was mid-November we had blue sunny skies and very agreeable temperatures every day but one. </p> <p>But how to sum it up? For anyone it is a fascinating city. For anyone interested in art or history or architecture or all three it is magical. Not to mention the beautiful language and interesting people. And the food! The wonderful thing with a week was that while the chaos and busyness would have seemed frustrating after only a day or two, by the end of the week we’d gotten used to it. </p> <p>An example: crossing the street. The first day we huddled on the sidewalk, wondering at the fact of no traffic light, looking in bewilderment at the raging river of cars and thinking we’d never get to the other side. My first clue was the bent over little old lady with a cane who stepped out nonchalantly into the river, and like Joshua and the Israelites, the river piled up and stopped and the little old lady walked calmly to the other side, never breaking her stride. We stuck close behind. </p> <p>Actually, it’s one of the few things I retained from a brief visit to Rome when I was twenty, that excellent example of faith. The cars are barreling five abreast down the broad avenue. There is no crosswalk in sight and standing on the sidewalk, getting to the other side not only seems, but <em>actually is</em>, an impossibility. Until you get off the sidewalk. Once you take that first step off and into the stream of trouble, one by the one, the impossibility becomes possible, and you cross safely to the other side. My metaphor would be better if Jesus had been waiting on the other side, but unfortunately it was only the pope (!). </p> <p>Okay, on with the story. </p> <p>We stayed about 10 minutes walk  away from the Vatican and several mornings one or two of us got up early to visit soon after it opened at 7 before the crowds show up and while it is still a peaceful place of worship. It was peaceful with little groups of visiting nuns singing during a celebration of Mass.</p> <p>I confess I have very mixed feelings about St. Peter’s Basilica.  It certainly is impressive – built, according to tradition over the burial site of the apostle Peter. Since it is right next to the old site of Nero’s circus and that there’s been a church there since very early days, it is not unlikely. Other history as well – a spot on the floor marks the place (in the old St. Peter’s church) where Charlemagne was crowned Holy Roman Emperor by the pope on Christmas Day 800. Architecturally it is an amazing feat. But I couldn’t help thinking about the pope needing more money to complete it and sending Johann Tetzel out to sell indulgences to the peasants of Germany. Martin Luther was scandalized, stuck a notice on the church door, and well….if you don’t the story of the Reformation, you should probably go read it now. So I found myself wondering about the life savings of German peasants at the same time as I was inspired by the building. </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-rGP6WHeswSc/TtnsiU787gI/AAAAAAAAC3s/YX5lg8wjq64/s1600-h/IMG_4641%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4641" border="0" alt="IMG_4641" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-Pj0CNCtMAhI/TtnsjJ--0AI/AAAAAAAAC30/xtcvnzL_jMI/IMG_4641_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="375" height="503" /></a></p> <p>the south transept</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-EVNRHtUjlXc/TtnskN5tRAI/AAAAAAAAC38/t7LKdABzhTc/s1600-h/IMG_4638%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4638" border="0" alt="IMG_4638" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-SBv8aluhtuQ/TtnslIzGf2I/AAAAAAAAC4A/uRRgGagCR04/IMG_4638_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="401" height="556" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>But, it <em>is</em> an impressive building, very much in the tradition of the old Roman baths and basilicas. The dome was designed by Michelangelo in his spare time. </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Hbsck0yf6Ck/TtnsmBPldNI/AAAAAAAAC4M/Qh3zhGpjR40/s1600-h/photo%25255B18%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="photo" border="0" alt="photo" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-SvnV1vpkocE/Ttnsmnj3qMI/AAAAAAAAC4Q/T1PoyBDRgjw/photo_thumb%25255B9%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="526" height="402" /></a>The visit to the Vatican Museums was a highlight ~ I only would have liked to have a few more <em>days</em> to stay there. So many amazing works of arts that one has always heard of from ancient times and the Renaissance. Perhaps I shall spare you lots of photographs of old statues and artifacts, but it’s like grandma’s attic of the world – a little bit of everything. Ancient Sumerian writing tablets? Check! Egyptian sarcophagi? Check!  A genuine mummy? Check! (poor woman) </p> <p>Mid-November was certainly a great time to visit because there were no lines and we stayed in the Sistine Chapel as long as we wanted, (even longer than some of us wanted!) getting cricks in our necks and deciphering the Old Testament stories that Michelangelo painted there. My Apollo was especially absorbed in Michelangelo’s painting of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Judgment_(Michelangelo)">The Last Judgment</a> which covers one huge wall. It’s a somber painting and makes you thoughtful and serious. My favorites were the Raphael rooms – I think because I am always yearning for more balance and beauty and less drama. To see <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_School_of_Athens">The School of Athens</a> for myself, there on the wall, that was something else. And to think that the pope had these painted essentially for wallpaper! </p> <p>At the Vatican Museums and at the Borghese Gallery the next day, I felt like all  the kids’ study of Greek and Roman history and mythology paid off. They were deciphering the artwork better than I, rattling off the twelve labors of Hercules and picking out Aeneas carrying his father out of a burning Troy from across the room! At any rate there is art and history to decipher everywhere in the city. Here was the base of one fountain. Can you name that story? I thought it was special (and took a picture of it) until I saw it on every lamp post in the city. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-hPLmuI2A-k4/TtnsnmKQZ9I/AAAAAAAAC4Y/DYxrqjZMBPM/s1600-h/IMG_4582%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4582" border="0" alt="IMG_4582" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-uRnVG3LLFwQ/Ttnsoe6791I/AAAAAAAAC4k/rUaiG6s51yA/IMG_4582_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="466" height="358" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>On the weekend, Zeus arrived with little Hermes. We had saved the Forum and the Coliseum for them. With the help of <a href="http://ricksteves.com">Rick Steves</a> and his Ancient Rome app on my iPhone, we sat on the ruins and deciphered them. The Forum is a lot of rubble and less impressive than the still standing Coliseum but nonetheless amazing when you have a little bit of the history to go with it. </p> <p>Here we are on the steps of the Roman Senate building – talk about significant history! Notice us squinting in the sunshine!</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-yC3OmEBtQc4/Ttnsp5-WWoI/AAAAAAAAC4s/SDLYRpJcJJk/s1600-h/IMG_4670%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4670" border="0" alt="IMG_4670" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-rjXvdXEcyQQ/TtnsrXyGvrI/AAAAAAAAC40/OnZowfzXCWA/IMG_4670_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="461" height="379" /></a></p> <p>Our family with the jumble of ruins and buildings that is the Forum. The square tan building on the right hand side was the Senate building, and above and behind us at the top of the hill stood the Temple of Jupiter – the highest edifice in Rome. The triumphal parades – with captive barbarians, kings in chains, etc --  would have passed right to the right (our left) down the Via Sacra and then up to the Temple to offer sacrifices.</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-olPZwjH6mnI/Ttnstb4qJrI/AAAAAAAAC48/2ZMvT389r1c/s1600-h/IMG_4764%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4764" border="0" alt="IMG_4764" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-oxQogARpQ2o/TtnsuMOaR6I/AAAAAAAAC5A/4aZxK4CFOCY/IMG_4764_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="497" height="391" /></a></p> <p>An interesting fact, that when Julius Caesar was murdered, the Senate happened to be meeting across town, here. Notice two kids are practicing their Brutus-just-stabbed-me looks. Artemis appropriately quoted lines from <em>Julius Caesar,</em> “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears…”</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-LDVR6ErfcDQ/TtnsvOlTLoI/AAAAAAAAC5M/a-jNOjMezTg/s1600-h/photo%25255B20%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="photo" border="0" alt="photo" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-akgU81aMNMQ/TtnsvzFybxI/AAAAAAAAC5Q/jyXedtqgYao/photo_thumb%25255B11%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="505" height="408" /></a></p> <p>It’s a funny ruin, surrounded by busy streets and stores. It’s below street level and archeological work is obviously currently going on. It’s also a refuge for feral cats. In this photo you can see how much Rome was built and rebuilt on the previous layer and how every time they did anywhere they are liable to find old treasures. They’ve been working on a third subway line for years, but it’s taking forever because they keep finding priceless goodies. Speaking of priceless goodies, aren’t my girls lovely in their matching Italian coats? </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-9gKdovGixOE/TtnswxqU4sI/AAAAAAAAC5c/wLETskp3oMw/s1600-h/IMG_4801%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4801" border="0" alt="IMG_4801" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-b_QawazJMdQ/TtnsyAbE6GI/AAAAAAAAC5g/0c1clcAATcI/IMG_4801_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="454" height="349" /></a></p> <p>This is just for fun: My sweetie and me at the Arch of Titus, which shows the sacking of Jerusalem in 70 AD.</p> <p> </p> <p>The Coliseum. They’ve rebuilt a little of the wooden floor (towards us) so you can picture how it once looked. Underneath the floor was the maze of cells and hallways where gladiators practiced and wild animals paced.<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-A2P5xaAr7IM/TtnszJa8WxI/AAAAAAAAC5s/L367Ne_ZAvg/s1600-h/IMG_4830%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4830" border="0" alt="IMG_4830" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-aUXLNqKm9qE/Ttns0A7gRTI/AAAAAAAAC5w/ebBy5PjxhYA/IMG_4830_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="522" height="401" /></a></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-VawRXF0_29w/Ttns1MW8jCI/AAAAAAAAC58/ReU8w_DvAZA/s1600-h/IMG_4836%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4836" border="0" alt="IMG_4836" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-5KY4isoHc1k/Ttns2G3SNEI/AAAAAAAAC6A/cokGwhmxPzU/IMG_4836_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="526" height="417" /></a></p> <p>On our last day in Rome, although the weather wasn’t quite as blue, we went up the Palatine Hill. It certainly gets less press than the Forum and Coliseum but we loved it. One gets to wander in the half overgrown remains of the Imperial Palace, stand where Caesar's throne one sat, and take in the sweeping views  over the Circus Maximus and the Forum.   </p> <p>View from the ruins of the Imperial Palace. St. Peter’s dome is in the distance. Isn’t that umbrella pine in the middle just fabulous?</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-3xJzuS55Fwc/Ttns3Opw-uI/AAAAAAAAC6M/B6NbgnYNreQ/s1600-h/IMG_4854%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4854" border="0" alt="IMG_4854" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-eafgbsOzd4k/Ttns4X2In5I/AAAAAAAAC6U/Rd3wSNP9KCs/IMG_4854_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="531" height="417" /></a></p> <p>The kids in front of Romulus and Remus’ supposed huts. These are a fairly recent uncover, apparently, and there is a good case that they may be the real thing. (!?) Check out that umbrella pine in the background.</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-zrpFZaD_ja8/Ttns5o__QcI/AAAAAAAAC6c/lsbT6P6RnHs/s1600-h/IMG_4876%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4876" border="0" alt="IMG_4876" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-2JFnsBnnXNM/Ttns6MH_PbI/AAAAAAAAC6g/vp2gpXD2XVs/IMG_4876_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="536" height="412" /></a></p> <p>Looking down into the Forum from atop the Palatine Hill. The Coliseum is in the background to the right.<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-x5moXJ-dkDE/Ttns7EhLLzI/AAAAAAAAC6s/v84J2diS6_8/s1600-h/IMG_4882%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4882" border="0" alt="IMG_4882" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-0VGUJss1oKY/Ttns8L0getI/AAAAAAAAC6w/0Xq-1PQ3nVM/IMG_4882_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="537" height="413" /></a></p> <p>And finally, let’s not kid ourselves, one of the wonders of Italy, besides the history and the art (and the shopping) is…<em>the food</em>!</p> <p>Hermes with his anchovy pizza and his drawing of the same.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-D6BH9Iz6n5c/Ttns8823r-I/AAAAAAAAC68/dP51orgP13s/s1600-h/IMG_4840%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4840" border="0" alt="IMG_4840" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-yBl4PkAUGYQ/Ttns9pt2_tI/AAAAAAAAC7A/qTECP_8RMmI/IMG_4840_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="506" height="389" /></a></p> <p>Italy has the world’s highest level of celiac disease (people allergic to gluten) in the population and children are routinely tested for it, so consequently, waiters and store clerks are very well-informed and well-stocked. It was very easy to find pasta and pizza <em>senza glutine</em> and on two occasions, even ice cream cones! </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-UISeZa06tMM/Ttns-ZAlXSI/AAAAAAAAC7M/nx17c0ZYUBc/s1600-h/IMG_4625%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4625" border="0" alt="IMG_4625" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-iDNqQke6i1s/Ttns_W0iUFI/AAAAAAAAC7Q/wd8k-pyWMcc/IMG_4625_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="323" height="440" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>So, sigh,to sum up. I haven’t even begun to capture how much beauty and art there is in that city. If you would like to gaze upon more lovely photographs of Rome, I commend you to my daughter’s blog, <a href="http://www.inthefarcountry.blogspot.com/2011/12/rome.html">In the Far Country</a>, where she posted some really nice shots. </p> <p>For me, I think beyond the art and the history, one of the highlights was being there long enough to experience some of the everyday stuff. And because I like languages and I had been practicing in the car with the Instant Immersion Italian that I bought at Costco this summer (to the annoyance of many of my passengers), I enjoyed trying to communicate in pigeon Italian. </p> <p>Too often I get hung up on my perfectionism that my desire to be correct in speech inhibits my desire to communicate. But there was something in Rome that worked well against that. Maybe because as a city it’s obviously imperfect and chaotic but so beautiful anyway. Many people in the tourist industry are quite used to speaking English, but there are plenty that don’t. There was a tiny grocery market across the street from our apartment. Instead of picking things out and then paying for them, you have to ask the man behind the counter for them. He was patient with me and made suggestions when I obviously didn’t have the right word for something. <em>Si si! Carta hygenica!</em> </p> <p>Another time we had a great taxi driver with whom I had a lengthy philosophical conversation although most of it was in two word phrases of mashed up Italian. That experience of communication, of catching a little glimpse of someone else’s language, and therefore culture, reminds me of why I like languages and I like traveling. I like people and I like their stories. Individually, like the taxi driver, who wasn’t too worried about the lack of tourists today – <em>domani migliore</em>  -- tomorrow will be better – and corporately, historically, as in all the individuals who made up Rome and the Roman Empire, the stories behind the paintings, how Caravaggio painted his own self-portrait into his David and Goliath to apologize for accidentally killing a man, and the bittersweet romantic story behind the painting of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacred_and_Profane_Love">Sacred and Profane Love</a>.</p> <p>The Arch of Titus – Romans carrying off the menorah from the Temple in 70 AD</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-J7awbZKFlfk/TtntAa6_BPI/AAAAAAAAC7c/sgPaIvrHQqA/s1600-h/IMG_4774%25255B10%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_4774" border="0" alt="IMG_4774" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-EaKpaGsq7XE/TtntBvQUJyI/AAAAAAAAC7g/SYmoH-i9dtA/IMG_4774_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="519" height="412" /></a></p> <p>The best stories and the best artifacts are the ones that make me realize that the best really old stories are true. In the Vatican Museums there were Sumerian tablets, like Abraham probably wrote on. There was a decorative stone panel commemorating one of Sennacharib’s conquests. The Arch of Titus, shows the Romans carrying off the treasures of the Temple of Jerusalem – fulfilling Jesus’ prophecy that the Temple would be destroyed, and that His sacrifice fulfilled the need for sacrifices once and for all. Seeing all those artifacts, tangible evidence of a history that has been lived on and lived in continuously for thousands of years builds my faith that the Bible is historically true and accurate and worthy of my trust.  </p> <p>When we left Rome, we were ready to go. I think in the summer, with the heat and the crowds, it must be nearly unbearable. But even for us, with pleasant weather and a minimum of tourists, it was time to go back to the familiar and process everything we’d been blessed to see. </p> <p>But when I visit a city, I am always hopeful that I will be able to say, “there now, I’ve checked that off my list!” and feel done with it forever. But I never do. I’m afraid I only start dreaming of the next time…</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-66675259522356770242011-09-29T10:12:00.000-07:002011-09-29T10:12:02.183-07:00Apple CiderPerhaps it is fitting that while my last post (not counting the one by my guest poster) was about cherries, this one is about apples. Our rental house comes with a large orchard of about 15 trees, 6 (or seven?) of which are apple trees. Last year we ate plenty, but the huge rush of ripe apples came when the kids were in the throes of starting school and the combination of that and the lack of a good way to preserve them meant that most of the apples fell to the ground and became yellow jacket and birdie food.<br />
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I especially liked to think about the well fed birdies -- it kept me from feeling guilty about not using the apples. <br />
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But this year! This year we determined to make use of the communal <em>pressoir</em> - the village cider press. It's something I find absolutely charming, that the community organizes a cider press in the autumn and that you have to call the town hall to make your appointment. More specifically, you call the town hall on Wednesdays and Thursdays between 9 and 10 a.m. It also tells you something about how many apple trees are in the fields and backyards here. <br />
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I wish I'd thought to take a photo of all these crates and bins full of apples and crammed into the back of our Mazda! When I called for my appointment and explained that I'd never done this before and how many apples would I need anyway? the nice man told me that 100 kilos of apples would be ideal and would produce 60-70 liters of juice. I wasn't quite sure how many crates 100 kilos would be, but when I left I was sure we had more than that. <br />
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Last Thursday evening was our appointment. We drove them down to the community building next to the bank where a lot of people were milling about. It was hard to tell who was or wasn't in charge. There was one truck with a trailer full of apples and I felt slightly silly with mine all packed into the car with the seats down -- like a real amateur. But then I saw that there was also a very bent old lady who was frail-ly loading up her finished cider into her car with the help of her children.<br />
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We loaded our apples into this VERY LOUD room and dumped them into the hopper on the left. HORRIBLE chomping noises came from the machine as it schlurped up the apples and squished them to a pulp. The boys were fascinated. Then it rolled the squished apples on the squishing bands and out squeezed the cider. The hose in the middle of the photo sucked up the fresh juice and pumped it over to...<br />
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A big blue barrel marked for us!! The nice cider pressing man gave us little cups of the fresh juice -- mmm, good!!<br />
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After a waiting interval, our juice was pumped by hose into the next room where the apparatus for pasturization is set up. A bunch of guys were working non-stop to fill bottle after bottle and carton after carton. We had ours put into cartons and then there were 20 liters left over that we took home to drink fresh in the next couple days. We also shared with friends and neighbors as 20 liters is a lot of fresh cider to drink in 3 days. It was delicious! <br />
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The next morning I had the kids unload the car and stack up our wares. We had 25 cartons of 5 liters each! 125 liters of juice ~ that might last us through the winter!<br />
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Since the total amount of liters (before pasturization) was 160 liters, and since we are curious about exactly how many apples I lugged down to the car (with the help of the workers, of course), we can use what the appointment man told us in the following equation:<br />
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<u>60 liters </u> = <u>160 liters</u><br />
100 kilos of apples Number of kilos of apples we picked<br />
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I tried to get people interested in this equation as in "Real Life Homeschool Math" but no one fell for it and I ended up doing it myself. We picked 267 kilos of apples!! Gracious! And translating to kilos by multiplying by 2.2 we discover that that is 586 pounds. <br />
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Yummy delicous fresh pressed organic apple cider. Wish you could come by and share some!!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-82460431936793722632011-09-13T04:21:00.000-07:002011-09-13T04:21:07.482-07:00Many Happy Returns of the Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We recently celebrated my mother's (and this blog's writer's) birthday. Here's a couple photos from her special day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3kTDezIEwqTOmvwvho1-1qENn-Y2VBdvpmPqU3oG5JLOA5CUXk8rEbAhhX0KLaXjLr4u5Wh0IWSaUTpIlHmE2hwQDGnafnqst8ju0gt4zVT3Dev6477Q1li_gcTVhjr_4jmNz89RWxc/s1600/055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3kTDezIEwqTOmvwvho1-1qENn-Y2VBdvpmPqU3oG5JLOA5CUXk8rEbAhhX0KLaXjLr4u5Wh0IWSaUTpIlHmE2hwQDGnafnqst8ju0gt4zVT3Dev6477Q1li_gcTVhjr_4jmNz89RWxc/s320/055.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A walk in the forest in the afternoon </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YZCcGwy2j_-dP9AU3V3tLa3sjJk-LYsLeFXe4dsyWEcqywReGxI_gt4PohGGmHzCPH1BdsbtEcDGpXOoCEHXs3P1yLYX2JQwV57KHhjeC4LfXBgQQwrIGPuD_rqiRQGbjaVR4CSCj9Y/s1600/085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YZCcGwy2j_-dP9AU3V3tLa3sjJk-LYsLeFXe4dsyWEcqywReGxI_gt4PohGGmHzCPH1BdsbtEcDGpXOoCEHXs3P1yLYX2JQwV57KHhjeC4LfXBgQQwrIGPuD_rqiRQGbjaVR4CSCj9Y/s320/085.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A present</div><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/AVvXsEi26IbkIRc07qFN9oyYs3KZLlwVz7yrJejsf43WwYGjsljDdLS2PGLnJvU_Mv7HE3f6S7L9dFX-p-2KbYlE5f1JnrkEKX4e87FtP_oqqEUho2ReylkySZs2kHUPZvmRWuSag8APYEa888k/s1600/096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26IbkIRc07qFN9oyYs3KZLlwVz7yrJejsf43WwYGjsljDdLS2PGLnJvU_Mv7HE3f6S7L9dFX-p-2KbYlE5f1JnrkEKX4e87FtP_oqqEUho2ReylkySZs2kHUPZvmRWuSag8APYEa888k/s320/096.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mother also got a grain mill for her birthday. In goes the grains, and out comes the flours. I tried to get a picture of the mill itself on here, but unfortuantely was unable to do so. Perhaps it will appear in another post. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the evening the grandparents, aunt, uncle, and little cousin came to party with us. Happy Birthday Mama! </div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-49802284257285863682011-05-31T13:59:00.001-07:002011-06-02T12:48:31.740-07:00Cherry SeasonThis week I bought my first ever cherry pitter. Here’s why. <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Dzb-H5DsGRg/TeVWcMbDy5I/AAAAAAAACnE/v6FIy1R6VKI/s1600-h/image%25255B17%25255D.png"><img alt="image" border="0" height="363" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-ZEEIm25S400/TeVWeAtpliI/AAAAAAAACnI/fE8tOpEsG5M/image_thumb%25255B7%25255D.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline;" title="image" width="484" /></a> <br />
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There is this whole tree full, of which the southern half is already ripe. This picture below shows only about a third of the tree. It’s full sized, about 40 feet high. There’s no way we could reach the upper branches without breaking some necks, but I am quite sure there will be enough bounty on the lower branches for us. Especially since there are four more cherry trees in the orchard that will ripen after this one! Goodness! Anyone wanna come cherry pickin’?<br />
I’ll just have to keep telling myself that it’s good to leave lots for the birdies – I’m sure that’s how many folks have injured themselves….<i>if I could juuust reach that juicy bunch over there….</i><br />
Here is part of the tree with Artemis “doing her math” on the bench and Hermes up the ladder scouting out the goodness.<br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-p2SAJxFC1yc/TeVWhkfXkdI/AAAAAAAACnU/quiXOswFvjU/s1600-h/image%25255B16%25255D.png"><img alt="image" border="0" height="364" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-b21wNKX6KA4/TeVWjC98svI/AAAAAAAACnY/ye3MYCKzOzc/image_thumb%25255B6%25255D.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline;" title="image" width="273" /></a><br />
Here is what you do with cherries after you pick them off the tree: Cherry earrings! <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-daQBdBVrWX8/TeVWkPAVSII/AAAAAAAACnc/xNfdyZ6cD8M/s1600-h/image%25255B18%25255D.png"><img alt="image" border="0" height="363" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-cU76jjJa2j4/TeVWlkylMgI/AAAAAAAACng/nJK1NhS-EAw/image_thumb%25255B8%25255D.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline;" title="image" width="484" /></a> <br />
We didn’t have a cherry tree growing up and since my parents weren’t huge fans, we didn’t come across them very often. Cherries became the stuff of children’s literature where children dangle cherries on their ears. <br />
Later on, I realized I really liked cherries. The real ones are even better than cherry flavored lollipops!<br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-g--3b5lgsdM/TeVWm_JQ5aI/AAAAAAAACnk/-u4yt9NKsfc/s1600-h/image%25255B19%25255D.png"><img alt="image" border="0" height="363" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-9gfcNMt-Kfk/TeVWovLoPJI/AAAAAAAACno/Cma9NYTbSFU/image_thumb%25255B9%25255D.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline;" title="image" width="484" /></a><br />
Here is the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001MSYWQW/ref=as_li_ss_il?ie=UTF8&tag=ecolevieuxpin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217153&creative=399349&creativeASIN=B001MSYWQW">cherry pitter</a> in action. It’s a Leifheit and you fill the cherries into the hopper on top, press the handle, hear a satisfying cher-CHUNK as the little blade pushes the pit into the box underneath, and the pitted cherry drops out into the waiting bowl. You can get through a lot of cherries fast!<br />
<br />
With those particular cherries (after eating a whole bunch and making cherry clafoutis) we made jam. Yum! Sunday afternoon we all went out and picked 10 pounds in about 45 minutes (I weighed them because I wanted to know.) Those have been frozen for winter clafoutis, eaten in a tart and dried to go in homemade granola. <br />
Something I love about eating in season is that when a particular fruit is ripe, you eat and eat it until you are nearly sick of it when the season end. Then it is a treat to look forward to next year. For now we are in the eating and eating stage and not yet to the tired-of-them stage. <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-LS7nTU13P80/TeVWpkqBL1I/AAAAAAAACns/zhDkQ5qEl40/s1600-h/image%25255B20%25255D.png"><img alt="image" border="0" height="363" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-WHPU7pN2bas/TeVWrLT8yfI/AAAAAAAACnw/fRVYOXlDHjA/image_thumb%25255B10%25255D.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline;" title="image" width="484" /></a> <br />
Here is my recipe for Cherry Clafoutis, which I got from Zeus’ mama. It’s a good one to keep handy because it is about as easy and Makin’ It Work as you can get. However, if you like your measurements to be super exact, then you should maybe look away. If you don’t and you like super forgiving recipes, then this one is for you! <br />
You can call it dessert if you want, but we often have it for a small dinner, with a bit of cheese or sausage beforehand to make it nutritionally and socially acceptable. You can whip it up reeeeaally fast which makes it excellent for times when you’ve been doing a craft or being chatty on the phone and then realize that dinner time is bearing down on you like an express freight train. If the table is set and there’s a pretty clafoutis on it, then maybe your husband and kids won’t notice the pile of crafty creativeness all over the table in the next room. <br />
<b>Cherry Clafoutis</b> <i>(Claw-foo-TEE)</i><br />
Oven to 350 degrees. Or maybe 375 if you feel so inclined. Butter a 9x13” Pyrex pan or if you live in a metric country grab the metric equivalent – something large and rectangular.<br />
Cover the bottom with your pitted cherries. (Or apricots or plum halves – sunny side up.) <br />
Sprinkle the fruit with some sugar.<br />
In a large liquid measuring cup, measure roughly 1 cup of milk. Add three eggs, a touch of vanilla and a tablespoon of flour. Take a fork and mix, mix, mix. If you are feeling fancy, you could use a whisk – but odds are you are in a hurry, so why bother? <br />
Pour your egg mixture over the fruit and put it in the oven to bake. For, oh… maybe 30-40 minutes? Until the custardy bit has set and it’s not jiggly in the center. The kind of fruit you use and whether or not it’s frozen will vary the time. Using frozen cherries that you have diligently stored during cherry season may mean baking it up to an hour. <br />
When it’s done and getting just a little brown on the sides, pull it out and sprinkle a little more sugar on the top. It will sort of melt in. Or, if you want to make it all pretties, wait until your clafoutis has cooled and sprinkle powdered sugar. We eat ours only slightly warmish or at room temperature. Ta-da! All done! The next time I make one, I’ll have to take a photo to post. Bon Appetit!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-77006753786924413072011-05-26T06:34:00.000-07:002011-05-26T06:34:14.293-07:00French FashionOn a recent clothes shopping trip to France, you know, <i>France</i> of <i>haute couture</i> and all, I saw this on a t-shirt in the boys' department. ???!!! <br />
<br />
My Dad would be elated -- Arby's is his favorite restaurant. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/jlindschmitt/WalkAlongTheWay?authkey=Gv1sRgCPf5j7qlnIf6Zg#5611016095936245218"><img border="0" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBz-iGQ7RlnXNMWDGhmn8Vli9BmWADAvMa_2M8gPtX-Gi1XhNFBAyjc7E4_b_dD7j45J8iJzT3KlbjqiNig4gjvuNKUjKJqb6w4zMlEGnUbdf1WaeN5-nyQEh4g6EdIGnhFdxSVVsPS4/s288/2.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="300" /></a></center>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-1269254439922884282011-05-23T12:18:00.001-07:002011-05-23T12:18:19.994-07:00how ‘bout some Chickens?<p>Soon after we got our impulse bunnies, we invested in chickens. It was inevitable! Our garden shed here was already perfectly set up with a large fenced in chicken run, roost, laying boxes, feeding trough, and an adorable little chickeny door. Hey, presto, just add chickens!</p> <p>So we called the number in the ad in the paper that I’d been eyeing for months advertising “<em>young laying hens</em>.” It was a man at a chicken farm about 30 minutes away. (I should add that I had asked the Bunny Lady about hens because her ad had also mentioned them, but she was fresh out of young chickens that day, wouldn’t I like to come see a bunny instead?) </p> <p>So on a Tuesday afternoon when the kids didn’t have school, we went to the Chicken Man. I don’t know what I expected, but not quite what we found.  A large building with lots and lots of chickens, chicks on one floor, slightly older pullets in a pen behind, and upstairs on a big, stinky, floor what must have been hundreds and hundreds of chickens. Only we couldn’t see because they were in the dark. I’ve never quite understood why they are kept in the dark, to keep them calm or something? Anyway, we didn’t like it, and while the Chicken Farmer (who seemed nice, despite keeping his chickens in the dark) had his back turned, the kids and I were happy together that we could rescue a few hens out of the darkness and confusion. </p> <p>He had three colors: white, brown and black, (I don’t even know the breeds – isn’t that ridiculous?), so we asked for two of each, for prettys. So while we waited just outside, Mr. Chicken Man went into the big, dark, fluttery room with a flashlight to, as he put it, “fish you some chickens!”</p> <p>Then when he had three, his cell phone rang. Calm as anything, he answered with three hens dangling from his left hand. There they dangled upside down, looking quite perplexed with this turn of events while he chatted on and on with someone else who wanted to get some hens. Suddenly they mustered a great squawking and struggle and Mr. Chicken Man had to tell the person on the line, “Ouai, j’ai des poules dans la main.” <em>Yeah, I’ve got some chickens in my hand.</em></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqyw4VWVrI/AAAAAAAACls/pfi5-6_J878/s1600-h/IMG_04163.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_0416" border="0" alt="IMG_0416" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqyxv_Kj1I/AAAAAAAAClw/rtdOUYAZW04/IMG_0416_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="273" height="364" /></a></p> <p>(I surreptitiously took a photo.)</p> <p>We brought them home in Bella’s doggy crate and put them in their new home. Since there are six, we each got to christen one. (Mine is called Heidi since she is a Swiss hen.) They seemed rather stunned by the light and air for a bit and afraid to go outside. Soon enough however, their curiosity overcame their fear and they were exploring and pecking about the yard in a fine chickeny way. And to my delight, going in and out of their sweet little door. It’s all just so perfect. They have pretty much gone to chicken paradise.</p> <p>The whole thing made me feel philosophical. Out of all the hundreds that the Chicken Man had, why these six? Why did he fish out these particular six? While the rest of them would continue to live out their lives in dark smelly confusion or else become someone’s chicken dinner, these six were chosen to come live a life of rapturous natural chickeness: pecking in the morning, sun bath in the afternoon, more pecking, lay an egg, little more pecking and then roosting. I am willing to bet that they were no better or worse than the other chickens. There were plenty of other black, white and brown ones running around there. </p> <p>It seems to me that there is a deep metaphor there, but I am afraid that I might mess it up. The Chicken Man is not God and as far as I know, the chickens did not get themselves into the smelly room through their own sin, but in clumsy metaphor lies the truth that God does choose some people to draw to Himself, into His glorious light while others remain in darkness and confusion. I have no more intrinsic merit than one brown chicken had more than the next brown chicken.  Yet, here I am, given the gift of His grace and a beautiful new home in His love and care, pecking and sunbathing away while He watches over me and gives me everything I need. Why He does that I cannot say. He has His reasons, and I have to learn to trust Him and let my heart dwell on the gratitude I have to be here. Perhaps the Chicken Man had his reasons too, that I couldn’t see, why this hen and not that one. A mystery.</p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p>In the meantime, I am very pleased to have hens about again. Something so domesticated about them. And we’re enjoying the fresh eggs! I dislike waste, and one reason I love chickens is that they are marvelous recyclers: they take our old bread and carrot peels and turn them into fresh eggs. Which reminds me that it’s time to take them this morning’s leftover oatmeal. </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdqyyadD3QI/AAAAAAAACl0/y4uC7nhMtU0/s1600-h/IMG_19363.jpg"><em><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1936" border="0" alt="IMG_1936" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdqyzFYtbWI/AAAAAAAACl4/7eHVWkVUt7U/IMG_1936_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></em></a>  Discovering their new home.<em> </em></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdqyzgznraI/AAAAAAAACl8/9543hDqb8Wg/s1600-h/IMG_19253.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1925" border="0" alt="IMG_1925" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy0Y4HWSI/AAAAAAAACmA/kWyy7A9IZQE/IMG_1925_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a></p> <p>Hermes with hens and little roosting spot inside the coop.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy1SvUXTI/AAAAAAAACmE/b7GB9VDOOIY/s1600-h/IMG_19433.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1943" border="0" alt="IMG_1943" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy2D6Z-aI/AAAAAAAACmI/5OXsntX3fzA/IMG_1943_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>Trying out the new door and exploring the outside world for the first time.</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy2Qk3MbI/AAAAAAAACmM/n44RBsk-r7g/s1600-h/IMG_19633.jpg"><em><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1963" border="0" alt="IMG_1963" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy3KwG2NI/AAAAAAAACmQ/pJCyjDVqiu8/IMG_1963_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></em></a><em> </em><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy4EAL2pI/AAAAAAAACmY/ha2WEYIHToM/s1600-h/IMG_20073.jpg"><em>What is that? I think I’ll eat it!<img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_2007" border="0" alt="IMG_2007" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy4m-9sMI/AAAAAAAACmc/e4EMWJy-kSY/IMG_2007_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></em></a>  How I love the look of a chicken in the grass.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy5SL63EI/AAAAAAAACmg/P58KfR4nN3s/s1600-h/IMG_20313.jpg"><em><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_2031" border="0" alt="IMG_2031" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy6LquRGI/AAAAAAAACmk/yon1KiqtuuU/IMG_2031_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></em></a>  </p> <p>chicken heaven<em> </em>(with my $10 thrift store bench for chicken gazing)</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy6yO6umI/AAAAAAAACmo/hnX33OOrXCs/s1600-h/IMG_20273.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_2027" border="0" alt="IMG_2027" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy7rKvuoI/AAAAAAAACms/BqVGQC1d3Yg/IMG_2027_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p><em>please, oh please, just one little nibble?</em><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy8QYLueI/AAAAAAAACmw/jgYtRlrhbDg/s1600-h/IMG_19323.jpg"><em><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1932" border="0" alt="IMG_1932" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy8-MHoOI/AAAAAAAACm0/-3q3U7kX8mA/IMG_1932_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></em></a><em> </em></p> <p>chicken gazing, much better than television</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy9iFRjsI/AAAAAAAACm4/CKwtQrnPYU4/s1600-h/IMG_2129%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_2129" border="0" alt="IMG_2129" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/Tdqy-R-o2tI/AAAAAAAACm8/1yXcjEsTz30/IMG_2129_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>I am a country girl at heart ~ this sight make me very happy. garden boxes, laundry drying on the line and chickens. sigh.</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-79639583663086899532011-05-22T10:53:00.001-07:002011-05-22T10:53:04.479-07:00Five year old Hermes<p><em>Guest post by Athena</em></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMIK5jz8I/AAAAAAAACj4/vn9tZ94TGEE/s1600-h/image%5B2%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMJbB9yoI/AAAAAAAACj8/R-V8VHWoADY/image_thumb%5B2%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a></p> <p>Hermes turned five! We celebrated the Saturday before his birthday. He invited five of his school friends over. </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMKTejc6I/AAAAAAAACkA/bdZIsB_23NI/s1600-h/image6%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMLqErG8I/AAAAAAAACkE/IPcJmn5qeX4/image6_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="364" height="274" /></a> </p> <p>Welcome to the party! Apollo was the greeter.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMMs9Qi5I/AAAAAAAACkI/zWn2muDLS1o/s1600-h/image9%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMN0rKBAI/AAAAAAAACkM/m_1r_nZzWFA/image9_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="364" height="274" /></a> </p> <p>We played Duck Duck Goose, and the Clothespin Game, which involves dropping a clothespin into a jar while standing on a bench. They were both a hit.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMOvNOeLI/AAAAAAAACkQ/0MHpXOxzX80/s1600-h/image12%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMP-zHXyI/AAAAAAAACkY/Apsfah7IA7A/image12_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>Then we blew up some balloon swords.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMQiUktMI/AAAAAAAACkc/6Jt5l2iTXCU/s1600-h/image15%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMR6A42OI/AAAAAAAACkg/fO4H6hNa1uM/image15_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a></p> <p> <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMS0dr4VI/AAAAAAAACkk/wIEE0WYpIqA/s1600-h/image3%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMUJp3lcI/AAAAAAAACko/RnVkC3mMiSE/image3_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="364" height="274" /></a></p> <p>Hermes requested a train cake, so we made an engine, and hooked it up with some train cars.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMVTmT5FI/AAAAAAAACks/ZwdASJJI4sI/s1600-h/image18%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMWR6xirI/AAAAAAAACkw/3uRKcG8iHrc/image18_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="364" height="274" /></a> </p> <p>Apollo and Hermes quickly started putting together all the presents that Hermes received. </p> <p>That evening we had a little family party, so we reloaded up the train with extra cars.</p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMXimteOI/AAAAAAAACk0/j7aFvFBnDqQ/s1600-h/image21%5B1%5D.png"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TdlMY7FXCSI/AAAAAAAACk4/3U68_Qr8pkY/image21_thumb.png?imgmax=800" width="364" height="274" /></a></p> <p>Happy Birthday Hermes!</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-45291310317534388182011-05-02T05:49:00.000-07:002011-05-02T06:04:16.064-07:00The Really Bad Guy is No More<div class="MsoNormal">This morning, after checking my iPhone about my alarm clock and email, I checked the news and saw the headline that had already set the world abuzz: Osama bin Laden is dead. Stunned, I read the stories: Osama Killed in Firefight outside Islamabad, President Obama makes Stunning Announcement to World, World Stocks Rally on News of bin Laden’s Death. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The kids were waking up by then, so I told them there was Big News. They could tell by my tone that this was important, but they couldn’t quite place him. “The leader of Al Quaeda. Remember the Towers in New York? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Him</i>.” Oh. Yes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They don’t remember a time before there was an Al Quaeda. Apollo was born only a month before 9/11, and I recall gorgeous weather and quiet skies outside and watching the news while nursing a tiny baby in a world that had suddenly gotten more dangerous. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Later, I remember trying to explain Al Quaeda to my small children, especially before waiting in long airport security lines when visiting our overseas grandparents. Their eyes would get wide as my words sunk in. “They hate you because you are American. Their god is Destruction, and they would kill you, a little child, if they had the chance, just because you are American.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So it’s good news,” I told them this morning, “somber good news.” Then we turned on the television to see if it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> true. We saw Obama’s statement repeated about five times and saw the flag waving crowds jumping around victoriously at the White House. “They don’t seem very somber,” remarked Apollo. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmmm, no they don’t!</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The kids left for school, and my sadness at the necessity of killing of any kind gave way to relief that justice has finally been paid to that wicked man. I remembered the American flag that my daughter reminded me of a couple days ago. I got it out and hung it up in the kitchen. I didn’t hang it outside – I am a guest in a small foreign village, and it could be easily misconstrued. But at lunch my kids will see it, and we will talk about honoring all the people that died at 9/11 and since, fighting that man and his band of clear-headed lunatics. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wondered what the local news media might be saying and turned on the radio pundits. Not surprisingly, they had a lot to say, and they said it in long, flowery French prose. Among other things: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><i>We should be careful who we label ‘terrorist,’ as George Bush labeled bin Laden just after 9/11. Yes, the so-called “axis of evil” (laughter). After all, Nelson Mandela was once called a terrorist. Someday we may want to negotiate with terrorists. Blah blah blah blah blah.</i> </div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It made me mad. Osama bin Laden lived to destroy, kill, taunt and incite fear around the world. If he can’t reasonably be called a terrorist, then I’m the President of the European Union. I switched off the radio.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My youngest son Hermes arrived downstairs in the kitchen. His sleepy eyes grew large and questioning. “Why is there a big flag?” At five, he is not yet so up on geo-political events. <i>How to explain this,</i> I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well….a really bad guy who killed a whole lot of people finally got captured and killed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh,” he said slowly. “So the really bad guy is dead?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” I said with finality. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good. Can I have some oatmeal?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-48355182234449459502011-03-30T02:10:00.001-07:002011-03-30T02:10:36.402-07:00Comfort Me with Bunnies<p>It’s time to tell you that we are extending our Year of Living Swissly. There are various reasons involved, the primary one being that Zeus, who we fully expected to be milking cows all year to pay the rent, has got a job that is very interesting and resume-worthy and with which he has not yet finished. So we’ve officially decided to stay another year. </p> <p>There are lots of mixed feelings all around and lots of discussions on how to do schooling next year, but the most important thing to consider was this: If we're gonna stay, it's high time we got some LIVESTOCK!</p> <p>Because, really, when you are homesick and missing all your friends, nothing says "comfort" quite like a bunny. In fact, I am starting to think that all adolescent girls should routinely be issued one when they turn twelve.</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzdXAnyfI/AAAAAAAACiI/XUI24FzFFok/s1600-h/image4.png"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzelCgHkI/AAAAAAAACiM/huas8hSCYK8/image_thumb2.png?imgmax=800" width="273" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>When I called the number in the classified ad to ask about bunnies the lady told me that if my daughter was interested, she had better come along to make sure there was “good bunny vibe” (or something like that) because she had lots of colors and lengths of hair to choose from. There was a sweet gray one in the first hutch she opened and so she found a bucket for Athena to sit on and put the bunny in her lap. Little Gray Bunny sort of stood up and leaned on Athena’s chest and then just gazed at her for, no joke, about 15 minutes. When the farmer lady came back she asked, </p> <p>“Well, have you chosen?” </p> <p>“Um…I think the bunny has chosen us.”</p> <p>Even the farmer lady was amazed! She was very happy that her bunny was going home to live with a girl she adored so much. So that she would not be lonely, we got her sister too, who wears a little black jacket.</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzfa9R_lI/AAAAAAAACiQ/G6rUP81ESJg/s1600-h/blackbunny3.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="black bunny" border="0" alt="black bunny" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzgFohRjI/AAAAAAAACiU/Nw1T_F3xQDM/blackbunny_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>Line ‘em up, folks, and give ‘em a bunny!</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzgn6PVRI/AAAAAAAACiY/J4SW1RIDJXM/s1600-h/bunnies3.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="bunnies!" border="0" alt="bunnies!" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzhhcmp3I/AAAAAAAACic/0U6k8dqWz4U/bunnies_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p></p> <p>Little Bunnies are awaiting names. The kitchen whiteboard is full of ideas ranging from Jane Austen heroines to Darth Fluffy and Master Fuzzy, a la Star Wars. There’s a rumor that we’ve finally reached a settlement with Flopsy and Mopsy.  </p> <p>Meanwhile they’ve settled into their lovely ready-to-go hutch out in the garden shed. It is all set up here beautifully because …{shhh….cover those long bunny ears} around here, rabbits are often raised for their meat. A few people have already asked me if I was raising them for “elevage”? to eat?  “NO! For snuggles!” </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLziKmsCQI/AAAAAAAACig/YWJhPKtYRcE/s1600-h/IMG_1929%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1929" border="0" alt="IMG_1929" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TZLzioxSWsI/AAAAAAAACik/0rduVXvomhE/IMG_1929_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-38173669458809287082011-03-09T11:47:00.001-08:002011-03-09T11:47:10.434-08:00Our Village<p>Sunday afternoon, and after a good church service this morning, the three big kids are playing Risk around the coffee table in the living room. Hermes is upstairs playing Legos with his Papa. Two chickens and oven fries are all roasting snugly together in my petite oven, and I thought that in between bastes, I would take you on a little tour of our village. </p> <p align="center">***</p> <p align="left">From the south, (that is, the rest of Switzerland) this is the first thing you see in our village: a ruined tower from the 11th century – the Tour de Milandre. It sits on the hill overlooking the village and was used as a guard tower for some lords living further upstream on the small river – l’Allaine – that runs through the valley. In the 1980s a metal staircase was built inside and one can climb to the top of the tower and survey the lands from a great height. If you have a doggy with small paws that might slip through the metal grating, you should to carry her and hold her up to the windows for a view and fresh breezes.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZCilYODI/AAAAAAAACgg/M9-9ws2v6K4/s1600-h/IMG_15684.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1568" border="0" alt="IMG_1568" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZDSRlQrI/AAAAAAAACgk/21terdMEoqM/IMG_1568_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a></p> <p>Then you round the bend and enter the village.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZEPTCE9I/AAAAAAAACgo/hmOHcyccq1E/s1600-h/IMG_15721.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1572" border="0" alt="IMG_1572" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZEsoPzcI/AAAAAAAACgs/GFdIJJJwalM/IMG_1572_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>But before you go thinking that it’s all chateaux and history, here is the view as you enter the village from the other direction.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZFNnGeTI/AAAAAAAACgw/jCHyTeEiFOc/s1600-h/IMG_15791.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1579" border="0" alt="IMG_1579" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZF4hPDyI/AAAAAAAACg0/OPIha0Ii8PU/IMG_1579_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>The sign says “British American Tobacco” – as in cigarettes. It’s the cigarette factory that employs about 60% of the town residents. That’s down from what Zeus estimates was 80% when he was growing up. </p> <p>Back then it had a different name: Burrus, after the farmer who several generations ago started growing tobacco in this area. His factory employed Zeus’ father, his grandparents, and probably some great-grandparents as well, not to mention many aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends. It’s a company town, and when I first visited, it was still the Burrus company and Monsieur Burrus lived in a large house at the top of the hill. People would sort of nod deferentially when he drove on by and they would talk about him and his family by their first names: Monsieur Charles and Monsieur Leon. I found it very feudal and rather odd ~ especially in strongly democratic Switzerland.  </p> <p>When she passed away, Zeus’ grandmother still had a handwritten cookbook from a cooking class that Madame Burrus had given for the young wives of the village. Dotted about the town are some of the fancy old homes of members of the family that now serve other purposes; one is a conference center, one is a rest home, and one was donated to be the town hall, or <em>mairie</em>. Here’s a picture of the latter from the summer – they were doing some maintenance work, the blue tarp isn’t usually there.<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZGn6VUlI/AAAAAAAACg4/zh2HNDfhY10/s1600-h/IMG_95933.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_9593" border="0" alt="IMG_9593" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZHNen9RI/AAAAAAAACg8/7oIAsSgaFCE/IMG_9593_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>Back at the end of the village with the ruin, when you round the bend, this is the view into the village on the main highway. When I first came to the visit, lo, twenty years ago, the big rectangle on the left was painted as a huge pack of cigarettes. Charming.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZHuWqVtI/AAAAAAAAChA/MmHMA05FNRg/s1600-h/IMG_15731.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1573" border="0" alt="IMG_1573" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZICDhSFI/AAAAAAAAChE/KupkVrGhHog/IMG_1573_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>This is the train station. You can see the Tour de Milandre again on the upper right. There is no longer anyone on duty in the station – just an automatic ticket booth. Trains arrive from Porrentruy and points south every hour at :21 past. Then the train continues on to Delle, just across the border into France. After a couple minutes, it comes back, and leaves from this platform heading south at :36. Artemis catches the train here twice a day with the other secondary school kids. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZI_CFj0I/AAAAAAAAChI/ix83Daw2NVk/s1600-h/IMG_15751.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1575" border="0" alt="IMG_1575" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZJegw-0I/AAAAAAAAChM/GWBTheAjubI/IMG_1575_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>Looking down the tracks the other way. Across the tracks is a big warehouse used to store tobacco. </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZJ1Ij-0I/AAAAAAAAChQ/SobN0pUOWpw/s1600-h/IMG_15761.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1576" border="0" alt="IMG_1576" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZKfkCTgI/AAAAAAAAChU/pyIJHbDzI70/IMG_1576_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a>  </p> <p>The Hotel de la Rochette – the one and only hotel in the village. Because of the shape and pitch of the roof, it makes me think of a large pink Darth Vader. A pink Darth Vader certainly takes the scare out of him. <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZLFkD8PI/AAAAAAAAChY/6OR_GQ5mjak/s1600-h/IMG_15711.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1571" border="0" alt="IMG_1571" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZL-NVe_I/AAAAAAAAChc/AXfWdUnfbhc/IMG_1571_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a>    </p> <p>A typical farmhouse and attached barn. Historically, the two shared a roof and a wall. The animals were handy for milking in the winter and helped keep the house warm. There’s a house in the village very near this one that has 1794 carved in the stone over the doorway – the year of construction. </p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZMsWYMZI/AAAAAAAAChg/GRHv37cG-Lw/s1600-h/IMG_15831.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="IMG_1583" border="0" alt="IMG_1583" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZNB_a8cI/AAAAAAAAChk/9-WEDjfwTCo/IMG_1583_thumb1.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>The commercial center of town. Not a PF Chang’s in sight. Instead there is the post office, the bank, our small grocery store (which despite its small size carries refried beans and taco shells!), and a bakery/cafe with curious opening hours – i.e. sort of when the owner feels like it. Fortunately there is a little more parking across the street. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZNsYaHJI/AAAAAAAACho/MOIQfmqo5XY/s1600-h/IMG_1582%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1582" border="0" alt="IMG_1582" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZOEpL21I/AAAAAAAAChs/ivROuTyXwhs/IMG_1582_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>The one main thing not on this little tour is the church. Maybe for another day? I will take some nice photos of it. It does tower over everything else which is very nice and the church bell tolls the hours which I love. Thanks for coming on the tour!</p> <p align="center">***</p> <p>Allrighty, now I have to tell you that it’s no longer Sunday afternoon and those chickens have long since been eaten up. But speaking of food, I have been getting adventurous with fermentation these days! After one friend’s recommendation of homemade sauerkraut as a way to keep nasty germies at bay (Gina), and the encouragement of another (Marijo), I asked for the recipe. I subsequently found roughly the same recipe in the <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/lifestyle-design/201101/one-way-better-eating" target="_blank">cookbook I recently recommended</a>, and soon I had a big jar of it fermenting on the corner of my counter and a skeptical husband keeping his distance. </p> <p>One fermentation inspires another, I suppose, because I soon began toying with the idea of making a sourdough starter. Now Auntie Janet has shared several sourdough starters over the years, all of which ended up coming to an untimely end from neglect. But since we are now eating spelt flour and since it’s been years since I ate sourdough bread, I started to get a hankering and wondered how it would work out with spelt flour. I would give it another go. Only this time, I would start from scratch with no packaged leavening and just pick up the lovely yeasties floating here in the countryside. For good measure, I let my mass of spelt flour and water sit next to my compost bin for a few days. Surely there’s some good fungi and bacteria there, right? </p> <p>Well, it worked – really well!! Apparently we’ve got a good strain here – maybe Boncourt Sourdough will be a new craze. It was for me at any rate. My loaf was soooo good! Hard crusty outside, soft chewy super sour inside. I almost cried, but I was too busy slapping on the butter and salt and chewing. Then I annoyed the rest of the family by telling them over and over again just how good it was and asking them if I had mentioned my sourdough to them yet? </p> <p>But I hadn’t told <em>you</em> yet! And now I have.  Here is the link to a site with <a href="http://www.sourdoughhome.com/startingastarter.html" target="_blank">instructions on making a starter</a> and here is a picture of my first beautiful loaf. Ah, so crusty!</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZOjfOrkI/AAAAAAAAChw/UhukDde8CP0/s1600-h/IMG_1650%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1650" border="0" alt="IMG_1650" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TXfZPMBYmfI/AAAAAAAACh0/Xme-o0A-NM0/IMG_1650_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>The sauerkraut came out very tasty as well, and when we had it for lunch one Sunday dinner (the week before the roast chickens), everyone had a small bit to try. I didn’t have high expectations, but 50% of my children liked it! And I did, so that made 50% of the family! Hermes was especially surprised since he had been making faces at it. That is why we have No Thank You helpings. Zeus, despite the fact that he grew up in a seriously heavy sauerkraut region (<em>choucroute</em>) does not care for it (– and never has, so I won’t take it personally), but politely ate his No Thank You helping.  </p> <p>The many pots of things fermenting on the counter had been getting to be a bit much for my dear man. So when it came up in conversation at one point, I pressed him. </p> <p>“So you don’t really like all these pots of fermenting things everywhere, my dear?”</p> <p>“Well, no, not really.”</p> <p>“So you’re not really into fermentation then, honey?”</p> <p>“No, not really.”</p> <p>“So are you ready to give up on all fermented foods then, sweetie?”</p> <p>“Uh…hmmm….I think this is a trap.”</p> <p>Aha! Yes, it was. Wine and cheese are two of my sweetie’s favorite foods – both of which, I think we all know, are <em>fermented!</em> </p> <p>I think that maybe they are just supposed to ferment a little further away from his personal space. Okay, I get that. I will make my next batch of sauerkraut down in the cellar, and my sourdough starter is now living quietly in my little fridge waiting until it’s time for the next tasty loaf. </p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660834151833537719.post-5528694174424854602011-02-14T08:24:00.001-08:002011-02-14T08:24:47.646-08:00Happy Valentine’s Day<p>Here is what we’ve been doing today. Today is the first day of Winter Break and we’ve had a calm and happy day, puttering and drawing and cutting and pasting little messages for each other. </p> <p> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXMpD2AQI/AAAAAAAACfU/i7CRjW-lZV8/s1600-h/IMG_1602%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1602" border="0" alt="IMG_1602" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXNdDwZnI/AAAAAAAACfY/V6rixObceg0/IMG_1602_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a>  </p> <p>Every year I wonder why I don’t start making Valentine’s earlier – I find it very therapeutic. This year I drew and painted little pictures. </p> <p>Athena drew some little pictures and glued them in walnut shells. So that’s what I’ve been saving walnut shells for!</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXNwy3CeI/AAAAAAAACfc/nC4qKGcfMB4/s1600-h/IMG_1614%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1614" border="0" alt="IMG_1614" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXOpV9ArI/AAAAAAAACfg/STD1wxOwwuQ/IMG_1614_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXPO6rh2I/AAAAAAAACfk/BYNkLrCJfkA/s1600-h/IMG_1611%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1611" border="0" alt="IMG_1611" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXP2vKP7I/AAAAAAAACfo/x3F5ganrxIk/IMG_1611_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="274" height="364" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXQYeKV6I/AAAAAAAACfs/giZQDbdNgDA/s1600-h/IMG_1608%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1608" border="0" alt="IMG_1608" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXQwaIeMI/AAAAAAAACfw/GbHJa1ezlj0/IMG_1608_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXRS4TpoI/AAAAAAAACf0/67YZOYL-NQI/s1600-h/IMG_1621%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1621" border="0" alt="IMG_1621" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXSB-_zsI/AAAAAAAACf4/G8M9n8ljJ9E/IMG_1621_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a></p> <p>For some odd reason, I always like to take a picture of the Valentine making detritus before cleaning it all up. Creative debris.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXSniKUTI/AAAAAAAACf8/k7G3Hme2C8M/s1600-h/IMG_1620%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="IMG_1620" border="0" alt="IMG_1620" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_3PBwMvGBhTw/TVlXTSlvxNI/AAAAAAAACgA/fqvU1IEGAWY/IMG_1620_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="364" /></a> </p> <p>Tonight we will have a little party – Artemis is making treats. I think they will be heart shaped. </p> <p>Happy Valentine’s Day, Dear Friends!</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18363450490477036413noreply@blogger.com0