Moving From Paris to the Country

After living a year in Paris, France, my husband, 3 year old son and I moved to a country house in Marangis, Seine Et Marne, France. We had answered a newspaper add offering a small house, in a small hamlet, for a small annual rent, and arranged to see it. After getting directions to the property, we rode the train for several hours to a station that was nearest the country road leading to the house.

A two minute walk up a slight ridge overlooking the train tracks led to combination post office and store. We asked for directions to the house and discovered that we would have to walk the three miles to it since no one living in the area owned an auto. The only phone available was the one in the little store and taxis were non existent. There was no town as such, only a cluster of several houses near a church.

About a quarter mile down the road, we passed a large gate of tall iron spikes guarding a chateau that seemed closed and unused. As we left the populated area near the railroad tracks, the road traversed flat, agricultural fields. The dry, soft dirt of the road made little puffs of dust over our shoes as we walked along.

Eventually we saw a house in the distance that turned out to be the one we came to see. Opposite the house were two more houses, one with a locked gate and shuttered windows. Later we learned it was owned by a stock broker in Paris whose wife and children used it during school vacations. The house next door to it was owned and lived in by a middle aged couple who farmed various plots of land in the surrounding area.

A path thru a small field took us to the caretaker of the property, an old woman who walked back to the house with us and answered our questions.

It had a well for drinking water, but no plumbing for running water; however it was wired for electricity with incandescent bulbs hanging from ceiling cords. The kitchen had a brick wall stove and oven and a small 2 burner stove like the kerosene stove we used back in Palo Alto at Stanford Village. A bedroom with a huge wooden shutter for a window was entered from the kitchen. When the shutter was open, one could step over the 2 foot high sill to enter or leave the room without walking through the kitchen door which was the only door into the house. There was a pseudo bathroom with a toilet one flushed with a bucket of water.

Thru a door two steps up from the kitchen was a large room with a stairway along one wall leading to a large up stairs room with two large wooden shutters. One opened to a view of a cherry orchard, the other opened to green fields with a creek running thru it. Outside on the back side of the house was a door leading to a dirt floor cellar where cider and wine casks were stored.

There were several apple trees near the kitchen door and about 15 cherry trees stretching to the far end of the property. Because the grounds gradually sloped toward a line of trees growing along the edge of a creek, we had a view over looking the fields in the far distance.

The old woman told us propane could be gotten to run the little 2 burner stove but one would have to push a wheel barrow to and from the post office /store for the tank. There would not be anyone to help since all the farmers were busy in the fields.

My husband and I must have been thinking the same thing during the tour. When we looked at each other, we knew we had found a home in the country. It was a perfect place for artists to live and work. The limitations only added to the romance of our experience. We paid the caretaker the agreed amount of money and received the key.

Thus began the second year of our stay in France.

[Editor's Note:  Marangis is now associated with the town of Vernou-La-Celle-Sur-Seine.]

The following links are in french and have references to Marangis:

• Google Map: Marangis 77670
• ViaMichelin Map: Marangis 77670
• French Wiki: Vernou-la-Celle-sur-Seine
• Official Site: Vernou-la-Celle-sur-Seine
• French Wiki: History of the Valley of 7 Mills (Marangis is one of them)

Here are some other period photos of that area.

Remembering My Cousin

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]

Albert lived in Kentucky with his Mother, my Aunt Bessie and Father, my uncle Alvin, and his older sister, Rosa Lee. I loved going to see them when Dad would take us there on his vacation.

My two older sisters, Marion, Adeline, and Rosa Lee were in the same age group, so they palled around together. My five brothers and Albert were always doing boy’s stuff. Mom and Dad were with Grandfather and Grandmother. So every one was off doing their thing and I was always with Aunt Bessie in the kitchen doing what Aunt Bessie wanted me to do and helping her to cook for every body.

One day she wanted to make a pot of veggie soup. I helped to peel potatoes, carrots, and to chip celery and onions. I did not like to eat any thing with onions, and asked her to not put them into the soup. She told me I did not have to eat soup. She told me how nice I was chopping the onions and no one would ever know there were onions in the pot. So would I take a bite if I was not able to see any onions in it? I did promise I would and since I did not see them; the soup was very good. She made me like onions from that day ever since.

Albert had his chores to do and the boys helped and there were some times he would come get me to walk with him to gather some things for the kitchen and we would talk while doing the tasks. He was always doing some nice things and he would show me his hobby and when the boys played cards he would ask to include me. He was a nice cousin,

Years later he was still the nice boy when his Mother moved to our town in Redwood City, California. His father had passed away and Aunt Bessie came to spend some time with us. She bought him a new car for his birthday. Vernon worked the night shift and I was expecting my second child any day. I asked Aunt Bessie if Albert could come and stay with me at night and if I needed him, to take me to the hospital. She said yes and it was a comfort to have him, he had to sleep in the sofa and it was not the best for a tall man. One night I had some muscle cramps and it hurt so bad I yelled. Poor Albert got up took my suit case to the car and came back to get me . We laugh now about it but at the time he was so sweet. But it did scare the life out of him. I will always treasure him and that memory.

Another time he came to see me while we were living at Mom Smith's house in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I saw the car come up the long drive way and did not recognize the car, or the young man that got out of it. The children were out there and he walked over and asked for me and I was shocked to know when he told me he was traveling through the country and he had lunch with us. The children thought the world of him and he told us about every one at home.

It was not too long after Albert came that I had another car come down the drive way and it was another cousin, Homer. His Mother is also my Mother’s sister, and my Aunt Bessie . Like Albert, I did not recognize him either. Two Aunt Bessie’s sons in two months was wonderful.

It’s was a sad day to learn he is not with us now. But time has a way with age. And I will always think of the good times we have with all our family and kin folks.

[family note: There are two "Aunt Bessie"s in the family: One is my father's sister: Bessie Dennison, the other is my mother's sister: Bessie Ross. Albert is the son of my father's sister Bessie Dennison. Homer is the son of my mother's sister Bessie Ross]

Memories of Albert

We who have lost beloved brothers know the pain of loss, and the wishful longing to have changed the ‘events in the womb of time’ so that separations never come.

But, as we have heard so often, Real Life happens when we least want it, and we are left to cope and struggle thru acceptance of grief when the inevitable happens. If we are lucky, we have treasured memories and can bring them to mind as often as we want, and sometimes share them.

My memories of cousin Albert are of him at three different stages of his life. The earliest is when he was around seven years old. His enthusiasm and matter of fact way he talked in his lovely southern drawl captured my heart. He took my hand as we walked around his father’s tobacco farm. He pointed out things of interest and explained the work involved. I could tell he was imitating uncle Alvin, who was busy telling my husband about the tobacco crop. Albert’s childish imitation of a grown up was so endearing, I deliberately asked him questions just to hear him answer.

When Albert was in uniform, grandma A, aunt Bessie and aunt Esther passed on news of him. When he came home and settled down, he married and started a family. Our paths only crossed when I visited aunt Bessie and grandma, but I can still picture him at the end of his work day in his work clothes.

One of my most cherished memories is seeing him again many years later when Adeline and I visited him and RosaLee in Georgia. He was so handsome! Adeline and I nicknamed him our Ky Colonel on the spot and took candid camera shots of him every time he turned around. He was such a gracious host when he took us to see his wonderful ‘cabin’ in the mountains of South Carolina. I call RosaLee my Louisville Belle. What a joy it was to see the two of them, brother and sister, together. You could tell they truly enjoyed each other’s company.

Meeting Albert the first time

[note: this story was written by my son Bob]

When I was about 10 or so ... I was visiting Great-Grandma and Aunt Bessie ... in Long Beach. I had been helping out in the kitchen... I think we had been fixin’ a Holiday dinner most of the day, I’m pretty sure it was Christmas, as it required a lot of preparations ... I was doing whatever I was asked to do, slice vegetables, stir pots, carry this ... and so on… as there had been quite the general commotion goin' on in the kitchen all day, and a lot of great smells emanating throughout the place. From time to time Bessie would say ‘wouldn’t it just be wonderful if Albert could be with us to enjoy this’, but apparently he was not expected anytime soon… I wasn’t really sure who Albert was, but it was clear that his presence would be welcomed.

I had been really enjoying my visit, and was learning [being taught] how to get around in a kitchen, and make myself useful. I loved spending time with Grams and Bessie, and was having a grand time learning from Grams… about the intricacies of preparing food her way… and of course it took amazing willpower [or possibly the odd stern look] not to try all the baked goods and various foods. Everything was just about ready to go and since it was almost dark outside, it was time to eat.

Whilst Grams and Bessie were hard at it in the kitchen, stirring pots, checking on the doneness of various things, and generally getting everything ready, I was implementing my skills – having learned how to set the table properly - and was busy placing the silverware and serving plates and bowls on the table ‘just so’, when suddenly there was an unexpected loud knock at the front door. Everyone in the kitchen was quite involved and since I was closest, I was asked to answer the door...

When I opened the door, there was a young soldier standing there, with a duffel bag at his side. He was dressed in full dress uniform with what appeared to me to be lots of badges and stripes and all sorts of regalia. I was astonished to say the least, as this was the last thing I expected, and my jaw must've dropped wide open. It was the very first time I had ever been face to face with a 'real' soldier… and I was dumbfounded.

Needless to say I had no idea who it was, but the soldier – seeing my consternation - politely asked – in stage whispered loud voice – ‘Was there a Bessie Denison there?’ Simultaneously voices came from the kitchen asking, 'who is it?' The cat must've had my tongue, as it took me a moment to gather myself, and I hollered back 'It's some soldier!?'

Well, my goodness, talk about a genuine commotion from the kitchen, there was a whoop and holler, and one asked 'is it Albert?', and the other declared ‘IT MUST BE ALBERT?!’

The soldier got a BIG smile, and made the international finger across the lips sign to me to be silent, and we were immediately joined in a conspiracy of silence – and we waited for the ladies to come and see who it was. He kept indicating I shouldn't let out an answer, so of course when they came around the corner to see, you would have thought the saints had come marching in!! There was all kinds of and clapping, and hugging and crying, and more hugging and more crying and lots of laughing... and so many 'we weren't expecting you’s, mixed in with ‘we were secretly hoping you’d come’ ... and 'what a wonderful surprise' ... Somewhere in all the to-do there were several stern comments from Bessie about ‘calling ahead’ and not ‘giving everyone the palpitations’. I think Albert said something like ... 'well I was just in the neighborhood so I thought I'd stop by'... and then gave me a conspiratorial wink! I realized he was family and kin to me-some kind of way, so that made it even better. And now I knew a real soldier!

I was SO happy that they were happy, and I loved the way Albert pulled me into his surprise. We became instant pals ... and he was so grown up and he took such an interest in me... that we just became great pals... although, I must say... I was as surprised as anyone ... and even felt a wee bit jealous that he'd taken my thunder - Grams and Bessie always doted on me whenever I visited - but I could tell that his arrival made them so happy, that I couldn't be upset for more than a passing moment.

He settled in, put his duffel bag in the corner, rolled up his sleeves and we got the table set and the food served...and the meal was ever so much better ... ... it was probably the best meal ever, glowing with love and joy, and all kinds of wonderful stories of family, news updates, how he was able to get home early from the Army to surprise everyone, his worldly travels, and so many other wonderful and exciting tales to me, that I was rapt and couldn’t take my eyes off him! After dinner I had to ask him about all his uniform medals and medallions and military regalia, and what were they for, and he patiently explained all the patches and insignia. It was clear that we liked each other instantly. He enjoyed my curiosity, and I was so pleased to know a genuine soldier.

From that first surprise meeting, I've always had the fondest place in my heart for Albert. He was always like a big brother to me, and I have often recalled the joy of that evening, and the indelible image of him standing in the door in his dress uniform - so young and handsome. It seems as if it was just yesterday. My, how time passes. It makes me feel old. I am sorry he is gone, and even though I will miss him, I will always see that young soldier grinning at the door with a twinkle in his eye, fully knowing his arrival would be a wonderful surprise.

Walking

Walking for pleasure not for exercise is something Esther and I have been discussing in our daily Instant Messenger chats. The topic came up when we mentioned that we both were walking more than usual in our daily routines. I have been spending a lot of time on my beading projects sitting by the big window in the front room, aka The Bird Room where my pet cockatiel, Misty Bird, lives. His cage is in a corner next to the window where I have my beading work table and he can see all the activity in the room as well as a portion of the goings-on outside the window.

I have been working on new designs for the jewelry I make and have spent less time at the computer. I still play chess, read blogs, and surf the net, but find myself walking back and forth from the computer room to the bird room more than usual as I take ‘breaks’ from one or the other.

Esther told me how her husband, Vern, mowed mile long pathways thru the waist high grass on their lake property at Toledo Bend so that she could enjoy walks with their grandchildren. She and Vern often took long walks together too.

Hiking has always been a pleasure for me. In high school, a group of 4 or 5 girl friends and I would go on a hike every Saturday. We would meet in the morning with sandwiches in our pockets and hike thru the country side, following creeks thru woods and pastures.

When I was in France I had two Walking experiences that far surpassed the little hikes I had known as a Girl Scout and high school student. My husband and I walked thru much of France, part of Switzerland and the length of Italy and back to Paris staying in youth hostels when they were available.

The second walking trip I took was from Paris to the heart of the Cevennes Mountains with Monett, a French girl and Ali, a Romanian boy, students at the Sorbonne. The trip was actually a combination hitch-hiking and walking trip. Monett and her twin sister, Nicette, had inherited a large forest of chestnut trees in the Cevennes from their deceased parents, but only one of them would make the trip to sign legal papers selling the crop to whichever company offered the best price. To save money, it was decided Monett would hitch hike, taking a student friend, Ali, along for protection. Ali was a tall, good looking fellow with muscles that indicated he could and would win any scuffle that might come along.

When I heard about their plans I asked to go along and share the adventure. My husband and I had known these students for the better part of a year and knew them to be honest, but always in need of money. The trip to find pickers and buyers for the chestnut crop was not a lark but a serious responsibility and after some discussion about the hazards and difficulty, they agreed to take me with them.

Hitch-hiking in the states was an accepted mode of travel during the great depression and during the war. I had experienced hitch-hiking alone and with family members in the states and had no qualms about doing so in France, especially since Ali would be with us.

I knew that neither Monett nor Ali had much money. I agreed to match their amount and that what little we had would be spent only on necessities the three of us agreed on. I secretly carried enough money to get us back to Paris if the need arose, but vowed not to use it except in an extreme emergency.

The morning we left Paris the streets were wet from the rain during the night and sprinkles continued sporadically as we made our way to intersections near the Bastille. Getting rides for three wasn’t an obstacle and everything went well until we got to Marseilles late in the afternoon.

I began having severe menstrual cramps and it was obvious to both Monett and Ali that I was not feeling well. I tried to explain that I wasn’t sick, but my knowledge of the French language consisted mostly of hand gestures and head nods along with Moi, Toi and Merci until the other person finally guessed the meaning of what I was saying. I couldn’t tell if I was understood or not.

Monett left Ali and me sitting on a park bench near the marina saying she would soon come back for us. When she returned, she led us to a small sea side inn and up a flight of stairs to a large, lovely room, cozy with bright colored drapes and chair cushions and a huge old fashioned bed. She explained that she had rented the room so I could rest. I was shocked that she had discussed it with Ali, but not me, but since it was fait accompli, I crawled into bed and slept until noon the next day.

When I woke I felt fine. We spent the next several hours sunning ourselves as we sat on a brick wall overlooking the boats in the marina and being amused by tiny lizards. We bought shelled oysters from the boat men and ate them on the spot. After spending another night in the Inn we stocked up on a few items like matches and candles before heading in the direction of the Cevennes.

The trip so far had been a walk in the park and I was convinced I was ready to tackle the strenuous hike to come. When we finally reached the home of the family that supervised the girl’s property, we were at the bottom of a gorge and from that point on it would be a 5 or 6 hour VERY STEEP climb to the top.

At a small general store we filled our rucksacks with foods to last the few days we would be on the top of the mountain. Ali carried the heaviest load and off we went. It wasn’t long before we began shedding jackets and sweaters as we climbed. There wasn’t a path although Monett seemed to follow an invisible one as we circled around trees and huge boulders, always climbing higher.

I could not climb as fast as the other two and fell behind. I also had to stop frequently to catch my breath, but the other two kept up a steady climbing pace. I could see them far ahead as I climbed in their direction, but I could no longer take the exact turns and twists they had taken. At times they were out of sight but we kept in touch by yelling to each other.

We had to reach the top before dark, so with brute strength and awkwardness I made a determined effort. As I climbed, I thought of the many stories of guides leading refugees over the Pyrenees during the war, and I understood their demands that only fit persons make such a trip. Eventually I caught up with Monett and Ali who had stopped to wait for me and together we set up our little camp before night fall.

That trip is a treasured memory. I have a greater appreciation of the difficulties real mountain climbers overcome since I experienced my much less heroic climb in the Cevennes. Monett was successful in her business dealings and the return trip to Paris was uneventful.

Hiawatha

By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
...

Those lines came to mind the other day when I was discussing poetry with my sister, Esther. I surprised myself remembering the lines, which came to me easily, but that was all I could remember. It was required reading in high school English as was Gray’s Elegy, Evangeline, The Ancient Mariner and other poems.

Out of curiosity I googled for Hiawatha and decided to read it again. I have a greater appreciation of Longfellow’s inventiveness now than I probably had in school. The descriptive imagery of nature is a pleasure to read and the colors shine thru vividly. I like the sing-song quality of the lines and read them out loud to myself.

Taking time to read a few lines of Hiawatha when the constant repetitious news coverage of war and economic woes stress one to the max, is therapy beyond price.

About: The Song of Hiawatha
Downloadable Book: The Song of Hiawatha
Audio Book: The Song of Hiawatha

Editor's Surprise!

MrsBizzyB has been pretty busy over the last few years writting wonderful stories about her life and experiences. And now that we have Esther's delightful stories, the blog has an added dimension for all of us addicted to their writtings! I thought it would be nice if there was a way to share these stories in another format so that more folks can enjoy them.

So, I have had the stories put into book form and saved in PDF format. These books are by year: 2005 2006 2007 2008. They contain all the stories and comments made at the time. They have a table of contents and are paginated so you can find your favorite story fast. These books can be downloaded and read using Adobe Reader or if you prefer, you can take the PDF to a printing shop and have it printed into hard copy.

I will be pushing the 2009 blog into a pdf-book sometime after the end of the year.

You will find the links to the books on the left in the Download Section under her Recipe Book.

I hope you will enjoy the books as much as you did the original postings!

Kimosabi (Editor)

At the Lake Part 8 - Life on the Lake

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

Vernon would watch most sport programs on the TV. He loved to watch all the football games and baseball was right up there too. I wanted to see the sewing and quilting and craft programs. Since I had lost much of my hearing, I did not watch too much TV. Instead I would sew on quilt blocks and just enjoyed a quiet evening working on the different patterns. My Mom got me started on sewing quilt tops. She had some blocks that my Dad’s Mother made and she wanted me to assemble them into a quilt top so she could finish sewing the quilt. I never knew I would enjoy sewing them but ever since I have made that pattern my favorite. I have made at least a dozen of them.

The biggest surprise of all was when my sister Adeline Marie and Larry came to visit and spend several days with us. We had no idea they were coming, so it was out of the blue when they arrived one evening. Thank goodness I had planned a nice supper that night. We forgot everything and just talked and hugged and never a thought about the food cooking on the stove until we started to smell smoke that said “burnt to a crisp”. The pot was so black, it had to be taken out of the house. I was so upset about the burnt carrots. Then Larry asked if I was cooking them just for him and then he said he did not really like carrots, so I did feel better. I really know Larry knew what to say to help me over a red face trip. He was a good brother in law.

Vernon and I had good years on the acreage in Many, Louisiana. We gained more grandchildren and they all were a blessing to us. Life was so good and we could not have wanted more. I can only say life with love is good and the company makes for better times.

At the Lake Part 7 - A Special Visit

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

One time we had special company come. It was Marion Elizabeth and she brought her daughter Kim. It was so good to see them. Vernon and Kim talked about their horses and how they trained them. Vernon took her down to see his horse and found out the horse had found his way out and into the yard of our neighbor who lived across the lake. It was a good visit for Vernon and me. Kim found out Vernon liked his cookies, and told me how to make some easy ones for him using a cake mix and a few other things. They made some good ones and some fancy ones if you added some good chocolate chips and nuts and other goodies. That was one recipe I wore out just constantly making them for him and me too.

It was the company that made our stay there so nice. Almost every weekend we would have some of my family come to visit. And if we wanted to go see them, we would let them know we were coming their way to do some shopping or just for a visit. Life was so very good to both Vernon and me.

We had aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters come. Some came for a day, as they were passing through, and others came to stay a few days. All were welcomed and wanted. Some visitors were great to have and some were just nice to see. It really seemed like all was for the best and we gave thanks for the blessing we were given.

One time we had Mickey, Charles and Jerry come together for a visit. They would stay out on the lake for hours. Even Hoy, our neighbor, would go with them so they could travel in two boats. This one time, we all watched the Winter Olympics on television and the USA Hockey team were doing everything right. When they won the games and took the gold, we had to celebrate with true fervor and were so proud of the team for winning. It was a thrilling experience for me.

BOX CAKE COOKIES
1 box cake mix (any flavor) lemon, spice, chocolate are good
1/2 c. vegetable oil
2 eggs
Mix oil and eggs into dry cake mix.
Drop by teaspoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet.
Bake 350 degrees, 8-10 minutes.

At the Lake Part 6 - First Visitors

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

Our very first company to come was my Mom and Dad. They loved the place and Dad was so pleased to go fishing with Vernon. Mom and I went for a drive to show her we had an uptown and some marinas. We even went looking at fishing gear to see if she wanted to pick out some for her to use when she went fishing. They spent the weekend with us and we celebrated because the men had good luck fishing. Enough to have a good fish fry and some for them to take home and have in their freezer till Mickey or Jerry came back from their jobs on the oil rigs in the gulf of Mexico.

Then there was Mickey, Charles and Jerry to always come and go fishing with Vernon. Our trailer was small but it did sleep six. We gave the men our king size bed and we slept on the full size bed in the dinning room. Thank goodness we were able to eat outside on the patio looking towards the lake. We made the patio on the bluff, the highest part of our land. It was the best place to be to see the sun set. Other times, it was great to sit out there and wait till the morning sun rose. It was the big red shinning sun in all it’s glory as it came over the lake. I would look at it and wish I could have had some of Marion Elizabeth’s painting supplies and the knowledge of how to use them.

At the Lake Part 5 - The Lake

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

We did settle in and found the countryside to be just beautiful. I fell in love with the dogwood trees among the pine trees. It was the pine trees that made the town grow because the lumber was needed to build houses and those buildings made for jobs which men needed to have the security to raise their families. The blossoms on the dogwood trees were so lovely to see as we traveled around the lake learning how to go in and out of the neighborhood.

Our piece of land was like a slice of a pie when you entered at the gate, the drive way made a wide curve to the pie end of the land and also it went down the hill to end at the boat landing where we could put the boat in to the lake. Vernon bought his boat with everything he needed to enjoy his fishing time. And he had a new pickup truck to launch and retrieve his boat. He even had a nice trolling motor so he did not have to use the paddle too much. Easy was better than for him to struggle. He was all for “good old easy”.

At the Lake Part 4 - Settling In

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

It took several trips to get every thing done so we could move in and let Vernon fish. The son-in-laws were a big help and our son Jr was an extra big help. He was there every time we made a trip and he saved Vernon many steps which really meant a lot. Once again, we had a family gathering at my second daughter's house and had a “bring a dish supper”. Vernon did his thing working the bar-b-q grill and the next morning we all drove up and got us settled in. Then off they went home and we were sitting outside the travel trailer in our new lawn chairs watching the sun go down. The sky had such lovely dark pink clouds and the wind was strong enough to let the clouds roll by gently. All was right in the world that night.

We had settled in on a Wednesday and by Friday we had it down about how we were going to live here. It won’t be too bad if we kept up the team work. Keeping everything in it’s place was the first and last thing done and done all day long. It did not take long to get that one rule down pat. With out fail. Otherwise, it was a lot of work. And when I could not play, neither could Vernon, so we helped to make it second nature to do “Rule Number One” every time.

At the Lake Part 3 - A Change in Plans

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

It was the best time together with all my children and the two grand children. Which was the good part, but then the bad part came. Vernon had to be rushed to the emergency room and from there they admitted him to a room and they did not let him go for three days. The doctor said “No traveling”. The doctor suggested Vernon find a fishing hole big enough to keep him happy. And that's he did! He found it at Toledo Bend Lake. In the parish of Sabine in the town of Many, Louisiana. It is a beautiful place and great for fishing. It’s well know for the good fishing.

Now we had to do some quick thinking. We would have to continue to live in the travel trailer, now parked at the new lake property. It would do but it did not give us room to have company. Thank goodness the butane did operate the stove and hot water and as Vernon did have power service installed to our site, we could have our air conditioner and central heat when needed. He also had to install a disposal sewage filter station. Then we started to live where Vernon needed to live.

Although I had given up all my furniture, which I did not have room for, I did manage to keep most of my crafts. These would keep me busy when Vernon would be on the lake. I had to put it away when we ate, because the trailer was sort of built in yet could be taken apart and made into beds if needed. Knowing I needed to have a place to put away the craft supplies when not working them made it difficult for me. Just getting it out or putting it away was a big job. Yes, I did have the energy to do it each time as I had nothing else to do, and staying busy is better than complaining. I was not blessed with my sister’s art painting. I did needle work: embroidery, knitting, crochet, counted cross stitch, quilting and sewing my clothes.

At the Lake Part 2 - The Travel Trailer

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

The first thing we did was look for a travel trailer. There were so many trailer lots to look at and finally, I let Vernon look for himself with my list of wants. When he did find one that looked likely, he would take me and I would either OK it or let him look further. Finally, he did find one and it was perfect for what we could be comfortable in. The next job was to outfit it and that’s when he left me to do it. Yes! He found it! ... I packed it! Guess you know how we worked together now.

I did have a lot of shopping to do, and it was so nice to be able to find what was needed and add some small items to make it our new life style: fishing and roaming everywhere.

We had to give the furniture to the children. They took what they could. From the kitchen and bathroom, I took what I could and the rest was up for grabs to who ever wanted what. I wore myself out and was glad we now had a date set to leave. We planned a nice supper out with the children at a nice restaurant. Every one wanted sea food. So we went to Don’s Sea Food House. Where we gathered to enjoy being together one more time. Then we were going to leave very early the next morning and start living on the road. All the goodbyes were said and every one left to go home.

At the Lake Part 1 - The Phone Call

[note: This is an 8 part story written by my sister Esther.]

We had a good weekend. The bar-b-que was great. There was the usual crowd and the food was ever so good. Vernon loved to cook and it was so easy to enjoy cooking out doors and having all the family together. Everyone brought covered dishes to add to the potato salad, bake beans and veggie plate. And not to mention the cakes and pies! There was always enough leftovers to help with the next day’s lunch. Vernon would take those with him to enjoy when he would take time to eat his lunch on his job. And there was enough for the children to take some home too.

I remember Mom always sent Vernon home with a fresh loaf of her homemade yeast bread or if she knew of someone coming our way she would send the loaf to us with them. And of course it was good to carry home some of her goodies to eat so I would not have to cook after the drive home.

One Monday, Vernon left for work. He serviced lifting equipment for a company out of New Orleans for the Baton Rouge area. I had just hunted up the all the morning dishes and was cleaning them up when the phone rang. It was the nurse at one of the plants telling me she had sent Vernon to the hospital in an ambulance and I needed to go see him. I got there in time to see his doctor and was told it was an apparent heart attack. He did not look like he was having a problem when I saw him. He was calm and was not in any pain that I could see. But the next day when he had a second one, they confirmed he did have a heart attack.

The doctor said he would not be able to go back to work. Vernon would now have to find something else to fill his day. It was going to take some time to know what would he do with all this free time. Just the thought put his wild imagination into overload and the things he thought of were wonderful! But, no way could we afford them. Traveling seemed like a possibility. We really did have fun thinking of all the places we could go. He wanted to fish where ever there was a nice lake and I could see some of the states I had dreamed of one day seeing.

Nobel Peace Prize

For those of us who are lucky enough to be citizens of this country that as been so blessed, we often demonstrate strange attitudes. We can be so petty and jealous of each other. At times our antagonism knows no bounds when directed at one of our own because of perceived differences in personal beliefs, life style, achievement, and even location of one’s birth and residence.

The brouhaha giving President Obama the Nobel Peace Prize is a case in point. Senator John McCain made an effort to be magnanimous in his comments when being questions about the Nobel committee’s selection, but it was half hearted at best.

CNN showcased interviews questioning the reasons Obama was chosen. Instead of being pleased that an American president was the recipient, there was grousing about every conceivable woe this country is experiencing, and complaining that Obama hasn’t solved them. We have become so politically divided in our constant battle for political control at the same time we are fighting two wars that we have forgotten how to recognize the meaning of the word, PEACE.

I think people have forgotten what the Nobel Peace Prize is and what it stands for. I take the committee at its word and share their belief that Obama’s call for new diplomatic dialogues between nations to work toward achieving a non nuclear arms treaty the most important goal this country or any other could have.

Nobel prize for Peace 2009: Barack Obama
"for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples"

Go Boom!

Those crazy scientists at NASA have shot the moon! Egads! Don’t we have enough spots on the planet to test our missiles and rockets without having to shoot the moon?

Looking for water is not an excuse. Those guys in Houston have all the water they need and if they think they are deprived, wait a while for the next hurricane. Besides, they might get a spring flowing and turn all the dust on the surface into mud. If that happens how will anyone drive the Rover when it gets stuck in the mud?

I like the moon the way it is. It’s not broken, so don’t fix it.

October Birthdays

My brother, Jerry is celebrating his 78th birthday today, October 6. I wished him a happy day on the telephone and we reminisced about Dad’s and brother, Mickey’s birthdays, October 3rd and October 15th respectively.

I often celebrate deceased family birthdays by having lunch at a favorite salad bar and remembering our shared days of long ago. Being the oldest of eight, I remember all my siblings from their babyhood. The oldest memory of my sister, Adeline is a fleeting moment when she was a tiny baby and Mom had just finished giving her a bath. I remember Mickey as a small baby sitting in his highchair at breakfast as Mom and Dad fed him milk from a cup and calling it coffee. My earliest memory of Charles is as a baby wrapped in a blanket being held on Mom’s lap as we rode in an automobile. I saw Elbert the morning after his birth as he was lying in a baby buggy beside Mom’s bed. I recall baby Esther lying on a pillow when Mom brought her from the bedroom to the living room to show her to a neighbor. I watched Richard as he learned to walk, and I held Jerry when he was still a newborn.

I used to remember the years each was born and their ages as they grew older, but these days, I have to re-calculate the years and age by starting with mine. I don’t remember many of the celebrations but I seem to remember occasions when someone blew out candles on a cake. My own birthday must not have been a priority for me to remember because I can only recall two, and have forgotten my birthday at least 3 or 4 times. In all honesty though, now that I’ve reached the age of 87, I take note and heave a sigh of relief that I’ve added another year to my life. As the saying goes, living is better than the alternative!!!!

Happy Birthday!

Food Bank Contributions

I have become acutely aware of the many families experiencing hard times as the country struggles to recover from the collapse of our financial system. Families are losing homes, jobs are being lost, employers are not hiring workers, and many are going out of business themselves.

In one of our Instant Message chats, I told my sister Esther about an interview I saw on CNN of a man desperately looking for work; his biggest worry was getting food for his family and he himself was hungry.

There must be many people in the same situation. Wishing we could help in some way, Esther and I decided to start using the money we planned to spend for Christmas presents and make donations to a food bank. We have told our children about our plan, and they too have decided to do the same.

This year, I would like to ask those who send me Christmas presents to make a food bank donation instead. It will be a holiday without presents ‘going to’ and ‘getting from’ but the holiday will still be cheerful knowing we have might have made a small difference in someone’s life.

There are many ways to contribute besides giving money and there are many worthy causes besides food banks. I encourage readers to make a special effort during this time of recession to help, be it a family member or a charity of their choice.

Editor's note: Here are some charities to consider:

Charity Name	What they do
Fisher House	specializes in helping vets and their families
Feeding America	food bank previous known as Second Harvest Food Bank
Just Give	clearing house for many worthy charities
Oxfam America	oxfam's usa branch - works on world wide hunger
Heifer International	works on world hunger by helping families raise animals that can be used for food and exchange

Summer by Esther

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]
　
It was summer and school was out and my sister Marion Elizabeth and her daughter Kim came to visit. They made the trip from Mexico City to spend a bit of time with us.

I had four children, three girls and a boy. My closest neighbor had three girls and with Kim we had a yard full of active kids. Which was good as we lived at the end of the lane. It was out side the city limits. We had old oak trees in the front and back yard where it was so nice to just sit and watch the sun rise and sun sets.

Marion Elizabeth , and Mary the next door neighbor and I would sit outside to have our morning coffee, and watch the children play. They would have different games and often they would treat us to a play one of them wrote or to a musical program.

When Marion Elizabeth unpacked her oil paints and set up her canvas the children became her models. I had always admired her ability to take a blank canvas and create a lovely scene. It was a gift. She did paint with a passion. I watched as she worked the canvas and as the scene progressed. I could see how she was able to use the small or thin or larger brushes to add the details she wanted; to show the shadows and to capture the colors she needed by the way she would dab a color and blend it, with several other colors, was interesting. Even the children enjoyed watching her and would pose as she wanted. They never lost interest. As the days went by it became a habit to see how much she had done and wait for her to ask them to come and sit for her.

Marion Elizabeth would keep a conversation going while she worked and also take time out to watch what the children were doing. My favorite was when they would all start to sing the new songs from the radio. Another thing my sister love to do is direct the choir. And the children just loved her. She always liked to teach and she did it well.

One thing the children liked often was the picnic we had. The weather was nice and too pleasant to stay in side with so many running in and out. We put out a large jug of ice water and Kool-Aid, with spigots which made it easy for them to get their own drinks.

One day we loaded up the children and went fishing. No one had any luck, though Marion did fish all day. She is a dedicated fisher woman. A true fisherman will enjoy fishing even though they don’t have a bite or even a nibble. That’s our Marion. About time for Vernon to come to the lake after work and he threw in his line and before he could reel it back in he had one hooked. He turned around to Marion and said “that’s how you have to do it”. That one fish was enough to make a meal for all of us.

Another day we went Dewberry picking at the bluffs above the river. Every time I have went there, I always came home with enough to make a Dew Berry dumpling and serve it with ice cream. Dewberries are like Black Berries only smaller and they have a more tart taste. They are the best ones to make a cobbler or with dumplings.

It was so nice to have my sister visit. And Marion taught the children to play Spite and Malice. A game two or more players could play. The more the better, the less cards the players would have and the game could last for hours.

I don’t know if Marion ever finish the painting of the children playing in the back yard under the old oak tree with a tire swing hanging on one of the heavy limbs. It looked good to me. But the artist is the one who has to work till it is done to her satisfaction. And Marion Elizabeth please know I did enjoy watching you paint and even more so enjoyed your visit.

Thoughts along the Way

When clicking Start to Stop, or
Turning left at the Glorieta
To turn right,
You are not Back Tracking.
It means,
You’ve
Taken the Fork in the Road.

The Line

The line in the sand is long and deep. The question is: Will it be crossed?

Will President Obama get his version of the universal health care program he has vowed to sign into law during his presidency? Or will it be defeated and left to a future president to espouse the virtues of affordable health care for all?

Marcus Popillius Laenas, sent out by the Roman senate to bring the war in Egypt to an end, was met by the Macedonian king, Antiochus, at Eleusis, a suburb of Alexandria. Calling out a verbal greeting from a distance, he stretched out his hand in welcome, but Marcus Popillius, having the senate’s decree in readiness, handed it to Antiochus and ordered him to read it, thereby avoiding the clasping of the kings hand in friendship until it was evident whether he was a friend or foe.

The king, after reading the document, said he would consult with friends on the matter. Upon hearing this, Popillius, in a manner offensive and arrogant in the extreme and having a vinestock at hand, took the stick and drew a circle around Antiochus and directed him to give an answer before stepping out of the circle.

The king, astonished by what had taken place, and awed by the majesty and might of Rome, was in a hopeless quandary. On full consideration, he agreed to immediately break off his war against Ptolemy, where upon Popillius and his colleagues shook hands and greeted the king cordially. Pursuant to these instructions the king withdrew his forces from Egypt, panic-stricken by the superior might of Rome, the more so as he had just had news of the Macedonian collapse.

Indeed, had he not known that this had taken place; never of his own free will would he have heeded the decree.

Reference to A Line in the Sand

In Memoriam

Come: not in watches of the night,

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
Come, beauteous in thine after form,

And like a finer light in light.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

In Remembrance of 9-11

Apple Showers

My sister Esther and I, in a recent morning Instant Message chat, talked about receiving letters from various family members from time to time with lovely folded handkerchiefs inside when we were kids. Those little presents were precious and I saved mine in chocolate candy boxes.

In those depression days lovely embroidered handkerchiefs with lace were sold in flat boxes the size of the handkerchief for 25 cents. The boxes were wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbons so you could see the whole embroidered design. They were not meant to be used, but for show. My sister said that she gave those handkerchiefs boxes to her teachers. I never gave a handkerchief to a teacher but I did give apples.

Only favorite teachers got "apple showers" once during the year, perhaps twice, and always as a surprise. Some teachers never received them and I’m certain they were thankful when the favored teacher related her experience. In remembering and telling about how we gave the apples, I am astounded that we never killed a teacher.

When I was in the third and fourth grade, someone would pass the word around that we would have a surprise "apple shower" that afternoon. I never knew whose idea it was, or how it had been decided, but I helped whisper the word around making certain everyone got the message. At noon, when we all went home for lunch, we got an apple from home, or bought one on the way back to school. Before the bell rang to start afternoon classes, there was lots of whispering and hiding of apples and it was decided that someone would give a signal when it was time to surprise the teacher.

Everyone kept an eye on the wall clock, and as the afternoon dragged on we fidgeted, knowing that any minute we would get the signal. Sometimes the signal was someone calling out “Now!”, but usually it was just someone throwing the first apple. In a fraction of a second, apples began flying thru the air toward the teacher standing in front of the blackboard in front of the room, and all us kids yelling, “Surprise!”

The poor teacher, taken unawares, had to dodge apples as 40 kids sent their apples in her direction, some hitting her desk, some hitting the blackboard and many landing and rolling around on the floor. She tried to get our attention by yelling, “Stop! Stop! Bring the apples to the desk!” After all the apples had been picked up from the floor and stacked on the desk, she would catch her breath, then thank the class for the apples, but suggest walking the apples to her desk would have been better than throwing them.

By the second half of the fourth grade, most of the girls carried their apples to the teacher’s desk, but the boys always forgot and threw them.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY

Babies

Two sons of my dear sister, Adeline, have recently become grandfathers. The photos show adorable babies. One of them has a blog about her daily routines and I enjoy reading the comments her proud parents write.

As I surf the internet, I come across blogs written in languages from every corner of the world and I’m constantly amazed at the number of blogs about babies. One doesn’t have to understand the language because the photos speak for them selves. The photos are a delight and the children capture ones heart with their smiles.

Having grown up as the oldest of 8 children, I have been around babies and small children all my life. My sister Adeline and I helped Mom change a wet diaper on occasion, and we older ones helped look after the younger ones.

While my son was still a baby, I met a woman who had a California state license allowing her to care for new born babies in her home. They were Chinese babies from San Francisco. I had never heard or dreamed of such an arrangement. I was told that the mortality rate of Chinese babies was very high and that many new borns were in foster homes in order to get a healthy start.

Not long after my husband and I moved into Stanford Village, I had applied and received a California state license to care for children and I supplemented our GI bill money by watching children while parents were either in classes at Stanford or at work. I usually had one or two children for only an hour or so and on occasion, a faculty member would ask me to baby sit for an evening. My husband and I discussed the possibility of my taking a new born to care for and we decided that if I got the opportunity, he was agreeable.

I made an appointment with a Chinese Dr. in San Francisco and told her my plans. She was delighted and I signed a paper saying I would not make an attempt to adopt but only give foster care. She told me to go back home to Stanford Village, (on the San Francisco peninsula), and when a new born was available she would phone me. We had no idea how long I would have to wait.

A day and half later, I got a phone call around 2 o’clock in the afternoon to come pick up a baby at the hospital in China Town. I told them I would be there as soon as possible. My husband was in class on campus and he had our car so I was momentarily at a loss, but I ran to the apartment of another Stanford couple and asked if they might help. As luck would have it, the husband had just gotten home from a class and they said they would drive me into San Francisco for the baby. The availability of a new born, so quickly after my visit with the Chinese Dr., was so unexpected I was totally unprepared. Fran, the wife, quickly helped me collect a few things and even gave me a wonderful small crib that was perfect for a new born.

We three went up the hospital elevator to the floor where the nursery was. A nurse met us at the elevator and took us to a small enclosure and said she would be right back. We did not see a viewing glass with babies in view, nor did we see a hallway with doors leading to rooms. We thought we might be taken to someone’s room, but as we were discussing it, a nurse came with a baby wrapped in blankets and handed it to me. It was a baby girl, six days old and her name was Lily. She was beautiful with jet black hair and satin skin. We learned from a neighbor studying Chinese at Stanford that ‘mei mei’ meant ‘little sister’ so we called her Mei Mei. She was with us for a year.

There were two other occasions when I had an opportunity to have a new born to care for. One of them was during an evening in Paris, when my husband, my 3 year old son and I were spending a week in Paris at a favorite small hotel. It must have been between 10 and 11 in the evening because the hotel was quiet and most tenants asleep. Even street traffic had come to a halt and only a taxi now and then passed by. We had spent the day with friends and had just returned to the hotel and were getting ready for bed, when there was a knock on the door. It took a moment to throw on a robe but when my husband opened the door, there wasn’t anyone there. Suddenly we saw a bundle on the floor and realized it was a crying baby. It had a rag for a diaper that was soaking wet. We used my husband’s handkerchief for a diaper and discovered the baby was a boy, probably only 1or 2 days old. I used a towel for a blanket while my husband went to find a concierge. No one could be found and the baby was crying up a storm. We were completely at a loss about what to do. My husband finally found the concierge who refused to take the baby and begged us to not call the police. He said he would take the baby in the morning and he gave us some sugar and milk and a spoon. We were able to quiet the baby and prayed for daylight when we did give the baby to the Concierge. Later that morning, a young man from England came to talk to us. He was the father of the baby but said he did not want to marry the French girl who was the mother. He begged us to keep the baby and raise it. He countered all our refusals and said both he and the girl would sign legal papers giving us the right to take a French born baby to live with us. The prospect for the baby seemed bleak, but we refused. I often wondered at the callous attitude the Englishman had toward his baby and what happened to it.

The other opportunity was during a dinner party at a friend’s house in Los Angeles on one of my many trips home from Mexico. It was a gathering of working women, no two careers alike. One of the women, a social worker, said she had to find a place for a new born baby girl. As she asked each of us if we were interested, I said if the circumstances were different, I would have considered it but at that particular time I would not be able to. She told me that the state would supply funds for raising the child and that being a widow was not a drawback. She begged me to think seriously about it, but I had to refuse.

I’ve often thought about having not one, but two chances to care for a new born.

Changing Times

The changes in our cultural practices are so different from those of my childhood. Many actions, considered ‘modern’ and the ‘norm’ today would have been frowned upon in the ‘good ole days’.

Society has a way of dropping and adding changes that sweeps one along with the new practices, like it or not. Some of the better changes indicate we may be moving in the direction of achieving equal opportunities for pursuing happiness. This, of course, may mean different things to different people.

The French are being faced with the possibility of giving up their traditional month long August vacations to compete with year round work practices of other countries. International travel plays a part in the changing mores of countries too. When I first visited Mexico; women were rarely seen on the street without being accompanied by a male escort, (a small boy would suffice), or in the company of other women. Neither did they wear pants or slacks. Daughters were always chaperoned when they went on a date with a boy.

In the years prior to WWII American women were in the habit of wearing hats and gloves as a fashion statement. When my family lived on the San Francisco peninsula, our dress was casual, but when we went into San Francisco we ‘dressed’ for the city wearing hats and gloves. When we shopped for gloves at the department stores, we sat on high stools at a counter and placed our elbows on a pad while a clerk carefully massaged the kid gloves onto each finger until the glove was on our hand then the process was repeated on the other hand.

Buildings with elevators had operators whose job was ride the elevator and push the buttons for people getting on and off. The operators also announced the list of goods sold on each department store floor as passengers got on and off.

When I moved to Texas and started building my little house, I discovered that blue laws prevented shopping for materials on the weekend. Having moved from California where one could shop 24/7 for anything, I was amazed that such limitations still existed. The recession during Regan’s term of office caused the decline of the oil patch and caused southeast Texas economic hardship. The business men and shop keepers demanded a change in the laws and it wasn’t long before one could buy a hammer on Sunday if you needed one.

The internet, television and globalization are fast changing the lives of people everywhere. Homogenizations discard traditional customs in language, food and dress. People are less formal and often use first names instead of the more formal Mr. or Mrs. Even President Obama is often called Barack as a matter of affection. Vocabulary is diminished when a few words of slang serves as communication. The art of conversation is lost when abbreviated texting replaces the give and take of communication.

We have adopted foreign foods like Tacos, Burritos and Pizza and turned them into ‘fast food’ ignoring regional dishes unique to a place.







The migration of people also plays a role in changing cultural patterns when sifting and blending gives way to adoption. Traditional costumes identifying nationalities, now seen in pageants and museums, are replaced with garments duplicated in factories the world over.










National security has drastically changed the ease of air travel. The days of arriving at the airport with tons of luggage just in time for a scheduled flight are gone forever. We have all seen the horror stories on television when passengers have been captive for hours before disembarking. Metal detectors and X-ray machines verify that weapons are not being carried on board.

Variations

Variation is the embellishment, modification, alteration, deviation or mutation of the original so that it doesn’t lose its identity.

There are variations in ‘rate of’ or ‘magnitude of’ change or as a ‘departure from’ a position or state in language, music, math, dance, astronomy etc.

Our culture is riddled with variations. I googled for something the other day and came across variations for Deviled Eggs. I was astonished at the number recipes for creating and serving deviled eggs!

Take water faucets for example:
Years ago the faucets I knew as a child were simple handles one turned to start the flow of water, and turned in the reverse direction to stop the flow.

This variation changed from two handles to four knobs.

This variation just rounded the knob ends.

A variation with elegance

Some call this progress, but sometimes the originals are better than the variations. I hate the one large ball handle you have to pull out from the wall and turn left and right as if opening a number padlock just to get water for a shower that’s not too hot or too cold!

Amateur Radio

Dad was a licensed amateur radio operator with a call sign during the 1930s and ‘40s until amateurs were suspended from broadcasting during the duration of WII. I was in the third grade when Dad began building his station in one of the upstairs bedrooms of the house on Bliss Blvd in Iowa Falls, Ia. He was able to indulge his hobby during the depression years although Mom often complained that he was spending too much money on radio tubes.

The corner of the room was gradually filled with unpainted shelves of soldered wires and radio tubes. The room was always kept locked unless dad was in the room but he allowed us children to come in and watch as he soldered or tuned his transmitter. At that time he sent and received messages in Morse code. He received cards in the mail from his contacts with their call sign and in turn he mailed them his card. His accumulation included cards from around the world.

When we moved from Bliss Blvd to the house on Woodland Ave Dad set up his station in a corner of the dining room which allowed the family to be part of Dad’s activity. If Mom was in the kitchen she could see Dad as he tapped out the dots and dashes on the transmitting key, and if any of us children wanted to sit next to Dad and read the messages as they came in, we could. Dad also added a microphone and occasionally he allowed us children to say hello to the other operator when it was Dad’s turn to speak. I have a memory of talking to a Dr from Japan and was impressed that Dad was able to talk to someone so far away. Some years later when the war started, I often thought of that chat.

One night when Mom and Dad were out for the evening, Uncle H.O. was left in charge. H.O. was only a few years older than I was and we loved it when he came to visit. On this particular night we had a storm with heavy rain, thunder and lightening. Suddenly a lightening strike hit the radio station and jagged streaks of electricity bounced around the room. We all knew how dangerous it was, but didn’t know what to do except scream at each other not to touch anything!!!!! We had been taught never to touch the radio, but something had to be done or the house might catch on fire. H.O. finally got his wits about him and pulled some plugs from the wall which turned off switches and stopped the electrical show. H.O. became our hero, and I think Dad’s too.

When my sister Esther’s husband Vern retired, they moved to Toledo Bend Lake. La. Vern had his fishing hole and Esther became a licensed amateur radio operator and enjoyed being a member of a ladies radio league. She upgraded her radio station equipment after passing the FCC exam for Extra, (the highest an amateur can achieve).

When I moved to Texas, I was influenced by Esther to take the Code exam. As children, Adeline and I had learned Morse code as girl scouts, but I had forgotten most of it and had to study it again. I got my FCC Novice license, then upgraded to Technician, but did not set up a station. Esther told me that she would give me her old radio if I would study and pass the exam for General. I ignored the challenge until the year 2000 when I finally decided to try. I studied day and night for 6 weeks. The members of the Orange Radio club were encouraging and extremely helpful. I took the exam and passed with 100 percent. Esther did give me her old radio and members of the radio club strung the antennae for me, but I rarely chatted on the radio, preferring the contact with other amateurs on the computer thru EchoLink, a program that only licensed radio amateurs from countries around the globe are allowed to use.

My First Trip to Mexico

My first visit to Mexico was a mix of positive impressions and culture shock. Bright colors and flowers met the eye in every direction. The city vibrated with movement and noise. Colonial buildings and huge plazas were awesome. Black glass windows in beautiful modern buildings were duplicated in automobiles. Street vendors selling everything from grilled chicken, balloons, lottery tickets, fruit drinks and hand woven rugs were prevalent everywhere. Indigenous Indian women sat on busy sidewalks constantly arranging and re-arranging pyramids of oranges for sale. Views of the snow capped volcanoes, Popocatepetl, spewing smoke, and Iztaccihuatl, called the sleeping woman, dominated the far distance sky line.

Some months before I made the trip, an invitation to a private showing of paintings by an artist from Mexico City was fortuitous. Aside from my oil painting, I was also working with lithographs, and meeting an artist from Mexico City gave me a chance to ask about the work being done by artists at Taller de Grafica. I, along with several other painters, volunteered to show him some of the tourist sites and take him to various studios to meet other painters during his short visit.

When I told him I planned a visit to Mexico City, he made reservations at Casa Del Maestro for me. He and his wife graciously met me at the airport even though it was near midnight when my plane landed. They helped me register at the hotel and said they had arranged for a young woman to act as an interpreter for me the next day.

The next morning a very pretty young woman, who only spoke Spanish, met me in the lobby. What little Spanish I attempted to use got corrupted with French words and I found myself speaking gibberish of pidgin Spanish, English, and French, punctuated with lots of hand gestures, none of it intelligible to my new friend. I finally understood that she was taking me with her to a friend’s wedding.










We were joined by several other girls. As a group, we rushed to pick up dresses from cleaners, and then rushed to their home so they could change clothes. Constantly keeping an eye on the clock while a lost button was replaced, the girls were finally ready. We had to run to catch a taxi, but made it to the church in time.

The reception was held at a private home. The family had hired an elderly woman from Guadalajara to prepare a traditional Barbacoa. As the party got underway, she told me the food had been cooking for several days. Goat or lamb is wrapped in maguey or banana leaves. A cauldron of hot water is placed over hot coals in a pit 3 feet deep. Beans, vegetables and spices are added to the cauldron; a grill is placed on the cauldron and meat placed on it. More maguey and banana leaves are added, a few sticks of burning mesquite are placed on the leaves and all is sealed and covered with damp earth. The meat is ‘falling off bone’ tender when served and has a smoke flavor not achieved in any other way. Barbacoa is served at weddings and other festive occasions. If anyone has an opportunity, I hope they can experience an authentic Barbacoa!

The next day a young man, a friend of the artist, volunteered to take me sight seeing. He told me he was a dancer. About mid morning, we went to a small café where he ordered Atole, a common beverage in Mexico, made with cornmeal and served hot or at room temperature. It’s delicious with a consistency of thin pudding.

I was invited to watch his dance group practice ancient Aztec dances. They danced in a circle around incense smoke coming from burning copal. Wearing elaborate headdresses, they shook gourd rattles as they chanted in Nahuatl.

Before I returned to the states, I was invited to my friend’s studio to meet other artists. The studio was small but the group helped push easels and paints out of the way and stacked paintings against the walls. Makeshift seating was created with a crate and a pillow for me but everyone else sat on the floor. A board placed on a stool made a table for the potluck snacks and bottles of wine people brought. Small tins were opened and someone prepared a small plate of crackers with mounds of something white on them and handed it to me. The white mounds were tiny little white things with black eyes. I did not want to eat them. They said it was fish, but I had never seen fish like those on the crackers. I used every excuse imaginable, but no one would taste anything until I had taken a bite. It was obviously a delicacy and served in my honor, so I closed my eyes and took a bite. Big surprise! It did taste like fish and was exquisitely delicious! That was my introduction to Angoullas/Anguilas/Angulas a delicacy not often seen by tourists.

Click here for a recipe on how to make Angulas