[Editor's Posting]
We are introducing a new feature on the blog: Fractals by Marion!
Or as she's better known to her readers MrsB.
Fractals are special geometric shapes that have interesting properties. The term "fractal" was coined by Benoît B. Mandelbrot in 1975 but the roots of discovery go back much further.
We see fractal forms around us every day. Mountains, clouds, snowflakes, trees, coastlines are examples of fractals in nature.
MrsB has been working on creating quite a few of these geometric images and we will be publishing them periodically on the blog.
Enjoy the art show!
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Times Remembered 3
[Editor's note: This will be a series of stories posted at irregular intervals]
I often wonder what the human condition will be like in years to come. I am not involved in the study of such, but questions do flicker in and out of my thoughts about what the future will be like long after I cease to exist.
Sometimes when I make impromptu comparisons between the times of my early years and the times of today, I wonder what life on earth will be like a thousand or more years from now.
Remembrances of my childhood usually encompass the years before WWII. The rest of my life experiences are broken into segments that are distinct by events in my life at that time. When I peruse the current state of affairs, events are either catastrophic like that of 9-11, or meld into continued progressions.
Extreme weather patterns caused by climate warming, lawlessness caused by drugs, human migrations from the countries of their birth, poverty due to downward spirals of economic conditions round the world and the extremes of personal wealth with individuals being worth Billions compared to those who are homeless, are conditions that overshadow the wonderful scientific discoveries and inventions that make our lives easier and enjoyable. Television, computers and air travel of today are things I never envisioned as a child, nor was sending astronauts into outer space and beyond. Heart transplants were only performed in horror movies, not real life. DNA is a resource used daily to combat illnesses, catch criminals, and prove kinship.
As TV brings the world news directly into our homes, we are forced to take note of deplorable conditions around the globe, and I can’t help remembering the slower paced living in a community that never felt the need to lock doors at night
I often wonder what the human condition will be like in years to come. I am not involved in the study of such, but questions do flicker in and out of my thoughts about what the future will be like long after I cease to exist.
Sometimes when I make impromptu comparisons between the times of my early years and the times of today, I wonder what life on earth will be like a thousand or more years from now.
Remembrances of my childhood usually encompass the years before WWII. The rest of my life experiences are broken into segments that are distinct by events in my life at that time. When I peruse the current state of affairs, events are either catastrophic like that of 9-11, or meld into continued progressions.
Extreme weather patterns caused by climate warming, lawlessness caused by drugs, human migrations from the countries of their birth, poverty due to downward spirals of economic conditions round the world and the extremes of personal wealth with individuals being worth Billions compared to those who are homeless, are conditions that overshadow the wonderful scientific discoveries and inventions that make our lives easier and enjoyable. Television, computers and air travel of today are things I never envisioned as a child, nor was sending astronauts into outer space and beyond. Heart transplants were only performed in horror movies, not real life. DNA is a resource used daily to combat illnesses, catch criminals, and prove kinship.
As TV brings the world news directly into our homes, we are forced to take note of deplorable conditions around the globe, and I can’t help remembering the slower paced living in a community that never felt the need to lock doors at night
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| Old Time Door Lock |
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Checkmate! by KimB
[Editor's Note: This story was written by KimB]
Uncle Jerry was a favorite of everyone. Although I cannot say I loved any one of my aunts or uncles more than any other but Uncle Jerry was always a highlight when he came to visit.
Our family always seemed to congregate at various locations and often at my Grandmother and Grandfather's house. Family gatherings just "happened" and times together were full of interesting and often amusing events.
I had learned chess at a young age from my brother and probably a lot of other family members too. I can't remember a time when I didn't know how to move the pieces on the board. Of course, I didn't know any strategy and was easy prey for a 3 move checkmate (and I still am).
I was just starting high-school and Jerry had come to visit Grandmother and Grandfather. Grandfather had a wood shop and was making custom chess boards for sale at swap-meets. Granddad would bring in some of his creations for us to check out. Jerry and I would test the boards by playing games on them and give them a "thumbs up" when done. (They almost never got a "thumbs down" because the boards where smooth and the pieces fitted just perfectly in the squares.)
Jerry was a master of strategy and I had yet to learn any. I just played "all out" but Jerry won the most. He kept me "slugging it out" with him and our chess challenges were often the center of attention.
One night, by some unknown method, I was winning! I had managed to capture almost all of Jerry's pieces and still had enough of my own to manage a checkmate. Unfortunately I couldn't quite figure out how to corner his king for the checkmate. We played and played and I sweated, while trying to figure out how to corner the king. At last, I had his king in the corner and I knew the next move or two would end the game in my favor. I pondered carefully what moves I should make next.
Jerry, who by this time was rather tired of my bumbing, said "Kim, move the knight here." He pointed to a square near his king. I didn't hesitate a moment and moved the knight. After all, it was Uncle Jerry. As soon as I took my hand from the piece, Jerry jumped up and proclaimed: "Stalemate!" He laughed a big belly laugh at my surprise. Granddad and the others laughed too! Sure enough it was a stalemate! I had lost! I was stunned!
Only later, did I realize it was an "illegal" move! My knight was not able to move to that square at all! I confronted Jerry, saying "That was an illegal move! You told me wrong!" He smiled and had a great twinkle in his eyes and said "Never make a move because someone else tells you to..."
I have never forgotten that lesson!
Uncle Jerry was a favorite of everyone. Although I cannot say I loved any one of my aunts or uncles more than any other but Uncle Jerry was always a highlight when he came to visit.
Our family always seemed to congregate at various locations and often at my Grandmother and Grandfather's house. Family gatherings just "happened" and times together were full of interesting and often amusing events.
I had learned chess at a young age from my brother and probably a lot of other family members too. I can't remember a time when I didn't know how to move the pieces on the board. Of course, I didn't know any strategy and was easy prey for a 3 move checkmate (and I still am).
I was just starting high-school and Jerry had come to visit Grandmother and Grandfather. Grandfather had a wood shop and was making custom chess boards for sale at swap-meets. Granddad would bring in some of his creations for us to check out. Jerry and I would test the boards by playing games on them and give them a "thumbs up" when done. (They almost never got a "thumbs down" because the boards where smooth and the pieces fitted just perfectly in the squares.)
Jerry was a master of strategy and I had yet to learn any. I just played "all out" but Jerry won the most. He kept me "slugging it out" with him and our chess challenges were often the center of attention.
One night, by some unknown method, I was winning! I had managed to capture almost all of Jerry's pieces and still had enough of my own to manage a checkmate. Unfortunately I couldn't quite figure out how to corner his king for the checkmate. We played and played and I sweated, while trying to figure out how to corner the king. At last, I had his king in the corner and I knew the next move or two would end the game in my favor. I pondered carefully what moves I should make next.
Jerry, who by this time was rather tired of my bumbing, said "Kim, move the knight here." He pointed to a square near his king. I didn't hesitate a moment and moved the knight. After all, it was Uncle Jerry. As soon as I took my hand from the piece, Jerry jumped up and proclaimed: "Stalemate!" He laughed a big belly laugh at my surprise. Granddad and the others laughed too! Sure enough it was a stalemate! I had lost! I was stunned!
Only later, did I realize it was an "illegal" move! My knight was not able to move to that square at all! I confronted Jerry, saying "That was an illegal move! You told me wrong!" He smiled and had a great twinkle in his eyes and said "Never make a move because someone else tells you to..."
I have never forgotten that lesson!
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Times Remembered 2
[Editor's note: This will be a series of stories posted at irregular intervals]
My daughter and I were Oregon bound in the used Plymouth I had purchased several months before. I had only driven the car around the San Francisco peninsula from Palo Alto to San Jose and this was the first trip of any consequence in it.
I had received a phone call from my brother, Jerry, asking me if I could meet him in Portland when he started his two weeks leave from his job. Jerry worked as a cook on an oil rig off the coast of Alaska and his work schedule allowed him to work three weeks and be off two weeks.
It was a rare opportunity to spend a few days vacation with my brother and my daughter and I were in high spirits as we drove north. There was no rush and we took our time enjoying the scenes along the highway. Jerry had given us instructions about place and time for meeting him and we gauged our trip accordingly.
Following his instructions, we passed thru various checkpoints at the port reaching a spot on the dock that was as close to the big ships as one could park a vehicle. Jerry had stressed the meeting time of 5 o’clock in the afternoon, but as we parked the car and got out to look around, we didn’t see him.
We stood there for some time watching men walking back and forth to activities in the area, and wondered if I had misunderstood Jerry’s instructions. Suddenly we heard Jerry calling from the railing of a ship and waving to get our attention. What a relief to know we were in the right place at the right time.
When Jerry joined us, there were hugs all around and he told us about an antique anchor he wanted to put in the trunk of the car. He explained that I would have to move the car into a position so the anchor could be lowered by a winch from the ship over the back of the car, then pushed into the trunk without effort. I maneuvered the vehicle until Jerry was satisfied, then I got out of the car to watch.
That was when I saw the size of the anchor. It was huge! Obviously it was too big to fit in the trunk, and I told Jerry so, but Jerry continued calling out instructions to the man working the winch. As it was lowered closer to the back of the car, Jerry gently pushed it this way and that as it hung in the air. Jerry kept assuring me the anchor would fit and ignored my comments to the contrary. I was concerned about the weight as well as the size.
To my surprise, Jerry was able to maneuver the anchor into the trunk so that the lid closed properly. Fortunately, the weight didn’t seem to cause any problems. My only worry at that point was how we were going to remove it when we reached Elbert’s house on the San Francisco peninsula where it would be stored until it could be moved to Texas in the future.
After the anchor had been stowed in the car trunk, we started the trip back to California. I have adventures whenever and wherever I travel and the adventures on the trip home I'll reserve for a future telling.
But meeting Jerry in Portland rates high on my list of adventures and I can still hear his laugh as he succeeded in stowing the anchor. Jerry always had a twinkle in his eye and was a delightful traveling companion. I was a very lucky sister when he got bunched in with me and my other brothers and sisters as the baby of the family.
My daughter and I were Oregon bound in the used Plymouth I had purchased several months before. I had only driven the car around the San Francisco peninsula from Palo Alto to San Jose and this was the first trip of any consequence in it.
I had received a phone call from my brother, Jerry, asking me if I could meet him in Portland when he started his two weeks leave from his job. Jerry worked as a cook on an oil rig off the coast of Alaska and his work schedule allowed him to work three weeks and be off two weeks.
It was a rare opportunity to spend a few days vacation with my brother and my daughter and I were in high spirits as we drove north. There was no rush and we took our time enjoying the scenes along the highway. Jerry had given us instructions about place and time for meeting him and we gauged our trip accordingly.
Following his instructions, we passed thru various checkpoints at the port reaching a spot on the dock that was as close to the big ships as one could park a vehicle. Jerry had stressed the meeting time of 5 o’clock in the afternoon, but as we parked the car and got out to look around, we didn’t see him.
We stood there for some time watching men walking back and forth to activities in the area, and wondered if I had misunderstood Jerry’s instructions. Suddenly we heard Jerry calling from the railing of a ship and waving to get our attention. What a relief to know we were in the right place at the right time.
When Jerry joined us, there were hugs all around and he told us about an antique anchor he wanted to put in the trunk of the car. He explained that I would have to move the car into a position so the anchor could be lowered by a winch from the ship over the back of the car, then pushed into the trunk without effort. I maneuvered the vehicle until Jerry was satisfied, then I got out of the car to watch.
That was when I saw the size of the anchor. It was huge! Obviously it was too big to fit in the trunk, and I told Jerry so, but Jerry continued calling out instructions to the man working the winch. As it was lowered closer to the back of the car, Jerry gently pushed it this way and that as it hung in the air. Jerry kept assuring me the anchor would fit and ignored my comments to the contrary. I was concerned about the weight as well as the size.
To my surprise, Jerry was able to maneuver the anchor into the trunk so that the lid closed properly. Fortunately, the weight didn’t seem to cause any problems. My only worry at that point was how we were going to remove it when we reached Elbert’s house on the San Francisco peninsula where it would be stored until it could be moved to Texas in the future.
After the anchor had been stowed in the car trunk, we started the trip back to California. I have adventures whenever and wherever I travel and the adventures on the trip home I'll reserve for a future telling.
But meeting Jerry in Portland rates high on my list of adventures and I can still hear his laugh as he succeeded in stowing the anchor. Jerry always had a twinkle in his eye and was a delightful traveling companion. I was a very lucky sister when he got bunched in with me and my other brothers and sisters as the baby of the family.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Memories of Jerry by Esther
[Editor's Note: This story was written by Esther]
We have lost another member of our family. Jerry was a favorite Uncle to my children, as all my brothers were. Jerry, Charles, and Mickey were the three that spent time with us when they worked in the Gulf Of Mexico. They were cooks aboard the oil rigs and when they came ashore on their time off, it was spent at our house.
At first we lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana when the children were well in to school. The oldest was Taffy; then Marion who was three years behind her. Next is Cindy another two years back and last is Vern Jr. was also two years back.
The children were always waiting for them when it was their time to come in and we would drive down to pick up who ever was coming in. Some times only one would come or maybe two could make it. But it was a merry time if all three of them were in at the same time.
Mickey might make a fast trip to California to see family out there and be back to spend time with his friends here and us before he had to go back. Charles was one to stay close and he like to have his beer and talk about old times. And Jerry was one to keep the children active doing crafts and staying busy out doors playing games with lots of actions. He loved baseball and football and jumping rope.
Of course, the best was they all could cook and each had a totally different cooking style. If they needed any thing, the children would help them. They were great at teaching meal planning and preparing special favorite dishes. We had lots of outdoor cooking on the bar-b-que pit and all the gang would be sure to know about it and show up to eat with us.
Jerry was one to show the children some easy crafts to make from recycle cans and containers. With an oat meal carton and some rolls from bath tissue he showed how to make log planters and to take dish washing bottles and make lovely door stoppers. He made some to look like dolls and also to warp yarn around a can to make good pencil holders. He was always reusing cans and what ever was handy to good advantage. And hey! It kept the children busy and happy doing it.
Vernon Sr. and Jerry used to play monopoly with Jr.. The game helped to teach Jr. math, which he really needed to learn. They played almost every night after home work and on the weekends; it would last for several hours. Yes, it did work and it was so nice to see Jr. work a math problem just by looking at it, without paper or pencil and to get the correct total.
And we can’t forget the card games! Vernon, Jerry, Charles and Mickey would have a game going and it would most often be Cribbage. Jerry loved playing cards. Any game was his favorite. When he would win it was a “Jolly Jerry” and he was just as happy when others would win too. He just love playing with others. He made losing fun and that was a treasure to hear my children laugh and to have them know it was just a game and if it makes you happy it is worth playing.
Jerry loved to sing. He came often to help take care of Mom and Dad and when my sister Marion and I would have Mom sing songs after supper. Jerry would sing with us. He love to sing the good Hymns we had learned in Sunday School. He had a wonderful voice and it was a joy hearing him sing with us.
I still have one brother and he is always calling or emailing news to keep in touch and I love to hear from him. And of course, there is my sister Marion. There are just the three of us now and we are still a family.
I know I will be thinking of all the good times we had growing up and I can recall how close we were to each other all those long years ago. Good memories are great to have now. How wonderful it is to have them when I look back.
We have lost another member of our family. Jerry was a favorite Uncle to my children, as all my brothers were. Jerry, Charles, and Mickey were the three that spent time with us when they worked in the Gulf Of Mexico. They were cooks aboard the oil rigs and when they came ashore on their time off, it was spent at our house.
At first we lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana when the children were well in to school. The oldest was Taffy; then Marion who was three years behind her. Next is Cindy another two years back and last is Vern Jr. was also two years back.
The children were always waiting for them when it was their time to come in and we would drive down to pick up who ever was coming in. Some times only one would come or maybe two could make it. But it was a merry time if all three of them were in at the same time.
Mickey might make a fast trip to California to see family out there and be back to spend time with his friends here and us before he had to go back. Charles was one to stay close and he like to have his beer and talk about old times. And Jerry was one to keep the children active doing crafts and staying busy out doors playing games with lots of actions. He loved baseball and football and jumping rope.
Of course, the best was they all could cook and each had a totally different cooking style. If they needed any thing, the children would help them. They were great at teaching meal planning and preparing special favorite dishes. We had lots of outdoor cooking on the bar-b-que pit and all the gang would be sure to know about it and show up to eat with us.
Jerry was one to show the children some easy crafts to make from recycle cans and containers. With an oat meal carton and some rolls from bath tissue he showed how to make log planters and to take dish washing bottles and make lovely door stoppers. He made some to look like dolls and also to warp yarn around a can to make good pencil holders. He was always reusing cans and what ever was handy to good advantage. And hey! It kept the children busy and happy doing it.
Vernon Sr. and Jerry used to play monopoly with Jr.. The game helped to teach Jr. math, which he really needed to learn. They played almost every night after home work and on the weekends; it would last for several hours. Yes, it did work and it was so nice to see Jr. work a math problem just by looking at it, without paper or pencil and to get the correct total.
And we can’t forget the card games! Vernon, Jerry, Charles and Mickey would have a game going and it would most often be Cribbage. Jerry loved playing cards. Any game was his favorite. When he would win it was a “Jolly Jerry” and he was just as happy when others would win too. He just love playing with others. He made losing fun and that was a treasure to hear my children laugh and to have them know it was just a game and if it makes you happy it is worth playing.
Jerry loved to sing. He came often to help take care of Mom and Dad and when my sister Marion and I would have Mom sing songs after supper. Jerry would sing with us. He love to sing the good Hymns we had learned in Sunday School. He had a wonderful voice and it was a joy hearing him sing with us.
I still have one brother and he is always calling or emailing news to keep in touch and I love to hear from him. And of course, there is my sister Marion. There are just the three of us now and we are still a family.
I know I will be thinking of all the good times we had growing up and I can recall how close we were to each other all those long years ago. Good memories are great to have now. How wonderful it is to have them when I look back.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Times Remembered 1
[Editor's note: This will be a series of stories posted at irregular intervals]
As a new round of cards was being dealt around the table, players shifted in their seats and laughed and chatted while soft drinks were refreshed with refills and ice cubes. There were five players, Marion, Adeline, Esther, Jerry and Mom at the round kitchen table. They were playing Spite and Malice, a game the group played often and with great amusement.
It was early in the evening of a hot, sultry August night in south Texas. The only relief from the steam like humidity was the air being drawn thru the kitchen by the whole house fan in the small room off the kitchen where the refrigerator was.
As Adeline dealt the ‘pile’, which determines the length of a game, and the required cards for each ‘hand’, players teased each other with comments on their ‘almost wins’ and kept their eyes peeled for any flim- flam business Adeline was known to practice from time to time if she could get away with it.
The degree of competiveness differed with each of the players. There is very little strategy in Spite and Malice; it’s a game where one can gossip or chat and still win. Esther played quietly and seriously. Marion gabbed a lot and argued with Adeline, who wanted to change the rules in the middle of a game so she could have an edge. Mom always played to win and Jerry set traps and to get the best of the others as the game progressed.
A rivalry developed between Jerry and Mom when her winning streak dominated the game, and no matter how hard Jerry tried, his traps just didn’t work. Excitement began to build and Dad, who was watching baseball on TV, left the front room to watch the card game in the kitchen.
Eventually the card piles diminished and it just so happened that at the end of Jerry’s turn, he had one card left to turn over and hopefully be able to play it to win. Then it was Mom’s turn. She also finished her turn with only one card to turn over but could it be played, giving her the win?
Play continued with Adeline, Marion and Esther, all having too many cards in their piles to win. Then it was take or break time, would Jerry win this turn, or would it pass to Mom who might win? Or would the game go round another circle of play?
Jerry’s eyes were twinkling as he deliberately but forcefully slapped each of his cards on the table, and then he reached for the last remaining card and slowly turned it over.
YEP! It was a playable card and Jerry won the game! We all gave Jerry applause and Mom clapped the loudest. What a memorable game! We have often talked about it and how Jerry got such a big kick out of winning.
As a new round of cards was being dealt around the table, players shifted in their seats and laughed and chatted while soft drinks were refreshed with refills and ice cubes. There were five players, Marion, Adeline, Esther, Jerry and Mom at the round kitchen table. They were playing Spite and Malice, a game the group played often and with great amusement.
It was early in the evening of a hot, sultry August night in south Texas. The only relief from the steam like humidity was the air being drawn thru the kitchen by the whole house fan in the small room off the kitchen where the refrigerator was.
As Adeline dealt the ‘pile’, which determines the length of a game, and the required cards for each ‘hand’, players teased each other with comments on their ‘almost wins’ and kept their eyes peeled for any flim- flam business Adeline was known to practice from time to time if she could get away with it.
The degree of competiveness differed with each of the players. There is very little strategy in Spite and Malice; it’s a game where one can gossip or chat and still win. Esther played quietly and seriously. Marion gabbed a lot and argued with Adeline, who wanted to change the rules in the middle of a game so she could have an edge. Mom always played to win and Jerry set traps and to get the best of the others as the game progressed.
A rivalry developed between Jerry and Mom when her winning streak dominated the game, and no matter how hard Jerry tried, his traps just didn’t work. Excitement began to build and Dad, who was watching baseball on TV, left the front room to watch the card game in the kitchen.
Eventually the card piles diminished and it just so happened that at the end of Jerry’s turn, he had one card left to turn over and hopefully be able to play it to win. Then it was Mom’s turn. She also finished her turn with only one card to turn over but could it be played, giving her the win?
Play continued with Adeline, Marion and Esther, all having too many cards in their piles to win. Then it was take or break time, would Jerry win this turn, or would it pass to Mom who might win? Or would the game go round another circle of play?
Jerry’s eyes were twinkling as he deliberately but forcefully slapped each of his cards on the table, and then he reached for the last remaining card and slowly turned it over.
YEP! It was a playable card and Jerry won the game! We all gave Jerry applause and Mom clapped the loudest. What a memorable game! We have often talked about it and how Jerry got such a big kick out of winning.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 6 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's note: This is a many part story by KimB
This is the final story in the series.]
The bus bounced along the back roads and through the English countryside as we headed south to Newcastle. The weather was lovely and and the countryside had many trees and fields totally different than the plain hills of Southern Scotland.
I arrived at the bus stop and a nice gentleman came up to me and introduced himself: Jimmy Grey. I had found my destination! We got in his car and headed off towards “home”.
While I had difficulty understanding him, he seemed to understand me just fine. He said he had set me up in a Bed and Breakfast in town where the food was good and the room was clean and neat.
I asked again, “Who is “Peter Lee Horten”?” He laughed and said it was the name of the towns near by: Peterlee is near Newcastle and Horden, not Horten, is near Peterlee. His village was very small and that was the address. As everyone knew everyone in the village, all you needed was the person's name and the names of the nearby towns.
He took me to his home where he had his kennel and oh my gosh! Lovely Airedales EVERYWHERE! We talked dogs and dog breeding and dog shows long into the night. He said he'd be happy to let me have a puppy from his next litter in about 6 months and he would make sure it was a good show quality dog. He said he would arrange to have the dog shipped to France for me and that was part of the bargain.
My mission accomplished I left the next day. Jimmy took me to the Highway where I could catch a ride South and we said our goodbyes. I thanked him again and was happy that I had finally found my dog.
And so, I started on the long road back to France. There were minor adventures on the way south: drinking my first pint of Guinness; getting stopped by an English Highway Patrol Officer for hitch-hiking in the wrong spot – so he drove me 10 miles to the next cloverleaf where I would have a better chance of catching a ride, having to share the cab of a truck overnight when it broke down on the way south and the weather outside had turned freezing and meeting loads of nice people on the way.
The day after I landed at the Pas de Calais and collected my car, Scotland had the worst snow storm they'd seen in many years. I had a wonderful visit to Scotland in February and not one drop of rain or snow fell my entire visit there.
My adventures were not over, not by a long shot but the stories of my trip home shall have to wait for another day.
This is the final story in the series.]
The bus bounced along the back roads and through the English countryside as we headed south to Newcastle. The weather was lovely and and the countryside had many trees and fields totally different than the plain hills of Southern Scotland.
I arrived at the bus stop and a nice gentleman came up to me and introduced himself: Jimmy Grey. I had found my destination! We got in his car and headed off towards “home”.
While I had difficulty understanding him, he seemed to understand me just fine. He said he had set me up in a Bed and Breakfast in town where the food was good and the room was clean and neat.
I asked again, “Who is “Peter Lee Horten”?” He laughed and said it was the name of the towns near by: Peterlee is near Newcastle and Horden, not Horten, is near Peterlee. His village was very small and that was the address. As everyone knew everyone in the village, all you needed was the person's name and the names of the nearby towns.
He took me to his home where he had his kennel and oh my gosh! Lovely Airedales EVERYWHERE! We talked dogs and dog breeding and dog shows long into the night. He said he'd be happy to let me have a puppy from his next litter in about 6 months and he would make sure it was a good show quality dog. He said he would arrange to have the dog shipped to France for me and that was part of the bargain.
My mission accomplished I left the next day. Jimmy took me to the Highway where I could catch a ride South and we said our goodbyes. I thanked him again and was happy that I had finally found my dog.
And so, I started on the long road back to France. There were minor adventures on the way south: drinking my first pint of Guinness; getting stopped by an English Highway Patrol Officer for hitch-hiking in the wrong spot – so he drove me 10 miles to the next cloverleaf where I would have a better chance of catching a ride, having to share the cab of a truck overnight when it broke down on the way south and the weather outside had turned freezing and meeting loads of nice people on the way.
The day after I landed at the Pas de Calais and collected my car, Scotland had the worst snow storm they'd seen in many years. I had a wonderful visit to Scotland in February and not one drop of rain or snow fell my entire visit there.
My adventures were not over, not by a long shot but the stories of my trip home shall have to wait for another day.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 5 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's note: This is a many part story by KimB.
The series will be published weekly.]
The train ride to Edinburgh was relatively uneventful and I arrived at the train station in good form. I made it to the Hostel and this time I had the British Pounds to pay the room fare for several days.
Edinburgh is unlike Glasgow in so many ways. It is a beautiful city and everywhere you look history has marked the streets and alleys. Nothing there in not important. The layout of the city, the great castle at the center, the shops along the streets and avenues everything has something of interest to see or learn about.
I spent one day wandering around the town and passed by many shops. I ended up walking down “kilt row” where every shop sold kilts. I went into one and learned quite a bit about kilts. First you have to belong to a Clan to have one. If you don't have a Clan, you can be assigned one and then you can wear a kilt. You cannot wear just any colored kilt only the one from your own Clan as each Clan has its own color and pattern. And kilts are for men, women wear plaid skirts with their Clan Colors.
I passed by a Scottish Bakery where I went in to look at what they had on offer. Of course the French have wonderful pastries and I wanted to see what they had at a Scottish shop. I talked to the clerk about what everything was. I asked if they had a “Bal More Al Cake” or had they heard of one? No, they had never heard of such a cake but they did have some Short Bread Cookies and I can safely say those were WONDERFUL!
I went to the Tourist Bureau and asked a nice lady there if she could help me find someone who had Airedale Terriers for sale. She said she'd never been asked that before but she'd give it a go. She'd need several hours to find out anything and to come back later.
I continued to wander around the town and I saw two Scottish Police Officers on horseback. It was a wonderful sight and I wish American Mounted Officers would spend some time checking out how they do it in Europe. These were not only Policemen but Horsemen too. They had HUGE horses and they trotted smartly down the lane. I watched until they were out of sight wishing our American Officers could look half as good and still get the job done. One thing about the Europeans and their horses, they've been working on them for a lot longer than we have and they know a whole lot more than we do too. Only our American Hubris keeps us from learning there are better ways to get things done.
I went back to the Tourist Bureau and the lady waved excitedly, “I found someone!” she said as I approached. She gave me the name of the person but then things got a bit mixed up. The paper said: “Jimmy Grey Newcastle upon Tyne”. There were some numbers after that. She said they were the phone number and I could call from the box outside on the square. I had heard of Newcastle but there was no address. She said just call Jimmy Grey and he'd give me directions. So I went out to the square where the red phone box was.
Phones are mysterious no matter what and in those days there were no cell phones or text messaging. In France, I had to go to the Post Office to make a phone call or send a telegram. No one had a phone in their home. The horror stories about using the French phones were amusing vignettes passed around the dinner table there. I was quite suspicious of the Red Phone and I was not disappointed. The directions were simple: Dial the Number, Put the money in when it goes “beep”. What they neglected to mention is that there are quite a few different “beeps” and I must have stuffed a small fortune in the coin slot at the wrong “beep”.
At last I got Jimmy Grey on the phone and instantly we had a problem. I couldn't understand anything he said.
I kept repeating: “Do you have Airedales for sale?” “Can I come to buy one?” “Where to do I go?”
His answers were: “Yes. Yes. Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne”.
“Who is Peter Lee? Where are you?” I kept asking.
“Jimmy Grey Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne. Take the 3 o'clock bus and I'll meet you at the depot.”
The Tourist Bureau Lady gave me directions to the bus depot and I raced to collect my gear from the Hostel and got on the 3 o'clock bus to Newcastle. I had my bag, my guitar and was on my way to buy a dog but I had no idea where I was going.
The series will be published weekly.]
The train ride to Edinburgh was relatively uneventful and I arrived at the train station in good form. I made it to the Hostel and this time I had the British Pounds to pay the room fare for several days.
Edinburgh is unlike Glasgow in so many ways. It is a beautiful city and everywhere you look history has marked the streets and alleys. Nothing there in not important. The layout of the city, the great castle at the center, the shops along the streets and avenues everything has something of interest to see or learn about.
I spent one day wandering around the town and passed by many shops. I ended up walking down “kilt row” where every shop sold kilts. I went into one and learned quite a bit about kilts. First you have to belong to a Clan to have one. If you don't have a Clan, you can be assigned one and then you can wear a kilt. You cannot wear just any colored kilt only the one from your own Clan as each Clan has its own color and pattern. And kilts are for men, women wear plaid skirts with their Clan Colors.
I passed by a Scottish Bakery where I went in to look at what they had on offer. Of course the French have wonderful pastries and I wanted to see what they had at a Scottish shop. I talked to the clerk about what everything was. I asked if they had a “Bal More Al Cake” or had they heard of one? No, they had never heard of such a cake but they did have some Short Bread Cookies and I can safely say those were WONDERFUL!
I went to the Tourist Bureau and asked a nice lady there if she could help me find someone who had Airedale Terriers for sale. She said she'd never been asked that before but she'd give it a go. She'd need several hours to find out anything and to come back later.
I continued to wander around the town and I saw two Scottish Police Officers on horseback. It was a wonderful sight and I wish American Mounted Officers would spend some time checking out how they do it in Europe. These were not only Policemen but Horsemen too. They had HUGE horses and they trotted smartly down the lane. I watched until they were out of sight wishing our American Officers could look half as good and still get the job done. One thing about the Europeans and their horses, they've been working on them for a lot longer than we have and they know a whole lot more than we do too. Only our American Hubris keeps us from learning there are better ways to get things done.
I went back to the Tourist Bureau and the lady waved excitedly, “I found someone!” she said as I approached. She gave me the name of the person but then things got a bit mixed up. The paper said: “Jimmy Grey Newcastle upon Tyne”. There were some numbers after that. She said they were the phone number and I could call from the box outside on the square. I had heard of Newcastle but there was no address. She said just call Jimmy Grey and he'd give me directions. So I went out to the square where the red phone box was.
Phones are mysterious no matter what and in those days there were no cell phones or text messaging. In France, I had to go to the Post Office to make a phone call or send a telegram. No one had a phone in their home. The horror stories about using the French phones were amusing vignettes passed around the dinner table there. I was quite suspicious of the Red Phone and I was not disappointed. The directions were simple: Dial the Number, Put the money in when it goes “beep”. What they neglected to mention is that there are quite a few different “beeps” and I must have stuffed a small fortune in the coin slot at the wrong “beep”.
At last I got Jimmy Grey on the phone and instantly we had a problem. I couldn't understand anything he said.
I kept repeating: “Do you have Airedales for sale?” “Can I come to buy one?” “Where to do I go?”
His answers were: “Yes. Yes. Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne”.
“Who is Peter Lee? Where are you?” I kept asking.
“Jimmy Grey Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne. Take the 3 o'clock bus and I'll meet you at the depot.”
The Tourist Bureau Lady gave me directions to the bus depot and I raced to collect my gear from the Hostel and got on the 3 o'clock bus to Newcastle. I had my bag, my guitar and was on my way to buy a dog but I had no idea where I was going.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 4 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's note: This is a many part story by KimB.
The series will be published weekly.]
My Rescuers were a wonderful family that lived in the suburbs of Glasgow. They had a 3 bedroom apartment in a 3 story brick walk-up building in a small complex on the outskirts of the city. There was a large expanse of lawn and some swings for children to play on.
The flat was very comfortable and I was soon made “at home”. The son and his wife were still traveling so I was given the open bedroom. A daughter, my age, who lived at home, had the second bedroom and the parents had the remaining one. There was a small sitting room with comfortable arm-chairs set up for watching the TV.
We began to exchange stories and while they had heard from their son about his meeting with me, they wanted to hear first hand how we had met and how I'd helped him on his travels. I learned about them too. He was English and had come to Glasgow many years earlier for work. He had met his wife while working and settled down in Glasgow. He said that was one reason I could understand him: he didn't have a Scottish accent! He said when I called, I was lucky he had answered the phone because the rest of the family had quite a thick one. We all laughed when he said, the 3 of them had debated who was to go collect me as they were sure I would not understand his wife or daughter's accents.
Their hospitality had no ends. That evening the daughter took me to a Rugby Match and then to a party with some of her friends. They were all keen to meet a real-live American. I don't think I was very good company though as 499 mugs of hot milky tea were still working their way through my gut and I had to excuse myself often. But it was great meeting loads of people my own age! I can vouch that they know how to party in Glasgow!
The next morning, I was astonished to wake up when the Mrs knocked on the door and brought in a tray loaded with hot breakfast foods! I was so embarrassed that she had gone to such lengths. She smiled and said she did it everyday for everyone and as I was her guest she would treat me just like the others. It was just like in the movies: oatmeal, eggs, toast, bacon and well, more tea. It was delicious!
As the others had previous engagements, I spent the day helping the Mrs with the chores of the house. It wasn't much different than at home, except everything is in miniature. The stove, the washing machine everything is designed to take up as little space as possible. I helped her make dinner and she said that night's dessert was “jelly”. I wondered what she meant, so I pestered her to tell me about it, was it blackberry or marmalade? In another different adventure, which I shall perhaps someday relate, I'd run into a “jelly” for dinner and while it had an amusing aftermath, I didn't want to “make a fool of myself” again either. But she remained quiet and I had to wait as we prepared the dinner. Soon she opened the refrigerator and took out of a wrapper a rectangular yellow something. It was about half the size of our sticks of butter. She showed this to me and said, “See, jelly.” I still had no idea what it was and she smiled and said, “You'll like it.” Then she heated some water and put the yellow stick in it and as it started to melt I could smell the familiar fragrance of “Lemon Jell-O”!
At dinner, the Mr and Mrs told me that if the weather was good the next day, they would take me sight-seeing. We would take a drive out along some of the famous Lochs and thru the hills of southern Scotland. It was a wonderful plan and the next day, could not have been better. The sun was out, it was warm and there wasn't any fog or rain on the horizon. We piled into their car and I received the most wonderful personal tour of Scotland. Anything of importance we went to. I saw the lochs and the hills and the waterfall and the heather. The sun lasted all day and we had a wonderful outing. They gave me a piece of Scottish Heather to carry as a good luck charm on the rest of my journey.
The following day, the Mrs took me to the shops in Glasgow. She had her regular shopping to do but said there would be time to look at the stores if I wanted to go along. Who could resist? The shops where not like the big stores or malls at home. They were medium size or small and often had one or two specialties. She explained that Edinburgh had better shops but it was a days train ride from Glasgow and she didn't get to go often.
At last the day came when the banks would open and I could exchange my French Francs for British Pounds. They asked if I would stay longer with them but I said I had to continue my search for my Airedale and that I had to return to University too. The Mr had done some basic inquires and said there was no one in Glasgow that had this type of dog and that Edinburgh was the next best place to try.
So, we said our good byes and thank yous and I boarded the train to Edinburgh. This time I had British Pounds in my pocket and thought, “Nothing more could happen...”
The series will be published weekly.]
My Rescuers were a wonderful family that lived in the suburbs of Glasgow. They had a 3 bedroom apartment in a 3 story brick walk-up building in a small complex on the outskirts of the city. There was a large expanse of lawn and some swings for children to play on.
The flat was very comfortable and I was soon made “at home”. The son and his wife were still traveling so I was given the open bedroom. A daughter, my age, who lived at home, had the second bedroom and the parents had the remaining one. There was a small sitting room with comfortable arm-chairs set up for watching the TV.
We began to exchange stories and while they had heard from their son about his meeting with me, they wanted to hear first hand how we had met and how I'd helped him on his travels. I learned about them too. He was English and had come to Glasgow many years earlier for work. He had met his wife while working and settled down in Glasgow. He said that was one reason I could understand him: he didn't have a Scottish accent! He said when I called, I was lucky he had answered the phone because the rest of the family had quite a thick one. We all laughed when he said, the 3 of them had debated who was to go collect me as they were sure I would not understand his wife or daughter's accents.
Their hospitality had no ends. That evening the daughter took me to a Rugby Match and then to a party with some of her friends. They were all keen to meet a real-live American. I don't think I was very good company though as 499 mugs of hot milky tea were still working their way through my gut and I had to excuse myself often. But it was great meeting loads of people my own age! I can vouch that they know how to party in Glasgow!
The next morning, I was astonished to wake up when the Mrs knocked on the door and brought in a tray loaded with hot breakfast foods! I was so embarrassed that she had gone to such lengths. She smiled and said she did it everyday for everyone and as I was her guest she would treat me just like the others. It was just like in the movies: oatmeal, eggs, toast, bacon and well, more tea. It was delicious!
As the others had previous engagements, I spent the day helping the Mrs with the chores of the house. It wasn't much different than at home, except everything is in miniature. The stove, the washing machine everything is designed to take up as little space as possible. I helped her make dinner and she said that night's dessert was “jelly”. I wondered what she meant, so I pestered her to tell me about it, was it blackberry or marmalade? In another different adventure, which I shall perhaps someday relate, I'd run into a “jelly” for dinner and while it had an amusing aftermath, I didn't want to “make a fool of myself” again either. But she remained quiet and I had to wait as we prepared the dinner. Soon she opened the refrigerator and took out of a wrapper a rectangular yellow something. It was about half the size of our sticks of butter. She showed this to me and said, “See, jelly.” I still had no idea what it was and she smiled and said, “You'll like it.” Then she heated some water and put the yellow stick in it and as it started to melt I could smell the familiar fragrance of “Lemon Jell-O”!
At dinner, the Mr and Mrs told me that if the weather was good the next day, they would take me sight-seeing. We would take a drive out along some of the famous Lochs and thru the hills of southern Scotland. It was a wonderful plan and the next day, could not have been better. The sun was out, it was warm and there wasn't any fog or rain on the horizon. We piled into their car and I received the most wonderful personal tour of Scotland. Anything of importance we went to. I saw the lochs and the hills and the waterfall and the heather. The sun lasted all day and we had a wonderful outing. They gave me a piece of Scottish Heather to carry as a good luck charm on the rest of my journey.
The following day, the Mrs took me to the shops in Glasgow. She had her regular shopping to do but said there would be time to look at the stores if I wanted to go along. Who could resist? The shops where not like the big stores or malls at home. They were medium size or small and often had one or two specialties. She explained that Edinburgh had better shops but it was a days train ride from Glasgow and she didn't get to go often.
At last the day came when the banks would open and I could exchange my French Francs for British Pounds. They asked if I would stay longer with them but I said I had to continue my search for my Airedale and that I had to return to University too. The Mr had done some basic inquires and said there was no one in Glasgow that had this type of dog and that Edinburgh was the next best place to try.
So, we said our good byes and thank yous and I boarded the train to Edinburgh. This time I had British Pounds in my pocket and thought, “Nothing more could happen...”
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 3 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's note: This is a many part story written by KimB
The series will be published weekly]
My now friend had explained that my job was to keep the truck driver awake on the long road to The North. This wasn't too hard for me as I had loads of experience with long drives and travels with the family back home. I chatted and told stories and sang songs, sometimes with the guitar and sometimes without and basically talked my way North. I sang in English and French. My truck driver enjoyed my songs even though my french singing is not all the good. I sang the French folk songs I had learned and he knew many of them but sometimes I would sing one he had not heard before. He was always surprised at what I could pull out of the hat for entertainment.
A regular intervals the truckers would pull into a British Truck Stop. While they are similar to American ones coming off a Clover Leaf Ramp they are not the same inside. These were pretty antiseptic cafes and the food is not too appetizing. I didn't drink coffee in those days so I didn't miss it on the menu. However, tea was everywhere! Tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea with milk. I wasn't a tea drinker either being raised on Lipton Iced Tea with Lemon; hot tea with milk was rather revolting.
By now the four of us (the 2 truckers, my new friend and I) were all buddies. They all seemed very taken by my trip to Scotland in February and each was determined to see that I got to my destination in one piece. There was a sort of rivalry about who would buy my tea (with milk) at the truck stop. I always ended up with THREE big mugs of hot steamy milky tea to drink. The first time the 3 mugs appeared, each carried by their respective purchasers, I drank one but tried not to drink the other two. First, it was revolting. Second, the mugs were enormous. And third, I wasn't that thirsty. After a short while I got a kick from under the table by my new friend and a nod to “Drink Up”. I got the “hint” and downed the 2 mugs of tea with a “friendly smile” and a “thank you”. Both of the truckers looked pleased and we headed out to the road again.
Every few hours we pulled into another Truck Stop and the 3 mugs of tea were repeated. Each time I had to drink the 3 mugs, smile and say “Thank You”. The others had no problems drinking several of these mugs each but I was downing many many more than I had ever imagined. All through the night I drank 3 mugs of tea and by morning I wasn't feeling too spiffy.
Soon my new friend got off on his way back to his home. We exchanged information and he asked me to come and teach French at the Summer Camp his School had in France. This was a great compliment to my French and to my new friend who only hours earlier had declared “war on Americans”. Next the other trucker turned off to get his load of lamb and mine continued north to Glasgow. As we neared the city, he was very insistent that he give me his route for the next two weeks and if I needed a ride back to France, I could meet him at any of the destinations he gave me. I thanked him for all his kindness and stepped out on the roadway with my bag and guitar and waved goodbye to him as he headed down the road.
It was quite early in the morning and the sun was just starting to come out. The roadway was pretty quiet and I waited to catch a ride. Soon a lorry (British for truck) came by and the driver pulled over to pick me up. I asked “Glasgow?” He nodded and motioned for me to get in. I put up my bag and guitar and climbed in the truck and we headed to the city.
As I settled in he asked “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” I turned and looked at him totally astonished at what I had just heard! He said again: “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” Again I looked totally puzzled! I had no idea what he was saying at all. Not one clue. It wasn't English and it sure wasn't French. I was completely at a loss as to what to say. He seemed to understand that I didn't understand, so he said “Ha ja eaten?” Finally I got it! He wanted to know if I'd eaten breakfast! I quickly said “Yes, I'd had breakfast” (well actually 99 pints of hot milky tea). And we began to chat. His Scottish accent was a challenge but soon I caught on to the lingo and I told him about my trip to Scotland.
He asked how I ended up in Glasgow, I told him that's where the truckers were going. I told him about my trip so far and that I also wanted to buy a dog and I'd come to Scotland to find one. I told him I wanted to find an Airedale Terrier and I thought I could get one in Scotland somewhere. I didn't know where though and was hoping someone would tell me who had a kennel. He didn't know anyone with Airedales but that his day-route went around Glasgow and his run home went near the Youth Hostel I had planned to stay in and if I wanted to ride with him for the day he would drop me near the Hostel. I could see some of Glasgow that most folks never see and I thought it was a great idea.
We drove all over the outskirts of Glasgow but as the day wore on my kidneys began to complain about the 999 mugs of hot milky tea I had to drink and I just could not pee often enough to suit them. As my grandmother used to say; “ Herod, my dentures are floating away!” and I could have spent the day in the restroom peeing. Evening soon came and my trucker took me to the neighborhood where the Hostel was with directions how to find it. It was only a few blocks from where he dropped me off but by the time I got there, I had to find the restroom RIGHT NOW!! There was nothing for it; I dropped my gear in the lobby and raced up the stairs looking for the restroom: nothing, I raced down the stairs to the basement and SUCCESS I found the restroom and barely made it in time: another 50 mugs of tea were gone. I went back up to the lobby to check in.
As nice as the truckers had been, the Hostel Clerk was not. First he gave me heck for leaving the lobby without checking in. I explained I had to go to the bathroom and couldn't wait. He said, he knew why I'd left (it was sort of obvious I was in distress) but that was no excuse. Then came the bad part. I arranged the room for the weekend and handed over the passport and then he asked for the rent fee – in British Pounds. Oops!
I had managed to get £1 British Pound from the truckers on the way North but it was Friday, late afternoon, the banks were already closed and to make matters worse: Monday would be a Bank Holiday in Scotland. I didn't have enough British money to pay for the room for the weekend or to eat either. There were no ATMs in those days and even though I had loads of French Francs and Traveler's Checks, he would take none of it. I was just stuck. Stuck in Glasgow with no place to go or stay. Things looked grim indeed.
I had to think for a bit about what to do. I was in sort of a panic. Some of the other residents of the Hostel had come over to see what the problem was and began to offer help. No one at a Hostel has any money, if they did, they wouldn't be staying at a Hostel. But some offered to start a “whip round” to help me out until the banks opened on Tuesday. The clerk was told that somehow the money would be forth coming and to book my room for the night until they had collected enough. Then a group of them shepherded me into the day room and sat me down to chat. I was greatly relieved that I had a place to stay and that I could repay everyone when the banks opened.
We had a lovely visit, about 10 of us sitting in a nice room and exchanging information about our travels. Not too many Americans come to Glasgow, so I was an “instant hit” with the group. They asked me to sing some songs and I did my best rendition of “The Four Mary's” which really made them all cheer!
They asked me if I didn't know “Anyone in Glasgow at all?” I thought a bit and I did have a phone number of someone in the City. I had gotten the phone number of the parents of a Scottish couple I'd met in France on a completely separate adventure, the story which I will save for another time. I pulled out the number and the group helped me to make the call.
A nice man answered the phone and at least I could mostly understand him. I did my best to explain who I was, how I'd gotten his phone number, what the problem was and could I possibly exchange enough money with him to pay for the weekend at the Hostel? I could give him collateral for the exchange, I only needed a few British Pounds until the banks opened. He didn't hesitate one bit, he said he'd be right over. The Cheering Section went wild!
Just a short while later an older man came into the day room asking for me and said he had the money I needed. However, he said, if I wanted I could come and stay at their apartment until the banks opened up. He was very kind and said he knew who I was and that I'd done a great kindness for his son and daughter-in-law in France and wanted to repay it with the hospitality of his home. How could anyone refuse?
My cheering section helped me collect my passport and money from the Grumpy Hostel Clerk who looked peeved that I had gotten away and they all waved good bye as I got in the car and headed to the suburbs of Glasgow.
The series will be published weekly]
My now friend had explained that my job was to keep the truck driver awake on the long road to The North. This wasn't too hard for me as I had loads of experience with long drives and travels with the family back home. I chatted and told stories and sang songs, sometimes with the guitar and sometimes without and basically talked my way North. I sang in English and French. My truck driver enjoyed my songs even though my french singing is not all the good. I sang the French folk songs I had learned and he knew many of them but sometimes I would sing one he had not heard before. He was always surprised at what I could pull out of the hat for entertainment.
A regular intervals the truckers would pull into a British Truck Stop. While they are similar to American ones coming off a Clover Leaf Ramp they are not the same inside. These were pretty antiseptic cafes and the food is not too appetizing. I didn't drink coffee in those days so I didn't miss it on the menu. However, tea was everywhere! Tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea with milk. I wasn't a tea drinker either being raised on Lipton Iced Tea with Lemon; hot tea with milk was rather revolting.
By now the four of us (the 2 truckers, my new friend and I) were all buddies. They all seemed very taken by my trip to Scotland in February and each was determined to see that I got to my destination in one piece. There was a sort of rivalry about who would buy my tea (with milk) at the truck stop. I always ended up with THREE big mugs of hot steamy milky tea to drink. The first time the 3 mugs appeared, each carried by their respective purchasers, I drank one but tried not to drink the other two. First, it was revolting. Second, the mugs were enormous. And third, I wasn't that thirsty. After a short while I got a kick from under the table by my new friend and a nod to “Drink Up”. I got the “hint” and downed the 2 mugs of tea with a “friendly smile” and a “thank you”. Both of the truckers looked pleased and we headed out to the road again.
Every few hours we pulled into another Truck Stop and the 3 mugs of tea were repeated. Each time I had to drink the 3 mugs, smile and say “Thank You”. The others had no problems drinking several of these mugs each but I was downing many many more than I had ever imagined. All through the night I drank 3 mugs of tea and by morning I wasn't feeling too spiffy.
Soon my new friend got off on his way back to his home. We exchanged information and he asked me to come and teach French at the Summer Camp his School had in France. This was a great compliment to my French and to my new friend who only hours earlier had declared “war on Americans”. Next the other trucker turned off to get his load of lamb and mine continued north to Glasgow. As we neared the city, he was very insistent that he give me his route for the next two weeks and if I needed a ride back to France, I could meet him at any of the destinations he gave me. I thanked him for all his kindness and stepped out on the roadway with my bag and guitar and waved goodbye to him as he headed down the road.
It was quite early in the morning and the sun was just starting to come out. The roadway was pretty quiet and I waited to catch a ride. Soon a lorry (British for truck) came by and the driver pulled over to pick me up. I asked “Glasgow?” He nodded and motioned for me to get in. I put up my bag and guitar and climbed in the truck and we headed to the city.
As I settled in he asked “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” I turned and looked at him totally astonished at what I had just heard! He said again: “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” Again I looked totally puzzled! I had no idea what he was saying at all. Not one clue. It wasn't English and it sure wasn't French. I was completely at a loss as to what to say. He seemed to understand that I didn't understand, so he said “Ha ja eaten?” Finally I got it! He wanted to know if I'd eaten breakfast! I quickly said “Yes, I'd had breakfast” (well actually 99 pints of hot milky tea). And we began to chat. His Scottish accent was a challenge but soon I caught on to the lingo and I told him about my trip to Scotland.
He asked how I ended up in Glasgow, I told him that's where the truckers were going. I told him about my trip so far and that I also wanted to buy a dog and I'd come to Scotland to find one. I told him I wanted to find an Airedale Terrier and I thought I could get one in Scotland somewhere. I didn't know where though and was hoping someone would tell me who had a kennel. He didn't know anyone with Airedales but that his day-route went around Glasgow and his run home went near the Youth Hostel I had planned to stay in and if I wanted to ride with him for the day he would drop me near the Hostel. I could see some of Glasgow that most folks never see and I thought it was a great idea.
We drove all over the outskirts of Glasgow but as the day wore on my kidneys began to complain about the 999 mugs of hot milky tea I had to drink and I just could not pee often enough to suit them. As my grandmother used to say; “ Herod, my dentures are floating away!” and I could have spent the day in the restroom peeing. Evening soon came and my trucker took me to the neighborhood where the Hostel was with directions how to find it. It was only a few blocks from where he dropped me off but by the time I got there, I had to find the restroom RIGHT NOW!! There was nothing for it; I dropped my gear in the lobby and raced up the stairs looking for the restroom: nothing, I raced down the stairs to the basement and SUCCESS I found the restroom and barely made it in time: another 50 mugs of tea were gone. I went back up to the lobby to check in.
As nice as the truckers had been, the Hostel Clerk was not. First he gave me heck for leaving the lobby without checking in. I explained I had to go to the bathroom and couldn't wait. He said, he knew why I'd left (it was sort of obvious I was in distress) but that was no excuse. Then came the bad part. I arranged the room for the weekend and handed over the passport and then he asked for the rent fee – in British Pounds. Oops!
I had managed to get £1 British Pound from the truckers on the way North but it was Friday, late afternoon, the banks were already closed and to make matters worse: Monday would be a Bank Holiday in Scotland. I didn't have enough British money to pay for the room for the weekend or to eat either. There were no ATMs in those days and even though I had loads of French Francs and Traveler's Checks, he would take none of it. I was just stuck. Stuck in Glasgow with no place to go or stay. Things looked grim indeed.
I had to think for a bit about what to do. I was in sort of a panic. Some of the other residents of the Hostel had come over to see what the problem was and began to offer help. No one at a Hostel has any money, if they did, they wouldn't be staying at a Hostel. But some offered to start a “whip round” to help me out until the banks opened on Tuesday. The clerk was told that somehow the money would be forth coming and to book my room for the night until they had collected enough. Then a group of them shepherded me into the day room and sat me down to chat. I was greatly relieved that I had a place to stay and that I could repay everyone when the banks opened.
We had a lovely visit, about 10 of us sitting in a nice room and exchanging information about our travels. Not too many Americans come to Glasgow, so I was an “instant hit” with the group. They asked me to sing some songs and I did my best rendition of “The Four Mary's” which really made them all cheer!
They asked me if I didn't know “Anyone in Glasgow at all?” I thought a bit and I did have a phone number of someone in the City. I had gotten the phone number of the parents of a Scottish couple I'd met in France on a completely separate adventure, the story which I will save for another time. I pulled out the number and the group helped me to make the call.
A nice man answered the phone and at least I could mostly understand him. I did my best to explain who I was, how I'd gotten his phone number, what the problem was and could I possibly exchange enough money with him to pay for the weekend at the Hostel? I could give him collateral for the exchange, I only needed a few British Pounds until the banks opened. He didn't hesitate one bit, he said he'd be right over. The Cheering Section went wild!
Just a short while later an older man came into the day room asking for me and said he had the money I needed. However, he said, if I wanted I could come and stay at their apartment until the banks opened up. He was very kind and said he knew who I was and that I'd done a great kindness for his son and daughter-in-law in France and wanted to repay it with the hospitality of his home. How could anyone refuse?
My cheering section helped me collect my passport and money from the Grumpy Hostel Clerk who looked peeved that I had gotten away and they all waved good bye as I got in the car and headed to the suburbs of Glasgow.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 2 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's Note: This story is a many part story written by KimB.
The series will be published weekly]
At last I was headed north from to the Pas de Calais. In those days there was no Chunnel and the only way to get to England from France was either by airplane or ferry. Ferry suited me just fine. I drove through the northern fields of France which are flat and unlike the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. The day was clear and the sun out, and even if it was February, the scenery was beautiful. I had many adventures but some I will save for another time and will continue with this particular one as I traveled to Calais.
Begin: A short digression about foreigners in France.
First, if you are not born in France and your family has not been in France for centuries, you may hold citizenship, a french passport, speak the language flawlessly, be honored by the French with their most prestigious French Literature Awards but you are not French. Their views are different about what makes someone French and its not just a piece of paper. In Bordeaux, where I was living, the French people there are not consider be be true French, they are considered to be English. This is because a long long time in past history, Henry II of England married the Eleanor the Queen of Aquitaine (Bordeaux). The lands passed to the English Crown and many wars were fought over them. Their sons, Richard LionHeart went on the Crusades in the Holy Lands and John Lackland gave us the Magna Carta. After many wars, the lands passed back to the Kings of France and they have remained part of France ever since. Lots of movies have made that period popular among Americans: The Lion in Winter, Becket, Robin Hood and others. The French however still consider the Bordelais to be English.
If you are not French, there isn't much chance of “passing” as a french person. Your style of dress, the way you walk, the way you eat, the way you talk all mark you as a foreigner. You can always spot another foreigner a mile away. So, after you learn this, you can stop pretending to “be french” and just enjoy yourself. Which is exactly what I did.
End: A short digression about foreigners in France.
As I drove north to the Ferry, I spotted a man hitch-hiking his way north. In those day, it was really pretty safe to hitch-hike and motorists could pick people up without qualms or worries. I could tell he was a foreigner a mile away and since there were really no tourist stops between Paris and Calais, I figured he must be British and had come to Paris for the day and was in need of a ride to the Ferry. Unlike the USA, distances in Europe are rather compact and even by car, Paris to London is only a few hours drive plus the hour or so on Ferry. People all over Europe can take day-trips to any major city for an outing; it was not uncommon.
I pulled over and asked in French if he wanted a ride to Calais. He gratefully accepted also in French and got in the car. We continued to talk for quite some time in French. His French was excellent and I wondered how long it would be before he would say sometime about me “not being french”. Our chat continued as he explained he was a school teacher in England and had come to France to pick up some literature to use in in classroom. I decided I would break the ice and I told him: “I speak English, I am an American.” That was sort of a “whoops” moment. He turned to me, stunned and speechless for a moment, then he blurted out in a loud voice (with a proper British accent): “I'm going to tell you right now, I can't STAND YANKS!!!!” then a short pause, “Do you want me to get out?”
Well, I was a bit stunned to say the least. I had met many people who did not like Americans and for all sorts of reasons but I had never encountered anything quite like this. First I wondered if I'd made a bad error picking this guy up and then I wondered how this adventure was going to end? I thought a moment and said. “I'm sorry you don't like Americans. I am going to the Pas de Calais Ferry; if you want a ride to the Ferry you are welcome to stay. If you want to get out I will pull over.” He thought for a good while and asked if he could continue to the Ferry.
We traveled on for a bit in awkward silence and then I quietly asked him “Why he didn't like Americans?” Slowly, he began to explain. A short synopsis is: he'd never met a nice one and they were all bullies and greedy to boot. I said to him, “I'm sorry you never met a nice one but we are not all the same you know.”
We completed the half-hour or so drive to the Ferry in silence where I parked the car and he got out. I never expected to see him again. I headed to the ticket counter to arrange the Ferry Ride to Dover. I had some funds for the trip but I had not planned on the cost of taking the car to England and back. It was too expensive and I would have to leave the car behind and continue on foot. So I grabbed my bag and guitar, locked the car and got on the Ferry.
It was evening and the water was crystal smooth. The sunset colors flamed and danced over the smooth water and I went to the front of the boat to catch the first glimpse of England and to write in my diary. I could hear English accents all around and it was so strange to not hear French. I saw my first Scotsman, an elderly man in full kilt, as he headed to the canteen totally unaware of how shocked I was to see “live man in a skirt!” It was like landing on a foreign planet: they spoke English but I didn't understand anything.
I sat writing my thoughts in the diary when I heard: “There you are! I've been looking all over for you!” I looked up and it was my surly passenger walking towards me with a friendly look on his face. He sat down and said, he'd noticed that I couldn't bring my car and he knew I wanted to go to Scotland too. He was traveling to the north of England and had found some truck drivers willing to take a passenger. They were French Truckers and were going to haul lamb from the North back to France. If I wanted he would introduce me and I could pick which ever trucker was most amenable to me and he would ride with the other one. I agreed of course.
We went down together and met the truckers, both were very nice. The truckers were friends that ran the route every week and needed some company on the long ride to The North. I selected one and we all chatted together in French until we landed in England then we got in the trucks and headed out on the road.
My sight-seeing plans were a bit askew; it was night-time. We barreled up the M1 in the darkness where all I could see where the headlights of passing vehicles.
The series will be published weekly]
At last I was headed north from to the Pas de Calais. In those days there was no Chunnel and the only way to get to England from France was either by airplane or ferry. Ferry suited me just fine. I drove through the northern fields of France which are flat and unlike the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. The day was clear and the sun out, and even if it was February, the scenery was beautiful. I had many adventures but some I will save for another time and will continue with this particular one as I traveled to Calais.
Begin: A short digression about foreigners in France.
First, if you are not born in France and your family has not been in France for centuries, you may hold citizenship, a french passport, speak the language flawlessly, be honored by the French with their most prestigious French Literature Awards but you are not French. Their views are different about what makes someone French and its not just a piece of paper. In Bordeaux, where I was living, the French people there are not consider be be true French, they are considered to be English. This is because a long long time in past history, Henry II of England married the Eleanor the Queen of Aquitaine (Bordeaux). The lands passed to the English Crown and many wars were fought over them. Their sons, Richard LionHeart went on the Crusades in the Holy Lands and John Lackland gave us the Magna Carta. After many wars, the lands passed back to the Kings of France and they have remained part of France ever since. Lots of movies have made that period popular among Americans: The Lion in Winter, Becket, Robin Hood and others. The French however still consider the Bordelais to be English.
If you are not French, there isn't much chance of “passing” as a french person. Your style of dress, the way you walk, the way you eat, the way you talk all mark you as a foreigner. You can always spot another foreigner a mile away. So, after you learn this, you can stop pretending to “be french” and just enjoy yourself. Which is exactly what I did.
End: A short digression about foreigners in France.
As I drove north to the Ferry, I spotted a man hitch-hiking his way north. In those day, it was really pretty safe to hitch-hike and motorists could pick people up without qualms or worries. I could tell he was a foreigner a mile away and since there were really no tourist stops between Paris and Calais, I figured he must be British and had come to Paris for the day and was in need of a ride to the Ferry. Unlike the USA, distances in Europe are rather compact and even by car, Paris to London is only a few hours drive plus the hour or so on Ferry. People all over Europe can take day-trips to any major city for an outing; it was not uncommon.
I pulled over and asked in French if he wanted a ride to Calais. He gratefully accepted also in French and got in the car. We continued to talk for quite some time in French. His French was excellent and I wondered how long it would be before he would say sometime about me “not being french”. Our chat continued as he explained he was a school teacher in England and had come to France to pick up some literature to use in in classroom. I decided I would break the ice and I told him: “I speak English, I am an American.” That was sort of a “whoops” moment. He turned to me, stunned and speechless for a moment, then he blurted out in a loud voice (with a proper British accent): “I'm going to tell you right now, I can't STAND YANKS!!!!” then a short pause, “Do you want me to get out?”
Well, I was a bit stunned to say the least. I had met many people who did not like Americans and for all sorts of reasons but I had never encountered anything quite like this. First I wondered if I'd made a bad error picking this guy up and then I wondered how this adventure was going to end? I thought a moment and said. “I'm sorry you don't like Americans. I am going to the Pas de Calais Ferry; if you want a ride to the Ferry you are welcome to stay. If you want to get out I will pull over.” He thought for a good while and asked if he could continue to the Ferry.
We traveled on for a bit in awkward silence and then I quietly asked him “Why he didn't like Americans?” Slowly, he began to explain. A short synopsis is: he'd never met a nice one and they were all bullies and greedy to boot. I said to him, “I'm sorry you never met a nice one but we are not all the same you know.”
We completed the half-hour or so drive to the Ferry in silence where I parked the car and he got out. I never expected to see him again. I headed to the ticket counter to arrange the Ferry Ride to Dover. I had some funds for the trip but I had not planned on the cost of taking the car to England and back. It was too expensive and I would have to leave the car behind and continue on foot. So I grabbed my bag and guitar, locked the car and got on the Ferry.
It was evening and the water was crystal smooth. The sunset colors flamed and danced over the smooth water and I went to the front of the boat to catch the first glimpse of England and to write in my diary. I could hear English accents all around and it was so strange to not hear French. I saw my first Scotsman, an elderly man in full kilt, as he headed to the canteen totally unaware of how shocked I was to see “live man in a skirt!” It was like landing on a foreign planet: they spoke English but I didn't understand anything.
I sat writing my thoughts in the diary when I heard: “There you are! I've been looking all over for you!” I looked up and it was my surly passenger walking towards me with a friendly look on his face. He sat down and said, he'd noticed that I couldn't bring my car and he knew I wanted to go to Scotland too. He was traveling to the north of England and had found some truck drivers willing to take a passenger. They were French Truckers and were going to haul lamb from the North back to France. If I wanted he would introduce me and I could pick which ever trucker was most amenable to me and he would ride with the other one. I agreed of course.
We went down together and met the truckers, both were very nice. The truckers were friends that ran the route every week and needed some company on the long ride to The North. I selected one and we all chatted together in French until we landed in England then we got in the trucks and headed out on the road.
My sight-seeing plans were a bit askew; it was night-time. We barreled up the M1 in the darkness where all I could see where the headlights of passing vehicles.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
A Trip to Scotland Part 1 of 6 by KimB
[Editor's Note: This story is a many part story written by KimB.
The series will be published weekly]
In my late teens I had the opportunity to study in France. Adventures abounded all throughout my years living there. Some where good and some not so good, but all were wonderful in their own ways.
I had inherited a car from my brother who had returned to the USA. And while our views about this car may differ it had one constant characteristic while I owned it: it was always breaking down. This unique feature of the car lead to all sorts of adventures and unexpected turns of events.
I had been in France for some time studying at the University of Bordeaux. How I ended up at the University of Bordeaux is an entirely different set of adventures than the one I am telling now. Perhaps sometime in the future I will explain how I ended up in Bordeaux at all, since my original destination was the French Mediterranean City of Montpelier.
Never-the-less, I was in Bordeaux and decided I wanted to take a trip. Other adventures had taken me around much of central and southern France so I decided I would go to Scotland. It was February and I thought that it would be a good time to take a few weeks from school for a holiday. There is something special about being 19 – you are not working on a full deck yet and Scotland in February sounded just fine to me.
I took the car in for a check up and told the mechanic I was planning a trip. I told him I was planning to go to Scotland for a few weeks and could he please see that the car was running properly. He said: “You are going to SCOTLAND? NOW?.... I'd better add some more anti-freeze....” Like I said, being 19 you are not working with a full deck yet.
The day of departure came and I handed a bag of cat food to my neighbor who promised to look after my cat while I was away. I put my sports-bag of clothes and my guitar in the car and headed north. It was wonderful weather, cool and clear. I knew most of the roads going to Paris and I determined I would stop at any spot that took my fancy. I wanted to see all the châteaux in the Loire Valley on the way north.
One of my favorites is Château Chenonceau. By the time I made the trip I spoke very good french and was well versed in French History. I knew a great deal about the history of this château and that many great historical people had lived in it. I knew that Mary of Scotland had grown up in France and was betrothed and married to the Heir of the French Throne – Francis, Le Dauphin. When he became King of France, she became Queen but only for a short while. When he died, Mary was forced to return to Scotland and her life took a totally different turn of events. Mary's Scots Guards had carved their names into the wall of the chapel there – a sort of “Kilroy was here” graffiti. Catherine de' Medici had lived in the château while she plotted the futures of the Kings of France and Europe. Not only was it a beautiful place but the history of Europe once revolved around the corridors.
The château is not a large one and most tourists are in and out in 30 minutes or so. I spent hours walking along looking at everything. There is a grand ballroom that stretches across the river. I looked at every tile and decoration covering the floors and walls. I walked the halls over and over. In France most fireplaces are not small sedate things; they are large enough to burn whole trees in. In the main hall the large fireplace had huge trees burning in it and was the only source of heat in the castle.
After looking at everything, I decided I should make some notes in my diary. So I went to the main hall and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace and took out my pen and notebook. Not too long a time passed before one of the guards came over to see what I was doing.
We had a wonderful chat. He was so impressed with my french and my knowledge of the château that we talked a long time about the place. After a bit, he said, “You must be uncomfortable sitting on the floor like that?” I assured him I was fine; the fire was warm and if it was not against the rules to sit there, I would be OK. “No,” he insisted, “I will make it better for you.” He then walked across the hall and picked up one of the chairs lining the wall and brought it for me to sit in! I protested it was a valuable museum piece and I couldn't possible sit in it. I can tell you one thing, you will never win an argument with a Frenchman, so don't even try. So I sat in the chair in front of the fireplace.
A bit more time passed and he came back to say the château would be closed for lunch but if I wanted he would lock me inside the castle to continue my writing during the lunch period. I readily agreed and as he left I heard the great lock click on the front doors.
So, I sat in the chair in front of the great fireplace in the Château Chenonceau, alone in the castle where great events had taken place. Where Mary of Scotland's fortunes had changed, where Catherine de' Medici had hosted great parties and fireworks that shot across the river. Where the Kings and Queens of France had once lived and wrote in my diary: the memories of a 19 year American Girl on her way to Scotland in February.
The series will be published weekly]
In my late teens I had the opportunity to study in France. Adventures abounded all throughout my years living there. Some where good and some not so good, but all were wonderful in their own ways.
I had inherited a car from my brother who had returned to the USA. And while our views about this car may differ it had one constant characteristic while I owned it: it was always breaking down. This unique feature of the car lead to all sorts of adventures and unexpected turns of events.
I had been in France for some time studying at the University of Bordeaux. How I ended up at the University of Bordeaux is an entirely different set of adventures than the one I am telling now. Perhaps sometime in the future I will explain how I ended up in Bordeaux at all, since my original destination was the French Mediterranean City of Montpelier.
Never-the-less, I was in Bordeaux and decided I wanted to take a trip. Other adventures had taken me around much of central and southern France so I decided I would go to Scotland. It was February and I thought that it would be a good time to take a few weeks from school for a holiday. There is something special about being 19 – you are not working on a full deck yet and Scotland in February sounded just fine to me.
I took the car in for a check up and told the mechanic I was planning a trip. I told him I was planning to go to Scotland for a few weeks and could he please see that the car was running properly. He said: “You are going to SCOTLAND? NOW?.... I'd better add some more anti-freeze....” Like I said, being 19 you are not working with a full deck yet.
The day of departure came and I handed a bag of cat food to my neighbor who promised to look after my cat while I was away. I put my sports-bag of clothes and my guitar in the car and headed north. It was wonderful weather, cool and clear. I knew most of the roads going to Paris and I determined I would stop at any spot that took my fancy. I wanted to see all the châteaux in the Loire Valley on the way north.
One of my favorites is Château Chenonceau. By the time I made the trip I spoke very good french and was well versed in French History. I knew a great deal about the history of this château and that many great historical people had lived in it. I knew that Mary of Scotland had grown up in France and was betrothed and married to the Heir of the French Throne – Francis, Le Dauphin. When he became King of France, she became Queen but only for a short while. When he died, Mary was forced to return to Scotland and her life took a totally different turn of events. Mary's Scots Guards had carved their names into the wall of the chapel there – a sort of “Kilroy was here” graffiti. Catherine de' Medici had lived in the château while she plotted the futures of the Kings of France and Europe. Not only was it a beautiful place but the history of Europe once revolved around the corridors.
The château is not a large one and most tourists are in and out in 30 minutes or so. I spent hours walking along looking at everything. There is a grand ballroom that stretches across the river. I looked at every tile and decoration covering the floors and walls. I walked the halls over and over. In France most fireplaces are not small sedate things; they are large enough to burn whole trees in. In the main hall the large fireplace had huge trees burning in it and was the only source of heat in the castle.
After looking at everything, I decided I should make some notes in my diary. So I went to the main hall and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace and took out my pen and notebook. Not too long a time passed before one of the guards came over to see what I was doing.
We had a wonderful chat. He was so impressed with my french and my knowledge of the château that we talked a long time about the place. After a bit, he said, “You must be uncomfortable sitting on the floor like that?” I assured him I was fine; the fire was warm and if it was not against the rules to sit there, I would be OK. “No,” he insisted, “I will make it better for you.” He then walked across the hall and picked up one of the chairs lining the wall and brought it for me to sit in! I protested it was a valuable museum piece and I couldn't possible sit in it. I can tell you one thing, you will never win an argument with a Frenchman, so don't even try. So I sat in the chair in front of the fireplace.
A bit more time passed and he came back to say the château would be closed for lunch but if I wanted he would lock me inside the castle to continue my writing during the lunch period. I readily agreed and as he left I heard the great lock click on the front doors.
So, I sat in the chair in front of the great fireplace in the Château Chenonceau, alone in the castle where great events had taken place. Where Mary of Scotland's fortunes had changed, where Catherine de' Medici had hosted great parties and fireworks that shot across the river. Where the Kings and Queens of France had once lived and wrote in my diary: the memories of a 19 year American Girl on her way to Scotland in February.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Senator Byrd
This morning, June 28, the death of Senator Byrd, age 92 was announced on television. I followed his political career for many years and came to admire him during his latter years as a member of the United States Senate.
In the long ago years when the family went on month long vacations to visit relatives in the south, one of our high lights was the visit to Uncle Bus and Aunt Mary in Middlesboro, Ky. ( Uncle Bus was grandmother Abbott’s brother; his real name was Herod Ely, married to Mary Byrd.) We always took grandma and grandpa with us since the only time they got to travel to Middlesboro was when Dad’s vacation brought us to the area.
We usually spent 3 or 4 days visiting them and the whole family loved to listen to the stories Uncle Bus would tell when it was bedtime. We children would make our pallets on the front room floor, lights were dimmed and adults gathered round in comfortable chairs. We children begged for stories told in past years and between new stories, Uncle Bus would sing mountain songs to us.
One afternoon while we were all in the yard watching a forest fire on the adjacent mountain, a young man, named Robert Byrd, came to visit Aunt Mary. I was about 15 years old and didn’t pay attention to him but heard him talking about campaigning for office although he did not live in Middlesboro. He posed for snapshots with us before leaving, and one of them, showing him standing next to me, was among the box of photos the family had for years.
When I became more aware of government and elections, I used to bemoan the fact that Senator Byrd was such a reactionary, bigoted Senator, but as years passed, he changed his ways and gradually he exhibited a more scholarly, statesman like quality that I came to admire.
In the long ago years when the family went on month long vacations to visit relatives in the south, one of our high lights was the visit to Uncle Bus and Aunt Mary in Middlesboro, Ky. ( Uncle Bus was grandmother Abbott’s brother; his real name was Herod Ely, married to Mary Byrd.) We always took grandma and grandpa with us since the only time they got to travel to Middlesboro was when Dad’s vacation brought us to the area.
We usually spent 3 or 4 days visiting them and the whole family loved to listen to the stories Uncle Bus would tell when it was bedtime. We children would make our pallets on the front room floor, lights were dimmed and adults gathered round in comfortable chairs. We children begged for stories told in past years and between new stories, Uncle Bus would sing mountain songs to us.
One afternoon while we were all in the yard watching a forest fire on the adjacent mountain, a young man, named Robert Byrd, came to visit Aunt Mary. I was about 15 years old and didn’t pay attention to him but heard him talking about campaigning for office although he did not live in Middlesboro. He posed for snapshots with us before leaving, and one of them, showing him standing next to me, was among the box of photos the family had for years.
When I became more aware of government and elections, I used to bemoan the fact that Senator Byrd was such a reactionary, bigoted Senator, but as years passed, he changed his ways and gradually he exhibited a more scholarly, statesman like quality that I came to admire.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Summer
One expects the calendar
To never misbehave.
That seasons follow seasons
With moods that pave the way
For moons to shrink and grow
So tides will ebb and flow
And that the Ides of March
Will always know their place.
But something‘s gone awry
And summer lost its way
Instead of six and twenty one
We skipped the month of May
Cause summer came in April
With golden rays of sun
Now the days get hotter with
Each rising of the sun
Throughout July and August
Until Indian summer comes
To bring a breath of coolness
Will summer’s heat be gone
By marion
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Things Forgotten and a Visit Remembered by Loretta
[Editor's note: This story by Loretta]
I remember the vacations that we took, they weren’t like the ones people take today. Ours consisted of visiting relatives that mom or dad hadn’t seen in a while.
One of our trips was to my dad's cousin's farm in Valley, Nebraska. John and his sister Bertha had a 165 acre farm. They had no electricity and I’m not sure about running water in the house, it was definitely outdoor plumbing. They also had a root cellar, where their fruits and vegetables were kept and smoked Hams were hung from support beams. When John would go shopping he always bought cases of 7up soda in the bottle .
When we arrived they always offered coffee for our parents and we got the soda pop. While they caught up on the latest gossip we were allowed to ride his horses. He had large Draft horses and if you’re a child your legs only went across the back of the horse; not down the sides. The house was on a high hill, higher than the barn, so we rode up and down the hill. I could make it down , but not up; I fell off every time. I think that’s when I learned to cuss.
In those days, John only used the horse and plow to farm. It wasn’t till later, his other sister Lillian and her family talked him into a tractor. His nephews and niece helped him with the farm. I used to set and listen to their conversations. I remember John telling dad about digging a hole and burying his model T truck. Years later some man from Texas offered him enough money for it and it was dug up and sold. At night time, we had to come in and John let us play his 1929 Victor phonograph. He had a whole collection of the latest songs for that time.
When you came to visit you always knew the drive way to his house . He had the biggest mail box in the county and the longest driveway It seemed like for ever . It was like going down into a valley, and on muddy days you wondered if you’d get back to the street.
After leaving there we stopped at his sister Lillian’s house. She also lived on a farm with 5 kids to help with the farming. Her house had more modern conveniences . We’d always stayed at one of their homes for the night before heading back.
For us, it was a real treat to be able to go to another state have so much fun and not get into trouble, and believe it or not: no T.V.! In those day, we only radio to listen to but a lot of out door games got played.
I was talking to my brother about our trips and he reminded me about harvest time it coincided with some of our visits. Dad would help with the harvest and it was fun watching them fill the silos of corn . They had co-ops that moved from one farm to the next, harvesting the crops.
Its funny when you reminisce about growing up and all the things you‘d forgotten.
I remember the vacations that we took, they weren’t like the ones people take today. Ours consisted of visiting relatives that mom or dad hadn’t seen in a while.
One of our trips was to my dad's cousin's farm in Valley, Nebraska. John and his sister Bertha had a 165 acre farm. They had no electricity and I’m not sure about running water in the house, it was definitely outdoor plumbing. They also had a root cellar, where their fruits and vegetables were kept and smoked Hams were hung from support beams. When John would go shopping he always bought cases of 7up soda in the bottle .
When we arrived they always offered coffee for our parents and we got the soda pop. While they caught up on the latest gossip we were allowed to ride his horses. He had large Draft horses and if you’re a child your legs only went across the back of the horse; not down the sides. The house was on a high hill, higher than the barn, so we rode up and down the hill. I could make it down , but not up; I fell off every time. I think that’s when I learned to cuss.
In those days, John only used the horse and plow to farm. It wasn’t till later, his other sister Lillian and her family talked him into a tractor. His nephews and niece helped him with the farm. I used to set and listen to their conversations. I remember John telling dad about digging a hole and burying his model T truck. Years later some man from Texas offered him enough money for it and it was dug up and sold. At night time, we had to come in and John let us play his 1929 Victor phonograph. He had a whole collection of the latest songs for that time.
When you came to visit you always knew the drive way to his house . He had the biggest mail box in the county and the longest driveway It seemed like for ever . It was like going down into a valley, and on muddy days you wondered if you’d get back to the street.
After leaving there we stopped at his sister Lillian’s house. She also lived on a farm with 5 kids to help with the farming. Her house had more modern conveniences . We’d always stayed at one of their homes for the night before heading back.
For us, it was a real treat to be able to go to another state have so much fun and not get into trouble, and believe it or not: no T.V.! In those day, we only radio to listen to but a lot of out door games got played.
I was talking to my brother about our trips and he reminded me about harvest time it coincided with some of our visits. Dad would help with the harvest and it was fun watching them fill the silos of corn . They had co-ops that moved from one farm to the next, harvesting the crops.
Its funny when you reminisce about growing up and all the things you‘d forgotten.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Bocelli
As I listened to an Andrea Bocelli concert this evening, I thought of my sister, Adeline. She is the one that told me how much she liked his voice and since then, we both have enjoyed listening to him at every opportunity. Adeline and I have spent hours sitting enraptured while listening and or watching Bocelli, as well as the famous Three Tenors, when she visited me or when I visited her.
As long as I can remember, Adeline remembered lyrics to all the pop songs and honky-tonk songs we heard on the radio. In her later years she had a collection of country western songs and she subscribed to magazines about the performers, their lives and careers.
Many times I helped Adeline gather up records she had checked out of the local library that were due to be returned and after turning them in, helped her to pick out another load to take home to listen to. I particularly remember her love of Broadway musicals.
Adeline had an average singing voice, but my sister Esther has a very nice singing voice but her progressive hearing loss prevents her from enjoying the music she loves so much.
Listening to music that I know my sisters loved always brings me double pleasure.
As long as I can remember, Adeline remembered lyrics to all the pop songs and honky-tonk songs we heard on the radio. In her later years she had a collection of country western songs and she subscribed to magazines about the performers, their lives and careers.
Many times I helped Adeline gather up records she had checked out of the local library that were due to be returned and after turning them in, helped her to pick out another load to take home to listen to. I particularly remember her love of Broadway musicals.
Adeline had an average singing voice, but my sister Esther has a very nice singing voice but her progressive hearing loss prevents her from enjoying the music she loves so much.
Listening to music that I know my sisters loved always brings me double pleasure.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A Soupçon of Mexico by KimB
[Editor's Note: This story was written by KimB]
When I was young, my mother took me and my brother to live in Mexico while she worked as an artist and studied Mexican Painting Techniques. I think for most of the rest of our extended family, this is a rather mysterious period in my mother's life.
While there were many high-lights there were also low-lights for me as we lived and traveled in a foreign country. The high-lights were many and as I grew older have way way out shadowed the low-lights. It was tough for a young American girl to live in the culture of 1960's Mexico, but I was tough and stubborn and I made of it what I wanted. The things I learned have carried me well through my adult life and have made me much more aware that there are lots of other ways of doing things besides the ones we know or are familiar with and that not everyone does it “our way”.
We had many friends among the art community and they were all very tolerant of my brash nosiness. I was rarely excluded from any party or adult gathering. The topics were always interesting and I knew that many of the people I met were famous in their own rights and even at a young age I realized that if I just listened I could learn a lot.
Life with Mom was always an “adventure”, no matter where we were or what we were doing. Having an adventure every day was routine for us. We were always looking for something different or unique to do. We had very little money, so we had to come up with adventures that didn't cost very much and luckily for us, 1960s Mexico was a very inexpensive place to live.
We had only one rule: Don't eat from a street vendor. Of course, everyone knows that eating in any foreign country can lead to “hours on the porcelain throne” and Mom was very very strict that the only things that we could eat from street vendors were things we could peel (bananas), baked goods (breads and rolls) and soda pop that was opened in front of us. She was careful to take us to quality restaurants where the food was well prepared. I immediately loved Mexican Cooking and had a long list of my favorite dishes. When I got too nostalgic for American Cooking, she would take me to one of 2 or 3 restaurants that served HOTDOGS and GRILLED CHESSE SANDWICHES! For a 10 year old, I was in hotdog heaven! There was even a New York Style Delicatessen where we would go on special occasions.
Sampling new fare was always an adventure in its own right and not always a planned one! One time, my Mom, brother and I went to a distant Mercado (open air market). There were so many things to look at and as the day wore on, my brother and I were overcome with hunger. There were so many good smells coming from the cooking stalls, it made our hunger even more intense. Finally, my mother couldn't stand our whining anymore and handed us enough money to buy something from the cooking vendors. My brother and I stood looking at all the offerings and as we spoke no Spanish at the time, we had to guess what everything was. We debated a long time about what would be the safest thing to eat. We watched what other buyers were ordering and checked out each of the half-dozen or so cooking stalls. They must have been very amused to see two Anglo children drooling over the food!
At last we came to a decision: my brother pointed at 2 bowls of what looked like bean soup and handed over the money. Dutifully the vendor handed us two heaping bowls and two large handfuls of tortillas. We took them to the benches nearby to eat them. Mom, stayed a good distance from us, angry that we couldn't control our impulsive behavior. We had to look around to see how people were eating this bubbling hot soup. Soon we figured out that you tear the tortilla into sections and use it as a scoop. Even if a spoon had been offered we would never have used it; we were not THAT foolish. We dipped our first tortilla-scoop into the soup and took a skeptical sample taste. Our faces lit up with joy; it was delicious! We were soon scooping it up like it was the only meal we ever ate! Slurp, slurp, slurp down it went. We even soaked up even the last juices from the bottom of the bowl! We handed back the bowls and thanked the vendor.
Mom, come over when she saw we were finished, her anger diminished by the happy looks on our faces. We gave her a full report that the soup was excellent and cheap and we encouraged her to give it a try but Rule 1 took over and she refused saying she would wait until she could eat in one of the more acceptable restaurants. She remained convinced that we would be violently ill in a few hours and dire warnings were repeated as well as instructions about what to do if we became ill that night.
Our adventure in the Market continued long into the afternoon and we returned to the hotel for the evening meal. My brother and I were still full of soup but Mom ate a big dinner. We had our evening review of the day and my brother and I extolled the virtues of that soup over and over again. Luckily for us, no one became ill and we all slept well that night.
I can still remember the aroma and flavors of that soup and nothing has ever compared to it!
When I was young, my mother took me and my brother to live in Mexico while she worked as an artist and studied Mexican Painting Techniques. I think for most of the rest of our extended family, this is a rather mysterious period in my mother's life.
While there were many high-lights there were also low-lights for me as we lived and traveled in a foreign country. The high-lights were many and as I grew older have way way out shadowed the low-lights. It was tough for a young American girl to live in the culture of 1960's Mexico, but I was tough and stubborn and I made of it what I wanted. The things I learned have carried me well through my adult life and have made me much more aware that there are lots of other ways of doing things besides the ones we know or are familiar with and that not everyone does it “our way”.
We had many friends among the art community and they were all very tolerant of my brash nosiness. I was rarely excluded from any party or adult gathering. The topics were always interesting and I knew that many of the people I met were famous in their own rights and even at a young age I realized that if I just listened I could learn a lot.
Life with Mom was always an “adventure”, no matter where we were or what we were doing. Having an adventure every day was routine for us. We were always looking for something different or unique to do. We had very little money, so we had to come up with adventures that didn't cost very much and luckily for us, 1960s Mexico was a very inexpensive place to live.
We had only one rule: Don't eat from a street vendor. Of course, everyone knows that eating in any foreign country can lead to “hours on the porcelain throne” and Mom was very very strict that the only things that we could eat from street vendors were things we could peel (bananas), baked goods (breads and rolls) and soda pop that was opened in front of us. She was careful to take us to quality restaurants where the food was well prepared. I immediately loved Mexican Cooking and had a long list of my favorite dishes. When I got too nostalgic for American Cooking, she would take me to one of 2 or 3 restaurants that served HOTDOGS and GRILLED CHESSE SANDWICHES! For a 10 year old, I was in hotdog heaven! There was even a New York Style Delicatessen where we would go on special occasions.
Sampling new fare was always an adventure in its own right and not always a planned one! One time, my Mom, brother and I went to a distant Mercado (open air market). There were so many things to look at and as the day wore on, my brother and I were overcome with hunger. There were so many good smells coming from the cooking stalls, it made our hunger even more intense. Finally, my mother couldn't stand our whining anymore and handed us enough money to buy something from the cooking vendors. My brother and I stood looking at all the offerings and as we spoke no Spanish at the time, we had to guess what everything was. We debated a long time about what would be the safest thing to eat. We watched what other buyers were ordering and checked out each of the half-dozen or so cooking stalls. They must have been very amused to see two Anglo children drooling over the food!
At last we came to a decision: my brother pointed at 2 bowls of what looked like bean soup and handed over the money. Dutifully the vendor handed us two heaping bowls and two large handfuls of tortillas. We took them to the benches nearby to eat them. Mom, stayed a good distance from us, angry that we couldn't control our impulsive behavior. We had to look around to see how people were eating this bubbling hot soup. Soon we figured out that you tear the tortilla into sections and use it as a scoop. Even if a spoon had been offered we would never have used it; we were not THAT foolish. We dipped our first tortilla-scoop into the soup and took a skeptical sample taste. Our faces lit up with joy; it was delicious! We were soon scooping it up like it was the only meal we ever ate! Slurp, slurp, slurp down it went. We even soaked up even the last juices from the bottom of the bowl! We handed back the bowls and thanked the vendor.
Mom, come over when she saw we were finished, her anger diminished by the happy looks on our faces. We gave her a full report that the soup was excellent and cheap and we encouraged her to give it a try but Rule 1 took over and she refused saying she would wait until she could eat in one of the more acceptable restaurants. She remained convinced that we would be violently ill in a few hours and dire warnings were repeated as well as instructions about what to do if we became ill that night.
Our adventure in the Market continued long into the afternoon and we returned to the hotel for the evening meal. My brother and I were still full of soup but Mom ate a big dinner. We had our evening review of the day and my brother and I extolled the virtues of that soup over and over again. Luckily for us, no one became ill and we all slept well that night.
I can still remember the aroma and flavors of that soup and nothing has ever compared to it!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Apple Butter and Outhouses Part 2 by Loretta
[Editor's Note: This story is by Loretta]
I guess you can say, we survived on what we raised. From the garden, to canning for the winter months, to raising chickens, rabbits and hogs, which were slaughtered and stored in food lockers. Even trading for dairy products.
I remember my mother raising a goose for Easter Dinner but when it came time, she couldn’t kill it because it had become a pet. Instead she traded for a duck. The other family ate goose; we had duck. My mother was funny in that way, she could kill and prepare the chickens for Sunday dinner but she never ate them.
I remember we had a crab apple that had tons of apples. They were tart and we’d take the salt shakers up on the hill to where the tree was, douse our apples with salt and usually leave the shakers behind. Mom would have to wait for us to retrieve them and bring them back home. Oh, the trouble we’d get into!
We had a neighbor by the name of Mr. Copley and he had a pair of horses that pulled a big flat bed junk wagon. While on his route, if he saw us walking, he’d give us a ride home. In the summer, he’d give us hay rides. But come October 31, we'd still knock his outhouse over! Of course, the next day, we’d stand it up again.
When I was about 8 years old my parents sold the acreage and moved to Des Moines and bought a house there. Across the street was a park. In the summer, they opened the recreation building and we played board games as well as baseball, basketball and tether ball. There was a wading pool, which everyone was in. In the winter, when the pool froze over, everyone would ice skate.
Those were the years I remember the most.
I guess you can say, we survived on what we raised. From the garden, to canning for the winter months, to raising chickens, rabbits and hogs, which were slaughtered and stored in food lockers. Even trading for dairy products.
I remember my mother raising a goose for Easter Dinner but when it came time, she couldn’t kill it because it had become a pet. Instead she traded for a duck. The other family ate goose; we had duck. My mother was funny in that way, she could kill and prepare the chickens for Sunday dinner but she never ate them.
I remember we had a crab apple that had tons of apples. They were tart and we’d take the salt shakers up on the hill to where the tree was, douse our apples with salt and usually leave the shakers behind. Mom would have to wait for us to retrieve them and bring them back home. Oh, the trouble we’d get into!
We had a neighbor by the name of Mr. Copley and he had a pair of horses that pulled a big flat bed junk wagon. While on his route, if he saw us walking, he’d give us a ride home. In the summer, he’d give us hay rides. But come October 31, we'd still knock his outhouse over! Of course, the next day, we’d stand it up again.
When I was about 8 years old my parents sold the acreage and moved to Des Moines and bought a house there. Across the street was a park. In the summer, they opened the recreation building and we played board games as well as baseball, basketball and tether ball. There was a wading pool, which everyone was in. In the winter, when the pool froze over, everyone would ice skate.
Those were the years I remember the most.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Apple Butter and Outhouses Part 1 by Loretta
[Editor's Note: This story is by Loretta]
We lived on an acreage not far from a Military Base in Fort Des Moines, Iowa. After the war ended, the military base was turned into low income housing. They also had a theater there, which showed movies with Jerry Lewis, Abbot and Costello, and many more, so in the summer all the kids from the neighborhood banded together and went in a group to the show.
My grandfather on my mother's side of the family lived with us and took care of us kids, all five of us, while both my parents worked. When the other four were in school, I was his side kick. He wore overalls, so my mother made me a pair too.
My grandfather was quite a character. When he was left in charge, my brother Mark always challenged his authority. Gramp's would put Mark across his knee and whip him, all the while asking “Who's in charge?” Mark never gave in, always insisting HE was the one in charge, until Gramp's hands gave out. Neither broke.
In those days, my mother did a lot of baking of bread. On those occasions Gramp's would bring out his coin purse and send us to the store for Apple Butter, our favorite. Not too many years ago, I thought about that Apple Butter, so I bought a jar from the store... trust me, it's not the same.
It’s funny the things you remember in your childhood.
We lived on an acreage not far from a Military Base in Fort Des Moines, Iowa. After the war ended, the military base was turned into low income housing. They also had a theater there, which showed movies with Jerry Lewis, Abbot and Costello, and many more, so in the summer all the kids from the neighborhood banded together and went in a group to the show.
My grandfather on my mother's side of the family lived with us and took care of us kids, all five of us, while both my parents worked. When the other four were in school, I was his side kick. He wore overalls, so my mother made me a pair too.
My grandfather was quite a character. When he was left in charge, my brother Mark always challenged his authority. Gramp's would put Mark across his knee and whip him, all the while asking “Who's in charge?” Mark never gave in, always insisting HE was the one in charge, until Gramp's hands gave out. Neither broke.
In those days, my mother did a lot of baking of bread. On those occasions Gramp's would bring out his coin purse and send us to the store for Apple Butter, our favorite. Not too many years ago, I thought about that Apple Butter, so I bought a jar from the store... trust me, it's not the same.
It’s funny the things you remember in your childhood.
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