An Emotional October Pilgrimage For a Book

“Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 My second YA mystery, published in 2015, is set in Munich, Germany. In addition to what I learned living there for six years (from 1986-1992), I did a lot of background research about the city during the era of Hitler’s National Socialism, and the book has a mystery connected to those times.

In October 2014, with the book manuscript finished but as yet unpublished, my husband and I made a return visit to Munich. It was a pleasure trip, but I also wanted him, an excellent photographer, to take some photos as inspiration for the book cover.

One spot that intrigued me was the Geschwister Scholl Platz (the Scholl siblings’ place) in front of one of the buildings of Ludwig Maximillian Universität in Munich’s Schwabing neighborhood. Stone tablets embedded in the walkway are copies of the anti-Hitler leaflets distributed in 1942 and 1943 by a few brave students and one of their professors who were beheaded for their efforts. They called themselves “The White Rose.”

Though my book isn't specifically about the White Rose, the group does play a role in influencing my characters, and I wanted some photos related to it. With that in mind, we rode the Ubahn to Universität and walked to that historic Platz. It’s located outside the entrance to the university building where students Sophie and Hans Scholl threw leftover leaflets from a high balcony into the lobby atrium as students were leaving classes. (Most leaflets were left in telephone books in public phone booths, mailed to professors and students, and taken by courier to other universities for distribution.) 

On the day we were in the Platz, some workmen were busy tearing up some of the sidewalk, but we didn’t pay them much mind. My husband was busy taking pictures, and I was engrossed in reading one of the embedded leaflets when a man approached me. He asked me in German where I was from and said he was curious to know why I was interested in the leaflets. When I explained about writing the book, he said he wanted to give me a Geschenk (a gift). He handed me a stone fragment with writing engraved on it. The text was from one of the anti-Hitler leaflets.

His kind gesture nearly brought me to tears because of what it represented, and because it had special meaning for me after all the hard work on my book. However, I was unsure if it was all right for me to have it and I asked. He pointed to a nearby area where his truck and equipment stood and said that he was a city worker and his job was to replace worn stone leaflets with new versions. He could dispose of the old ones as he saw fit.

Then he told me that there was a memorial to the White Rose inside the building that we might like to see. I asked him if it was open to the public and he said it was okay for us to go in. I thanked him sincerely and entered the building, grateful that I was able to understand and speak with him.

In the high-ceilinged marble atrium, we were able to gaze up at the balcony where the Scholls had stood on that fateful day when they were arrested. A commemorative plaque created in 1946 by Theodor Georgii and honoring the seven executed members of the White Rose resistance group (Willi Graf, Professor Kurt Huber, Hans Leipelt, Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorell, Hans and Sophie Scholl) is located on the atrium wall. There is also a bronze relief sculpture dedicated to them. It was created by Lothar Dietz and unveiled in 1958. A bronze bust of Sophie Scholl by Nikolai Tregor was adorned with a fresh white rose in a bud vase.

My stone fragment has words from the 6th leaflet, the one that got the Scholls arrested. The full text reads:

“Erschüttert steht unser Volk vor dem Untergang der Männer von Stalingrad. 330,000 deutsche Männer hat die geniale ­Strategie des Weltkriegsgefreiten sinn- und ­verantwortungslos in Tod und Verderben gehetzt. Führer, wir danken dir!

Es gärt im deutschen Volk: Wollen wir weiter einem Dilettanten das Schicksal unserer Armeen anvertrauen? Wollen wir den niedrigen Macht­instinken einer Parteiclique den Rest der deutschen Jugend opfern? Nimmermehr.”

English Translation:

“Our people stand in shock at the demise of the men of Stalingrad. The ingenious strategy of the World War II corporal drove 330,000 German men senselessly and irresponsibly to death and ruin. Leader, thank you!

It is fermenting in the German people: Do we want to continue to entrust the fate of our armies to a dilettante? Do we want to sacrifice the rest of German youth to the low power of a party clique? Nevermore.”

A Post-9/11 September Vacation in France

“Ask anyone old enough to remember travel before Sept. 11, 2001, and you’re likely to get a gauzy recollection of what flying was like. There was security screening, but it wasn’t anywhere near as intrusive. There were no long checkpoint lines. Passengers and their families could walk right to the gate together, postponing goodbye hugs until the last possible moment…Two months after the attacks, President George W. Bush signed legislation creating the Transportation Security Administration…"

David Koenig, apnews.com

 To go or not to go? That was the question. On September 19th, 2001 our long-planned flight from Boston to Paris was canceled. Eight days earlier on September 11th, terrorist-flown planes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York, a field in Pennsylvania, and the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. British Airways, due to the turmoil created by those traumatic, destructive, and deadly events. and the resulting uneasiness about flying, had consolidated many flights.  We were rescheduled for the next day, but our transatlantic flight rerouted us to London instead of Paris. My husband and I debated postponing the trip because of worry about more attacks and fears of being separated from our family at a time of crisis. However, we bought our first ever cell phone to keep in touch with loved ones and forged ahead with our plans hoping for the best.

 Because a London to Paris connection wasn’t available until the following morning, we stayed overnight at the Heathrow Hilton. We landed in Paris on the 21st, picked up a car (a Peugeot) that we had arranged to lease through "Europe by Car,” and drove from Paris to the South of France. Our destination was Seillans, one of the many villages perches (hill towns) where we had rented an apartment online.

Seillans looked like a fortress from a distance, its high walls spiraling up the hillside. A narrow road followed the spiral upward and our apartment on Rue du Presbytere was near the top. We followed the owner’s directions to a tiny resident parking space. At the edge of the parking area, we passed through an ancient archway and entered a narrow alley lugging our bags over cobblestones until we came to the compact but charming apartment we would use as a central location for day trips.

The following sixteen days consisted of forays to outdoor markets and explorations in other hill towns (Tourettes, Fayence, Mons, Cavalaire, St Cezaire, Bargemon, Draguignon, Callian, and Montauroux), and  to nearby coastal resorts (Hyeres, St Tropez, Cannes, Frejus, St Raphael, and Nice. We also hiked around a lake (Lac du St Cassien) and took a trip inland for another hike at Les Gorges du Verdon (France's grand canyon). We visited Grasse with its many perfume businesses, Fondation Maeght in St Paul de Vence for a special exhibit on Kandinsky, and Renoir's home in Cagnes sur Mer. Two ferry rides on separate days took us to two different islands in the Mediterranean—Ile St Honorat where we had a picnic and visited the Abbaye des Lerins & Monastiere and Ile St Marguerite where we did some hiking and swimming and had another picnic. The latter island has a sad memory for us. It was where we learned via our new cell phone that a friend was gravely ill.

When our stay at Seillans was over, we cleaned the apartment and headed west, stopping at an artisan fair and some markets in Aix en Provence.

Our next apartment rental was in southwest France in St Thibery on Rue De La Cave. On the following day, we went to a market in Bessan then to the beach (Vias Plage) in Cap D'Agde and a flea market (Marche aux Puces) in nearby Marseillan Place. Other day trips were made to Beziers, Pezenas, Narbonne,  another beach (Portiragnes Plage), and the lovely university city of Montpellier.

After a week in St Thibery, we cleaned that apartment and headed north. We visited Nimes and spent two nights at the bucolic Logis Hôtel Résidence Les Cèdres in Villeneuve lez Avignon. Day trips from there were to a large antique market on L'ile sur la Sorgue and to Avignon, a medieval city with papal history.

Heading north again,  we visited Vaison-la-Romaine before making two one-night hotel stops—in Vieux Talant and Montceaux.

Our drive ended in Paris where we returned our leased car and boarded a flight to London. From there, we flew to Boston, thankful to have three terror-free weeks and to find our family in the U.S. safe and sound.

Leaving Boxford

 “As a whole, Boxford is a fine old farming-town; pleasant to live in, healthy, and the many natural beauties of her landscapes, with the sweet warbling of the native songsters, that inhabit the glades, and the exquisite ferns in the spring unrolling from their wooly blankets, the cardinal-flowers of the late summer, the golden-rod and asters of the autumn, and all the lovely sisterhood of flowers which adorn our hills and meadows, give a continual glow of pleasure to the heart which loves the truly beautiful and the wonders of creation.”

The History of Boxford, Essex County, Massachusetts by Sidney Perley, 1880

Four years ago our home of forty-five and a half years was sold. It was time and we were moving on to new adventures, but at the time, I was flooded with happy memories that made it bittersweet.

Transplanted by a job relocation to Massachusetts in 1973, I “discovered” Boxford as I drove around the Northshore area with a book of town maps and my newborn strapped into a car seat.  When my husband arrived at our hotel after work, I told him that I had passed through a pretty and seemingly unspoiled town that he had to see.  He liked it too…and thus began our sojourn in a green pocket tucked into the surrounding urban bustle and suburban sprawl.  

Over the years, we trekked through many of the town trails.  We observed the wetlands coming to life in spring, took refuge in their shady glens in summer, photographed their leaf-strewn beauty in autumn, and snow shoed through the quiet stillness of a winter day.  Wildcat, Bald Hill, the State Forest, and other areas preserved endangered flora and fauna and gave such pleasure during each foray.

My sanctuary was our plot of land and home.  In addition to its being part of the beauty of the town, it was filled with memories.  My children are adults now but their Boxford childhoods always came rushing back as I looked around.

A look at our driveway recalled our toddlers racing their Big Wheels down or pulling a red wagon up, our preschoolers disembarking from a nursery school carpool or rushing out to the station wagon in their swimsuits, eager for their swim lessons at Stiles Pond, and later on, our dog wagging her tail as they arrived home on the elementary school bus or took off on their bikes to meet friends.

The tiny bump of a hill in the back let me visualize them testing their first pairs of skis or yelping with delight as their sleds picked up speed. At the edge of our wetland, I saw them playing with Tonka trucks in the spring mud, swinging from a rope on the oak tree in summer, jumping into autumn leaf piles, or building snowmen and snow forts in winter.

Out in front, I saw them finding snake skins in the stone wall or licking their dripping ice cream cones from Benson’s West Boxford stand.  My mind replayed their many costumes as they headed out the door holding their Dad’s hands to go trick or treating. I remembered their enjoyment as they returned to the house with cheeks reddened from ice skating at Sperry’s Pond.

Even our garden was full of them…smiling as they ate fresh peas right out of their pods, or got excited when they found toads or worms. Watering the plants was fun; one squirt was for the tomatoes and another for their wading pool.  And how they loved to run in and out of the sprinkler!

I remember one testing the air out back for a science project and another twirling a baton on the lawn.  One helped to drag the Christmas tree to the door and the other made a scarecrow to sit on the mailbox. A backyard apple tree was a gift from them for our 25th anniversary. 

The path through our woods reminded me of teaching moments inspired by nature.  Little hands learned how marsh marigolds, jack in the pulpits, and lady slippers needed NOT to be picked to ensure their survival.

The grass of our backyard used to be lively with their soccer, baseball, badminton, Frisbee, and other sports activities, and our deck would be filled with giggles as piñatas were smashed at their birthday parties. 

To the passersby, all seemed pretty quiet on our property in those last years before we left,  but I could hear the laughter until we drove away for the last time.

Paddling Up the Cupsuptic River

“Rivers are places that renew our spirit, connect us with our past, and link us directly with the flow and rhythm of the natural world.

Ted Turner

My summers are spent in the scenic western lakes and mountains region of Maine. The area boasts over 110 lakes and ponds. I’ve paddled quite a few of the larger ones—Rangeley, Mooselukmeguntic, Beaver Mountain, Cupsuptic, Flagstaff, Little Kennebago, Loon, Aziscohos, Richardson, and Umbagog Lakes and Haley, Gull, Round, Sandy River, and Dodge Ponds. The region also has at least seven rivers. I’ve gone tubing on the Magalloway and paddled several of the others—the Kennebago, South Branch of the Dead, and the Cupsuptic.

One of my favorite paddles is up the Cupsuptic River, and my husband and I make the trip at least once a year in our kayaks, sometimes with friends or family. Our son and daughter-in-law and their German wire-haired pointer joined us on paddleboards this year.

The river’s boat ramp is about a half hour’s drive from our house and it has an easy launch area. Once in the water, we steer upriver to the right. A handful of cottages dot the river’s edge at the beginning of our trip, but soon the river twists and turns as we head north, and only thick forests line both sides.

The paddle is mellow and the air has a mild earthy scent. When the water is low, we pass a lot of grassy islands and sandy shores littered with driftwood. When it’s high, they remain invisible and we see only rocky and wooded banks and occasional floating sticks. It’s a true wilderness area and often, only slapping paddles and occasional bird cries break the quiet. Sometimes other kayakers and canoers might wave or yell a greeting in passing.

About a mile up the river, we head for our first goal—a high piece of land that juts out on the left. It’s not easy to pull in here because there isn’t much actual shore. On high-water days, you need to find a way to keep the kayaks from drifting before you get out. When the water is low, it’s better, but the climb up the embankment is steeper.

At the top is a rough wooden sign nailed to a tree that says, Hinkley’s Café. Nearby campground owners put it up as a joke. There’s no building, no wait staff, and nothing for sale but the picnic tables and cleared campsites are as close as you get to good service in the backwoods. It’s a nice spot to have a picnic lunch.

As I look out over the river from that high perch, I always enjoy the sweet smell of pine needles and feel myself absorbing the peacefulness. Mountain peaks, including West Kennebago, are visible to the east.

After a rest and some nourishment, we continue upstream and head around an island. The river on the backside of it is dotted with the remains of large trees that look like driftwood sculptures. As we weave around them, we’re careful to watch for underwater logs and rocks. Sometimes we see man-made, floating, wire tents set out for loons to nest in.

After rounding the island, we head into tall grass growing out of water deep enough to paddle through. It leads us back to the main river stream and we head left around a bend in the river into a narrower section.

The turn-around spot is a short way up. It’s where a lone cabin called Moorhens stands close to the water’s left edge. Here the river becomes a rocky stream that’s too narrow and shallow for the kayaks to continue.

After a slow paddle back to the boat ramp, the whole excursion on the water is around two miles and takes about two hours to explore.

Visiting Poland Before Solidarnosc

“To forget one's ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.”

- Chinese Proverb.

My husband's parents were born in Poland.  He learned Polish before English, and went to a Polish-American elementary school, but had never visited Poland himself.

In 1980, we were living in Italy, where he had taken a job for his American company, and we decided to spend a two-week summer vacation driving to Poland to find his roots..  With our two young children in an orange Fiat with Italian plates, we drove north from Napoli into Austria and then West Germany.  We skirted still-segregated East Germany and headed for still-united Czechoslovakia.

Upon arrival at the Czech border, our papers were carefully scrutinized and we were informed that our visas were only one-way - a scary thought in the Eastern European political climate of those days.  To reenter the country from the east, after our visit to Poland, we would need to fill out applications in Prague.   We spent a good part of a day in an upstairs government office applying for visas that would assure our later return home.  With much relief, they were granted and we headed for the Polish border.

Passage through Polish customs seemed much easier except for the fact that we were told to account for our whereabouts for every day of our visit.  Aware that "Big Brother" would be watching, we ventured into the land of my husband's forebears.

Our first impressions were disappointing because the approaching evening forced us to find rooms in the bleak industrial town of Katowice.  The only available hotel was far from western standards in both amenities and cleanliness but we had a roof for the night and we were feeling adventurous.

The next morning, we drove through miles of farmland dotted with artfully shaped haystacks and made the capital city of Warsaw our goal.  The first impression we had was of a city of wide boulevards dominated by monstrous Stalinesque architecture.  We drove past once-fashionable shops that seemed to have little in the way of consumer goods.  Occasionally, there was a line that began inside a shop and wound its way down the block.  We later learned that shops often received scarce supplies only once a week.  If one wished to purchase meat or chocolate or some other "luxury" item, it was costly and required waiting in line.

Our Warsaw hotel was a large plain building that had a sliding scale payment system.  Eastern Europeans paid the lowest rates and Americans the highest.  Western European rates fell somewhere in between.

Exploring the boulevards on foot made their hardships even more evident.  On a street that, in another time would have rivaled Fifth Avenue, canned food, instead of stylish clothing, was stacked attractively in shop windows.  Textile goods in a major department store were of poor quality.  Entrance into each department for browsing among the racks was limited and monitored by security matrons.

Crossing a bridge on foot over the Vistula River, we were approached by someone wanting to discreetly exchange money, despite the strict laws against it.  The best goods available in the city were available only to those possessing foreign currency.

We were pleasantly surprised then to come upon a picturesque section of the city that had quaint cobble-stoned streets and charming restaurants.  We were also struck by its upkeep.  It looked almost brand new, like a Disney replica of someplace ancient.  Later that evening when we returned there for dinner, we found out that it was, in fact, not old.  It was the completely reconstructed former Jewish ghetto that had been destroyed along with many of its inhabitants during World War II.  It made for a dinner filled with unease. Our discomfort was increased by our encounter with a young East German student also having dinner.  We struck up a conversation and found that he was very bitter.  He grilled us about why we had chosen to visit Eastern Europe when we had the freedom to travel almost anywhere else.  He said that he was there only because his options were limited.

After Warsaw, we headed to the southeast, first stopping in Rzeschow, a university town.  No hotels were available but we found lodging in a university dorm.  Like dorm rooms in most countries, it was not your mother's décor but it was funky and we endured.

The bathroom was a triangular-shaped room down the hall, and it was so small that you had to squeeze in.   If someone had tried to open the door while you sat on the toilet, the door would have banged into your knees.

The next few days consisted of visits to the small country towns of my husband's family members.  We were welcomed warmly and they shared what little they had.  He had a chance to see where both of his parents were from and to meet elderly aunts and uncles he had only heard about previously. For my six and seven-year-old children, it was eye-opening and they learned much. They saw that warmth and humanity overcome language barriers and watched as their Dad resurrected a language from his childhood and acted as translator. They rode a tractor for the first time with a teenage cousin and each took turns shooing the chickens away as the other used the outhouse.  They began to realize that American prosperity doesn't exist in many places.

As our trip wound down, we stopped in Krakow, my favorite Polish city.  Another university town, it has a medieval look to it with nice squares and interesting architecture.  We had almost forgotten the poverty and restrictions encountered elsewhere until we dined in a lovely restaurant there.  The menu was like a book with perhaps a dozen pages but many items were unavailable.  The only entrees not crossed out contained variations of chicken or eggs.

As our vacation neared its end, we headed west for the border.  We arrived in the evening and our children had fallen asleep in the back seat.  Polish customs agents who searched our car with flashlights awakened them.  We worried that the agents would confiscate a painting that we had purchased from a student instead of from the government store.  The painting was safe, however.  They were looking for crystal items that were being smuggled to avoid export taxes.  We didn't have any and we proceeded through the barricades.

We worried about entering and exiting Czechoslovakia but our newly acquired return visas did the trick.  When we finally crossed the border back into the West, the contrast was immediate.  Gone were the small, slow-moving Lada autos and gray buildings.  All around us zoomed high-speed, German-made luxury cars and colorful advertisements abounded. It was like moving from black and white to Technicolor. 

After crossing the border back into Italy, we stopped for something to eat. The noise level was notable. The buzz of conversations and the warmth of the laughter wrapped around us like a security blanket. It was good to be back in our temporary (and free) home.

The Stages of My Motherhood

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

PRENATAL

The months that I carried each of my two children were a mix of excitement and worry. I worked at full-time teaching, kept my prenatal appointments, followed my doctor’s advice, kept as active as possible, took care with my diet, attended Lamaze classes with my husband, and hoped that all would result in easy births and healthy babies.

INFANCY

It was a time of wonder and nervousness. Each baby was a miraculous bundle that I wanted to nurture and protect. I became a stay-at-home mom. I cuddled, crooned, and played, introduced them to mom-and-tot swims, fed, burped and changed them, engaged them with chatter and books, took them to the pediatrician for their shots and checkups, walked them in their carriages in the fresh air, and recorded and rejoiced over each developmental milestone.

TODDLERHOOD

This was when I babyproofed the house with electric outlet covers, gates at the tops of stairs, and breakables moved to higher shelves. An empty dining room was used as a carpeted playroom with low shelves for safe toys. Our backyard provided a place for their exploration of the natural world, like frogs and mud and where they enjoyed helping me with my garden. I packed them for travel via plane and auto and we put them in our backpacks for outdoor adventures. I had playgroups for each of them when they turned two. Each group had four children and I took turns with the other mothers having them at home for free play, an art activity, and a healthy snack.

NURSERY SCHOOL

Those years began when I drove each of them to the Village School in town and they joined, first the three-year-old class then the four-year-old for weekday mornings. I was still a stay-at-home mom, except for occasional stints at part-time work. I carpooled with other mothers for drop-offs and pick-ups. During those years, my husband and I introduced them to skiing. We started off on rope tows, each of us with one child on skis between our legs. I took them to the YMCA for swim and gym classes, and in summer, to the town beach. I spent a few evenings a week pursuing a graduate degree.

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

My daughter took the town school bus, so I was no longer her driver. It was the same year my son started nursery school, so I was still carpooling for him. My husband and I took them skiing on weekends, and occasionally during the work week, I’d head north with another mom and we’d take her kids and mine to the slopes. 

Two years later, our lives had a major shift and we moved to Italy, where I helped them deal with a new culture. Both children rode a mini-school bus that picked them up and dropped them off at the bottom of the hill we lived on. I drove down to meet the bus every afternoon. (My husband brought them in the morning on his way to work.) I enrolled in Italian lessons, volunteered to do art classes at their school, and made sure we read books to help them learn about their new environment. When we took holiday trips to other parts of Europe, I supervised their school assignments, which were usually illustrated travel diaries. They became involved in sports. I drove both of them to an Italian swim club for lessons and my son to a stadium for his Italian calcio (soccer) lessons. We also joined an American-run park where I took them for swim lessons and T-ball teams, and I volunteered to be their assistant soccer coach, despite my lack of experience with the game. Luckily for me, the head coach knew what he was doing.

Two-and-a-half years after that, we were back in the States and I helped them deal with reverse culture shock. They took the town bus to school and I found a full-time teaching job. I assisted my husband as he coached our son’s soccer team. My weekends were busy attending soccer games for both kids, and our family skied as much as we could in winter. We traveled often to Maine where we bought land and built a vacation house. I was my husband’s building apprentice, hauling, hammering, and doing odd carpentry jobs. We took the kids hiking and swimming in the lake up there and let them help with the house in small ways, like helping to clear brush and making small projects with wood and nails. 

MIDDLE SCHOOL/HIGH SCHOOL

I did a lot of juggling in those years and a lot of navigating pre-teen and teen dramas. My daughter chose a small private middle school which was in the opposite direction from the school where I worked, so I had to rely on another kind mother to drive her. My son still took the bus to elementary school then two years later to the local middle school. Because it arrived after I had to leave, a neighbor mother allowed him to wait at her house with her sons. My job was to be home for both kids when they got back in the afternoons, to have dinner as a family, and to supervise their homework. I attended many sporting events and school activities that they participated in. In her last year of middle school, I helped my daughter with her applications to several prep schools and accompanied her to interviews. 

The following year, she started ninth grade as a boarding student. Then halfway through the year, our family had a major shift again. My husband’s job was moving to Germany which meant big decisions had to be made. I took a two-year leave of absence from my job. My daughter asked to stay at her boarding school. Three of us left for Germany. I tried to help my son deal with another new culture and be a telephone sounding board for my daughter who missed us. The following year, she joined us in Germany, and I tried to help her deal with the cultural change. I went to cheer them at their soccer games and ski races. I was also busy taking German classes and teaching English at a language school.

For our third year, both kids chose to go back to the States to boarding schools and I relied on the telephone for communication with them (no internet yet), except for the vacation times they joined us. My husband’s job wasn’t over, so I requested an extension of my leave. That year, I began the first draft of my first YA novel and took a teaching job at an international school. 

My husband and I ended up staying in Germany for six years. Vacations were spent with our visiting kids introducing them to a variety of countries during extended car trips. In summer, I drove them to their summer jobs. Trips back to the States were kid-focused: attending my son’s lacrosse game, visiting potential colleges with my daughter, and later with my son, attending their high school graduations and delivering them to college out west. 

EMPTY NEST (AT TIMES)

During the college years I looked forward to their phone calls and emails and having them home for holidays and summers. I empathized with their woes, shared their joys, and felt pride as each got their diplomas. I also pursued another graduate degree.

Post-college, I’ve watched them navigate the adult world, struggling at times but eventually succeeding. I’ve welcomed them home when they needed it and helped them move away when they wanted to pursue their dreams. I still offer advice, but more and more, they have skills that I don’t, and I learn things from them. I enjoy their adult company and visits to their homes.

The Lure of Colorado

“And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, far off, the great snowy tops of the Rocky Mountains. I had to get to Denver at once.” 

Jack Kerouac

Colorado, a state of red rock and many other colors of nature, is noted for its vivid landscape of mountains, forests, high plains, mesas, canyons, plateaus, rivers, and desert lands. It’s a place that lured both of my children to study there and eventually settle. Since then, my husband and I have visited many times and in many seasons. We’ve made the trip by auto and by air. We’ve been to orientations and graduations, house moves and renovations. We’ve gone hiking, boating, four-wheeling, sand-dune sledding, aspen-leaf-peeping, and skiing. We’ve attended festivals and a road race, visited museums, restaurants and breweries and, in general had fun.

Our most recent visit last month combined skiing and other winter activities with spending time with our kids and learning a bit of local history.

Part of the time was spent on the Front Range, based at our daughter’s place. A walk in South Valley Park near Littleton and Ken Caryl in Jefferson County took us along snowy trails amidst dramatic red sandstone spires. Another walk along Clear Creek in Golden, a former gold rush town, let us explore Golden History Park, home to many of the original 19th-century buildings from the Pearce Ranch in Golden Gate canyon. A car ride up Lookout Mountain, just west of Golden, gave us a spectacular view of Denver and the Rockies and also took us to the burial site of William Frederick (Buffalo Bill) Cody. I learned that, in addition to his successful, traveling Wild West Show, Buffalo Bill rode in the Pony Express, fought in the Civil War, hunted buffalo to feed railroad workers, scouted for the Army, was awarded the Medal of Honor by Congress in 1872, advocated for Native American and women’s equal rights, called for preservation of the buffalo, other wild animals, and wild places like the Grand Canyon, and visited 14 countries and 1,400 cities in 30 yrs.

From the Front Range, we drove west on Interstate 70 into the Rockies where we spent three nights in the historic district of a ski town on the Blue River—Breckenridge . It was founded in 1859 by a small group of prospectors, and its rich and colorful history is full of gold finds and mining, exploration and adventure, brothels, saloons, booms and busts. These days, there are lots of restaurant choices and some recommended ones include: Rita’s – Agave Y Tacos, Fatty’s Pizzeria, South Ridge Seafood Grill, and The Canteen Tap House and Tavern. 

We spent a couple of days downhill skiing on the mountain that overlooks the town. The Breckenridge Ski Resort is the highest in Colorado. Even the base is at 9,600 feet above sea level. Oxygen bars located in between shops and restaurants remind one that altitude sickness can be a real concern. The temperatures were in the minuses at night and the teens during the day, so we needed lots of layers. Every December, in a tradition started by the mountain’s early Norwegian ski instructors, Breckenridge celebrates with a vibrant festival honoring ULLR, the Norse god of snow. 

Our drive back to the Front Range included a stop at Cabin Creek Brewing in the tiny mountain town of Georgetown. Their beer is good, but the pizza is definitely worth stopping for. 

The next part of our Colorado adventure took us on a flight over the Continental Divide to the Western Slope and another base at our son and daughter-in-law’s  home in Ridgway, a one-stoplight, cowboy town in Ouray County that has been the location for the making of a number of western movies. It is also the home of a small workshop where the Grammy Awards are made by hand. Check out The Colorado Boy for pizza and beer, if you’re ever there! We enjoyed a walk in nearby Ridgway State Park on trails overlooking the large reservoir, and views of the snow-capped San Juan Mountains were a bonus.

The ski town of Telluride in San Miguel County is 45 minutes south of Ridgway, and we headed there and up to Mountain Village for some more downhill skiing. There was plenty of snow and some sun as well, and we were fortunate to try out some Wagner custom skis, made right in the village by Pete Wagner’s craftsmen (who happen to include our son). The plazas in Mountain Village are filled with colorful gondola cabins, refitted since the pandemic started, with tables for eating. There are also open-air vendor carts selling crepes, grilled cheese, and other handheld foods. Restaurants with outdoor tables surround the edges, and one especially sunny spot with a great view of the slopes is The Tomboy Tavern.

A gondola ride down into the town of Telluride led me to a sign with some local historical information: Telluride’s mountains contain 350 miles of tunnels, enough to reach from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Billions of dollars in gold, silver, copper, lead and zinc have been produced here since 1880 and the area is still being mined.

A flight back to Denver and then two flights further southeast brought us back home to Florida and no snow at sea level. I am enjoying the warmth, but relishing the memories of our latest adventure and missing our Colorado family. Till next time!  

The Educational Journeys of Four Generations of Women

“That all pretensions to being self-made hide the reciprocal truth, that we have unpayable debts to the world around us, to our community, to our forebears, to the ancients, to nature, to the gods.” 

 Author: Lewis Hyde

International Women's Day is celebrated annually on March 8th. It offers an opportunity to reflect on progress made.

My maternal grandmother was born toward the end of the nineteenth century in 1887.  She had an elementary education and possibly high school, but no professional training of any kind.  College was almost unheard of for women then.  (By 1900, less than 3% of women went to college.)  She married, learned homemaking skills, and had seven children, one of whom died of a childhood illness almost unheard of in these days of modern medicine.  Her husband abandoned the family in the midst of the Depression in 1936 when the youngest child was still in elementary school. She was left with six children to feed, no income, and no marketable skills. On top of that, middle-class married women seeking employment during the Depression were often met with hostility. In the 1930s, 26 of 48 states had laws prohibiting their employment. Women who were married at that time had to surrender many of their rights to their husbands, including the right to own property.)  Fortunately for the family, she was able to rely on her brother for enough financial support to get by.  After his death, her children went to work to help support the family. To the day she died, she had few possessions of her own and lived with her oldest daughter’s family. 

My mother was born in 1920, the year women in the US were finally given the right to vote. As a young girl, the family had little money, but she proved to be a talented dancer, winning a scholarship to study at a prestigious studio in Manhattan.  She was 16 years old when her father walked out.  Despite the financial support of her uncle and a job taken by her older sister, the straits the family were left in necessitated her dropping out of high school in her senior year and going out to work. Despite that, she continued dancing and won a spot to appear at the New York World’s Fair of 1939.  She later returned to night school and obtained her high school diploma. Afterwards, she obtained a certificate from a business school which allowed her to work as a secretary for a male executive. At the beginning of World War II, she continued dancing with the USO. She also volunteered with the New York Auxiliary Fire Department run by the U.S. Army, patrolling the streets at night to check for blackouts when the sirens rang. College was neither affordable nor was it considered an option by her. (Women's magazines of that era promoted the virtues of motherhood and homemaking, condemning those who became involved in areas outside the women's sphere. The number of women in college was still less than 10% of the population.)  During the war, she married my father and had six children.  My father was a man of his time (despite his own college education), in that he believed the man should be the sole provider.  He didn’t want my mother to work outside the home. 

I was the first female in both my father and mother’s families to continue her education and receive a college degree.  My bachelor’s degree was received in 1971 from a school founded in 1870 but which only opened its doors to women in the 1950’s! My father felt that a college education was an important goal—for his sons.  He believed that more education was wasted on girls because they would just marry and become mothers.  My mother took pains to help me with my studies and felt that a college education would be beneficial for me— as long as it prepared me for a traditional ‘woman’s career’ like nursing or teaching.  She made it clear that finding a husband should be my first priority.  Though my father was skeptical of the value of a college diploma for me, he didn’t prevent me from pursuing it as long as I paid for it through scholarships and jobs. In later years, he came to appreciate that I was able to have many outside interests, be a mother, and have a teaching career.  My husband, for his part, has always supported my need to learn and I think he finds me a more interesting person because of it.  

My daughter is also a college graduate, and my husband and I always told her she could be whatever she aspired to. From the beginning, we had high expectations for both she and her brother to become intelligent adults who could contribute to society— meaning we wished for BOTH of them to get good educations and develop many interests and skills. We didn’t expect them to finance college themselves, although both had part-time jobs during those years to supplement their expenses. My daughter now has a career she enjoys and for which she’s paid no less than a male with the same expertise. She lives in a society where she can marry if she chooses but is under no pressure to do so and can support herself.  By law, she CANNOT be fired from her job for either marrying or having children.  

Experiencing Vietnam During Lunar New Year

“Chúc mừng năm mới.” 

This is the standard way of saying "Happy New Year" in Vietnamese.

Tet Nguyen Dan, shortened to Tet, is the Vietnamese Lunar New Year. It falls on February 1st this year, and Vietnamese people enjoy a 5-day national public holiday from January 31st(Tet Eve) to February 4th, 2022.

Lunar New Year (Spring Festival) is typically celebrated in Asian countries and begins with the first new moon of the lunar calendar and ends on the first full moon 15 days later. The lunar calendar is based on the cycles of the moon, so the dates of the holiday vary slightly from year to year, beginning sometime between January 21 and February 20 according to Western calendars.

In 2010, when I visited Vietnam, Lunar new Year was on February 14. Since I arrived on January 11 and departed on February 9, I only got to see the preparations, but they were impressive and colorful.

Like this year, it was the Year of the Tiger, and Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) had lots of red and yellow decorations with tigers on them. (Each lunar year is represented by one of the twelve zodiac spirit animals, the rat, buffalo, tiger, cat, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog and pig. The animal of your birth year is said to influence your personality traits.)

 About a week before the holiday that year, New Year displays appeared throughout the city. Le Loi, one of the main streets, was alight with hanging lanterns and strings of lights, and everywhere you could see hawkers selling Year of the Tiger cards, decorations, and lai see (red money envelopes which elders hand out to children for good luck in exchange for Tết greetings).

The park across from our hotel became filled with tree lots. (They were similar to our Christmas tree lots but without the evergreens.) There was an abundance of what looked like cherry blossom trees for sale. Others that were shaped like Christmas trees were actually plum trees, and the branches were absolutely filled with small plums. There were also fanciful plum topiaries in animal shapes, and photographers were available to take photos of kids standing next to them. Other trees had a bonsai shape and were filled with the same tiny yellow flowers used in the holiday decorations. Lots of orchid plants were also for sale, and fake trees made from dyed pussy willow branches were popular too.

The crowds swelled as the holiday approached. The streets, which were normally busy at night, were now teeming with motorbikes and pedestrians. It was even hard to walk amongst the evening market stalls because of the cruising motorbikes.

One day we came upon a colorful dragon dance in the street. Dancers were hidden under the guise of what is known as the Mua Lan. The Lan, an animal between a lion and a dragon and the symbol of strength in the Vietnamese culture, is used to scare away evil spirits.

 The origins of the Lunar New Year Festival are thousands of years old and are steeped in legends. One legend is that of Nian, a hideous beast believed to feast on human flesh on New Year’s day. Because Nian feared the color red, loud noises, and fire, red paper decorations are pasted to doors, lanterns are burned all night, and firecrackers are lit to frighten the beast away.

Visiting Vietnam was an amazing experience for many reasons, but I felt most fortunate to be able to witness the color and joy of the country’s most important holiday.

Navigating Night Fright Long Ago

(Photo by Nick Wright on Unsplash)

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties 

And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us!”

The Cornish or West Country Litany 

 TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK.  The house was eerily quiet except for the loudness of the clock in the spartan spare room where I lay, rigid and uneasy. I was alone in the house except for my aged, ailing and bedridden grandmother down the hall. If I called out, she was too deaf to hear me, even if she were still awake, which I doubted.

Normally, my uncle lived there with her but he was away and asked me to keep her company for the evening then spend the night. I had no problem with that because I loved and admired my grandmother who, though fragile at this stage in her life, had been strong enough to come to America alone at the age of sixteen. Besides, I would have no heavy responsibilities since her physical needs were taken care of by a woman who came in daily and left after serving her dinner.

The dark, ebony furniture in the room was gloomy and its shadows played tricks on the white walls and on my mind. Though I sometimes complained of the annoying noises of my five brothers and sisters at home, that night I longed for their chatter.

 I slid my head under the covers so I wouldn’t see my grandfather’s ghost. There hadn’t been any reported sightings and I wasn’t sure I believed in ghosts, but I wasn’t willing to chance seeing Pop-Pop materialize, though I had loved the gruff, old tugboat captain.

I don’t remember my exact age at the time, except that I was older than ten (the age I was when my grandfather died) and younger than seventeen (when I finished high school). In retrospect, I’m surprised a pre-teen or teen me was so afraid that night.

Part of it was fear of the dark, not the darkness per se but what the dark might reveal. It’s something I haven’t totally outgrown, since I sometimes prefer to keep my eyes closed or to cover my face while trying to sleep in a pitch-black room. Studies say I’m not the only adult uncomfortable that way.

The seemingly irrational fear of Pop-Pop’s possible ghost suggests I was on the younger end of that ten-to-seventeen age spectrum, when his death was a more recent memory. He was the first person close to me who died and his was the first dead body I’d seen. Combined with the fact that my grandmother was in her nineties and very ill, I’m guessing fear of death was in the mix of my emotions.

It was also fear of the unfamiliar. I knew the house in daylight. I had many happy memories of both my grandparents presiding over large family gatherings with their five sons, their wives, ten grandchildren and grandma’s niece in a living room filled with family photos and a dining room filled with delicious aromas and sun-filled windows lined with African violet plants. But the night gave slippery edges to things and unhinged me.

Groups That Have Enhanced My Life’s Journey

“If you want to go fast, go alone, If you want to go far, go together.”

African proverb

My Childhood Friends on Elm Street: 

Summers and after-school days were filled with outdoor pursuits and I had dozens of girls and boys for playmates, including siblings and cousins. Five friends lived next door, and several of my grade-school classmates lived further along, as did kids who went to other schools. We skipped, jumped rope, roller-skated, played hopscotch, rode scooters and raced bikes on the sidewalks. We played stick-ball, red light, green light and red rover in the lightly-trafficked road. Vacant lots served for adventure hikes, and the entire neighborhood gave us space for hide ’n seek. Backyards were for cartwheels, swings, and talent shows presented in front of bedsheet curtains hung from clotheslines.  We shared the excitement of the ice cream truck’s jingle, and we raced around together amidst the soft evening glow  of lightning bugs. Through our play, we learned to negotiate, share, test rules, and get along.  However, not all of the kids were my close friends. The neighborhood bully, a boy several years older than me, made me nervous, as did the voice of his violent, alcoholic father. His little brother who sat on their stoop and continually rocked back and forth puzzled me. In retrospect, I realize that those kids were abused and suffering. When a new family moved in next door, I was exposed to a new language—Italian. Though hard to understand, the two boys about my age were friendly and expressive. The varied personalities and learning experiences of my early years created a training ground for navigating the larger world as I grew older.

 The Club:

The same year I started high school, we moved to a new neighborhood that had few kids my age. My new friends  were at my all-girls school, and the ones I became closest with were a group of  eight who were honor students like myself. We called ourselves The Club. We didn’t have meetings and we weren’t mean and exclusive. Mostly we ate lunch together in the cafeteria, gathered together at the Friday night dances at the boys’ school, and had occasional sleepovers where we’d discuss boys, future plans, and boys. After graduation, we drifted off to different colleges and slowly lost touch, but those girls made high school memorable for me in a good way. 

Walker Park Tennis Club:

During those same high school years, my new neighborhood had facilities that introduced me to tennis.  A several block walk would take me to the Walker Park Tennis Club, part of a public park run by New York City. Built in 1934, it had six clay courts and a Tudor-style clubhouse with lockers, showers, refreshments, and outdoor tables on a stone patio. My dad first took me there and taught me the game. Every spring, I would buy a permit, and I signed up for lessons with a group of other teens and participated in a few tournaments. It was a sport I loved and took with me into adulthood, and it was at Walker Park that I had my first date with my husband playing tennis. 

Boxford Couples Club:

After we married, my husband and I moved to Boxford, Massachusetts, and we made friends with neighbors who had young children like we did. Along with eight other couples, we formed our own Couples Club. Once a month, one duo would host a dinner at their home for the whole group, which meant they’d get to be a guest at the other homes for the next eight months—a nice way of spreading out the responsibility. Not only was it less expensive than going out to restaurants, a bonus for young couples starting out, it was a relaxing to hang out with friends in their home environments. 

Informal Classes and Get-togethers in Europe:

We left Boxford and the couples’ club temporarily, when my husband’s job took us to Italy. Since nothing says Italy quite as much as good food, one year I joined a small group of women for Italian cooking classes. There were four of us and we met once a week for about six weeks with Marianna at her apartment in Napoli. In her kitchen, she’d prepare a meal , we’d take notes, and then we’d all enjoy lunch. She always poured us glasses of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. 

Italy has many international inhabitants and through friends, I met a French woman who offered to teach a few of us the ins and outs of French cuisine. We met at Jacquie’s home in the suburbs of Napoli for several weeks of watching, writing and tasting.

Several years later, we moved to Germany for several years and I met a group of three women who were fun friends. We got together many times to do aerobics in one woman’s apartment, had our “colors done” by a colorfully-dressed woman from Scotland, and went to the Munich apartment of a Chinese-American woman named Dinah for several sessions of Chinese cooking and eating. 

 Allied Arts Team:

After returning from Germany, I was hired to teach in a new middle school of technology. Since the various subjects I taught fell under the umbrella of Family Consumer Science, I was assigned to the school’s Allied Arts Team. There were ten of us and we rotated students, so that they had a different extra subject each day (music, art, family consumer science, tech ed, and physical education. We worked together coordinating events and we all participated in technology projects that gained some recognition. Our team presented at Macworld in Boston, did community television together, gave workshops for other school districts, and our curriculum is in the Smithsonian. 

 Writing Groups:

When I started working on my first book, it was a lone endeavor while I was living in Germany. It wasn’t until I was back in Massachusetts and saw a flyer at the Boxford General Store, that I joined my first writing group. It was called TWIG and four to six of us met monthly at the Topsfield, Massachusetts library. I also joined a writing group in Rangeley, Maine where we have a vacation home. The participants were a few locals and also part-time residents like me who came when we were in town. Both of those early groups were about perfecting craft through writing exercises. After that, I joined my first national professional organization, the Society for Childrens Book Writers and Illustrators. I now also belong to the local Florida SCBWI critique group. Next, I found a small group in Newburyport, Massachusetts called Children’s Writers By the Sea that was focused on critiquing manuscripts. They helped me get my second book to publication. Through them, I was introduced to Newburyport Writers, a larger more eclectic group that includes writers, publishers, editors, publicists and more. They have wonderful presentations and events that I still enjoy. One of the NW members encouraged me to join another professional organization, Sisters in Crime, which I did. I am a member of the national group, as well as the New England and Florida Treasure Coast groups. I am currently also a member of Palm Beach Gardens Fiction Writers.  

Visiting Italy Under COVID Rules

“Per l’ingresso, e’ obbligatorio indossare la mascherina.” (For entry, it’s mandatory to wear a mask.) 

One of the signs shown in Italian shops, restaurants, hotels, trains, buses, etc. 

After postponing a trip in early 2020 due to the pandemic, my husband and I watched the reports, got fully vaccinated, and waited for encouraging signs that would allow us to travel abroad once more. When one of our favorite destinations opened up to Americans again (with many provisions), we prepared for a trip to Italy.

After checking the U.S. State Department and CDC web sites, we enrolled in STEP, the Smart Traveler Enrollment Program, through which we would receive advisories from the US Embassy in Rome. We also checked the Italian Ministry web site to keep updated on their requirements. We learned that we must fill out EU Digital Passenger Locator Forms which would make contact tracing simpler.

We booked direct flights to and from Miami and Rome with Delta and its partner Alitalia, but due to Alitalia going out of business on October 15, those flights would be changed 7 times. We ended up flying Delta from Fort Lauderdale to New York then Alitalia to Rome. The returning 2 flights a few days from now, will be Delta to Atlanta then another Delta to Fort Lauderdale.

The final requirement would be either a PCR or negative antigen COVID test performed no more than 72 hours before arrival in Italy. We arranged for PCR tests which are considered more accurate then realized we wouldn’t have the results before we left Florida. We cancelled those appointments then scrambled to find rapid antigen tests. Many testing sites were booked, but we lucked out finding a drive-up site near our public library in Florida. We had negative results by 10am on Sunday—2 days before we headed for the airport on Tuesday and within 72 hours of our arrival in Rome on Wednesday morning October 13.

 At Fort Lauderdale Airport, they checked our passports, vaccine cards, our EU dPLFs, and our COVID test results when we checked our bags. Then we went through TSA to our gate. Even though our bags were checked through to Rome, we had to present all of our documents again to an official sitting at a table at JFK in New York, then we had to show that they were approved at the NY Delta counter. We were good to go, except for one thing—we were wearing cloth masks which weren’t acceptable and had to purchase a packet of surgical masks at a nearby airport shop. Once we donned them, we had to go through TSA again before heading to our gate.

 The flight to Rome was odd, but not because of COVID. We think it had more to do with Alitalia’s impending cessation of business. The only beverage available for the whole flight was water! No vino, no juice, no coffee.

 Arrival in Rome was easy because our papers had been verified in New York. However, we had to change terminals for a Ryanair flight to Palermo. Sicily, and once again, we had to provide all of our documents. They were especially interested in the “Green Pass”—the EU’s digital version of our CDC COVID cards. It was the first time of many that we had to explain that the US didn’t have a digital COVID system. The words “Pfizer” and “Moderna” on our respective cards convinced them they were official.

Boarding a train to Palermo Centrale from Falcone Borsellino Airport, where we had purchased our tickets from a machine, a train official requested our Green Passes. They were also required at our B&B in Palermo and at every restaurant we went to, even a small place we stopped for un caffe standing up at their bar. Masks were required everywhere one entered a building.

For our train trip to Milazzo Porto, we purchased our tickets from an agent at a window in the Palermo Centrale station, where they scanned our passports and checked our COVID cards. On the train platform, two polizie wearing masks, patrolled in a golf cart-type vehicle and asked for both of those documents again. They took photos with a cell phone and wished us un buon viaggio. Later on, they came by to tell us that there had been a platform change. Masks were required for the train ride which took several hours.

At the ticket window for the hydrofoils in Milazzo, we were told that due to bad weather, operations had ceased for the day. We purchased tickets for the following morning then scrambled to find a hotel room for the night. We booked online then walked a few blocks to a very nice place where we presented our documents as requested. That evening, we ate at a nearby restaurant where our COVID cards were required even for an outdoor table.

Hydrofoils have no outdoor seating, so we had to wear our masks for the ride to Lipari Island, which lasted a little over an hour (with a stop at Vulcano Island). We wore them again in the hotel taxi and masks and documents were required at our hotel.

Our 6-day stay in the Aeolian Islands gave us a lot of outdoor time where we could remove our masks, but inter-island hydrofoils always required them on board, as well as passports and COVID documents. They often checked our temperatures before boarding as well. Our masks were always at hand to enter shops and restaurants. We mostly ate at outdoor tables, but if we sat at a table inside, “Green Passes” were requested and our US card versions were scrupulously scoured.

Our long day of traveling from the Aeolian Islands back to Sicily’s main island and then southeast to Siracusa required constant mask-wearing and presentation of documents. At a train station café in Messina with well-spaced tables and every-other seat marked as no occupancy, a waiter made a careful check of our COVID cards before he would serve us cappuccino.

For our flight out of Catania, our temperatures were taken and documents checked. Here in Roma, masks and “Green Passes” are required in museums, churches, restaurants, and hotels. To buy gelati cones, we had to mask-up to walk inside and choose our flavors. We ate them sitting down on little stools outside the shop.

We recently stopped at one of the farmacia-operated COVID tents to get information in preparation for our return flight on Thursday. We were given papers to fill out and we will return to be tested on Tuesday.

Going Down To Nile Brook

“If it weren't for the rocks in its bed, the stream would have no song.”

Carl Perkins, singer-songwriter

Nile Brook is a small stream in Rangeley, Maine with an elevation of 1,519 feet. It runs down from Old County Road in Dallas Plantation and edges the bottom southern side of our hill, part of the former Lakeview Farm/Ellis Farm. It passes by a small cemetery with graves from the 1800s, including that of Luther Hoar, Rangeley’s first white settler and original owner of the farm. Nathan Ellis purchased it from Luther’s heirs in 1899. The brook then crosses under Route 4 and continues until it empties into Rangeley Lake just south of our community beach.

We’ve lived on that hill part-time for thirty-eight years and the brook was a magnet for our children when they were young. Their exploratory adventures through the woods and down to the brook included encountering wildlife like young moose and rabbits, cooling off in the cool bubbling water, and looking for the gold that legend said existed there.

According to the Maine Geological Survey, Nile Brook does indeed have stream sediment mineral deposits eroded from bedrock which was formed thousands of years ago. The deposits include concentrations of gold, platinum, almandine (in the garnet group), quartz (rock crystal), black ilmenite, and magnetite, a magnetic black iron ore originally called lodestone. Easy riches are hard to come by, however. Panning for gold and other minerals there isn’t only time-consuming but yields are scarce and small. 

In recent years, as we walk the roads higher up on the hill, we get an unobstructed view of the depression where Nile Brook lies from only one spot—where the woods are cleared in a narrow strip for power lines. Recently, however, we noticed a path further along leading through the woods. We followed it and found a trail paralleling the brook with orange markings on the trees that looked quite weathered and old. Had it been there all those years and we never spotted it? (We later found out that it was cut by a homeowner only several years ago.) Still…we walk that route often. How had we always passed it by? My husband, daughter and I followed the trail west and came to a highpoint overlooking the brook. As we kept walking, we came to water level and were able to stand on the rocks in the water.

We didn’t see any fish, but an old report from the 1970s spoke of smelt-spawning runs occurring there. A little research revealed that April always ushers in the annual smelt runs in Maine from cold-water lakes up nearby brooks and streams, but the common group sport of "smelt dipping" (spotting the fish using a flashlight or headlamp and scooping them out of the water using a dip net) is now prohibited. Small rainbow smelts are the key food source for landlocked salmon in the lake, so they are protected.

Continuing on, the path climbed back up to another spot further down the road. As I looked back at the depression the path made, I realized I had always noticed it, but I assumed it was a dried bed created by water runoff from the road, not a path.

Our daughter, who spent many childhood summer days playing near the brook was curious about where it led if you continued walking east. She had never ventured that far as a child. Later in the day, she set out to explore. Her trek took a couple of hours to the source and she reported hearing the rustling of unseen animals in the bushes alongside the stream and seeing an abandoned campsite and a rusty old mining pan. She took photos of a bench and some chairs people set up on the southern bank on high overlooks. Photos of the stream itself were sent to her brother and fellow early adventurer.

Perhaps next summer I’ll take that trek myself. 

Novelists Who Take You Places

“In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own.” 

 Anna Quindlen

Non-fiction travel books have their place and are great for learning about sights to see, but novels have the ability to immerse you in the ethos of a culture.—the next best thing to being there in person. A book series set in one area adds layers to understanding the character and spirit of the place. Here are some authors who have written series that transport the reader and which I’ve enjoyed.  (Many, but not all are mysteries—but then, as a mystery writer I often gravitate toward them.) I’ve broken them down into location:

Canada

Louise Penny – Chief Inspector Gamache series set in Quebec (17 books) from Still Life, 2005 to The Madness of Crowds, 2021

England

Elizabeth George – Inspector Thomas Lynley series  (21 books) from A Great Deliverance, 1988 to  Something to Hide, releasing in 2022

P.D. James – Adam Dalgliesh series (14 books) from Cover Her Face, 1962 to The Private Patient, 2008

France

 Susan Kiernan-Lewis - Maggie Newberry series set mostly in the South of France (19 books) from Murder in the South of France, 2010 to Murder in Mont St-Michel, 2021

An American in Paris series (7 books) from DéjàDead, (2019) to Murder Flambé, 2021

 John Pearce – Eddie Grant series set in Paris (3 books) from Treasure of Saint Lazare, 2012 , to Finding Pegasus, 2018 

Mark Pryor - Hugo Marston series set in Paris, (9 books) from The Bookseller, 2012 to The French Widow, 2020 

Martin Walker - Bruno, Chief of Police series set in the South of France (14 books) from Bruno Chief of Police, 2009 to The Coldest Case, 2021

 Fiona Valpy – The French for… series from The French for Love, 2013 to The French for Always and The French for Christmas, 2014)

 Greece

Jeffrey Siger - Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series (11 books) from Murder in Mykonos, 2008 to A Deadly Twist, 2020

 Ireland

Tana French – Dublin Murder Squad series (6 books)  from In the Woods, 2007 to The Trespasser 2016

 Italy

 Andrea Camilleri  - Inspector Montalbano series  set in Sicily (30 books) from The Shape f Water, 1994 to  Riccardino,2021

 Maurizio de Giovanni – Commissario Ricciardi series set in Naples (9 books) from I Will Have Vengeance, 2007 to Nameless Serenade, 2016 

The Bastards of Pizzofalcone series set in Naples (4 books) from The Bastards of Pizzofalcone, 2013 to Puppies, 2015

 Elena Ferrante – Neapolitan Novels series (4 books)  from My Brilliant Friend, 2012 to The Story of the Lost Child, 2015

Donna Leon – Commissario Guido Brunetti crime novels set in Venice (30 books) from Death at La Fenice, 1992 to Transient Desires 2021

 Gabriel Valjan - Roma Series (5 books + prequel) from Roma Underground, 2012 to Corporate Citizen, 2016

 David P. Wagner – Rick Montoya Italian Mysteries series (7 books) from Cold Tuscan Stone, 2013 to To Die in Tuscany, 2021

 Scotland

Ian Rankin – Rebus series (28 books)  from Knots and Crosses, 1987 to A Song for the Dark Times. 2020

 Sweden

Viveca Sten – Sandhamm Murders series (10 books) from Still Waters, 2008 to  Buried in Secret, releasing in 2022

 United States

Lucy Burdette  - Key West Food Critic Series set in Key West, Florida (11 books) from An Appetite for Murder, 2012 to A Scone of Contention, 2021

Dorothea Benton Frank – Low Country Novels  set in South Carolina (20 books)  from Sullivan’s Island, 1999 to Queen Bee, 2019

Edith Maxwell/Maddie Day - Country Store Mysteries set in Indiana (7 books) from Flipped for Murder, 2015 to Nacho Average Murder, 2020

Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries set in Cape Cod, Massachusetts (3 books) from Murder on Cape Cod to Murder at the Lobstah Shack, 2021

Local Foods Mysteries set in Massachusetts (5 books) from A Tine to Live, A Tine to Die, reprinted in 2014 to Mulch Ado About Murder, 2017

Anne Rivers Siddons –  Southern Novels set in Georgia and the Carolinas (19 books) from Heartbreak Hotel, 1976 to The Girls of August, 2014

Joanna Campbell Slan – Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series set in Stuart, Florida (6 books) from Tear Down and Die, 2019 to Sand Trapped, 2021

Tom Turner -Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries series set in Florida (10 books) from Palm Beach Nasty, 2016 to Palm Beach Taboo, 2021

 There are also authors who write one book or a group of stand-alone books that convey much about a place. Again, I list them by location:

Afghanistan

Khaled Hosseini – The Kite Runner, 2004, A Thousand Splendid Suns, 2008 

Asne Seierstad – The Bookseller of Kabul, 2003

 China

John Hersey – A Single Pebble, 1956

Ha Jin – Waiting, 1999, Nanjing Requiem, 2011

 Egypt

Naguib Mafouz –(1988 Nobel Prize for Literature) –  Cairo Modern, 1945 in Arabic, 2008 in English, The Cairo Trilogy, 1990s English

 England

Monica Ali (Bangladeshi immigrant in London)– Brick Lane, 2003, In the Kitchen, 2009

France

 Fiona Valpy (The Beekeeper’s Promise and Sea of Memories, 2018 and The Dressmaker’s Gift, 2019)  

 Iran

Azar Nafisi - Reading Lolita in Tehran, 2003

 Ireland

Eoin Dempsey – The Bogside Boys, 2015

 Italy

Lorenzo Carcaterra  - Street Boys, 2002, and Paradise City, 2004, set in Naples,, Midnight Angels, 2010, set in Florence, Three Dreamers, 2021, set in Ischia

Turkey 

Ayse Kulin – Last Train to Istanbul, 2013, Rose of Sarajevo, 2014, Love in Exile, 2016, Without a Country, 2018

Orhan Pamuk – (2006 Nobel Prize for Literature) My Name is Red, 1998, Snow, 2004,  The Museum of Innocence, 2008

Building A Ski House

“Sweat equity is the best startup capital.”

Mark Cuban 

Our family was young and we all enjoyed skiing and other outdoor pursuits, so the idea of having our own mountain getaway took root. We had some savings, but they were just enough to buy a piece of land and some building materials—not enough to pay a builder or buy a house ready-made. My husband had helped his brother and a few friends build houses, so he had some experience. He also purchased some how-to books on construction, plumbing, wiring, etc. for guidance. 

 We decided our focus would be on locations within driving distance from Massachusetts that would provide skiing in winter and water sports in summer. In the late 1970s, we began our search in Vermont and New Hampshire. We found lots for sale in Sugarbush, VT with a great view of the mountain but no water in sight. Available lots in Stowe, VT and Sugar Hill, NH near Mittersill on the back side of Cannon lacked both views and water. 

Our search was disrupted when my husband was offered a job transfer to Italy, and we jumped at the chance to experience life abroad. We lived there for two and a half years.

When we returned to the States in 1983, we started looking in Maine near Sugarloaf, a mountain we enjoyed. The map showed a large lake nearby, so we were excited to check it out. To our disappointment, Flagstaff Lake had very low water that year and didn’t seem appealing.

Just to the west of Sugarloaf, the map showed a large concentration of lakes and ponds near another ski area, Saddleback, and close to a town called Rangeley. We had never been over that way and decided to check it out. The town was quaint and we liked it right away. 

We looked at a great lot with a sandy beach on Mooselukmeguntic Lake but the road wasn’t plowed in the winter, so we ruled it out. After looking at several other possibilities, we found a hillside lot in Rangeley in Lakeview Highlands, and we climbed ladders to see if a view of Rangeley Lake were possible. It was, so we made an offer, signed a contract and purchased it.

After we got a building permit and drew up plans, we drove up from Massachusetts on weekends and during a two-week summer vacation. At first, we spent nights in a bunkroom at the Farmhouse Inn down the road from the lot. During the days, we cleared brush, and the kids got lots of black fly bites. At the ends of our work days, we swam and cleaned off in the lake. 

Eventually, we were offered an old camper to rent. It belonged to neighbors who lived just up the hill from our lot. The downside was we had to walk to an outhouse, something that was daunting for the kids in the dark of night. The upside was that our new neighbors had hundreds of wild blueberry bushes on their property and invited us for blueberry pancakes.

The next steps required hiring professionals. We had the house site cleared and a septic installed. Then a Dowser came to locate water using a forked stick. He indicated the best placement for a well and we had it drilled and installed. The foundation was poured and a half-circle driveway was put in, so we had two entrances.

The rest was up to us. Every time we drove up to Maine, we’d stop in the small town of Strong and order lumber, which they would deliver the next day. They never asked us for payment upfront. They always sent us a bill later. Such trust was amazing to us city folk.

My husband put up the first-floor wall studs (one-car garage, family room, laundry, sauna, and utility room). I was the gofer and assistant. After that floor was closed in, except for doors and windows, our friend G. from Massachusetts helped my husband put up the heavy cross beam for supporting a second floor.

Once that floor was laid, we had an open-air cookout up there with a hibachi and some friends. Second floor walls went up (living-dining-kitchen great room, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms) and four large beams were installed to provide stability in the high-ceilinged main room. A staircase to a third floor was built. Third floor walls went up (long dormer room). Rafters and a ridge pole were next and the roof was closed in with plywood. During this time, we had help from several neighbors (E, W, and B) and E played strongman to hoist two sliding doors up to the second floor. A friend from Massachusetts (F) helped my husband shingle the roof. 

After a deck was added, doors, windows, and plumbing went in, and vertical siding was installed, the kids helped us apply cedar stain to the outside. 

We were happy to have the house closed in before it got cold, but there was still lots of finish work to be done. We came up that first winter on weekends and the four of us would camp in one room with a space heater. In the morning, we’d drop the kids at the mountain to ski, and the two of us would do electrical work with stiff, cold fingers.

In 1986, carpeting was installed, giving the house a finished look. We didn’t get to enjoy it for long though. Another job abroad was offered, this time in Germany, and we rented out the house while we were away. We ended up being gone for six years (1986-1992).

When we returned to the States that time, we finally got to enjoy our vacation home without a lot of work. That is, until we decided to convert the first-floor garage into an extension of the family room and build a separate two-story garage. In the summer of 1997, we obtained a building permit and my husband cut down many trees to one side of the house. In 1998, the garage excavation was done and construction began. We had lots of help from neighbors when it came time to raise the second-floor walls and install the rafters and ridge pole. The outside was finished in 1999 and the upstairs room was finished off as a photography studio in 2001.

We always seem to have a project. In 2009, we built a shed to house our kayaks and summer deck furniture. In 2012, we installed oak hardwood floor in the great room and laminate wood flooring in all the bedrooms. From time to time, things need to be replaced or painted or stained, but most of the time now we just enjoy our home that we built with sweat equity. 

My Road to Traditional Publishing

“In the end, what makes a book valuable is not the paper it’s printed on, but the thousands of hours of work by dozens of people who are dedicated to creating the best possible reading experience for you.” 

John Green

In 2017, I had the germ of an idea for a new book. My inspiration was threefold: 1) Having lived in Europe for a time, I was impressed by the multi-nation appeal of the over-the-top spectacle of the Eurovision contest and how it provided an entrée to success in America for a select few. Since Russia has participated since 1994, I thought it would be interesting to explore how the success and decline of one of its groups in the U.S. might affect the family of the band members, especially a teen child. 2) As a native of New York City, I wanted my characters to inhabit a city I love. 3) Having written a 3-book series with a teen girl protagonist, I wanted this one to feature a teen guy and his buddies.

I started work on it, but real life intervened. First, my husband received a serious medical diagnosis, and navigating that was more important to focus on. Second, we made a major life change with a move to a different state which consumed more of my energy. It wasn’t until the end of 2018 that I found some writing support groups in my new state and picked up the beginnings of the manuscript again.

In December 2018, I joined Palm Beach Gardens Fiction Writers, and in early 2019, already a national and New England member of SCBWI (the Society for Children’s’ Book Writers and Illustrators), I joined the Palm Beach County chapter. Both groups critiqued bits and pieces of my writing.

By April 2019 I was making slow but steady progress on my new book, and I was enjoying the warm weather and the quiet outdoor balcony where I wrote most days.

On May 23, 2019, my laugh for the day happened while reading a section from my book manuscript aloud. It ended in "Are you serious?" and Siri answered, "Yes. I'm not allowed to be frivolous."

In July 2019, I joined the newly-formed Florida Treasure Coast chapter of Sisters in Crime. I was already a member of the national and New England groups. Presentations by accomplished writers increased my writing knowledge and helped me tighten the story.

On October 10, 2019, I finished a chapter that had been torturing me for weeks, and I knew where I was heading next.

In January 2020, with the book manuscript in progress, my online research history seemed weird. It included: The sound of spit, mango water, the breakfast burrito song, locker smells, Landshark beer history, effects of eating crayons and ways to flirt with strangers without being creepy.

In June 2020, after many drafts and revisions I sent the manuscript to ten beta readers (five young adults and five adults, including one who speaks Russian to check the Russian references for validity and sensitivity).

In July 2020, I received responses from the beta readers. They were encouraging and also contained useful feedback.

On July 25, 2020, my manuscript got some excellent feedback from an agent through the SCBWI FL online conference (Critique-A-Palooza). I was learning lots and inching closer to publication.

Before I started querying agents and editors, I knew I needed to find and pay an independent editor to look over it and help me get it in the best shape for submission. 

On September 18, 2020, following some reliable advice, I put out a request on the well-respected Editorial Freelancers’ Association web site.

 Within days, I received over 50 emails of interest. I waded through the list, looking at their CVs to find the best possible fit for me. I was looking for experience with YA and a knowledge of NYC where the story is set.

They were all talented professionals, but I narrowed them down to five, to whom I sent letters of interest, plus some chapters for sample edits. I notified the rest that I was thankful for their interest but wouldn’t need their services.

When I received replies from the five, I narrowed again to three whose work seemed compatible with mine.

After careful consideration, I chose the one who was the best fit. On September 30, 2020, I signed a contract with an editor in Arizona. She had 35years of experience as an acquiring editor for traditional publishers in both New York and California, and knew the YA market well.

In November 2020, I received the suggested edits and a manuscript evaluation. She gave me some great feedback for increasing the pacing and tension. I soon began working on revisions.

In January 2021, I participated in another FL SCBWI online conference, and the following month, I began querying agents and editors who were open to submissions from conference participants.

That same month, February 2021, I also started querying small publishers who were open to submissions from members of Sisters in Crime. The requirements were slightly different for each publisher, but they included Bio, Contact Info, Synopsis, Outline, Theme, Projected Audience, Marketing Plan, Success Rate, Recommendations, and One Chapter.

On February 20, 2021 one of the publishers requested more info: a synopsis and 30 pages. Then on March 18, 2021, they requested the entire manuscript. The following month, April 2021, they made me an offer, and I signed a publishing contract.

In April 2021, while I was waiting for the revision work to commence with my new editor, an author friend offered to read the manuscript, and I received more helpful feedback.

On May 22, 2021, I received the first suggested revisions from the editor the publisher assigned to me. For the next month, we went through several levels of polishing.

As of June 28, 2021, my book was heading for a final review with yet another editor at the publishing house. My baby is getting closer to birth.

Golden Journey

 “Marriage is the golden ring in a chain whose beginning is a glance and whose ending is eternity.”

Kahlil Gibran 

50 years ago, my husband and I had a joyous wedding then survived a leaky plane trip over a South American jungle. It was the beginning of loving and living to the fullest and supporting one another in the process.

He’s been there for me through two childbirths, knee and lower back sprains, several surgeries, learning to ski, graduate school, job searches, a ski accident, book research and writing, and so much more.

I ‘ve been there for him during job changes and major cultural moves, building projects, long drives, hikes and road races, photography excursions, shows, and exhibitions, hospitalizations, and medical challenges.

We got one another through the “terrible twos” and “trying teens” of our now-grown and perfectly likeable offspring, as well as through the sad times dealing with the deaths of all four of our parents, other family members, and close long-time friends.

The upside for us has been that our happy co-adventures have far outweighed the concerning ones. We’ve lived in three countries and several states, explored five of the seven continents, skied hundreds of downhill trails in many countries, dined in both a chateau and a wine cave, in a former caravanserai, and on a many a beach and mountain. We’ve been proud parents at graduations and sporting events. We’ve celebrated at weddings and receptions of a variety of denominations in churches, gardens, an urban industrial building, an historic beachfront hotel, a mountain home, and even right on a sandy beach.

We’ve gone zip-lining in Costa Rica, white-water rafting in Austria, tubing in Germany, walked across a swinging bridge over a ravine in Ecuador, took a cable car over a bay and several peaks and valleys to reach a giant Buddha on Lantau Island in Hong Kong, rode a cart deep into a salt mine in Austria, paddled kayaks to an island in Turkey, flew over Kauai in a helicopter, rode in a dugout canoe on the Mekong River delta in Vietnam, survived brake failure coming down a mountainside in Ecuador, and climbed to the rim of Mt. Vesuvius in Italy to look in at the fiery magma.

It’s been a long journey of commitment, but it’s been a pleasure, and the time has flown. These days, we strive not to let our ages define us, because our hearts are young, we still have dreams to fulfill, and we’re looking forward to new adventures. 

Three Miles of Smiles

“An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”

Henry David Thoreau

My husband and I began walking three miles every morning back in March 2020. It was a safe way to get out of the house and exercise during the early days of the COVID 19 quarantine. Our sparsely-populated neighborhood with wide sidewalks and wooded areas meant we didn’t have crowds. When we encountered individuals, there was usually a mutual respect for distancing, so we seldom needed masks.

For more than a year now, we have kept up the routine because we enjoy it. And one of the things that pleases us the most, besides the health benefits, are the friendly faces we’ve passed over and over again along the way. They are the intrepid regulars with whom we exchange smiles or waves or sometimes even a few words. They all have distinct characteristics that we’ve come to recognize from a distance, and we’ve given them nicknames known only to the two of us.

The Lady is one of the longest-running regulars since we began. She is older, short, roundish, and sweet-looking. Her pace is slow but steady. Her white hair is always swept back into a bun and she often wears a white visor and comfortable knit pants and tees. Her quiet responses to our greetings have a hint of an accent.

Speedy is another long-timer. She’s a young, slim, and fit blonde woman who always wears colorful leggings as she either speed-walks or cycles. She’s out there rain or shine, always with a smile.

Pole lady is another fit, friendly, blonde woman who has a long stride. She uses two hiking poles and is often listening to her phone ear buds. Sometimes she’s carrying on a conversation in a language we haven’t yet deciphered.

Friendly Couple is an older husband and wife who walk at a good clip. She has dark wavy hair and is short and very bubbly. She always wears leggings and a visor. He wears a running suit, is tall, has a trimmed mustache and likes to make funny comments.

Red Shorts is a slim, tanned, middle-aged guy with a trimmed beard who always gives us a friendly wave and a smile.  He walks at a fast clip, and most days he wears red knee-length shorts. A baseball cap and ear buds top his head, and we sometimes hear snippets of business-like conversations.

Weights is an older guy we often see on the park fields walking (sometimes backwards, sometime kicking a soccer ball as he moves) in high-top sneakers. He wears wrist bands and carries weights in each hand.

Too-long sleeves is a middle-aged guy who wears  a baseball cap, sunglasses, and the same pale green nylon, crewneck shirt every day. The sleeves seem stretched out and cover his hands.

Stephanie (It’s not her real name. She just looks like a girl of that name who grew up with our daughter.) is a tall young woman with very long legs and a peppy walk. She’is very personable and always greets us with a friendly smile and hello. 

Ball cap and ear buds is a young guy who often wears tees with sayings, my favorite one stating “We test on humans.” He always has a friendly smile.

Blue and Red Windbreaker is a gray-haired cyclist who travels at a fast clip. He always wears wrap-around sunglasses and the same nylon jacket, no matter the temperature.

Jimmy Buffett couple is a short, older guy with a spring in his step and a tall, slim wife. With his engaging smile, ball cap and aviator sunglasses, he has that island vibe. 

Grandpa with baby is an older guy who walks at a slow pace pushing a baby carriage. He’s a new face this year. The little girl is usually sleeping. He recently told us she was three months old.

Skinny Guy is another newbie this year who smiles at us and gives a waffling wave that looks like he’s turning a door knob. He’s middle-aged and bearded and always wears dark shorts and tees. We often see him more than once on the park path because he walks fast and does more than one lap.

Crossing Guard, an older guy clad in a yellow neon vest and hat, is stationed at the first corner where we cross the street. We see him if we get there before his 9:30 off-duty time, after the nearby middle school starts. “How you folks doin’ today?” is his common greeting. If we’re running late, he often passes us in his truck and beeps his horn. 

Tall and short were an elderly couple we saw for months but haven’t seen lately. He was very tall and she was quite short. Hopefully they just changed their routine and are okay.

Pony tail guy was a fairly regular cyclist whom we also don’t see any more. He wore over-the-ear headphones and would yell, “hi folks,” as he passed us on his several loops. Maybe he was working from home for awhile and now spends his mornings in an office.  Who knows?

Of course, there’s always someone who doesn’t respond with a smile. Zoned-out man never acknowledges us. He walks slowly with his eyes half-closed and appears to be meditating or listening to music. He also uses a cane and walks a circular route that doesn’t involve crossing any streets, so we’ve started to wonder if he’s legally blind.

Aside from all of these strangers whom we’ve come to recognize and feel a sense of community with, it’s nice that we also meet walking and/or cycling neighbors who know us by name and with whom we can enjoy friendly chats.

All in all, our walks have been windows of freedom amidst the many constrictions imposed by the pandemic.   

Traveling Back in Time to Some of the Family I’ve Lost

“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.”

Emily Dickinson

 The first Christmas of my life is captured in a photograph—me, my mom, a couple of her sisters, and her mom, my nana. It was near the end of World War II and all the men in the family were away in the military. I’m the only one in that photo still alive.

 Most of my childhood Christmases after that first one involved a visit to my grandma and pop pop’s house. They were my dad’s parents and their home was a gathering place, not only on holidays, but also on every Sunday after church. The living room walls, fireplace mantel, and radiator covers were filled with family photos. The gatherings included my parents and siblings plus my dad’s four brothers, their wives and children. Only my brothers, sisters and a few cousins remain.

Pop-Pop was the first one in the family whose death I remember and mourned. I was about ten years old when he passed. He was a former riverboat man from upstate New York, a tugboat captain, and tall-tale teller. He seemed larger than life. I remember him as gruff but a softie. I never witnessed his addictive nature, the reason Grandma kept an alcohol-free home, but he did smoke cigarettes. A floor-standing ashtray was always positioned next to his wooden rocker in the living room. I don’t ever recall him in casual dress. When he relaxed, he wore dress pants with suspenders, a white dress shirt, and often, a tie.

 Grandma was a tiny bird of a woman who emigrated from Ireland on her own at the age of sixteen. She was kind, loved African violet plants, grew rhubarb in her garden, and used a toast rack on her breakfast table, a curiosity I had never seen before. She always wore a dress and often, an apron. During World War II, she was considered a Gold Star Mother because she had five sons in the military. She and Pop-Pop celebrated fifty years of marriage together, but she outlived him by fourteen years. She had a soft spot for me because I was the first girl born into the family since she lost her own first child, a daughter who died as an infant. I was twenty-four when she died.

 My Nana was New York born, a descendant of Irish immigrants. She was a constant presence in my early life. I lived with her as an infant and either lived across the street from her or in the neighborhood until I married. As a child, I loved cutting paper dolls and coloring with her. She loved to talk, sing nursery rhymes and Irish songs, and always made time to listen. She also liked to play “the numbers,” which would involve a visit to a woman named Flossie. Like my Grandma, she always wore dresses, often with aprons. I remember, as do all of her grandchildren, her delicious banana cake with cream cheese icing, a recipe she kept in her head. She lived with her oldest daughter and her family for all the time I knew her, and I always assumed she was a widow. When I was twenty years old, I learned that her husband, my maternal grandfather, had recently died. I had never met him, and I later learned he walked out on Nana and their children almost thirty years before. Nana was my only grandparent to live to attend my wedding. She died when I was almost twenty-eight. Sad to say, it was two months before my first child was born, an event she’d been looking forward to.

 My dad had an excellent vocabulary, liked long discussions about current events after dinner, taught me to appreciate good table manners and was kind and honest. He was fun to ballroom dance with and smooth on his feet. He hated garlic and liked vodka gimlets. He taught me to play tennis, took me for Sunday morning swims at the public pool, and loved riding the waves with me on rubber rafts at the Jersey shore. He earned a full athletic scholarship to college where he became somewhat of a football legend but never talked about it himself. In later years, he was inducted into his school’s athletic hall of fame. He was a World War II veteran who was a staff sergeant and radar specialist. Before he was drafted into the Army, he worked as an engineer for Douglas Aircraft in Eritrea, Africa. After the war, he worked in Manhattan, and when I was in college, I enjoyed meeting him for lunch at Sloppy Louie’s at the Fulton Fish Market. He was a night owl, and when I got home late, tired from hours of studying and working part-time jobs, he’d rub my aching shoulders and we’d talk. In retirement, he served as head of a local Junior Achievement program. I was sixty when he died.

 My mom loved to talk and to shop, and I made many excursions into Manhattan with her. She was proud of the fact that, as a young woman, she could fit into designer sample sizes. She loved holidays and birthdays and made them memorable for me and my siblings. She always took an interest in my homework and taught me silly rhymes to help me remember facts. She spent hours preparing me for spelling bees. As a girl and young woman, she became an accomplished tap dancer, progressing from a local dance school to being accepted as a student in Manhattan with the legendary stage and screen performer/ producer Sam Burns. At the age of nineteen, she won a competition and danced in a show at Billy Rose’s Aquacade at the New York World’s Fair. As I and my siblings were growing up, she was active in our elementary school’s Mother’s Guild, at one point becoming its president. In later years, she enjoyed writing poetry and had three poems published locally. I was 65 when she died.

 These five people were the backbone of my life, but the two sides of my family were each large and I was fortunate to have been surrounded by many adult relatives whom I loved.

Exploring Museums Part III

“After all, isn’t the purpose of the novel, or of a museum, for that matter, to relate our memories with such sincerity as to transform individual happiness into a happiness all can share?”

Orhan Pamuk, Turkish novelist

 Some of the museums I’ve enjoyed are further afield than the U.S. and far-western Europe. Istanbul, Turkey, where Europe meets Asia, has a wealth of them in the Sultanahmet area. Built 1,500 years ago (532–537), the Aya Sofiya was the church at the center of the Holy Roman Empire. It was converted into a mosque after the Ottoman conquest in 1453. In 1934 it became a museum and a Unesco World Heritage site. I visited in 2012. The outside is somewhat squat and plain, but the inside is magnificent with a great dome and many lit chandeliers hanging low to the ground. There are also a number of fairly well-preserved mosaics, massive marble-faced walls, colorful frescoes, and intricately carved decorative work. A second-floor balcony runs around three sides and gives an overview of the main area below. It was turned back into a mosque again in 2020.

Topkapi Palace, once the sumptuous home of the sultans and their harems, and the administrative seat of the Ottoman Empire for almost 400 years, sits on a rise in Istanbul where the Golden Horn meets the Bosphorus River and the Sea of Marmara. It was transformed into a museum in 1924. The palace complex is lovely and consists of four main courtyards, elaborate gates, some enormous structures and many smaller buildings. The Harem quarters, though decorated with exquisite tiled walls. are a prison-like warren. The women enjoyed courtyards and a sea view, but they were confined. (It is said to contain over 400 rooms on several floors, but the public can tour only a fraction of them on one floor.) The treasury has the jewels of the sultans displayed in small glass cases, and I enjoyed the displays of the various sultans' kaftans (mostly from the 16th century). Many of the out-buildings are like separate pavilions for various activities, like libraries, sports, medicine, and even circumcisions. Each has a unique decorated dome. 

 The Goreme Open Air Museum in Turkey’s Cappadocia region is an area of caves and “fairy chimney” rock formations that has been preserved for tourists and has a number of small chapels cut into the rocks with the frescoes still partially intact.

The Island of Symi in Greece, off the coast of Turkey, can be reached by boat from Rhodes. At the tiny port of Panormici on the island’s south side, is a folklore museum and a Byzantine museum in the Panormitis Monastery. At the doorway, It was determined I was "indecently" dressed, along with many of the other women and girls. (I had on almost-knee-length cargo shorts and a t-shirt.) I had to don a complimentary wrap-around skirt in order to enter. Mine had pink and white flowers. (Some men had short shorts, but they weren't bothered.) The Byzantine museum is filled with religious relics. The building also has a Greek orthodox monastery chapel, the reason for the decency requirements because it has a revered icon of Michael the Archangel, patron of the island. Lots of the Greeks were lighting long candle tapers and placing them near the icon. The tourist shop sold religious articles, somewhat like a Vatican shop. I found the folklore museum most interesting since, among other things, it has artifacts from the sponge diving industry the island is known for. 

Budapest, Hungary, divided into two parts with Buda on the northern side of the Danube River and Pest on the southern side, has many museums. Buda Castle on Varnegy (Castle Hill) is the historical palace complex of Hungarian kings. It has several museums and is surrounded by gas-lit cobblestone streets and old row houses. The Pest side has wide boulevards, grand decorated buildings, and many large squares. The Szépművészeti Múzeum (Museum of Fine Arts) is in a neoclassical building located on the largest one, Hosok Ter (Heroes Square). In addition to Hungarian art, it contains classical and Egyptian antiquities, as well as Old Master paintings.

 Agadir, Morocco has two museums I found interesting. The Musee de Souvenir (Museum of Remembrance) is all about the 1960 earthquake that destroyed much of Agadir and killed 10,000 people. The building was set next to a lovely garden commemorating a treaty between Morocco and Portugal. The Musee Municipal has a nice collection of Berber artifacts—lots of antique silver jewelry like tiaras, diadems, earrings, and bracelets. My friend and I were encouraged by a guard to pose for photos draped in a sparky gold cape. We assumed it was used for a wedding but he said it was for prayer. Very nightclub for a holy outfit! One gallery had an eclectic collection of modern art including some anti-George W. Bush photo collages and a painting of Betty Friedan.

The Museum of Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam has some interesting exhibits. One room is dedicated to weddings and has cases with various bridal costumes from both different eras and different areas of the country. (As I was leaving that room, a real bride and groom passed through the hallway with their photographer. They headed for the grand staircase for some picture-taking.) Other exhibits showed dioramas of various industries and handcrafts and also some interesting pieces related to the French and American wars—an old cow cart that was used to smuggle ammunition and a so-called “double boat.” It looks like a long canoe and it has secret compartments under the seats for guns.

 The Genocidal Museum (Tuol Sleng) in Phnom Penh, Cambodia is in an old prison that was used by the Pol Pot regime. The photos and implements of torture and claustrophobic holding cells are pretty overwhelming in their horror. One building has the porches on each of the three levels wrapped in barbed wire – to prevent prisoners who broke loose from committing suicide by jumping. It’s reminiscent of Auschwitz. The Nazis ‘final solution’ was to make an Aryan society and the Khmer Rouge’s rampage was to eliminate intellectuals (teachers, lawyers, etc.), who’d be hard to manipulate. Next stop for most prisoners was the “Killing Fields.”

The Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware is located in a two-story white colonial building nestled inside Hong Kong Park in the Central district of Hong Kong Island, China. It’s a branch of the Hong Kong Museum of Art. Built in the 1840s, the house originally served as the office and residence of the Commander of the British Forces in Hong Kong. It was converted to a museum in 1984. Exhibitions tell the history of Chinese tea drinking and feature various kinds of tea ware, from 1027 B.C. to the 20th century. Alongside its exhibitions, the museum holds regular demonstrations, tea gatherings and lecture programs to promote ceramic art and Chinese tea drinking culture.

 The Museo Arqueologico de la Comunidad de Agua Blanca is located in the MachalillaNational Park (located 6 miles north and east of Puerto Lopez) on the Pacific Coast of Ecuador. The small museum of thatched-roof structures was founded in 1979 and contains Pre-Colombian cultural artifacts. such as funeral urns, vessels for ceremonial and domestic use, stone columns, stone U-shaped chairs, shell, metal, bone, and certain minerals such as turquoise. The surrounding excavated ruins are from the Manteño civilization, which thrived in this area from about 800 A.D. until the arrival of the Spanish. During a walk, I saw some owls, a squirrel monkey, and lots of birds, including motmots with bright blue heads and long tails that make a sound. The site surrounds a community of over 200 people who do some farming and make some crafts from shells and tagua. A small sulfurous stream fed by volcanic runoff from the mountains is supposed to be good for your health. It also feeds into a small manmade lagoon and I took a quick dip, since I was wearing my bathing suit. A young guy in the lagoon smeared his face with the sulfurous mud similar to the way people in southern Italy do at Solfatara near Napoli.

Museums can be housed in grand or simple buildings or even out of doors, but they all have learning to impart. I’ve felt enriched by the uniqueness of each one I’ve entered.