Christmas

I remember my father standing at the white enamel stove in our old country farmhouse, stirring his sugary candy mixture until it formed just the right consistency.  To my ten-year-old mind it seemed he nursed along his concoction for hours until it was perfect.  Then it was cooled and rolled into balls while he melted chocolate in the old double-boiler.  Finally the fun part:  dipping the candy into the rich brown coating with a fork from which he removed the two inner tines, bending the outer ones to form a perfect scoop.  As soon as the chocolate hardened I was allowed a taste or two.  They were so sweet even I couldn't eat more than a few at a time.

Since we lived in the snow belt of northern Ohio, just miles from Lake Erie, we were assured of snow.  As the wind howled outside the kitchen windows, wrapping itself around the eaves and trying its best to find entry, we were snug as could be, munching on Christmas delicacies and waiting with anticipation for my older brothers and sisters to arrive with their families.  They were scattered across several different states and we rarely saw them more than once or twice a year.

While our neighbors' houses boasted beautiful lights and Christmas trees with presents beneath, we had no decorations of any kind.  Our church forbade anything that smacked of secularism surrounding the birth of Christ. Since I was from a family of meager income and many siblings, gifts were also not done. I looked longingly at the forbidden, marveling at the bright colors and  wondering what lay wrapped under the beautiful trees shining behind the uncovered windows.

When my nieces and nephews arrived with their parents I forgot all about what we didn't have.  Our house was filled with chaos, fun, and laughter.  And always plenty of food.  While the adults caught up with each other on the happenings in their lives, we kids played.  There were no video games, no TV, not even a radio.  Not because I'm so old they didn't exist, (well, okay, the video games had yet to be invented) but because, along with the decorations, we were not permitted any of those worldly distractions.  There were board games like Sorry and Carom.  There was hide-n-go-seek and leap-frog and whatever other game we made up on the spot.  And there were always tall tales to be told and books to be read.

As the years passed, the last of my siblings left the old farmhouse and started families of their own.  After Paul and I married Christmas was still celebrated with my parents and my brothers and sisters. No longer in the old farmhouse, but still with the chocolate-drop candy and all the fun and games of tradition.  When our son and daughter were still toddlers both my parents passed away and everything changed.

With the feelings of loss and sadness came the resolve within our own little family that it was time to start a few traditions of our own, Christmas customs our children could remember when they reached adulthood and maybe some they could even carry on in their own families someday.

Probably in part because of the restrictions of my own childhood, I embraced the enthusiastic decorating of our house, inside and out, starting the day after Thanksgiving.  While Paul grew up in a household even more restrictive than mine, he somehow failed to grasp the importance of the decorations and the role they played in a truly fulfilling Christmas experience.  When I insisted on a trip to the local pine tree farm to cut down our own tree, Paul and the kids cooperated but made free to verbalize their reluctance to find the perfect tree.  Any tree would do for them, certainly the closer to the car the better.  I insisted on a search that usually lasted until we were all rosy-cheeked and numb from the cold.  We followed this with a steaming hot-chocolate in the old barn where the trees were wrapped and paid for.  The complaining usually evaporated at this point.

Another tradition was started by one of our neighbors.  Wouldn't it be fun, she said, to have the whole neighborhood put out luminaries on Christmas Eve.  And she even gave us all a hand-out on the meaning of the luminaries.  The history of these candle-lit bags can be traced back to the 16th century when they were placed along the roadway to help people find their way to midnight mass.  Later they were used to symbolically remember Joseph and Mary as they tried to find a place to have baby Jesus.  And they look pretty.  So most of our neighbors enthusiastically embraced the placing of the lights along their property and now our area of town resembles an airstrip on Christmas Eve, even though the person who started it all has long since moved away.

While Paul did his share of complaining the first twenty years or so, even he has gamely continued with the lights.  Our daughter always helped him to carve the openings in the milk jugs and place the sand inside to hold the candles. Both our children are now married with children of their own. Soon it will be our granddaughter taking the place of her mother, helping her pappy with the lights. And, because of the lights, the kids spend the night here on Christmas Eve, with a walk after supper to admire the neighborhood in the cold winter air.

And then there are the tarts.  We live in a neighborhood whose population has changed little in the past thirty years.  At least in our immediate corner.  And we like to give each other little treats during the holidays. The lovely lady who began the luminaries has given us a pastry wreath every year for decades, even continuing since her move to a different part of town.  Pecan tarts are my delicacy of choice.  Paul and our oldest granddaughter made the rounds;  Kara, dressed in her red velvet Christmas coat, enthusiastically belted out a verse of We Wish You A Merry Christmas and then handed over a tin of tarts to each of the wonderful people we are privileged to live among..  They in turn graciously praised her efforts and made one seven-year-old young lady feel like a rock star. 

I have heard a lot about the commercialization of Christmas, and I know there is truth in what is said.  Yet, I can't help but be amazed and delighted that over two thousand years after the birth of our savior in a humble town and in even more humble surroundings, most of the western world celebrates this event in one way or another.  Call it what you like, bemoan the failure of us all to celebrate it in a manner you may think appropriate, it is still being celebrated.  Name any other person ever born whose arrival induces millions of people to spend over a month preparing for the party.

Old Photos

Tonight I saw an old photo of some friends, taken in the 70s. Yikes, "old" is actually accurate when talking about the 1970s. How is that possible? That would mean I'm getting on in years and that can't be right.

In 1976 I married Paul. He was 21 and had already been living on his own for four years. I was 18. Barely. And I had been living on my own for just under a year.

We head to the courthouse to get our marriage license. It's back in the days when it takes two weeks for the license to come through, so I am still, technically, seventeen. But since our wedding is four days AFTER my eighteenth birthday that shouldn't be a problem, right? Uh, wrong. The dour, humorless number behind the counter assured us with the stern, self-righteous backing of the law that we cannot even apply for a license until both parties are legally of an age to do so. We explain that all the preparations are made. The preacher is booked, the reception hall is reserved. Deposits have been made. Plans are set.

"Too bad." she says and I have the strong feeling she is thoroughly enjoying her power in all its minuteness, although her face gives no evidence of ever having experienced joy of any sort. "Unless a parent or legal guardian signs for you, there will be no wedding."

"Well," Paul says immediately, probably to stave off my rising panic, "That's no big deal. We'll just get married anyway and come back for a license after she's eighteen."

It is satisfying to see the look of horror on the face of the Joyless One. And she is speechless. Also satisfying to both Paul and I. We do an about-face out the door and four days after my eighteenth birthday I became a married woman. At least in the eyes of God and that's all that really matters to either of us.

True to our word, we are back in the courthouse several weeks later where we apply for a license to do what we have already done. Thirty-five years later, it appears the marriage "took" since neither one of us is entertaining the slightest notion of giving up on it. I mean, really, would I seriously want to move on and be forced to learn all the quirks and habits (both pleasant and uncouth) of another person? Even worse, would I want to subject myself to the discovery, by any other man, of all my idiosyncrasies. I think not.

I know a lot of people would think we got married too young. And I would tend to agree. However, there is something to be said for growing up with each other. Neither one of us was so maturely molded into a certain mind-set that changing came at the risk of self-destruction. Instead, we stumbled along, making lots of mistakes but leaning on each other with the total confidence of youthful ignorance, in the ability of the other to hold us up. And usually we succeeded. Had we known better we probably wouldn't have made it. Of course it helped that we both entered this union with no thought that anything short of death would ever get us out of it. Fear of our families came only a very slight second to our fear of God in that regard.

So where are we now? Slightly beyond middle age and getting ever more comfortable with each other. Not to say we never enthusiastically discuss things with opposing views at high volume. We are both verbal creatures. We are both opinionated. Sometimes in opposite directions. No matter. We agree on what matters in the long run. Religion and politics.

And we are both far too stubborn to become statistics. We enjoy many of the same hobbies together. We allow each other to enjoy a few hobbies independently. We enjoy reading in bed, sometimes late into the night. We enjoy going out for dinner and a movie, even though our tastes in said movie often differs. We travel together by car, by plane, by motorcycle. He emails me political commentary. I email him jokes. We rail at one and laugh at the other. So the obsessive, possessive, rather suffocating "in love" of youth is history? Now there is strength that can be counted upon to stay immovable during the storms. A love that's exclusive even though I've gained weight and he's bald.

We have countless good memories outweighing the bad. We've been together more than twice as long as we haven't. The knowledge that we are together in the good, the bad, and the ugly is something that can't be traded for anything.

And all this from seeing one old photo.

John

Paul and I attended the funeral of a friend on Monday.

We were invited to John's 80th birthday party, the day before he was buried. He was one of the most influential people in our lives; Paul says he doesn't know where he'd be if it weren't for John. But maybe I should start at the beginning.

Over thirty-five years ago, when Paul was nineteen, he moved to Holmes County, to start a new life. When he was younger still, he had told his old-order Amish family that someday he was going to get a guitar and he was going to play it in church. They found this highly amusing, and Paul later admitted to me that he, himself, had never heard of such a thing as anyone playing a guitar in church. Unsure where his desire had come from, he nurtured it none-the-less, buying a guitar and struggling to learn a chord or two. Musical instruments were strictly verbotin in his parents' house, as was pretty much anything that smacked of enjoyment. So he left, when he was seventeen, to work for an "English" farmer. Eventually he made his way to Ohio, where he met John.

One evening, through his open window, he heard the music. Guitars, drums, and singing. What it lacked in perfection it more than made up in enthusiasm and he was drawn to it like a fly to honey. The sound was coming from a small, nondescript building with a sign boldly proclaiming it to be the Berlin Gospel Tabernacle. He watched as people loaded their various instruments into a small white trailer with "Johnny's Gospel Team" emblazoned on the side. He watched as the old car pulled out with trailer in tow, off to some unknown place, full of fun and singing, no doubt.

Paul says he was pretty disillusioned about religion, having had an unhealthy, dysfunctional, and legalistic form of it shoved down his throat from the day he was born. One day, though, he couldn't stay away any longer. Venturing into the little white building he saw something he had never before witnessed: guitars, music, and joyful singing. . .in church!

The small group of enthusiastic musicians welcomed him in and before long he was a part of them. They encouraged him to sit on the front pew and keep trying, to practice, to learn, until he could play along, although not very well. John teased Paul later about his lack of musical skill in the early days, but back then they had done nothing but encourage his determination, spurring him on.

An old girlfriend convinced Paul to go with her to visit her church. A congregation of souls who were no longer Amish, they drove cars and had electricity and telephones. And even more rules than the Amish they had left behind. After his second visit to the church, the preacher's wife mentioned her concern with the radio antenna on Paul's car, and the bicycle-print on his shirt. He shook the dust from his feet, as it were, and never looked back.

John was the first glimpse Paul had of a man who lived his faith, without dogma, without hypocrisy, without apology. John always said that even if there were no heaven, if there were no hell, Christianity would still be the best way to live life. And he proved it.

When Paul found himself needing a place to live, back when he was still pretty much alone in the small rural community, John and his wife Marie took him in. And then Paul got to see up close, what true religion really means. Complete acceptance of a stranger. No attempt to make him into their version of a cookie-cutter convert, they passed on the simple message that Jesus loved him enough, just the way he was, to die for him.

Later, when Paul and I decided to spend life together, John officiated at our wedding. And then it was my turn to learn what true religion is all about. A little white church filled with people who accepted me the way I was, and loved me through the hard times when I was not easy to love. We went to that church for over thirty years and we knew what it meant to have family. We learned what it had cost John and Marie to leave the comfort of their own families, and the churches they had grown up in, to start this little church. This church with the simple message of God's love for His people. Without dogma, without hypocrisy, without apology.

I've seen a lot of changes since that time in the little church. Over the course of years a larger building was erected, new people came, other people left, babies were born, including two of our own, older people died, and some not so old too. Eventually Paul and I moved on but some things didn't change. Even though life sent some storms his way John's love for his God never wavered. His corny jokes, his passion for his church, his love for his music, they were the same as they were all those years ago.

Someone said at his memorial service that we should all live lives worthy of a good funeral. John did. And I'm sure his 80th birthday was far better than it would have been had he been here.

My Brother Jonas

My sisters Barbara and Elizabeth and my brother John, along with two of their spouses and a daughter, were on their way to Missouri when the call came. They had planned this trip for a long time, to visit my brother Jonas who had been struggling with increasing health troubles. The plan was to take him fishing,to visit, relax, and enjoy just being together.

The call changed everything. Jonas was gone and there would be no visiting, fishing, or anything else, not with Jonas, not here, not ever again.

Paul and I had just returned from vacation and were catching up on things at home. I said only the day before I didn't know how I was possibly going to do everything I had committed to do in the next few days. It turns out it is possible to make time for what is really important, to rearrange the mediocre obligations of one's life, and the world does not cease to turn.

My Ohio siblings, brothers Tobe and Emanuel, my sister Sadie and I, made our plans quickly and set out early in the morning for Jonas' house seven hundred miles to the west. I had always said I should go visit, but I had never followed through. Interestingly, one can make the time to do the distance, when it comes right down to it. All the things I thought were so important, so obligatory, dissolved in an instant. There was never any thought of not going. To say good-by to the first one of my siblings to take the great journey into the next stage of life, well, it was unthinkable not to do it.

We arrived at our destination after dark and drove straight through town, pretty much missing it entirely. I called my brother Bill who had arrived earlier from SC, and he talked us through to the church. How we ever found anything before cell phones, I am not sure. Several miles down a dusty gravel road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, we finally reached our destination. We were almost the last to arrive and were surrounded immediately with family from all corners of the country.

Jonas always loved family gatherings. Our biennial family reunion was an event he never missed. Until his health prevented him from coming to the last one. Someone called him from there and turns were taken to talk to him. His tears could be heard through the phone; he said he was so glad we called. I couldn't help but think how much he would have loved to be here, in the middle of all of us, handing out hugs and asking about the latest happenings in our lives. I wondered, as I often do at such occasions, if the departed are allowed to see how much they meant to all those they left behind.

After hellos and hugs all around, we were pointed to tables of food in the church basement, and we were thanked over and over again for coming. As if anyone could have prevented it. Even the crazy man in St. Louis, possessed by road-rage and possibly a demon or two, did not deter us in our journey. But that's a story for another day.

We finally left to go to our hotel. The only hotel around. And I think we filled it entirely. There were about 7 or 8 rooms, all left unlocked for us. An envelope on the night stand instructed us to leave our money in it when we left. The note on the office door said we were pretty much on our own. Two beds in each room left only space for one small stand between them, no lamps, just a wall sconce or two. One sink, one metal folding chair, and one tiny washroom with a tub and toilet. Simple but spotlessly clean. And to me, that's all that matters. I am and always will be a country girl at heart.

My siblings with spouses had their own rooms. Those of us who left our husbands and wives at home doubled up and settled in. My brother Bill and I, the two youngest, ended up roomies. He turned on the tiny TV which was suspended above my bed, I hoped securely, but we soon realized the sketchy reception on the two or so available channels negated any serious viewing. So we talked while we munched on the food he had, with wonderful foresight, packed along. He even had drinks packed in his ice-chest to wash it down. This, by the way, is a family trait. My father had an appreciation for good food. So do his children. But I'm heading down a rabbit trail. Hence the name of my blog.

I talked more to my brother that night than I had done in my whole life before. I realized the wealth my parents have given me. A wealth that has nothing to do with material things and is worth far more. Family members that will always look out for each other are truly priceless.

While we talked and ate and let our weariness take over, we got reacquainted. Separated over the years by age (a six-year difference is a big deal when you're kids, not so much when you pass the half-century mark), by distance, and by life in general, I discovered we have a lot in common and I wished it would not have taken Jonas passing to realize it.

The next day we all gathered at Jonas' house. It was filled to overflowing with brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and friends. My nephew Delbert, Jonas' oldest son, encouraged us to share memories of our brother, and we did. Some made us laugh and some made us cry. I learned things I had never known before. I discovered he had joined the old-order Amish church in order to win his bride, Lydiann. I heard tales of his escapades with a wild horse and buggy ride that ended with a buggy in pieces and ammunition for years of story-telling. We talked of a frantic trip to the hospital when one of his sons was born, and the record-breaking speed of a flat tire change en route. We reminisced of his love for fishing and spending time with his children. I saw him in a new way. As a young man, fun-loving and full of life, free of the oxygen tank he had been forced to drag with him everywhere in the last few years of his life.

After a funeral at a small, packed country church we drove in procession down a long, dusty road to a graveyard tucked far from the highway. Under trees at the crest of a gently sloping hill, Jonas was laid to rest. I looked out across the hills and realized no finer place could there be to have as a final resting place. And I wondered if he could see us. Was he watching, along with his two sons, his father, and his two mothers who had gone on before? Or were they all too busy celebrating their reunion to think about those of us left behind? With each loved one that leaves this life, the future and all that lies beyond our ability to see, become more real to me. What sights are they seeing? What are they hearing? What incredible things are they experiencing?

As is the custom among some of our kind, family and friends took turns with the shovels, covering the casket with earth. The first time I saw this, it jarred me, seeming cruel in a way. But I've come to see it for what it is meant to be. A final act of respect and farewell. From dust we came and to dust we shall return, the scriptures tell us. And so it is.

I left that place determined to stay connected, to take those trips, to make those phone calls, to find the time for what's important. I left there determined to separate the trivial from the essential. I left there richer than when I came.

Ten years ago today I was on Nevin's Lake in Michigan. My two children, several of their friends, and my husband and I were drifting lazily around on a pontoon boat on what appeared to be a fish-less body of water. Everyone else had a pole or two dangling over the side. I was reveling in doing nothing for once.

Our friends from Ohio owned a house beside this beautiful lake, tucked deep into the pine forests of Michigan's upper peninsula. Paul and I had been there many times before but always in the wintertime. The area boasts hundreds of miles of snowmobile trails and not much else, at least not in the dead of winter. This year we decided to forgo our usual summertime Outer Banks vacation with our family and try a trip to the U.P. instead to see what lay beneath all those mountains of snow.

Meandering around in the stillness with only the birds, cicadas, and each other for company, this was a far-cry from our beach adventures. While it was indeed beautiful, it was also more work. I actually had to cook since there were no restaurants close-by. Thankfully we had brought groceries since catching fish seemed out of the question.

I noticed several men working at one of the other houses scattered along the lakeside. A radio was on and the volume was cranked, but rather than music there was just talking, interspersed with the occasional siren sound. I recognized Peter Jennings' voice even though I could only make out a word now and then. Words like "disaster" and "explosion".

"Something has happened," I told my family. "Something bad." I just wanted to get back to the house where a satellite dish awaited. My stomach had a knot that got bigger and bigger, the longer we delayed.

I wanted to grab my unconcerned family by their respective t-shirts and force them to shore with me, but they were accustomed to my propensity for worry when there was nothing to worry about and they were unmoved in their determination to catch at least one fish.

Finally boredom came to my aid and they gave it up and headed for shore. The pontoon had barely reached the bank before I jumped to land and hustled into the house. My son Erik came with me. He had teased me, along with the others, about my need to make something out of nothing, but he came with me none-the-less. The others lolly-gagged at the boat, collecting our things, securing the ropes, covering things up.

I snatched up the remote and turned on the TV. Just in time to see the Twin Towers fall. I was still standing, and Erik was standing beside me. I'm sure our mouths were agape as we stood there, frozen. Suddenly Erik ran. Out the door toward the lake, yelling, telling the others to "Come! Something terrible has happened!"

They rushed in where I was still standing. I was thinking this must be one of those "dramatizations". It can't be real. But they showed it again and again. The smoke, the people jumping from windows, the buildings collapsing in piles of smoldering rubble.

We stayed in front of the TV for hours. Vacation forgotten. Feeling sick for the dead and dying. Feeling grief for the families who were suffering unimaginable loss. Feeling thankful for the safety of our own family.

We talked about the suddenly forgotten prohibitions to public praying. We listened as our president talked about the attacks on freedom and that this we would be repaid. We wondered if more attacks were coming and suddenly being tucked far away from civilization seemed like a good place to be.

Today I hear things I never dreamed I would hear one short decade after this tragedy. Prayer has once again been forbidden at the "official" memorial in New York City today. Plans for a mosque, to be built at ground zero, are defended by the very people who should find such an affront unthinkable. What better way to disrespect those who lost their lives, and the lives of those they loved, that day? I listen in amazement as airports harass American travelers, yet give deference to those who follow the religion responsible for the murder of so many innocents.

As Christ-followers are we called to love those who have hurt us, who have done evil to our great nation? Yes. Are we called to allow them free access to hurt us again? No. I sometimes imagine I can hear them laughing at our naivete, our stupidity, our inexplicable need to be "politically correct."

I didn't plan this entry to be a rant on the way things have become. I meant it to be a tribute to those who have paid the ultimate price for our freedom. I meant it to honor those who were murdered by cowards who would slaughter men, women, and children, and then try to justify their faceless attacks by calling them acts of war.

Forgiveness is essential to our own well-being. Remembrance is too. If we forget the evil that comes from blindly following any leader, we will suffer atrocities again, perhaps even worse than those we've seen before.

To honor those who have gone on ahead, we must remember to think for ourselves, to ask why something is or is not, to search for truth, and to pursue what we know is right. To honor the fallen we must be willing to take a stand even if it costs something. To honor our soldiers, our fallen heroes, and the victims of rabid hatred we must allow the freedom to disagree while defending our country from those who would destroy it.

And we must never, never, NEVER forget.

Bike Trip Continued

There is nothing like coming home. Especially when some unexpected twists and turns delay that homecoming for three days.

My nephew Jared, his wife Kourtney and their sweet baby girl picked us up on Sunday afternoon, taking us to their historic row house in the heart of Lebanon, PA. The cozy guest room on the third floor was exactly what we needed after the stress of dealing with Paul's broken-down bike, a hair-raising ride on my bike in the middle of a rainy night, and the uncertainty of how long it would take Earl to put Victoria back together again. Yes, we name the motorized vehicles in our family. But back to the lovely accommodations.

Jared and Kourtney reassured us they were happy to have two raggedy travelers drop in totally unannounced to stay for an, as yet, undetermined amount of time. Kourtney produced a lovely meal out of nowhere and I tried not to think of the plans they probably had to change to take care of us.

I'm a control-freak. And very independent. I like to be able to come and go as I please, pay my own way (with Paul's money), and not be a bother to anyone. I guess that means I have a sizable amount of pride too. I said God must be trying to teach me how to receive blessings from other people, among other things. Paul said he hoped I learned this particular lesson rather quickly since we would most likely be stuck in PA until I got the message. I stifled the urge to inquire whether or not he thought he might be learning anything and admitted to myself he may be right.

Before I totally despaired about how I would pass the time until we could be on our way, Paul discovered Jared had been remodeling the nursery upstairs. Since Paul likes nothing more than being busy, especially with anything in the carpentry field, he offered his services and they made plans for the next two days. The nursery walls and ceiling would be repaired and painted, along with the hallway and down the stairs.

Kourtney mentioned she wished she knew more about how to preserve fruits and vegetables. Since this is peach season the decision was made. She would leave early in the morning in search of peaches suitable for canning and I would show her how it's done. The prospect of having something productive to do had a wonderful effect on my shaky psych. Suddenly I realized this lesson-learning business might actually be fun.

After Monday's work was done, four tired, hungry, and satisfied people sat down to devour juicy steaks hot off the grill. Even the baby seemed pleased. I reveled in the knowledge I had made it through Day One without freaking out. And I had even enjoyed myself. And my nephew and his wife seemed genuinely glad to have us there mooching off them. Earl had told Paul that Victoria wouldn't be road-ready until Tuesday night at the earliest. That meant one more day to go. So far, so good.

Tuesday morning while the men folk finished up the wall prepping, I worked on the laptop. Before noon I had waded through quite a list of emails, phone calls, and other chores I was able to accomplish thanks to the miracle of technology. We had all agreed to finish up whatever we could by 1:00 and take the rest of the day off to go see a dramatization of the Bible story of Joseph showing at the well-known Sight and Sound theater in Lancaster. Jared had connections whereby we bought tickets and packing up baby we headed out for some fun. And fun it was. Amazingly, I had made it through two days in which I had virtually no control of anything and I was still alive and well. And happy. Who knew that was even possible?

We decided to check into a hotel for the night, close to Earl's shop so we could be on the road back home as early in the morning as possible. With plans to eat out together one more time we discovered via facebook my nephew Mike from WV was in town. So, a phone call later, he met us at the restaurant and a regular family party ensued.

Earl called and said the bike was done. Paul fairly danced a jig. I sighed with satisfaction and the anticipation of eventually making it back to Ohio again. With hugs and goodbyes all around to my two nephews, one wife, and one sweet baby girl, Paul and I walked across the street to our hotel and slept the sleep of the blest.

This morning we left Pennyslvania, with blue skies overhead and the warm sun at our backs. Nine hours later we pulled into our driveway. There is nothing so wonderful as coming home again, with a wealth of new and wonderful memories to cherish.

Bike Trip Continued

Since my last post I've been to the edge and back.

We slept in yesterday morning and I barely made it to the free continental breakfast in time. As Paul put it, "The grasshoppers have picked it clean." They were still buzzing around when I stumbled in for my cup of coffee, which, thankfully, was very hot and very good.

Since John wasn't going to be singing until 8:00 pm Paul and I decided to go see Captain America and relax for the day. It was gray and cloudy but no rain. It was a different story when we exited the theater.

We donned our rain suits and attempted to find an easy way to get to New Holland where the concert in the park was happening. Turns out there is no such thing as an easy way to get there. There might not be ANY way to get there. I have decided Lititz is one of the most secure locations in the country since entering or exiting is a challenge, at least for the navigationally-impaired, which I'm thinking we are.

We picked the busiest, most congested, road in the state and optimistically assumed we would be there in less than half an hour as our gps predicted. Not so. Traffic stretched as far as the eye could see ahead and behind and we moved forward at a slow crawl. That's not a relaxing thing on a motorcycle. The rain was steady, but light and in an hour or so we managed to escape route 30 for a smaller country road. Behind two motor homes. And a buggy. For some reason the aforementioned RVs refused to pass the buggy, so we all followed, once again at a slow crawl. And we picked up quite a few vehicles in our train.

At some point we turned onto another side road, once again escaping the congestion. I had decided there may not actually BE a New Holland. We picked up speed, almost hitting the heady rate of 40mph when Paul turned into a paved area at an intersection with another road. I pulled up, thinking he may want to check his map. No such luck. His bike died. Yes. Dead as a doornail. The upside? No traffic at our current location.

"Well," Paul said, "we have roadside assistance with our insurance." So he pulled out his handy dandy card and dialed the number. After several automated routings and a lengthy wait he got a live person. A person totally unable to find us on any map anywhere. When I heard Paul say, "The road name is Hershey. Like the chocolate bar. No we are not IN Hershey. The ROAD name is Hershey!" I got a sinking feeling and hoped we would make it to the mystical New Holland before nightfall.

A young Amish man was passing, pushing along on a scooter. He was barefoot and balancing a large box marked "eggs" on the handlebars. I tried to squelch my sudden desire to break into hysterical laughter and stopped him long enough to ask where New Holland might be. "About six miles up this road," he said. He offered us his sympathy at our plight, said he would help if he could, then merrily proceeded on his way balancing his eggs most impressively.

Paul was still pacing along the road while attempting to explain to the voice on the phone where exactly to send the Harley repairman. He was not having much success. And then Keith arrived. In a pick-up truck. He pulled alongside and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, asked if we are OK and said he never passes stopped motorcycles without stopping to see if they need help. Either he thinks bikers are mentally challenged or he is one of us. It turns out the latter is true.

Well, Keith tells me he has a friend that fixes bikes and is only a few blocks from New Holland. He offers to call. After a few more minutes of pacing, Paul tells the insurance guy to give it up, he'll arrange his own help. We give Keith the go-ahead and he calls his friend Earl. As soon as I heard that name, I knew we were in good hands. According to Keith, Earl fixes bikes in his spare time after ten-hour shifts at the trailer factory. It turns out Earl can come with a trailer and load up Paul's bike and his bike trailer and take them to his shop. And when I saw the custom-built bikes at Earl's place, I knew our trust in the man was well-placed. Orange County Choppers, eat your hearts out.

Meanwhile, Keith led me to the New Holland (amazingly there IS such a place) park where I had just pulled to a stop when who pulls up beside me but my brother Sam and his wife Sarah from WV. They are in Lancaster to visit her parents and decided to come to the park to hear the concert.

We looked around and wondered why the park was virtually deserted. Yep, we are in the wrong park. After a few phone calls and some more directions we plan to meet up with Paul and Earl at Earl's shop, so Paul can ride with me to our destination. Keith says we can follow him to the shop but it turns out Earl has moved. Uhuh, no longer where Keith thought he was.

By this time I can distinctly hear the Twilight Zone music. Which is better than banjos.

We pulled up to the park with thirty minutes to spare before Paul was to play. The concert went well and while the skies were cloudy and heavy with the promise of rain at any moment, it did little more than mist until the music was almost finished. Then it started to rain in earnest. With that, the audience disappeared and we packed up to head out.

Paul drove my Honda ACE while I hung on for dear life, since there is no back rest on my bike. I love my motorcycle and it's plenty big enough for me, but the poor baby was chugging with both of us piled on. When I remarked that we had, years ago, both tooled around on a much smaller bike, Paul pointed out the obvious fact that we were also packing around a lot more weight since then. Add depression to the list of hurdles to overcome.

With the rain and the darkness and the slippery seat, it's a ride I will never forget. We both prayed, enthusiastically, and aloud, as we drove. And God heard and answered. I told Paul if I would not be too stiff and sore I would get down and kiss the ground in the hotel parking lot. Paul decided maybe we should start acting like grandparents and stay home. We thought about that for a few seconds and decided, nah that's not the way to go.

So, this morning we faced a few decisions. If we check out of our hotel how do we transport our luggage since Paul's bike and his trailer are in a hard-to-reach town in Earl's locked garage? Will Earl have the bike ready today so we can head home this afternoon? Should we stay in our depressing hotel, if we are stuck here for a day or two? And then I realized something.

Coming from a family larger than some villages has its advantages. My nephew lives near here. He and his wife are picking up our luggage and transferring us to their house where an empty guest room awaits. Life is good. Time to visit family and in all likelihood, gain some more weight.

Bike Trip Continued

Last night we pulled in to our hotel in Lititz and learned a lesson in using the hotel bidding system on the web. Actually, the place is clean, so the 70s decor shouldn't bother me. After my irrevocable bid went out into cyberspace, I discovered the same room was being offered for less than my bid by the same company I was bidding with, had I simply purchased the room outright, rather than bidding on it. Needless to say, they snatched up my offer with smiles on their faces. I accept the blame though. I should have checked that angle first, rather than being gullible and believing my room would be worth the $120.00 they implied it would be.

It could have been much worse. Like the time years ago when we walked into our "smoke-free" room and found cigarette burns on the furniture; I won't even discuss what we found on the bathroom floor. We went across the street to see if the hotel there had availability. It was much nicer, and smelled good. The man behind the desk was booking a room for us when I told him we needed to be sure we could get our money back from the nasty hole across the street. He said not to worry. Same people own both of them. He called over to The Hole and arranged everything.

Tonight we are meeting our friend John Schmid, who also happens to be family since he married my cousin Lydia. By now you are asking if there is anyone east of the Mississippi to whom I am not related. Very few, very few.

Paul has been playing bass for John lately, something he enjoys very much. They are playing tonight in New Holland at the park. John has been singing and playing for years and has a sizable following. His Johnny Cash tribute programs, since the release of his CD of the same, are very popular. His unique voice is well-suited for it and his laid-back style of interacting with his audiences is always well-received. It promises to be a fun evening and yes, I hope to see some relatives there.

Several nights ago we enjoyed a country music show in Ekins, WV at a family-run theater. Not only did they claim to own the building, but they did the singing, comedy, performing, made the items sold in the gift shop, worked the gift shop, and very likely did the cleaning up as well. Two brothers who claimed to be twins, the wife of one, the ex-wife of another, a son, a daughter, and various other cousins, in-laws and who knows what else. And this is just what, in all their tall tales and jokes, I actually believed might be true. It was an entertaining two hours by a group of hard-working and talented people. I wonder how anyone really makes it to the big-time when there is so much talent out there most of us never hear about. Either it's who you know, great marketing or dumb luck. Maybe sometimes all three. At any rate they made us laugh till we cried.

Yesterday, on our drive to Lancaster, PA, we took the scenic route and what incredible scenery it was! It would be hard to top the roadways of WV. And thankfully the people who drove out in front of us, gave us time to hit our brakes.

It's not hard to tell which cars are driven by people who have never been on a motorcycle. Bikers, when they are driving their cars, do not tend to tail-gate bikes, drive out in front of bikes, or cut bikes off in traffic. Automobile drivers who have never enjoyed the freedom of alternative modes of travel are another story. Just before the motorists mentioned above pulled across the busy four-lane highway (incidentally, one of them was completely blocking the left lane when we passed, while he waited for an opening to cross the median and pull into the oncoming lanes), we had passed the scene of an accident. A motorcycle on its side, and a car with a big dent in the front fender.

I realize motorcycles are not as visible as larger vehicles. I realize accidents happen. I realize if you are driving a licensed vehicle, you have paid for the right to be there. And so have I. Some people ridicule loud bikes, but maybe if they hear us coming they won't run over us. Motorcycling has been a good motivator to pray without ceasing. And I mean that with all sincerity.

Bike Trip Continued

I'm sitting in the most idyllic spot imaginable. Well, close to it anyway. My sister Barbara's porch. White rockers surrounded by potted plants with a gurgling fountain, birds singing, cicada's buzzing, the warm breeze wafting through - what more could I ask for? Flower beds in front of the porch are filled with a riotous perfusion of colors. And I'm looking through the trees to mountains just over the ridge. Yes, idyllic is the word.

Since everyone else left to go shopping, or some such thing, I decided to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee in solitude. I need that every once in awhile. Probably because I spent a lot of my childhood alone. Yes, I had ten brothers and sisters, but as the tag-along baby of the family, I was raised more like an only child than as part of a boisterous brood of siblings. While I was often lonely and I still love to have frequent interaction with friends and family, I also treasure alone time. If I don't get it when I need it, I find I get increasingly testy. So this morning Paul was more than happy to go off without me to let me transform back into the laid-back, even-tempered, happy-go-lucky woman all my friends know and love. Yes, I can hear all the snorting already.

Our vacations frequently involve visits with out-of-town relatives, most of whom expect us to take advantage of their unmatched hospitality. This is actually known as "Mennoniting your way" across the country. It's a great way to catch up with loved ones we see all too seldom, and it's also a great way to save money. Since we left home five days ago, three different families, one from WV, one from WY, and one from OH have spent a night or two at our house. Another, from SC, is arriving there tonight and all of them would gladly return the favor if we are ever in need of a place to stay.

We stopped two days ago to visit my brother Sam who lives with his lovely wife Sarah in a cabin in the mountains of WV. After feasting off a meal far better than any served in the restaurants we've sampled of late, Sam played some music for us using a common hand saw and a violin bow. Amazing! Paul pulled out his guitar and a music-fest followed.

Yesterday we arrived in Petersburg to visit my sister Barbara. Later in the evening we drove further to visit my sister Elizabeth who lives with her husband James on the top of the world. Really. We drove for quite a spell on winding blacktop, and I use that term loosely - extreme hairpin curves would be more accurate, until we came to a gravel road. Single-lane,no guard rails. Some distance further we arrived at a beautiful cottage with a view people would pay millions to have. They live off the grid but in total comfort. We were met by a friendly collie while riding horses grazed nearby and a small herd of goats kept the grass manageable. Hummingbirds virtually swarmed one of the many feeders and birdsong replaced the roar of traffic I am accustomed to.

My brother John and his wife Ruby had come from VA and all of us enjoyed yet another wonderful meal my sister Elizabeth had prepared. My niece Angela from Laos was there and it was great to hear about her life there.

If I don't get home soon I will have to buy new clothes. I'm finding it hard to close the buttons of those I packed for the trip.

Bike Trip Continued

Our ride to Blackwater Falls was everything I hoped. Warm sunshine and beautiful mountains, minimal traffic and a few hours to forget the outside world and all its politicians.

While looking for the falls we found a hiking trail that looked intriguing, so of course we followed it. It lead to an incredible overlook with mountain after mountain as far as the eye could see. Massive rocks, looking as if they could give way at any moment, jutted out beyond the safety of the rails enclosing the observation platform. So of course we clambered over for a photo op or two and to test the theory that having been there for untold centuries our meager weight would not send those mega boulders crashing to the valley below. Happily, or theory was sound.

The falls were spectacular. I couldn't help but let my mind wander to what it must have been like for the first person who saw them, hopefully not from a canoe at the top. The steps leading down (all two-hundred-plus)to enjoy the up-close view had been carefully planned and did not distract from the beauty. Complaints were overheard about the strenuous effort required to hike to and from and I contemplated the serious lack of pioneer stamina in this modern age. No way any of these present-day softies could hike ten miles to school in three feet of snow, uphill BOTH WAYS, and enjoy it like we had in our childhood.

We stopped for lunch at the Blackwater Falls Lodge and it was delicious. Admittedly, following our meal at the steakhouse from the night before, the bar was set low but even so, it was a good meal.

Riding in the mountains always brings a certain level of anxiety about hitting deer. They are quite stupid when it comes to crossing the road. Sometimes it seems they lay in wait until the last possible moment of safety has passed, making a headlong rush into the path of whatever poor hapless motorist is close at hand. I've hit two myself. Fortunately,for me, always from the relative safety of a vehicle. Not so fortunate for the deer.

We saw two on this day. One jumped across the road just a moment too soon for impact with the lead bike. The other was too busy eating grass alongside the road to bother with us. I jest about it but in truth, I pray about it more. Hitting an animal larger than a groundhog could be deadly for a biker, nevermind the animal he or she hits.

Physically tired but mentally rested, later in the evening we met at a table in the hotel lobby for a heated battle of Rook, a tradition we've carried on for over thirty years of vacations with these same friends. Rook is a card game one must learn to play, if only in self-defense, when living in Amish country. In our circle, it's always the women against the men, a non-destructive way to take out all our frustrations with the opposite sex.

One weekend that stands out in memory was a trip to Old Man's Cave in the Hocking Hills area of Ohio. It rained, torrentialy, most of the time. We played eighteen games of Rook, but most notably,in game after game, the women slaughtered the men. Our husbands do not remember the weekend with the same fondness as we wives. After our most recent game, on this most recent vacation, it appears the tables have turned.

Summer Bike Trip

We set off early Sunday morning, riding south on I77, in warm sunshine, low humidity, with clear blue skies overhead. Our adventures usually involve six of us: Paul and I, and four of our good friends. This time we were short two people since they stayed behind to deal with a last-minute family responsibility. Hoping they would be able to join us in a day or two, we started off, reluctant to leave them at home.

Traveling by motorcycle brings much more input to all the senses than traveling by car. The smell of fresh-cut grass and aromatic blooms along the road enhance what would only have been a visual pleasure if seen from inside a closed and air-conditioned automobile. The sound of the wind rushing by, an airplane overhead, a roaring truck from three feet away, bring visceral sensations not possible when insulated inside a car with the radio cranked up. Instant perception of dropping temperatures when passing under tree limbs or riding up mountains to the higher elevations yields relief from the heat on a warm day; conversely, on a cool day, riding into bright sunshine brings warmth to chilled limbs and stiff fingers. While riding in the rain can be a trying experience, smelling the fresh moisture and virtually hearing the thirsty earth drinking it in, compensates for much of the discomfort. Driving in a car is a means to an end. Riding on a bike is the end in and of itself. Every part of the journey is the experience as a whole.

We pulled into Weston, WV about 4 hours later, savoring the wonderful weather. The upside to having a lot of lousy weather, something all Ohioans can relate to, is the heightened enjoyment of those rare perfect days.

In the lobby of our hotel was a scene worthy of Norman Rockwell, with a twist. To say they were rotund would be a vast understatement, a man and a woman, sitting like motionless bookends, beside a luggage cart piled high and wide with bags, boxes, a hot pink cloth animal carrier, doggie training pads, and various and sundry other props for the tiny pooch perched atop the gentleman's ample belly. He stood there like Sir Edmond Hillary on Mt. Everest whilst his owner sat, unmoving and silent, in an easy chair strained to its limits. The female version, so like the big round man she could have been his twin, but I suspect was his wife, overflowed her own easy chair. I'm not sure what they were waiting for, but they sat unmoving, staring straight ahead, all three of them. I wanted to stare back. I wanted to photograph. I wanted to laugh hysterically. I squelched all these desires and tore myself away to the desk to wait for my room key.

There is something so satisfying about unlocking the door to a beautiful, clean hotel room and anticipating the start of a much-needed vacation. Our room looked out over the town, it's economic depression not so noticeable from this distance as it had been up close. With a picturesque view and the prospect of seven days of relaxation ahead, I breathed in a deep sigh and felt my weariness recede.

We settled in our rooms for a short rest then went in search of a place to eat supper. The clerk told us the steak house across the way was a good place to eat so off we went, trusting to her judgment. We shouldn't have. It was a buffet with steam rising above the serving areas. The food looked appetizing and was obviously hot. That, it turned out, was not enough. Everything there came straight from a can with no attempt at disguising the total lack of freshness. I‘m not convinced the green beans were real. The potatoes certainly were not. And neither of them had ever seen butter. Or salt. The mashed potatoes were like wallpaper paste. No insult intended to the paste. The macaroni and cheese were like great golden globs of molten mush. And it went downhill from there. Small wonder that people who visit Holmes County are in awe of the Amish cooking. We left feeling strange rumblings within, wondering if food poisoning had just happened and how bad the consequences might be.

One thing I've learned over the years: shady experiences lend themselves to much more mirth and memory than perfection.

Families

Between my husband, Paul, and I we have thirty siblings. And all from one set of parents each. So the annual reunion (on Paul's side) and the biennial reunion (on my side)consist of upwards of a hundred people, some of whom we can’t name. This does not include the "cousin reunion" on my mother's side which happens every three years in places as far-flung as the upper peninsula of Michigan to Arizona and Idaho.

We can usually guess at parentage, as in, "She must be a Petersheim with that nose!" or "He can't hide where he's from with all those freckles." It actually makes for an amusing game worthy of Parker Brothers themselves, trying to guess who goes where. Keeping track of birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and other milestones has become so overwhelming that we've given up on it long ago. Hopefully, with so many aunts and uncles and cousins, the kids don’t remember us either or notice our absence during their special occasions.

Since I was the youngest of eleven, and way behind the others, I had a life of luxury and ease, at least according to my brothers and sisters - all of whom had to work like dogs just to survive - again, according to my brothers and sisters. I grew up with my nieces and nephews. One of my nieces is six months older than I am. Another niece has been one of my best friends for most of my life. My kids keep wanting to call her their aunt although she's actually their cousin.

On Paul's side there were nineteen and he's number seven. His two youngest sisters were born after he was living on his own, the eldest of which he paid for. Literally. He sent money home to pay the hospital bill for her birth. He has always teased her that she belongs to him since he wrote the check. His youngest sister came to live with us when she was fifteen and we assumed legal guardianship. My kids keep wanting to call her their sister but she's actually their aunt.

It can be confusing, frustrating, and downright exhausting at times. Now that everyone on both sides is an adult, it would be fun to spend time with each one, getting to know them better and sharing common interests. But the constraints of time, distance, and religion allow for limited interaction with some and almost none with others. They are scattered from the east coast to the west, Canada, Mexico, and even as far as Laos. Their beliefs range from Amish, Mennonite, Methodist, Baptist and more, to no church at all. Education levels range from eighth-grade to masters degrees, teachers, nurses, paramedics, farmers, truckers, missionaries, builders, and two who told me they would tell me what they do but then they'd have to kill me.

With such a large population, our families have tasted joy and sorrow in many forms. Someone is always getting married or having a baby, buying a house or moving out west. A few are struggling with cancer, with addictions, with the heart weaknesses and stiff limbs that come with age. I watch the kids, whose names I can't remember, bouncing off the walls with all the energy in the world while I see my older siblings slowing down, no longer immortal in my eyes, as they seemed to be when I was a child.

Family reunions are fun-filled and chaotic, a time to reconnect with those who choose to travel the distance to spend a few days together. From softball and volleyball to card games, water-balloon fights and the mandatory pinata for the kids, it's a time to lay down our differences and just remember what it means to be a family, to have blood-ties, to share the same heritage, good or bad.

Over the years there have been times when one or two forgot what’s important. When they would try to press their religious point of view on some poor soul they viewed as a heathen and therefore in need of some righteous correction. I’ve never seen this approach met with success in any form. Instead, it strengthened the current rebel’s stand and he or she either became more flamboyant in their worldliness or they shucked off the family like old underwear and refused to grace us with their presence at the next reunion. Paul, never one to keep quiet in the face of ignorance, always met the situations head-on. He has pointed out more than once to the current pharasee-at-large, in terms easy even for the simple-minded to understand, that family get-togethers are neither the time nor the place to display closed minds. Fortunately, whether from the maturity that comes with age and experience, or from the reluctance of the judgemental to suffer the same confrontation they enjoy heaping on others, these kinds of conflicts haven’t occurred in the past few years.

One year I started a family tree for each side, but after the sagging branches threatened to break, I gave it up. The exponential growth potential from two people who have produced nineteen others is . . .well. . . staggering. Especially when some of those nineteen also have large families. One sister-in-law told me years ago she planned to have a dozen. She almost made it. Paul, on the other hand, declared zero population growth as his goal. One to replace each of us, he said, and no more. And so it is.

The downside to large clans is that there’s no way to maintain a close relationship with more than a few of them. But then, there are small families, or so I’ve heard, that all hate each other. At least with such a large group to choose from, it’s easy to find a few we like who like us back. And on the upside, if we ever find ourselves homeless we could spend two weeks with each sibling and not visit more than once a year.

Eating Out

We pulled into the parking lot of the Horry Restaurant, (yes you read it right)and wondered at the deserted surroundings. The flyer in our vacation condo promised an eatery “popular with the locals” virtually brimming with culinary treats. A large “Open Tuesday through Sunday” sign offered reassurance we hadn't missed the rapture on this beautiful warm Monday evening, the first of our three days away from obligations and hectic schedules.

Seven years ago my five sisters and I began our annual three-day holiday together always meeting somewhere new and as luck would have it we arrived in the middle of Bike Week at Myrtle Beach for our current adventure. After a full day of travel from Ohio, Virginia, West Virginia and SC we were tired, hungry and looking forward to a memorable meal to start off this year's fun. A bit let-down with our luck at the Horry, we made a u-turn and headed back toward Little River.

Mama Jean's Restaurant sported a large neon “Open” sign blazing in the window and we enthusiastically headed in. The restaurant was well-filled and a large man greeted us at the door. All the patrons looked up as one and focused in on us with a Twilight Zone quality that was, well, creepy.

“Are you here to eat or for the Bible study?” This from the large manager-looking man.

“You're kidding, right?!” I threw all my best effort into sounding like I appreciated his joke, but letting him know he wasn't fooling me.

He assured me he was not kidding whilst all the Bible scholars maintained their humorless stares in our direction. He herded us back out the door and suggested we visit the Billy the Kid place several streets away since Mama Jean was closed with the sole purpose of the spiritual enlightenment of those within. Never mind us poor hungry pilgrims from parts abroad.

Trying to follow Big Man's directions we immediately took a wrong turn at the light and found ourselves at a nondescript building boasting Caroline BBQ and another “Open” sign in the window. Next door an outdoor karaoke bar with a large sign on wheels proclaiming “Biker's Welcome” was blasting forth the non-talent of its customers. Bikes roared in and out and a man across the street was repeatedly swinging something back and forth over his shoulders, slapping his back. It was impossible to determine whether he was practicing some sort of self-flagellation or swatting flies. We backed out of the parking lot and went in search of The Kid.

I went in to scout out Billy's establishment. The stale-smelling, smoky bar with sticky oilcloth-covered tables and the promise of a brawl or two from the patrons in the not-too-distant future led me to suggest to my siblings that we head back over to Carolina BBQ.

Parking adjacent to the lot filled with rowdy bikers and thundering music we walked up the steps of what looked like a converted double-wide mobile home. Two fellows, one clean-shaven and one not, looked up from the two tables they were stacking with the six matching chairs. “You're closed?” We groaned at our poor luck.

After hearing an abbreviated version of our ill luck in finding a place to eat they assured us they would be happy to stay open and serve us. “We saw you leave a few minutes ago,” the hairy one said. “Stay and eat; I just made BBQ fresh this morning and it's always best on the first or second day. Not so much on the third.” None of us ventured to argue with this pronouncement.

My sister, Anne, usually the dignified, polite member of the group had a frantic look on her face, the kind that precedes a bout of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. We all avoided eye contact knowing six grown women bent over in gales of mirth might cost us our last chance at a square meal in this town.

The two tables were pushed together and all available chairs were gathered for us. I was given a barstool which gave me a rather high vantage point, but my knees didn't need to be under the table to eat, I decided. Hairy Man, the chef/host/manager carried in another chair from somewhere for the last woman standing and we settled down to order. Sweet tea all around, with a squirt of lemonade, “like the hillbillies do it,” was placed before us and it was icy cold and refreshing..

Having the place to ourselves with two very bored fellows to wait on us, we ordered everything they recommended: pulled pork, “made fresh this morning,” steaming hushpuppies, coleslaw, and fries. They threw in some chicken for good measure and we ate till we hurt. All of it was served on paper plates in heaping quantities and all of it was mouth-wateringly delicious.

Obligingly our waiter snapped photos, kept our glasses refilled, brought us take-out boxes for leftovers and showed keen interest in anything we had to say. Hairy Man encouraged us to come back again when he walked us to the door.

Agreement by all confirmed it was a thoroughly successful venture in dining on our first night out.

Rooms of Rest

I looked around me as I sat on the porcelain throne and mulled over the painstaking workmanship propagated on this cubicle of germ ridden real estate.  The 12 x 12 textured brown tiles that covered the walls were interlaced with strips of patterned stone, all separated with a quarter inch of grout that had started out fresh and creamy but was fast deteriorating into something far more dismal, especially in the high traffic patterns.  Admiring my tax dollars at work in the public toilet arena my mind wandered.

What would inspire one to become a public bathroom designer?  When asked at a prestigious party, “What line of work are you in?”  would I respond with, “I make attractive places for people to dispose of unnecessary bi-products?”  When the love of my life asks what kind of a day I’ve had, would I say, “Pretty crappy” or would I change the subject altogether?

On a trip to the U.P. last July I decided to take better note of each waste drop-off since obviously someone put time and effort into the ascetics surrounding the cold, yet vital, equipment.  Some showed signs of much more thought and talent than others, but all had been given at least some attempt at decor.

 One of the most memorable was at The Bear Trap Inn in Michigan's vast acreage of pine forests.  I passed the life-size stuffed black bear outside the restroom and noticed the door was propped open with a small wooden wedge.  I pried the wedge away since I prefer to rest in private and I found two booths, neither of which would completely close.  With my head touching the door of my chosen cubicle and my derriere hovering in a vain attempt to touch nothing, I mused about the necessities of life which lead us to such undignified postures.  Pushing open the tacky (referring to touch and sight) door with my knee I headed to the sink where I cranked open the hot water, trying to come in contact with as little of the spigot as possible.  Fortunately there was soap, but the only towel available was the 50s-style cloth kind that dispenses a strip of smooth, supposedly clean fabric out the front, while rolling up into the back the soiled, wrinkled portion used by the prior patron.  Nervously trying not to think about what all the cooties were doing up inside that dispenser and whether or not they were able to leap from the used towel to the unused one, I dried my hands with full intent to use my sanitizer as soon as I got to the car.

The most exciting stop was the restroom at the school where our two-day family reunion was held.  An old worn work boot of the male variety was stuck in the door, keeping a three-inch opening.  For one heart-stopping moment I thought there was a foot in it.  I never did discover the rationale behind it’s placement since the door was not the locking kind and therefore was in no danger of keeping anyone out or in.  At my first visit I moved the boot but the next time I went by it was back in place.  I kept an eye peeled for a man with one boot missing but he never materialized.

At one of the many rest stops along the interstate from Michigan back to Ohio I had the privilege of drying my hands under an air dryer that took g-forces to new levels.  When I left I was forced to rearrange the skin back over the appropriate fingers, but I was safe in the knowledge that any germ which escaped death by the anti-bacterial soap was surely blown to Siberia by the blast of the dryer.

My favorite public rooms are those in which nothing need actually be touched, but no matter how beautiful or sanitized a room may be, nothing equals the joy of returning to my own inner sanctum at home.  It’s, as they say, the best part of the trip.

Winter

In my neck of the woods the months from November through April are filled with the rumblings of discontent.  I, myself, rather enjoy a good snowstorm although this is something I generally keep to myself because complaining about the weather is a talent most Ohioans develop beginning at age three.  Whether it's rain, sleet, snow, ice, or fog, the winter months are filled to abundance with opportunities to hone one's repertoire of sarcastic commentary.  Even the occasional glimpse of sun lends itself to "run get the camera" or "Grandpa what's that yellow ball?" statements.

This winter was richer than most in its variety of meteorologic violence.  We enjoyed a mud-brown Christmas which, rather than producing thanksgiving for un-delayed flights to visit the relatives, launched a volley of grumbling about the stark ugliness of frigid grime involved in a snow-less Christmas.  We then received repeated, heavy snowfalls giving us opportunities for whining about the driveways which needed plowing and the hazards of road conditions.  The irony of this?  If it's too dangerous to be on the road why does one need to plow the driveway?

Falling moisture at temperatures barely in the freezing vicinity proved to be worse yet.  Wetness turned to ice causing trees to snap under the weight, thus leading to power outages which prevented access to Facebook - the most popular forum in town for voicing ones grievances from everything to our current weight to the state of the nation.

Then the rains came in earnest and with them, warm temperatures which caused the snow to melt so rapidly that floods ensued throughout the state.  Ark jokes abounded and I'll admit to a few of them myself.

So why is complaining about the weather so universal?  And why do most of us, whether we are honest enough to admit it or not, find the rare and cheerful optimist so annoying?  Why, instead of voicing our gratefulness at the warmth of our houses or the hot chocolate we're swilling, do we choose to gripe about the elements?

Bemoaning the weather is an art in and of itself. The weather is something none of us can control, nor predict with anything greater than occasional accuracy. No letter is complete without a full report of current conditions, along with the writer's analysis.  Holding forth on the unfairness of our climate without acknowledging the obvious fact that we choose where we live is a cathartic outlet with which we entertain ourselves during the long, dreary months of our incarceration.  It brings everyone together, no matter our race, creed, political party or lack thereof.  It sees us through until the first daffodil and crocus poke through the ground to remind us there is life outside the confines of our individual abodes.  The lonely optimist waxing forth artificially on the joys of winter feels indefinably bereft in his solitary cocoon of unreality, outside the circle of gleeful, acerbic wit.

With each new morning a glance out the window provides new material for venting our frustrations, most of which probably have nothing to do with the weather.

Thrills, Chills, and Historic Ice

The Great Ice Storm of 2004 made our dependence on electricity a very real and tangible thing.  I woke the morning after, unaware anything unusual had happened.  Growing up in Ohio makes it difficult for even the weather to surprise a person.  One virtually worn-out quote bandied about is "If you don't like the weather, stick around; it'll be different in five minutes."  This storm succeeded where others had failed.

The sound of rifle-shots followed with an unnatural quiet gradually seeped into my sleepy brain as I lay in bed.  I told Paul the power was off and either someone is shooting at us or branches are breaking off the trees.  He told me I was crazy and I got up to investigate.

What greeted me was almost indescribable in its eerie beauty.  Every branch, twig, surface, weed, everything exposed to the elements, was covered in glass.  Or at least it looked like glass.  Without traffic moving everything was silent, except for the occasional rifle-sound as branches and limbs snapped under the weight of the ice entombing them in a thick and heavy casing. When a slight breeze blew in, the scratching, cracking sound made me, for some reason as yet unclear, think of witches and brooms and the baking of small children named Hansel and Gretel.

What followed were weeks of power outages, broken trees, and general disruption to our lives.  Many less fortunate people were without heat and simply left their homes to stay with family, friends, or in a hotel. After electricity was restored some of them returned to find busted water pipes and general mayhem.

I am blessed with a husband who can do pretty much anything.  Were we shipwrecked on an island, we would soon be living in a tree house to rival the Robinson's. In short order he had hooked up a generator, stocked the living room with wood for the fireplace, and picked up our daughter and our three-week-old grandbaby from their unheated home.  Soon a sister and her children joined us and we spent the next week enjoying food, games, and a holiday at home.

I left once or twice to go to work; I was a nurse at the local hospital which was also running on generators.  Doctors and nurses came in before their shifts to take showers because they too, were without power at home.  The atmosphere everywhere was filled with a spirit of community; people helped each other and slowed from the frantic pace of normal life.  I've heard in crisis situations humans often rise to a higher standard than the mediocrity they frequently achieve in their day-to-day monotonous routines and I saw it happen.

The past few days the weather reports have been filled with predictions of impending disaster as another ice storm heads across a twenty-four hundred mile swath of the country.  The weather girls and boys tried without success to look distressed as they prognosticated about the likelihood of dire consequences sure to follow in the wake of the upcoming rain, sleet, snow, wind, and freezing temperatures.  Most people, wisely, prepared and are at this very moment sitting snug in their homes.

The roadways are at a "level two" on the hazard scale.  The closings have been announced.  Everything from doctors' offices, to support groups, to restaurants and flower shops are shut down.  I suppose people better be advised not to cut themselves or give birth or have a mental breakdown until the storm is over.

It's already been arranged that my daughter and her family will come to stay if the lights go out. Otherwise, I'll have to keep plugging away in the office getting tax paperwork done, paying bills, and catching up on computer tasks.

I wonder if I'm the only person that will be disappointed if the electricity stays on. 

Aging

I'm not sure when I first realized that every movement hurt.  I'd wake up in the night to answer the call and felt like the Tin Man after a rainstorm.  I could almost hear the creaking when I crawled out of bed in the morning.  After sitting a spell in my office, unfolding from my chair caused intense discomfort to all my hinged parts.

How did this happen without me noticing?  I mean, my parents were OLD when they talked about arthritis and rheumatism and bursitis and other unsavory joys of aging.  I'm not old.  I'm barely over half a century.  Saying the word fifty gives me unpleasant pangs not unlike my protesting joints.  What happened to the last two decades?  I still think I'm thirty. . . barely. And then I realize we celebrated my son's thirtieth birthday not long ago.  The math just isn't adding up. 

I'm realizing I have choices.  I can protest the reality of my years and try vainly to appear younger - the result of which would most likely be the opposite.  When I see a woman whose facial creases scream seventy while her raven hair rivals Morticia's. . .well, youth is not what comes to mind.  Seeing grandma in hot pants no matter how slim her legs, fools no one except, maybe, grandma. 

Better that I embrace the fact that I've lived such a full life, so far, that the years have simply flown past in such rapid succession I barely noticed their passing.  I can enjoy middle age and the priviledges inherent therein. No more staying up all night with a colicky infant.  No more worries about where my toddlers are and who they are annoying.  No more waiting up for my teenagers, wondering if I will need bail money in the morning. No more digging for an ID card if I choose to buy a bottle of wine on a whim. Instead of resenting young adults when they call me "ma'am" I can hold my head up and pretend they are showing me respect.

So my muscles ache and my joints creak.  At least I still have so much to do I have a reason to move them.  Ibuprofen is readily available along with a plethora of herbs and vitamins guaranteeing unending longevity in a body bursting with vitality and health.  Indeed, according to the fantastic claims of the health gurus, it's a wonder anyone ever dies.  Not only will we live forever, with the fantastic colon cleanses and bowel activators one need never fear the inability to move, at least your bowels, in the event all else freezes up.

I'm actually at the perfect age.  Old enough I need not ask permission to do what I want and young enough to want to do it.  Old enough to know better and young enough to enjoy it anyway.  Old enough to realize how quickly time slips away and young enough to set new priorities.  Old enough to have countless great memories and young enough to make countless more.

I hope I'll have the wisdom to throw out the hair dye when it's time to embrace silver hair. I hope that rather than refuse assistance when I need it, I'll set a few trends with my stylin' canes and funky glasses.  I hope I never wear polyester pant suits and I hope I'll always be too busy to play shuffleboard.  I hope I never forget to live as long as I'm alive.

Happiness

Yesterday I read something that seems, in retrospect, so simple I can't believe it has never occurred to me before. A "not able to see the forest for the trees" kind of thing.  Happiness, it seems, is achieved in bits and pieces, seized by those alert to its availability as it flits by, invisible to the less observant.

A cluttered shelf that has bothered me for weeks, cleaned and put to rights is a moment of happiness.  A refrigerator spilling over with outdated sauces and furry leftovers, purged and polished, is another moment of happiness.  A warm chocolate chip cookie, savored with an ice-cold glass of milk and a five-minute break from a hectic day is yet another happy moment.  Well, you get the idea.  I know as soon as I read this concept that it could change my life if I put conscience effort into recognizing and enjoying the simple pleasures that inundate my life. 

So the guy in the black Audi who cut me off in traffic may be a jerk, or he may be just a guy having a very stressful day.  And now he's added stress to my day.  But I avoided hitting him so that's good, and the cup of coffee in my car's console is steaming and tastes great.  So I take a big swig and really taste it.  And smell it.  And realize how enjoyable that moment in time is.  Meanwhile the jerk is gone, careening through traffic far ahead.  And I've still got half a cup of coffee left to enjoy and twenty minutes of solitude before I reach my destination - the business supply superstore filled with other harried people, unaware of anything except the long list of obligations filling their day.  Another sip of coffee, another enjoyable sensation, another spurt of energy as the dark, hot liquid does its job.

I mull over this epiphany and watch for more joy along my path.  I see the flashing lights at the side of the road, ahead, in the distance.  Like all the traffic, I merge into the left lane to allow plenty of room, thankful the lights aren't lingering behind my car.  As I pass the trooper and the black Audi stopped in front of him, I realize yet another moment of happiness.