As you may have guessed I was never lucky enough to have a real brother. However I did have my cousin Eddie who was two years my senior and served the purpose of being a brother for me. Of course this also meant that he could be a tease, run faster than me and sometimes scare me silly. I remember when I was about six years old and he was eight he called me over to his house (next door to ours) and showed me a glass jar filled with a strange smoke. "What is it?" "Well it's poisen gas." "Where did you get it?" "I created it with my science kit." Then to my horror he screwed off the lid and held the smoke up to my face. I ran screaming back to Mother. "He's just teasing you. That's what boys like to do." Well, it did really scare me and I didn't care to see Eddie for a whole week.
Well, there's more to it than that. Eddie devised a way that we could talk to each other without him scaring me. He strung up a long cotton string between our bedroom windows with an empty tin can tied on each end by a hole made by hammering a nail into the closed end then putting the string through and tying a knot. By holding the cans really taut, and talking into the open end we could easily hear each other just like talking on a phone. This was our secret and much more fun. It was through this magic system that Eddie arranged for us to get into all sorts of trouble.
Eddie's 18 year old married sister Doris lived in the same house. She had an adorable baby boy and her husband was away in the Navy. One day Doris became very ill with Spinal Meningitis and their house was quarantined. This meant that I couldn't go over there until Doris got better. Over the 'telephone cans' Eddie devised a way that I could sneak over. "Go into your backyard and I'll help you come through a loose board in our shed." "Right now?" "Yep."
I did sneak over through that loose board and within minutes Eddie and I were standing at the foot of Doris's bed. She was so beautiful as she slept. "Will she wake up?" "The doctor said he hopes she will, but it may be a long time." We both decided we would go there every day and watch to see if she would wake up. She never did. Later Mother explained that Doris had been in a coma and the illness had taken her away. I never told Mother how we had gone to her room before she died until after I was married and had a baby of my own. Neither Eddie or me were taken to her funeral, but we did have a chance to take flowers to her grave. Within days Doris's husband was killed in an accident. My Aunt Mae raised that tow headed boy to adulthood.
As I was growing up through Jr High and Sr High, Eddie was always on hand to check out any boys who showed an interest in me. Also, he delighted my girlfriends by letting them hang onto his outstretched arm and dangle like they were holding onto a steel bar. They thought he was the strongest boy they had ever seen. He made me feel very proud. They also thought he was handsome and I supposed he looked OK.
Eddie and family moved away to the nearby town of Upland to an orange grove house that his paternal grandparents had lived in. It was rather old and worn, but all our local relatives enjoyed the yearly Christmas party at their house where they always had an exchange of gifts. It could cost no more than $2.00 and there was a huge box for the wrapped gifts labeled only 'boy' or 'girl' and everyone brought Christmas treats. I remember there was a large hole in the wood porch right in front of the entrance door so you had to step over carefully. "Termites," noted Eddie.
Eddie graduated from Upland High two years ahead of my graduation from Pomona High. Although his parents couldn't afford to give him a car, he already had a driver's license so he could run errands for his parents. He also had several part-time jobs around town so managed to purchase car parts from the local dealer in trashed vehicles. After a couple of months Eddie appeared in our dirt driveway tooting his horn like crazy. I opened our door not knowing who was making so much noise. It was Eddie driving the strangest car I had ever seen. He managed to get the door open and appeared most pleased with his great invention. Nothing on the exterior matched, doors and fenders were of all different colors, "I plan to paint the car next month," he assured me. "Hop in and I'll show you how good it runs." I did hop in and the interior was bare bones as well.
Eddie started the car and it began to shake. "Are we there yet?" Just had to tease him for a change. "Nope just letting the car get warmed up a bit." Finally, the car jolted ahead, the ride was a bit bumpy, but we managed to get over to the Drive Inn and have a rootbeer float. Back home again. "Eddie, you are the most amazing guy I know." As far as I remember that was only the first time I had acknowledged that fact to him.
My first husband always had to have the brand new car, off the dealer's showroom floor, every year. Eddie would always say, "Drive that new car around the block and the value drops in half." On my own, I always follow Eddie's good advise to this day. I buy last years car and let the dealership take the jolt.
Eddie and I remained very special cousins throughout our lives. He passed away a few years ago. His wife said, "you know Eddie really loved you." "Yep, I know...I always loved him too." I sure miss him and will always remember his very first car.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Lemon Tree and Roses
"Lemon tree very pretty
and, the lemon flower so sweet,
but, the fruit of the lemon
is impossible to eat."
(...can't remember who wrote this song, sorry...)
Well, back in the 30's and 40's California boasted numerous lemon groves. Of course before long all those groves would be sold for housing tracks or shopping malls. However, most older homes with generous back yards had at least one lemon tree along with walnut, orange, grapefruit, and of course the forever fig tree. As they say: "Those were the good 'ol days!"
Needless to say, lemons were a major part of everyday preparations: added to the dish water to help remove oils and to the rinse water for the lovely perfume; if you were a blond (as I was) lemon/water was used as a rinse/conditioner after a shampoo; lemonade was a must during the summer; and lemon cake, cookies and of course lemon pie the ultimate. Actually, we only had one lemon tree so Clarence (my father) grafted branches of orange and grape-fruit creating a 3 in 1 citrus wonder. This grafting of plants knowledge was learned when Clarence became friends with a local rose nursery ,owner who grafted rose trees. Obviously, our old white clapboard house was enshrined with grafted tree roses, rose bushes and climbing roses.
I mentioned we had a walnut tree. Well, it was a very old, very tall, very wonderful tree that sat at the very back of our property right at the edge of the alley way. Back then, all older homes had alley ways where garbage was placed in a lid covered metal can to be picked up weekly by a huge pig farm in Pomona. Also, everyone set out boxes of items no longer wanted that were in good condition for another family perhaps. Larger items would be picked up for land fill. Paper would be burned in your very own concrete-slab trash-burner with a smoke stack and an iron door. The ashes were usually mixed into your garden.
I digress, back to that huge walnut tree where Clarence hung a rope swing for my sister Barbara and me, he had also planted a 'Bella Portugal' rose climber that managed to reach the top. When the leaves had dropped during the Fall, the large, rose-pink flowers would turn that tree into the biggest tree-rose you ever saw. Of course, when I returned to the West 4th Street house many years later I was terribly sad to see that the wonderful walnut-rose-tree had been cut down and the roots ground away. Needless to say, those walnuts had been fantastic to eat finding it difficult to wait for them to turn from green to crunchy brown. Reminds me of Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree." I did notice the lemon tree still stood.
and, the lemon flower so sweet,
but, the fruit of the lemon
is impossible to eat."
(...can't remember who wrote this song, sorry...)
Well, back in the 30's and 40's California boasted numerous lemon groves. Of course before long all those groves would be sold for housing tracks or shopping malls. However, most older homes with generous back yards had at least one lemon tree along with walnut, orange, grapefruit, and of course the forever fig tree. As they say: "Those were the good 'ol days!"
Needless to say, lemons were a major part of everyday preparations: added to the dish water to help remove oils and to the rinse water for the lovely perfume; if you were a blond (as I was) lemon/water was used as a rinse/conditioner after a shampoo; lemonade was a must during the summer; and lemon cake, cookies and of course lemon pie the ultimate. Actually, we only had one lemon tree so Clarence (my father) grafted branches of orange and grape-fruit creating a 3 in 1 citrus wonder. This grafting of plants knowledge was learned when Clarence became friends with a local rose nursery ,owner who grafted rose trees. Obviously, our old white clapboard house was enshrined with grafted tree roses, rose bushes and climbing roses.
I mentioned we had a walnut tree. Well, it was a very old, very tall, very wonderful tree that sat at the very back of our property right at the edge of the alley way. Back then, all older homes had alley ways where garbage was placed in a lid covered metal can to be picked up weekly by a huge pig farm in Pomona. Also, everyone set out boxes of items no longer wanted that were in good condition for another family perhaps. Larger items would be picked up for land fill. Paper would be burned in your very own concrete-slab trash-burner with a smoke stack and an iron door. The ashes were usually mixed into your garden.
I digress, back to that huge walnut tree where Clarence hung a rope swing for my sister Barbara and me, he had also planted a 'Bella Portugal' rose climber that managed to reach the top. When the leaves had dropped during the Fall, the large, rose-pink flowers would turn that tree into the biggest tree-rose you ever saw. Of course, when I returned to the West 4th Street house many years later I was terribly sad to see that the wonderful walnut-rose-tree had been cut down and the roots ground away. Needless to say, those walnuts had been fantastic to eat finding it difficult to wait for them to turn from green to crunchy brown. Reminds me of Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree." I did notice the lemon tree still stood.
Blind Date
As mentioned before, my first marriage of 21 years ended in a mutual divorce agreement. We had known one another since age 12, married at 18, bought our first new car at 19,two kids, and a new model home by age 23. Good start? We found that our interests were quite different as we grew up. After four years we both married people who were better suited to our lifestyle. JD loved to fish, hunt, boat and gamble. I preferred travel, sailing, writing and meeting new people. We did however remain friends throughout our lives until he passed away in 1996.
So here's how my 'blind date' began after a few years of being single. It seems my very good friends Bob and Lynne were skiing behind their boat down in Mexico. Same place, same time, a young widower, Carl and his 5 kids were also 'slalom' skiing behind their boat. Wouldn't you know, Carl's boat quit working and lo and behold they were invited to continue skiing behind my friend's boat. This is how it all started: "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a sister would you?" (nice line...) "Well yes, but she's older than me. I do however have a very dear friend, divorced four years ago that everyone thinks is my sister, about your age."
As you may have guessed, the subject continued throughout their conversation for the rest of the skiing trip. All the time Carl was skiing he wore a blue terrycloth hat. Apparently, when he finally removed his hat he was obviously bald on top, which didn't incidentally take away from the fact that he was all the things I apparently had mentioned to Lynne recently. "Well, Lynne, I guess he'd need to be tall, well educated, have a good sense of humor, and have kids. Oh, by the way, good hair would be nice." Now, after Lynne had promised to make a 'blind date' for us to meet each other, she suddenly felt ill at ease. So this is how the next phase went.
The following Monday, after Lynne arrived back home she called me. "Jean, guess what?" "You tell me what." "Well, I met this really neat guy, he's single about four years, he's tall, good looking, well educated in fact works for LaVerne University in Oxnard, and has kids five I think." "So, what else?" "Well, I promised him I'd make a 'blind date' for you to meet. Is that OK with you?" "Sure, why not. If you and Bob like him I'm sure I will too." "But.." "But what?" "Well, I didn't know until it was too late. You see he's bald." After laughing I assured her I'd be looking forward to meeting this nice guy. So, she called Carl and set the luncheon date for the following Wednesday.
In order to be away from my bridal boutique most of the day, I had to make special arrangements. Early morning received a call from Carl: "Something has come up. A VIP is here for the morning so can't get away." "That's OK I'll just come there." "Do you know how to get to Oxnard?" "No, but I'll manage. Just give me the address. See you for lunch." Get this over with and be done with the whole thing.
Found his office at Pt. Magoo Base where he worked. Waited in the parking lot sending a message in with another person who worked there. Then Carl arrived at the doorstep. I thought he must be color-blind: beige pants, pink shirt, no tie and a maroon blazer. But with a smile that was fantastic. "Hi you must be Jean. I see you managed the two hour drive." "Well, that freeway from Claremont is known as the 'biggest parking lot in LA. Anyway, I enjoyed listening to my favorite 'Moody Blues' so it was actually relaxing." "Hey, my favorite too. Give me your keys, have to park you in the employee spot." I did. I noticed he was having a hard time starting the Mazda. "Damn, I used the door key in the ignition, car won't start and the key's stuck!" We decided to go for our lunch and consider this problem later.
We had grilled chicken salad. He salted his then passed the salt over. "No thanks." "Is there any reason you don't eat salt?" I could see that he was wondering if I had some terrible malady. "Nope. Just grew up with a mother that used lots of pepper and herbs." I could see he breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of the meal was a 'get to know each other over the next two fun hours."
"I'll run you over to my house and you can meet the kids. We live on the beach here in Oxnard. Actually later found that Sunny and Cher Bono lived a few houses down, and the writer of 'Bertha Butt Boogie" on one side and an un-known son of Howard Hughes on the other. Once there I met his five kids all in bathing suits along with another bunch of their friends. I wasn't sure which one's were his, but they were all adorable from age 9 through 16. Carl began his several phone calls: "Hi, someone used the wrong key in my friends car, it's stuck and car won't start. Can someone come out to help us?"This lament was repeated over the next several calls before he changed his approach. "Hi,I stupidly used the door key in the car ignition and the damn thing won't start. I need someone right now."
By the time we got back to his office in Pt. Magoo the key man was already starting the car. "Drive directly to your Mazda dealer. Don't stop." This whole episode was crazy and fun. I promised to call Carl as soon as I had the car fixed. The dealership wanted to charge me. "Now, everyone knows Mazda keys are made out of old beer cans." He grinned, "No charge lady." I called Carl who suggested: "How 'bout I drive your direction and take you to dinner Saturday night?" A wonderful evening. We were married three months later on the beach at Lagoona. Hawaii for our honeymoon. The beginning of 34 years of a fantastic marriage. Definately 'Soulmates!'
So here's how my 'blind date' began after a few years of being single. It seems my very good friends Bob and Lynne were skiing behind their boat down in Mexico. Same place, same time, a young widower, Carl and his 5 kids were also 'slalom' skiing behind their boat. Wouldn't you know, Carl's boat quit working and lo and behold they were invited to continue skiing behind my friend's boat. This is how it all started: "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a sister would you?" (nice line...) "Well yes, but she's older than me. I do however have a very dear friend, divorced four years ago that everyone thinks is my sister, about your age."
As you may have guessed, the subject continued throughout their conversation for the rest of the skiing trip. All the time Carl was skiing he wore a blue terrycloth hat. Apparently, when he finally removed his hat he was obviously bald on top, which didn't incidentally take away from the fact that he was all the things I apparently had mentioned to Lynne recently. "Well, Lynne, I guess he'd need to be tall, well educated, have a good sense of humor, and have kids. Oh, by the way, good hair would be nice." Now, after Lynne had promised to make a 'blind date' for us to meet each other, she suddenly felt ill at ease. So this is how the next phase went.
The following Monday, after Lynne arrived back home she called me. "Jean, guess what?" "You tell me what." "Well, I met this really neat guy, he's single about four years, he's tall, good looking, well educated in fact works for LaVerne University in Oxnard, and has kids five I think." "So, what else?" "Well, I promised him I'd make a 'blind date' for you to meet. Is that OK with you?" "Sure, why not. If you and Bob like him I'm sure I will too." "But.." "But what?" "Well, I didn't know until it was too late. You see he's bald." After laughing I assured her I'd be looking forward to meeting this nice guy. So, she called Carl and set the luncheon date for the following Wednesday.
In order to be away from my bridal boutique most of the day, I had to make special arrangements. Early morning received a call from Carl: "Something has come up. A VIP is here for the morning so can't get away." "That's OK I'll just come there." "Do you know how to get to Oxnard?" "No, but I'll manage. Just give me the address. See you for lunch." Get this over with and be done with the whole thing.
Found his office at Pt. Magoo Base where he worked. Waited in the parking lot sending a message in with another person who worked there. Then Carl arrived at the doorstep. I thought he must be color-blind: beige pants, pink shirt, no tie and a maroon blazer. But with a smile that was fantastic. "Hi you must be Jean. I see you managed the two hour drive." "Well, that freeway from Claremont is known as the 'biggest parking lot in LA. Anyway, I enjoyed listening to my favorite 'Moody Blues' so it was actually relaxing." "Hey, my favorite too. Give me your keys, have to park you in the employee spot." I did. I noticed he was having a hard time starting the Mazda. "Damn, I used the door key in the ignition, car won't start and the key's stuck!" We decided to go for our lunch and consider this problem later.
We had grilled chicken salad. He salted his then passed the salt over. "No thanks." "Is there any reason you don't eat salt?" I could see that he was wondering if I had some terrible malady. "Nope. Just grew up with a mother that used lots of pepper and herbs." I could see he breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of the meal was a 'get to know each other over the next two fun hours."
"I'll run you over to my house and you can meet the kids. We live on the beach here in Oxnard. Actually later found that Sunny and Cher Bono lived a few houses down, and the writer of 'Bertha Butt Boogie" on one side and an un-known son of Howard Hughes on the other. Once there I met his five kids all in bathing suits along with another bunch of their friends. I wasn't sure which one's were his, but they were all adorable from age 9 through 16. Carl began his several phone calls: "Hi, someone used the wrong key in my friends car, it's stuck and car won't start. Can someone come out to help us?"This lament was repeated over the next several calls before he changed his approach. "Hi,I stupidly used the door key in the car ignition and the damn thing won't start. I need someone right now."
By the time we got back to his office in Pt. Magoo the key man was already starting the car. "Drive directly to your Mazda dealer. Don't stop." This whole episode was crazy and fun. I promised to call Carl as soon as I had the car fixed. The dealership wanted to charge me. "Now, everyone knows Mazda keys are made out of old beer cans." He grinned, "No charge lady." I called Carl who suggested: "How 'bout I drive your direction and take you to dinner Saturday night?" A wonderful evening. We were married three months later on the beach at Lagoona. Hawaii for our honeymoon. The beginning of 34 years of a fantastic marriage. Definately 'Soulmates!'
Sunrises and Sunsets
I would venture to say that I have witnessed more sunrises and sunsets than anyone I have ever met. The main reason for this claim is the fact that I was brought up by a mother in a wheelchair who's world was most notabley the one she saw from her windows. Yes, there were many times she escaped from her small space into my father's gardens and even beyond, on occasion, to Redwoods of the north-west mountains and the raging surf along the south-west coastline,. Always more than willing to share her excitement of natures best with her first daughter and constant companion, lucky me.
Clarence, my father whom I called by name from my earliest memory, loved the outdoors surely a gift given to my Mother, who insisted on that name alone until I became a mother than she requested I call her Viola which seemed most natural to me. Although my father worked his 40 hour week and brought home his meager paycheck as a 'stone-cutter-artist' even throughout the Great Depression, he always found time on weekends to work in his garden and take Mother outside her otherwise limited world. She never complained. Actually, when I became an adult she did say: "Sometimes I wish I could walk thru that door and slam it hard just once." The only time I even gave it a thought that her world was so different than mine.
I can say: "I love all critters large and small" and actually mean it. Mother made sure I learned how spiders made their webs and bundled their 'catch' for a later meal. She taught me to catch a small critter that entered the house without being invited in a small jar and let it go outside "where it belongs." Together, my parents taught me the names of various clouds, made sure I never missed the 'falling stars' or watching the tiny green tumble from the ground where it had been a mere seed such a short time before. I knew the names of trees and flowers before beginning school right along with my alphabet and reading putting me well ahead of other children. Probably my main reason for being generally bored with the slow method of teaching once I entered the 'halls of learning' things I already seemed to know.
As I have traveled throughout this amazing planet on which we live, I make sure I am awake early enough to witness every possible sunrise and making sure I'm in the best position to observe every possible sunset.
So often, I find that I'm the only one on a foreign shore taking the time to watch a sunset. I want to stop the nearby traffic and remind them they are missing so very much by ignoring such a beautiful gift both morning and night, and it's free for anyone willing to take the time to enjoy.
Clarence, my father whom I called by name from my earliest memory, loved the outdoors surely a gift given to my Mother, who insisted on that name alone until I became a mother than she requested I call her Viola which seemed most natural to me. Although my father worked his 40 hour week and brought home his meager paycheck as a 'stone-cutter-artist' even throughout the Great Depression, he always found time on weekends to work in his garden and take Mother outside her otherwise limited world. She never complained. Actually, when I became an adult she did say: "Sometimes I wish I could walk thru that door and slam it hard just once." The only time I even gave it a thought that her world was so different than mine.
I can say: "I love all critters large and small" and actually mean it. Mother made sure I learned how spiders made their webs and bundled their 'catch' for a later meal. She taught me to catch a small critter that entered the house without being invited in a small jar and let it go outside "where it belongs." Together, my parents taught me the names of various clouds, made sure I never missed the 'falling stars' or watching the tiny green tumble from the ground where it had been a mere seed such a short time before. I knew the names of trees and flowers before beginning school right along with my alphabet and reading putting me well ahead of other children. Probably my main reason for being generally bored with the slow method of teaching once I entered the 'halls of learning' things I already seemed to know.
As I have traveled throughout this amazing planet on which we live, I make sure I am awake early enough to witness every possible sunrise and making sure I'm in the best position to observe every possible sunset.
So often, I find that I'm the only one on a foreign shore taking the time to watch a sunset. I want to stop the nearby traffic and remind them they are missing so very much by ignoring such a beautiful gift both morning and night, and it's free for anyone willing to take the time to enjoy.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Cat Harbor, Catalina Island
By the time we had purchased the "Jon-Dee III" I felt we had experienced just about everything that could go wrong owning a 32 ft.sport- fishing boat with twin engines. By now we knew that an ocean going boat was just another word for "a hole in the ocean to throw money in!" The first "Jon-Dee" was just 25 ft. and had one gas engine. Believe me, you never want to cross an ocean 25 miles to Catalina Island with only one engine to get you there and back. Within about five miles of leaving Newport Harbor our engine just plain quit. Now, we had learned all the signs that would attract other boats that passed by. This was important, because with the engine, there went our radio as well (another reason to buy the best, not the cheapest). The four of us, JD and I and a couple of our friends, stood on the deck and waved our arms to attract their attention. One after the other just waved back and kept on going. Whew! Finally, one lonely person seemed to realize our predicament and helped us back to our berth in Newport Harbor.
Of course, we immediately moved up to the "Jon-Dee II'" and experienced "following seas," those crazy late night crossings, and "rogue waves" that knocked you flat on the deck. We learned there are no rules regarding how one is treated at sea, especially if you approached a commercial fishing boat that feels he owns all the water as far as he can see. Not to mention, once again, the time our boat was hit by another, bigger boat, during a sudden "radiation fog" that can happen when the water is warmer than the air. Been there, done that, so what else?
Oh yes, there was the time we were crossing with another boat, late at night, when all of a sudden we began sinking fast, up to our knees and everything went kapow! Fortunately, the other boat heard our "May Day" call and in no time was turning around to find us. It seemed like forever, but the water was not up to the top deck as yet. JD and I stayed behind and helped our four sea-goers onto the other boat, which was rocking a completely different direction. The other boat had been sending out a steady "May Day" for us and, eventually, a Coast Guard Cutter found us. I was finally able to climb aboard the other boat, while JD stayed onboard and helped secure our boat to the cutter that loomed hugely above us.
To make a long story short, the water-pump didn't work, so by the time the second water-pump was sent down, the boat was barely showing above the water line. JD climbed onto the other boat and we followed the Coast Guard Cutter that had our boat lashed to its side. It turned out, the sinking was our fault, as a small bolt had dislodged letting in the water. Plus, our boat had pretty well messed up the side of the Coast Guard Cutter. Our insurance company paid, but not too happy that's for sure.
So with all those ocean-going problems behind us, why would I risk heading over to Catalina Island, by myself, with just my two kids as crew? Well, this was our newest "Jon-Dee III" with twin diesel engines. The Owens boat was in tip-top shape, the weather was excellent and I wanted to prove to myself I could do this without JD's help. So I did. True, all the way over the sea was like a lake which was very rare for the 25 mile trip. But this time it was perfect. Maybe because I needed it to be that way?
We arrived at Cat Harbor in the late afternoon. All the other boats there were skippered by a man, not a woman. Those guys were just plain surprised to see the kids (JR still in grammar school and Tes a freshman in High School) and I bring that craft into a perfect pick-up of our mooring. It looked just like I did this all the time. I must say, we were proud of our accomplishment.
We had a perfectly wonderful week by ourselves. JD was not around to yell at any llittle thing that might not please him As my mother always said, "It's easy to be nice when everything's going your way. It takes a little effort to be nice when things go wrong." I guess JD never learned that little message. Anyway, we were having a grand time.
Finally it was Sunday again and time to head back to Newport Harbor. A perfect day all the way back once again. We took time to play with the dolphins along the way and arrived at our dock exactly as scheduled. I made a wide swing into the dock and pulled back on the two engines, to slide us perfectly into the slip. This amazed us all. Usually, when JD came into the dock, it was with him yelling for me to jump onto the dock to help stop the boat. But no yelling this time. This time we did it just right. And we were all mighty proud, to say the least.
JD was waiting at the dock and stood in awe that we did it all according to how it should be done. Tes said, "Daddy, how come Mom can pull into the dock so perfect and you have to yell at everyone?" He didn't say a word. He just helped us get the boat unpacked and cleaned up. He never said a word. That was just fine with me. We had proven we could do it just fine on our own. Go figure.
 |
| Cat Harbor, Catalina Island |
Of course, we immediately moved up to the "Jon-Dee II'" and experienced "following seas," those crazy late night crossings, and "rogue waves" that knocked you flat on the deck. We learned there are no rules regarding how one is treated at sea, especially if you approached a commercial fishing boat that feels he owns all the water as far as he can see. Not to mention, once again, the time our boat was hit by another, bigger boat, during a sudden "radiation fog" that can happen when the water is warmer than the air. Been there, done that, so what else?
Oh yes, there was the time we were crossing with another boat, late at night, when all of a sudden we began sinking fast, up to our knees and everything went kapow! Fortunately, the other boat heard our "May Day" call and in no time was turning around to find us. It seemed like forever, but the water was not up to the top deck as yet. JD and I stayed behind and helped our four sea-goers onto the other boat, which was rocking a completely different direction. The other boat had been sending out a steady "May Day" for us and, eventually, a Coast Guard Cutter found us. I was finally able to climb aboard the other boat, while JD stayed onboard and helped secure our boat to the cutter that loomed hugely above us.
To make a long story short, the water-pump didn't work, so by the time the second water-pump was sent down, the boat was barely showing above the water line. JD climbed onto the other boat and we followed the Coast Guard Cutter that had our boat lashed to its side. It turned out, the sinking was our fault, as a small bolt had dislodged letting in the water. Plus, our boat had pretty well messed up the side of the Coast Guard Cutter. Our insurance company paid, but not too happy that's for sure.
 |
| JR with wildflowers collected at Cat Harbor |
We arrived at Cat Harbor in the late afternoon. All the other boats there were skippered by a man, not a woman. Those guys were just plain surprised to see the kids (JR still in grammar school and Tes a freshman in High School) and I bring that craft into a perfect pick-up of our mooring. It looked just like I did this all the time. I must say, we were proud of our accomplishment.
We had a perfectly wonderful week by ourselves. JD was not around to yell at any llittle thing that might not please him As my mother always said, "It's easy to be nice when everything's going your way. It takes a little effort to be nice when things go wrong." I guess JD never learned that little message. Anyway, we were having a grand time.
 |
| The "Jon-Dee III" when we arrived back in Newport Beach |
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"Mr. Binks" Didn't Know He Was a Dog
From the beginning, it was very apparent that "Mr. Binks" hadn't a clue that he was just a dog. Of course, there were those who were convinced he was, and because of this misconception he ended up at "the pound" in the early '60s before there were places called The Humane Society. Supposedly, he was about five months old and a mix of Old English Sheepdog and Cocker Spaniel. We were told his "father" was a "Disney movie star" and his "mother" a registered Cocker down the street. When my two kids and I found him at the pound, he looked pretty scroungy. According to his paperwork his days were numbered. He looked to be a red-blond color under all that dirt and appeared pretty lonely by the way he leaned into the wire fencing as we walked between the dog cages.
The reason we were at the pound that bright sunny day was because one month earlier our dearest Cocker Spaniel, "Dusty," had succumbed to old age and cancer. Even my husband, who was a pretty tough guy, cried with the rest of us when we lost our furry friend. Probably JR took it the hardest. You see, first we had Tes, then Dusty, then JR, so it became Dusty's duty to take care of JR, which he did. Anytime you couldn't find JR, you just asked around and you'd find both he and the dog close and both looking just as guilty. Dusty was sorely missed.
We had planned to go into Los Angeles where I had found someone with a litter of Cocker Spaniels puppies. But I thought we should just stop by the pound on the way. "We may find just the right puppy there," I said. JR was not convinced. So we had stopped by the pound and found this cute, sad, half-grown puppy. How could we not take him home with us? After all, he made it perfectly clear that he really wanted to go with us. So we adopted him, with the idea that we could bring him back if it didn't work out. To this day, I have rescued many dogs and cats. Never have I returned even one of them. And this one was no different.
Binks stayed quite calm until we got him into the car. Then he jumped into Tes's lap and was jumping all over her. I heard Tes exclaim, "Maybe we should take him back?" But I was already pulling out of the parking lot. "Let's give him a chance," I said. JR was in the backseat not saying a word.
He came to us with the name of "Mr. Binks" so apparently his previous owned had thought enough about him to give him a cute name. On the other hand, he was dirty enough to have been a stray. We had no way of knowing if his "movie star parentage" was true, but we did live close to Hollywood, so we'd accepted the story when we adopted the dog.
It was trial and error from the very beginning. Our veterinarian checked him over, gave him a bath and made him look absolutely terrific. We took one look at our new, clean dog and were sold. That was until we got him home. Within the first week of adjusting to our home, and us adjusting to having him around, I had many long talks with him each and every day. "Either stop tearing up my pillows, or my favorite summer handbag, or my favorite shoes, or you're going back to the pound." It was pretty much all bluff on my part, but he did stop chewing up my things. Funny, he didn't chew up any of the kids' things. Anyway, we decided to keep him after all. And that was one of the best choices we ever made.
Soon thereafter we adopted a male kitten, black and white, and named him DC, after the cat in the movie, "That Darned Cat." Guess what? In no time at all Binks had adopted DC as his baby and forever after they were the best of friends. We're still not sure if Binks thought DC was a dog, or if DC thought Binks was a cat. Every day Binks licked and cleaned DC's ears, then they would stage a wonderful wrestling match. We often had neighbors wanting to stop by and watch the whole episode.
Mr Binks loved being dressed up: t-shirt, sunglasses, babushka, the works. He loved posing for pictures as well. One day we arrived home to find DC was on the kitchen counter shoving fresh donuts off the counter for Binks to catch. When we walked in Binks smiled with that adoring, don't pay any attention to the donut I'm still munching, just notice how good I've been taking care of DC. Yeah!
 |
| JR and Mr. Binks |
The reason we were at the pound that bright sunny day was because one month earlier our dearest Cocker Spaniel, "Dusty," had succumbed to old age and cancer. Even my husband, who was a pretty tough guy, cried with the rest of us when we lost our furry friend. Probably JR took it the hardest. You see, first we had Tes, then Dusty, then JR, so it became Dusty's duty to take care of JR, which he did. Anytime you couldn't find JR, you just asked around and you'd find both he and the dog close and both looking just as guilty. Dusty was sorely missed.
He came to us with the name of "Mr. Binks" so apparently his previous owned had thought enough about him to give him a cute name. On the other hand, he was dirty enough to have been a stray. We had no way of knowing if his "movie star parentage" was true, but we did live close to Hollywood, so we'd accepted the story when we adopted the dog.
It was trial and error from the very beginning. Our veterinarian checked him over, gave him a bath and made him look absolutely terrific. We took one look at our new, clean dog and were sold. That was until we got him home. Within the first week of adjusting to our home, and us adjusting to having him around, I had many long talks with him each and every day. "Either stop tearing up my pillows, or my favorite summer handbag, or my favorite shoes, or you're going back to the pound." It was pretty much all bluff on my part, but he did stop chewing up my things. Funny, he didn't chew up any of the kids' things. Anyway, we decided to keep him after all. And that was one of the best choices we ever made.
 |
| Binks and DC |
 |
| Mr. Binks |
Mr Binks loved being dressed up: t-shirt, sunglasses, babushka, the works. He loved posing for pictures as well. One day we arrived home to find DC was on the kitchen counter shoving fresh donuts off the counter for Binks to catch. When we walked in Binks smiled with that adoring, don't pay any attention to the donut I'm still munching, just notice how good I've been taking care of DC. Yeah!
From that time on, Binks was like raising another kid. The neighborhood kids would stop by and ask, "Can Mr. Binks come out and play?" Once outside, he would pull kids on their skate boards or play his favorite game with them. He'd run up the street to a certain point then, while the kids stood with their backs to him, he'd run like the dickens and bulldoze them in the backs of the knees, sending them laughing into the grass. They never knew which kid he would choose next.
Then there'd be a knock on the door and some worn-out kids would say, "We brought Mr Binks back. He's tired now." And so he was for the moment. But in no time he'd be ready to play again.
That was a long time ago and we'll surely never forget Mr. Binks or DC. What a delight! If there's a special place in heaven for wonderful dogs and cats, then that's where they are today.
Then there'd be a knock on the door and some worn-out kids would say, "We brought Mr Binks back. He's tired now." And so he was for the moment. But in no time he'd be ready to play again.
That was a long time ago and we'll surely never forget Mr. Binks or DC. What a delight! If there's a special place in heaven for wonderful dogs and cats, then that's where they are today.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Pedicure Anyone?
Just back home from treating myself to a pedicure at WalMart's 'Nails Boutique.' I have always managed to keep both fingernails and toenails in excellent condition all by myself. Whether working in the garden, going on the beach barefoot or out to dinner in fancy sandals, most important as far as I'm concerned is good hands and feet grooming. As mentioned before in other writings, I have always been a 'barefoot' girl and have every reason to believe that's why my feet have remained so healthy even in my 80th year.
Now I could count the few times I've paid to have manicures/pedicures throughout my entire life on my ten fingers. It's just always been part of 'body upkeep' along with cutting/styling my own hair and at one time even applying those 'faux lashes' over my blue eyes, lashes that half the time came loose just when you needed to look your best. So, naturally, I gave into just being happy with mascara. Never one for much makeup, I had been brought up with the idea that a good soap scrub with a washcloth followed with a moisture lotion was enough. A little sunshine and a good diet provided all the color needed.
Often I have chosen to polish my toe nails in other than primary colors: lavender, powder-blue, mint-green, for example. Today I chose a deep red. When I came out to the parking lot to get in my Mazda and drive back home, I noticed that my toenails exactly matched my car's paint job. Go figure.
Probably the best part of having a professional pedicure is the scrubbing away of rough skin and then massaging, all the way up to your knees with a cool creamy lotion. Of course, the whole session begins with a water-massage foot soak that is over much too soon. As I relaxed during the one hour process, with the option of turning on the 'massage-chair' in which client's are seated, I chose to just sit quietly. Great way to bring back memories related to the present. So, here goes.
Over the years I've loved doing volunteer work at hospitals and 'rest-homes' in order to give back for my life's wondrous times. So often I found that the 'Pink Ladies' hospital volunteer women were inclined to choose the option of passing out newspapers and magazines, maybe writing a letter or even reading to someone, along with gentle well meaning conversation and smiles, of course. Nothing wrong with all that. It's just that I noticed no one, and nurses certainly didn't have the time either, wanted to do the actual work of giving a patient a manicure/pedicure while they languished in bed.
Probably this was a most prevalent need noticed when I volunteered for a year at Hondo Hospital in California, where the last victims of Polio cases were either waiting to die as they laid in their 'iron lung' machines or the more positive thinking ones who had graduated to 'rocking-beds' or the art of 'frog-breathing.'
There were some ladies who were in the final stages of MS or other debilitating/often fatal diseases, who also were thankful for me to take the time to carefully remove facial hair that was a side-effect of strong medications. Not a pleasant task, but a very rewarding one to add to my labors of manicure/pedicure. I remember when the husband of one woman arrived for visiting hour and when he saw his wife looking so lovely and smiling he began crying and smiling at the same time.
I became interested in Hondo when a dear friend of mine, whom I met at the women's prayer meeting at the Pilgrim Congregational Church, became a Polio victim. This was the time of the last Polio epidemic in the '50s. Polio ravaged the young every year following the most tragic onset of the crippling disease following the 1916 epidemic which left my mother an invalid. This final tragic episode of Polio left Mary, a lovely young wife and mother of three, completely paralyzed from her neck down.
I immediately signed up for their minimum one year of volunteer service just to be with Mary one full day every week. Since I had grown up with a Polio victim's special needs, I felt I was equipped to handle the dire situation of the moment. My wonderful neighbor, AnnaMae, new in the neighborhood, was there for me looking after my two kids when they came home from school. So together we served as 'volunteers' each in our own way.
Each visit Mary was so despondent, even though she had a wonderful husband and family that stood by her. I had been informed each time of my arrival of her negative feelings and asked to push her to try the steps to get out of the iron lung. "Mary, I hear you won't even try the rocking bed. Come on, You can do this." I was thankful to visit with other patients throughout the day who were more positive thinking, but would always check with her in between to try to cheer her up. It didn't always work.
'Lo and behold, the following week I was greeted with a smiling Mary from her rocking-bed. Weeks later, with the same routine of egging her on to try new things, she would graduate to moments of sitting up in a wheelchair and 'frog-breathing' which was pretty scary, I'm sure. You've probably seen this demonstrated by the late Christopher Reed who showed great positive thinking until the last.
By the end of the year, Mary was being prepared to go home. She was learning 'short-wave radio' along with painting and drawing using her mouth. She did finally return home to her husband and children, and busied herself with her new learned skills. The last I heard she had a forth child and was becoming well known over her radio broadcasts.
Wouldn't you know, just a few short years ago, my only sister found herself hospitalized and also temporarily paralyzed so she couldn't move her limbs unless manually moved by an assistant. What did I do when I saw her after flying to her side in San Jose's hospital? That's right, I gave her a pedicure, painted her toenails a lovely shade of blue. After all, she could see her toes just fine.
I'm thankful to say, that with fine doctors, a loving husband, children, grandkids and extended family, my sister has totally recovered. We laugh about my rushing to her side to give her a pedicure. Hey, maybe it was somewhat of a cure after all?
Now I could count the few times I've paid to have manicures/pedicures throughout my entire life on my ten fingers. It's just always been part of 'body upkeep' along with cutting/styling my own hair and at one time even applying those 'faux lashes' over my blue eyes, lashes that half the time came loose just when you needed to look your best. So, naturally, I gave into just being happy with mascara. Never one for much makeup, I had been brought up with the idea that a good soap scrub with a washcloth followed with a moisture lotion was enough. A little sunshine and a good diet provided all the color needed.
Often I have chosen to polish my toe nails in other than primary colors: lavender, powder-blue, mint-green, for example. Today I chose a deep red. When I came out to the parking lot to get in my Mazda and drive back home, I noticed that my toenails exactly matched my car's paint job. Go figure.
Probably the best part of having a professional pedicure is the scrubbing away of rough skin and then massaging, all the way up to your knees with a cool creamy lotion. Of course, the whole session begins with a water-massage foot soak that is over much too soon. As I relaxed during the one hour process, with the option of turning on the 'massage-chair' in which client's are seated, I chose to just sit quietly. Great way to bring back memories related to the present. So, here goes.
Over the years I've loved doing volunteer work at hospitals and 'rest-homes' in order to give back for my life's wondrous times. So often I found that the 'Pink Ladies' hospital volunteer women were inclined to choose the option of passing out newspapers and magazines, maybe writing a letter or even reading to someone, along with gentle well meaning conversation and smiles, of course. Nothing wrong with all that. It's just that I noticed no one, and nurses certainly didn't have the time either, wanted to do the actual work of giving a patient a manicure/pedicure while they languished in bed.
Probably this was a most prevalent need noticed when I volunteered for a year at Hondo Hospital in California, where the last victims of Polio cases were either waiting to die as they laid in their 'iron lung' machines or the more positive thinking ones who had graduated to 'rocking-beds' or the art of 'frog-breathing.'
There were some ladies who were in the final stages of MS or other debilitating/often fatal diseases, who also were thankful for me to take the time to carefully remove facial hair that was a side-effect of strong medications. Not a pleasant task, but a very rewarding one to add to my labors of manicure/pedicure. I remember when the husband of one woman arrived for visiting hour and when he saw his wife looking so lovely and smiling he began crying and smiling at the same time.
I became interested in Hondo when a dear friend of mine, whom I met at the women's prayer meeting at the Pilgrim Congregational Church, became a Polio victim. This was the time of the last Polio epidemic in the '50s. Polio ravaged the young every year following the most tragic onset of the crippling disease following the 1916 epidemic which left my mother an invalid. This final tragic episode of Polio left Mary, a lovely young wife and mother of three, completely paralyzed from her neck down.
I immediately signed up for their minimum one year of volunteer service just to be with Mary one full day every week. Since I had grown up with a Polio victim's special needs, I felt I was equipped to handle the dire situation of the moment. My wonderful neighbor, AnnaMae, new in the neighborhood, was there for me looking after my two kids when they came home from school. So together we served as 'volunteers' each in our own way.
Each visit Mary was so despondent, even though she had a wonderful husband and family that stood by her. I had been informed each time of my arrival of her negative feelings and asked to push her to try the steps to get out of the iron lung. "Mary, I hear you won't even try the rocking bed. Come on, You can do this." I was thankful to visit with other patients throughout the day who were more positive thinking, but would always check with her in between to try to cheer her up. It didn't always work.
'Lo and behold, the following week I was greeted with a smiling Mary from her rocking-bed. Weeks later, with the same routine of egging her on to try new things, she would graduate to moments of sitting up in a wheelchair and 'frog-breathing' which was pretty scary, I'm sure. You've probably seen this demonstrated by the late Christopher Reed who showed great positive thinking until the last.
By the end of the year, Mary was being prepared to go home. She was learning 'short-wave radio' along with painting and drawing using her mouth. She did finally return home to her husband and children, and busied herself with her new learned skills. The last I heard she had a forth child and was becoming well known over her radio broadcasts.
Wouldn't you know, just a few short years ago, my only sister found herself hospitalized and also temporarily paralyzed so she couldn't move her limbs unless manually moved by an assistant. What did I do when I saw her after flying to her side in San Jose's hospital? That's right, I gave her a pedicure, painted her toenails a lovely shade of blue. After all, she could see her toes just fine.
I'm thankful to say, that with fine doctors, a loving husband, children, grandkids and extended family, my sister has totally recovered. We laugh about my rushing to her side to give her a pedicure. Hey, maybe it was somewhat of a cure after all?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Backpacking and Route Home
Writing about the beginning of my escape from Greece in my first part of this backpacking tale, I promised to finish telling what thereafter transpired. So, here goes. I had quickly paid my bill at the hostel first thing in the morning, packed my things and headed for the bus to the Athens International Airport. Frantically, I informed them I was leaving now for Rome instead of my ticket date of the next day. The girl at the counter rushed me through, because the plane was already loading.
I had a window seat and watched in horror as suitcases being sent down a moving incline to the plane began bunching together. One by one pieces of luggage began falling about 20 feet to the tarmac, then crashing open and their contents spilling out. Luckily, I didn't see my suitcase in the mess. The conveyor belt was stopped, the pile-up of suitcases straightened out and the rest, including mine, were safely added to the plane's hold. Within a very short time we were in the air headed for Rome.
Believe me, I prayed I wouldn't have anyone sitting next to me on the flight from Rome to New York. Once we landed in Rome and began loading the passengers who would fly with us on to New York, the seat next to me remained empty. Thank God. Whoops! I sighed as I looked out my window. All of a sudden a robust, Catholic Priest plunked down next to me with a huge smile and a handshake. Needless to say, sitting there in my Levis and sweatshirt, with my backpack at my feet, I was not a happy camper. After all, I was raised in the Episcopal Church.
It took a few minutes for Father Farrell to settle into his seat and get his belt tightened over his girth. I began reading the in-flight magazine and he stopped to pray, I guess. Soon the stewardess was offering earphones. I deferred, because I only had drachmas in my pocket. Father Farrell said, "I'll pay for them, because I want to watch the movie. You can use them to listen to music until then," and he plunked them on my tray. The arrangement worked fine. Next our lunch trays were brought. Father Farrell reached back and forth between our two trays, putting meat and veggies on his and all the deserts on mine. "There. I'm Diabetic and fat, you're young and thin," and that arrangement also worked just fine. I was beginning to enjoy my flight after all.
Before we landed we had become well acquainted. He had been the Priest who made arrangements for Americans to meet with the Pope and was now retiring back to his New York parish. "They say I should've been a Baptist," he said, "because I always have candy for the little ones at Sunday School." And, just as we were getting off the plane, he added: "You really should go see the 'Rockettes.' I certainly plan to." We parted then, but having exchanged addresses and phone numbers kept in touch for years until he passed away. What a wonderful friend I had found.
There's more of course. In haste, the counter girl in Greece had only booked me as far as New York, although my original ticket was all the way to Los Angeles. The next plane to LA would be the following morning providing there was a 'no show' and I had no money and nowhere to stay. I sat on the floor next to the check-in desk. Finally, tired of me complaining, they gave me vouchers: bus to the hotel, a single room for the night, dinner and breakfast, then a bus back to the airport. Whew!
Soon after retiring, there was a knock on my door. "Hey, let me in. I'm the bartender and I just got off work." I didn't even breath. Didn't say a word. He finally went away. Actually, I slept well, my 'wake up call' came early, dressed, had breakfast and made it to the airport on time. There I waited at the check-in desk for a 'no show' and that didn't happen. "Sorry, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. All flights are booked to LA." I had no choice but to go into action. "I don't have any money. No place to stay the night. Not my fault that I wasn't booked all the way through to LA," and I said it all loudly. "Just a minute. Looks like we do have a 'no show' in first class. Here's your ticket. You can board now."
I was next to the last person to board. I had the isle seat. The last person was a tall man carrying a custom pool-cue case with gold letters 'JA' and he looked very wealthy. I got up for him to sit at the window: "Why don't you sit at the window?" he said. "I travel this route all the time. I'll sit on the isle." I did. He did. In a few moments we were in flight and I could see the Statue of Liberty? No, wrong side of the plane.
'JA' was reading a script for Gun Smoke. I wondered, who is this important person? "Say, don't you ever go to the movies?" He looked perturbed. "Sure," I said. He frowned, "Did you see the movie, Poseidon Adventure?" "Sure." "Well, I almost won an award for playing Shelly Winter's husband." About that time, a very handsome man (found out he was well known on the horse-racing circuit) leaned across the isle. "What's the matter Jack, met someone who doesn't know who you are?" After that we were are great friends for the whole trip.
Still in my Levis, I probably looked like a 'flower child' (no one ever believed I was 40) and I mentioned I would need to borrow a coin for the payphone, because I only had drachmas and would need to get my transportation back to Claremont taken care of. Jack Albertson reached into his pocket. "Here's a dime for the phone call and a dollar just in case you need it. Come see me on the stage in Odd Fellows next month." As we stepped onto the tarmac, the guy I'd met across the isle, caught up with me. "What a cheap guy. Here's a twenty." I said I'd pay him back. "That's a deal. I'll come take you to dinner one night." And he did. It was a short, but enjoyable friendship.
I did go to LA to see the stage play Odd Fellows. Afterwards, I went back stage. "You can't come back stage. Sorry." noted the guard at the steps. "Just tell Jack Albertson there's a lady here with a dollar and a dime." Jack did welcome me. I did repay him and we had a good laugh. I might add that he was one of those rare actors who had been married for many years and was totally in love with his wife. What a wonderful man. What a nice coincidence, on my travels home, after my first backpacking trip to Europe.
I had a window seat and watched in horror as suitcases being sent down a moving incline to the plane began bunching together. One by one pieces of luggage began falling about 20 feet to the tarmac, then crashing open and their contents spilling out. Luckily, I didn't see my suitcase in the mess. The conveyor belt was stopped, the pile-up of suitcases straightened out and the rest, including mine, were safely added to the plane's hold. Within a very short time we were in the air headed for Rome.
Believe me, I prayed I wouldn't have anyone sitting next to me on the flight from Rome to New York. Once we landed in Rome and began loading the passengers who would fly with us on to New York, the seat next to me remained empty. Thank God. Whoops! I sighed as I looked out my window. All of a sudden a robust, Catholic Priest plunked down next to me with a huge smile and a handshake. Needless to say, sitting there in my Levis and sweatshirt, with my backpack at my feet, I was not a happy camper. After all, I was raised in the Episcopal Church.
It took a few minutes for Father Farrell to settle into his seat and get his belt tightened over his girth. I began reading the in-flight magazine and he stopped to pray, I guess. Soon the stewardess was offering earphones. I deferred, because I only had drachmas in my pocket. Father Farrell said, "I'll pay for them, because I want to watch the movie. You can use them to listen to music until then," and he plunked them on my tray. The arrangement worked fine. Next our lunch trays were brought. Father Farrell reached back and forth between our two trays, putting meat and veggies on his and all the deserts on mine. "There. I'm Diabetic and fat, you're young and thin," and that arrangement also worked just fine. I was beginning to enjoy my flight after all.
Before we landed we had become well acquainted. He had been the Priest who made arrangements for Americans to meet with the Pope and was now retiring back to his New York parish. "They say I should've been a Baptist," he said, "because I always have candy for the little ones at Sunday School." And, just as we were getting off the plane, he added: "You really should go see the 'Rockettes.' I certainly plan to." We parted then, but having exchanged addresses and phone numbers kept in touch for years until he passed away. What a wonderful friend I had found.
There's more of course. In haste, the counter girl in Greece had only booked me as far as New York, although my original ticket was all the way to Los Angeles. The next plane to LA would be the following morning providing there was a 'no show' and I had no money and nowhere to stay. I sat on the floor next to the check-in desk. Finally, tired of me complaining, they gave me vouchers: bus to the hotel, a single room for the night, dinner and breakfast, then a bus back to the airport. Whew!
Soon after retiring, there was a knock on my door. "Hey, let me in. I'm the bartender and I just got off work." I didn't even breath. Didn't say a word. He finally went away. Actually, I slept well, my 'wake up call' came early, dressed, had breakfast and made it to the airport on time. There I waited at the check-in desk for a 'no show' and that didn't happen. "Sorry, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. All flights are booked to LA." I had no choice but to go into action. "I don't have any money. No place to stay the night. Not my fault that I wasn't booked all the way through to LA," and I said it all loudly. "Just a minute. Looks like we do have a 'no show' in first class. Here's your ticket. You can board now."
I was next to the last person to board. I had the isle seat. The last person was a tall man carrying a custom pool-cue case with gold letters 'JA' and he looked very wealthy. I got up for him to sit at the window: "Why don't you sit at the window?" he said. "I travel this route all the time. I'll sit on the isle." I did. He did. In a few moments we were in flight and I could see the Statue of Liberty? No, wrong side of the plane.
'JA' was reading a script for Gun Smoke. I wondered, who is this important person? "Say, don't you ever go to the movies?" He looked perturbed. "Sure," I said. He frowned, "Did you see the movie, Poseidon Adventure?" "Sure." "Well, I almost won an award for playing Shelly Winter's husband." About that time, a very handsome man (found out he was well known on the horse-racing circuit) leaned across the isle. "What's the matter Jack, met someone who doesn't know who you are?" After that we were are great friends for the whole trip.
Still in my Levis, I probably looked like a 'flower child' (no one ever believed I was 40) and I mentioned I would need to borrow a coin for the payphone, because I only had drachmas and would need to get my transportation back to Claremont taken care of. Jack Albertson reached into his pocket. "Here's a dime for the phone call and a dollar just in case you need it. Come see me on the stage in Odd Fellows next month." As we stepped onto the tarmac, the guy I'd met across the isle, caught up with me. "What a cheap guy. Here's a twenty." I said I'd pay him back. "That's a deal. I'll come take you to dinner one night." And he did. It was a short, but enjoyable friendship.
I did go to LA to see the stage play Odd Fellows. Afterwards, I went back stage. "You can't come back stage. Sorry." noted the guard at the steps. "Just tell Jack Albertson there's a lady here with a dollar and a dime." Jack did welcome me. I did repay him and we had a good laugh. I might add that he was one of those rare actors who had been married for many years and was totally in love with his wife. What a wonderful man. What a nice coincidence, on my travels home, after my first backpacking trip to Europe.
Backpacking and the Greek Isles
Finally, I reached the Greek Island of Santorini (Thera of ancient times) and stayed for several days. There was a simple, although more vigorous way to reach the top of the cliffs. So rather than the expense of hiring a donkey, I managed the plain old foot-path way and the view as I climbed higher and higher was well worth the effort.
As seen from the ships that pass the island, the buildings seemed carved from a huge white marble slab. On closer examination, they are of concrete whitewashed annually and rounded, without a squared line anywhere in sight. Absolutely beautiful with lush greenery and brilliant flowers, like jewels here and there. Once you have meandered out of the business district and hostels, the houses are dotted here and there with farming evident. Other than tourism, these resident families generally depend on income from the men who are employed by the Greek ship building industry.
It's been years since I was on the island. I see from current brochures that it has built a more posh tourist business, so I probably would not want to go back. I loved the fact, while there, that it had just a small town atmosphere with friendly people. I should clarify 'friendly' with this next tale of one evening with a group of fellow backpackers and a local young Greek gentleman willing to show us a bit of their culture. We were escorted to a small family-cafe inland and enjoyed a fine Greek dinner followed by a small group of musicians playing Greek music.
Suddenly, a young couple began dancing (I was told brother and sister since they still followed the custom of single women not allowed to be seen with a single man). When they left the dancing and returned to their seats, some people began throwing clean plates that broke into pieces, with much noise and applause. I got so excited. I didn't have a plate to throw, so I threw my wine glass. As it broke among the plates scattered across the floor, the applause and music stopped. It was evident what I had done was not a bit appreciated by anyone in the room.
Immediately, our Greek gentleman quickly pulled me into the kitchen and my friends scooted out the front door. The music began once again, only this time chairs were crashing to the floor and a fist fight had begun in the dining room among the broken dishes and my broken glass. The owners, a middle aged couple, blocked the kitchen door to the dining room and tried to cheer me up saying everything would be alright, that they knew I didn't know their custom (according to my interpreter).
The four of us began doing a Greek dance around the kitchen to the music and clamor in the next room before my Greek friend whisked me out the back door, onto his motorcycle and safely returned me to my hostel. It turns out, the plate throwing is only done by a tribe to compliment their own. If anyone outside of that tribe throws a plate (never a glass) it is a reason to start a fight, which they enjoy. That's why this custom was outlawed throughout Greece and only shown as an 'old custom' to entertain tourists at big hotels in the city. This was an island and they had their own rules.
Aw, but wonderful experiences were there for me on Thera. I was allowed a private tour of an ancient city, once buried in ash and carefully being excavated, to watch how gently ash is brushed from old relics, cobble-stone streets, wall murals. The volcano eruption of years ago that buried Pompii also broke Thera into two pieces, the smaller the shape of a crescent moon and what is now Santorini. The Greeks believe they have uncovered 'The City of Atlantis' and the major findings have now been placed in the Greek Museum of History.
As noted in earlier posts, I mostly wear sandals if it's not wise to go barefoot. I went hiking with my two room mates on a sunny afternoon far above the city being uncovered. We decided to go down what looked to be the easiest route, down over volcanic ash. Bad decision. Halfway down the slope I was slipping and sliding in sandals with sharp stickers in my bare skin. I could go no further.
One friend, a young sturdy woman who taught skiing in Switzerland, just put me on her back and carried me down the rest of the way. Amazing strength, I felt she'd just saved my life. The next day was her birthday. I decided to treat her to breakfast at a little cafe nearby where later in the day Greek men congregated to play games and commiserate no doubt. By now, the cafe owner knew who we were and when I told him it was her birthday he brought us glasses of Cognac at 8:am in the morning. Talk about amazing!
It was time to return to Athens, as the weather was getting much cooler. I had borrowed jackets and sweaters from friends and they too were heading to their homes in other countries. I shall always remember Thera and it was a topic of conversation with the Greek Ambassador's wife while in Kuwait as a newspaper reporter during the 1990's. I will relate the completion of my backpacking trip to Europe in another post, and believe me, there are more surprises in my 'escape' from Greece to Rome to New York and finally Los Angeles and home.
As seen from the ships that pass the island, the buildings seemed carved from a huge white marble slab. On closer examination, they are of concrete whitewashed annually and rounded, without a squared line anywhere in sight. Absolutely beautiful with lush greenery and brilliant flowers, like jewels here and there. Once you have meandered out of the business district and hostels, the houses are dotted here and there with farming evident. Other than tourism, these resident families generally depend on income from the men who are employed by the Greek ship building industry.
It's been years since I was on the island. I see from current brochures that it has built a more posh tourist business, so I probably would not want to go back. I loved the fact, while there, that it had just a small town atmosphere with friendly people. I should clarify 'friendly' with this next tale of one evening with a group of fellow backpackers and a local young Greek gentleman willing to show us a bit of their culture. We were escorted to a small family-cafe inland and enjoyed a fine Greek dinner followed by a small group of musicians playing Greek music.
Suddenly, a young couple began dancing (I was told brother and sister since they still followed the custom of single women not allowed to be seen with a single man). When they left the dancing and returned to their seats, some people began throwing clean plates that broke into pieces, with much noise and applause. I got so excited. I didn't have a plate to throw, so I threw my wine glass. As it broke among the plates scattered across the floor, the applause and music stopped. It was evident what I had done was not a bit appreciated by anyone in the room.
Immediately, our Greek gentleman quickly pulled me into the kitchen and my friends scooted out the front door. The music began once again, only this time chairs were crashing to the floor and a fist fight had begun in the dining room among the broken dishes and my broken glass. The owners, a middle aged couple, blocked the kitchen door to the dining room and tried to cheer me up saying everything would be alright, that they knew I didn't know their custom (according to my interpreter).
The four of us began doing a Greek dance around the kitchen to the music and clamor in the next room before my Greek friend whisked me out the back door, onto his motorcycle and safely returned me to my hostel. It turns out, the plate throwing is only done by a tribe to compliment their own. If anyone outside of that tribe throws a plate (never a glass) it is a reason to start a fight, which they enjoy. That's why this custom was outlawed throughout Greece and only shown as an 'old custom' to entertain tourists at big hotels in the city. This was an island and they had their own rules.
Aw, but wonderful experiences were there for me on Thera. I was allowed a private tour of an ancient city, once buried in ash and carefully being excavated, to watch how gently ash is brushed from old relics, cobble-stone streets, wall murals. The volcano eruption of years ago that buried Pompii also broke Thera into two pieces, the smaller the shape of a crescent moon and what is now Santorini. The Greeks believe they have uncovered 'The City of Atlantis' and the major findings have now been placed in the Greek Museum of History.
As noted in earlier posts, I mostly wear sandals if it's not wise to go barefoot. I went hiking with my two room mates on a sunny afternoon far above the city being uncovered. We decided to go down what looked to be the easiest route, down over volcanic ash. Bad decision. Halfway down the slope I was slipping and sliding in sandals with sharp stickers in my bare skin. I could go no further.
One friend, a young sturdy woman who taught skiing in Switzerland, just put me on her back and carried me down the rest of the way. Amazing strength, I felt she'd just saved my life. The next day was her birthday. I decided to treat her to breakfast at a little cafe nearby where later in the day Greek men congregated to play games and commiserate no doubt. By now, the cafe owner knew who we were and when I told him it was her birthday he brought us glasses of Cognac at 8:am in the morning. Talk about amazing!
It was time to return to Athens, as the weather was getting much cooler. I had borrowed jackets and sweaters from friends and they too were heading to their homes in other countries. I shall always remember Thera and it was a topic of conversation with the Greek Ambassador's wife while in Kuwait as a newspaper reporter during the 1990's. I will relate the completion of my backpacking trip to Europe in another post, and believe me, there are more surprises in my 'escape' from Greece to Rome to New York and finally Los Angeles and home.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Backpacking Through Italy
In the first writing of my backpacking trip to Europe, half a lifetime before, I have given you the beginning and ending of my adventure. Now I'll share with you the really exciting, fun, wonderful moments that ran throughout this first daring 'all by myself' journey.
My trip to Europe spanned from August through October, which I'd read would be less crowded with tourists, and as I traveled that turned out to be true. Landing in Rome was indeed awesome, flying in over the Vatican and roof-top gardens on ancient buildings, along busy cobblestone streets. I headed for the closest pensione noted in my travel book and settled in. It was a very tiny private room, with a washbasin and the communal toilet just down the hall. No bath or shower, so I had to manage with my small sink, but I was up to it just to be in Rome.
Over my month and a half stay in Italy I traveled by bus and train from the toe of the boot all the way up to Venice. I followed the life of Michelangelo to every possible corner. Climbed up and around the Leaning Tower of Pisa and found it was much smaller than I had imagined. The Sistine Chapel Ceiling was outrageously beautiful and that was before the restoration. I felt weak in my knees looking up and finally sat on the floor for quite some time wishing I could just lay on my back for hours in admiration of the work of art. Seeing the Statue of David also took my breath away, and the hundreds of marble statues throughout Italy were incredible. I especially was enthralled with Michelangelo's unfinished piece where it appeared the man was literally climbing from within the block of marble. Fantastic!
I had one after-dark tour of the Tivoli Gardens with lush plantings draped along massive stepped plantings that had been threaded with tiny electric lights for night viewing. I had opted for 'art as food for soul' rather than money for food. Lost a few pounds, felt wonderfully full of new found energy. Yes, I tossed coins in many fountains and when no one was looking even dipped my bare feet in one fountain after walking miles. Thinking of food, I managed most meals on fresh fruits and vegetables stopping for a pastry once in a while with a cup of tea. Remember, I travel on the cheap. I meet the real people.
One aside you might enjoy me sharing: I had read that women were often pinched on the butt as tourists. In order to fit in with the locals I opted not to shave my legs or underarms. Very 'bohemian' and very Italian at the time. I was never pinched on the butt. Besides, I found that at 5'7" I was taller than most Italian men and my size 8 shoe was probably bigger than theirs. I did 'hitch-hike' from Venice out to Burano the island of lace making, and Murano the famous island of glass blowing, generally in a very small motor craft.
I finally decided to head for Greece on a moments notice, the way I generally like to travel. That's how my suitcase was left behind at the dock. Three weeks later the suitcase caught up with me, sorry to say, and I had to lug it around once again. My greatest travel lesson, pack only what you absolutely need to pack. I ended up generally wearing the same half dozen outfits again and again, which certainly fit in my backpack alone. Another travel hint that I obeyed, "leave your expensive jewelry at home."
Arriving by ship to the port outside Athens, brought us through a very narrow passage with high cliffs to either side and armed Greek military guards standing along the edge with their high-powered rifles and looking very stern in deed. You could almost touch the walls of the passage from the deck of the ship by leaning over close. The ship had to enter this space with engines cut way back so we were sort of drifting.
I had read, in my little travel book, that the best place to spend my first night would be the YWCA, where someone would speak English, the dorm-style rooms were clean and orderly, you could shower and do some laundry and the cafeteria buffet-style was decent. I stayed and recouped before heading out on my own the next day.
I did find that as an American female I could have a free-lunch just by walking by the sidewalk restaurants near the ruins. A Greek man would offer me a seat at his table, always one who did speak a little English: "Now that you've had lunch, would you accompany me to my flat/" I would show surprise at such a question and adamantly reply. "Thank you for lunch, but no." "That's alright, my friends have seen you dining with me and will believe you have fulfilled my wish. That's enough for me." Well, what do you expect? Of course, there is such a thing as 'a free lunch' if you plan carefully.
As in Italy, I went to every ruin I could get to by bus or train. I met delightful people along the way, others who were backpacking. We would join together from time to time which allowed me to enjoy some after dark outings at small restaurants on various Greek Islands. Passing from one island to the next by boat I paid for the lower level, because it was cheapest. There were no women and the men looked a bit scary. I managed to talk the 'gate-keeper of the stairs' to let me go up top. He allowed me to escape and the view from that level was gorgeous. From Mykonos to Crete we passed an island that had steep cliffs where donkeys were carrying passengers and luggage up zig-zag trails. Our boat didn't stop there, but I was told this was the Island of Santorini I knew I had to return. Once on Crete I announced I would like to catch the next boat back that very night. "Sorry, you'll have to wait until morning. No more boats tonight."
I soon found a small pensione where I could stay the night. I decided to take a walk out through the vineyards. A wagon being pulled by a horse stopped in front of me. There were two men riding atop piles of freshly picked grapes, with two women children walking alongside. One of the men reached back into the wagon and handed me a huge bunch of beautiful grapes, saluted me, then they went on their way. The sun was just setting and it had become a serendipity that I had to remain for that night.
I did catch the morning boat to Thera after a cup of very strong coffee thick with grounds. The night before at the pensione an Italian couple shared a special drink with me, apparently some grapes are buried in the ground to rot over time before being made into this very pungent drink. A couple sips is guaranteed to give you a very good night's sleep. I'll save my stay on Thera for the next part.
My trip to Europe spanned from August through October, which I'd read would be less crowded with tourists, and as I traveled that turned out to be true. Landing in Rome was indeed awesome, flying in over the Vatican and roof-top gardens on ancient buildings, along busy cobblestone streets. I headed for the closest pensione noted in my travel book and settled in. It was a very tiny private room, with a washbasin and the communal toilet just down the hall. No bath or shower, so I had to manage with my small sink, but I was up to it just to be in Rome.
Over my month and a half stay in Italy I traveled by bus and train from the toe of the boot all the way up to Venice. I followed the life of Michelangelo to every possible corner. Climbed up and around the Leaning Tower of Pisa and found it was much smaller than I had imagined. The Sistine Chapel Ceiling was outrageously beautiful and that was before the restoration. I felt weak in my knees looking up and finally sat on the floor for quite some time wishing I could just lay on my back for hours in admiration of the work of art. Seeing the Statue of David also took my breath away, and the hundreds of marble statues throughout Italy were incredible. I especially was enthralled with Michelangelo's unfinished piece where it appeared the man was literally climbing from within the block of marble. Fantastic!
I had one after-dark tour of the Tivoli Gardens with lush plantings draped along massive stepped plantings that had been threaded with tiny electric lights for night viewing. I had opted for 'art as food for soul' rather than money for food. Lost a few pounds, felt wonderfully full of new found energy. Yes, I tossed coins in many fountains and when no one was looking even dipped my bare feet in one fountain after walking miles. Thinking of food, I managed most meals on fresh fruits and vegetables stopping for a pastry once in a while with a cup of tea. Remember, I travel on the cheap. I meet the real people.
One aside you might enjoy me sharing: I had read that women were often pinched on the butt as tourists. In order to fit in with the locals I opted not to shave my legs or underarms. Very 'bohemian' and very Italian at the time. I was never pinched on the butt. Besides, I found that at 5'7" I was taller than most Italian men and my size 8 shoe was probably bigger than theirs. I did 'hitch-hike' from Venice out to Burano the island of lace making, and Murano the famous island of glass blowing, generally in a very small motor craft.
I finally decided to head for Greece on a moments notice, the way I generally like to travel. That's how my suitcase was left behind at the dock. Three weeks later the suitcase caught up with me, sorry to say, and I had to lug it around once again. My greatest travel lesson, pack only what you absolutely need to pack. I ended up generally wearing the same half dozen outfits again and again, which certainly fit in my backpack alone. Another travel hint that I obeyed, "leave your expensive jewelry at home."
Arriving by ship to the port outside Athens, brought us through a very narrow passage with high cliffs to either side and armed Greek military guards standing along the edge with their high-powered rifles and looking very stern in deed. You could almost touch the walls of the passage from the deck of the ship by leaning over close. The ship had to enter this space with engines cut way back so we were sort of drifting.
I had read, in my little travel book, that the best place to spend my first night would be the YWCA, where someone would speak English, the dorm-style rooms were clean and orderly, you could shower and do some laundry and the cafeteria buffet-style was decent. I stayed and recouped before heading out on my own the next day.
I did find that as an American female I could have a free-lunch just by walking by the sidewalk restaurants near the ruins. A Greek man would offer me a seat at his table, always one who did speak a little English: "Now that you've had lunch, would you accompany me to my flat/" I would show surprise at such a question and adamantly reply. "Thank you for lunch, but no." "That's alright, my friends have seen you dining with me and will believe you have fulfilled my wish. That's enough for me." Well, what do you expect? Of course, there is such a thing as 'a free lunch' if you plan carefully.
As in Italy, I went to every ruin I could get to by bus or train. I met delightful people along the way, others who were backpacking. We would join together from time to time which allowed me to enjoy some after dark outings at small restaurants on various Greek Islands. Passing from one island to the next by boat I paid for the lower level, because it was cheapest. There were no women and the men looked a bit scary. I managed to talk the 'gate-keeper of the stairs' to let me go up top. He allowed me to escape and the view from that level was gorgeous. From Mykonos to Crete we passed an island that had steep cliffs where donkeys were carrying passengers and luggage up zig-zag trails. Our boat didn't stop there, but I was told this was the Island of Santorini I knew I had to return. Once on Crete I announced I would like to catch the next boat back that very night. "Sorry, you'll have to wait until morning. No more boats tonight."
I soon found a small pensione where I could stay the night. I decided to take a walk out through the vineyards. A wagon being pulled by a horse stopped in front of me. There were two men riding atop piles of freshly picked grapes, with two women children walking alongside. One of the men reached back into the wagon and handed me a huge bunch of beautiful grapes, saluted me, then they went on their way. The sun was just setting and it had become a serendipity that I had to remain for that night.
I did catch the morning boat to Thera after a cup of very strong coffee thick with grounds. The night before at the pensione an Italian couple shared a special drink with me, apparently some grapes are buried in the ground to rot over time before being made into this very pungent drink. A couple sips is guaranteed to give you a very good night's sleep. I'll save my stay on Thera for the next part.
Backpacking Through Europe
During my four years between marriages, I chose to travel the world. My first trip to Hawaii had certainly wet my appetite for more. Now my two children we young adults. And I was free of my 'ex' who never traveled farther than to fish or hunt. I now felt free as a bird. Our ranch house in Covina Hills had been sold and I had moved into my Claremont apartment. Also, I had the independence of owning a successful business that afforded me travel time. So it was time to take full advantage of being free and single.
My cousin, Olive, was a very astute and trusted manager of my bridal boutique JD's mother, my lovely mother-in-law, had passed before we decided to divorce and I'd wanted no part of the division of her estate. She had left me and my children with fond memories of her loving and caring ways. I had always suggested that she should "travel to Denmark" and relive her parents childhood, but she always insisted she wanted to leave what she could to her three boys. She was always thinking of others rather than herself. Sad that virtue wasn't passed onto JD.
Anyway, I was now more than ready to travel. The first item I purchased was Europe on $10 A Day, followed by buying a sturdy backpack. I read that staying in youth hostels and pensiones were very inexpensive. However, it would be important to carry along a 'sheet-bag' sewn with both sides intact, a flap to cover a pillow and another to fold down over the top of a blanket to avoid touching anything that might have germs. So I accomplished that sewing task. The suggestion also was to lay out what clothes you wanted to take, then put half back into your closet and only take the absolutely necessary items in your backpack. This entailed a complete change of clothes plus an extra set of underwear (every night wash dirty clothes and re-pack the dry before continuing on your trek).
My biggest mistake, on that first backpacking trek, was to over pack. I decided to add a small suitcase, well not really small enough, and fortune had it that my suitcase was left behind as I caught my ride on a ship from Brindesi, Italy to Athens, Greece. The passage was an overnight sail. I ended up with two room mates, one from France and the other from Germany. None of us spoke other than our own language, so sign language became our way of communication.
As the following day was sunny and warm, ideal for sunbathing on the deck, my room mates soon realized I was stuck with only Levis and t-shirts. Quickly they outfitted me in a bikini, as each had brought along two bikinis. The top part of the bikini from the hefty German girl was my size and the bottom part of the bikini belonging to the petite French girl also fit me. We later had our photo taken, which shows the mix-match of the four bikinis on we three girls.
In return for their assist in my hour of need, I embroidered flowers on their Levis as a gift and painted their toenails blue like mine. I don't recall any suggestion of putting embroidery thread and needle in your backpack. Although we parted ways as we left the ship that evening, we did run into each other once again on one of the Greek Islands. After hugs all around, we again headed off in different directions.
The French girl and I stayed in touch for a few years, so that another trip to France during my second marriage along with my husband, gave us a chance to meet once again. By this time I had learned a little French and she had mastered the English language, so we enjoyed our conversation over tea and French pastries.
I should explain that I had bought an open-ended round trip ticket on that first backpacking trek, without any other solid plans of where, when or how to travel or when to return back to the US. It was almost three months before I returned home and that was mainly because the clothes I had packed merely sufficed the summer months and it was now October.
I had to ditch my worn out sandals for a pair of Italian men's shoes. All the women's shoes were too wide for my feet. Apparently, all the narrow women's shoes are shipped to western countries. I bought a sweatshirt to keep warm, which was my last purchase of the trip. Believe it or not, I didn't catch a cold. As my mother would've said, "No sense, no feeling!"
My last Sunday in Greece was spent in Athens Central Park sketching. I was constantly being harassed by disgusting, rude men. I would generally ignore their advances until I'd finally had enough. I stood up and threatened one of these guys very loudly and sat down again to catch my breath and cool down. Just then I noticed a nice looking young man sitting on another bench nearby. He smiled and ambled over to me. In perfect English he said, "I think you handled the situation quite well." He was a tall blond wearing a dark suit and a turtle-neck sweater. "Would you like to take a cup of tea with me? There's a cafe just at the edge of the park." "Sure, why not."
I'll tell you why not. As I looked back, I remembered he hadn't looked me directly in my eyes during our conversations in the park or at the cafe. That should have been a warning to me. "Would you like to walk over to the marble steps just across the highway?" That was the ancient arena where sporting events were held a thousand years ago. "I would love to." We walked up several steps, actually seating for those events of history and sat facing the setting sun.
Now, I had vowed to never be out after dark, and told him "I really need to catch my bus back to the hostel." Surprise! He now looked directly into my eyes as he grabbed my long hair in one hand and with his other hand started to strangle me. He was certainly stronger than me. I remembered my mother saying not to try fighting in such an instance "because you'll only excite the guy more."
Calm as I could muster in this situation, I asked, "Niko (he had told me his name earlier) do you have a sister?" "Yes. And, I hate her!" and his grip on me tightened. Just then a Greek cop had climbed over the back of the bleachers and ran down past us and Niko loosened his grip on me. I knew it was no use to try to get the cop's attention. Back then, most Greeks didn't speak English and I knew that although Niko had lived in England for awhile, he spoke fluent Greek. I did manage to scoot down a couple of steps before he reached out to grab me again. "Niko, do you have a brother?" "No, why do you ask?" He looked very strange and released me long enough for me to continue on down the steps. I knew this guy was crazy.
Next he grabbed my left arm. "Let's go back into the park. It's dark now and no one will see us." True, it was now night time and we were crossing the highway back towards the park. People who were headed towards us were hastily heading home after work. I did mange to catch the eye of one man as he passed. I said, "See you back at the hostel in a few minutes." I don't think he understood what I said, but I think Niko thought he might be remembered as having been with me.
As we approached the first park entrance path I was able to edge on through the approaching crowd. However, at the second entrance he pulled me onto a nearby bench. I took the chance to try another ploy. "Niko, I'm expected back at the hostel. That man I spoke to will surely tell everyone he saw me with this good looking blond guy and that I'll be there soon. Why don't we plan to meet right here again just after dark tomorrow night?" He looked tired and confused. He agreed and as I hurried away he was still sitting there. His last words were "I have a pain in my head." He was holding his hands over his face the last time I saw him.
Now I panicked, after the fact. I got on the wrong bus, going the wrong way. A young college aged couple were sitting near by and understood what I was trying to explain to the bus driver. They came to my aid, got the bus to let me off, ran me through back streets to another bus line and put me on board: "The driver will let you off just two blocks from your hostel." And that he did.
I ran to the hostel, exhausted, and told the manager my story. He called the Police Station and relayed to me that they were looking for a man of that description who had molested a woman in the park and might be responsible for several who had been murdered there. They wanted me to keep the date the following night with Niko. I don't think so. I left the next morning, a day before my scheduled flight back to the US.
Of course, there's much more to the story of my escape, that night at the hostel after the phone call to the police, my frantic effort to get out of Greece, my flight stalled in New York, with only a few drachmas in my pocket. The important people that I met during the confusion and my final trip to Los Angeles. Stay tuned.
My cousin, Olive, was a very astute and trusted manager of my bridal boutique JD's mother, my lovely mother-in-law, had passed before we decided to divorce and I'd wanted no part of the division of her estate. She had left me and my children with fond memories of her loving and caring ways. I had always suggested that she should "travel to Denmark" and relive her parents childhood, but she always insisted she wanted to leave what she could to her three boys. She was always thinking of others rather than herself. Sad that virtue wasn't passed onto JD.
Anyway, I was now more than ready to travel. The first item I purchased was Europe on $10 A Day, followed by buying a sturdy backpack. I read that staying in youth hostels and pensiones were very inexpensive. However, it would be important to carry along a 'sheet-bag' sewn with both sides intact, a flap to cover a pillow and another to fold down over the top of a blanket to avoid touching anything that might have germs. So I accomplished that sewing task. The suggestion also was to lay out what clothes you wanted to take, then put half back into your closet and only take the absolutely necessary items in your backpack. This entailed a complete change of clothes plus an extra set of underwear (every night wash dirty clothes and re-pack the dry before continuing on your trek).
My biggest mistake, on that first backpacking trek, was to over pack. I decided to add a small suitcase, well not really small enough, and fortune had it that my suitcase was left behind as I caught my ride on a ship from Brindesi, Italy to Athens, Greece. The passage was an overnight sail. I ended up with two room mates, one from France and the other from Germany. None of us spoke other than our own language, so sign language became our way of communication.
As the following day was sunny and warm, ideal for sunbathing on the deck, my room mates soon realized I was stuck with only Levis and t-shirts. Quickly they outfitted me in a bikini, as each had brought along two bikinis. The top part of the bikini from the hefty German girl was my size and the bottom part of the bikini belonging to the petite French girl also fit me. We later had our photo taken, which shows the mix-match of the four bikinis on we three girls.
In return for their assist in my hour of need, I embroidered flowers on their Levis as a gift and painted their toenails blue like mine. I don't recall any suggestion of putting embroidery thread and needle in your backpack. Although we parted ways as we left the ship that evening, we did run into each other once again on one of the Greek Islands. After hugs all around, we again headed off in different directions.
The French girl and I stayed in touch for a few years, so that another trip to France during my second marriage along with my husband, gave us a chance to meet once again. By this time I had learned a little French and she had mastered the English language, so we enjoyed our conversation over tea and French pastries.
I should explain that I had bought an open-ended round trip ticket on that first backpacking trek, without any other solid plans of where, when or how to travel or when to return back to the US. It was almost three months before I returned home and that was mainly because the clothes I had packed merely sufficed the summer months and it was now October.
I had to ditch my worn out sandals for a pair of Italian men's shoes. All the women's shoes were too wide for my feet. Apparently, all the narrow women's shoes are shipped to western countries. I bought a sweatshirt to keep warm, which was my last purchase of the trip. Believe it or not, I didn't catch a cold. As my mother would've said, "No sense, no feeling!"
My last Sunday in Greece was spent in Athens Central Park sketching. I was constantly being harassed by disgusting, rude men. I would generally ignore their advances until I'd finally had enough. I stood up and threatened one of these guys very loudly and sat down again to catch my breath and cool down. Just then I noticed a nice looking young man sitting on another bench nearby. He smiled and ambled over to me. In perfect English he said, "I think you handled the situation quite well." He was a tall blond wearing a dark suit and a turtle-neck sweater. "Would you like to take a cup of tea with me? There's a cafe just at the edge of the park." "Sure, why not."
I'll tell you why not. As I looked back, I remembered he hadn't looked me directly in my eyes during our conversations in the park or at the cafe. That should have been a warning to me. "Would you like to walk over to the marble steps just across the highway?" That was the ancient arena where sporting events were held a thousand years ago. "I would love to." We walked up several steps, actually seating for those events of history and sat facing the setting sun.
Now, I had vowed to never be out after dark, and told him "I really need to catch my bus back to the hostel." Surprise! He now looked directly into my eyes as he grabbed my long hair in one hand and with his other hand started to strangle me. He was certainly stronger than me. I remembered my mother saying not to try fighting in such an instance "because you'll only excite the guy more."
Calm as I could muster in this situation, I asked, "Niko (he had told me his name earlier) do you have a sister?" "Yes. And, I hate her!" and his grip on me tightened. Just then a Greek cop had climbed over the back of the bleachers and ran down past us and Niko loosened his grip on me. I knew it was no use to try to get the cop's attention. Back then, most Greeks didn't speak English and I knew that although Niko had lived in England for awhile, he spoke fluent Greek. I did manage to scoot down a couple of steps before he reached out to grab me again. "Niko, do you have a brother?" "No, why do you ask?" He looked very strange and released me long enough for me to continue on down the steps. I knew this guy was crazy.
Next he grabbed my left arm. "Let's go back into the park. It's dark now and no one will see us." True, it was now night time and we were crossing the highway back towards the park. People who were headed towards us were hastily heading home after work. I did mange to catch the eye of one man as he passed. I said, "See you back at the hostel in a few minutes." I don't think he understood what I said, but I think Niko thought he might be remembered as having been with me.
As we approached the first park entrance path I was able to edge on through the approaching crowd. However, at the second entrance he pulled me onto a nearby bench. I took the chance to try another ploy. "Niko, I'm expected back at the hostel. That man I spoke to will surely tell everyone he saw me with this good looking blond guy and that I'll be there soon. Why don't we plan to meet right here again just after dark tomorrow night?" He looked tired and confused. He agreed and as I hurried away he was still sitting there. His last words were "I have a pain in my head." He was holding his hands over his face the last time I saw him.
Now I panicked, after the fact. I got on the wrong bus, going the wrong way. A young college aged couple were sitting near by and understood what I was trying to explain to the bus driver. They came to my aid, got the bus to let me off, ran me through back streets to another bus line and put me on board: "The driver will let you off just two blocks from your hostel." And that he did.
I ran to the hostel, exhausted, and told the manager my story. He called the Police Station and relayed to me that they were looking for a man of that description who had molested a woman in the park and might be responsible for several who had been murdered there. They wanted me to keep the date the following night with Niko. I don't think so. I left the next morning, a day before my scheduled flight back to the US.
Of course, there's much more to the story of my escape, that night at the hostel after the phone call to the police, my frantic effort to get out of Greece, my flight stalled in New York, with only a few drachmas in my pocket. The important people that I met during the confusion and my final trip to Los Angeles. Stay tuned.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
9/11/2001
Where were you on that fateful day, September 11, 2001? That will be the question repeated again and again on each anniversary. Where was I? Let me tell you, it seems like only yesterday.
I was in Kuwait just finishing my work day planning a VIP General's visit to the Arifjan, US Army site near the Saudi border. Although I had left after my nine years as a reporter for the Kuwait Arab Times newspaper, August the year before, I was hired back to Kuwait by the US Army COE to assist our nine engineers. Were we preparing for the 2003 invasion of Iraq? The nine engineers had already completed their work on the Qatar US Airforce Base, which became the strategic headquarters for that upcoming invasion by the US Military in 2003. Remember that initial bombing Iraq deemed "Shock and Awe?"
Here's how I first knew of the disaster in New York. The sun was just going down in the Kuwaiti desert. I was working late in order to complete the itinerary for another general's escorted tour. So many military VIPS wanted their chance to view our progress on the site. A side trip to Kuwait. This was always a major disruption of our regular work activities. The tour plan had to be completed. It was necessary for visitors to be escorted every step of the way, since we were all aware of unexploded devices. This meant driving only in tracks left earlier by an EOD vehicle for safety reasons. At least once a week you would hear an explosion of a discovered personnel or tank mine by a military EOD contingent on site to dispose of ordinance by controlled explosion. Very nerve wracking at times.
My boss, the head engineer, was working with me to complete our task. We were the only Americans left at the trailer offices, along with two Egyptian guards who had already retired to their trailer for the evening. We were just finishing up the last details, when he received a phone call from his wife who worked out at Camp Doha. She had just heard that a plane had crashed into one of the Towers in New York City. He put down the phone and told me what had happened. "She heard it may be just a movie short put on the news as a hoax." So until a second phone call we weren't that concerned. The phone rang again. This time his wife reported a second plane had just crashed into the second Tower. This time there was panic in her voice and I'll always remember the expression of shock on my boss's face when he took that call.
We both froze for a moment. Then he said, "We better finish this up quickly and head on out. Apparently, this has been a terrorist attack on our country." We gathered up the paperwork which had been sorted into the various folders for the VIPs and our engineers that would conduct a tour the next day at our work site. "So, we're finished with our task. Probably the General's visit will be canceled now since we've been attacked. Anyway, our job is done. We'd better head out now before dark."
Just as we were leaving for our Prado vehicles, his wife called again on his cell phone. She explained that no one was now allowed to leave Doha Base. Deciding it was pretty serious, since Iraq was just across the border and suspected of having been involved in the attack, he and I began our 'phone chain' calling each of the other eight engineers who had left earlier. We each called the first one on our list by cell phone and told them to 'pass the word' and told them to 'lock down' their apartments (each had a well secured 2nd floor apartment) and stay there until further notice. As I opened the door to my SUV, he said: "Follow close behind me and let's stay in contact with our cell phones until we get back on the paved road." After a bumpy ride over our one and only way out of the site, it was already night fall by the time we reached the Kuwait Coast Highway. Once home we checked with one another to make sure everyone was safe and secure.
Safe and secure? I didn't have engineer status, so I lived in a 5th floor apartment, far from an American complex and without any real security. Of course, I didn't have access to any 'secret' information either, because our computers had been installed by the US Military and mine could not access the information that might have been valuable to our enemy, whoever that might have been at the time, probably mostly concerned about Iraq. You see, the secure apartments were no more than two floors off the ground and were installed with escape ladders at a window. I guess my only escape would've been to dash down the only stairwell or jump off my balcony as the elevator was usually out of commission. Go figure.
By the time I safely reached my apartment and turned on the local television news channel, there was a video of the Towers burning. Then I watched in absolute disbelief and horror as both Towers imploded to the earth. The audio with the video was saying: "people are jumping to their deaths." I sat on my sofa in total fear and my heart was broken realizing the many families that were literally being torn apart by this horrible event. I turned off the television and sat in the dark for hours praying. There was nothing else I could do.
It was the next day before I received follow up phone calls from my colleagues. Family members back in the US later explained it was impossible to get a call through to Kuwait. I had to rely on US Military information over the next couple of days and everything seemed to be getting worse and no one really had a definitive answer about the situation. Did I know anyone who worked in the Towers? No. However, they were my fellow Americans and I wondered if this meant another World War. I imagined that this could be only the beginning of the end. Yes, I remember exactly where I was September 11, 2001.
I was in Kuwait just finishing my work day planning a VIP General's visit to the Arifjan, US Army site near the Saudi border. Although I had left after my nine years as a reporter for the Kuwait Arab Times newspaper, August the year before, I was hired back to Kuwait by the US Army COE to assist our nine engineers. Were we preparing for the 2003 invasion of Iraq? The nine engineers had already completed their work on the Qatar US Airforce Base, which became the strategic headquarters for that upcoming invasion by the US Military in 2003. Remember that initial bombing Iraq deemed "Shock and Awe?"
Here's how I first knew of the disaster in New York. The sun was just going down in the Kuwaiti desert. I was working late in order to complete the itinerary for another general's escorted tour. So many military VIPS wanted their chance to view our progress on the site. A side trip to Kuwait. This was always a major disruption of our regular work activities. The tour plan had to be completed. It was necessary for visitors to be escorted every step of the way, since we were all aware of unexploded devices. This meant driving only in tracks left earlier by an EOD vehicle for safety reasons. At least once a week you would hear an explosion of a discovered personnel or tank mine by a military EOD contingent on site to dispose of ordinance by controlled explosion. Very nerve wracking at times.
My boss, the head engineer, was working with me to complete our task. We were the only Americans left at the trailer offices, along with two Egyptian guards who had already retired to their trailer for the evening. We were just finishing up the last details, when he received a phone call from his wife who worked out at Camp Doha. She had just heard that a plane had crashed into one of the Towers in New York City. He put down the phone and told me what had happened. "She heard it may be just a movie short put on the news as a hoax." So until a second phone call we weren't that concerned. The phone rang again. This time his wife reported a second plane had just crashed into the second Tower. This time there was panic in her voice and I'll always remember the expression of shock on my boss's face when he took that call.
We both froze for a moment. Then he said, "We better finish this up quickly and head on out. Apparently, this has been a terrorist attack on our country." We gathered up the paperwork which had been sorted into the various folders for the VIPs and our engineers that would conduct a tour the next day at our work site. "So, we're finished with our task. Probably the General's visit will be canceled now since we've been attacked. Anyway, our job is done. We'd better head out now before dark."
Just as we were leaving for our Prado vehicles, his wife called again on his cell phone. She explained that no one was now allowed to leave Doha Base. Deciding it was pretty serious, since Iraq was just across the border and suspected of having been involved in the attack, he and I began our 'phone chain' calling each of the other eight engineers who had left earlier. We each called the first one on our list by cell phone and told them to 'pass the word' and told them to 'lock down' their apartments (each had a well secured 2nd floor apartment) and stay there until further notice. As I opened the door to my SUV, he said: "Follow close behind me and let's stay in contact with our cell phones until we get back on the paved road." After a bumpy ride over our one and only way out of the site, it was already night fall by the time we reached the Kuwait Coast Highway. Once home we checked with one another to make sure everyone was safe and secure.
Safe and secure? I didn't have engineer status, so I lived in a 5th floor apartment, far from an American complex and without any real security. Of course, I didn't have access to any 'secret' information either, because our computers had been installed by the US Military and mine could not access the information that might have been valuable to our enemy, whoever that might have been at the time, probably mostly concerned about Iraq. You see, the secure apartments were no more than two floors off the ground and were installed with escape ladders at a window. I guess my only escape would've been to dash down the only stairwell or jump off my balcony as the elevator was usually out of commission. Go figure.
By the time I safely reached my apartment and turned on the local television news channel, there was a video of the Towers burning. Then I watched in absolute disbelief and horror as both Towers imploded to the earth. The audio with the video was saying: "people are jumping to their deaths." I sat on my sofa in total fear and my heart was broken realizing the many families that were literally being torn apart by this horrible event. I turned off the television and sat in the dark for hours praying. There was nothing else I could do.
It was the next day before I received follow up phone calls from my colleagues. Family members back in the US later explained it was impossible to get a call through to Kuwait. I had to rely on US Military information over the next couple of days and everything seemed to be getting worse and no one really had a definitive answer about the situation. Did I know anyone who worked in the Towers? No. However, they were my fellow Americans and I wondered if this meant another World War. I imagined that this could be only the beginning of the end. Yes, I remember exactly where I was September 11, 2001.
Custer's Folly
'Custer's Last Stand' was taught way back in grammar school showing General Custer as a true American hero and the Indians as the bad guys. I had listened to many of Grandfather's stories of his younger days trading with the Indians, first from a trading post he helped establish in Wyoming. Later he would be away for up to three months riding horseback to Indian camps after getting married and settling in Idaho.
Here Grandfather and his wife Sarah ran a 'general store/ferry crossing/half-way house/post office' from a small farm on the Snake River. Of course, the latter was his idea of "settling down as a husband and father" and Grandmother was often left to raise her brood which consisted of: Hubert, Lila, John, Mae (the only surviving triplet, the first was a boy still-born, and the second an identical girl who died at the age of one due to Whooping Cough), then Helen, Clarence (my father) and lastly Dwight Jr.
Remember, this story is about Custer's folly the way my Grandfather told it to me. "Custer was determined to be a hero and therefore planned the battle of 'Little Bighorn' against the Indians. I knew of both Indian Chiefs, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and neither had a desire to fight General Custer and his battalion. Crazy Horse personally sent that message.
I guess it boiled down to the fact that if these tribes were forced to battle Custer they had no choice but to retaliate, and retaliate they did. It was a slaughter. The history books have tried to show the General as a hero. You see, Custer had anticipated his 'heroic action' making him a candidate for the Presidency of the United Stated. He was more of an egotist, a young General with big ideas."
I looked forward to weekends when I could sit at my grandparents' feet and listen to the stories they spun. Over time I have had proof that they never lied to me, only repeating their connection to life as it was happening. This story about Custer was of great interest to me and I could hardly wait to retell the story to my teacher and classmates. I was sure they would appreciate hearing the truth.
Monday's school day seemed to arrive slower than usual. I believe I skipped all the mile to school that morning not even scuffing the toes of my Buster Brown shoes. Of course I had to sit at my desk once I reached the classroom and wait until after roll call to break the news that our history book was all wrong about 'Custer's Last Stand.'
Finally, it was time. I raised my hand. "You may be excused to go to the bathroom, but hurry back," was my answer. "No, I have something to tell everyone in this classroom." She sighed and then asked what it was about. I told her that my Grandfather had known Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. She looked a bit skeptical, but let me get up in front of the class to tell my story.
Well, when I got to the part that Custer really wasn't a hero at all she quickly stopped me in my tracks and asked me to "sit down." Then she proceeded to explain to my fellow classmates that probably my Grandfather "had just made up a story to entertain Jean, sort of like a fairy tale." I was angry because she didn't believe the story to be true, also disappointed that my classmates didn't believe my story either. My entire day was absolutely ruined. I remember that I refused to play at recess and none of my friends bothered to sit on the bench with me. I was an outcast because of my 'far fetched' tale.
A more recent re-writing of the history, of the battle of 'Little Bighorn,' shows that Grandfather was truthful in correcting my history book way back then. Makes me appreciate the stories that my grandparents took the time to relate to me. Those were the days before television, when radio allowed children to imagine pictures in our own minds, the days when we were happy to play 'kick-the-can' or 'mother-may-I?' with the neighborhood kids, in the street with our parents watching from their porch when all cars were already parked safely in driveways.
There are many more stories that I will enjoy passing on to my readers. Today, grandchildren have other interests than story telling by their grandparents.
Here Grandfather and his wife Sarah ran a 'general store/ferry crossing/half-way house/post office' from a small farm on the Snake River. Of course, the latter was his idea of "settling down as a husband and father" and Grandmother was often left to raise her brood which consisted of: Hubert, Lila, John, Mae (the only surviving triplet, the first was a boy still-born, and the second an identical girl who died at the age of one due to Whooping Cough), then Helen, Clarence (my father) and lastly Dwight Jr.
Remember, this story is about Custer's folly the way my Grandfather told it to me. "Custer was determined to be a hero and therefore planned the battle of 'Little Bighorn' against the Indians. I knew of both Indian Chiefs, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and neither had a desire to fight General Custer and his battalion. Crazy Horse personally sent that message.
I guess it boiled down to the fact that if these tribes were forced to battle Custer they had no choice but to retaliate, and retaliate they did. It was a slaughter. The history books have tried to show the General as a hero. You see, Custer had anticipated his 'heroic action' making him a candidate for the Presidency of the United Stated. He was more of an egotist, a young General with big ideas."
I looked forward to weekends when I could sit at my grandparents' feet and listen to the stories they spun. Over time I have had proof that they never lied to me, only repeating their connection to life as it was happening. This story about Custer was of great interest to me and I could hardly wait to retell the story to my teacher and classmates. I was sure they would appreciate hearing the truth.
Monday's school day seemed to arrive slower than usual. I believe I skipped all the mile to school that morning not even scuffing the toes of my Buster Brown shoes. Of course I had to sit at my desk once I reached the classroom and wait until after roll call to break the news that our history book was all wrong about 'Custer's Last Stand.'
Finally, it was time. I raised my hand. "You may be excused to go to the bathroom, but hurry back," was my answer. "No, I have something to tell everyone in this classroom." She sighed and then asked what it was about. I told her that my Grandfather had known Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. She looked a bit skeptical, but let me get up in front of the class to tell my story.
Well, when I got to the part that Custer really wasn't a hero at all she quickly stopped me in my tracks and asked me to "sit down." Then she proceeded to explain to my fellow classmates that probably my Grandfather "had just made up a story to entertain Jean, sort of like a fairy tale." I was angry because she didn't believe the story to be true, also disappointed that my classmates didn't believe my story either. My entire day was absolutely ruined. I remember that I refused to play at recess and none of my friends bothered to sit on the bench with me. I was an outcast because of my 'far fetched' tale.
A more recent re-writing of the history, of the battle of 'Little Bighorn,' shows that Grandfather was truthful in correcting my history book way back then. Makes me appreciate the stories that my grandparents took the time to relate to me. Those were the days before television, when radio allowed children to imagine pictures in our own minds, the days when we were happy to play 'kick-the-can' or 'mother-may-I?' with the neighborhood kids, in the street with our parents watching from their porch when all cars were already parked safely in driveways.
There are many more stories that I will enjoy passing on to my readers. Today, grandchildren have other interests than story telling by their grandparents.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Barefoot
As I write this blog, as usual I am barefoot with just the soft carpet under my feet and three cats here and there close by: Mr Larry, Lady Sabrina and Sir Chester. I have to take time out every now and then to pet the one nearest at the moment. Mr Larry expects a light foot rub along his back, but only just for the few seconds he allows for such. So, bare feet serves me and the cats quite well.
My earliest realization that going barefoot can sometimes be a little dangerous was at the age of three in the front yard of the Sixth Street house where I began life here on earth. It seems I was running, as usual, down the walkway and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, before I stepped too hard, the bee retaliated with a nasty sting. Father was working in the flowerbed nearby so he picked me up and carried me in to Mother who adeptly removed the stinger with tweezers, "Just think of how much the bee was hurt. You must look where you're going young lady." You'd think I would've learned my lesson early, but obviously not. Most of my foibles are because of being feet first, apparently not using my head first.
As earlier mentioned in my blog about falling so many times throughout the years, you may have surmised that this lack of grace could very well result in stubbed toes (yep) and even a couple of torn out toenails (yuk). Think of the amount of money I would've saved had I worn shoes all my life without the constant need to keep up my pedicure. Think of all the bottles of nail polish purchased, the color du jour. Funny, I generally only apply clear polish to my cut-short fingernails, but have sported such hues as green, purple or blue on toenails on several occasions.
Father used to tease saying: "You're just a hillbilly at heart." And, I didn't mind at all since going barefoot felt absolutely divine. Probably, my biggest mistake was the Monday I hid my Buster Brown (boy shoes) under a bush on the way to Hamilton Primary School in Pomona. I was in the third grade and many of my Mexican friends didn't even own shoes so it seemed perfectly alright for me to also go barefoot to school. And , the teacher didn't say a word about it to any of us.
This routine went on for several days. I would retrieve my shoes and socks from under the bush on the way home so my parents were none the wiser. Well, on one Friday one of my shoes was missing from under that bush, not anywhere in sight. Both socks were in the dirt near by. Probably a dog had run off with the shoe and no doubt gave it a good chew in the process. So, I barefooted my way home over the dirt paths, onto the sidewalk and across Fifth Avenue with the Crossing Guard: "Where are your shoes, missy?" "I don't have any shoes," was my reply and I hurried the rest of the way home.
Now, new shoes were bought only when I had outgrown the old ones. Father always measured a thumb's distance between my toes and the end of the shoe when they were bought, so obviously the Buster Brown's were meant to last the entire school year. I was not allowed to wear my Easter Sunday shoes to school so obviously I was in big trouble. Remember, this was still the fallout from The Great Depression and the purpose of Father buying boy's shoes was because the soles were thicker and no matter how much I deliberately scuffed the toes when walking, the shoes were polished every Saturday ready for the next school week. I knew I had no way out of this one.
Little did I know that during the day a lady from the Salvation Army had stopped by my house to offer "shoes for your little girl." Mother was horrified and declared: "You must have my little girl confused with someone else." And that was that. Now that I had confessed what happened the incident made sense regarding the offer of free shoes. I was sent to bed early that night and told: "Tomorrow we'll buy you another pair of Buster Brown shoes and you will wear them to school every day and not leave them under a bush." So much for going to school barefoot.
I still prefer going barefoot. or at the most wearing sandals, anytime of the year in fact. Although my feet often feel cold to the touch, apparently they're too far from my head to be of any concern. Of course the bummer is having to keep my heels smooth which could be prevented with shoes and socks no doubt. Oh well, it's worth the effort in order to continue going barefoot, or almost barefoot. And, I might add that as a Senior Citizen I have very healthy feet, no foot problems, probably the youngest looking feet in my age group. Go figure.
My earliest realization that going barefoot can sometimes be a little dangerous was at the age of three in the front yard of the Sixth Street house where I began life here on earth. It seems I was running, as usual, down the walkway and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, before I stepped too hard, the bee retaliated with a nasty sting. Father was working in the flowerbed nearby so he picked me up and carried me in to Mother who adeptly removed the stinger with tweezers, "Just think of how much the bee was hurt. You must look where you're going young lady." You'd think I would've learned my lesson early, but obviously not. Most of my foibles are because of being feet first, apparently not using my head first.
As earlier mentioned in my blog about falling so many times throughout the years, you may have surmised that this lack of grace could very well result in stubbed toes (yep) and even a couple of torn out toenails (yuk). Think of the amount of money I would've saved had I worn shoes all my life without the constant need to keep up my pedicure. Think of all the bottles of nail polish purchased, the color du jour. Funny, I generally only apply clear polish to my cut-short fingernails, but have sported such hues as green, purple or blue on toenails on several occasions.
Father used to tease saying: "You're just a hillbilly at heart." And, I didn't mind at all since going barefoot felt absolutely divine. Probably, my biggest mistake was the Monday I hid my Buster Brown (boy shoes) under a bush on the way to Hamilton Primary School in Pomona. I was in the third grade and many of my Mexican friends didn't even own shoes so it seemed perfectly alright for me to also go barefoot to school. And , the teacher didn't say a word about it to any of us.
This routine went on for several days. I would retrieve my shoes and socks from under the bush on the way home so my parents were none the wiser. Well, on one Friday one of my shoes was missing from under that bush, not anywhere in sight. Both socks were in the dirt near by. Probably a dog had run off with the shoe and no doubt gave it a good chew in the process. So, I barefooted my way home over the dirt paths, onto the sidewalk and across Fifth Avenue with the Crossing Guard: "Where are your shoes, missy?" "I don't have any shoes," was my reply and I hurried the rest of the way home.
Now, new shoes were bought only when I had outgrown the old ones. Father always measured a thumb's distance between my toes and the end of the shoe when they were bought, so obviously the Buster Brown's were meant to last the entire school year. I was not allowed to wear my Easter Sunday shoes to school so obviously I was in big trouble. Remember, this was still the fallout from The Great Depression and the purpose of Father buying boy's shoes was because the soles were thicker and no matter how much I deliberately scuffed the toes when walking, the shoes were polished every Saturday ready for the next school week. I knew I had no way out of this one.
Little did I know that during the day a lady from the Salvation Army had stopped by my house to offer "shoes for your little girl." Mother was horrified and declared: "You must have my little girl confused with someone else." And that was that. Now that I had confessed what happened the incident made sense regarding the offer of free shoes. I was sent to bed early that night and told: "Tomorrow we'll buy you another pair of Buster Brown shoes and you will wear them to school every day and not leave them under a bush." So much for going to school barefoot.
I still prefer going barefoot. or at the most wearing sandals, anytime of the year in fact. Although my feet often feel cold to the touch, apparently they're too far from my head to be of any concern. Of course the bummer is having to keep my heels smooth which could be prevented with shoes and socks no doubt. Oh well, it's worth the effort in order to continue going barefoot, or almost barefoot. And, I might add that as a Senior Citizen I have very healthy feet, no foot problems, probably the youngest looking feet in my age group. Go figure.
Colorado Honeymoon
The ranch ranged for several square miles, more that 2,000 acres. My Uncle, his wife and their two young sons had been out to California for our wedding so it was rather like a reunion. The oldest son, Junior, was close to our age and still in college while Chuck, the younger, was in High School. They lived in the old log cabin with a sod roof that my Great Aunt, Stella (on my mother's side), and her husband had homesteaded years before and had passed it on to their only son, Buell. The only other building on the ranch was the original barn where hung the venison dressed and curing. Although they ran cattle on the ranch, they never butchered beef because it was their sole income which was seasonal due to being snowed in during the winters. When deer or elk was no longer in season they depended on rabbits, sage-hen, and other small table fare such as trout from the stream.
When we arrived, another couple was just finishing their week long stay. Relatives of Buell's wife and they were marvelous cooks. Buell's wife had just enjoyed a week out of her kitchen so it was a happy time for all. Breakfast was a banquet with eggs, biscuits, rabbit, grouse, venison along with hot coffee and fresh milk from their one cow in the stall by the barn. The biggest surprise was the fact that all the cooking was done on an old wood stove and this included a light and wonderful Angel Food cake for desert that night that first night baked in our honor. All electricity was provided by a windmill and of course there was a double-seat outhouse just far enough that you had to plan well in advance your trip to and from.
Of course, there were horses for Buell and the boys to ride fence and they were well mannered. However, Buell's was an old stallion that only allowed him in the saddle. The horses had free range and Buell's stallion would wait for him at the kitchen window every morning and 'whiney' for him to come out and ride. To my knowledge, Buell had established his morning ride routine that had created a mutual admiration between man and horse.
I should mention, that when we first drove onto the property, down the winding dirt road after opening and closing the gate. The ranch entrance was off the two lane road that headed on over to Coalmont, a ghost town at the time, named for the old coal mine that had started burning a long time ago and smoke continues to belch from that mine even today. The first time we got a glimpse of that log cabin, I asked JD: "Is that a deer or a dog on the roof?" Sure enough, as we came closer, it was apparent it was indeed a yearling with budding horns. He pranced over to the closest point to check us out before scampering down the side and jumping off to wander closer to see who we were. He had been found by Junior after a hunter had shot the mother-doe (out of season and illegal) leaving her newborn a helpless orphan. Junior brought the fawn home and nursed him until able to eat from his hand. In no time, the deer graduated to dining with the horses and frolicking on the sod roof. Now Junior and the yearling were the best of buddies.
We were on the ranch for almost a week, the first paid vacation JD had ever had, and he spent every day hunting anything that moved which began to provoke my Uncle Buell. I passed the word on to JD and he decided to spend the rest of his time just hiking and fishing for trout in the brook that meandered over the property. I could join in the hiking. Views were awesome, remember it was Spring, hazy lavender mountain ranges, rolling green hills and valleys, wild flowers everywhere not to mention the variety of birds, rabbits, deer and moose that could be spotted here and there among the Aspen trees. You could actually see across the border into Wyoming from the far corner of the ranch. JD said: "If I had the money I would buy land here in a minute." Apparently there was land for sale and at a very reasonable price, it's just that we hadn't yet reached that reasonable income.
The days passed much too quickly. I did have the opportunity to ride Chuck's pinto as she was the most gentle of all. I had a long talk with her before I climbed into the saddle so we had an agreement that my ride would always be fantastic, which it was. While at the ranch, Junior and JD formed a true friendship that lasted throughout their lives. JD's close friend Don also became the third member of this hunting posse that met at the ranch every deer season year after year, after year. Both JD and Junior have since passed away and their ashes scattered over the ranch property as requested. Buell and both sons gone, the ranch was cut up and sold. I will always remember when it was possible for just plain folks to have a piece of nature such as that Colorado ranch.
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| Me at Uncle Buell's ranch in Colorado |
As you may have noticed in my earlier blog 'Teenage Marriage' we had not a cent left putting on a formal wedding let alone money for a honeymoon in 1950. For our first anniversary we managed a down payment on a 1952 powder-blue Chevy coup right off the showroom floor. Our wedding gift from Uncle Buell was a week's vacation on his ranch in Colorado up near Laramie, Wyoming. And, drive we did, all day, all night and most of the next day only stopping for gas and something to eat. That was a long, arduous drive from Pomona Valley, just south of Los Angeles to northern Colorado. Needless to say the trip was well worth it, however the 'honeymoon' became JD's first hunting trip.
The ranch ranged for several square miles, more that 2,000 acres. My Uncle, his wife and their two young sons had been out to California for our wedding so it was rather like a reunion. The oldest son, Junior, was close to our age and still in college while Chuck, the younger, was in High School. They lived in the old log cabin with a sod roof that my Great Aunt, Stella (on my mother's side), and her husband had homesteaded years before and had passed it on to their only son, Buell. The only other building on the ranch was the original barn where hung the venison dressed and curing. Although they ran cattle on the ranch, they never butchered beef because it was their sole income which was seasonal due to being snowed in during the winters. When deer or elk was no longer in season they depended on rabbits, sage-hen, and other small table fare such as trout from the stream.
When we arrived, another couple was just finishing their week long stay. Relatives of Buell's wife and they were marvelous cooks. Buell's wife had just enjoyed a week out of her kitchen so it was a happy time for all. Breakfast was a banquet with eggs, biscuits, rabbit, grouse, venison along with hot coffee and fresh milk from their one cow in the stall by the barn. The biggest surprise was the fact that all the cooking was done on an old wood stove and this included a light and wonderful Angel Food cake for desert that night that first night baked in our honor. All electricity was provided by a windmill and of course there was a double-seat outhouse just far enough that you had to plan well in advance your trip to and from.
Of course, there were horses for Buell and the boys to ride fence and they were well mannered. However, Buell's was an old stallion that only allowed him in the saddle. The horses had free range and Buell's stallion would wait for him at the kitchen window every morning and 'whiney' for him to come out and ride. To my knowledge, Buell had established his morning ride routine that had created a mutual admiration between man and horse.
I should mention, that when we first drove onto the property, down the winding dirt road after opening and closing the gate. The ranch entrance was off the two lane road that headed on over to Coalmont, a ghost town at the time, named for the old coal mine that had started burning a long time ago and smoke continues to belch from that mine even today. The first time we got a glimpse of that log cabin, I asked JD: "Is that a deer or a dog on the roof?" Sure enough, as we came closer, it was apparent it was indeed a yearling with budding horns. He pranced over to the closest point to check us out before scampering down the side and jumping off to wander closer to see who we were. He had been found by Junior after a hunter had shot the mother-doe (out of season and illegal) leaving her newborn a helpless orphan. Junior brought the fawn home and nursed him until able to eat from his hand. In no time, the deer graduated to dining with the horses and frolicking on the sod roof. Now Junior and the yearling were the best of buddies.
We were on the ranch for almost a week, the first paid vacation JD had ever had, and he spent every day hunting anything that moved which began to provoke my Uncle Buell. I passed the word on to JD and he decided to spend the rest of his time just hiking and fishing for trout in the brook that meandered over the property. I could join in the hiking. Views were awesome, remember it was Spring, hazy lavender mountain ranges, rolling green hills and valleys, wild flowers everywhere not to mention the variety of birds, rabbits, deer and moose that could be spotted here and there among the Aspen trees. You could actually see across the border into Wyoming from the far corner of the ranch. JD said: "If I had the money I would buy land here in a minute." Apparently there was land for sale and at a very reasonable price, it's just that we hadn't yet reached that reasonable income.
The days passed much too quickly. I did have the opportunity to ride Chuck's pinto as she was the most gentle of all. I had a long talk with her before I climbed into the saddle so we had an agreement that my ride would always be fantastic, which it was. While at the ranch, Junior and JD formed a true friendship that lasted throughout their lives. JD's close friend Don also became the third member of this hunting posse that met at the ranch every deer season year after year, after year. Both JD and Junior have since passed away and their ashes scattered over the ranch property as requested. Buell and both sons gone, the ranch was cut up and sold. I will always remember when it was possible for just plain folks to have a piece of nature such as that Colorado ranch.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
"Aloha!"
What a lovely greeting "Aloha!" Everyone I have known has dreamed of an Hawaiian vacation. I too imagined, even as a child, of one day going to those islands. I remember painting what I thought to be a scene on Hawaii with bluest ocean, mounds of sand and swaying palm trees. As my 5th grade teacher, Miss Gardner, watched over my shoulder I added the finishing touch, pineapples hanging from the palm trees. I was so pleased with the result until Miss Gardner noted, "Jean, pineapples do not grow in trees. They are small plants that grow in rows in a farmer's field." Talk about having your bubble burst. I was terribly disappointed that my painting was all for was naught. Well, one day I would travel to the islands and find out for myself.
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| 1st Hawaii Trip (Me in pink rose t-shirt) |
You see, I thought I knew all about pineapples in Hawaii. I had a pen pal as a child. She was Japanese and lived in Hawaii with her parents on a Pineapple Plantation. I don't remember her name, and I don't remember where exactly Mother had found her request for a pen pal, but I do remember that after Pearl Harbor we never again had the opportunity to exchange letters. I do remember my father saying: "War is not about people, it's all about governments." I wondered if the islands would still be there after a war.
You see, I thought I knew all about pineapples in Hawaii. I had a pen pal as a child. She was Japanese and lived in Hawaii with her parents on a Pineapple Plantation. I don't remember her name, and I don't remember where exactly Mother had found her request for a pen pal, but I do remember that after Pearl Harbor we never again had the opportunity to exchange letters. I do remember my father saying: "War is not about people, it's all about governments." I wondered if the islands would still be there after a war.
Finally, with my bridal boutique business doing so well, and my decision to have travel plans other than fishing and hunting trips, I announced to my friend Judy I was flying to Hawaii. Judy owned a small beauty shop adjacent to my Claremont boutique. "I want to go with you. My mother, who I've not seen for years, remarried the island's war hero and has a large house and would welcome us as guests, I'm sure." Before we even bought our tickets, two other girlfriends pledged to join us, Dona and Joanie, making a four-some. We put our heads together, set a date, Judy contacted her mother to say "we're on our way" and we bought our tickets to Hawaii.
Judy's mother met us as we got off the plane. "Aloha!" She was wearing the official island 'mumu' ( an ankle length, colorful cotton dress that hung loose from the shoulders). We each received the official Hawaiian 'lei' of Plumeria flowers and the air was pungent with lovely perfume wafting on warm breezes. The sun was shining, the ocean and sky were of a matching blue. And one could see lush, green for miles. This was truly the Hawaii I had dreamed of. Judy's mother had made sure that our week stay on the island would be memorable, everything Hawaiian. We dined on fresh fruits and 'poi' at every meal. She took us on side trips all over Oahu and the big island of Hawaii, where we walked close to the volcano. It was a whirlwind of pleasures that made us feel more like children than young ladies on holiday from full time jobs. What an introduction to Hawaii.
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| Me in Hawaii on trip with Tes |
Since my first trip, Hawaii has become an often preferred vacation destination. 'JD' never cared to use his vacation time for anything but hunting and fishing and had no desire to travel any further than Colorado or Mexico to enjoy his macho endeavors. I made sure that first 'Tes' then 'JR' (not the names I gave them at birth, but nicknames they now use) accompanied me on Hawaiian vacations, Tes during her first year of college and JR while still in high school.
While Tes and I spent most of our leisure lying on the beach at Waikiki, we did take a side trip to the black-sand beach on the big island, where we met some scuba divers and had photos taken with their catch of lobsters and an octopus. We also got a chance to eat lunch in the lodge overlooking the volcano and watched the steam coming out.
With JR I had to be urged to hike totally around the base of Diamond Head. We also hiked up to the cliffs where you could become air born by holding onto corners of a bed-sheet during a high wind. We took a bus trip to the pineapple fields, were we each consumed a whole fruit at their roadside stand and had sore mouths for the next 24 hours. Pineapple is best, you see, consumed in more dignified amounts, and along with other foods as well. A lesson well learned. Needless to say, back to California, with much stronger leg muscles.
You might know that when I began my divorce, I left stateside and headed for a 'time out' on the islands. My boutique was doing well under Tes and my manager's care, so my two week intended sojourn became a couple months or more. Tes, now in college, and JR in High School, kept up the home front, and I just disappeared into the lush green of the islands. I stayed for some time on Maui, 'the garden island, with new friends and their Australian 'diving' dogs that were wonderful to watch as they dove to the sandy bottom of the crystal clear ocean to retrieve the object you had tossed. My soul was healing in all this beauty.
Back on the mainland, Oahu, I was introduced to Connie who was looking for a room-mate, we bonded right away, I got a job as a buyer at one of the department stores on the island and we began our daily routine: up at sunrise and out on the lawn at Fort De Russey to exercise with Dr. Paul Bragg and his followers. He was in his 80's then and still managing an easy 50 push-ups per day, as well as swimming laps. Dr. Bragg is famous for his authored health books about vegetarianism and fasting. Soon I was on this same healthy regime (except for the push ups) and "feeling younger, and healthier" every day. Paul Bragg said to me: "You can't expect someone else to make you happy. First, you have to be happy, then someone else can add to your happiness." Very good advise. And it really works.
When I finally returned back to California, tan, healthy and in very good spirits, the first thing the kids and I did was to throw out all the items in the pantry that had non-healthy ingredients and restock with only healthy items and add yogurt, whole grains, fresh fruits and veggies along with vitamins suggested by Dr. Bragg. We owe our good health to this amazing man who lived to almost 100 and played tennis one more time, with his daughter in Miami, before dropping from a fatal heart attack following their lunch at the country club. His ashes were spread over the ocean at Waikiki along with Plumeria flowers.
Of course, there have been many return visits to Hawaii over the years, the stays only mere days at a time, but always a restorative sojourn. Remember, as you leave the island toss your 'lei' into the waves and you're assured to return and be greeted with: "Aloha!"
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