Nomad by Choice; Musings part 1

The summer passed the colorful leaves on the ground.  My husband Paul and I missed the opportunity for our usual summer RV trek for many reasons that seemed big at the time.  With happy endings to those stories, we once more chose the nomadic life and are on the road again in our rubber wheel-based home.

People ask where we are going this year.  Not intending to be glib the answer is where ever the winds, temptations, people we know, events that lure us in or “whispers in our ears” take us.  What a privilege this free choice.  It is to be cherished.  Nomads are defined in the dictionary as drifters, gadabouts, gypsies, knockabouts, meanderers, vagabonds and wanderers.  We fit all categories.

Letting go of our city life for life on the road is always challenging and the other way around as well.  We certainly anticipate both segments of our life as they come, but love the phase we are in at the present.  Oops, bear with me; An ear worm that just burrowed into in my head from Finian’s Rainbow:

When I'm not near the girl (town, back road, hike) I love,
I love the girl (town, back road, hike) I'm near.

Two thoughts occur to me:  first, that the idea of being “On the Road” has a long history with many colorful characters, and second, that “choice” is the key.  Going without choice connotes dire circumstances and another long history of  people labeled as  refugees, deportees, exiled, homeless=desperate and another whole subject for dissertation.

Grateful to have choice, I ponder those who have gone before me filling bookshelves, photo and film collections , archives and wish lists with the allure of travel less planned.  The legacy of stories  telling of past great explorers, pioneers, gold diggers, traveling salesman, hobos, and more lived nomadic lives enriching world history with the wonders of their adventures:

Typed on an 120-foot roll of teletype paper he called a scroll,  Jack Kerouac re-wrote and revised his earlier versions of  On The Road; an “autobiographic novel based on his 1947 road trip” published in 1957 by Viking Press.  He covered many miles, befriended many celebs and discovered countless treasures.

 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Road)

John Steinbeck wrote Travels with Charley in 1960, “a travelogue of his road trip with his poodle Charley.  “Steinbeck bemoans his lost youth and roots, while dispensing both criticism and praise for America. According to Steinbeck's son Thom, Steinbeck went on the trip because he knew he was dying and wanted to see the country one last time.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Steinbeck

Inspired by Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, Charles Kuralt persuaded CBS to let him try his idea to go on the road for 3 months.  The result, he broadcast for many years, wore out 6 motor homes, took back roads and received many awards for his popular program. appearing as a segment on The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.

So, I too lead a glorious nomadic life, inspired by the past, free to follow a whim, seeking adventure, safe, healthy and free. Unlike the refugee, I am unshackled by politics, strife or deprivation.  Off my husband and I go once again, our wheels under us, our eyes on the road, anticipating the next stop somewhere else.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Inferno; Musings: part 2

Early one morning, lazing in bed against the 20F outside, the grim (Grimm) fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel (Engelbert Humperdinck’s opera version, replete with gingerbread children, night time in the forest and a witch/cum/chef who roasts children in the oven after fattening them up) edged its way into my brain.  I was left with an ear worm stuck in my head; Over and over, I sing “Now I lay me down to sleep, Fourteen angels watch do keep. Two my head are guarding……” until all 14 are accounted for”:  I have learned that the libretto was written by Humberdinck’s sister and is a variation on an old children’s prayer.

I began to wonder if indeed, the witch would fit in the oven as Gretel gruffly shoved her inside.  Ahh, the wonder and haunting grace of Fairy Tales.  Images of many variations on oven came to mind that a fictional witch of an era long gone might possess.  Perhaps it was wood fired, stone or clay or a coal fired contraption.  Most likely not a metal model with a hinged door as we think of today.

The gas propelled oven on our motor home has been retired as it is a bit scary to light.  When I am not stir frying, making soup in a pot, stewing, or assigning Paul to fire up the grill, I use our micro/convection oven, rendering our gas fired oven obsolete; unwanted but not unloved.  It has been re-assigned as a storage vessel for our cache of almonds, walnuts, cashews, peanuts, pecans or popcorn, bread, coffee beans or whatever we can “stuff” into its black interior, complete with two racks and plenty of space.  It does have a front loading door and everything fits neatly inside.

Back to the saga of Gretel punishing the witch. I asked myself, other than our new storage space—former gas-fired oven, “Why my sudden musings on ovens?”  Our son and daughter in law recently had a monster in their house.  It was in the form of their oven, an electric version that took on a life.  One day, it would not turn off.  In fact this evil critter got hotter and hotter, threatening to bake the delectable offering (my daughter in law is a great cook) to a fair-the-well, until she bravely pulled the plug putting the monster out of its misery and if not saving dinner, they were spared a flaming disaster.  They now proudly own a brand new gas range top oven, an item long on their wish list and now in their kitchen; an obedient servant.

Ovens of course, have a history evolving from simple wood fires, into stone masonry wood burning ovens and fire places with accommodation for large iron pots and all of the configurations of ovens, gas and electric in our contemporary lives.  Ovens at times, have been called upon to do horrendous evil. During the holocaust, severely distorted human minds turned the oven in to an evil HELL-on-earth aimed at killing millions of innocent people.

Continuing on the note into Hell, I recently re-read Dante’s Inferno with fiery (and sometimes frosty) visions of  eternity in hellish conditions from the imagination of  Dante Alighieri, where Dante the character is led to pursue the true pathway of life, exploring the nature of sin on a trip though Hell.  Here, oven roasting goes to new extremes. See the URL for more. http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/inferno/canalysis.html

How many desperate  and ill-prepared immigrants/refugees have perished in the extreme weather conditions encountered in desert crossings (nature’s ovens) as they seek to better their lives?

On a more pleasant note, my grandson built a unique and artful stone wood fired pizza oven as his high school senior project.  What an undertaking it was and what wonderful pizza, pretzels and breads he has produced.  He used “Where the Wild Things Are” motif as a topper.  What fun.

If you have stayed with me this far, here is an strange musing on a form of oven; roasted turkey in a garbage pail. Learn more on the following URL….http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/garbage-can-turkey/Detail.aspx

The recipe calls for these items and Ingredients

• aluminum foil
• 15 inch wooden stake
• 1 (12 pound) whole turkey, neck and giblets removed
• new 15 gallon metal garbage can with lid

If you try this method, let me know how it turns out please.  As a vegetarian, I wonder if Tofurky would work just as well. I leave you now with the ear worm counting guardian angels ringing in my ear and wish you all Bon Appetite.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Pileated Woodpeckers show off

On an early morning walk home from the gym, a sudden movement caught our eyes.  One large bird and then two flew across our paths, crossed over the avenue and explored their way from tree to tree.  One bird halted and began pecking a hole in a dead tree.  The other flew on, beyond our view.  They were a pair of Pileated Woodpeckers.  How excited we were. 

The Pileated Woodpecker is approximately 15 inches in length and is one of the largest woodpeckers found in North America.  It has a black body with a red crest and white stripes on its neck and black and white stripes on its face.  Males and females are similar, but males sport a red forehead and females, a gray to yellowish brown forehead.  You may learn more about this glorious woodpecker, hear its call, see photos, learn about its diet, habitat and habits at http://www.nhptv.org/natureworks/pileatedwoodpecker.htm

We have encountered this red-headed bird on hikes away from home.  After 19 years of living in this neighborhood, this is the first time we have spotted this bird right outside our doorway.  One wonders why.

Coincidentally or not, since early summer 2010, there have been frequent sightings of large wild turkeys and deer in the neighborhood.  This is made strange only because this is an urban area of large rectangular blocks, homes, businesses and factories and wily traffic on the our main thoroughfare.  The nearest wooded area is a couple of miles away intersected by a busy, sunken expressway.  It is frightening to realize how dangerous driving could be here upon  encountering this unexpected wildlife on the road.

I am a true believer in climate change.  How often we realize the need to take care of our great Home and understand that change does happen and better prepare to take action to protect our resources and environment. 

Recent controversies are also fascinating surrounding expert climatologists being caught up in alleged fraud and fibs about the current condition of our planet and meddling with encroaching warnings about dire changes that can be happening within our lifetime only for their own selfish means to their ends or lack of careful scientific research skills.

I am also a strong foe of out-of-control urban and suburban sprawl and the diminishing habitats to support nature’s wild things.  These destructive practices remain out of control with no end in sight.

The summer has melded into fall and I have not enjoyed a second sighting of the woodpecker, only deer and wild turkey.  Out for a walk on a recent October day another sighting caught my eye.  White Irises in full bloom were glowing in the early morning sunlight.  Perhaps there is a species of late blooming Irises.  If so, they are unknown to me, but they were a treat to the eye.  Nature is always changing and rearranging.  Keeping our eyes peeled and our senses sharp, for whatever the reason or cause, nature’s surprises are revealed to us when least expected. 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Nosegay

Dateline Rochester, NY; 10/10/10;

Autumn in our town holds many surprises. That October Sunday offered just that, perfect weather, leaves in burning color and some time on our hands. Both of us had just celebrated our 50th High School reunion within two weeks time including concurrent visits from college friends woven into those eventful weekends. A hike in the woods was in order and I had clipped an article describing several area hikes with waterfalls that were new to us.

Throwing a proverbial thumb tack at the clipping, we selected a location near Phelps, NY called Ontario Pathways. The parking lot was empty upon our arrival. Finishing our picnic of cheese, crackers, hummus and apples we looked up to see another 3-4 cars pull into the lot. A good sign in my mind, that the hike held some promise.

Technorati Tags: vandalized sign should read Ontario Parkways

We donned our hiking boots but chose to leave our hiking sticks behind, learning that the trail was level and straight, built on an old Railroad line. Another couple had just started to hike, also finding the newspaper article of interest. Putting our heads together, we discerned that we were following Fulton Creek and anticipated the 2 waterfalls as promised, more rough water rapids perhaps, but treacherous in a kayak as described in the article.

The rapids were indeed .03 miles down the trail according to the carved sign hanging on a tree near a side trail leading us directly along the shore of the creek. We took our time on the trail, enjoying the warm sun, the luscious sound of the water lapping over the rapids, the sweet-smelling air, blessed with time on our hands.

Technorati Tags: one half rapids,one half waterfall

Satiated with our visit to the rough water, we returned to the main trail not expecting more adventure. There was movement in the distance. We both realized simultaneously what it was approaching, making our noses twitch and the adrenaline run. A full-grown skunk loped with a limp and a swagger toward us. We had no place to go accept to stay on the path. The skunk showed a bit of interest in us and gave us some definite pause.

Technorati Tags: not the picture of a healthy skunk,he limped and staggered

Technorati Tags: the return trip

We feared the eau de skunk, but in keeping with the animal’s difficulty with locomotion, we worried more about the possibility of having encountered a Rabid creature. Our responses stood divided between staying frozen in place and shooting photos. We survived but had conjured up images of gallons of tomato juice, the alleged antidote to skunk stink.

The critter continued its way along the path continuing away from us. We continued in the opposite direction, taking in more sights and sounds, crossing old bridges and traversing an island. We approached Griffith Road and chose it as our turning point, joking about seeing our little critter once again on the return trip.

As if on cue, once again, there was movement in the distance. Our black and white loping interloper headed our way. We did the same dance, maintained the same head images eliciting a flow of adrenaline and took more photos. The critter sniffed and hauntingly continued on its way, perhaps in pain but clearly in charge of its territory, the trail, just the same.

The parking lot was full of cars as we approached, but there was no one around to share the tale of the critter encounter or revel in the beauty of the sights and the day. We drove home into the coming sunset, happy, at peace and hoping that our little creature was not in pain and would survive to continue to keep watch on the Ontario Pathway and the splendor of the autumn array.

Ann Carol Goldberg

I Walked in the Sunshine

I walked in the sunshine into the garden. The day was warm and sunny, a rare kind of spring day in upstate New York. Even in the sunshine, my spirits were low, a usual state after listening to the day's news filled with trouble and turmoil in this crazy world of ours. My spirits lifted immediately upon hearing the birdsong conversations and watching butterflies waft in and out of the butterfly bush. While swatting away tiny bugs in the air I stepped carefully to avoid crushing ants on the walkway. I breathed deeply while sniffing the strong scent of the periwinkle colored Rhododendrons blooming after the long winter months.

Is it folklore or reality that achieving purple and blue toned blossoms on Rhododendron plants is a matter of loving attention and care, along with fertilizing the soil with coffee grounds and lots of water. A former neighbor used to perform these rites, but she moved away several years ago and I doubt anyone else has followed suit (adding coffee grounds to the soil). Perhaps it is some quirk of nature that the current blossoms still retain this color. I will not complain, they are beautiful.

Periwinkle is an illusive shade. It crosses from blue-tones to purple tones and may be deemed an indecisive or nondescript color by some critics I suppose. I first remember learning the name periwinkle as a child. My beloved Grandmother Rose Caplan loved to sew. How delighted she was to have her granddaughter wear her creations. How delighted my mother was to have a mother who would sew beautiful garments.

The jumper she made for me was of periwinkle dyed cotton. It was a cotton verging on linen, both coarse and with a bit of softness at the same time. The top, being a jumper, had no sleeves and tapered to a fitted waist and a flared skirt. The front near the neckline was laced together with a shoelace of the same color and ended in two small spools of thread, one sunny yellow and the other Japanese red. I still remember how sad I was when I outgrew the jumper and it became a “hand me down” to Mary Jane, a younger friend, always the next in line for my outgrown clothing.

I sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the garden, somehow transported back to reality from my reverie into my childhood. I breathed deeply, saddened by the news reports from Iran and more specifically the absurd January arrest of Roxana Saberi, the 32 year old journalist jailed on charges of espionage. My thoughts were with her wondering how one can survive in such a harsh land, the homeland of her father.

There is a beautiful photo of Roxana, her head wrapped in a Muslim woman's headscarf or hijab, the color so close to the periwinkle jumper of my childhood and to the flowers in the garden. Paralleling my freedom to walk into my garden, this vignette popped into my head of Roxana's “walk” to her cell with an 8 year sentence weighing on her shoulders;

Hardly aware of the perpetrator(s) I was pushed harshly into a cell, the door clanged shut behind me. I lay stunned where I fell on the bare, gruff, cold and broken cement floor trying to gather the strength to look up or even to stand up and assess my surroundings. The scent of filth, urine, vomit, the dankness and slightly damp warmth of electric heat from the bare bulb of despair surrounded me. I finally found the strength to pull myself up to sit on the edge of the iron cot. I finally found the strength to open my eyes and assess my surroundings. I found the strength to take a deep breath. I will fight this, I will have faith, I will begin a hunger strike, I will take action and believe that people out there care.

In my cell, I heard no birdsong, I felt no sun, no butterflies wafted about, no tiny bugs teased my head, no ants crawled on the ground, only a few beetles and other crawling things hid among the dust and dirt. I believe I sat in a reverie for hours, for days. I must have had some sustenance, some contact with my jailers, but I could not relate any stories of this to anyone who may have asked. I long to walk in the sunshine.

I awoke from this reverie in the garden, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun and smelling the sweet floral fragrances. I returned to my townhouse , free and with the glow of the sunshine warming my hair.

I continued to dwell on Roxana's fate hoping that the international effort to help her, her parents presence in Iran and the grace of all of the gods prayed to would help her become free. We did, after all, have a bond in the beautiful periwinkle color that sways indecisively between blues and purples, the pleasant shades of hope.

As we were soon to learn, diligence paid off. Roxana's sentence was commuted to 2 years and then to freedom. She has returned to the US after living in Iran for 6 years. She is speaking to groups and has defied the will of the superpowers of Iran; a woman, a professional, and one who was such a powerful threat to the will of the demigods of that nation.

After some months, I would soon learn on NPR that Roxana would be free. My spirits soared.

Postscript; Roxana Saberi has written of her experiences in a book entitled Between Two Worlds, My Life and Captivity in Iran.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Fueling Mozart

Rochester’s music scene looms large, diverse, active, exciting, something for everyone.  The month of July offers Tuesday night Eastman Summer Sing-at Kilbourn Hall.  With full 4-voice scores in hand, the singers rehearse fabulous Cantatas,  masses, Requiems; all of the favorites for large choir and at the hands of fabulous Eastman school faculty to conduct and students and local singers to perform solo parts.

The first offering of the season was two-fold. Mozart’s Vesperae solennes de confessore and Coronation Mass dating from 1779 and 1780.  The music is sophisticated, rhythmic, fast paced, melding from solo to chorus swinging back to solo and chorus again sometimes, without even an eighth-note’s break in between.  It offers a sight-reader’s fantasy or folly, depending on your prowess.

The works display Mozart’s early “mastery” of all of the established forms of church music stemming from his century; traditional Psalms and Magnificats of the Vespers service and familiar Kyrie, Gloria, Credo and more of the Catholic Mass.

Within the two hour time frame, Maestro/Master conductor William Weinert and pianist Paul Frolick (an amazing one-man piano-orchestra) led us through the rehearsal and “performance” of both pieces.

Then came a decision time; My good friend in the tenor section invited me to join him after the sing-along for something a little different.  The heavy rock group FUEL will be playing tonight at the water Street Performance Hall as part of their Born Again tour 2010.  Indeed I have heard of FUEL, having teenagers in my life.  He wanted company to go and hear his nephew who happens to be the lead singer for the group.  

A motto I savor; “You only live once,”

so live it up, try it all.

I have done my share of trying it all; hanging by cables over deep gorges, climbing impossible slip-rock trails, doing outward-bound style tricks flying through the air into trusted colleagues arms and on and on.  The idea is to collect adventures, savor life and remain grateful for good health.  Of course I would join him for the rock concert and invite my husband Paul as well, who joined us at Kilbourn to hear the Coronation Mass and then move on to the rock hall.

It was loud but not piercing, the words were indecipherable, but then again I had just sung in Latin, struggling toward proper pronunciation and not understanding those words as well.  The guitar and bass players danced all over the stage throwing their long hair with thrusts of their young and strong neck muscles, the drummer relentlessly hammered on the drums and the singer/nephew strained vocal cords with eyes closed and enthusiasm eking out of every pour.

So what if we were the oldest folks there by decades, so what if we received strange looks.  We stood and bounced to the beat for the 20 minutes that we stayed to listen.  The young people sat (still) at tables with their beer or stood down front in the Mosh pit ;

Moshing or slamming refers to the activity in which audience members at live music performances aggressively push and/or slam into each other. Moshing is frequently accompanied by stage diving, crowd surfing, mic swinging, instrument smashing, and headbanging. ...

cheering FUEL on. 

A photo of FUEL from the web

I Was Back in Time

My brush with life as a time-traveler:  Perhaps I did transcend time.  When I recall the incident on a fine June evening, 2010, I became for a few moments, Ann Carol Rudin, 8 years old, walking on the street where I lived in June ca. 1950.

Our cousin Lee was in town for a visit. My husband and I grabbed some time with him and took a walk to see our favorite places, show him where we both had grown up and then enjoy dinner at a Park Ave cafe.   I pointed out my house on Edgerton Street.  Somehow, we elected to walk up the next street, Barrington and approached the house behind my childhood home.  It is an imposing white “mansion,” always a mystery house to me, full of fantasy and harboring great secrets.  I don’t remember ever meeting the people living there or seeing them out in the yard.

That is when I escaped the present.  I was the pudgy little girl with long hair and pinchable cheeks (it hurt when people did that), caressed by my custom-designed , bark covered elbow-perch in the big oak behind our house. The branches reached over into the mystery-mansion’s yard.  How many Nancy Drew books did I read in that tree?  How often I just sat there daydreaming, sometimes transcending the walls of the white house, solving the mysteries lurking inside.

From that leafy perch, I could reign over my mother’s beautiful rock garden and the peony-rose-mint-strawberry garden planted along the driveway, believing I was well hidden from view.  At that moment, I was there, climbing down from my nook, picking strawberries in my PJ’s for breakfast, pouring milk on my cereal with the cream on top, pushing the little black button on the wall to turn on the water heater for a bath, attaching my roller skates onto my shoes with the special key to skate on the new asphalt surface the city had just laid down, scouting in the food pantry near the kitchen with the musty smell of tin cans and well loved linoleum floors.  (they were tinted maroon and yellow--so 50’s.  Indeed, my mother was trendy.)

Truly, I took my companions right along with me into the past.  I recall being animated, gesturing and describing memories that flowed from my mind.  We passed the white mansion and continued on our way, my head now back to the present. Lee saw the grade school we had attended, the baseball field (now a parking lot), friends houses and heard about our being in Mrs. Hanson’s kindergarten class together.  Yes, we did eventually find a place for dinner.

The very next evening, we were invited to a dear friends home, which happens to be right next door to the “white mansion.”  Robert greeted us with what seemed to be a strange twinkle in his eyes.  Apparently, he had greeted us the night before as we floated past his front yard.  None of us heard his voice.  I had taken everyone with me on my foray back in time.  I repeatedly apologized to our friend.  I had receded into the past, my attention not to be breached and affecting my audience to boot.  I apologize again—how unbelievably strong our minds can be. How powerful the past. 

Have you ever been whisked back in time?  Please tell me about it.

 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Liberal Kansas

Liberal Kansas is not a political statement.  it is a town, full of surprises, well-worth a visit.  Located in the very south west of Kansas on the state line with Oklahoma.  On our paper map  we could see an attraction in Liberal labeled “Coronado/Dorothy’s House.” What an intriguing but mysterious label.  Who could resist, being aficionados of the Land of OZ and indeed in Kansas?  We quickly plugged it into our GPS. By  luck, it was directly on our chosen route northeasterly through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma.  How could we pass this opportunity by and in a town named Liberal to boot. 

Little did we guess what a find this town could be.  We arrived, passing vast stock yards, beef packing houses, acres of farm land waiting for spring planting, railroad yards and grain elevators, making up the beating heart that keeps this town alive.  We arrived at Dorothy’s House at 4:00 after some trouble finding the true location on our GPS.  (a common happening according to the docent that greeted us.)   I quickly visited the visitors bureau across the way for some local information and then Paul and I entered the museum. 

Half of the museum is devoted to Coronado and his troops who passed through the area on their trek through the southeast.  Due to the late hour, we chose to spend our time with Dorothy, Frank Baum and the wonders of OZ.  Raised on Oz, we related with glee to the story of Oz, Dorothy’s house, Toto, and all of the characters that streamed from Frank Baum’s mind.  We learned that Max Zimmerman, a life insurance agent in the 70’s was the catalyst that gave Dorothy a place. 

 

The story goes that Zimmerman attended a convention and asked a waiter reacting to his name tag showing Liberal, Kansas. Max asked the waiter, “what would you expect to see in Kansas?”  The waiter replied, “Dorothy’s house,” leading the businessman to search for Dorothy’s “home town.”  He quickly learned (pre-Google) that no other city had claimed the right to say “This is Dorothy’s home town.” 

An equally intrigued resident of Liberal offered to donate a house much like the famous house described in the story.  The house has been furnished according to the tale and the museum continues into a barn with full stage sets that bring to life the story of the Wizard of Oz.  We followed the docent through the house and of course, over the (updated) yellow brick road into the barn.  You meet every character; bird or monkey, tree or witch and Dorothy’s companions and Toto are there with sounds and visuals  convincing you that the story is rolling before your eyes.   The docent plays Dorothy, a convincing and talented actress. 

The docents (in high season) are young twenty-something apprentices, playing the role of Dorothy in full costume. There is a wall engraved with the names of all the Dorothy actresses from the beginning.  We were amused, amazed and entertained.  Dorothy, the TIn Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion all live on.  That is part of the story of Liberal, Kansas. There is much more to discover there, but that is for another time, another entry. 

The best bet would be for you to find a way to pass through this town yourself delving into Dorothy’s world, Coronado’s exploits, the history of flight, a town devoted to the perfect pancake, corn and agriculture, railroads, grain elevators and a town flaunting its rich heritage.  They deserve a larger spot on the map than the small red letters reading Coronado’Dorothy’s House.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Along the Trail

Spring is cooperating this year.  Paul and I are wending our way easterly from deep in the southwest.  For the 9th year, we are following spring’s pathway home.  This year is exquisite.  In my opinion, the red buds win this year followed by the brilliant white dogwoods, rich azaleas, blue and purple wildflowers and once in awhile we spot magnificent Magnolias.  Rochester’s Oxford Street is famous for it’s Magnolia row.  We hope to return in time for this splendorific array of blossoms. 

Taking stock of all of the places we visit on our journey gives us goose-bumps, they are so numerous, so varied and unexpected.  Two days ago, we finished our tour of Berea, KY a pretty college town just south of Lexington, known for it’s nurturing of artisans and the arts and crafts that they create.  Finishing the tour of the artisan heritage trail in the mid afternoon, we chose, spontaneously, to drive to a remote area to hike our way up a rocky trail to Anglin Falls     

  

The trailhead lies at the end of a half mile drive up a dirt road to a parking lot.  Much to our surprise, the lot was full at 4:45 PM but lucky us, we didn’t have to wait long for a parking place.  The park is dedicated to a former president of Berea college and what a tribute it is indeed.  The trail ascends steeply up a rocky trail.  The reward is a cliff seemingly suspended in the air.  From the cliff, fine streams of water pour into the glen below.  There are plenty of rocks to climb filling a rock climbers every desire to hop from one view to another of the falls.  The wildflowers are at their peak here, the biggest treat being several Jack in the Pulpit plants just showing their “hoods” still green, before they turn a beautiful purple of the mature plant.

What a memory.

Do a Doubletake

What if you drove through a small town in Missouri in a big rig motor home, through the narrow streets with one lane for driving and the curb lane for parking, speed limit 25, the bank, real estate office, hardware store, local haberdashery, pharmacy and corner grocery store housed in buildings some probably dating from the 1930's and 40’s.  What if you continued through this town boasting ties to Abe Lincoln as do so many towns in Missouri and Illinois.  What if, while approaching the Springfield, MO town hall you observe a crowd on the lawn in front of the building and see a chorus of men standing on the steps of the town hall.  What if the chorus (of 50 men I was to learn later) are all Abe Lincoln look-alikes in black top hats and tails.  What if, because you had no warning or expectations, you did not have your camera ready to catch this scene and there was no place to stop in a big rig to snap a shot of this phenomenon. 

That happened to me, on a sunny Sunday in April.  A photo op missed, it just exists in my head.  I searched on the Springfield Sun web site, the newspaper in Springfield.  There were no photos showing the chorus of 50, only a photo of one of the Lincoln impersonator and his wife, playing Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady.  It was a moment of humor, frustration and acceptance of circumstance. What a memory!

If you’d like to learn more, check out this URL http://www.lcni5.com/cgi-bin/c2.cgi?023+article+News+20100402165330023023001

Getting on the Map

You could say I get jealous of all you folks who are prolific at putting out numerous blogs with what seems like an effort-free manner while I publish my Message in a Minute after intense editing, re-writing and heavy sweat.  I do the same with my images, intense care and editing.  I intend to still do that obsessive thing when I get that creative bug bite, but  I now intend to send spontaneous pieces that I will call Memory in a Minute, to highlight some wonderful little happening to share. How I cherish your feedback and responses to my Message in a Minute and I repeat, these are sent with the understanding that all of you are busy and that you will read them only if you are truly interested.

Memory #1;  Paul and I had set up in a US Army Core of Engineer RV Park on Rend Lake, Illinois.  What a treat this place is, in the woods, large sites, miles of hiking and biking trails, large dam projects and plenty to see.

The weather was beautiful--sunny and hot.  The day’s drive had been long, we were hot and ready to slow down for a minute or two, something we don’t do easily.  In fact, we had something to celebrate. The entry door of our rig sports a map of the USA and Canada, with plastic patches for each state or province.  Unbelievably, we had not fulfilled our self-inflicted directive to only fill in a state if we have camped overnight in this rig, something we had not done in Illinois.  it seems we have driven through this state several times without stopping to camp. 

Here we are, finally camping in Illinois.  We dug out the map set, selected the green patch for Illinois and ceremoniously rubbed it into place on the door map.  Our neighbor’s adorable little boy, 13 month old Brody started wandering in our direction.  Being typical grandparent types, we started talking to Brody and to his parents as they came out to intercept his wanderings.  With Brody happily in his dad’s arms, we talked as dusk descended.  I saw Paul’s gaze lift from Brody’s dad to the trees in the nearby forest, and then I saw what had caught his eye; a large wise Owl, perhaps of the screech variety.  It had taken flight from a low tree branch to the ground and then up to another tree branch, finally disappearing into the forest.  What a treat that was, what a memory. 

Blizzard of Sand

The winds had been wicked for four or five days in a row, gusts to 50 or 60 MPH.  Our heading via motor home is easterly towards Rochester by early May.  We have been driving long distances each day, the high winds tiring us out with the effort of staying centered in the lane.  Our location, Interstate 40 through Flagstaff, Arizona heading east scheduled to reach the Flying J gas station in Winslow, AZ with an assumed 1/4 tank of gas upon arrival. 

The winds continued with  such vengeance, whipping at our awnings, rocking us almost boat fashion, blowing sand in swirls and sweeps,  tumbling tumbleweed brushing across the highway in our path.  We were 21 minutes from Winslow, mid afternoon and Paul had just taken the wheel.  In the distance the sky was filled with sand, reducing the sunshine to a misty light.  The traffic ahead was congealing, red brake lights flashing.  We came to a full stop.  We could see flashing emergency lights ahead of us and the signs for the coming rest area, now closed in Arizona’s desperate response to the economic downturn.   

Time passed, we tried to shelter ourselves along side large trucks in the right lane, but our awnings continued their threat to come undone in the high winds and we rocked and swayed, as one trucker on the CB declared, he was “going to be seasick.”  An official in a truck drove down the left side of the highway updating everyone that there was indeed a multi car/truck accident and that the road was closed due to the accumulation of sand.  It could mean many hours of waiting.

NPR  reported the forecast  that the winds were due to cease in a couple of  hours, that officials had been escorting travelers through the sandstorm, but they ceased that operation and completely closed the  sand-filled road.  17 miles of Interstate 40 were closed from Winslow westward and traffic was being diverted from the highway.  Some 4 wheelers drove over the median heading westerly, but we are indeed in the “boondocks” near Meteor Crater and Two Guns, locations without services available.  Rumors passed up and down that we’d be here until 8:00PM, 10:00PM, Midnight. 

Ironically, in the sky ahead were two contrails “marking” an X over the rest area, the trouble spot ahead.  

Stuck on the road in a motor home offers many advantages, a rest room, kitchen and room to get up and stretch the legs.  Many 4 wheeler drivers risked the winds to stretch or walk or walk into the desert to “pee.”  3 hours after stopping, I made a simple dinner—the end of Pesach, matzah and omelets, not the planned finishing meal.  More waiting, more rumors.  At 8:15, red tail lights were lighting.  We were being escorted down the road, picking up speed, the winds still blowing, but at a lesser speed. 

Traffic moved on its own after a few miles and we arrived in the Flying J.  We filled the gas tank, not desperate for gas but happy to be here and then parked for the night.  We shared stories with other travelers, heard the tale of ripped awnings and other adventures and settled down for the night.  We were packed tight together, but the swaying in the wind had stopped.  The blizzard of sand provided yet another adventure to impact our dreams.

Natural Events

What happened shocked us all, including the guide, Bob, with his many years of experience at the San Diego Wild Animal Park.  The tram hauled us through the African Safari area of the park attracting  the attention of our two grandsons focusing on the white rhinos, oryx, gazelles, giraffes, red deer and other wildebeests.  The day was partly sunny and the animals were active and the tram ride line had been long.

The guide with the gravely voice and hint of joy in his job stopped the tram providing a distant but broad view of a hillside inhabited mostly by giraffes and oryx, a small sleek animal with long, sticklike horns. Our attention was drawn to a baby oryx walking as Bob had noted on still wobbly legs.  The baby must be a newborn or perhaps a day old.  This was the guide’s first sighting. We watched for awhile as the mom oryx watched her baby’s tentative march toward her.

Enter a straight and tall adult giraffe advancing seemingly without purpose toward the teetering baby oryx.  The giraffe’s advance threatened the baby and raised the ire of the mother.  She expectantly stood in a defensive pose near the giraffe.  The unexpected happened, the giraffe kicked the baby who fell to the ground and remained still.  There was a loud gasp among the tram riders and Bob expressed his disbelief at such a happening .

He managed to say that he would report the incident and the tram continued down the way.  Needless to say, the mood on the tram had changed.  We were all saddened and curious about the incident but tried to pay attention to the remainder of the sights in this part of the park.
(NOTE; thanks to our daughter in law, Miriam's persistence, we learned a few weeks later that the baby oryx was doing well).  

Our two grandsons were aware of the seriousness of the incident and later in the day, quizzed a staff member about the event.  He had not heard any news but assured the boys that the welfare of the baby oryx would have been observed by the surveillance devices in the park.  Decisions are constantly made when to interfere or when it is wise to avoid human intervention and let nature take is course. 

Such strange encounters, probably common in nature, are beyond our comprehension.  It seems so unlikely that such dissimilar creatures, a giraffe and an oryx would be inclined to clash.  Perhaps this is a simile for all life on this planet, spontaneous cruelties and attacks, planned battles and war being as incomprehensible as the incident seen from the tram.  Can we define the boundaries of what is natural?  Human intervention on all accounts remains a fragile course.    The  staff member acknowledged that the outcome of the incident would not be public knowledge.

Ann Carol Goldberg 

Thrill of Victory--Agony of Defeat

Dedicated to Luge crash victim Nodar Kumaritashvili

Sports minded I am not, at least I don’t think of myself in that light.  And then, when the Olympics begin and our rig is hooked up to cable service, we somehow tune it in, mostly looking for the ice skating events.  I watch with one eye on the screen and one eye in my current read.  After all of these years of living, I  know and accept that everything in life changes including expectations.

Olympic events have evolved, beyond what I recognize from past years.  Missing;  the simple slalom and the ski jump, gone and obsolete, fallen into disfavor displaced by the extreme sports of today.  Athletes throw themselves down almost vertical slopes, one at a time or 4 abreast, or dance on their skis and snowboards at what seems to be miles above the spectators heads.  Skaters attempt 4 airborne twirls betting on landing gracefully on their blades set for the next step in their complex routines.  Sledding on Bobsleds and Luges reach frightening speeds.  There is no cap to the thrills spectators seek during the events.  

Bring on the young athletes, legs splayed apart in the dancer’s 2nd position, hooked to a snowboard, long hair blowing, (male and female) clad in plaid shirts and blue jeans or snow pants, not the tight body suits or garb featuring feathered hands.  They appear with helmet-covered heads, complete with what appear to be ear wires tucked behind their frog-eyed goggles.  The track starts with a scary vertical drop over a snowy lip, down and then upward toward the sky.  Both of my eyes now leap up to the screen. 

They fly!  They soar!  20 feet or more above the cameras, floating above a tremendous snow-packed ditch called a half pipe.   Not only can they slide up and down the inclines of this half cylinder thing, but they carry acrobatics to the extreme by twirling 3 or 4 times above the edges of the pipe somehow maintaining perfect form and grace.  I confess, both eyes remain focused on the screen, my book fallen onto my lap. 

My mind races, following these flyers as they soar up into the air wanting to know how they dare take on this extreme sport.  Where do they find the chutzpah to spring into space, twirl and land upright.  Stray and intruding thoughts would spoil their concentration.  Do they feel themselves in peril, are they listening to tunes playing through their ear buds, or do they hear the roar of the crowds?

Perhaps they believe they will launch into space, obtain orbit and soar to the outer limits of infinity, forever flying, spinning and feeling an unfettered freedom mounting high on mysterious space breezes and illusive star winds, forgetting the roaring crowds, the judges, videographers, obtaining perfect form and colored medals.  Just busy focusing on a place no single being has ever flown before until some mysterious apex is been reached and the board flings the athlete back to the revered spot on earth, gliding with ease to the finish line.

The camera captures a close up of the face in a broad smile and a shine in the eyes conveying the privilege of  having gained exclusive  knowledge of where infinity may lie or is the smile simply there upon hearing again the earthly sound through the ever present ear wires strung under the strap of the goggles. 

The crowd roars with approval, the gold is won, the secret of flight into space is attained setting new goals, new orbits, new horizons, but no matter what the challenges,  favorite tunes in the ears at all times seem to be a mark of the Vancouver Winter Olympics of 2010.  Brava and bravo to all of the participants.

Ann Carol Goldberg

 

Small Talk

Small talk is all about getting to know someone.  For my lifestyle on the road, it becomes a big part of my day, constantly engaging in “stranger talk,” meeting people in a campground or at a rally, gathering for drinks at ours or a neighbor’s motor home, or generally waiting in a restaurant line, attending a performance, a folk fest, a meeting, a fund-raiser or greeting a seatmate on a tour bus or an airplane.  Small talk usually starts with questions such as “where are you from?”.  “Where are you headed?”  And then  comes the default -- the weather which, in conversation is always deemed off balance, never quite right and best of all, complaining about the weather is expected.

Small talk occurs with good friends too as a bridge to deeper conversation.  There is still wisdom in the old adage to converse about anything but politics and religion.  Some folks work hard to avoid small talk calling abhorrent and a waste of time.  So be it, it is hard to avoid.

This year the weather has taken first place in conversation, becoming  more than just a default topic. It is on everyone’s mind and lips.  This year, everyone is astounded at the severe cold, the heavy snowfall where tepid temperatures usually reign and heavy rain where drought has been the rule.  Still, all we can do about it is complain and look for blame.

Small talk can feel clumsy and uncomfortable.  It can feel forced or insignificant but helps us gloss over difficult moments.  I wonder how far-reaching this conversational tool can go.  I wonder about first meetings between world leaders behind those “closed doors?” Do they begin with did you get caught in the latest blizzard? or do they jump the hurdle right to the latest political debacle.  I bet the weather comes up first bridging safer ground and breaking the ice so to speak before addressing the more complex conversations on the agenda.

I remember my acting days when our director instructed us on utilizing “stage-small talk” during rehearsal for Our Town by Thornton Wilder.  As the small-town chorus, we had down time when the protagonists were in the spotlight and we had to stay in the background.  He suggested reciting the alphabet to each other A--Z or  Z--A, counting up and down, reciting a grocery list, or discussing the weather forecast, but warned us “don’t loose concentration and miss your cue” bringing you great embarrassment as you spoil the play.  The weather becomes a small talk default once more.

Kids use small talk as a learning tool.  They mimic the adults in their lives.  They experiment with ideas by bouncing conversations off their friends, their toys and in imaginary play.  Perhaps their “default” is less the weather than the fantasies they conjure up in their minds.  My kids drew endless images of bright sun-house-trees, dragons, whirling dervishes, volcanoes, hurricanes and floods.  This year, weather is a big issue.  Blame has been launched at El Nino, pollution, climate change and Mother Nature.  I believe mom nature is god’s implementer, god’s right hand.  The earth belongs to nature, nature rules.  We can’t do a thing about it accept to take better care of what we have.  But we surely would like to be in control.  Maybe that is the reason that this tired topic is deemed safe to smooth over the awkward moments we encounter in our busy lives. 

Replacements

Do you remember your grandmother's cherished pieces of Havilland China, Wallace silverware, Waterford crystal, silver candelabras, carnival glass, teacup and saucer collection, or being lured to her favorite crystal candy dish harboring mouth-watering sweets when it was OK to give sugar to children?   Do you wish to see, hold or own them again?

There is a vast collection of cast off memories in a museum/warehouse of great renown called Replacements, Ltd.  Simply take a trip to Greensboro, NC or if that isn't possible visit www.replacements.com for a trip into nostalgia.  It is all there and for sale; all of your favored household memories and much more in over 400,000 square feet of space. Thousands of items are displayed throughout the showroom in specially designed or re-purposed glass and wooden cases that in themselves are worth eyeballing.  Plan your time, don't be in a hurry. You will go from case exclaiming delight and discovery on every glance. 

If that isn't enough, trek through the museum area in the back of the showroom.  These pieces are not for sale. They will serve as  guides through the long history of collectibles and the companies, inventers and designers who produced them. 

You may order replacements  for crystal, flatware and dinnerware to enhance your own patterns or send photos to the company for ID and appraisal or arrange to send items for restoration or for sale.

Now, if we could only garner replacements for the world situation, a "warehouse" full of Noah's Dove and olive branch, handshakes and peace treaties, peace pipes, good manners, courtesy, law-abiding citizens,  good driving habits, common sense, tools of diplomacy obliterating rifles, guns, suicide bombers and human killing machines. 

Can we restore good work ethics, regard for authority, political acumen, belief in democratic ideals, throwing away our prejudices, make lasting peace agreements and stay diligent in working toward saving our environment, planet and future world for our children?  It is so easy to get carried away.

Ann Carol Goldberg

The Rocks in the River

What put that thought in my mind?  How often I ask myself when a stray memory or an unexpected detail from some obscure event stirs through my mind popping unannounced into my consciousness.   Thoughts flow through our minds as randomly as rocks appear in the river. 

The RIO GRANDE:  the river is impressive in its length, breadth, history and fame; covering more than 1800 miles in length.  It is the second longest river in North America, (the first is the Mississippi).  The river is dynamic, always changing in width, depth, current flow, water color and clarity.  It supports the flora and fauna; trees, shrubs, birds and wildlife, the  fisherman, recreational boaters, swimmers, and industry built along its banks. 

Find in its water a vast variety of human debris and detritus.  It is infamous for wetback smuggling and drug trafficking.  Endless battles have been fought over boundaries, water rights and depth control. The river has long been celebrated in song, prose and poetry.

I have had frequent encounters with the Rio Grande in the years that my husband and I have traveled via motor home. There are times that we have walked across her bridges to visit Mexican border towns, driven over the river in cars or by bus, been guided along her embankments by museum docents delving into history and guided by expert birders rousting out amazing birds living along her shores.  We have picnicked along her banks and studied her history in museums and books. 

On a recent paddle (canoe) under the tutelage of experienced birders, I was admonished to stay on the lookout for rocks and logs lying in waiting to impede our way.  That day the water level was low, controlled by the Falcon Dam adjacent to Falcon State park in Texas.  This admonishment was well advised.  There were many sudden surprises threatening our hull or holding us captive on a jutting rock.

Encounters with massive shoals solidly packed with silt and sea shells scraped along our hull often sending my helmsman out of the canoe to walk on the mounds and manually guide our way clear.  Canoes were held captive on obscure rocks causing angst and meticulous navigational skills to avoid falling into the fast currents in the clear channel nearby.

My mind sprinted between glorious sightings of Ringed Kingfishers, Audubon’s Orioles, Yellow Rumped Warblers, White Pelicans, Green Jays and Neotropic Cormorants, or Cara Cara and Osprey in flight and the urgency in sighting hazardous rocks.  I can’t avoid turning these threats into a simile for obstacles placed in our daily lives; our plans gone astray, changed goals, thwarted expectations, or globally,  the plethora of hatred, brutality, injustice, fraud and fear in this world.  I must put that out of my mind for awhile, the only hindrance being the rocks in the river. 

How lucky I am to be floating down river, focusing on birds or trees (such as the endangered Mexican Cypress) with all of nature surrounding me.  How lucky I am to have needs and wants mostly fulfilled.  How lucky to have loving family and friends and to be able to savor the joys of travel, agile, curious and energetic enough to seek adventure   Excuse me now, we are in a deep channel, no rocks in sight.  I am reaching for my binoculars.  There is a possible sighting of a rare roadside hawk.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Rockport's Legendary Bird Woman: 1886 - 1973

It was the strangest birding trail we have yet encountered named for Connie Hagar. It is not off in the woods or deep in a ravine, in a meadow or high on a mountain ridge; it follows a course literally along the main road, route 35, in the area of the Tule Creek restoration project in Fulton, Texas. Follow the 19 interpretive signs placed along the grassy trail to find your way to the ending at the Aransas Bay.

First, you may visit an observation deck along the marsh and then turn around and walk along the road for 1/3^rd mile or so. The trail eventually turns right into a housing development across from the public trail. The signs meander a bit, past a small picnic area and the Rockport Cemetery down to the the final interpretive sign and the edge of the Aransas Bay littered with boats, yachts and restaurants. The Cemetery is old, with mature Live Oak and full of very colorful flowers and highly decorated gravesites in the manner of Hispanic ritual for remembering the dead. Connie Hagar is buried in the cemetery.

On our visit, we did not find many birds—deep into January of the coldest winter in recent records. But the sun was bright and the walk welcoming. I must say, we were alone along the trail.

What is the story behind this rather strange setting? I had to know.

The site is dedicated to Connie Hagar (Martha Conger Neblett) who was born on June 14, 1886 in Corsicana, Texas to Robert Scott and Mattie Yeater Neblett, the eldest of 3 children. Martha Conger Neblett (Connie) was brought up with the graces of becoming a lady, educated in music, art, literature, history and a given a high regard for nature and the state of Texas, very characteristic of the Victorian era in which she was raised.

It is recorded that "Connie was a tomboy" enjoying long walks with her father studying nature and enveloped by the sounds and sights of nature. She became knowledgeable in identifying trees, shrubs, wild flowers and the birds and wildlife they observed, capturing this young girl's mind.

Soon grown up and married, Connie Hagar lived in a cottage (on the corner of South Church and First streets) in Rockport, with her husband Jack until her death in 1973. Beginning in 1935 she would make daily rounds studying the bird population and keeping meticulous records of her findings. Connie is credited with "changing the books about birds of the Coastal Bend and of Texas."

Their cottage was moved to another location soon after her death and is now privately owned. The cottage site was purchased in 1994 to ensure preservation of the land and Roger Tory Peterson helped dedicate the sanctuary to perpetuate Connie's work. The trail we visited is in a separate location, on Route 35, in Fulton, Texas. It forms part of the Tule Creek restoration project, protecting land and wildlife so dear to Connie during her life.

There is so much more to know about the Coastal Bend area and Connie's work, life and the era in which she lived. If you wish to to learn more and see photos of her life, visit the URL below. A visit to the Coastal Bend of Texas is perhaps, a well-kept secret, not as highly touted and advertised as other areas of Texas. It is worth visiting in The Rockport, Aransas, Goose Island areas. Seek out the endangered Whooping Cranes, Sand hill Cranes, and the many shorebirds, songbirds, birds of prey, alligators, snakes, tress, shrubs and flowers and so much more. What a boost it is to all of us, preserving precious natural sites in the name of a pioneer such as Connie Hagar.

References; http://www.birdrockport.com/connie_hagar.htm

Winter/Spring Visitor's Guide, Rockport/Fulton, Texas

Central Florida Highs

One of the joys of the vagabond life via motor home; you never know what is next on the horizon.  This is the year of the COLD  — featuring record setting winter weather up and down the eastern seaboard reaching to the depths of Florida. 

Luck was with us  when we called our dear friends, the Topfs and were able to camp for two nights in their lovely campground at Deer Creek in central Florida. 

The first night there we attended a concert in their clubhouse featuring the HARMONICATS, retro back to the 40’s when they became famous for playing every size and vocal range of harmonica with alacrity and skill.  They played for well over an hour, and did not seem to tire, even though they are in their late 60’s to late 70’s. 

That not being enough of a treat and surprise, the next day, we visited a National Historic landmark called Bok Tower Gardens.  Frederick Law Olmstead, Jr. designed the gardens. This singing tower features a grand carillon and we arrived just in time for the daily concert.  The sound is bright, crisp and beautiful.  The tower is on a knoll about 342’ above sea level, the highest point in central Florida.  see their website; http://www.boktowergardens.org/ Edward Bok was quite a Humanitarian and edited the LADIES HOME JOURNAL for 30 years. It is worth a visit to the web site to learn more about him and this memorable landmark on the web site.

There is more; it was hard to leave this wonderful place but they closed at 5PM.  We drove to dinner through an area that is “old Florida,”   featuring old tree and shrub growth, old buildings with character, lakes, ponds, Spanish Moss and lacking the big boxes, chain restaurants and gated communities.  The GPS led us to CHERRY POCKET FISHING CAMP.  It is just that; a rustic area where fishing boats line the dock, old trailers and motor homes, trucks ,vans and rustic buildings form a haven for “fisherfolk” and a wonderful restaurant in a large, shack-like building that is as welcoming as a pair of old, favorite slippers. 

Vegetarians rejoice, I called ahead and was assured that each dish was made to order and I could indeed find something on the menu that was free of anything none vegetarian and indeed I did.  The menu is large and our friends were all very happy with their large portions of gumbo, fish tacos, fish sandwiches, grouper dishes, and more.,  I had a salad and cheese. mushroom quesadilla. We left very full, happy and in good spirits.  What a great day, spontaneous and full of good friendship, shared memories and great cheer.

Remember the Days?

Remember the days when life in America seemed simple and and easily defined? People were optimistic and held expectations for the future that were often met. The world felt a bit safer, the sun seemed brighter, the sky a deeper blue, the rain crystal-clear. Children were allowed out to play without parental fear of the streets. The pace of life was low key, electronic toys weren't vying for our leisure time. Paper publications, TV programs, films and popular songs idealized this world into a Norman “Rockwellian” scene. Was life indeed less complex and innocent?

In my memory, I cherish the simple act of baking together often with my sons. We had a good time, a chance to bond together, to learn to follow directions and gain skills and self confidence. The boys created enjoyed yummy treats and received praise from their dad. Of course mom had to practice ultimate patience, waiting for the child to measure, sift, beat or pour each ingredient into the Kitchen Aide; blending it in more or less properly so the finished cake would turnout somewhat edible. Then, the reward for those little faces—time to lick the beater blades.

 

 

 

LICKING CHOCOLATE FROSTING—so good...so safe?

Now those licking-the blade days are long gone by, killed by the threat of contaminated eggs or other bacteria wending their way into the batter. How many children got sick from this treat? I don't know of any! But nowadays we wouldn't allow anyone to lick raw egg batter. Licking egg-free frosting is still in but raw eggs are out--verboten.

Or so I thought. I have been following the recent recall of the Nestle's cookie dough and the presence of E. coli, discovered in Nestle's Danville, Va. plant. How surprised I was to read that consumers actually do eat raw commercial cookie dough. I must be naive and out of touch. How many actually eat raw dough? Apparently, thousands have been stricken over several years. What am I missing by not even considering eating raw dough (commercial or homemade)...getting sick on E. coli bacteria, that is what.

The last decade seems to have been swamped by incidents of contaminated foods in or agricultural system, raising flags, causing recalls, heightening research, media coverage, films addressing our food culture aimed at raising awareness among consumers. Think of Mad Cow disease, tainted ground beef and bird flu episodes, , tainted dog food recalls, making me glad to be a vegetarian...

...and then, lo and behold, there came the tomato scares, spinach scares, pistachio nut and peanut butter scares, infant formula hoaxes, incidents of tainted milk, and this summer, (2009) late blight fungus spoiling commercial and home vegetable gardens attacking tomato, eggplant and potato plants.

An astounding number of informational sites were revealed searching through Google using the key words below. The results prove epidemic;

consumer, food, recalls;   Results 1,340,000

tainted, meat, recalls;   Results 45,800

food, recall, eggs;   Results 499,000

prescription, drug, recalls;  Results 1,040,000

late blight, fungus;  Results 59,900

Food safety information is readily available to the consumer. The media and CDC (Center for Disease Control) keep us informed, issuing warnings to the general population, questioning how agricultural controls or checks and balances can be accelerated. A wealth of informative books are being published and films are being produced highlighting the “state of the health” of our food system and the production, delivery, safety and pitfalls of feeding our nation.

Long-trusted food sources must now be scrutinized and questioned, old habits, abandoned. We are now better-informed consumers aware that the system we have so long trusted can suffer breakdowns in quality control. Parents still enjoy engaging their children in the kitchen, but the beaters are placed directly into the dishwasher, no licking allowed. Everyone must wait for the wafting odors of the chocolate cake to fill the kitchen, endure the cooling and frosting and eat the food on their plates before running their “clean” finger through the frosting to savor a good, wet lick.

Ann Carol Goldberg