Monday's Blog; Socks and Rocks

This week, I offer you a Dr. Seussian style tale;

The 9 year old grandkid snuffled a complaint to his grandma, "Socks and undies, Undies and socks. That's what I get for Christmas. Socks and undies, undies and socks. It's not fair.

The 10 year old grandkid snuffled again in complaint to his grandma. She thought she heard him utter "Year after year, it's not fair, every year, socks and undies. Undies and socks.  I 'm just a kid. Toys and stuff are what I want." So she reminded him, "hey you get those things from others. How would it feel to go outside in the cold with no warm and funky socks to hug your feet?"

An epiphany she had, the very next year. How about packaging the socks as a fooler. So, into the box went the socks and undies in a BIG box with old toy blocks to give it some weight and mystery. 

The 11 year old grandkid picked up each package giving it a shake. Sure enough, grandma's was the first he opened. Well trained by his Ma, he uttered a polite and requisite thanks. But, his dark eyes stood wide open in disbelief. He was fooled, there were the socks and undies in the box with old toy blocks.

The 12 year old found rocks in the box. Socks and undies, undies and socks tied together to blocks in the box. 

The 13 year old pulled out hand weights wrapped in the socks and undies.  "Hey not bad. I can add these to my weight set, but I still have socks and undies, undies and socks. 

In his 14 year he was sure he felt books in the box. No deal, socks and undies, undies and socks. No books found, but no more rocks. 

Now the grandkid is older, savvy to the world, grateful for what he has. Memories of his loving grandma. Warm feet and a parade of socks and undies to take him through life and just maybe he will give his grandkids foolers for the holidays. 

About this Seussian flavored offering. It is based on a tale related to me by my loving niece. A story told to her by a faithful customer in a big box store before this year's holiday. It is in honor of the timely review of books 2015 celebrating the lost and recovered story of Dr. Seuss; What Pet Should I Get?.  It also honors another lost and found story; Go Set a Watchman, by Harper Lee, most famous for her classic To Kill a Mockingbird. Have a good year to come.

Monday's Blog; Meet Ruby and Rubyette

The topic this Monday lies in the realm of "Things I never thought I would own." Somehow when new "super hyped, must have" items come on the market, I grow a resistance to running out and acquiring them.  My inclination is to hesitate, hem and haw and rationalize ownership from every excuse or angle. Some cases in point, microwaves, food processors, the incessant upgrading of computers and accessories, digital cameras. Heck, I never thought I'd own a honkin down the road motor home. Now we live in one most of the time. But acquire them I did.  Often they were a gift, for instance, from the art world, a silver necklace with uncut ruby from my loving husband, my first Cuisinart from my beloved mother in law and two additions to the ruby theme. This theme continues. 

Our next few months will be spent in the west, the far west, southwestern California. Gee Whiz, as we fondly call our motor home is set up in a beautiful campground near Temecula, CA and nestled in breathtaking mountain landscapes. Our tow vehicle, lovingly called our Toad in RV lingo, is a Ruby red Jeep Rubicon.  Back to the realm of I never thought I would own; on our second day on this site we purchased a golf cart to maneuver the steep hills, especially when we need to haul some type of cargo or people. I haven't played golf since my college days, and that was before any of us knew about golf carts, if indeed they existed. I enjoyed golf and was always told I was quite good. But it never fit into my scheme of life after that time. 

Yes, you guessed it, our golf cart is Ruby red as well and a close cousin to the Jeep.

Why own a black, brown or otherwise utilitarian looking cart when it can be shiny red and a match to our life style and yes, my recently added touch of hair coloring. My philosophy is as one ages to continue to engage in self discovery and self interpretation, keep up with younger generations as best as possible, think and therefore feel young, allowing wants not just needs when possible and to keep on trekking. So we are the proud owners of Ruby the Jeep and Rubyette, the golf cart our donkey of choice. 

As for our western location, we will view the country from the left coast, time wise behind our east coast "home base" by 3 hours.  We will hear news later rather than sooner, speak California-ease, such as calling the expressways freeways and referring to them as THE-10 or THE 405.  We will navigate the mountainous off-road trails in Ruby and we will navigate the hills of Jojoba hills SKP RV Resort via Rubyette. Watch out all of you critters along the road, here we come.

Monday's Blog: Road Home

The mind is a powerful thing, often beyond our control or understanding. Suddenly, an image flashed into my mind taking me back to my high school days in the late 1950s. The trigger leading to this image must have stemmed from the shadowy recesses of memory; the day was sunny, the fall leaves in their full glory before they cascaded to the ground and before the inevitable calluses of hand raking the leaves into piles at the curb.  

My house was too close to the school to be eligible for the school bus. I have no regrets about having to walk. Even then I held the camaraderie of walking home with friends and the joy of exercise a decided benefit over the travails of the rumored school bus experience.  I had to endure some teasing upon leaving the school through the back door short cut (past the smokers and testosterone-laden boys) lighting up on the slab waiting for vulnerable teen girls trying to avoid their nasty glances. 

The walk home took about 20 minutes if taken at a directed fast pace without stops and starts such as a stop at Don and Bob's restaurant for chips and gravy (served in a boat shaped paper dish,) not the rolled cone of newspaper that I enjoyed while visiting my mother's family in Hamilton, Ontario or walking and talking to best friends Ellie or Marjorie  en-route, bidding them goodbye as we reached their streets before I reached mine.  

The crossing guard, there during my 5 years at Brighton HS stopped traffic at the busy intersection (1950's traffic mind you) became our friend. She was short and dark haired like me, friendly and not very much older. We know she had two young children and lived on the block where we crossed. Her husband worked at Kodak, not a rarity for Rochester. Sometimes John, (a neighbor on my street) accompanied me home. After the fear of the teasing boys, the smells of the restaurant, the street crossing, the intense conversation with friends, it was quieting to reach the corner of Sunset Dr and the gentle downhill grade to my house. John was in my Spanish Advanced placement conversation class. I called him Juan, he called me Anna. We practiced our Spanish as we walked and were proud of our fluency. Both of us dreamed of visiting Spanish speaking countries and immersing our selves in this beautiful language. 

The houses on Sunset Dr were a mix of style, very blue and white collar middle class. Some stand out in my memory--at the top of the street a seemingly large, tired looking two story house boasting aging Greek-style columns stood close to the street. I did not know the occupants. Across the way stood the small, dark brown, mysterious and non descript one story house that never seemed to change. I don't recall any of the inhabitants being outside, a small dark brown car came and went but otherwise there was no activity during the times I walked to or from school. Next to them was an active family, the Smileys, with 3-4 under-10 children living in a bright white house with a screened front porch.  We maintained a waving hello relationship and I gave them some of my hand me downs through the years.

John's house was across the street. He lived with his parents and younger sister in a beige two story rectangular house with a windowed enclosed front porch.  We bid each other Adios as I continued alone to the end of the street and my house. Other houses of memory were square colonials like mine and a two story gray house housing families that were my regular baby sitting "clients;" even then a lucrative enterprise even at 50 cents an hour. 

The Goldstein's lived across the street in a charcoal toned house with a porch but deeply recessed into the lot with bushy trees across the front. My brother had dated the woman of the house years before. Our western neighbor, Leila Mason, was a thin and seemingly frail widow and quite elderly (in my eyes but most likely in her early 60's.)  She was an active and inveterate gardener and always astonished me in how long she could weed and dig in a deep squatting position without any sign of physical discomfort or strain. She and my mother visited each other often for coffee and chat.

Our easterly neighbors were friendly and a bit seclusive. The brother and sister were close to my age but we mostly greeted each other not having much in common I guess. The son's friends played basketball in a hoop hung over the separate, backyard garage that reflected the style of the street and of the era.  The parents were of interest in that the mom was one of the ugliest woman I remember having seen and the dad, a very handsome dark haired man. The children resembled their respective parents. 

My Brother Arthur on leave from his Army duties photographed on Sunset Drive backyard overlooking the eastern neighbors' back porch

On better weather days I would drop my books on our front stoop and wander to the very end of the street. The first 2 years this was swamp land, the remains of the old trolley bed. With my trusty eye dropper, I would gather water samples from the puddles to investigate under my beloved microscope, reveling in the exposed amoeba and one celled critters living in the drops. That joy was erased in the construction of the expressway that I drive today when in town. 

What wonderful memories are inspired by my road home and the saga of neighbors' lives, neighbors' pets, life cycle events, folks moving in and out and my life as a typical teenager, courted by my beloved bike riding future husband.  Visiting the street recently, the trees loom large, the houses loom smaller than in my imagination but my memories are vivid and alive. 

Monday's Blog; Big City, Seeking Quiet

Contrast and surprise are a bonus when living our nomad lifestyle on-board the motor home. At present, it is dusk and the sun is about to set. Yes it does so every night but I am sitting at my computer in front of a window facing due west:  Location-perched in a lovely and very quiet campsite in Seminole State Park, Texas. I only have to raise my eyes a bit to follow the setting blaze. Just yesterday, our vista was very different. Our perch was in a San Antonio, TX campground facing at other rigs, a busy road and an elusive sunset from my window on the world and sound buzzing in our ears. Yet, we had a spectacular day highlighted by a return visit to the McNay Art Gallery in downtown San Antonio.

The lure to visit the McNay was to view yet another Miro exhibit, a lifetime favorite artist. The day before we arrived at the McNay not realizing that they would close in an hour and fifteen minutes. Foolish us, we believed that we could view all of the offerings in that time frame. Were we wrong. Most of our time was spent in the Miro exhibit, covering his later work, a brilliantly curated show featuring large oils, watercolor, gauche and pencil or charcoal and several dozen exquisite bronze sculptures. 

Image from the McNay website http://www.mcnayart.org/

If one did not know the medium was bronze you would guess stone or ceramic. They are fetching and fantastical as would be expected by Miro.

The time flew by and at closing time was fast upon us-determined to return the next day with plenty of time before closing. The very friendly and informative docents (and well informed guards as well had greeted us with promises of many more wonders to view and the story of Marion McNay and her amazing life story. And what a return visit it turned out to be. For more info, visit the web site http://www.mcnayart.org/ or better yet, when near San Antonio plan a visit. 

The contrast: after 5 intense and wonderful days visiting San Antonio and friends from the area, we were ready for a quiet, no noise, no traffic, rural setting. Hence our drive to Seminole Texas State Park, another favorite destination with beautiful big sky, desert scenery, lovely sunsets and a road runner or two. There were a total of 4 campers and a tent on the sites. What a relief. The quiet is so intense, you forget there is a world out there.

Web access and phone contact are very limited and the air is fresh and clear. What could be more welcome after traffic jams and constant noise. 

We set up, (water and electric only) and took a long open air walk, spoke to neighbors and felt the joy of freedom and calm.

Big Sky     

December wild flowers

I have written past blogs about night symphony. The night symphony on this campsite was very Steve Reich, minimalist, reductive, with un-orthodox rhythm, musical patterns, hypnotic and often requiring patience and endurance for the listener. On to more adventures and destinations, with calm and peace in our hearts. 

Monday's Blog; Night Symphony, Opus 2

Noises in the night may be subdued and soothing or startling and jarring robbing us from precious sleep. A few posts ago, I lamented upon the steady hum of a nearby highway. An overnight on a farm that hosts motor homers on their property offered another version of a night time symphony. This time, not subdued but raucous and irregular open to the mind's musings deep in the night.

Golden Acres Ranch in the Florida Panhandle has provided a return stopover for years. The Goldens raise and sell, lamb, goat and beef cuts as well as seasonal fruit products, eggs, crafts, boarding for dogs and horses in addition to various festivals scheduled throughout the year. Check out the Mayhaw jam made from the unusual berries of their 175 Mayhaw trees at
Golden Acres Ranch

Following the long farm road into the property is slow, best taken with care as it glides by the goat and sheep pens and the acres of orchard and dense tree forest to the interior. Our parking spot is book-ended by the farm house and the country store. The chicken coop is close by. Chickens and guinea hens scurry out of the way as you walk by. 




During our long day's drive we were well able to ponder and ingest the past week's long anticipated, intense and emotional visit to my brother and sister in law and extended family and friends on Florida's west coast. Seeking an interlude in our fast pace life, we anticipated a leisurely dinner, a good read and a restful night's sleep. Of course, farms have no quiet hours. In the past Golden Acres has been fairly quiet at night but happily for the Golden's, business is good during holiday time. With an abundance of dogs in residence for boarding on the day after Thanksgiving, the dogs sang out in chorus often but intermittently. We were aware of the coming night time entertainment. 

Our rig is well insulated, so the sound was a bit subdued, but still quite audible and remaining unpredictable. Sleep came and went at various intervals through the night. I was prepared and my mind was not full of regret or complaint.  Instead, I began to break down and focus on the chorale responses going beyond the cacophonous tones. Was that mournful deep throated bark a complaint as if longing for family to arrive to take him home? Perhaps he is remembering a run to fetch thrown balls, a tumble in the grass or scratches on the head between the ears. 

Was the higher toned repetitive yipping a complaint against a larger dog's threatening stance or the three or four dogs in tenor-toned unison attempting to attract the freedom they so desire? Each session most likely was triggered in response to a critter passing nearby or a disturbance among the boarders. Do canines have visual memories to trigger their responses or are their responses purely instinctual in reaction to their environment and nothing more? 

In the end my night contemplating dog song past fairly well and the activities on the farm continued as usual. We did enjoy another comfortable night in the woods among creatures and friendly hosts and continued on our way westward for more adventure. 

Monday's Blog; into isms

The first time the matter entered my mind, the trigger was an exhibition on view in Austin, Texas, held at the Harry Ransom Art Center, part of the University of Texas on historical documents dealing with the world of ISMS. According to Eugene O. Golob, in his book, The Isms, A History and Evaluation, Harper & Brothers New York, 1954, Ism words define ideological concepts and are part of a lexicon of word endings with political, controversial and theoretical leanings.

I had always been fascinated by suffixes such as ...ism, ...ology,  ...able, ...ation and more that add certain assigned meaning to the words in each category.  Thus began my collection of such words and categories with hours spent delving into research on the matter. Not surprisingly, there exists a vast store of material before me. These include many essays, surveys and books on the subject, a society of ism lovers, and a vast storage of artwork including my own. 

The Ransom Center alone should not be missed. They can boast of a long and rich history of research in the arts, breakthrough discoveries, brilliant exhibits and the Center offers access to the public for one's own study. Their web site is http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/.

This image is a photo of one of the pieces featured in the exhibit I observed, referring to dates of origin of the listed words. 

The trend continues. I constantly encounter "ism" endings of words that seem to be spontaneously created by a writer to serve a particular purpose in their meaning. A couple of recently encountered ism words include Purposfulism and texturalism.

My intent in today's message is to introduce the topic of categories of suffix as an occasional subject for my Monday Blog and to offer and share my fascination with word development through the ages and ongoing as we read. I hope it will offer wondrous, humorous words for thought for you, my readers. 

Monday's Blog; The Night Symphony

The noises in the night in the numerous and varied campgrounds and parks in which we perch when on the road, are so different; sometimes staying quietly in the background, on the edge of our our attention.  Sometimes they are loud, annoying and incessant keeping us from focusing on anything but the noise. 

Last night, while awake for awhile, I heard only one continuous sound, the droning hum of the nearby highway, not loud, not annoying but never ceasing. However, in my experience, this is not the average sound of the night.  The passing of Cars, motorcycles, buses or big trucks stomping on their Jake brakes applied while descending a grade producing a very loud, long lasting screeching blast of sound and prohibited in most counties. Here, the night sounds were indeed a steady low toned hum, continuous, without volume, tone or pitch change. 

There were no birds singing, no coyotes barking, no trains passing by, no boat whistles, campground noise or voices partying late into the quiet hours. I especially missed the early morning bird and animal sounds. Camping in Sanford, Fl, I expected to hear birds singing How strange.  

Abut 12 hours after my bout with sleeplessness, we took a walk on the trail leading into the park and swampland surrounding us. The sunlight glowed, lighting its way through the dense forest.

The sounds were still subdued, subtle and steady. There was still a lack of bird song. To my delight we walked through a cypress grove. 

To me, Cypress groves are a passion in the strange triangular bases of the trees trunks, the cypress knees that remain mysterious in their purpose.  This grove was very quiet. I heard only occasional sounds, mostly of limbs rubbing together in the breeze, accompanied by the same droning hum of the night from the nearby expressway and accompanied by the silence of the leaves falling before us. The effect was quite stunning.

I anticipate the night symphony continuing tonight wondering if the sounds will vary at all, Perhaps there will be a change in the traffic sounds, a stray cat whining as it searches for something delectable only to a cat, or a plane, a train or a clap of thunder. I am hoping to hear bird song in early dawn. I am not sure anything will change.

Monday's Blog, Quote by Thomas Jefferson; "I live for books."

After all of the years of my life and many visits to Washington, DC, I finally toured the incredible building, the Library of Congress. What a gift to our country, to each citizen just for the "cost" of mounting the dramatic stairway into the entrance hall.  After passing through security and entering the vast vestibule of the building, you look up for the first time and gasp at the unexpected beauty of this legacy building.  The ceilings are glowing in color, text shimmers in gold, statuary is done with fine detail and forethought; all fresh, clean and fulled with meaning and nuance.  When the Library of Congress building opened its doors to the public on November 1, 1897, it was hailed as a glorious national monument and "the largest, the costliest, and the safest" library building in the world; for more, visit web site, https://www.loc.gov/about/history-of-the-library/

From this site we learn that "throughout his life, books were vital to Thomas Jefferson's education and well-being. When his family home in Shadwell burned in 1770 Jefferson most lamented the loss of his books. In the midst of the American Revolution and while United States minister to France in the 1780s, Jefferson acquired thousands of books for his library at Monticello. Jefferson's library went through several stages, but it was always critically important to him. Books provided the little traveled Jefferson with a broader knowledge of the contemporary and ancient worlds than most contemporaries of broader personal experience. By 1814 when the British burned the nation's Capitol and the Library of Congress, Jefferson had acquired the largest personal collection of books in the United States. Jefferson offered to sell his library to Congress as a replacement for the collection destroyed by the British during the War of 1812. Congress purchased Jefferson's library for $23,950 in 1815. A second fire on Christmas Eve of 1851, destroyed nearly two thirds of the 6,487 volumes Congress had purchased from Jefferson."

The remainder of the books belonging to Jefferson on on display on the 2nd floor of library, and what a vast and varied collection it is.  After the second fire in 1851, about a third of the lost volumes have been replaced by books representing as closely as possible the same edition of the book that had been in Jefferson's original collection. They cover many topics and themes and include many languages.
Some photos;

Across the way--The Capital and its cloak of scaffolding

Searches for more of the Jefferson's lost books are ongoing and each book on the shelf is being digitized to enter into the archive for future research and preservation.  Furthermore, anyone over age 16 wishing to do research in the library, in one of its 23 reading rooms (don't miss the main reading room and the fine ceiling) may do so.  Your book orders are filled withing 45 minutes from the vast stack system on or nearby the library campus.  On going programming is offered throughout the year in music, lecture and more. 

What more can I add? Go to the web sites for more historical input, photos and drawings underlining the value of this institution or to refresh memories of your own visits to the Library.  Our excellent docent, Fred summed it up for me; to paraphrase, he couldn't be more pleased but to be a docent for this library. The value of the 3 months of training, exposure to items from the collection, instruction by the experts on staff and the enthusiasm shown by the visitors on his tours have enriched his life.  Mine has been enriched as well. What took me so long? Everything in its time I guess. 

Monday's Blog, Historical Saga

This is a dark blog, not my usual tone.  The current book of non-fiction on my Kindle and my obsession with world news led me to create this entry.  One of the constants in this world is conflict. Nothing new, but the latest news is always there feeding our obsession with the need to know . Hatred, war, pillage, desecration, dominance, genocide and extermination are among the plagues practiced since the beginnings of mankind. The book alluded to above has brought this together for me in a poignant way: entitled, An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States, (Revisioning American History) by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz. 

The author vividly documents the history or our country from the Indigenous Peoples' point of view, It is not glossed over, cleaned up or glorified as in the history books we have read or historical sites we have visited.  It is not to say that battles, scourges and attacks have been overlooked, but from the point of view of the Indigenous storytellers, it clarifies the horrid and constant treatment of those occupants of our land before Chris Columbus led the way to the New World. It is clear that the final solution is not a discovery of the 20th century, but ages old. 

From the first settlers in the 1500's and sadly to the present day, the natives of our land have been tragically slaughtered and tortured beyond the realm of my understanding, remembering the many famous battles, Indigenous children's re-education and removal from their families, the Trail of Tears, displacement from their traditional lands and more. Reading this history is eye opening. I am just half way through the book, but cringe at the treatment of this tribal people. 

I now try to accept that the world was born in Genocide, not with the love of tolerance and peace. From early man, the tragic stories continue world wide, yet again in waves of migrants, killing on our streets, killings in our schools, in the market, parks and parking lots, neighborhoods, in our homes. 

The words of Martin Luther King, JR, presented well after these events, provide the words underlying my ire centuries after the  days of our nation's birth. The quote, as an introduction to chapter five entitled Birth Of A Nation on page 78 in Dunbar-Ortiz' book reads; 

"Our nation was born in Genocide...We are perhaps the only nation which tried as a matter of national policy to wipe out its indigenous population. More over we elevated that tragic experience into a noble crusade. Indeed, even today we have not permitted ourselves to reject or feel remorse for this shameful episode." 

That these behaviors do not cease or modify is horrific and depressing. I still believe it is in the individual and their stories that hope springs eternal.  Sorry to be so serious, but my heart is aching at the suffering endured around the globe. I know I am not at all alone in these thoughts.

Next week, back to something sweet, humorous or hopeful.

Ann Carol 

Monday's Blog-Eyeshine

Their eyes reflect a bright gleaming eyeshine. In the bird world, the Nightjar's

 show an orange-red eyeshine, the Chuck-will's Widow eyes show pink or orange eyeshine.The Bobcat, Domestic cat, and so many more species display bright eyeshine giving the avid birdwatcher a hint of their whereabouts in the night sky. 

The majority of these glowing eyes belong to mammals, but spiders, alligators, and bullfrogs are a few other creatures with reflecting eyes. Some night birds also have eyes that glow in the dark, but their eyes do not have a tapetum layer. Scientists are still trying to solve the mystery of their source of eyeshine.

Animals that display the brightest eyeshine are nocturnal having more rods (light receptors) and fewer cones (color receptors) in their retinas than animals with no eyeshine at all. As a result, they have excellent night vision, but most are color-blind.  

(My source, https://tpwd.texas.gov/publications/nonpwdpubs/young_naturalist/animals/eyeshine/).

 Once again, My Virginia grandsons have provided me with these facts about hard to spot birds in the night time forests. 

Our extended family is still on a high after our second youngest grandson celebrated his bar mitzvah this past weekend.

I did not encounter the animal-like eyeshine on those days, but I did see "eye shine" in the orbs of our family members and the bar mitzvah boy himself. The thrill, the pride, the love and the joy were reflected in the eyes and hearts of all of the attendees. 

Corey's Drash (interpretation of his Torah reading) inspired us and presented us with thoughts above and beyond the scope of the average 13 year old. He did it with well researched facts, in his own words and with great humor.  This blog will stay short and sweet, in keeping with my Message in a Minute title, but only because I am still ingesting the wonderful event (simcha) and seeing our fabulous family members and dear friends. 

Further, in my brief research, I have learned that a band calling themselves EYESHINE has reached stardome. A band, based in Los Angeles, and calling itself Eyeshine first found success in 2006 with a unique blend of pop punk and post grunge, a genre called edge rock.  Eye Shine, two little words, so much nuance and meaning. May your eyes shine in the joy of life.

 Eyeshine is an American underground rock band formed in 2004 by front man Johnny Yong Bosch
https://tpwd.texas.gov/publications/nonpwdpubs/young_naturalist/animals/eyeshine/

Animals that display the brightest eyeshine, such as the bobcat, have more rods (light receptors) and fewer cones (color receptors) in their retinas than animals with no eyeshine. As a result, they have excellent night vision, but most are color-blind.

The majority of animals displaying eyeshine also are nocturnal animals.

CHUCK-WILL'S-WIDOW Caprimulgus carolinensis A big brown nightjar of ... Like other nightjars, shows pink or orange eye-shine in headlight beams at night.

First frost bonus

First frost means many things to many people. Some love it, some dread it, some welcome it, others just plain shiver.   Residing in the latter category, my level of appreciation was pretty low until learning a fact from my savvy 15 year old grandson Alexander escorted by his brother Corey, 5 days away from his Bar Mitzvah celebration.  They live on a farm nestled in a hollow in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.  On a hike along the wooded edge of the farm's branch of the Hardware River (a stream) Alexander picked some fruit from a small tree.  He took a cautious bite of the fruit making a face reflecting his sharp distaste for the fruit in question. "It is an American persimmon," he declared, "much smaller and deeper red than the Asian Persimmon" often found in produce markets sporting the familiar sweet and delicious flavor. 

This tiny persimmon has a hard, shiny shell and is quite bitter, an oily and unpleasant taste that can linger for days. But, after the first frost the tiny persimmon takes on a whole new personality.  As if on cue, overnight we reached the freezing mark, the first frost of the season, changing the fruit dramatically.  Post-frost, the shell turned soft and wrinkly, the taste satisfying, sweet and delicious. 

In the morning our grandson hopped aboard our Motorhome clutching 4 of the American persimmon.  Indeed they are delicious, sweet and desirable. What a treat.  Most other plants die. shrivel or wither upon the first frost.  So with a bit of trivia in mind, the American persimmon has a redeeming characteristic, coming to life in the wake of the first frost of fall. What fun to hike through the woods, hoping to spot trees bearing such a treat; instant gratification and chemical free.

Many surprises await the hiker throughout the year, elusive treats challenging detection before forest critters claim and devour the prizes.  They could be spring fiddle heads, truffles, a variety of nuts and berries, mushrooms, edible flowers and so much more.  Let me know your favorite "secrets" of the forest?

Monday Blog; Not quite Paparazzis

A face appeared in the top segment of the bathroom window of my apartment. He balanced a protective helmet atop his head, wore overall style work clothes and a plaid shirt and held a mean paint scraper in his right hand.  It is summer and we are off the road from our 10 month adventure via motorhome. This marks the second year the painting crew will work on the facade of our vintage 1868 Cast Iron building. The guys soar from work area to work area gliding on a platform held high on a royal blue long necked ribbon of the crane. What a Herculean task they have taken on, scraping, prepping and painting the large facade of the building that started life housing a patent medicine factory appropriate to the era of its birth. As tenants, we enjoy the beautiful and sturdy wooden floors, walls of brick, some sporting graceful archways, plaster abstract shaped ceilings high above our heads and wavy, old flowing glass windows that fill most of the facade of the building.

I have adopted the habit of checking the windows for those innocent but determined faces that could appear from 7:30AM on as I may be entering the shower or other morning routines. Unannounced, they arrive to scrape and paint their way to the finish date sometime in the near future. It is a challenge to duck and avoid their unintentional gaze. 

The accidental voyeur intrusion is behind us now. We are on the road for the next few months and free from the blue long necked held platforms appearing on our windowsills.  The pigeons return as the workers depart, to poise on the window ledges cooing and wobbling back and forth communicating in language only other pigeons may understand.

We anticipate many adventures ahead of us on the road and in many campsites, where we also practise vigilance in closing window shades for privacy, keeping to the quiet hour rules and properly managing our hookups. At present, we are camped in a campground in Pennsylvania, called Shangri-La. We have stayed here many times and brought family members and guests with us. The campground is very child oriented, and on this Columbus weekend there are children and dogs everywhere managed by parents, relatives and siblings. Camping here has always been a place of transition to enter this other faze of our lives. Letting go is a process, whether it is seeing children off to kindergarten, camp, college, saying goodbye to dear friends, loosing a family member or dear friend,  We will miss family, friends, favorite cultural venues, long walks along the river, and great memories.  This year is made easier in anticipation of two of our grandsons celebrating their b'nei mitzvot in the coming months, and the adventures to come.

Life is full of change, enhanced by the ability to communicate electronically. Trying to keep on top of current vehicles to communicate is another adventure. Will we miss the hum of the blue necked crane at our windows? Probably not but we will welcome the joyous voices of children at play, hugs and kisses as we favorite people along the road, the delight of the next beautiful sunset out our rig's windows and yet more enchanting discoveries throughout this vast and beautiful land of ours.

Monday blog

So many of you have been notably kind to ask me if they have missed seeing my blog "message in a minute."  I have been remiss, it has been long time since my last post. What a point of frustration this is for me as I love to write. Life gets in the way, just doing so many wonderful things. I am still amazed that people care or even think of my blog posts, but I do enjoy reading blogs from people like you, so I get it. My current plan and approach is to post a blog every Monday (I am hoping to be disciplined enough to carry this through and cover many topics ad tell many stories.)

How to start again? I needed an idea. Humans love categories and classifications; such as the lineup of sibling birth order, 1st born, 2nd born...and the effects on our growth and development. Consider the theories about number of siblings, family background, family interaction, economics, parental occupations, personality traits and more. I decided to delve into the history the day of our birth has had in lore, fable and storytelling.  I looked up my birth date and day and confirmed that I am a Monday Child.  Ah, a starting point and title. 
My source:
URL of reference http://www.dayofbirth.net/leftlinkmain.php?day=mon#.VhGnYHpViko

Born on a MONDAY: I checked sources to see what traits are attributed to Monday births;

• having a good memory; Hmmm, not as sharp as in the past
• very sensitive and emotional; Yes, that is me, A constant in my life
• spend lots of time with family, relatives and close friends, very true 
• Harbor a love of peace and serenity and attempts to make peace; I am a mediator
• likely to be involved in a skill-based occupation, very business minded. Skill based fits, `photography, teaching, organizing, instigating and arranging.  Business? Luckily my beloved is a business pro.
• Monday born women may suffer from anemia related problems, weakness, insomnia and dizziness. luckily, this isn't in my profile. I do exercise daily as suggested.
• Girls born on a Monday grow up to be very good wives and mothers, loving and caring, taking good care of close ones. My family will have to testify to this one for me. I think I make the grade. 

This is my entry point for my blog and as always, I look forward to reader's feedback.

Perhaps you already know your DAY of birth. If not see http://www.rocketcalendar.com/calendar/

I hope my future posts will be stimulating and thought provoking. How do you fit into the profile on the day of your birth? I'd love to hear from you.

Happy Fall

"Will your child be fair, graceful, or woeful? Is your baby a Monday’s child? Tradition holds that you can predict your child’s temperament based on the day of the week they were born. Fortune telling rhymes based on the weekday of birth originated in England around the 1500s. Many superstitions existed regarding the days of the week. The fortunes, personalities, and temperaments of children were considered regulated by their weekday of birth." source http://www.famlii.com/mondays-child-day-of-the-week-nursery-rhyme-predicting-childs-personality/

Recycle your Possibilities

Recycle your Possibilities!   Driving along our favorite and irresistible highway--California's Route 1 along the Pacific coast we passed a hiker bearing those words on a he-man backboard sign explaining in three simple words his purpose for trekking along this route. We drove past him climbing a steep uphill road. He was needless to say, walking slowly, reserving his strength and waving to passersby.

It makes you wonder about his story and choices in life, propelling him to devise a hike for all to witness. What conversations he must share when he has company trekking alongside or heads off road for a snack break, a meal, or night's sleep in his sleeping bag and tent. What an adventure. But then again, isn't that life? Seeking a new direction, healing, adventure, change, choice, struggle, hopefully with the support of others who care.

An oft recited cliche states that people typically make an average of seven career changes in a lifetime. That was said well before the electronic age now providing finger-tip opportunities for research, outreach and choices. I have had the experience of making choices and investigating new opportunities, but never imagined them in terms of recycling. For me, the first thoughts that come to mind when I seeing the word recycling are the obvious matters of dealing with material goods; discardables, electronics and the like. But the concept of recycling possibilities raises a whole new connection beyond the stuff we acquire. It is the stuff of life that matters the most, our emotional and intellectual well being. When I think of the hiker's terminology, Recycling Your Possibilites, I play the Alphabet Soup game, turning it into RYP or ripe. Ripe for new direction and fresh thinking. 

I recall grabbing all of my strength and resources to cope with family members or friends behaviors in directions away from expectations, accepting the loss of dear friends at young ages, their divorces, and other happenstance that came their way, What difficulty I had coping with the loss of my father at the young age of 71, my mother's sudden onset of cancer.  Spiritual healing often became a big issue.  I remain in constant need to rethink my expectations and goals and learn to understand and accept who I am and to try to "be there" for others who need support and understanding. I am sure I am not alone in this quest.

This is another chance for interaction with my readers. I have in the past asked you to share book titles you have enjoyed, share photographs or other ideas. I seek feedback on what RYP recalls to your minds, to share your interpretation of the three words. Meanwhile, I hope this has been a pathway to food for thought, a chance sighting of a hiker with a purpose and has spurred thoughts for you to recall and to share. 

Not at This Address

Our rig was perched in a campsite high above the beautiful blue Pacific Ocean. Our mail-forwarded package arrived on time (from our address in Texas.) Following our usual routine, Paul opened the large envelope and scanned through the mail that included most of usual items; magazines, bills, updates of accounts, Medical reports, agency and organizational letters and brochures ("tree-killing hard copies that we beg companies and agencies to only send via email.  (They don't always honor those requests) and a few other items. A letter addressed by hand was included at our address. My name, Carol was quite legible, the last name was illegible and we never checked it and it was routinely slit open. The return address was an address in Denver  (no name, a place that we have visited and have acquaintances.) Paul nicely placed it on the table for my reading. 

Indeed I did remove the letter to read. It was beautifully written by hand, double sided on white lined paper measuring approximately 5" x  8." Every line was filled to the final word, lacking a signature. However the author's name was contained several times in the text. I was compelled to finish the letter, even though I did not recognize the name nor the woman or her situation. She poured out her heart to the intended recipient; thanking her profusely for her cards, letters, caring hugs and love over 2-3 years and apologizing for the belated response and for the slightly shaky handwriting, due to her MS and other health complications. As I mentioned, I thought the handwriting to be beautiful and flowing with a hint of quiver. 

Needless to say, I was in tears by the time I read the final words. First of all for her life story and second of all, because I felt like a voyeur, an intruder. At that point I looked harder at the front of the envelope. Our address was correct but the letter was indeed intended for another client of the mail forwarding service. Again, the first name was legible, the last name indecipherable. I placed the opened letter in another envelope with a note to the forwarding service to PLEASE PLEASE determine the correct box number and forward this letter to the intended recipient. I placed it on the dashboard to mail in the morning. 

The next morning came and we prepared for our departure to visit our wonderful son and family in LA. That means carrying lots of stuff to the toad re;tow car or Jeep (purse, cameras, totes, promised paper goods and food items and the letter. Paul pulled up to the mail box and lo and behold, we could not find the letter. I know it was in my hands getting into the car. I was sure it was on the rig, therefore we would mail it this evening upon our return. What a great day as everyday is with our kids. Back to the rig late at night, the letter was not on the dashboard. 

I was devastated. How could I make sure the recipient knew what a difference she had made in this woman's life. A life of pain, disease, dialysis, late onset of that horrible mid life disease  MS, wheel chair bound and loved by many people like the letter's author. I had a hard night getting to sleep. The next morning we prepared  once again to drive into LA. As we packed the car our neighbor from the rig next door addressed Paul, wheeling himself towards us in his wheel chair. He handed us the letter that he had found near his Porsche. As you can imagine, I thanked him over and over again. Yes, he is disabled but extremely independent, strong and always smiling. Another neighbor mentioned that this man refuses any help, gets along very well and does indeed drive a Porsche. 

I ached to relate to him the irony of the letter that he rescued, another person with a life story of suffering, pain and overcoming hardship. However, I was not sure it was appropriate and we had a schedule to meet. My heart was singing. When we said our goodbyes to him on departure day we promised to see each other in the same spot next year as he is a long term resident of the campground overlooking the Pacific. We hope to spend more time that visit in the campsite and have time to get better acquainted. Maybe  next year, I will tell him the story of the rescued letter.  Days later, I still think of our neighbor and his great self sufficiency and of the woman in Denver pouring out her heart to a recipient whom I hope and pray will receive the letter, a little late, a little battered, but whole and heartfelt. And to you dear readers, thank you for reading this longer than usual Message in a Minute and letting me pour out my heart. 

Descent

Descent; descending; going down; it is all downhill from here. Reaching your low, down and under, all cliches that come to mind when thinking of simply going downward. But, I am thinking in simpler, physical terms. Our last week was spent camping in our rig in the mountains of southern California in Jojoba Hills, an SKP co-op park sitting 2200 feet above sea level, Our purpose, to audition" a possible location to call our western base. Besides our Rochester apartment, our Eastern base is our son's and family's wonderful farm nestled in a hollow in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia--altitude, 1250' above sea level.

The location of Jojoba Hills is glorious and the membership so caring and friendly that we are now #18 on the waiting list for a lot of approximately 50' x 70' with views to raise your spirits and offering every amenity, class, activity, volunteer opportunity to fill a life time. Today, we tore ourselves away from the mountain refuge to spend a wonderful holiday--Pesach in Los Angeles with our other son and family. That is where the descent comes in.

I am presently looking through the windshield staring at the Pacific Ocean, vast, swift and beautiful. We are in Malibu Beach at about 12' above sea level. The views are still breathtaking, the sea winds match the sweetness of the mountain breezes, the air is fresh if not a bit misty. The only problem is the relentless drought that has the Southwest in its tight grip (and of course, dense traffic.)

It is hard not to be grateful for the beauty of our planet and our common voices expressing disdain for the environmental problems, social behaviors, wars and conflicts that plague our world. Let us not fall into the pit and hit bottom, Working together (Utopian I know) we can return to the heights and breath the truly fresh air and see the stars in all of their glory.

Wigwam Memories

Camped once again in Scottsdale, AZ, my head is turned toward nostalgia. As a family, we first journeyed to Scottsdale way back in 1972.  This was one of our legendary family trips orchestrated by my wonderful in laws. December school vacation, 1972, we had reservations for a week at the Wigwam Resort with horse back riding, chuck wagon cookouts and a good taste of life in the west in store for all of us. Paul bought his first pair of cowboy boots on this trip and perhaps, his first cowboy hat as well. Our boys were 4 and 6, my gosh, 43 years ago.

In search nearby farm markets and our continuing quest to support locals Tripadvisor pointed to a farm market in Litchfield rated 9th out of 10 markets:  location the Wigwam front lawn. Who are we to pass up a trip to the past. The market was disappointing (perhaps time of year) 


only 6 vendors, one luckily had lovely organic produce, so all was not lost. The Wigwam was very much a presence and going strong. Our curiosity was at high pitch, yes it still exists, but in 4 decades much had to have changed. I interviewed some of the locals, telling me that there was nothing surrounding the wigwam but bare land and farm land, as I recalled. 

Sprawl of course has inflicted itself
upon this area, not a surprise, but the Wigwam grounds were still vast and lovely. Many of the buildings are new or refurbished and we believe our rooms were in similar buildings as depicted in the second photo. When we arrive back in our home base, we will search for photos of that trip. I do remember splendid buffets of food, very attentive waiters and staff, the horse back rides and oh so sore thighs, cookouts on the plain and on Christmas eve the staff had "snuck" into each room leaving wrapped gifts for all patrons. The children awoke to see these gifts and tore open the wrappings as eager to have gifts, even on Christmas, not our usual celebration. Life is made of 50% memories I believe and I cherish our trip to Arizona. As an aside, we arrived home after the usual winter weather delays, late at night. We had just moved into our new house and were asleep when the workman arrived to start renovations. We all slept until late morning, not bothered by the noises and launched into the next phases of our lives. 

Pruning the Palm Tree

Motorhomers know that Elk Lodges (with membership) offer wonderful places to camp. Once again, we are perched on a site next to the Scottsdale, AZ lodge. I walked about with a storm blowing in from the west and with my camera slung on my shoulder. Self imposed photographic themes have shaped my work through the years and through one of those I was in search of shapes in nature, natural materials and happenstance composition. Some worker had recently pruned a Palm tree across from our rig. The cuttings were strewn neatly under the tree. The wind and setting sun were tough obstacles but  of course, I had to make images and clicked away.  I felt that after the storm the fronds and stems forming my subjects would be soggy and limp. Here are some of the shots to share;

After the storm, indeed the subject
matter was limp and soggy and had lost color and luster. But the Palm tree stands tall and proud with its new hair cut, a lone tree on the Elk Lodge grounds. Our neighbors come and go, as we will in a few days, but we have met a variety of folks from different states including Alaska and all with stories to share. Camp grounds of every type are rich mines for learning, meeting and making life long friends. Perhaps the tall and proud Palm tree stands as a symbol of welcome and caring, a few moments of silent thought and escape from our everyday cares.