Shirl's Quite a Girl

When I need a laugh, I call Shirl. When I need an emotional hug, I call Shirl. When I have a funny joke, I call Shirl. She has a generous laugh. Infectous. Well more of a snorty laugh. Still very satisfying. I call Shirl a lot. Who wouldn't? She listens and doesn't judge. She cuts to the chaff without grinding too hard. She creates beautiful bears from fur coats. She cooks delicious meals from scratch and without a recipe. She arranges flowers creatively combining them with unpredictable textures and color. She is the real deal. Authentic. Trustworthy. Good to the core. She isn't bothered by aging.
She has friends from high school. She has friends everywhere. If you were stranded on an island you'd want her to be your companion.
Lucky George. And lucky me that she is my sister. In a few weeks she is going to take her first cruise - she loves nautical everything. That boat won't know what hit it.

Canadian Thanksgiving

When I was a child, Thanksgiving and the harvest were integrally connected. Most families depended one way or another on the harvest that took place in late August and September. We would decorate our little church with our gardens' bounty. Feed bales and sheafs of grain placed near the alter were important reminders of our livelihood and what fueled our rural town's econony. Our church services expressed gratitude and thanks for what we had.
At school we would color cornucopia full of fruit that in truth never was seldom part of our diet. We'd decorate our classroom with dried leaves pressed between sheets of waxed paper which were then suspended from the ceiling. One year I learned how to make a turkey from a roll of lifesavers and some construction paper to use as table decorations for our special meal.

Thanksgiving meant my mother didn't have to "work" on the Monday but when I consider the meal she prepared of turkey, dressing, gravy, mashed potatoes, turnips and carrots, pickled beets, cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts and lots of pumpkin pie clearly she did not have a day of rest. The menu for Thanksgiving hasn't changed much since I was a child except that we have replaced those nasty brussel sprouts with green beans, added sweet potato casserole from our tryst in the US, and sweet rolls that I learned to make.
Fancy gourds, pumpkins and mountain ash berries have replaced the pressed leaves and colored cornucopia. Our livelihood doesn't depend directly upon the harvest. But the holiday is still very important for me and I do wish to express thanks.
I am thankful for four children, a son-in-law I am getting to know, a husband who is true and still crazy about me after all these years. I am thankful for a mother, sister, and brother who encourage my wildest dreams. I am thankful for clean water, for a warm home, education. I am thankful for friends: book club, hiking, walking, skating, shopping, making salsa, travelling to Cuba, canning pear kind of friends. I am thankful for good health, for opportunities to develop myself and to share with others. I am thankful for my faith in Jesus Christ and for scriptures and hymns. I am thankful for rock and roll and hair dye and Lindt chocolate. I am thankful for these and so many other blessings which exceed all expectation. Happy Thanksgiving!

I Find that Completely Unacceptable

In order not to die of boredom exercising on an arc trainer, I plugged into CNN today at the gym. Listening to them report on the plane flying erraticly and then crashing is just one of the main reasons I hate what CNN has become. They went from the plane flying erraticly to the pilot not having enough oxygen to not having enough fuel in about 30 seconds. They make it up as they go. Talk to this expert and that expert. Gosh folks we have to fill time here so let's have yet another expert refute what the first two experts had to say. And oh did I mention that we really don't know why the pilot crashed his plane - it may take weeks of investigation to determine that one but hey we have air to fill. The other televisions at the gym from which I can choose don't inspire much more interest. Bowling. Now there's something to take my mind off the tightening hamstrings. Sports highlights. Football? Please! Weather? Who watches weather?

So I stick with CNN. While all this - yawn - drama of a plane being following by two homeland security protector jets - yawn was unfolding, they repeatedly went to a commercial with Deborah Morosini who is Dana Reeve's sister and now a paid spokeperson for Lung Cancer Alliance. She speaks of the devastation of Dana's lung cancer even though she never smoked. She doesn't exactly say Dana's cancer was attributed to asbestos. She points out though that one of the culprits of lung cancer is asbestos. And then at the end of her highly paid message she says: "I Find That Completely Unaccpetable." What do you find completely unacceptable? The lung cancer commercial is repeated several times today just like that CNN repeats their news updates.
I find it unaccpetable that one in three of our children in public schools across this nation does not graduate. That they are functionally illiterate. That they cannot write a paragraph. I find it unacceptable that my government is considering euthanasia. I find it completely unacceptable that models are getting skinnier and adolescent girls diet. I find it unacceptable that we have holiday trees and season greetings. And with just some of that unacceptability, what am I going to do about any of it? Becoming a spokesperson - a paid spokesperson - might be a good idea. But I hardly have the credentials.
What do you do when you are "as mad as h... and not going to take it anymore?"

And She's Off Again

I attended my first Creative Writing Class tonight with 9 other aspiring hopeful writers. We sit in a little coccoon shaped nook introducing ourselves. A retired teacher like me, a family physician, an environmental engineer, a retired therapist, an army brat, the wife of a director, a stay at home mom, a journalist, and a librarian. In our introduction we had to describe the darkest place we have ever been. Two women said their minds. The rest of us had experiences in caves or basement cellars. They are accepting and full of anticipation like an expectant mother ready to give birth. I like them all - already.
Our instructor, a published and seasoned writer, will for the next 8 weeks channel our writing and guide us along the path to our dream of publication. She isn't hurried. She listens carefully. She tells us about Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones and about W. O. Mitchell's free fall writing.
For ten minutes she has us write. One girl has brought her laptop despite the instructor's admonition to use only ink and paper. Energy like that could light a city. Physically we don't ever write for ten minutes anymore. Our hands are cramping. We put down our pens with relief. Yet we know what is coming. Who will be brave enough to share by reading?
One by one we read our ten minutes of free fall. I like them even more. They are literate, erudite, and willing to take a risk. The instructor invites us to make comments at the end of each reading. Two women are crying from things they wrote. They are embarrassed and yet this little circle of hope tightens secure arms around them reassuring them.
Each day I will need to write for 30 minutes. No censorship. No corrections. No editing. Going for the naked and jugular.
I drive home barely conscious of the road. My mind churns out one story idea after another. A small step toward my dream. I am so happy.

My Brother's Beaming

My older brother L has lived alone the majority of his adult life. He gardens. He preserves. He's a neat freak. A cook. A crossword puzzle junkie. An artist. A lineman. An outdoorsman. All these years I thought he liked it like that. Until yesterday. His eyes twinkled. He grinned. He wanted to talk about someone rather than the trivia he usually discusses with me. My brother is in love. At 59 he has found a soul mate. A woman who loves him just as he is. And he is smitten. Love softens people. Fills them with hope. He contemplates a different future now. He left today to Europe for a month to see his son. A month away from the Beam Source.

Albuquerque to Provo Day 3

New Mexico has the most beautiful landscapes with flat table topped mesa and unusual rock structures in the middle of nowhere. Crossing the border into Colorado the landscape changed almost immediately and we were suddenly in agriculture country with bean fields and irrigation canals visible from the highway. We saw lots of road kill: racoon, squirrels and even a dead cow that had rigeur mortis - it looked more like a huge balloon than a cow. Continuing north to Utah we drove passed Moab and determined it was the most beautiful view we have seen so far. I definitely want to go back there to cycle and poke around more. We arrived in Provo exhausted and hungry and needing some room to spread our legs. This has been a wonderful experience for me to have R all to myself for these two days - sharing our stories, singing her songs, dreaming our dreams. She is a wonderful companion and I hope this will be the first of many road trips with her.

SAT to Albuquerque Day 2

SAT looks like a completely different place during the daytime. Lots of neat old buildings and the riverwalk is a must see. As we headed out of town, I saw a sign that said "Everything is bigger in Texas". True that.

Rachel had Whitney's Dance with Somebody blarring just as soon as we hit the freeway. Love the IPOD shuffle. There's not really much to see along the way except lots of limestone and trees. Deserted highway. No animals. Lots of blown out tires. Grew tired of singing. Played game Best of... Best Jack Nicholson Movie? Best Nicole Kidman? Listened to some conference talks. Dozed. Ate a bunch of nuts and drank too much water. Lots of bathroom stops. Some of these were rather sketchy. Each time we stopped we would consult a map in the gas station to verify our route. Too cheap to buy it. People say "M'am" when they talk to you. This part of Texas and New Mexico are largely uninhabited yet the roads surpass our Trans Canada highway.

Another hotel sleep offering free breakfast, 24 hour gym and free internet.

Road Trip With Rax Day 1

Apparently the airlines did not learn the lesson that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You would think it's cheaper to fly in that straight line but oh no you must go to B, C, D and E before you arrive at your final destination. Here Everything is Bigger and Better. They have a grocery store called HEB. They have an entire aisle dedicated to salsa, chili verde, and barbeque sauce. And food prices are amazingly low. It's cheap to eat here. And if cowboy boots are your thing, this is a place that has options on every corner. You immediately notice lots of very overweight people. They perhaps haven't seen Supersize Me. Texas donuts are more like bread loaves. We were going to go for the riverwalk and check out the Alamo but the street people bedding down tonight on the church steps outside our hotel made us reconsider. This isn't a safe place at night. Or at least it doesn't look safe. Instead we opted for the locked door, windows up don't stop for nothing or nobody tour from the safety of our airconditioned carYou want to carry a big bat though I am pretty sure they carry guns. At Rachel's hospital there is a sign that says: "We would prefer if you did not bring your gun on the premises" This hospital is just minutes away from our hotel. Speaking Spanish would definitely increase your chances of increasing your circle of friends. Though Rachel assures me that hermit life style might be a good thing. We had delicious soup and salad at Jason's Deli. We head out on the highway tomorrow. Salt Lake here we come. Going from one bubble to the next. First we better consult a map.

Are all Julie*s Cooks?

Now that I have seen the movie Julie and Julia I am obsessed with food, and writing. To those who came to the movie, here is the link to our homegrown Julie http://dinnerwithjulie.com/

Sunday Dinner

I love to have people come to my home on Sunday for dinner. I love preparing a menu that is colorful and full of texture. I love to look up and see many around my table laughing, eating and revealing little bits of themselves. After B was called to be the bishop, we stopped entertaining on Sunday because it was already a very full, very demanding day for him. Now four years later, he is ready to open our home up again to these events. Not one to waste any time, I have had people over each week since. I even arranged for a potluck each fast Sunday starting in September.
I don't have fancy china or beautiful bowls. I don't have matching water goblets nor formal silver. I don't usually prepare complicated recipes. I don't - or really I should say can't - set a beautiful looking table like my friend CH. I don't serve up each plate but rather set all the food out in bowls and let my guests choose what they like - family style. I am sometimes not entirely ready when they arrive and so I put them to work filling glasses, finding more chairs or fixing the salad.
Most invited guests will ask "What can I bring?" Bring good conversation, I say. Bring a willingness to connect. Bring salad or dessert. I have learned that bringing something is important to them. I oberve with great interest what happens when you have a bunch of strangers eating intimately at a dinner table. This common meal allows people to share of themselves. Sometimes questions are asked so they will begin to open up. How did you join the church? What was your favorite part in that movie and why? How do you like to spend your time? And as they butter a dinner roll, they'll share their testimonies, their adventures, their misadventures. They move from that place of awkward stranger to common friend. They linger long after the platter is empty.
As I wash up the dishes later and clean the kitchen, a warm glow fills my soul. I feel full and whole and see my circle enlarging.

Forever Young

Photograph by: Stuart Gradon, Calgary Herald

Yes I was at the Rod Stewart concert last night at the Saddledome with B. Yes the music and performance were predictable. Yes he is cliche. Yes he sang Maggie May. Yes he kicked a hundred soccer balls - with great skill I might add - into the audience while he sang Hot Legs. And yes he is aging and unable to belt out with the same volume as he could three decades ago. But, so what. When the guy smiles or grins you see one cheeky guy. Fun loving. Entertaining. The real McCoy or in this case the real Stewart. You want to sing along with him. You know the lyrics and you love the songs. You want to dance. You want to forget the wrinkles and arthritis and the greying hair. You want to get on board that Love Train and enjoy Havin' A Party. I had a great time. And today as I shopped at the Farmer's Market and sold a bazillion shirts at BR, I couldn't help humming Some Guys Have All the Luck and First Cut Is the Deepest. Long live Rod Stewart.

Boys Sewing Shorts

When J and his friend MW decided on a recent rainy day that they needed a project, so they researched the internet and then examined an old pair of shorts. Without any hesitation or doubt, they decided they could make some terry towel shorts. Finding the right towels (read cheap and black) at Wal-mart they came home and set up the sewing machine. No measure twice and cut once for these lads. They just started and were determined to not stop until they had two garments completed. That J had never used the machine before didn't seem to bother him. That they didn't have a real pattern wasn't an issue. They had confidence they could make them. MW figured that because there is a sewing machine always being used at his house that he has observed enough and seen enough that he knew what to do. It never entered their mind that it had to be perfect. So this is how I found them: listening to Taylor Swift, sewing, cutting and pinning just a little. I love that they took on a project. I love that they were confident that it would come out right - that both boys were right in the now of this project. Obviously enjoying too their youth - their freedom - their uncluttered life. Their lack of frustration when the shorts were too big in the crotch. No matter. Just cut and sew - oh about that much. And amid all the sewing and cutting and singing and pinning I could hear their laughter. Infectious. Generous. Youthful. Rain on, these guys rock.

Bunica

In a few days I will take a plane to join my daughter R on a long road trip. We will visit my eldest daughter whom we have not seen for a few months. I love being with my daughters and am looking forward to this adventure. We live in a time and have the resources where seeing our children requires little more than really good planning.

As I consider how easy things are for me, I am reminded of my Great-Grandmother Softa Badea and her determination and hard work to see one of her children.

She and most of her family had immigrated to Canada to claim homesteads in Saskatchewan. One daughter, already married with children, stayed behind in Romania with the plan that they would come later. But when it was time to depart, Maria's husband changed his mind and so Maria and her four children went ahead.They arrived in Montreal, Quebec but could go no further because she did not have enough money to travel to Saskatchewan. She wrote her parents announcing her arrival in Canada and requesting their financial help. No instant messenging. No emails. No cell phones. By the time the letter arrived on the farm, a few weeks had already passed. My great-grandmother did not have the money. But longing to see her daughter and her grandchildren, she began her crusade to raise the money. Her humble solicitations to siblings, cousins, neighbors and friends were inadequate. She sold eggs. She sold milk. Pennies here and there were collected until finally after what seemed an eternity she had the fare for their train trip. There was no place from which she could wire the money and so one morning with her cane and a small sack containing some food, a sealer jar of water and her shawl, Softa headed on foot from the farm to the nearest train station where she would wire the money. Her journey of 165 kilometres from Wood Mountain to Moose Jaw took six days. She wasn't young. She limped along with her cane for support. The road was hilly in parts particularly around Mossbank. Did she feel afraid walking alone along the road? Did she worry that a coyote or porcupine or snake would trouble her path? Did her legs and hips and bones ache when she slept? Or did she sleep? Can you see her lying there uncomfortably in a ditch trying to rest before she would continue? Can she see the stars overhead as she lays awake listening to the crickets chirp? When it grows dark, is she bothered by the mosquitoes? Bats? Did the darkness close in on her and cause her heart to tremble? Sadly I do not know. Like most mothers, she must have remembered the last time she had seen her grandchildren and her daughter. Her imagination for their much anticipated reunion must have overshadowed her weariness. Wouldn't she have contemplated the gratitude she felt for having this opportunity to help? Wouldn't she have also thought about her chickens and milking cows and the garden that would weeding or harvesting?

It took only a few minutes to wire the money once she arrived. I try to conjure in my mind how she appeared before that agent. Dusty? Dirty? Tired? And yet too, proudly handing over that hard earned and borrowed money - mostly in coins - to the agent explaining that this would bring her daughter and grandchildren from Montreal, that it had been a few years since she had last seen them. And with her mission accomplished, she headed home. I am quite certain that she walked with a glad heart. Carpe diem. Empowered. Mother love at its noblest.

What my Great-Grandmother did not know was that at that same time she walked home with the bald prairie blowing on her back and the grasshoppers keeping pace with her that Immigration had discovered that Maria's husband was not in Canada and assumed she had no financial support in Canada. She did not speak English. They provided no interpreters. And so the Federal Government following their rules and regulations deported her. Even while my great-grandmother trudged along back to the homestead, her daughter and grandchildren were boarding a ship that would take them back to where they had came from. Imagine Maria's horror when she discovered that she was not enroute to Saskatchewan as she had believed. Imagine her tears and her pleading that there was a mistake. A big mistake. She had family in Saskatchewan. They were sending money. Weren't they? Imagine her despair wondering why her family did not or could not help her. Imagine her sorrow later when her youngest son Marin would take ill, most likely with dysentary, and would die in Germany before they would arrive home to Coza Voda, Romania. Imagine my Great-Grandmother's grief that she never again saw this beloved daughter. Never again saw the beauty of her smile nor hear the music that was her laughter. Never saw her grandchildren nor felt their tender kisses on her cheek. And all the while blaming herself that if only she could have walked faster, if only she could have earned the money quicker, if only she could have convinced her daughter's husband to join them when they first came. If only her efforts had been enough. If only.

I wonder what part of my Great-Grandmother remains in me. What have I inherited from her? What is lingering there in the corner of my heart or in my DNA that comes from her?

Part III Gelato Heaven

With the temperatures exceeding 115 F, we decided to take a day trip to Lido Beach which is a small island on the Adriatic Sea. Getting there takes some work on the vaporetto and then a bus. Once there you can rent an umbrella and chairs or if you want to go extra lux you can rent a little hut that has a private change room, a canopy roof and walls. They place people along this private beach much like they would at stadium parking. The water is FREEZING! And the seashells make the walking crunchy and very hot. Staying there was a relief from the heat and from the crowds.Leaving Venice to go to Lido Beach - it is a beautiful view don't you agree?

In this picture you can notice the houses are built right on the water with their pilings deep into the water. They don't want speed boats to come along and create erosion or damage on them so the boats all have to slow down in this zone.

Venice at night. Yes it is beautiful and other worldish.

From the air one can see how the water is the lifeline of this city. The houses all have entrances from the water. And it is quite crowded along these water paths - no street lights but or traffic jams but definitely very busy. It cracked me up to watch them move goods along the water. The vaporetto in the picture is their version of public transportation. Watching the crew use the ropes to anchor and then pull the boat to butt up against the platform sometimes distracted me from leaving the ship on time. Cruise ships spill their passengers out into St. Marco's square where there are too few garbage cans and too many pigeons. I can't imagine enjoying a pigeon eating out of my hand but apparently there are people who are eager to do so everyday. Even have them sit on their heads. Seems like the statues have enough pigeon activity that the tourists would refrain from this thoughtless endeavor. We did not go up that tower but did go up the one across the water at San Giorgio Maggiore Church. From the church tower, you can see in each direction quite far. I found it breathtakingly beautiful though disgusted that I had to pay such an exorbitant price to do so. The Catholic church's population continues to diminish and so I guess they need to find income from other sources than tithing.

Venice has a fantastic fresh market just passed Rialto Square where we saw the most unappetising eel. Who eats that? How do you cook it? The market has fresh fish that rivals anything I ever saw at Pike's in Seattle though there is none of the showmanship. The fresh fruits and vegetables were beautifully displayed and only after I left did I wish I had a picture.
Right outside our hotel room we found a delicious gelato shop where the portions were generous and the flavors plentiful. I confess that coming home and leaving each day were punctuated with a stop at this shop. Bacio and cioccolata every day - sometimes twice a day. Ah life is good. We took in the glass factories in Murano and the lace shops in Burano. These are such sleepy wonderful little villages. I found some lovely red glass elephants that I couldn't resist. We had the opportunity to attend a concerto in San Marco's square at the Ateneo di San Basso to hear their Chamber Orchestra place Vivaldi's Four Seasons. The lead violinist brilliantly played and you just knew that this was someone with extraordinary talent.

We also had a gondola ride - okay this is kind of cheesy with the black lacquer boats, the black and white striped t-shirts, the red velvet upolstery. There was a guy paid I am sure by the gondolier company to play the accordian and serenade the passengers. Despite all that cheesiness, the ride was very very enjoyable. From that perspective on the water, you saw things about the city that stimulated our imagination of another place and time.

B had trouble navigating himself around Venice - the streets are a maze - a water spider's web. It was too hot. There were too many crowds. There really isn't much to do after the first day. Four days in Venice is just way too long - and way too much gelato. We are glad we saw it but were very ready to leave. We took the train to Florence. Ah paradise.

I loved it here. You will recognise the Ponte Vecchio where the jewellers have the smallest shops but the most exquisite jewellery. Some of these have existed for many generations. The top of the bridge was a private tunnel that the Medici family could take from their palace into the church. The Boboli Gardens and the Pitti Palace just south of the Ponte Vecchio are must sees. Higher up the hill, they provide a wonderful view of Florence. The gardens are splendidly kept and groomed to perfection. Imagine how impressed visitors were to see these a few centuries ago.

This is Luca who was our guide for the morning. He speaks English exceptionally well and is a walking encyclopedia on Italian art, history and culture. His comment about how Florence has a past and a present but they seldom ever discuss its future reminded me that perhaps too much ancient art and sculptor can be hinder progress. The tower on the left side in back ground of this picture was near our bed and breakfast which was housed in a building over 500 years old. Unlike England and France, Italy does not identify any of their statues or monuments. Perhaps they think people already know what they are called. I confess I do not remember now what this statue is but it was huge and beautiful and near the train station. One of the perks with having a guide who knows the city really well is his recommendation of the gelato store called Grom. You find the tower on the basilica and then go down the alley and voila you have this amazing gelato store that does not display its products in the typical Italian fashion. The gelato is in metal containers and they use only the purest ingredients. I had limone which was really quite exceptional. We attended vespers in the Duomo Cathedral more to see the Duomo without having to line up. The organ music filled the chapel and demonstrated how excellent the acoustics were in the building. The church was started in 1296 and finished some two hundred years later. It is massive and beautiful and gothic and ugly all at the same time. You can go up to the dome for a view but the steps that lead up there are in between two walls and it gets very hot and very tight in there with people coming and going. The marble and the intricate designs impress from every point of view.We met a young man from Manhattan School of Music who was studying double bass cello at the Bel Canto Music School in Florence and his mother was studying painting in the Caravaggio method. We enjoyed getting to know them and enjoyed the recital the following night where he and many of his classmates performed. These are exceptional musicans - they must audition for the right to study there and only the best are chosen. I especially loved the music composed by Scarletti.

We visited the Galleria dei L'Academie which houses Michaelangelo's David from the 15th Century. We saw one painting entitled Aquainted with Grief of the Saviour that touched a deep spiritual nerve of gratitude for Jesus Christ. We visited the Uffezzi museum where we saw way too much art and sculpture to remember. It starts to all blend into one big orgey of art after awhile. I did like some paintings by Notti and Manfredi though I could not tell you now what they were. Art history might be a fun class to take and then go back there again where perhaps some of it might stick longer.

One night we walked up to the Fortezza de Basso where they had an outdoor concert with a rock band and a classical orchestra and choir. They played Pink Floyd - yes that Pink Floyd though I confess I did not recognise Shine On You Crazy Diamond. We stayed as long as we could before the cigarette smoke just became too thick and too disgusting. Italians LOVE their cigarettes. No attempt seems to be made to have public smoking banned. Too bad.

The holiday was starting to get old and we had eaten too much pasta and seen to much art and been in too many churches. I suggested we go shopping for a change. Big Mistake!!! Leather. Leather gloves. Leather shoes. Leather boots. Leather coats. Leather purses. Leather heaven. Leather as an art form. Beautiful, wonderful and EXPENSIVE leather. We visited the Manni's shoe store where you can purchase custom shoes. We bought a journal from the Giannini paper store which has been in business since 1856. The craftmanship, the quality and the pride in which these stores produce their products make Made In Orient products pale in comparison. I found a marble inlay table that was intricately designed with all kinds of precious stones. The price tag? Oh that will be $35,o00 Euros please.

Now on to Rome. Another train ride. Again I must repeat myself: travelling by train in Europe is a wonderful experience both in comfort and in speed.

Okay seeing St. Peter's square is a must simply to understand the magnitude of the place. How many people do you think can fit in there? This is the Trevi fountain made famous in movies like La Dolce Vita and Three Coins in a Fountain. Eclipsed on either side by older buildings the fountain is rather a surprise to stumble upon. Facing the fountain veer to the left past the gelato store and continue until you will find an amazing men's store when they have men's wool suits (Zenga brand) which we could not resist. Just west of the Trevi Fountain you will also find the Fountain of Four Rivers

I have heard about the Sistine Chapel. I have seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel. I have read about the Sistine Chapel. Now I can say I have seen it. Oh my. Stimulation overload. My eyes simply could not focus on any one spot long enough because another part of the wall or ceiling was vying for attention. On the way to the chapel you go through a long hallway with maps of the Roman world as it was and through another corridor with carpets depicting the life of Jesus on one side and on the other the life of one of the popes. These were made by one woman - I guess she didn't have time to worry about making supper or hanging out her laundry. When could she have? These are massive and very detailed.

I could spend a lot longer in Rome but will NEVER do it again in the summer. Wow it is hot there. Hot. Hot. Hot. And people don't use deodrant there. So it is hot and stinky. Stinky and hot. But beautiful too and you can just keep seeing one wonderful thing after another.
While Michaelangelo busied himself with the Sistine Chapel's paintings, he was first and foremost a sculptor. And this picture of his Moses found in a little tiny church really does magnify his talent. He has captured that moment just before Moses will break the plates where God has written his law but to his disappointment, Moses sees that the children of Israel worship a Golden Calf instead of God. You can see his anger and his disappointment. Apparently there is a small crack in his knee where Michaelangelo threw a chisel and demanded "Why don't you speak?" I don't know if that is just folklore or true but certainly the statue does seem to have a presence as if it could speak. The horns represent enlightenment - because he was a Jew, Michaelangelo could not express the idea of his being enlightened by God with a halo as in the Christian tradition.

I loved this Pieta the most. Look at Mary as she cradles her adult son. Look at his body - you can see the veins in his hands and the muscle in his legs. You feel her loss and you sense his magnitude as a being. I saw another version of La Pieta in Florence where Mary has helpers lifting him but this one in Rome is my favorite. Certainly these sculptures made of stone yet living and flowing reveal some of Michaelangelo's genius.

We had a guide who took us to the Coliseum, the Pantheon, and explained Roman history to us as we walked in +40 temperatures. I forgot until she reminded us about Rome being built on 7 hills. About how it is the eternal city and that the stone and metal used to build the Coliseum was scavanged and used to build other things.

Five million people call Rome home and who knows how many more visit each day. The World's Swimming Championships were taking place and Bruce Springsteen had performed there just a few days before our arrival.

I saw a poem about The Borghese Gallery which suggested that it was the Theatre of the Universe, the Collection of Wonders and the Longing of the Human Gaze". Certainly one could see every art form known to man there. I am completely ignorant about art history. I will not remember 1/3 of what I saw though I am left with an impression that at some point Jesus was no longer the subject of art. His birth and his crucifixion are depicted in so many ways and yet for me it is his resurrection, his ministry and his healing that provide so much comfort and strength in my life. And wow! John the Baptist's head severed and sitting upon a platter is repeated many times by various artists. What was it about that story that inspired them to paint? What story would you like to paint from the Bible?

While our holiday was a dream come true, there are some aspects of travelling that are not amusing. We saw too street people in every city who sleep on the doorsteps of church's filled with gold.

I watched this woman and many like her who were so stooped and unbelievably over dressed for how warm it was outside. It was not uncommon to see young people with deformed bodies begging in the streets. One girl in particular just near our hotel was begging in the street. Clearly from her stench, a bath and soap had not been used or seen in a very long time. She was barefoot and her body was contorted in such a way as if she were trying to make herself disappear into the crack in the sidewalk. As I passed her, I thought about how she was at one time someone's baby. Someone loved her enough not to abort her. Someone must have cared about her. And yet here she was on the streets begging and dying more rapidly than her age should suggest. What good is all this art, all this music, all this richness, if we still have the poor and wretched?

Our holiday was extended a day with flights cancelled and then rebooked. We enjoyed another night in London - well Crawley near Gatwick airport. Taking a cab the following day to Heathrow airport was an experience I do not want to repeat ever. We took all these side roads to avoid the congestion on the freeway.

And now we are home. The celery replaces the gelato. I am so grateful to have had this experience. I am not sure where or when our next adventure will occur. Until then...

Part II Paris

We used to say "How can they stay on the farm now that they have seen Gay Paris?" That was in the days when gay meant something other than sexual orientation. But the saying still has merit. The city seems to vibrate - you can hear laughter everywhere and it is not uncommon to see two lovers kissing passionately in the middle of the day. There is a whole lot of love going on in Paris.

Taking the Eurostar from London to Paris was effortless. Quick. No airport security hassel. No lineups. And once you arrive at Gare du Nord you just hop on the metro - Paris has one of the best underground transportation systems in the world. Safe. Clean. Navigable.
We rented a two storey apartment in the Latin Quarter right across the street from Notre Dame. From here we could walk just about anywhere we wanted to go or take a metro. So accessible. And the apartment was comfortable, clean and a nice change from a hotel room. If you want the address for future travel, I would be happy to share.

Each time I heard the church bells peel, I thought of Quasimodo. These pictures do not even begin to show the gothic style nor the gargoyles nor the saints who stand sentinel along one wall. Apparently during the revolution, the people incorrectly thought they were kings and so they chopped off their heads in defiance to the throne.

Though you could spend days in the Louvre, after three hours we were just overwhelmed and tired. The size, scale, scope of art exceeds all expectation. When we went to see the Mona Lisa, I confess that what I observed was a huge turn off. A protective glare glass now prevents eager photographers from coming up close and so we saw a crowd about 50 deep with raised arms shooting their pictures. This was a huge turnoff for me. I judged that their taking a picture of the Mona Lisa was for bragging rights and nothing more. Certainly there are better produced and more readily available copies.

Sunday after church we enjoyed visiting the musee d'orsay. A former train station it houses "modern" art from 1848-1914. The art here is recognizable; familiar like old friends. The museum is not overwhelming and the whole atmosphere was upbeat.

We followed the Seine River to the Eiffel Tour one day. It's pretty impressive to consider that Gustav has two of the most highly recognizable icons in the world: the Stature of Liberty in New York and the Eiffel Tour. We didn't want to wait in the long line up to go up top to catch a magnificient view BUT standing exactly underneath the tower was quite a remarkable experience in feeling insignificant. A day later when we took a boat ride along the Seine after dark we enjoyed seeing the Tower all lit up. Impressive. I kept telling myself that I wasn't looking at a post card. I was in the post card!

The Tuileries Gardens which once belonged to the King, are now public gardens where people picnic, rest, stroll. As we were walking along I saw a woman pick up something just in front of me. She had found a gold ring and tried it on. It didn't fit. She thought is was mine. I said no. She asked if I wanted it. I said no. She insisted. And then she asked for money. She was totally trying to scam me.

What you really notice about the nights in Paris are all the people outside. They eat outside. They drink outside. They visit with their friends. The streets are like our living rooms. And so the atmosphere always seems friendly and festive.

Taking this boat ride was a very romantic fun loving experience. Seeing all the attractions lit up satisfied that wandering spirit within me. Revellers sat on the steps of this bridge singing and laughing. The whole experience was joyful. We discovered our last night in Paris St. Julienne Church where they hold concerts. B agreed to come with me to hear a tribute to Pavoratti. While B nearly came unglued, I enjoyed the evening and the atmosphere of that medieval church made it even more satisfying.

Imagine our surprise when we went to Sacrament Meeting in Paris where we met some old friends who we have not seen in at least 17 years. They were touring Europe as well and we enjoyed having dinner and spending some time with them the following day. I am always touched with the sociality the gospel of Jesus Christ brings to my life.

Though I saw many street people, smelled urine and saw feces frequently, I still love Paris. They know how to relax and enjoy themselves. They know how to cook a delicious meal. They know how to design clothing. There is so much yet to see and do. I want to go to Versailles. I want to see Normandie. I want to go back to Montmarte. I want to ride my bike along the Seine River. I promise that I will go back. You'll read about the Italian portion of our trip tomorrow.

Part I Great Adventure London

I recall not so long ago when summer vacation meant a week at our sister-in-law's in Utah or at a friend's cabin in Invemere, British Columbia. While I loved those experiences with our children, family and friends, I did feel rather envious of those who travelled to exotic places and to the epicentre of civilization.

When Bob announced late last fall that he had a three week sabbatical, the genesis of our great adventure found fertile ground in my imagination. Looking at an atlas, we discussed many options. Timing was also an issue because he could only go in July. After a few months of consideration, we agreed our itinerary would include London, England; Paris, France; Venice, Florence and Rome, Italy.

July 4th we departed to London on Air Transat (which I might add is the most uncomfortable plane on the planet for anyone whose legs are longer than a pygmy's). It is a curious thing to depart in the evening and arrive in the morning and yet never see the sun set. Upon our arrival, we purchased an Oyster Card, and then headed to Victoria Station where we then took Tube to Westbury Hotel just across the street from Hyde Park, London's largest urban park. Our room wasn't ready so we went for a long walk into Knotting Hill where a beautiful canopy of trees shaded us as we walked. People were out walking, having breakfast in little terrace cafes. We however, were jetlagged and very fatigued, desperately needing a nap. This great adventure wasn't looking too promising up to this point. Getting there is the boring stuff. Thankfully after a little sleep, our enthusiasm to explore returned. Just crossing the street we entered Hyde Park which rivals our Fish Creek Park and where we saw lovers, runners, roller bladers, roller hockey players, horseback riders, picnic enthusiasts, people watchers, and tourists. I had forgotten about the driving on the other side of the road, and stepping into the intersection without looking the right way proved nearly fatal. While Speaker's Corner was our destination, we didn't get much father than Albert Hall and the beautiful Albert Monument dedicated to Queen Victoria's husband. It's a rather impressive though ridiculously garrish monument with the four corners of the British Empire represented. Leaving the park, we saw millionaire row which has beautiful old homes which are well appointed, guarded, gated and many which house embassies. This street suggested a priviledged and aristocratic culture that we don't much see in Calgary.

Had I known how many monuments I was going to see along this adventure, I might have prepared better by studying British and European history. These monuments, halls and famous castles reminded me how little I really know about the world and how it has developed.

Yes we did do the Big Bus Tour (yes that iconic double decker red bus) that introduced us to all the highlights of London. The weather grew colder and wetter as we continued the tour yet we suffered through it wanting to make sure we got our dollar's worth. We poked around the National Art Gallery where I found the most beautiful painting by Titian entitled the Tribute Money. We were going to see so much more art throughout the next three weeks but at that point we were still fresh and eager, captive and interested. The British Museum which houses the Rosetta Stone and the most curious Egyptian artifacts reminded us how young our country is in comparison to the world's history.

We enjoyed some live theatre while there. Blood Brothers was a play that probably wouldn't work in North America but I found the performances absolutely riveting and the themes of social class were heart wrenching.

Though I had seen Wicked in New York with M a few years ago, B had not and so we enjoyed seeing it again. The quality of the performances were superior to anything I have certainly had the opportunity to see. These gutwrenching, engergetic performances did not suggest the actors had repeated these same lines a hundred times or a hundred times a hundred. So fresh and exuberant. I sat beside a woman from Ottawa who was there with her daughter. Imagine my surprise when I bumped into her again later in Paris at the Musee D'Orsay. Of all the billions of people on the planet, how is it that we always run into the same people?

We spent a few hours in London Tower where we did not lose our heads ;). I loved hearing of the tales of deceit, treason, murder, ambition that occurred there. Again that feeling of how ignorant I am of history impressed upon me that perhaps I would/could study more when I got home. Bob had read some history book about Churchill during the WW II and so we took in the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms where he and others worked during the air raids on London. This had all the potential to be captivating and dramatic but turned out to be very sterile and withdrawn from the actual events that occurred there during the Battle of Britain.

London is wet. It rained the whole time we were there. An umbrella is essential. And a wool sweater. In the dead of summer, we were freezing. No need to air condition there. Lush and green for a reason.

We had been told by other travellers that the food in England was disgusting and unappealing. Our experience contradicted their warnings. We found the Thai food at Churchill's pub, the authentic English food at Fionna's, the Fish and Chips at Geale's and the East Indian food at Mahal's very appetising and satisfying. Not as expensive as people predicted. And delicious.

We visited Covent Garden our last day which turned out to be such a pleasant refreshing change from the tour and museums.

This acrobat draws a large crowd several times a day every day. He was witty and amazingly quick. Fit and yet older, he made juggling and riding that unicyle look simple. He changed quickly into a red tight all the while talking and juggling. He had an ability to draw in the crowd and invited a young boy to help him during one of his acts. Later when he paid the little boy 5 BP, he reminded us that he too needed to be paid, that this was his work. Many of us put in our coins and I wondered afterward how much he does make. Maybe he is in one of those divinely appointed homes on Millionaire Row. We couldn't resist the cookies in Ben's Bakery nor the pint baskets of fresh strawberries. I have never tasted berries like this. We talked about those berries and compared them to others we would see along the way. They are the benchmark.

We weren't ready to leave London when it came time to depart to catch Eurostar rail to Paris. Four days just isn't enough and we vowed to go back. Catch Part II tomorrow where we see Paris for the first time.

Oh Canada!

A few of my favorite things about Canada. Bryan Adams who reminds me always about the summer of 69.

Pierre Elliott Trudeau not withstanding the notwithstanding clause.

The Maple Leaf (thanks Lester B.) The Canadian side of Niagra Falls - thanks B for taking S and I to light them up.

True patriot love for individuals like Don Cherry.

And for Tim Hortons (though I am not a coffee drinker nor a donut eater, it reminds me that Starbucks isn't the only successful but ridiculously expensive place to enjoy your addictions. Timmy just announced yesterday they are making their way to New York. Like all good things Canadian, they have to go south to feel accomplished.

Presenting Mr and Ms

I have been to hundreds of weddings over the years. As an adolescent, I would attend my cousins' weddings in Regina. They were EVENTS with food and dancing and lots of relatives. I've been to weddings in parks, in the Relief Society room and numerous churches and a few in temples. Sometimes I danced. Sometimes I waited in long lines to congratulate the couple. Always have eaten. Sometimes have cried. However the nuptial was celebrated or observed, the importance of family and the couple's commitment to each other have made the wedding significant. Friday I attended my daughter's wedding. It was small. Simple. Tender and personal.

She was surprised with the bouquet of peonies - her favorite - from Winston Flowers . M looked particularly lovely - elegant and simple.

They exchanged vows to love, to understand to respect for all their days. The court room had beautiful leaded glass windows and oak panel trim. She remains MRW. No ring. But married.

M cannot contain her happiness.
B tries to figure out how to take pictures from his phone. I try to hide the ten pounds I didn't have time to lose with the flowers. Michael's mother is looking very pensive doesn't she?

B finds it easier to pose than to shoot.

M and M with his parents after the ceremony.

We six celebrated their nuptials at Oceannaire with calamari, salads, cedar planked salmon, and desserts that ensured we wouldn't be wearing those dresses for a day or two. Later we went to see the movie Up - a fitting movie of love and commitment and the adventure they are about to embark upon. It will be fun to see the Stuff They Are Going to Do.

A long walk in the park and lots of shared stories culminated a beautiful day.

Mr and Ms will reside in the East until late summer and then move to Utah.

All is well.

Sending Dad Off

My relationship with my father has always been complicated. My earliest memory of my father isn’t so much my own memory but one that was shared many times around the dinner table. After we had eaten our dinner, wanting to nurture that fragile yet promising feeling of a united family, we would ask our parents to tell us stories. We loved to hear about our origins and little things that we had done as children. First words, first steps, little victories. These were indications of our being loved, our being cute and clever, our being capable. My mother would offer this story about my father and me on these occasions. I wonder now if it were her way of trying to explain or justify the awkwardness in my dad’s and my relationship. I was born on Good Friday into the Greek Orthodox tradition. The doctor had assured my father that my arrival wouldn’t intrude with his devotions that evening at the church, and so he returned home to finish his farm chores and to prepare for the most important religious holiday: Easter. No sooner had he left, when I pushed my way into the world. My mother always adds at this part, that my dad was so disappointed when he discovered I wasn’t a boy. Another girl. So much farm work and so few hands to help. Unwanted daughter; unhappy father.

That year the spring came early and my father worked from early morning until dark seeding, harrowing, spraying, fertilizing, cultivating. And then there were all those cows to milk and chickens to feed. He would come home at night, tired and worn ragged. It wasn’t really until after the harvest that year that my father had some spare time to spend with his new daughter. By now, I wasn’t just this sleeping, pooping, crying mess of pink. My mother continues with her story oblivious to how each telling cuts deeper into my heart. She describes how when my dad comes to take me into his lap, I scream blue murder and cling to my mother for dear life. I am terrified of this strange man and I don’t want him anywhere near me. Feeling rejected and unwilling to deal with this crying tot, he turned his attention to those other two children who would climb all over him, delight in his attention and never tire of his playing horse. Oh it wasn’t that my father didn’t love me. Mostly he just didn’t know how to be with me. And I certainly didn’t understand him. As I grew older, I didn’t understand how he could be so interested in the accomplishments of other people’s children and yet not ask us about our own. I didn’t understand why he could never see the rows of weeds or piles of rock we had already picked on our spring vacations and Saturdays rather than the ones that remained.

For a brief time during high school, my dad and I shared a common interest. We participated in amateur theatre in our small rural community. We’d drive together to the rehearsals and practice our lines sometimes. I remember feeling proud of my dad when he was on stage. He had good timing and a loud voice that suited his roles. He made people laugh in a good way and they always complimented him on his performance.

But these feelings of pride were fleeting. The next several decades I seldom saw my father. I lived in another province and pursued my schooling. I got married and had a family. Going home wasn’t affordable and certainly not doable with four little kids and a second hand car. When they came to visit me, we bumped into each other’s personalities frequently and were reminded how polarized our views had become.

About five years ago while visiting my parents, I refused to ride with my Dad if he were to drive the car. Self preservation being strong, I had no desire to be in a moving vehicle with him behind a wheel. He was nervous and unaware of the traffic. He changed lanes without shoulder checking and he seldom observed a four way stop. It had become a long standing joke with my other siblings about how awful his driving had become. But none of them had ever said anything to him. That was the other thing about our relationship. I said to my dad what everyone else thought. That day I told him I would rather walk and that he was dangerous and going to hurt someone. My determination not to ride with him hurt him deeply. Interestingly enough when he told my sister what I had said and done, she agreed. He valued her opinion. My dad never got behind the wheel of the car after he spoke to her. He gave up his license and declined quite rapidly after that. Losing his independence was a slow fatal blow.

Two years ago, shortly after Christmas my dad got pneumonia and was hospitalized. For a few weeks he was quarantined. Within days, my brother called to say that my father was dying. That infamous death rattle of the near dying had begun and while the medical team were doing everything possible to make him comfortable, my brother said Dad would not make it through the day. I had lots to remember during that three hour commute to where my Dad was. The blowing snow and winter road conditions created some dangerous driving. Just as I was pulling into the city and less than a mile from the hospital, I hit the ditch in a blind swirl of snow. It took several minutes for me to rock my way out. I did not panic; I was acutely aware of the limited time and that perhaps I might be too late. When I arrived up in my father’s room, my mother and brother were tired from their day long vigil. My dad was not conscious and his breathing was loud and erratic. He had lost weight since I had last seen him and his color was so poor. He smelled horrid and his open mouth made him look frightful. But he was still alive. I'm told that the dying choose with whom they die and when. All I knew at that moment was that my dad had waited for me. I prayed for help and for love and for the right words. I took my father’s face in my heads, cradled it close to me and told him it was alright, he could go now. He didn’t have to stay any longer. I told my Dad I loved him and in truth at that moment I knew I did. I told him of those who awaited joyously for him and couldn’t he seem them yet? I told him of a time when we would see each other again and how we would embrace without hesitation or hurt or awkwardness. I told him that I was so glad that he was my father and that I had learned so many things from him. In truth his actions taught me more than his lessons or words but it didn't matter: I had learned valuable lessons from him. I became keenly aware that I was coaching my dad into death. I told him that he could go. He didn’t need to wait any longer. "It's all right Dad between us." It was all right and it was time now for him to leave. And so he did. With one last movement with his fingers as if to make the sign of the cross, my father took his last breath and left.

I visit my father’s grave sometimes bringing him flowers and talking to him about this or that. I don’t believe he is there but I do hope that he knows that I think of him. I love my father and I look forward to the resurrection when we will be reunited. No more strangers but fellow citizens.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlc5RvmWN4s

Marriage is What Brings Us Together

In less than a week my eldest daughter will marry the man of her dreams. No muss, no fuss. Not exactly how I envisioned this particular child's special day but am delighted that she is doing it on her own terms and in her own way. One thing about springing this kind of news, you don't have to stress about losing ten pounds. Nor finding the perfect outfit. Nor all the details that come with such a celebration. No worrying about invitation lists. No, we will just gather with his parents, a justice of the peace and then enjoy a lovely dinner together. At some future date , we will celebrate their union with our family and friends. I am reminded that a wedding is not a marriage. It takes a lifetime to make a marriage. They're taking the first important step this coming week.