She looks like a college student, not the mother of six kids, all spritely in her cute black dress and knee length boots. You expect a high voice, but it is a husky one that begins, “I’m in over my head.”
I don’t have time this morning to tell you about her humble spirit, her potent words, her exhortation to slow down, wake up, pay attention and above all to give thanks.
But you can hear her message to Wheaton College students yesterday here.
Another glorious evening with more nieces and nephews…
My sister’s famous bread—by it her people are nourished.
Mashed potatoes and gravy…can you spell comfort food?
It’s recital time! Oldest goes first!
Playing a duet with Grandma
Lord, help me. I’m in love.
Again…
and again…
and again!
The photo above is one of my favorites:
three generations of hands helping pick an apple.
I love being Aunt Carol to these dears.
The point of it all is a good, crisp apple!
My husband: What are you reading?
Me: Unsuitable for Ladies
Him: Why would you want to read something unsuitable for ladies?
Me: It’s not the content, it’s the title. It’s a travel anthology; travel used to be deemed unsuitable for ladies.
Him: Right.
Jane Robinson has given us a gift. She has read the works of 190 authors —all women—, extracted the good parts and formed them into a book called Unsuitable for Ladies: An Anthology of Women Travellers
Robinson divides the book by the region traveled: Europe, Scandinavia, the Balkans, Middle East, Africa, Asia, India, Australasia, North and South America. Most of the writing is from the nineteenth century but the eighteenth and twentieth centuries are well represented. Her selections include better known travel writers —Karen Blixen, Dervla Murphy, Isabella Bird, Mary Morris and Frances Trollope— and many more who might be called obscure.
Funny! Lively descriptions and droll stories abound.
As to the state of the roads, no language can do justice to their execrableness…
~ Isabella Romer in The Rhone, the Darro, and the Guadalquivir, 1843
Our next suffering was supper, and here again we excited our hostess’s ire by ordering eggs in the shell, as the only incorruptible kind of food, instead of sharing the greasy liquid and nameless ragouts…
~ Mrs. Dalkeith Holmes, A Ride on Horseback to Florence, 1842
It is difficult for some people to connect tragedy and fleas together, but I am not one of those fortunate people. Experientia docet. At first, only two or three began to roam stealthily over my defenceless limbs, these were evidently the vanguard sent on to reconnoiter. Being very sleepy, I gave several vicious rubs and pinches at haphazard and pretended that so few did not signify. There was a pause in their evolutions and I —silly mortal!— drowsily rejoiced in the idea that they did not consider my blood ‘sacred’ enough for their depraved tastes, and had therefore retired in search of ‘pastures new’. This illusion was a short lived one, however. They had merely gone to fetch ‘their sisters, their cousins, whom they reckoned up by dozens and their aunts’ to join the feast and take part in the races. Up and down, round and round, they careered, taking nips now and again in a playful sort of way.
~ Ellen Browning, A Girl’s Wanderings in Hungary, 1896 [this story takes three pages and had me gasping for air]
My hotel was called The Lotus Hotel, but with the usual disregard in the placing of vowels, the key ring was stamped ‘Louts Hotel’.
~ Julie Emerson, Reflections in the Nile, 1986
Really there is everything in this volume: pleasant breezes, honor among Albanians, “short” skirts that clear the ankles, how to eat locusts, the horror of a sati, moonlight baths, siege survival techniques, leech removal techniques, an avalanche, irksome monotony, nose-pressing salutations, privations, coffee, malaria, rain, kindness, grief.
A thorough source acknowledgment and index make this work a perfect springboard for other travel books. Armchair travelers will want to read this book. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Serendipity
is one of my favorite words.
My definition: finding something wonderful that you weren’t looking for.
One of the most splendid serendipitous events of my life took place on Monday night.
I was packing for a trip to Chicago to see my family and friends. I had inherited my Aunt Betty’s photograph album. She died in July near Cape Town, South Africa. She never had children; her friend wanted to send her few personal effects to a family member and asked me if I wanted them. Of course, I replied. When the packages arrived there were two paintings, some brooches, a cross-stitch I had done for her, and a photo album.
I was interested in seeing pictures of my grandpa and grandma, Aunt Betty, Jean-Blaise—my Congolese cousin (my aunt’s foster son)—, and dear Virginia who was my aunt’s best friend. My aunt survived three husbands and I couldn’t distinguish #1, #2 and #3 in the pictures. Obviously, I didn’t pore over each picture. My life was full when the packages arrived; I remember enjoying the photos and setting them on a shelf.
When I was picking pictures to bring with me on the trip, there were a few bunched up underneath another photo. I drew one out and saw Aunt Betty pushing a stroller with two toddlers: my oldest sister and brother. She had come to help out my mom.
The next picture was my mom holding a baby. I turned it over and read, “Nellie and Carol Ruth, 3 months.” Electricity sluiced through my body. There was my mom. And there was me. I have never seen a picture of me as a baby. I didn’t think one existed. One of the hazards of being a seventh born.
The next photo was just overload. I was stunned. The date down the vertical margin was MAR 55. Elisabeth Elliot holding Valerie with Jim Elliot next to her. I don’t know where this picture was taken. Or why my aunt had it. Two possibilities exist. 1) Aunt Betty was a classmate of Betty Howard (aka EE) at a girls boarding school in Florida. But I never got the impression from Aunt Betty that they were particularly close. 2) Jim Elliot and my grandpa were close friends during his time at Wheaton. Perhaps my grandpa was the original recipient of the photo and my aunt inherited it after Grandpa and Grandma died?
Who took the Elliot family photo? These scans don’t show it, but both pictures are the same size with the same border. This will take some research.
I love spending time finding the right word, the word that best fits the need. But, gentle reader, I am flummoxed and befuddled. To articulate the treasure that I have been given requires words I don’t yet know. I do know this: I am forever thankful. Thank you Aunt Betty, for saving a piece of my history. Thank you Virginia, for ensuring these treasures weren’t thrown away. Thank you, Almighty God, from Whom all blessings flow.
It has been six months since I’ve read Jon Hassler’s charming book, A Green Journey
Agatha McGee is 64, a sixth grade teacher at a Catholic school in Minnesota, an intelligent woman with drive and resourcefulness. Ah, yes: and she is a spinster. She has high standards, strong opinions, and a good heart. What she cares about the most are the holy traditions of her faith. It was not too much to say that Agatha loved the Church of her girlhood above everything else in the world. The Church had been her primary conveyance through life.
Agatha’s neighbor Lillian Kite was honest, simplehearted and enviably placid. Nevertheless, it was a mind spongy with sentiment and empty of logic…. Agatha’s young friend, Janet Raft, a single mom, makes bad choices in men. It saddened [Agatha] to think of all the daughters of weak fathers she had known who hadn’t been satisfied until they became the wives of weak husbands. [Sidenote: it wasn't until this morning that the significance of Lillian's and Janet's last names struck me.] Dick Baker is Agatha’s bishop, a progressive churchman who values Agatha McGee even though they often land on opposing sides.
You should have seen our cathedral before [the bishop] went in with his wrecking tools. Granted, it was overdecorated, but now it looks like a warehouse. Without the wares. Absolutely unadorned. A Puritan meetinghouse. We’re witnessing the successful completion of the Reformation, James, five hundred years after Luther.
James, mentioned above, is a teacher in Ireland and Agatha’s correspondent. Agatha “met” James in the Letters column of The Fortress, a magazine for like-minded Catholics. The letters between James and Agatha are the jewels of the book. An ocean apart but kindred in heart, the two lonely friends expose their deepest feelings and thoughts. They write about their lives, the people around them, their loves, their fears. It is not often that you can read a love story between two older people who have never before known love.
An opportunity to travel to Ireland comes; Agatha goes, wanting to meet James. Although she flies with a local tour group, once in Ireland she makes her way on her own. To be honest, Lillian, I’ve always wanted more out of life than is given to groups. James is a real person, and the time they share together is precious. Will they get married?
Staggerford—like Mitford, Lake Wobegon, and Port William—is a place worth exploring. In A Green Journey you get a bit of County Kildare as a bonus.
Alexander McCall Smith’s Love Over Scotland is a supremely satisfying read. It is amusing, but not vapid. The characters are so well-drawn that I could see them, hear their voices; I felt like I knew them. I believe I do know a few of them, real people who inhabit my life, though I do not reside in Edinburgh.
Written as serial novels in The Scotsman newspaper, the 44 Scotland Street series wanders around the residents of Edinburgh, picking up the thread of a character’s story for a chapter or two, taking up another, and occasionally twisting some stories together. McCall Smith’s social commentary, as fleshed out in the lives of Angus, Domenica, Pat, Matthew, Bertie, Irene, Stuart, and Antonia, is what delights me. Social customs, art, architecture, music, literature, education, interpersonal relationships, and parenting are all noticed and are remarked.
Angus was not one to put off the opening of mail, a habit which he had heard was extremely common.
Children were no longer made to learn poetry by heart. And so the deep rhythms of the language, its inner music, was lost to them, because they had never had it embedded in their minds.
The Morning After Coffee Bar was different from the mass-produced coffee bars that had mushroomed on every street almost everywhere, a development which presaged the flattening effects of globalisation, the spreading under a cheerful banner, of a sameness that threatened to weaken and destroy all sense of place.
Above all, Alexander McCall Smith, has a cheerful humor which permeates his writing.
[Law enforcers] make an effort. They announced the hanging of a couple of pirates a few years ago, but nobody thought they were really hanged. Maybe just suspended.
He pokes fun at Irene, the opinionated, domineering mom to young Bertie, practically a genius. Poor Irene! Even poorer Bertie! We all root for him, hoping he’ll escape from her clutches. My favorite section of this book is when Bertie finds himself in Paris, unaccompanied, calls himself Bertie-Pierre, and attends the lecture of a deconstructionist at the Sorbonne. In one simple question, Bertie deconstructs the deconstructionist.
When the wind is fierce and furious after the rain has drenched the earth, root systems give way. This happened the weekend of my son’s wedding near Seattle. Towering trees toppled like toothpicks. A wide swath of cities lost electricity. At the last minute we changed the venue of the wedding, of the rehearsal, of the lodging…and informed all the guests. Without electricity! Flights were cancelled, motels were dark, fuel was scarce, it was a mess. My siblings and I took refuge at The Moore hotel in downtown Seattle. This photo (my sister Margaret is missing) documents our stay.
The morning of the (evening) wedding, we had a parenthetical block of time to spend together. We strolled down to Pike Place Market. It remains, five years later, one of my favorite memories. After 48 hours of adrenaline overload, we relaxed, laughed at the fishmongers tossing salmon across the way, sampled scrumptious food, admired the amazing produce and flowers. We divided into clusters as we browsed the market.
Suddenly, my sister-in-law Val appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and yanked. That it was urgent for me to follow her was apparent; why was a mystery. No time for words, but pulsing with excitement, we dodged other shoppers, threaded our way around obstacles, ran up stairs, careened across the promenade and skidded to a stop. I looked around.
Business was slow in this section, nothing obvious met my eye. Simultaneously confused and apologetic, I looked at Valeri for a clue. She discreetly nodded to her left. I followed her gaze. There was nothing to see! Well, there was one customer paying for a purchase, one vendor accepting payment, and a whole lot of counter space. The customer was just an ordinary Joe: orange crocs, baggy pajama pants, red hair in a ponytail, and a down vest which expanded his already expansive chest. Panting for breath, I searched the room, trying to see.
Next thing I know, Valeri is approaching the guy, puts her hand on his arm. He glances at her. “Thank you. Thank you for your work. I appreciate it immensely.” He mumbles a reply, we turn and walk away. As soon as we got out of sight, I turned on Val. “What was that about?” The ordinary Joe we saw was a world famous chef with a TV show of his own and a restaurant in New York. I don’t get the Food Channel, so the magnificence of the meeting was lost on me.
This summer Valeri and I were visiting.
“Oh, Valeri, you won’t believe the mileage I’ve gotten out of the time we were in Pike Place Market and saw Emeril. I’ve told that story to every foodie I know.”
“Mario,” she corrected. “It was Mario. Mario Batali.”
