tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33311837106248816222024-03-14T04:07:43.122-04:00Alpaca KateKate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-48499056296260892222015-05-05T12:26:00.000-04:002015-05-05T12:26:37.743-04:00A NEW short story: "As far as the eye could see"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsTfPksjDPM/VUjtt3T7Z2I/AAAAAAAAGOQ/Fc9ZrWja1N8/s1600/As%2Bfar%2Bas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsTfPksjDPM/VUjtt3T7Z2I/AAAAAAAAGOQ/Fc9ZrWja1N8/s320/As%2Bfar%2Bas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alice rubbed her left
eye and pulled the end of her braid out of her mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Disgusting habit”, she thought to herself as
she stretched and squinted, trying to read the time on the Westclox on her
dressing table. Seven o’clock. Jasper had already been up for two hours,
watering the first-calf heifers, putting out their grain buckets, and he hadn’t
even shaken her awake so she could get a start on her day’s chores. “What day
is it anyway”? She struggled to wake up her brain as she set her feet on the
cool floor. She smiled, remembering. Ten years ago today, she and Jasper
recited their vows in front of a JP in the office of the city clerk at Chicago
City Hall. Two agreeable strangers accepted their hasty invitation to act as
witnesses, and after the short and business-like ceremony, Alice and Jasper
were on their way to York, Nebraska, a mere fifteen hour ride in his pick-up
with bad shocks and the habit of spewing out alarming staccato explosions when
he accelerated the engine.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alice Fabulic wasn’t
a woman to act impulsively. That is, until that day when she saw and answered
Jasper’s advertisement in the Bronx Home News, under the column entitled
“Heart& Hand”:</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
bachelor of forty years of age, strong, in good health and of reasonable
appearance and means, seeking amiable, educated woman, thoroughly versed in the
mysteries of cooking and housekeeping, for the purpose of matrimony. Must be
strong, under the age of 40, pleasant to the eye, and possessing of good moral
character. To join me in cattle endeavor in York, Nebraska, charged with the
management of household, hen-house, hogs, and milk cows.</span></i><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was a small black and white photo that accompanied the
plea, for the message did have an edge of desperation it seemed to Alice, and a
Western Union address. He was of more than “reasonable appearance” if his photo
were to be believed; he was quite handsome, and apparently modest, too. “Is he
a widower? How would he have managed on his own up until the age of 40”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had no idea where York, Nebraska was, but
she assumed it to be somewhere in the Great Plains where the Dust Bowl was
breaking families and, unbeknownst to her, changing the course of history for
the whole country. But on that late Spring day in the Bronx, New York, she had
no concept of the true plight of those ranchers. “How many cattle”? she
mused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had long fantasized about
life with such a man’s man, in such a rugged land, but she often thought that
the realities of courtship and marriage were far beyond the realm of her
imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could she be the perfect
farmer’s wife, with swept floors, and clean sheets flapping in the wind, and
hot and hearty meals served up to her proud husband and their ranch hands?
“Think of it”, she said to herself. “When I look out my kitchen window, I won’t
even be able see the boundaries of our ranch”. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still unmarried at
36, she was considered a handsome woman by her group of women-friends, handsome
being a word they used to describe one who was not quite pretty, but somewhat
well-proportioned and groomed, and pleasant enough to look at. Alice did take
care of her appearance. Every morning she brushed her long corn-yellow hair,
recently shot with silver, one hundred times. Then she pinched her cheeks and
carefully plaited her hair and secured it with several hairpins at the nape of
her neck. The style wasn’t exactly fashionable in those mid-years of the ‘30s,
but who had the luxury of fashion – or need?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Troops were marching again in Europe, and people already dying by the
thousands. Who knew when the US would join their allies? And besides, many of
the men of her generation had already made their sacrifice in the fields of
Belgium and France during the Great War. There were not many marriage prospects
in Alice’ purview.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Oh, how her friends had chided her when
she told them of her intention to wed. “Why Alice Fabulic! You haven’t even set foot
out of this city since we all took the train to Long Beach for our holiday two
years ago”. What they never quite understood was the way that she travelled
every day, her mind drifting at first, and then racing down the halls of the
New York Public Library to exotic destinations, meeting strangers she read
about in the seemingly endless aisles of books housed there. She was indeed an
armchair traveler of the first order.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alice had been born in a hospital in
the Bronx, nicknamed “The Home for the Incurables” when it opened its doors
right after the Civil War, to Louisa Alma Dekkers and Samuel Fabulic. Such a
luxury in those days, to give birth in a hospital!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth was that the old family doctor sent
Louisa to Saint Barnabas because he didn’t believe she would survive
childbirth. And sadly, he was right. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That she was born in
a place called a home for the “incurables” was not lost on the two adults who
participated in her early upbringing, her great aunt Esther and her father, as
she seemed to be an incurable romantic, inventing elaborate games of
make-believe, even from the time she took her first steps and spoke her first
words. There seemed to be such a longing in the child. A longing for the mother
she never knew; a desire to go to the exotic places she read about and would,
most likely, never see; a craving deep within her for someone to love and
cherish her being, just for the sake of her being. Well-intentioned though he
was, her father was far from warm, and incapable of women’s wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Samuel did, however, give Alice a gift she
would treasure for all of her days – the love of literature. As a result, Alice’
young life was spent largely in her tidy room, having weekly adventures without
leaving her window-seat, reading from his eclectic collection of books. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When she was old enough to attend the
big public school six blocks away from their small apartment, she rose early,
splashed cold water on her face, dressed in her Sunday meeting dress and
carefully folded two pieces of bread and butter into a clean kitchen towel. The
six block walk seemed to take forever, but the walk itself was not nearly so
tedious as the drone of the teacher, a big-boned woman with a stern face and no
patience for daydreamers. After such great anticipation, school seemed rather
inconsequential to Alice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, she
was already reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moby Dick</i> and had
recently started on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Works of
Shakespeare</i> with the help of her father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Many times her two sturdy feet, clad in the sensible shoes her Auntie
purchased for her, did not take her to the school room she had come to dread.
By the time she was twelve, Alice was spending most of her days in the Bronx
branch of the New York Public library, and living out the lives of the saints,
heroines and cowboys who captured her imagination and occupied and widened her
world through the books she voraciously devoured.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At 36, Alice’ back was stick-straight,
and she was head librarian at the Bronx branch of the library – both of which
things delighted her great aunt Esther. Auntie had always been a rather fussy
woman, and took pains to ensure that Alice comported herself like a proper
lady, with straight back and dainty steps, and keeping her smallish hands as
white as kid gloves. As Alice got closer to the age of thirteen, Auntie often
admonished her to “Sit gracefully and be at ease. Stand straight and tall to
impress your peers. You would be amazed at all that good posture can do,
Alice”. The words were indelibly imprinted in Alice’ mind. She knew that Auntie
loved her unconditionally, even if her demonstrations of such were somewhat
like those of a quartermaster. “Walk and command respect from both men and
women who are in your company”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she
grew, her dear Auntie provided her with all of the womanly guidance, and then
some, that her father was incapable of. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was Auntie who encouraged her to
follow her heart, and who also accompanied Alice to Grand Central Station those
ten years ago so she wouldn’t lose her nerve. The route to her new life was
direct. Six hours on the Hudson Line to Union Station in Albany where she would
transfer to the famous 20<sup>th</sup> Century Limited for the second leg of
her journey. She wondered if she would, indeed, get the “red carpet treatment”
that the color travel posters promised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What she did know for sure was that for $46.70 she could acquire an
upper berth, closed from the aisle by a curtain, for the overnight journey.
This she told Jasper and he promptly wired the fare. Auntie insisted on giving
her $5.40 more for a private compartment so she could freshen-up after the
night ride; comb and tidy up her hair, and powder her nose before she met
Jasper at the appointed time at Chicago’s LaSalle Street Station.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Still stick-straight, Auntie”, she
said aloud. “And stiff as a board,” Alice added to herself. “I must talk to
Jasper about turning this mattress”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
dressed quickly, pulling on a clean shirt-waist and apron, choosing to wear her
only pair of silk stockings for this day, rather than her familiar cotton
work-hose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more tittering in their tea-cups for that
bunch from Woodland Heights. She showed them. She had followed a dream to make
it her reality, her fantasy, they said, of being a rancher’s wife.
“Oooooh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miss Alice is all for the
glamour life. – The glamour of a cow-pie”, they taunted her. But that was then,
and here she was now. Married ten years and happy. Beyond her wildest imaginings.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unconsciously she pulled the handkerchief
from her apron pocket and dusted the worn bannister as she padded down the
stairs to the big ranch kitchen that was the center of her universe. She caught
a brief reflection of herself as she passed the cracked mirror in the hallway,
and noticing the escaped strands of her braid, smoothed them back into place
with a bit of spittle, and deftly re-pinned them in place as she walked to the
sink to pump water for tea-kettle and coffee pot. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Time-thieves are at
it again”. It was already seven forty five. Any time now, the men would be
riding in to water their horses and get their mid-morning fill of coffee and
bacon and biscuits. She checked the egg basket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seven. When she brought the cream to the farmer’s market on Saturday she
must see if any of the neighbors had pullets for sale. As much as she hated the
process of killing, plucking and cooking her own, the hens were no longer
laying enough to provide for the appetites of six grown men and her more modest
tastes.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By eight fifteen, the temperature was
already over 100 degrees in the kitchen. Her prize-winning biscuits would be
ready for butter and her homemade preserves any time now, and still no sign of
Jasper and the crew. She poured herself a cup of coffee, a luxury for this
special day, with cream and even a spoonful of sugar. She hoped the warm, rich
beverage would quell the growing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. Eight
thirty. She walked out onto the broad porch and scanned the horizon. Ten
thousand acres of land. Land and livestock, as far as the eye could see. Just
as she imagined. They had toiled together, Jasper and she, shoulder to
shoulder, to re-build this ranch after the drought subsided and the Department
of Agriculture came into town to help the locals. Her hair had changed from gold
to silver during those years, but Jasper still touched it with reverence each
night when she shook loose her braid as she prepared for bed. She closed her
eyes and smiled at the thought of his touch.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was Ernest who
broke the news, although he didn’t really need to utter a single word. She had
watched, barely breathing, as the six horses moved closer and closer to the
house, one mount riderless. She broke into a run as soon as she could read
their faces. Jasper. Jasper. Where was her husband? “Miss Alice”, he started,
but she was already at his side - the lifeless form of her husband, draped
across his favorite Aussie stock horse. “Miss Alice? We was just above the
ridge, tying off some fence-posts, when I looked over and saw him on his knees.
By the time I got to him, he was down. Gone”. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The rest of the day was a blur for
Alice. Even though there were great distances between farmsteads, neighbors
were tight and close at hand when help was needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made more coffee, several pots of
chamomile tea, warmed the biscuits. She accepted pies and eggs and a half a ham
brought in by folks who didn’t know what else to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, exhausted, she sat in his rocker on
the porch. She’d rest. After all her book-inspired fantasies, surely - she knew
that this day was just another daydream. Any time now Jasper would ride up to
the porch with a posy of her favorite wildflowers. Then they would have a quiet
meal to celebrate their wedding anniversary.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She opened her eyes
when a chair scraped across the floor-boards. “Miss Alice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miss Alice, we’ll be going now, if’n you
think you’ll be all right”. All right? What did those two words even mean
anymore? “Yes, yes of course, Ernest. You need to rest after this day. Is there
anything I can do for you”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor man
looked exhausted, probably from holding back tears all day. They had been
boyhood friends, Jasper and he. It was Ernest who had convinced Jasper that
they needed a woman on the ranch in order to make a real go of it. A woman who
had travelled and done things with her life so she wouldn’t be longing to see
the world that existed beyond their front porch and barns and fields. Once she
set eyes on her new home, Alice never yearned for anything more.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Jasper”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She watched Ernest turn and walk away toward
the bunkhouse, shoulders hunched. “Jasper” she sighed softly. She scanned the
horizon. Ten thousand acres of land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Land and livestock, as far as the eye could see. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She waited until
Ernest was out of sight and earshot and then gave way to pitiful, wracking sobs.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-7356778052258700202014-10-30T11:21:00.000-04:002014-10-30T11:24:54.476-04:00What to serve the Dalai Lama and Pope Francis when they come to lunch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: HP Simplified;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4fVWUDtTzJg/VFJMvBZHq7I/AAAAAAAAFCQ/bDiAREEct1o/s1600/23929916_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4fVWUDtTzJg/VFJMvBZHq7I/AAAAAAAAFCQ/bDiAREEct1o/s1600/23929916_m.jpg" height="249" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Ever
since my friend Caleb told me he was going to have an audience with the Pope
and he was wondering what to wear (believe it or not, there’s a web-site for
that: <a href="http://www.papalaudience.org/dress-code"><span style="color: blue;"><strong>http://www.papalaudience.org/dress-code</strong></span></a>
) I have been thinking about what it would be like to share a meal with the
Pontiff. Come to think of it, I’d also like to dine with the Dalai Lama. And
wouldn’t it be a swell soiree if we could all sit down to a relaxed luncheon
here at the farm? </span><br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The
only thing that stood in the way of my sending out the invitations immediately
upon the thought was the age-old question every good hostess faces: what,
exactly, would one serve that could be an appropriate menu for such an
auspicious occasion?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for three weeks
this menu thing has been bugging me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> I serve the Dalai
Lama and Pope Francis, two men with whom I would desperately like to dine – together,
at the same time - for lunch?</span></span><br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Luckily,
one can find, literally, anything on the web.<o:p></o:p></span>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk-26Xfxcig/VFJMoXP65xI/AAAAAAAAFCI/6DG5KDeUv2M/s1600/29280923_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk-26Xfxcig/VFJMoXP65xI/AAAAAAAAFCI/6DG5KDeUv2M/s1600/29280923_m.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";">When
in Dharmasala…</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";"><o:p><div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";">Un</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">like
most Buddhist monks, the Dalai Lama is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
a vegetarian. In the 1960s, he tried to go veg but had to give it up after he
developed hepatitis, and his physician counseled him to eat meat to get his
strength back. He enjoys meat nowadays. So - His compromise is to eat
vegetarian in Dharmasala, so as not to offend his brother monks, and meat
dishes when he’s on the road, which is 80% of the time.</span><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Meanwhile, back in Rome …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Pope Francis is said to be
very reserved in his culinary choices, </span><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">and at least while he was the
archbishop of Argentina, he often cooked for himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He prefers healthy meals that consist of
fruit, skinless chicken, salads – and the occasional glass of wine. </span><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He likes
walking around Rome, and he is known to stop by any number of neighborhood
caffes to have an afternoon ristretto. The Pontiff, evidently, knows his
coffee.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I
guess it just comes down to the k-i-s-K principle: Keep-it-simple-Kate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">For
starters, I think I’ll serve<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/endive_salad_with_walnuts_pears_and_gorgonzola/"><span style="color: blue;">Endive
Salad with Walnuts, Pears, and Gorgonzola</span></a></b>, drizzled with a good olive
oil and a couple of squeezes of lemon juice. I found this recipe on the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.simplyrecipes.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Simply
Recipes</span></a></b> family food blog, so I guess that should qualify for locally
grown or produced (which I think both men will like) and “simple”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, this salad features the fruits and
vegetables that the Pope purports to enjoy. I am guessing that the Dalai Lama
is also very agreeable about such things as salads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">After
the appetizer, I thought maybe a nice piece of fish would be appropriate, given
that this is Maine and all, and I am having trouble wrapping my head around the
fact that the Dalai Lama is not a strict vegetarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haddock is always a nice choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mild, flakey, North Atlantic fave, right
off the boat and grilled lightly with a bit of butter, salt and pepper. No
recipe needed for that. Simple. (Note to self:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>do not overcook). Maybe the Pope would splurge just this once and
indulge in a little side of rice, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all, he could have always have a light supper of soup or a salad.
I could make the Barefoot Contessa’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/easy-parmesan-risotto-recipe.html"><span style="color: blue;">Easy
Parmesan Risotto</span></a></b>. What could be simpler? “Easy” is even in the recipe
title.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p><div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Now
for the wine choice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">According
to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://winefolly.com/tutorial/wine-with-fish-pairing-guide/"><span style="color: blue;">Winefolly.com</span></a></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;">I should look for
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“medium bodied whites with high
aromatics, or rich full-bodied whites aged in oak”</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chardonnay, a California or New Zealand Sauvignon
Blanc, Semillon or White Rioja, Dry Riesling - and last, but not least, a US
Pinot Gris, would be good choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I usually order “house
white” when I go out with my girlfriends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe they would enjoy <a href="http://mainemeadworks.com/"><span style="color: blue;"><strong>mead</strong></span></a>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/mead-the-honey-based-brew-producing-a-real-buzz-2/"><span style="color: blue;"><strong>CBS
Sunday Morning</strong></span></a> show, it’s a drink as old as time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Let us drink a toast
to the bees. Before there were vineyards, there was honey. Before there was
wine, there was mead”</span></i><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what
do I know about mead, either?</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"> I am guessing that these fellas
have probably raised a premium glass or two. Down to the neighborhood packie
for some vintner and vineyard, wine-versus-locally-produced mead
recommendations, and let the wine-and-mead-tasting begin! </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I’ll keep you posted on the choice if I can keep my wits about
me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">On
to dessert.</span></span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Well,
it’s a midday meal and we shouldn’t have something too heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord knows if these busy, important men have
a siesta built into their diaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
their ages, I would think that to be a wise thing, though. I wonder if they
would be offended if I asked them if they nap? I suppose if Pope Francis said
he liked naps the Dalai Lama would feel comfortable admitting that he, too,
enjoyed a mid-day snooze. Or vice versa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But
first, back to dessert. In keeping with the local theme, the logical choice
would have to be blueberry pie. But could they handle it, I mean, after the big
noon-time meal and with or without a nap? Back to the web for some alternate
ideas, and lo-and-behold, Wyman’s, those Maine wild blueberry virtuosos have
the perfect solution:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u><span style="color: blue; mso-themecolor: hyperlink;"><strong>blueberry sorbet</strong></span></u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Best of all, there are just two ingredients:
wild Maine blueberries, of course, and simple syrup. </span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span></span> </div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Bazinga! Let’s hear it for
simple!</span></span><br />
</div>
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">It is
exhausting just thinking about all of this prep and cooking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now that the menu is settled, what else
do I need to be thinking of? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Let’s see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>First, there are invitations to craft and send, recipes cards to
assemble and ingredient lists to create. WHAT WILL I WEAR? If they don’t RSVP, would it be rude
of me to call?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, this is not an
inexpensive little luncheon. I’ll need to go to the supermarket, produce stand,
the fish market and the wine store... </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">But wait. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">During lunch, will I even have time to
talk with the Pope or the Dalai Lama?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, after all, that’s the reason I invited them to lunch in the first place.
To talk. To really get to know them. To hear them speak, individually or
together, of their concepts of spirituality and God. Heaven. Reincarnation.</span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Maybe
we had best eat out.</span></span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span lang="EN" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></o:p> </span> </span> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "HP Simplified","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
</o:p><div style="background: white;">
</div>
</span><div style="background: white;">
</div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
</o:p><div style="background: white;">
</div>
</span><div style="background: white;">
</div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
</o:p><div style="background: white;">
</div>
</span><div style="background: white;">
</div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
</o:p><div style="background: white;">
</div>
</span><div style="background: white;">
</div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
</div>
</span><br />
<div style="background: white;">
</div>
</div>
Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-68633244270250925172014-08-20T16:39:00.000-04:002014-08-20T16:39:48.287-04:00Warning! This is rant! (I try not to do this too often…)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyone who knows me knows that I am – for better or worse –
a bleeding heart liberal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robert F.
Kennedy was, and remains to this day, my ideal for a true leader for this
country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Politics aside…<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I always looked forward to the day when this country stood
up with other progressive Western nations and provided healthcare for its
citizens. I applauded the passing of the Universal Healthcare Act (UHA), when
it finally became law.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Seriously. Now politics aside.<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we made our move to Maine, I was excited about enjoying
the benefits of an economy geared to a primarily rural population. This was an
important consideration when my husband and I looked for a place to retire to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for the most part, my experience has been
positive, including a significant break in real estate tax. Let’s see:
$6400./yr for house and 9/10<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> of an acre in MA v. $4800./yr for
house, barn, run-in shelter, shed and 42 acres in ME. Well - That’s a
no-brainer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Enter healthcare (and associated costs) in Maine.</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have also been pleased to find kind, talented and highly-educated
physicians here at Maine Medical Center in Portland, who are every bit as
skilled as their finest colleagues in Boston, MA. Their bills also reflect an
acknowledgement of the local economy, with services charged out at
approximately 85% of their MA counterparts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now we come to the part about paying for those healthcare
services which are – even at 85% -- pretty staggering for an average middle-class
couple.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maine has two healthcare insurance providers currently
approved by the UHA: Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Maine and Maine Community
Health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a wealth of choices, but we
are at least given a chance to compare services and rates, which I did last January
when I needed to change my policy. It was then that I found out the true cost
of “universal healthcare” as it applied to me: a baby-boomer within 5 years of
retirement, too young to take advantage of Medicare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Both providers had a range of plans and associated costs.<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both “Bronze” plans had a lower monthly premium with a
significantly higher deductible. – I’m talking $300.-600. for a monthly premium,
and up to $6000. (gulp) for an annual deductible. “Silver” plans required a
monthly payment of $600.-900., and deductibles ranged from $2500.-$5000. And
then we had the “Gold” plans, with princely monthly costs of up to $1200. with $500.-$1000.
deductibles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>So much for “choice”.</strong> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Any way I ran the numbers, I would be paying out somewhere
in the vicinity of $8000. annually, between premium and deductibles, to hedge
my bets against catastrophic illness, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>depending on whether or not I used my
insurance for “covered” annual services like a physical and mammogram. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>$8000?! That’s a (cruel) joke, right?</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cruel joke indeed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me share my up-close-and-personal example of how I benefit
from the UHA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To date this calendar
year, I have paid ~ $6300. in premiums. This is for Maine Community Health’s
lowest cost “Silver” plan, with a $5000. deductible. Note also that this
represents a significant portion of my monthly income – and I am working
fulltime, at a good salary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mid-year
statement from Maine Community Health just came in the mail this week, and is primarily
the reason I am writing this diatribe. It outlines the benefits I have received
for my plan to date:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Annual physical:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>$296.28</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shingles vaccine: <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>$265.98
(this is a ridiculous number on the face of it!)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Prescriptions:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><u>$40.33<o:p></o:p></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Total<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>$602.59<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Applied to annual deductible:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>$421.31.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Goody. Only $4598.69 to go to meet my annual deductible.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>On the plus side:</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am blessed to live in a country where
healthcare is so widely available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am blessed to live in a country that has acknowledged
the importance of healthcare for all of its citizens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel it is my obligation to help shoulder the
cost of providing this healthcare for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those less fortunate*, </i></b>and I am
willing and anxious to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am blessed to have a job where I can make a
contribution to the general good and my personal economy – and that allows me
to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pay for medical care and insurance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have had a relatively healthy year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My other expenses have decreased, as I work from
home and have been able to take advantage of lower cost-of-living in my new
state of residence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maine Community Health provides “free” blood
pressure medication for me under their “chronic illness” clause. (This represents
an annual cost of $216.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">* Did I mention that a neighbor, a dear and generous friend
whose company I enjoy over coffee or a cocktail, decided to take a voluntary
early retirement last year?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are the
same age and have roughly the same educational background. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because she is retired, her current income
qualifies her for a federal allowance to augment her premium – and she pays 60%
less for the same insurance that I have. While I don’t blame her personally for
taking advantage of this subsidy – this kinda infuriates me when I see her working in her garden or heading out to the beach on a glorious Summer day like today. - It may be totally irrational, but I feel taken advantage of.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>So what, you may now be asking yourself, is the point you
are trying to make, Ms. Bleeding Heart Liberal?<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess what I am trying to say is that, <strong>for all its good
intention, the Universal Healthcare Act is broken, and I am feeling it quite
personally.</strong> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all of the energy spent
trying to <strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">repeal</i> </strong>it would be better
spent trying to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>reform</strong></i> it so that it can
be administered fairly, in the spirit and intent of the law.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">p.s. You notice that I did not refer to the law as “Obama-care”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the law needs a nick-name, don’t you think
we should honor the legislator who championed healthcare reform throughout his
career, Senator Edward Kennedy? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ted-care just
doesn’t the same ring to it...<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
</div>
Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-81152714619092787352013-03-04T17:43:00.000-05:002013-03-04T17:54:24.557-05:00Alpaca Farm-Life (almost): Musings on the Simple Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
“Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.” Marilyn Monroe<br />
<br />
OK. Muck boots. <br />
<br />
Mine are red-plaid knee-highs, and now sit at the barn-door of the dream farm my husband and I bought last October. We’ve spent the past three months organizing the new household, readying our former home for sale, and planning for the highly-anticipated Spring day when we can finally bring our beloved alpacas home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v25HvMJMWTw/UTUiseL4PeI/AAAAAAAAAWI/thLgKmVeiQo/s1600/400260_4348816871506_420537966_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" jsa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v25HvMJMWTw/UTUiseL4PeI/AAAAAAAAAWI/thLgKmVeiQo/s320/400260_4348816871506_420537966_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
So far, our move has been a wonderful life-decision. We both feel energized by the change, excited to be creating a brand new chapter that, we hope, will keep us young and provide us with a modest income. Our new home is lovely: a rambling 1798 antique cape, connected to a big, well-preserved barn, circa 1884. As I sit at my kitchen table working on my computer I can look south to the valley, rolling snow clouds in the distance, and beyond the horizon, eleven miles to the east, the cold blue Altantic churns. Three fenced pastures, sloping up Bauneg Beg Mountain and covered now with two feet of snow, comprise my view to the north.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GlN_6-A5_TU/UTUi4xy4NTI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/Dc3b-22UyYc/s1600/64285_4636611551535_201943839_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" jsa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GlN_6-A5_TU/UTUi4xy4NTI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/Dc3b-22UyYc/s320/64285_4636611551535_201943839_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I pinch myself several times a day to make sure that I am really awake. This dream farm has been a long time coming.<br />
<br />
I fell in love the first time my husband spoke to me; his line was awkward, but direct, “Does it bother you to look so Irish?” I fell in love the first time I saw an alpaca, too, although I am sure my Dearest would not appreciate the comparison. But it was a similar thunderbolt-kind-of-feeling that I had the first time I drove across the Piscataqua Bridge, entering into the state of Maine. Somehow, all felt like “home” to me. It wasn’t long before I purchased the first alpaca that touched my heart, the winsome Hester, and we found a little cottage community in Wells, Maine, where we have spent the last several Summers. <br />
<br />
We also spent the last Summers – five to be exact – assessing every property that had a barn and five acres in York County. Three years ago, we looked at our current home and barn, and decided it was a bit too much of a fixer-upper. But the interim owners tackled many of the things we found objectionable -- adding a new roof and furnace, new septic and appliances – before they were transferred to a job and location not commute-able from this perfect hillside. So – we made the offer, crossed our fingers and toes, and hoped for a positive response. Yes! They accepted!<br />
<br />
And here we are, already in the month of March. Soon the snows will melt and the ground will be soft enough to drive new fence posts. By May when I look to the north, I should see our alpacas grazing. Wow. It took a leap of faith to leave our home and friends in Massachusetts and come to this place, and I don’t know what the future will bring. – Be assured, though, that I will keep you posted on unfolding events and little happenings. In the meantime, if you are contemplating a change – take the leap and give it your all! <br />
<br />
Things may not turn out as expected. They may be even better.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ymNwFMIi4aM/UTUiiI914jI/AAAAAAAAAWA/AnZdx7G9fXM/s1600/20130115_090427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" jsa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ymNwFMIi4aM/UTUiiI914jI/AAAAAAAAAWA/AnZdx7G9fXM/s320/20130115_090427.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
</div>
Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-40581940605568859172011-06-17T11:56:00.000-04:002011-06-17T11:56:45.507-04:00Would you read this book? An excerpt from a current project<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eighty six years ago, I was born Winona Rose Hargarty, in the shadow of Hidenseek Hill, which, as you may know, is right down the road from Peekaboo Mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am choosing to write down the story of my life now, as it seems that I may only have a few months, or even weeks, to live. I cannot believe that my most interesting life is ending in this most mundane way. - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I will write more about things that cannot be changed later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The important thing now is to capture the highlights for those who will follow me, those who can still learn from my lessons.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eighty six years ago, I was born Winona Rose Hargarty, in the shadow of Hidenseek Hill, which … Oh dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am repeating myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do that fairly often these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most folks just smile and listen politely. Then, when I am mid-way through the story, it often comes to me: I have told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> tale to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> person before. I can surmise that fact by the mildly disinterested look on their face, and a trace memory of having seen that look before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So let me continue to give you a bit of background, pre-history for my life story, if you will. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Soon after they married, my grandfather, Henri Philippe Lepiere, took his bride on a great adventure to Northern Aroostook, Maine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was to make his fortune with the Great Aroostook Paper Company. But my meme’, Winona Fern, the first family Winona, died in Grandfather’s arms as she birthed my mother, who was baptized “Winona Rue”, after her mother and the bitter, strong-scented herb.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Life in the North Country was no life for a young girl. The unorganized territory was a wilderness of approximately two thousand, six hundred and sixty eight miles. Even today, it still hosts a population of only 26.5 people, and that translates to one person for every one hundred square miles. Well, perhaps that is somewhat of an exaggeration, as there were few who lived an entirely solitary existence. Households were comprised of two or more paper mill employees, lumberjack-types who supervised the cutting of great tracks of forest. Occasionally, one of the men would bring a wife, as my grandfather had. When children came along, the wives were ready for more sociable company, and insisted that the family move out and into a more civilized society. Their men would take clerk jobs for Great Aroostook, in the city, ending their big adventures and squelching dreams of a he-man life in the northern territory. Few women remained who could teach my mother the fine arts of sewing, housekeeping or idle chat, as many of the “ladies” who travelled North on their own and stayed-by were those of lesser virtue. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Winona Rue longed for the companionship and comfort of women, and a relief from the oppressive grief that emanated, along with sweat and the scent of last night’s whiskey, from every pore of grandfather’s being. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could not wait, like the wives who packed up their families and left before her, to go to the “big” city of Portland when she turned 16…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-27498814171513621332011-03-29T12:20:00.000-04:002011-03-29T12:20:16.319-04:00While waiting ... An Irish Gal’s Italian Meatballs and Sauce<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When one is waiting for life to happen - or the inevitable to pass - it is good to cook.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There is something blessed and calming about the nature of preparing food. Searching for a well-loved recipe passed down from one’s mother, or inventing a new dish of your own – it doesn’t really matter. Whether you enjoy the satisfying rhythm of chopping with a newly sharpened blade, or prefer the whir and speed of your shiny Cuisinart – the “secret ingredient” is the piece of your heart that you add to nourish the bodies and spirits of those you cook for.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">With all due respect to my Italian brother-in-law, Skip, and my vegetarian daughters, Julia and Siobhan-- here is my favorite meatball and sauce recipe. (My own!) Make it for your favorite people, for wedding or christening or wake, to celebrate one of life’s most basic pleasures: the comfort and joy of sharing a satisfying meal with the people you love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">An Irish Gal’s Italian Meatballs and Sauce</span></strong><br />
<strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the meatballs, you will need: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Three-quarters of a pound of ground pork </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Three-quarters of a pound of ground beef </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Three large eggs </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Three-quarters of a cup of Italian-style breadcrumbs </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 2 tablespoons of fresh chopped Italian parsley </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 2 cloves of garlic </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• One-quarter of a large sweet onion </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 1 rib of celery </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 1 teaspoon Italian-style dried herb seasoning</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 4 tablespoons dry sherry (The real stuff. – NOT “cooking sherry” ) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Extra-virgin olive oil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Grated parmesan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the sauce you will need:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 2 quarts of your favorite pasta sauce. (I like “Prego Traditional” or “Paul Newman’s Marinara”)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 2 large sweet peppers. 1 green and 1 red, yellow or orange. (For color!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• The other three-quarters of your large sweet onion</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 2 cloves of garlic</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 3 ribs of celery</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• 1 cup dry red wine</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">• Extra-virgin olive oil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1. Pre-heat your oven to 325 degrees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">2. In your electric mixer bowl, mix the four tablespoons of sherry and Italian bread crumbs. Fluff the breadcrumbs with a fork to make sure that they are all coated with the sherry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">3. While that mixture is resting, take one rib of celery, the quarter onion and the two cloves of garlic and mince – until very, very fine -- in your food processor (or by hand, if you prefer). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">4. Heat a large skillet on your stovetop and add a tablespoon of good extra-virgin olive oil. You're going to brown the chopped vegetable mixture in the olive oil.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">5. Cook over low to medium heat until all pieces are tender and slightly brown. Set aside to cool.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">6. Beat three eggs and add to your breadcrumb and sherry mixture. Turn your mixer on low speed to combine ingredients. (Use bread hook attachment as this will be a very heavy mixture when all ingredients are added.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">7. When your cooked vegetables are cool, you can add to the breadcrumb/egg mixture. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">8. Add your meats and continue to blend until all ingredients are incorporated. Form into golf- ball sized balls (about 1 inch) and roll in grated Parmesan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">9. Place the meatballs on a foil-lined baking dish/lasagna pan. Cook for 30 min. in your 325° preheated oven. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">10. While the meatballs are cooking in the oven, you can begin to make your sauce.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">11. Take your large red pepper and core it and cut into thin slices. Do the same with the green pepper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">12. Take the rest of your large sweet onion and slice that into lengthwise slices.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">13. Finely mince two cloves of garlic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">14. You can use the same pan you cooked the meatball veggies in to save prep and clean-up time. – Add 2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil and cook your peppers, onions and garlic until tender.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">15. Add 1 cup of dry red wine and 2 quarts of your favorite prepared spaghetti sauce.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">16. Bring to a simmer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">17. After your meatballs have cooked in the oven for about 30 minutes, add them to the sauce to finish cooking. Simmer over low heat for about one hour. (That should be the minimum time you cook!) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">18. For more flavor, simmer longer. Be careful to gently stir every once in a while to prevent the meatballs/sauce from sticking to the bottom of the pan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">19. This is excellent to make ahead for your meal the next day, or you can put all or some in your freezer for one of those days that you just don't have time, or energy, to cook.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In my house these days, we typically don’t eat our meatballs with pasta. We make homemade mashed potatoes and put the red gravy over the potatoes. (That must be the “Irish Gal’s" part.) The meatballs, along with a side of steamed green beans, complete our tummy-and-soul-satisfying – and yummy – meal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-3875676648343471092011-03-21T12:34:00.000-04:002011-03-21T12:34:29.440-04:00Solstice + One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Soltice + One</span></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It is snowing out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I could </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">just weep. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The little tit-mouse runs </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">up the jasmine bush </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">looking for a berry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They are </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">all gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It has been </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">a very </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">long </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">winter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> **</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Spring fooled us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She came along </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">for three days </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">last week. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The ice melted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Quickly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The birds </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">began to chirp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Wildly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And everyone </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">seemed </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">brighter, lighter </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">when you met them </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">in the store, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">or walking </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">down the street, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">or talking </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">on the phone. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> **</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The alpacas </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">rolled in the dust, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">hidden so long. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They had </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">been longing </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">so long </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">to roll in </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that dust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The dust </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that is gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now it's mud. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I could </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">just weep.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> **</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I must </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">take them water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I must </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">take them </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">warm water. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Warm from the tap. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Warm. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To take away </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the chill </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">sudden return </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">of winter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They line up </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">by the gate. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Drink </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">in long thirsty gulps. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I wonder. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Is it </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the water </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">they crave </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the warmth </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">they need </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the hope </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">of a thaw?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I could </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">just weep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">has been </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">a very </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">long </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">winter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-17763989455985433792011-02-27T12:32:00.000-05:002011-02-27T12:32:37.353-05:00Kate's Key Lime & Blueberry Bread Pudding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When Siobhan was in 5th grade, I had the opportunity to accompany her class on an outing to Plimoth Plantation. I had never been, although I had heard many positives about the place. – The staff not only dressed in authentic colonial garb, but spent months learning the dialect of the early settlers before they began their assignments in the village. Their approach to history education fully embraced and embodied the lives of the pilgrims, as well as the local Wampanoags. Each day when they came to work, they “became” one of those early inhabitants of the Plimoth settlement.<br />
<br />
<br />
During our tour, we walked the dirt roads of their little enclave on the coast of Massachusetts. We knocked on doors and visited many of the colonists. They were a hardy people; survivors of a perilous trans-Atlantic voyage that took the lives of many of their friends. But they were a generous and thankful people, too, and we were warmly welcomed into several homes. At one such stop, we were invited to help Goody Cabot make a bread pudding for the night’s supper. We broke chunks of course brown bread and soaked it in fresh goat milk, adding precious maple syrup and a little bit of cinnamon, brought from England several years prior. Dried plums were cut and added, too, and then the mixture was transferred to a big, black cook-pot, and set to simmer over a low-burning wood fire. Later in the day, after we had finished the rounds of the village and had visited the camp of the neighboring Wampanoag, we were treated to a sampling of our earlier chore. Simple – and delicious!<br />
<br />
Life here in Massachusetts is, thankfully, much easier today. And the bread puddings and custards that come from my kitchen may be significantly different. But the goal is the same – use what is on hand (well mostly) to create a simple, body and soul-nourishing dish that will comfort on a cold winter night in New England.<br />
<br />
<strong>Kate’s Key Lime & Blueberry Bread Pudding</strong><br />
<br />
You will need:<br />
<br />
• Stale bread<br />
<br />
• Whole milk or half-and-half<br />
<br />
• Eggs<br />
<br />
• Sugar (I like organic raw or turbinado)<br />
<br />
• Fresh berries (or dried cranberries, cherries, raisins, etc.)<br />
<br />
• Lemon or lime curd (You can make this yourself. P 737 “Orange or Lemon Sponge Custard”, in my version of Joy of Cooking) OR you can used the pre-made kind. I really like Stonewall Kitchen’s Key Lime or Lemon Curd<br />
<br />
• Pure vanilla<br />
<br />
• Ground nutmeg or cinnamon<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Start with about a half loaf of stale bread. It can be white, whole wheat, oatmeal, sourdough. I’m not sure about rye, but if you try it, please let me know.<br />
<br />
2. Break into generous chunks, about 1”x1”, and put into a deep baking dish.<br />
<br />
3. Add 3 to 4 cups of whole milk or half-and-half, enough to cover the bread and leave about 1” of liquid on top. The bread will expand as it soaks up the milk.<br />
<br />
4. Depending on how stale your bread is, cover and put into your refrigerator for 2+ hours – or overnight. You want to make sure that all of those crusts have had ample time to absorb the milk and “tenderize”.<br />
<br />
5. When you are ready to assemble, preheat your oven to 350 degrees.<br />
<br />
6. Use 1 egg for each cup of milk that you added to the bread. Beat well and add ¾ to 1 cup of sugar, depending on how sweet your sweet tooth is. Stir in 1 teaspoon of vanilla and a dash of nutmeg or cinnamon – or both. Your choice.<br />
<br />
7. Fold into the bread mixture until well blended. <br />
<br />
8. Add about a pint of fresh berries, and again, fold into the mixture being careful not to “mush” the bread or crush the berries.<br />
<br />
9. You can actually stop here (well, you have to bake it!) and have a delicious dessert, served with a dollop of whipped cream. BUT, for a special occasion …<br />
<br />
10. Add about ½ to ¾ of a jar of lemon or lime curd. Drop by the teaspoon onto the top of your pudding . Then, take a knife and gently swirl through the mixture.<br />
<br />
11. Put your baking dish in a “water bath”. (Put about an inch or so of water into a 9”x11” lasagna or cake pan.) Be careful not to get water in the pudding mixture.<br />
<br />
12. Now, it’s baking time. Put the pudding in water bath into the oven, which should be pre-heated by now. <br />
<br />
13. It will take about 55 – 90 minutes to bake. You can test for done-ness by look and feel. Is the top golden brown and slightly raised in the center? Does the center “spring” when you lightly touch it? If the answer is yes –<br />
<br />
14. Remove from your oven and cool for about an hour. You can leave in the water bath, or remove and cool on a rack.<br />
<br />
15. This is delicious served warm with a little whipped cream. AND if there are leftovers – you’ve got a wonderful, nutritious breakfast!<br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-73115331741250162122011-02-20T13:41:00.000-05:002011-02-20T13:41:18.090-05:00My dear Acquaintance,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="f"><cite><span style="color: #0e774a;">I knew, of course, that you would re-surface one day. <br />
<br />
I, too, was busy with the grandkids yesterday – taking in “Toy Story on Ice” at the Garden.<br />
<br />
My two oldest kids are happily (most days, as are most of us coupled-ones) married, and youngest daughter graduated summa cum laude last May. She is living the Bohemian life with a young painter. Punk rock bands perform in their basement, on the side across from the washer/dryer combo, on alternate Tuesdays.<br />
<br />
T. is still working, writing for a small company in North Andover. I got the boot… er - took early retirement in Feb of 09. I’ve been picking up odd free-lance work to pay the bills and buy hay. (Buy hay? you say) And I play with the grandkids every chance I can. They are real, and make me feel more connected to life than any hi-tech job ever did. <br />
<br />
We bought a small trailer, a “park model RV”. (Who woulda thunk it? T. in a trailer.) It is parked 1.1 miles from the beach in southern Maine. We’ve spent the last seven summers there, and would love to retire officially in Vacationland. (Although that would surely mean we wouldn’t be travelling south to warm and sunny central MA for winters anymore…) <br />
<br />
When I say retire, I mean farm. We now own 19 alpacas, three of the boys – my herdsires – currently reside in our backyard. They’ll go to “work” for the Summer at a farm in NH, in mid-May, and we’ll close up the house here and head up North…<br />
<br />
Re: all things in this life – “Hindsight” , as they say… <br />
<br />
What would any of us do over, had we only this future-lens to help us understand what we see on any given day?<br />
<br />
Cash a couple of your Social Security checks and go to the Bahamas, for heaven’s sake. We’re grandparents; our youth is gone. Buy and take a copy – or I’ll send you one – of “The Dirty Life”. Read it on your sail. And don’t worry your daughters while you are away. Text them when you can, and tell them where you are, and most importantly, that you love them. Then you can come back to the land, with your smooth heels and salty tan, and get all romantic about dirt and connectedness and those beautiful little grandkids. <br />
<br />
Before or after you go, you are always welcome to come visit us for an egg sandwich and a very dry martini...<br />
<br />
xo me2</span></cite></span><br />
<span class="f"><cite><span style="color: #0e774a;"><br />
p.s. -- Did you know that CW is farming in CT? She raises goats and chickens and has just started to make cheese. S. has some beautiful photos …<br />
</span></cite></span></div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-69469137883226359282010-10-07T12:14:00.000-04:002010-10-07T12:14:06.630-04:00India Journal, December 2009India Journal, December 2009, Entry 7<br />
<br />
<br />
It has been awhile since I posted, and I apologize for my absence. <br />
<br />
The good news was that I was immersed in a writing and project management contract for a large IT company. Sadly, I found that, as when I worked as a salaried employee for the same concern, my concentration and most of my creative energy was tapped by end of the business day. -- Whenever I sat down to review my notes and continue to flesh out my India diary stories – no juice.<br />
<br />
Today, the bad news is that the contract is over, with few prospects for new work on the horizon. I’m not worried, though. In fact, I’ll enjoy a brief respite! So --Back to work I go before my memory dims and I forget the color and details of this amazing experience.<br />
<br />
****<br />
Delhi. <br />
<br />
I am totally overwhelmed. The number of people, the poverty, the wealth, the noise, the monkeys and cows and camels in the street, the smoke of the cooking fires, the film of dust on every surface I touch. I try to remember what Siobhan has shared in her calls home, hearing her voice as a mantra, telling us over and over to remember, “All things in their context.” Yes, Siobhan. This is not the West. And I am not at all sure that my heart can contain all the joy and sadness and fear and exhilaration … and desperation that surround us.<br />
<br />
<br />
It has cooled down with the sun-setting, but the temperature still hovers around 95 degrees. At the end of our taxi tour, Samy takes us to, I am sure, two of his “paid” stops: The Delhi Hut, where we are surrounded by literally hundreds of thousands of cottage industry handmade goods – and the intense young men who must make their livelihood by selling same to tourists like us; and a lovely garden restaurant where we have a delicious vegan meal and several ice-cold beers.( I might add that this is the best beer I have ever had -- the first and last alcoholic beverage we will have in India.) I succumb to buying a sari at the Delhi Hut. It is silk chiffon, a beautiful shade of sea-blue with delicate gold-thread embroidery. Maybe I will wear it to the wedding I’ll be going to in the early Summer. I think there is a tailor in Nashua who can help me with the blouse and skirt…<br />
<br />
When we return to the cab after our dinner, Samy has evening prayers playing on his radio. He turns down the volume and asks if we would like to see “the most beautiful and reasonably priced silver goods in all of Nothern India”. He knows we are tired, and doesn’t press too hard when we day “no, not tonight”. He turns up the volume again and continues with his prayers, and we drive (or careen) along the winding streets of Old Delhi, back to our hotel, listening to the solemn and beautiful chanting of the Koran.<br />
<br />
Samy is a gentle, good man. He is kind, funny, generous with his story-telling – and perhaps the least imposing Indian that we encounter on our amazing journey. When we arrive at our hotel, he opens the doors to his cab and, almost shyly, offers a hand-on-handshake to my husband. He respectfully bows to me, saying “Namaste, Mother”. While Tim settles our bill, I ask if he will wait a moment while I get something from our room. I run up the stairs to retrieve hair-barrettes and candies for his daughters. <br />
<br />
I am not sure he knows what to make of my gift for his children.Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-91273775477364880812010-02-23T14:24:00.003-05:002010-02-24T12:54:50.932-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 6"The definition of insanity is thinking that you need something you don't have. The mere fact that you exist right now without that which you think you need is proof that you don't need it." <span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Byron Katie, author and spiritual teacher</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
India, as I think about my short time here, seems to me to be a land and people who have internalized the essence of existence: 1,161,240,000* or so people rise each morning, bathe, have a cup of tea and make their way to work, or school, or the shop where they gather to smoke and socialize. Or to the streets to beg.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Our tour of Old Delhi continues. As we pass the India Gate, otherwise known as the All India War Memorial, I gasp. – Next to us, a family of five is circling the round-about, top-speed, on a motor-bike. Papa is driving with a toddler in his lap; behind him, a small girl and her mother wrap their arms around each other and his waist; and on Mama’s back, in a wrap-around sling, is baby. I think back a year, before Avery Pearl was born, to my son-in-law, checking and double-checking his government-approved infant seat so he could safely bring his precious daughter home from the hospital…<br />
<br />
I make myself concentrate on what Sammy is telling us about the Gate. It was constructed in 1921 to commemorate the seventy thousand Indian soldiers who perished in World War I. As India was under British rule then, the Army of India consisted of both the Indian and the British Armies in India, and was the military protector of the British Raj. In 1971, “Amar Jawan Jyoti” was added under the original arch to honor the Indian Jawans who gave their lives during the Indo-Pak War of 1971…<br />
<br />
Our next stop is a World Heritage Site, the Red Fort. Sammy pulls to the curbside near the main entrance. He will wait if we want to tour, but suggests that if we want to see other places of interest, we may want to postpone, as it usually takes a minimum of 3 hours to walk through the grounds and buildings. I can understand why. The Fort is an immense irregular octagon with two main gates, the Lahori and the Delhi. The walls and gates of the structure are the striking red sandstone that is such a favored building material in this Northern Indian state. We won’t have an opportunity to see for ourselves, but Sammy explains that the many halls and palaces inside are built largely of Indian marble. Next visit, I promise myself, along with the Taj Mahal. Sammy sends us off with the instructions to "watch for pick-pockets, and meet me back here in 30 minutes".<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
“Americans!” As we exit the car, we can literally hear the murmur pass through the group of peddlers waiting at the entranceway. <br />
<br />
“Mrs. Mrs? You like to see my books to remember your visit to the Red Fort?”<br />
<br />
“No, no thank you.” I duck away, and he pursues. “But these are good pictures, see?”<br />
<br />
“Yes I do. But I have my own camera.”<br />
<br />
“Then I take a picture of you and your husband in front of the Red Fort with your camera. My time only 10 rupee.”<br />
<br />
I gesture no, and in turning, bump into a young, bearded boy. “Raj beard. Only 5 rupee.” I stare at him dumbly. On his display board are a variety of fake beards, all in the style of mid-eighteenth century Indian royalty. “Put on you. See?”<br />
<br />
“No put on me. No thank you, sweetheart.” I fish in my back-pack for a granola bar. His face crumples when I hand it to him. <br />
<br />
“Namaste, Mrs.”, he whispers as he walks away. I look after him for about 20 seconds and when I turn around, there stands a tall, smiling slender man who, it turns out, is the same one we initially encountered at the gate. He has traded his postcard books for a box of toy “putt-putts”. (A putt-putt is a 3-wheeled, diesel-driven, open taxi. A very popular and cheap way to travel around town in India.)<br />
<br />
“For your grandson, Mrs. 20 rupee. Is a deal?”<br />
<br />
“No, sir, no deal. No thank you.” I am getting exasperated. We have spent about 15 minutes and have only traveled 50 feet into the courtyard. I content myself with snapping a few pictures of the Fort from this distance. Tim buys a photo book for 10 rupees to silence the man and we run, literally, back to the safety of Sammy and his cool, clean car.<br />
<br />
I want to see India. I want to experience India. But -- I am tired, already, of this endless pursuit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>* As of the March 2009 official census. Note that this is a population increase of almost 932 million people since the previous census of January 2008. (1,129,888,000) </em><em>I think, perhaps, there is a little love-making going on, too.</em>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-23760927041660852432010-02-19T16:13:00.002-05:002010-02-24T12:57:09.271-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 5<em>Old Delhi</em><br />
<br />
Sammy’s car is small and clean. As with our airport driver, he takes great pride in it, and makes a good show of keeping the windows spotless.<br />
<br />
“Today we see <em>Old </em>Delhi. Perhaps tomorrow we can see <em>New</em> Delhi or Agra?” Agra. I have to stifle my automatic “yes!”. This is a sore point with me. Siobhan has decreed that Agra is not a good place for us to visit. Too poor. Too sad. Too tourist-y. “You should have the authentic Indian experience, as I have had.” (Although SHE has seen the Taj) My argument that one must see the Taj Mahal if one is in Northern India falls on deaf ears, and I am too timid to undertake this side-trip on my own. “I’m afraid this is our only day in Delhi, Sammy. Tomorrow we will be traveling to Jaipur by train to see our daughter,” replies Tim. <br />
<br />
“Well. We should then make haste.” He floors the accelerator and joins the honking chorus of lorries, bicycles and scooters that cram the streets of the older part of the city. “First, we see the marketplace.” <br />
<br />
When it seems that the narrow passage cannot hold one more vehicle, the road becomes more crowded. Our driver rolls down his window. I can only guess at what he shouts to move the press of pedestrians that now join the mix. Without acknowledging him and as if on cue, they move away from his vehicle. Once again, we can see out the windows, and those outside can also see in the windows. In less than a minute, the tapping begins. “Mrs. Mrs.? No food.” A very young woman, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, shows me her baby, who has a badly burned arm. His nose is running and flies sit in the snot above his lip. I have to close my eyes and put my head on my chest, as I fear that I might faint. This is real. This is not an infomercial for “Save the Children” on late night TV. Sammy is angry. He stops the engine and steps out of the car. It is then that I realize how massive his frame is in relation to many of his countrymen. He yells and gestures and the woman steps away. <br />
<br />
We are all quiet,and for a short while, we do not encounter any desperate people.<br />
<br />
“I have two daughters,” he says, breaking our silence and smiling in the rear-view mirror. “One is a baby, and my older girl is in government school. I am very proud.” He pulls down the visor on the passenger side of the front seat. On it is a picture of two tiny, soulful children. They are playing with the camera. The photographer must be teasing, as their big dark eyes spark with mischief. “No wonder you are proud,” I say. “They are beautiful, Sammy.” We ride again for a time without speaking, taking in the sights of the market. Sweets and textiles. Toys and rugs. Fruits and flowers. Thousands of flowers for a thousand home altars, for a hundred family gods and goddesses. The most amazing part of the market, to my mind, is the section of metal-work shops. Sammy explains that one can find any after-market car part, for any car, made anywhere in the world - within this maze of storefronts. It goes on for several city-blocks distance, covering two floors of many buildings, and running down long alley-ways. “We figure it out,” he states matter-of-factly. “We find a part and figure out how to make it. Then we make it, and it works just fine.”<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Our first “official” tourist stop is the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. It is an imposing and beautiful building of red sandstone that boasts three gateways, four towers and two minarets that tower forty meters above the center courtyard. Sammy stops the car at one of the gates and suggests that we take 20 minutes to walk around. He points to the parking area where he will be waiting for us. I pull my scarf around my head, adjusting it so tas not to expose any skin on my neck or chest. We ascend 150 red steps, past armed guards and small children begging for a few rupees, to reach Entranceway #4. I hand one little boy a crumpled American dollar and a Jolly Rancher candy, all that I have in my pocket. He smiles shyly and runs down the steps.<br />
<br />
There is a large sign posted in English that tells us there is no admission fee, but a donation is required if we wish to take any photographs. The charge is 200 rupees (about four dollars) for a still camera, and 500 rupees for a video camera. I decide to leave my camera in my pocket and take any photos I might want to capture from the street level. While Tim is paying his fee, I remove my shoes as requested, to walk, stocking-footed, into the open yard of the mosque. It is quiet. There are a few older men feeding pigeons, many others sitting or kneeling on prayer rugs in meditation. The silence is broken by a rapid burst of angry Hindi, and I turn to see an older man, face weathered to fine leather, running at me carrying a brightly colored cotton robe. I raise my hands in a protective gesture, pushing him away as he yells and points and tries to cover me with the garment. I don’t understand. My head and neck are concealed by a scarf; I wear long sleeves; my skirt falls less than an inch above my socks; my feet are covered by socks; my new walking shoes left, reluctantly, at the gate. “He is saying that you are not dressed well.” A man speaking English explains my pursuer’s anger. “Put on the robe. There is no charge.”<br />
<br />
So, I put on the robe.<br />
<br />
“What was that all about?” asks Tim.<br />
<br />
“I am not a man.”<br />
<br />
We walk, and Tim gets off a half-dozen pictures before we are told by another angry man to leave. “Mosque is closed. You go. Now.”<br />
<br />
It has been about twenty minutes, so we leave. <br />
<br />
No one else seems to know that the mosque is closed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-61082800206969661022010-02-14T13:11:00.000-05:002010-02-14T13:11:07.493-05:00A Valentine for ErnieSorry for the long absence, my friends. My trusty PC is now back home from the Computer Hospital after a week-long - but successful battle - with a rather nasty Trojan virus. On my first day back online, I hope you will humor me. - I’m going to take a bit of a break from my India Journal to send a Valentine to my Dad. (And for those “fans” who have been reading my journal, I thank you again and promise to resume those posts on Tuesday.)<br />
<br />
As many of you know, I have been cleaning and packing up the house our family has lived in for the last fifteen years. We plan to downsize. Sort of. I say that because, while we need less space for people, we will be requiring more housing for animals. It’s time that our fifteen alpacas come to live with us, and we’re looking for a small Gentleman’s Farm in seacoast NH or southern Maine. We’re a family of hoard…er, I mean collectors, so sorting into the “save/pack”, “toss” or “recycle/donate” piles can often evolve into a rather contentious family discussion. But I digress, and that’s a whole ‘nother topic that we’ll talk more about in coming weeks...<br />
<br />
To continue. Last week, as I was cleaning my office, I came across a copy of the eulogy I delivered at my father’s funeral. He’s been gone for five years now, but sometimes absence speaks louder than presence... And so, on Valentine’s Day, the day that honors all kinds of love – I send him this message of love – in thanks for giving us a comfortable life, rich with family gatherings and the company of good friends; for driving me to all of those games and play rehearsals and movies and dances; for his political passion – even if I disagreed, at least he cared; and especially, for his laugh and love of singing, those sounds I think I miss the most.<br />
<br />
Big Daddy, wherever you are, Happy Valentine’s Day. Still missing you. XO K8<br />
<br />
August 2005: (Excerpts from) A Tribute to Ernest Weston Stanton<br />
<br />
This has been a year of both great joy and deep sorrow for our family.<br />
<br />
On the eve of 2004, Priya Madeline joined the Stanton family, coming home with her new mother, Mary Anne, from distant Nepal. Beautiful, beautiful Priya. Her smile brought joy, hope and love into our hearts during the difficult Spring and Summer months. Thank you, Priya, for your light! And thank you, Mary Anne, for traveling halfway around the world to bring her into your life – and ours.<br />
<br />
Early in the New Year, we will all stunned when our big, strong father took ill, requiring major surgery. While he was still in Recovery, Dr. Ejaiffee delivered the dreaded diagnosis to our family, the news for which no one is ever prepared: “Ernie has cancer in his liver, and at this point, I believe it is terminal.”<br />
<br />
In the months that followed, as Dad faced his own mortality, he demonstrated a deep and remarkable courage. The way that he lived his life during these months, taught us yet one more lesson in dignity and courage. We knew he was a strong man. Brave. Principled. Loving and loyal… And yes, opionated. We certainly had many lively discussions, as he was a Republican AND Yankee’s fan, and of course, I am a Democrat and Red Sox fan…<br />
<br />
His Catholic faith was unflagging; he never complained; he never blamed God for his illness, and in the weeks before his death, he received Holy Communion daily…He always had a bad joke to tell, and he told them often and well. His smile was quick and warm and enveloping. Ready to shine at a moment’s notice… He adored his beautiful wife of 52 years, Catherine, his four daughters and eight grandchildren. He treasured time spent in the company of his extended family and friends. We all have wonderful memories of New Year’s Eve toboggan parties with Aunt Ruth, Uncle Jack and the Stanton cousins. And then, there were Memorial Day and 4th of July picnics, celebrated with bounty-filled tables, in the good company of Uncle Ed, Aunt Esther and the Connors cousins…<br />
<br />
He was so proud of all of his nieces and nephews. Dad was the last of the three Stanton brothers: Smokey, Jack and Ernie. When I called to tell Smokey’s daughter, Melinda, that Dad had passed, she sobbed: “Now all the Big Daddies are gone. They were the best fathers in the world.”…<br />
<br />
Dad had a wonderful baritone singing voice. One of my first memories is of him singing “Who Threw the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder?” and “McNamara’s Band”. He was passionate about trying new things, and when he did try something new, he threw himself into it with the greatest enthusiasm…There were the bread-baking and soup-making months, and the daily swims, ceramics. The list could go on. And on. And on… Most of all, he loved Ma’s good home cooking! … It seemed unbearably cruel that this man who so enjoyed his wife’s cooking should have that pleasure denied in his last few months of life…<br />
<br />
Dad persevered through months of tortuous chemotherapy, trying to find a way to heal, trying to find a way to spend a few more precious years with the love of his life, Kay. So that he could attend the wedding of his first grand-daughter, Julia… He did travel to Julia and Cesar’s wedding in June, and his presence made a sparkling June day on the rocky coast of Maine even more joyous…<br />
<br />
Dad didn’t have a very easy childhood. He lost his own beloved mother when he was only ten years old, and I think he grieved for her every day of his life thereafter. Dad painted a beautiful picture of Grandma Mathilde. How kind she was and generous, how he loved to listen to her play the piano. She was a gifted artist, a great cook… Not long after his diagnosis, he told me he was looking forward to seeing his mother again. 71 years is a long time to miss one’s mother…<br />
<br />
Over the years, Dad was blessed with many true, lifelong friendships. Dad had two big brothers, Jack and Smokey, whom he looked-up to. The three, separated in youth after their mother’s death, were close throughout their adult lives. - What a team, those Big Daddies! His buddy Tom and he enjoyed a friendship that weathered more than 70 years, and his brothers-in-law, Ed and Father Jim were both family and friends for over 50 years…<br />
<br />
Dad was immensely proud of his time in the Navy, and had a passionate love of his country. He never failed to choke-up when he heard the playing of the national anthem. He greatly enjoyed the reunions of his Navy squadron that were held annually. Many times he spoke about a Navy colleague for whom he had great admiration – Art - a pilot whom Dad credited with saving his life, many times over…<br />
<br />
I want to tell you, too, about the amazing courage my mother demonstrated over these last few months. Dad always said he was the luckiest guy on the world to have Kay, and when he took ill, she promised him that she would take care of him in the home they loved and made together. “In sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part” were words she took very seriously. She cared for him with devotion, energy, compassion and a loving generosity… What became more and more evident to all of us in those last few months was the fact that Kay Stanton was also made of some very tough stuff…<br />
<br />
Our family, neighbors and friends prayed, comforted and fed our family during these last weeks. Their generosity was truly an example of the “loaves and fishes”. Whenever we thought about preparing a meal, the doorbell would ring. And there was yet another kind face and a delicious, reviving meal…<br />
<br />
I will see my father everytime I see my sisters: Mary Anne’s thousands of freckles, Eileen’s “Ernie knees”, the strong set of Patty’s jaw. My nephew Zachary’s long fingers and toes will remind me, as will the quick flash of my daughter Siobhan’s smile, and the sparkle in my daughter Julia’s brown eyes. I will hear my father every time my son Jesse tells a story. And each morning when I look in the mirror I will see dad’s nose, sitting just between my mother’s cheekbones…<br />
<br />
I know of the love of my God because of the love of my father. I know of His unconditional love. I know of His fury, along with His forgiveness. I have experienced His tenderness as I myself was walked and rocked, and as I watched my dad walk his baby daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters, rocking and crooning us to sleep to the tune of Rockabye Baby, McNamara’s Band and, of course, “Who Threw the Overalls”…<br />
<br />
Ma and Dad gave us a wonderful childhood, and created a safe, warm and loving home in which to grow and learn about life…It will be hard to come home without experiencing Dad’s bear-hug greeting. Yet, I know in my heart there will be another time, another embrace when we meet at Heaven’s Gate, and he is there to welcome us into that warm and loving Home…Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-33218580637311399882010-01-26T13:15:00.002-05:002010-02-24T12:56:45.755-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 4<em>Friday afternoon</em><br />
<br />
The alarm on my cell phone wakes us with a start at 2:00pm. The street noise is at high-pitch, and I wonder how we could have slept through all of the commotion emanating from three floors below. <br />
<br />
We brush our teeth with bottled water and splash cold water on our faces, taking extra, fearful care not to ingest any of the non-filtered stuff. We are determined to make it through the next 10 days without having to take the precautionary antibiotics that our HMO has provided us. Siobhan has already prepared me for how to dress in northern India: even though it is warm, hot even, a woman must be modest and covered at all times. I choose a white blouse with a discreet neckline and three-quarter length sleeves. My navy culotte skirt only shows about an inch of skin above my socks. Sturdy walking shoes and a headscarf complete my not-so-fashionable-by-Western-standards touring outfit. As a man, Tim’s dress is less prescribed, but he chooses his clothes with an obvious desire not to stand out: a brown, loose fitting shirt and cargo pants. <br />
<br />
We look at one another, take a deep breath and unlock the door. I think we are both a bit intimidated by the thought of once again facing the crowds, but as we have only this day in Delhi, it is time to set out to explore the old city. <br />
<br />
The early-morning enterprise in the lobby has passed, and it seems that the lone person running the operation is the manager behind reception. He is greeting and registering four new European guests, backpackers who must have read the same guide book that brought us to The Grande Godwin. As we want our host to arrange for a cab-tour of Old Delhi, we take a seat and wait, a bit impatiently on my part, while the precious minutes of daylight tick away. Fifteen minutes pass and finally bell-boys are summoned to escort the new quests to their rooms. Tim approaches with our request. The manager-reception-clerk-bell-captain and concierge must put his “Ring Bell for Service” sign on the reception counter before he crosses to the concierge desk to assist us.<br />
<br />
“And how may I help you today, Whalens?” he asks. Tim explains that we only have a short stay in Delhi and we wish to see the city with a driver who speaks English and can point out some of the important historical sites.<br />
<br />
“I know of such an excellent driver. Are you willing to pay?” <br />
<br />
“Within reason,” replies Tim.<br />
<br />
“Then for six hours you will pay driver 500 rupees (about $10./USD) and you will pay me 200 rupees.”<br />
<br />
Siobhan had also prepared us to expect to negotiate prices for everything, as we would immediately be identified as rich Americans who had lots of money. “That seems like a lot of money for a booking fee”, I counter. The smile leaves his face and he returns an icy stare. For the rest of the “negotiation” he speaks only to my husband, the man. <br />
<br />
I am marginalized, put in my place. I pout.<br />
<br />
We pay him 500 rupees for the driver, and 200 for his efforts.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
While we wait for our cab, Tim continues to seek his help in securing train reservations for our trip to Jaipur. We want to travel the next day, on the early train that leaves Delhi’s main station at 6:30am. The concierge checks his computer, rubs his chin and pulls out his cell phone. A rapid Hindi conversation ensues, and he hangs up shaking his head.<br />
<br />
“I am sorry, Whalens. You can be only # 34 and # 37 on the waitlist. Third class. No AC.”<br />
<br />
“What does that mean?” I ask, forgetting my place. He glares at me and addresses Tim.<br />
<br />
“It means you will pay me 300 rupees each for your waitlist ticket. There will also be a 200 rupee fixer’s fee for me. But you will waste your money. There will not be any seats for waitlist, especially high numbers. The train will be gone and so will your money.”<br />
<br />
I am getting frustrated. “But why wouldn’t India Railway honor our tickets for another trip?”<br />
<br />
“That is not the way it works here in India. You buy ticket for train. You take. It’s in contract.”<br />
<br />
I am beginning to think that an extra hundred rupees would fix this problem, but we will not give in. “Maybe you stay here, in Delhi, for a few more days,” our friend says. “I make sure you see all sights and eat at fine restaurant establishments. I will take care of everything for you.”<br />
<br />
“No. We must meet our daughter tomorrow,” states Tim. “Is there anything later in the day that would get us into Jaipur before nightfall?” Again, the concierge consults his computerized schedule, shakes his head and picks up his cell phone. He nods, smiles and hangs up. “OK. Here is what I can do for you. You take 10:00am train from other station and get into Jaipur at 3:00pm. AC chair car. Is nice for day trip. I can do for 500 rupees each and 300 fixer’s fee.”<br />
<br />
I look at Tim. Frankly, this back-and-forth is giving me a headache and making me anxious and angry. I want to get into our taxi and see the sights, to leave this man to his “fixing”.<br />
<br />
“All right.” He smiles broadly and makes a great show of pulling up the online reservation. “You all set, Whalens. I have car for you tomorrow morning at 9:00. Meet here in lobby.” And at that, he looks up to greet our driver.<br />
<br />
“Samy. This is Whalens. They want to see Delhi history. You take. Six hours.”<br />
<br />
“I would be honored,” replies Samy. Samy is a handsome, stockily-built Sikh. He wears the traditional red turban, and his beard is styled in the prescribed Sikh manner. He has a broad smile that reveals straight, white teeth and one gold eye-tooth. His eyes twinkle with some secret amusement; my own are glazed-over. He gives out a deep laugh as we all exit the lobby and walk to his car. “I see you have survived your dealings with Rajesh.” He laughs again.<br />
<br />
And we are off to see Old Delhi.Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-46377086118385544762010-01-20T14:58:00.000-05:002010-02-24T13:07:21.194-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 3<em>Friday morning, continued</em><br />
<br />
Having survived the ride from the airport so far, we navigate through the narrow streets and alleyways of the neighborhood where our hotel, The Grande Godwin, is located. Tim’s “Rough Guide” bills the place as “clean, centrally located, good food”. I have no idea of how central it is: sprawling Delhi, with its wild roundabouts, has so far defied any of my attempts to orient according to landmark.<br />
<br />
The driver stops on the sidewalk in front of the Godwin. I admit to being fearful as I look out the cab window. The street, to my mind, resembles a war zone: it is littered with piles of broken concrete and bricks, mounds of garbage, pan* wrappers. There is yelling, arguing, and cat-calls and whistles. It is not quite 7:30am and the area is so dense with people that our driver has to physically insert himself to stop curbside traffic and get us and our luggage into the hotel lobby. Within that short trip from cab to front desk we are pointed at, then pressed against, and pleaded with, for money.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say to Tim as we climb the four steps to the entrance.<br />
<br />
The lobby is cool and serene, an oasis from the chaos outside, with spotless marble floors beautiful plants and several very attentive bell boys. The gentleman at reception welcomes us and offers up a cup of steaming tea with lemon zest, fresh ginger and honey. Revival. Okay. Maybe after a hot shower, a bite to eat and a nap I can venture forth into the crush that is mid-day Delhi.<br />
<br />
Our room is on the second floor, and we climb a beautifully arched staircase to reach it. The room is small and clean, as the guidebook promised, with a comfortable bed. The bell boy shows us the bathroom. “This is the cold tap, and this is the hot tap”, he says as he points to the sink. “And this is the cold tap and this is the cold tap”, he says, indicating the shower. It’s a nuance that escapes us upon first hearing, but becomes very obvious when we attempt that hot shower. <br />
<br />
Awake and refreshed after our chilly ablutions, we head to the rooftop restaurant. The food is simple, but very good and abundant. We eat and talk about the day ahead, while watching several large, hawk-like birds circle above. Then, bellies full, we’re suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. We have been traveling for thirty one hours. We’ll summon the courage to tour Delhi later in the afternoon.<br />
<br />
Back in our room, we sleep without stirring. I dream that it is already Saturday afternoon and Siobhan is meeting us at the Jaipur train station. She is riding an elephant and singing to us in Hindi.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* Pronounced pon, this is a popular after-meal digestive, usually consisting of sugar, mint, menthol or cinnamon which coats the main ingredient -- fennel seed.Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-73889352615933651642010-01-14T11:44:00.001-05:002010-02-24T12:59:28.601-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 2<em>Friday morning, 5:05 AM</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Our Gulf Air flight touches-down in Delhi a full twenty five minutes early. And, as Siobhan predicted, the entire plane population rises and starts to pull down their overhead baggage as soon as we are on the runway. Frantic stewards run up and down the aisles telling folks to take their seats, but no one pays much attention until the Captain halts the plane and gets on the speaker to remind us all of “safety measures”. Much grumbling ensues, but after three or four minutes the crowds is all re-seated and the Captain proceeds to taxi to our gate.<br />
<br />
Tim and I are excited to get our first glimpse of exotic India. We are among the last to deplane, though, as we’re too exhausted to become part of the pushing crowd that is filing rapidly toward the exits. Once inside the exit ramp, we’re hit with a wave of choking smoke, the smell of a thousand charcoal fires. I panic. Is there a fire somewhere inside the terminal? No one else seems phased, so we proceed on to luggage claim, where the haze is even denser. I cover my mouth and nose with my scarf and scramble for my inhaler as I start to cough. Everyone is anxious to clear Customs quickly, and the lines are fluid and without discipline. Even though we start out mid-line in aisle one, we are soon back-of-line in aisle two. No matter. The hotel is sending a car for us and we know that the driver will wait.<br />
<br />
The Grande Godwin has sent a quiet, tall and very polite young man to safely transport us to the hotel. He holds a sign on which our name has been carefully written in bold, block letters. After we identify ourselves, he wishes us “Namaste” and leads us down a long narrow hallway and out of the terminal. I hope that the closeness and smoke of the terminal will relent, and look forward to getting out into the fresh air. We find ourselves in a dark, muddy parking lot populated by cigarette-smoking cabbies. I take a long, deep breath as the cool air hits my face. My stomach lurches. The smoke is compounded by an almost overwhelming smell of urine and the cooking of breakfast by both lorry drivers and the squatters who live outside of this terminal.<br />
<br />
We reach the driver’s car. It is spotless. He introduces himself, pronouncing his westernized name quite deliberately. Jay. He is proud of his English, which is very good, and he tells us almost immediately, and with great pride, that he is from Nepal. When I relate that our niece is from Nepal, he becomes quiet, and remains so for the rest of our trip. Somehow I think I have offended him.<br />
<br />
If we slow down at all, beggars run to the car, women carrying babies, children, banging on the windows. Our driver therefore tries to avoid any slowing down. Our breakneck trip to our hotel in the center of Old Delhi is breath-taking. I cannot remember seeing a traffic signal. Horns toot-toot and people shout. Motorbikes, bicycles, pedestrians, rickshaws, cows pulling cartloads of bananas, a camel. The city is teaming, and it is not yet dawn. Vendors sweep the cement slabs in front of their stalls. A few feet away a pile of building rubble and garbage stands man-high. They seem oblivious. From the rooftops of buildings, people rise and shake out their bedding. Sheets and coverlets hang from windows and balconies like crazy flags. On the street level, from under protective tarps, families wake and start their small charcoal braziers for tea, and if they are lucky, a boiled egg.<br />
<br />
I thought I was ready for India. In my heart, I know now that I am not.Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-81643594189727624392010-01-09T13:26:00.001-05:002010-02-24T13:00:24.344-05:00India Journal, December 2009. Entry 1<em>East Passage</em><br />
<br />
It wasn’t until I returned home that I read V.S. Naipaul’s “An Area of Darkness” on the recommendation of my friend Chris. As we traveled, I had shared impressions of our trip via FaceBook: wonder, awe, fear, delight -- and an overwhelming sense of grief. She thought the book might help put my short experience into perspective.<br />
<br />
I found it most interesting that he, too, approached the sub-continent from the East, through Egypt. Our own journey commenced in Boston and continued on to Paris and Bahrain International Airport for a five hour layover. His travels took him on a more leisurely route, via steamship. But, like Naipaul, I felt a certain “falling away” of all things Western on this trip East.<br />
<br />
Bahrain International Airport is a study in modern contradiction. I stand out here, the only blonde woman in the departure lounge. I am being observed, and I try to observe my surroundings discreetly. It’s a challenge. I am already fascinated with differences. Women in full burka or embroidered jiljabs, revealing only shy but beautifully made-up eyes; wealthy businessmen in traditional white amirati thobe and ghutra, sporting Italian loafers and showy Rolexes; perfectly-groomed saleswomen in western dress, Santa hats and head-scarves; the Bahrain Polar-Express Bear Band. <br />
<br />
I guard the cover of my US passport but know that my appearance has already marked me as an American. Our Gulf Air flight from Paris to Bahrain takes us directly over Bagdad @ forty thousand feet. How absurd to be this close to, yet above all the “action” on the ground. I say a prayer for peace; I say a prayer that Obama will move with more speed to bring our young men and women home. <br />
<br />
The row of chairs in the waiting area face each other, and across the aisle sits a young Muslim woman with four precocious youngsters, all appearing to be under the age of nine. She seems to be traveling, too, with a parental couple, perhaps her own parents or her in-laws. She wears a full burka; her shoes are designer, quality; she speaks almost non-stop on her cell phone while her children play tag, argue, drink juice and get crackers all over the carpet. A stooped man with a hand broom must come by several times to keep the area clean. She is oblivious.<br />
<br />
I need to find a restroom before we board, and unlike other international terminals I have been in, there seems to be no signage for the washroom facilities. I ask one of the pert Mrs. Santa saleswomen and she directs me down the hall and around the back of one of the many Duty-Free shops. I follow an elderly Muslim man and very pretty, meek young woman, whom I assume must be his daughter or niece. (I pray she is not his wife!) I also assume he is escorting her to the ladies restroom, and follow them down the corridor - and into the men’s room. She will not be un-escorted – anywhere - in her travels. She briefly catches my eye, and then looks way, embarrassed. <br />
<br />
My heart breaks a little for the first time on this journey.<br />
<br />
They are calling for boarding when I return to the departure lounge. <br />
<br />
Another eight hours and we will be in Delhi.Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-20194982580663638572009-10-13T11:18:00.000-04:002009-10-13T11:18:56.780-04:00Closing Time<div class="MsoNormal">I am thankful for a rainy day today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A rainy day to take down and dust pictures, wash curtains, really vacuum the corners. Think quietly about all the happenings, good and bad, of the last six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s “closing time” for those of us who summer on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Maine</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heater going on several times during the night and the grasses frosted in the mornings signal that it is time for our exodus to warmer homes in the “South”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:state w:st="on">Florida</st1:state> or the <st1:place w:st="on">Carolinas</st1:place>. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. In my case, south is <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cold comfort, indeed.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like many whom I speak to in passing, I don’t know where this Summer went. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rainy June made way for a cool-ish July, and those “lazy-hazy days of Summer” seemed to have passed us by quite completely. In late August, the neighborhood emptied of college students and teachers first, then the kids returning to elementary or high schools. We put our youngest daughter on a plane bound for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Jaipur</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> for a semester of study. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By Labor Day weekend, Route 1 in Wells, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maine</st1:place></st1:state> was quiet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peacefully, startlingly so. And still, the days flashed by.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Luckily, the 90 mile drive to the seashore is one I don’t mind taking during the late Fall and Winter months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are those who need to see the mountain vistas to refresh their souls, but I long to stare out on the vast sea, smell the tang in the air, listen to the waves lapping the shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll make the trek, at least once a month, to sit on the wall at Fisherman’s Cove. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The houses that stand guard on that stretch of shore will be vacant and boarded up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gulls will be quiet, watchful, trying to conserve energy. And I, bundled-up and hopeful, will be planning the events of next Summer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those busy activities we think we should do -- that somehow get forgotten in the slower rhythm of life by the seashore. – And that’s ok, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Being here is enough. And I am thankful for this rainy day so that I can remember that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being here is enough</i>.<br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-73201196254046290802009-09-21T10:01:00.000-04:002009-09-21T10:01:40.922-04:00Monday, Monday ...<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">Well – Another Monday and still no magical offers of employment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The job boards this morning are empty of roles that I could perform. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like I’ve tapped out the good will of friends and colleagues who were so anxious to help when I was initially let go from my company of 28 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seven months later, I am still emotional. Hurt. Angry. Bereft. Fearful. Why me? Why, at this point in my life?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">A successful business woman for all those years. Someone whom people could count on to help out, get the job done, come through in a pinch. A woman with stature, power, wisdom. Hopefully, grace. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">Who woulda thunk it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">I think back to all the times I stepped out on a limb to do the right thing. Did I step too far? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">I think about joking with my team about my retirement count-down. (Now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> was probably very stupid!) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">We all grouse about our bosses, but did some un-complementary comment, spoken in a confidential conversation, wend its way back to him/her?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">In all the rounds and rounds of layoffs that I participated in and survived over the last 15 years, I tried to be kind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To offer help to colleagues who needed a letter of recommendation or an introduction to a hiring manager. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fought for funding to keep contract staff productive and on-board. (Probably long after I should have.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">Ego?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I get too cocky, comfortable, was I not appropriately respectful to some superior?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I push too hard for a program, employee – choose the wrong hill to die on? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because my professional life does, indeed, seem to be dead this beautiful September morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">Seven months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still rack my brain every morning to find the clue as to WHY?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">Pema Chodron, the first American woman to be ordained in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, makes an observation about the healing nature of pausing in one’s flight though life. “In the next moment, in the next hour, we could choose to stop, to slow down, to be still for a few seconds. We could experiment with interrupting the usual chain reaction, and not spin off in the usual ways. We don’t need to blame someone else and we don’t need to blame ourselves.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">I am reaching for my car keys. Time to pause to watch the harbor seals, and let go of today’s blame game … <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Futura Bk";">There’s always tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-14983018124780419052009-08-29T23:23:00.001-04:002009-08-29T23:25:47.531-04:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">“The</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black"> </span></span><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;mso-bidi-font-weight:bold;font-style:normal">journey of a thousand miles begins with one step</span></em><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black">.” Lao Tzu<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p> And so, Siobhan begins her <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> adventure. One step. Months of reading, studying, research. 20 hours in an airplane. Weeks of planning, hand-wringing and imaginings. Tens of arguments. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sleepless nights. Worry. Giddy excitement. Packing. Re-packing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A few more arguments. We frame these loud discussions with sick humor. Hysterical laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Weeping.</o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p>The sky weeps, too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Bawls, really.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What happens when a N’oreaster meets <st1:place st="on">Gulf Stream</st1:place> low pressure system?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A hybrid creating chaos, cold and wind. “Danny” --the name for a sweet Irish lad. Not. Possibility of flights delayed or cancelled. The drive into <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> is tense. The rain falls sideways and people drive like the moon is full.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I try to shoot some video of this first step. Lame.</o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p> We sit together for a few minutes to savor a “last” taste of <st1:place st="on">New England</st1:place>: a bowl of Legal chowder with fish and chips.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Jesse Jackson and two companions eat at the table behind us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They looked tired, sad, distracted, having recently attended Ted Kennedy’s funeral Mass in Mission Hill.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Another journey originating in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> today.</o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p>American flight 547 leaves right on time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p>Sio calls from the arrival gate in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>. They have landed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She is safe and excited.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She’s worried about hauling her stuffed carry-ons to the international terminal.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As luck would have it, her departure gate is right next to her arrival gate. In the Ladies, she shoots and posts a “thumbs-up” pic on FaceBook. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On her way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p>I study her face and wonder why she must travel 10,000 miles to discover her independence. Dear Siobhan, may this journey enrich your life in so many ways. I wish I could share some of these times with you, but I know they are your times, not mine.</o:p></span></span></p> <h3 style="mso-line-height-alt:9.0pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family: Arial;color:#63565F;font-weight:normal;mso-bidi-font-weight:bold">“I dreamed a thousand new paths. I woke and walked my old one.” Chinese Proverb.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wear comfortable shoes with new orthotics.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I carry too much baggage around my waist. I am envious of your adventure, but content to sit by the sea wall and watch the seals.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On Mondays I play with dear Dora and on Wednesdays, sweet Avery totally tires me out. <o:p></o:p></span></h3> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Arial;mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#63565F; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">Have a blast, Baby Girl.
</span></b>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-35582292236098240882009-06-29T15:33:00.009-04:002009-06-29T15:48:57.407-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkX6CKmnKI/AAAAAAAAACs/ggDDZObELnQ/s1600-h/Dora%27s+Ist+Birthday+009.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkX6CKmnKI/AAAAAAAAACs/ggDDZObELnQ/s320/Dora%27s+Ist+Birthday+009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352835917887741090" /></a>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'Futura Bk';font-size:48px;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'Futura Bk';font-size:48px;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'Futura Bk';font-size:48px;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); "><b><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:#3366CC;"><span style="mso-ignore:vglayout"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The obligation to endure gives us the right to know."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); "><b><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:#3366CC;"><span style="mso-ignore:vglayout"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Jean Rostand, French writer and biologist</span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am blessed to be able to spend my summers in a small cottage-park on the coast of southern</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></span></st1:state></span></span><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">M</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">aine</span></span></span></span></st1:place></st1:state><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span></span>
</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In past years, the screen-porch was my office. It was the place in which I wrote business plans, conducted conference calls and team meetings, answered 80 or more e-mails a day – all while listening to the love-song of a male house wren who nested down with his ladybird in a planter on our porch. </span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Summer of 2009 finds me in “early retirement”, quietly enjoying this same space, knitting or spinning, reading or writing in my own time, for my own pleasure.</span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The</span></span></u1:p></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:state st="on"></st1:state></span></span></span><st1:state st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Maine</span></span></span></st1:state><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">shore and several miles of beautiful, walk-able</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:placename st="on"></st1:placename></span></st1:place></span></span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Wells</span></span></span></st1:placename><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:placetype st="on"></st1:placetype></span></span></span><st1:placetype st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Beach</span></span></span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">are 1.1 miles from my little home. </span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">But between the beach and my summer castle is, perhaps, one of the loveliest stretches of the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Preserve.</span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A little background and history about the Preserve. </span></span></u1:p></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">By the 1500’s, traders and fishermen were using the Wells beaches regularly for access to and between early settlements. These barrier beaches were described in deeds as “seawalls”, and were the main “wall”, protecting the marshes from the waters of the</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></span></span><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Atlantic</span></span></span></st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. The value of the marsh hay with its high mineral content was critical to the survival of the settlers’ livestock, and Wells, which had been blessed with ample marshes, had a head start in building and maintaining a successful settlement. </span></span></span><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Fast-forward 200 years. In an effort to protect coastal salt marshes as estuaries for thousands of migratory birds, the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Preserve was established in 1966, in an agreement between the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the State of</span></span></u1:p></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></st1:state></span></span><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Maine</span></span></span></st1:place></st1:state><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. </span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Ten tracts of land, consisting of over 9000 acres, scattered along 50 miles of coastline between</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:city st="on"></st1:city></span></span></span><st1:city st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Kittery</span></span></span></st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">and</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:city st="on"></st1:city></span></st1:place></span></span><st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Cape Elizabeth</span></span></span></st1:city><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">,</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:state st="on"></st1:state></span></span></span><st1:state st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Maine</span></span></span></st1:state></st1:place><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">were designated as “protected” under state and federal law.</span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I’d invite visitors to</span></span></u1:p></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></span></span><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Southern Maine</span></span></span></st1:place><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">to turn a bit inland of an afternoon to explore the riches of this special place on the coast.</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> Rachel Carson’s book, “The Sense of Wonder”, photo-illustrated and published posthumously, was originally written as a 1950’s magazine article entitled, “Help Your Child to Wonder”. In the piece,</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:city st="on"></st1:city></span></st1:place></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Carsonoutlines her philosophy that, as adults, we must nurture a child’s inborn sense of wonder about the world around us.</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Sounds like a good family afternoon to me.</span></span></u1:p></span><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><b><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The beaches of</span></span></b></u1:p></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></span></b></span><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Southern Maine</span></span></b></span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><b></b></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">are awesome indeed, but don’t forget check out the beauty and majesty of nature in the tidal pools and salt marshes, too. </span></span></b></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Here are a couple of great places to get started:</span></span></b></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:blue;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><a href="http://www.fws.gov/northeast/gulfofmaine/">http://www.fws.gov/northeast/gulfofmaine/</a></span></span></span></b></u1:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"></b></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><a href="http://www.fws.gov/northeast/rachelcarson/">http://ww</a><a href="http://fws.gov.northeast.rachelcarson/">w.fws.gov/northeast/rachelcarson/</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Laudholm Farm, Wells, </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Maine</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><a href="http://www.wellsreserve.org/"></a></span></span></st1:state></st1:place></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;"><st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.wellsreserve.org/">http</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.wellsreserve.org/">://www.wellsreserve.org/</a></span></span></st1:state></st1:place></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:48px;">
</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Rachel Carson Writes About Wildlife Refuges*</span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">“If you travel much in the wilder sections of our country, sooner or later you are likely to meet the sign of the flying goose — the emblem of the national wildlife refuges.</span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><u1:p></u1:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">You may meet it by the side of a road crossing miles of flat prairie in the</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></span></span></span><st1:place st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Middle West</span></span></span></st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, or in the hot deserts of the Southwest. You may meet it by some mountain lake, or as you push your boat through the winding salty creeks of a coastal march. Wherever you meet this sign, respect it. It means that the land behind the sign has been dedicated by the American people to preserving, for themselves and their children, as much of our native wildlife as can be retained along with our modern civilization. Wild creatures, like men, must have a place to live. As civilization creates cities, builds highways, and drains marshes, it takes away, little by little, the land that is suitable for wildlife. And as their space for living dwindles, the wildlife populations themselves decline. Refuges resist this trend by saving some areas from encroachment, and by preserving in them, or restoring where necessary, the conditions that wild things need in order to live.”</span></span></span><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><u1:p></u1:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p align="right" style="text-align:right;background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk"; font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">— Rachel Carson </span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><u1:p></u1:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">*This essay introduced the series, "Conservation in Action," a marvelously written collection of narratives about refuges and the refuge system. When she wrote this, Rachel Carson was a scientist and the chief editor for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.</span></span></span><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><u1:p></u1:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="Futura Bk";font-size:10.0pt;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><u1:p></u1:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></u1:p></span><span style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; background:white"><span class="apple-style-span"><u1:p><span style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></u1:p></span><span style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-50018548324600565992009-06-25T00:08:00.002-04:002009-06-29T15:16:07.791-04:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops:3.75in"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal">Wednesdays with Avery Pearl<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkSadlT8wI/AAAAAAAAACU/DC94qo2vg2I/s1600-h/Avery+Pearl.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkSadlT8wI/AAAAAAAAACU/DC94qo2vg2I/s160/Avery+Pearl.jpg" border="0" /></a>
</p> <p class="MsoNormal">First of all, thanks to my friends who read my maiden blog and shared some interesting advice for the rest-of-my-life occupation:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span>Sing for my supper. I like this one. -- There are few activities on this planet that give me more pleasure than singing!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span>Shave for my supper. My alpacas, that is. Good thought, but that revenue just about covers feed. Theirs, not mine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span>Write a book for young professional women re: the things they don’t tell women in business school. Hmmm. Where to begin?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span>Keep those ideas coming …</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> And “Rain in <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Maine</st1:state></st1:place>” Poll update:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Think about acquiring boat-building materials…</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>One of the perks of being a fifty-something unemployed woman is that I get to spend more time with my beautiful grand-children.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the middle of my job search week, each Wednesday, I bolt out of bed at 6:30AM, shower and GET OUTTA MY PAJAMAS so I can have a play day with Avery Pearl. (Did I ever approach the hi-tech workday with such joy and anticipation?) <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She’s at that wonderful age when her brain seems to be reaching out and grabbing new ideas at every waking moment. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She vocalizes in the grocery store. She traces oatmeal circles on her high-chair tray.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She has mastered the games of peek-a-boo, throw-something-and-Grandma-will-pick-it-up, and patty-cake, patty-cake.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m not sure who is more delighted with her accomplishments, Grandma or <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Baby Ave.</st1:address></st1:street></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>During my own stint as a parent, I must admit to not “seeing the forest for the trees”. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But the total responsibility and sheer terror I felt as a young mother has been replaced by a profound respect for the amazingly hard work of parenting, and the remarkable skills that my two older children have demonstrated so far. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am privileged to witness in my grand-daughters, from the perspective of an “elder”, the complex, miraculous process of growing into unique individuals.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkR-xqvt9I/AAAAAAAAACM/vlJpDmnoZXY/s1600-h/Recovered+Autosave.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sRJKblmi3FI/SkkR-xqvt9I/AAAAAAAAACM/vlJpDmnoZXY/s160/Recovered+Autosave.jpg" border="0" /> </a></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have also learned in these past two years that being a grandparent gives one the opportunity to really experience his or her own children again. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In Isadora, son Jesse’s loving and precocious two-year-old, I see not only a physical resemblance but a similar heart: generous and sensitive, with a quirky sense of humor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And while she looks very much like her dad, Avery embodies daughter Julia’s spirit of adventure, dogged determination, and (almost) perpetual happy disposition.
</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>So the rain continues to fall, sometimes in torrents, on the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Maine</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But today, I feel better about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">everything.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I get to “hold my little fat baby in my arms again” – which happens to be a line from a Pete Seeger song that just about sums it all up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Circle-of-life stuff, that is.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Check out “Little Fat Baby” on Pete’s newest album, "At 89" released earlier this year.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:12px;">http://www.peteseeger.net/little%20fat%20baby.htm</span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:12px;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:12px;">
</span></p>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331183710624881622.post-71013373193638258842009-06-23T13:29:00.000-04:002009-06-23T14:03:45.263-04:00What am I doing for the rest of my life?It's 1:30 PM and I am still in my pajamas, searching online job-boards, eating stale popcorn and waiting for the rain to end. <div>
</div><div>As a recently "retired" hi-tech marketing manager I am, at 55 years young, trying to decide how to earn a living to support the rest of my life. </div><div>
</div><div>I remember my dad being laid-off at age 54, back in 1972. I was a sophomore in college.
We didn't have online job boards then, so unlike me -- looking for work in my PJs -- he'd get up, Monday through Friday at his regular work time to shower, shave and put on a suit and tie. He'd read and circle the day's want ads while he drank his morning coffee, and resume in hand, he'd make the rounds of potential employers. It took him four months of this routine to actually land a job. One that he happened to love, by the way, working as a credit manager for Harris Seeds in Rochester, NY. </div><div>
</div><div>My youngest daughter is just about to start her senior year of college, and she'll be traveling abroad to complete research for her senior thesis. I feel a bit like I'm traveling abroad, too. I am, at least, in a foreign country. The land of older workers who have had to face competing for precious few jobs with a skilled and energetic younger workforce. It's a place to which I never would have chosen to travel, and it's a territory whose successful navigation demands courage, perseverance and stamina. </div><div>
</div><div>Some days, I feel up for the journey, and others, like this rainy Tuesday, I am discouraged and wondering -- What WILL I do for the rest of my life?</div><div>
</div><div>It is my intention, dear reader, to live until I'm 105, so your ideas are encouraged and most welcome!</div>Kate Stanton Whalenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14115029415595957341noreply@blogger.com0