My Hairy Toes

My daughter and I have a tradition. It’s not so different from other mothers and daughters. Pretty common, really. Whenever we get together we get a manicure or pedicure. Usually both. We choose the color from a vast variety of shades. It’s amazing to me the colors that people paint their tips. Why, in God’s name, would anyone want to paint their nails black, as though they’ve all been hammered on and will fall off any minute? Then again, I suppose blood red could be looked at as equally shocking, but I like to see rubicund hands clapping in happiness.

            My last stop during my two months of travel was to New York to visit with my daughter. On Saturday of the visit we walked down a Brooklyn street knowing there were several salons available and looking forward to a good soak and foot massage. It’s a simple luxury. My toes are the only nails I like painted and I chose a flashy orangey-red to celebrate them. As I rolled up my trousers the lovely Vietnamese woman took one look at my legs and said, “Want wax? Only twelve dolla for half!”

            Hair on my legs has never bothered me. I’m not one of those shave-every-day kinda gals (if you don’t mind a bit of personal information) and I’ve been known to put on a good coat during the winter. Traveling through Europe, where it was still chilly, and then on to Istanbul, where the dress was modest, I felt no need to even pack a razor. But here I was in one of the most fashionable cities in the world and it was 86° and humid out. Definitely leg-showin weather. So I followed this tiny woman into a cubical to be stripped of the winter season.

            Hot beeswax was quickly spread over my lower legs, like butter on toast, followed by ribbons of muslin pressed firmly into the melted honeycomb. With a blessedly quick tug waxy hair was removed. Voila! Lovely satiny smooth summer legs.

            To once again get personal, my toes also sprout a lovely fuzz. I’ve been told that bearded feet are a sign of wealth. That’s not the case with me, most definitely, but oddly enough I like the wee bit of growth. It reminds me that I too am animal. My dog and I share hairy toes (though he certainly wins the prize when it comes to density, thank goodness) and I have a fondness for chickens with feathered feet.

            Before I could say oh-my-that-last-tug-brought-tears-to-my-eyes I heard, “I wax toes too”. Hot wax. Strips of cloth. And there I was, with naked toes.

            I look forward to the new growth. I’m told it comes back finer and softer.

On Being Homesick

I was three weeks into two months of travel and absolutely convinced I was done. I was finished. I could go no further. I was so homesick my whole body ached. Here I was in one of the most beautiful regions of England, the Peaks District, and I could barely get out of my chair. My daughter, the wise one indeed, asked me, “What is it you miss? Write it down. What do you want to go home to?”

On the surface it was easy. I missed my dog, my bed, a larger choice of clothing. Hell, a choice, period. I missed the nighttime sounds that we all grow used to putting us to sleep. I missed cooking and good coffee. I missed driving on the right side of the road. I missed my own car.

But it goes deeper. My homesickness went to familiarity. Opening a cupboard and recognizing the contents; turning on the shower with my eyes closed; knowing which aisle the bread and yogurt could be found. I was tired to my bones of figuring out the puzzle of every day. Three weeks was enough.

More then the constant brainteaser of how to get from point A to point B, I was in need of a good friend by my side. Very few of us are solitary animals and though I have gone it alone a majority of my life, it is not my preferred way of navigating. I relish laughter and shared joy with a good friend. My most precious moments are those with someone else in my life. By the time I got to northern England, I had stayed in the home of six strangers, retelling my story and hearing theirs. At the point of my intense need to return to native ground I was not alone. I was staying at a retreat center for Unitarian Universalists and they were lovely and welcoming. So what was it?

Our call to be with our tribe is forceful. To see the faces of those who know us the best, who are empathic to our struggles, faults and foibles is to see ourselves. By the time I was three weeks into my journey I had lost a bit of who I was; I had lost my reflection in the mirror.

POSTLUDE: I did continued on my travels, not letting the intensity of homesickness to get the better of me. I joined my niece and together we discovered things about ourselves that were new and exciting. She became my mirror and I in turn hers.

I also returned to car.

Talk to Strangers IX: Witness

This could be a story, but it’s more an odyssey, a journey, a witness.

On my last night in Istanbul I was invited to attend the service at a local Sufi mosque. A sect of Islam, Sufism uses trance-like chant, music, breathing and movement to praise Allah. You may be familiar with whirling dervishes. Dressed in white, they twirl in beautiful smooth circles, wide “skirts” gently rotating outward like large morning glories opening to the sun. This particular mosque is well known for preserving the traditional music through audio recordings and notations since the 1920s. I know very little about this gentle religion. I am writing more about the boys who introduced me to a community they love.

While in Istanbul I stayed at a guesthouse run by a friend of a colleague, so I was not a stranger. I felt at home as soon as I arrived in this unusual (to me) city, with all it’s smells, sounds and sites. The son of the household is almost a man, coming to the end of his teen years, and is an accomplished musician. At a young age he picked up a traditional string instrument. I think it’s called a tanbur, but I may be mistaken. Whatever it’s called, it’s large, with a deep bowl and long neck. He is often called upon to play at his mosque, along with his two young friends, one who plays something that looks a bit like a banjo, but it’s bowed, like a violin. The other plays a kavel, or flute. They make quite a threesome, these young Turks, still in their teen years, and they are obviously good friends.

“Come with us, to the mosque.” I was invited. I could not refuse. I went into a world that is so different from my own and yet so familiar. In this world the men and women sit apart, the men in the main “sanctuary” and the women behind a low railing, more as observers. There were guests mixed among both, standing out in their curiosity. I was a bit nervous; I wanted to be a polite guest.

The boys needed to practice and get tuned up while I was left outside to wait until the hall was opened to all. There was a commonality wherever I looked: A beautiful pregnant women, close to term, who was greeted with warmth by the olders; an elderly man who was brought some leftover food from the dinner previously served; two good friends talking; folks going this way and that tending to the needs of the community. There was a spirit of generosity and love in the place. There was also ritual that seemed familiar and different all at the same time. Instead of a sign of the cross, there would be a pause, a head bowing, and a touch of palms to face. I needed to cover my hair; I used to pin a tissue to my head if I forgot my scarf when I was young. I need to remove my shoes, which is becoming more and more common in my world.

The description of the service I’ll leave for another time. It filled me the way singing with women does, or doing pranayama yoga with a group. The air was filled with rhythmic sounds and the chanting could be felt in my bones. The boys were in the midst of the men, accompanying the lilting voices with their talents.

We were there for over two hours. Afterwards, with a bit of back and forth between the boys, I was invited to join them to eat. Of course we would eat! It’s a way to continue the community experience. And I was honored. I could handily be these boys grandmother, had I had children at an early age. Only one spoke English, the son of my host, and he insisted, like the wonderful young man he was growing into.

We walked through the neighborhood, past old cemeteries lit in the light of the full moon, tea shops with groups of men sitting at low tables on short stools, open squares with children playing or couples doing their couple thing. It was after midnight and there was liveliness in the air. I was seeing a part of Istanbul that my tourist feet had not visited. One of boys interpreted carvings on a gravestone. Written in an Ottoman language that the others did not know, it was a precious sharing. They also acted like boys together, punching each other and goofing. I was enjoying my cloak of invisibility at times and at others brought into the conversation through the interpretations of my host. We ate kabop. We shared desserts. We laughed, even though we did not speak the same language. They spent the evening “processing” their experience, talking about the mistakes made, the exchanges between these youngsters and the older, more experienced, members. It was different and yet it was the same.

I am humbled by this experience, a non-believer drawn into a believing world by the communal spirit of love.

Talk to Strangers VIII: Istanbul

It’s an old notion that learning a person’s name gives you power over them. You’ll find it in many Nordic and Indian tales. I wonder if this is one of the reasons why I’m so nervous when I know I will be called to introduce someone. I really don’t want the responsibility that comes with that power.

            I hardly ever bulk when someone asks my name, unless it’s someone calling me on the phone. Shouldn’t they know it’s me they called? And, unless it’s a taxi driver in Istanbul.

            The other day it took me six tries to get a taxi to take me to the neighborhood where I’m staying. There wasn’t a queue and people (men) kept jumping in front of me just as I walked up to the car. When I finally got the attention of a driver I’d lean into the passenger window with my map and point to the intersection. They’d shake their head no. They didn’t want to deal with the traffic. Does this make sense to you? They’re taxi drivers, for god sake! And I knew there would be plenty of folks at the other end.

            When one finally agreed and I climbed into the back seat, he fell into conversation. (long pause) “What is your name?” (long pause) “Are you married?” Oh my. But it’s not what you think. This was not actually a flirtation of any kind. That would be out of the question. It was, well, just conversation; a chance to practice English, maybe, but even more, an opportunity just to be kind. “How are you today?” might become too involved. “What do you think of this weather?” doesn’t work either. My name is just one word, and it sounds different. So does theirs because I always ask the same. A simple yes or no is sufficient for the next question. For the record, I reply yes.

            Today took a tram to an area that I like since it’s my last day here. No purpose in mind other then to get a coffee or a tea and a bit of something to eat. It was pretty hot, so I just wanted to sit and people watch. There was a gentleman who commented on my picture taking; his English was pretty good. Later he asked if he could offer me a cup of tea and sit down with me.

            I was done with my snack and it was paid for. It would do no harm if he sat. He had a kind face and sure enough, he started a conversation that went beyond my name, though he did ask. We talked of Istanbul and why so few Americans are visiting it now. We talked a bit of politics and economics and his love of Turkey. He told me he spoke five languages so-so. I told him I speak only one, with much embarrassment. Then he told me he managed the carpet selling business next door. I was so let down. I was really hoping that our conversation was not about selling me something. It seemed where ever I went shopkeepers were trying to pull me in. But I had told this man my name and now he had power.

            “Are you interested in Kilmer carpet? May I show you?” Darn. But since we’d just had a nice conversation I said, with kindness in my voice, “No. I mean no disrespect but I’m really not interested in carpet and I hope you don’t try to convince me. I’ve enjoyed talking to you about other things.” Just like that.

            “Yes. A nice conversation. Thank you. I will say nothing more about carpets,” and he released the power and set me free. Thank you Omar.

           

Mysteries, Yes by Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Talk to Strangers VII: Paris

Let me just put it out there: Paris is a dirty city. Lots of dog shit, lots of litter, and yet it’s immensely appealing. Paris has everything you need and a lot that you don’t. If you want a taste of how the rest of world views Americans, visit Paris. The attitude is legendary and exists. Someone I met there told me he was seated at a restaurant to be asked what wine he would be drinking. A non-drinker he responded “Aucun,” not any.

            “Misère, if I had known you were refusing wine I would not have seated you.”

            “Madam, if I had known that wine was required I would not have asked for a table.” The waitress promptly took the menu and walked away.

            ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­And yet this same man adores Paris. It has been his city for over 30 years.

            I love flea markets and food bazaars. There you will find the soul of the city, with people from all around the region selling their wares, often just trying to get by. Le Marche aux Puces, a famous flea market in Saint-Ouen, is huge with over 2000 tiny shops and has “neighborhoods,” just like a little city. There’s an area with newer things. You know – shoes, scarves, jeweler, leather and sports jackets; a shop with just key rings, another with soaps and off brand perfumes. And there are young brown boys everywhere with Gucci bags over their arms or holding piles of polo shirts asking, “Buy a shirt; buy a bag?” All of these are sold from the back of vans, with huge tarps set up. Once the day is done and everything is packed away there will only be a huge empty lot.

            Another area is where the antiques are displayed. This is a more permanent, with low long buildings with rented stalls, each with it’s own flair, it’s own flavor. Some are so full of things that you can hardly walk in and for many you can’t, while others are elaborately displayed with room to browse. I took my time, enjoying every minute. It was, well, so French, with laces, buttons, silver, chandeliers, and white linen. Everywhere you turn you see delicate porcelain dishware and exquisite paintings. I was yelled at and mocked for taking a photo. From then on I asked permission, with a gesture. For over 3 hours I walked and breathed it all in.

I met Joseph at a café in the heart of Le Puce. I thought I was done. My feet ached and my eyes could not take in any more. I was enjoying the best pizza I had ever tasted, thin, oven baked with tomatoes and arugula.  We exchanged a few words, as strangers often do. He told me there was yet another area that I had not seen, with more refined small shops and treasures. He tried to explain but it’s all such a labyrinth. Would he show me instead please? Yes. The answer was yes.

We spent 3 hours more walking together. Joseph has been working in Le Puce for over 30 years and he knew many of the merchants. Speaking in French with a pronounced American accent, he would often get teased. They would laugh together, Joseph and the merchants; there is a lot of respect for him, it was clear. He is incredibly kind. “Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

“Would you like to know what interests me?” I responded, not really intending to buy but enjoying the look, and I pointed to a painting here, a bowl there, a stool, a lamp. And then, in a corner, I spotted it. 24 inches tall, it turned out to be a trophy for a boules – lawn bowling – championship. The date on the front said 1934 and it was every bit art deco, a young man with his arm stretch out in front holding the ball and his back arm and leg in almost a ballet pose. £600 she wanted. Joseph was in his element. £200. No, £300 was the counter. £250 then. No, £275 and Joseph said that was fair. Done. £275 but now how was I to get it home?

It was not to be possible, and in the end I had to give it up. But Joseph was just as much enthralled with “our boy,” as we called him. It is now his and I hope he makes a tidy profit.

Paris made beautiful through the eyes of a Parisian American and a find in a flea market.

Aurora Farm II

It was to be my last day in Indiana and by my calculations I was only an hour or so away from Aurora, the town where the Chance/Smith family gathered. Genealogy can get complicated very quickly, but here’s the gist: Chance is my paternal grandmother’s family name. She’s in the title photo, the little girl down front with big bows in her hair. Her mother, kneeling to the right, married Frank Chance, my grandmother’s father. Frank came from John Chance and Rebecca Smith. (In fact, Frank’s middle name was Smith, as is common in the Anglo tradition but this might too much information.) The farm that I call the Aurora Farm was in the Smith family for generations and at the time of this photo was owned and run by Ralph Smith, Rebecca’s brother, and his wife Catherine. Aunt Meg Smith (as my grandmother called her) is the plump woman in the back row with the coy smile. I love that smile. She’s the daughter of Ralph, so essentially she’s my first cousin three times removed, or going back three generations. See how complicated gets?

My assumption is that my great grandfather Frank is taking this family photo. He had a photo studio back home and loved working with cameras. This could have been taken with a huge one that required a plate, but my guess is that he would have this on a tripod to place himself in the photo as well. Instead, I’m thinking this may have been shot with a Kodak Brownie. These were being mass produced at the time and were quite inexpensive.  The photo was certainly composed and Aunt Meg is not the only one smiling. Grandpa Frank must have been talking to them, letting him know when he was going to expose the film.

This photo has intrigued me ever since I found it in my grandmother’s old photo album. In fact, it was so alluring that I had to make Aurora one of my destinations. Through the magic of intranet I was able to get in touch with a descendant from the farm, still living in this hilly area just north of the Kentucky line. She said yes, the farm still existed though it wasn’t in the family any more. She told me the road but didn’t know an address. I asked if she knew if the family had attended a church. She thought for a minute. Most likely the Methodist church at the end of the road. There’s a cemetery there.

I found the road, driving ever so slowly so I could enjoy the cold but sunny, beautiful day. I left the Ohio River following Hogan Creek through a stunning wooded area until I got to the top and Short Ridge Road. This is the site of the farm. I don’t know what I was expecting. There’s not much detail in the photo. You can only see the side of a barn and a field. So much has changed and I was acutely aware of passing time. New barns and farmhouses – built since 1908 when the photo was taken – were all along the winding roadway. These are probably not farms but homes with a bit of land overlooking the huge river to the south. I couldn’t figure out which property had been in the Smith family and I was too shy to walk up to just any house. Seemed a bit of a stretch to ask folks if they knew of people who lived on this land over 100 years ago.

But I did find graves. The Methodist church and the cemetery were indeed at the end of the road. Newish now but the graveyard included lots of older stones. I’ve discovered that cemeteries often include a larger family marker, and, since this burial ground was a bit large and the wind was wicked cold on that top of that hill, I drove through looking for familiar names. And there they were. Smith, Chance, Dennerline, Mendell and Newby. All associated with the farm and all gathered here on this hillside. I found an especially old grave and cleaned it as much as could with what I had.

My father (another Frank) visited this farm during his summers. I make the 6^th generation to touch the ground of the Aurora Farm. Not so complicated after all.

This is my father, on the left, with his old brother John and Clarence Mendell, Aunt Meg's son.

Field to Table - Findhorn

It’s bloody cold in Findhorn in May. It’s on the northwest coast of Scotland near Nairn and Auldearn. Not too far from Culloden, Elgin, Inverness and Loch Ness.  It’s build on sands of the North Sea where the gusts will knock you over. Here’s the surprising part; the birds love it! They fly into the squall, or try, and seem to not move. Flapping their wings the hover enjoying the airstream until, either out of energy or agreeing to defeat, they fall back to ride with it instead of against it, enjoying the loss of control. The enthusiasm of their flight and their joyful calls rise above the sound of the wind. All around you see hooded crows, shrikes, blackcaps and twites, small English robins, gulls and even timid (but huge) wood pigeons calling out each others names, saying “Look at me! Look at me!”

            Findhorn grows it’s own food. Not all of it. They don’t have any luck with potatoes because the soil is too sandy. This is a dirty shame because they eat potatoes at every meal. Nonetheless, most all of the wonderful food is produced at this lovely eco community and spiritual center. They have a number of fields planted with all sorts of lovely vegetables, berries and a bit of fruit. If you are involved at Findhorn, through any number of weeklong workshops or on the path to actually live there, you have the opportunity to work in these fields and to get to know the plants that live there, the ones that are planted and the ones that choose to take up residence. All are guarded by a gaggle of chickens who stroll about gossiping to each other.

            This time of year there’s plenty of root vegetables to be harvested. We had beets and carrots with most of the meals – shredded, roasted, steamed, cooked in a stirfry. You name it. Spring onions are in season and so is the first radish crop. These were offered at the table with their tops still attached. No surprise that we also had a huge variety of greens; little round spinach leaves the size of a silver dollar. Not all big and blousy like, but smaller and more compact; lacy red tipped lettuces and bright green arugula (locally called rocket), all to be added to the bowl. One morning we had a bunch of lettuce brought into the kitchen that was definitely off, too far gone to eat raw. It was easy to tell since bits here and there were already to seed and it tasted mighty bitter. “Would you like to do that up in a stirfry?” I was asked by the cook. You know what I answered. “You bet!” in my best American vernacular. I cleaned it in the huge sink using a small sharp knife to tip the woody stalk and harvest the best leaves. Adding a bunch of freshly harvested garlic to the huge wok with oil, I tossed in these green girls and mixed them with all that goodness. You never would have guessed they were the nasty things brought into the kitchen less then an hour earlier.

Talk to Strangers VI: Scammed

It was brilliant, genius, and I was not only witness to it, but I was the principle player.

I had a wonderful day in the heart of Paris. Took in a bit of the Louvre. (You need an entire day and more to see this brilliant collection that the French worked very hard to acquire.) Took in every bit of the Musee Orangerie loving every minute of this small overlooked gallery. By the time I was done I was feeling very comfortable. Well, as comfortable as an English-only speaker can get in France. I took the #72 toward the Hotel de Ville and disembarked perfectly. Now I was immersed. The Seine was to my right and all along the walk there were artists. Artists of all kinds.

I am always on the lookout for a good candid shot and I spotted one. Turns out they spotted me first. A young woman and an older man were betting on a shell game using matchboxes and a marble. Perfect! As soon as I walked up the woman won handily. (I think back on that and wonder at the timing.) All I wanted was a photo, but I was sucked (suckered) right in. She played again, so I watched where he placed the cat’s eye, following the matchbox, noticing when he slipped it under another. I knew exactly where it was, darn it. After all, I was an expert at the Hat Game when I went to see the Mariners play. She pointed to a box. “No,” I found myself saying aloud in English, “Not that one.” Done. Fait. I was toast.

The good-looking man running the game was on me immediately. “Dutch?” he asked, like he hadn't heard me speak. “US” I replied.

“You guess right?” and handed me a 50 euro note, just to prime me. My! I knew exactly where that marble was. I had no doubt. “You place a bet. You double,” he said and slipped the note from my fingers. Ok. €20 only. I didn’t have anything smaller. But out slipped another 20 cause I was that sure. “You have more?” he asked, like a good coach.

I know you’re yelling at me right now, saying “Stop. Back away from the scam artist!” I want you to hear me when I say sincerely, I tried. At the instant those bills were passed I said, “No. Wait. You moved it!”  I tried. Really.

“No. It is not moved.” (You have to read that with a lovely French accent.) Plus I had my foot placed on the matchbox the whole time, like I was told by my wonderful coach.

You know what happened. I moved my foot. They lifted the box. There as nothing underneath. They (all three of them) quickly grabbed the boxes, the carpet, the marble I suppose, and walked away, fast. Poof.

You can shake your head if you want. It’s ok. I thought it was a marvelous Paris experience. Fuck the money.

The Invisible Years

Lately I’ve been telling my friends that I’m in my invisible years. I used to get some nice attention and, well, it felt pretty good. If you’re a woman you know what I’m talking about. Not the “Hey, blond hair!” or “Hey, shirt!” kind of attention, but just a nod now and again, a wink maybe (though even that feels a bit creepy as I write about it) or a nice smile and a bit of conversation. "Nice" attention. I’ve noticed that slowly, ever so slowly, I don’t really get that any more. I walk around invisible. My friends shake their heads. “There is no way you could be invisible. You are very noticeable.” They’re all pretty young and very kind.

            Not that I mind it really. I can go about my business. I can act all older and wiser and stuff like that. I get to decide if someone gets my attention instead of the other way around. I begin the conversation or comment. Sometimes I get a smile. Other times people just walk away. It is what it is, as I hear said time and again.

            But this all changed when I rented The Convertible. Seems as though it doesn’t matter your age, when you drive a snazzy, snappy car with the top down you are the bomb. I would get waves and nods and great big smiles. People would ask, “Is that your car?” when I parked it outside a coffee shop. Jeez Louise! It was just a car! But it was white and bright and it drove really fast. It had the most amazing pickup of any car I’ve ever driven. Did I enjoy this? I have to say I did, to a point. Mostly I thought it was way funny when I strung a clothes line in the backseat to dry my underthings while I traveled the roads of Indiana and Ohio. It seemed a bit irreverent and out of character for a car with such personality, a car that was not invisible at all. I also pulled it back and drove the speed limit going through small towns because I knew, I just knew, this little white convertible would catch someone’s eye really easily. I just prayed that in the off chance I was stopped for speeding that I could revert to my invisible self again. At this stage of the game it’s my super power. 

Driving on the Left Side of the Road

Here’s the advice that was given to me: When you pick up the car drive around the parking lot for a while. It will feel very different sitting on the right, our passenger side. You could practice waving to the attendant as you drive by, but it would be better to keep your mind to the task. Then, take a deep breath and exit the lot. Immediately find a local delivery van and follow. (I think I tucked myself behind a garbage truck of some kind. Or maybe he was just delivering bins.) Don’t turn on the radio, even though you may be interested in what they have to offer on the British stations. Follow this lorrie for at least an hour. Never mind where you’re going. The GPS will get you headed in the right direction later. Keep to the left. Look to the right. Hopefully your chosen delivery will take you through a bunch of round-abouts so you can get some practice. I’d be very surprised if this didn’t happen. They seem to be every half mile. Notice the right-of way as you enter. That’s always a good idea. Use your mirrors. Keep to the left. Keep to the left.

Right turns are a bugger, but you don’t need to do those much. The round-abouts are handy that way. Notice, there’s not a lot of stop signs, just right-of-ways. Stay on the left. Look to the right. Don’t be alarmed if you go on top of a curb. Everyone does it now and again. You know how the center line heads right toward you in the states? It does the same here because you sit on the right and drive on the left, just the opposite. Sweet!

              Here’s a handy piece of advice: make sure you understand the street signs and what they mean before you get on the road. I still don’t know what a solid red circle with a blue X means. It’s the one-ways and the do-not-enter that are pretty darn important. I love the signs for “elderly crossing.” The one for pedestrian crossing is a man holding the hand of a child. Nice.

Things do happen. I was driving in center city Birmingham, trying my best to follow directions coming at a steady pace from my GPS only to drive down a pedestrian-only street. (I’m still not sure if I made a mistake or the GPS didn’t have the streets correctly charted. That’s happened, even in the states.) I rolled down the window and, speaking to a lovely older woman walking by I said, “I believe I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a pickle.” She agreed and kindly peeked around the corner to make sure I had an exit up ahead. Thankfully I did.

Here’s the marvelous thing. English drivers are actually very forgiving. Someone swore at me once (yes, I could read her lips) but I rarely heard horns honking. I surely wanted to hang a huge “Please pardon me. I’m an awful American driver” on the back of the car. Instead I just said out loud over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Forgiveness is the key!

   

 (Found out it means no stopping. I had no intention of stopping!)

Talk to Strangers V: Cartwrights

I knew I wanted to go to England to visit the gravesites of those who came before me. The one site I knew still existed was in an old, small church in Ossington. To find it we needed to use coordinates on the GPS that I now call Burtie. She doesn’t have an English accent, which is probably for the better. I’d have no idea what to do if she said “have a butcher’s” or she told not to “cock up.” It was difficult enough driving on the left and swinging around the bloody round-abouts. But in this part of country there was hardly another car to be seen, it was that remote, set near Newark On Trent. We were hoping to be able to get inside the church where there are statues of William Cartwright and his wife Grace Debridgecourt, my 9^th great grandparents (say great nine times). The church had not been kept up, which added to the magic of the day; an unmowed yard with tall dandelions and primroses everywhere among the graves and pheasants guarding their territory. Of course the door was locked, no admittance but on the door was a little map saying that the key was kept at Home Farm nearby.

We followed the map to the farm and had a look around to see if we could spot someone. A tall country farmer was quite surprised to see two American women approaching him with hands out. “The map on the door of the church led us to you.” He smiled his beautiful near-toothless grin, saying yes, he had the key. Such a kind man with a gentle spirit. Explaining what we were about we also asked, “Please. Do you know of any Cartwrights in the area?” He did in fact, and after fetching paper and pencil, he dropped down the tail end of his small van (or truck) that he swiftly used as a table. “I’m fairly sure the Cartwrights live here. Nice folk. He’s a very docile man. Don’t think his father is still around.”

            What a find! He extended his large hand, covered in grease and I didn’t care. I took it in both of mine and shook it with thanks.

            We again found ourselves walking up the drive of a lovely English farm, well kept and inviting. A man was outside working on his RV getting ready for a bit of a holiday. “We’re looking for Cartwrights,” we said. “You’re talking to one!” was his reply. Explaining our purpose we were invited inside to meet his wife and have some tea. We then talked of family, the statues in the church, the fact that Aaron (that was his name) and his ancestors were, yes, from this area and it was his ancestry as well, though he didn’t know the direct line. The family had just recently been talking of it, trying to figure out the line of Cartwrights that go back to William and Grace. They told us of their children and their children’s children and how important it is to bring family together and to know where you come from. We shared own own family history and what I knew through research. I promised to do more research for him so some of these questions might be answered and I will be true to my promise.

            We were not strangers when I walked up that drive. We were family.

Talk to Strangers IV: London

It’s now to the point where my hosts realize that I’m writing a blog and wonder whether I will write about them.

            The other evening I was walking with the family I was staying with, the aforementioned mum and dad with two girls. We spotted a large grey tabby followed by two of the largest black and whites I had ever seen. Not fat at all. Just huge. “Those cats would make a fine coat,” said dad, in his dry, sarcastic wit. The young girls seemed to roll with the comment, the youngest saying she felt as though she was cast in One Hundred and One Dalmatians. “And my dad is Cruela Daville.” Not in the mean way, she explained to me, “Just the coat part. “

“This will put us in good light for Cathy’s blog,” the mum said, “Talk to Strangers: The Cat Coat Family.” That got us to laughing and thinking of more examples, which got us to laughing more, and so on.

During the walk one of the girls recalled bits from an old 50s song The Name Game. Do you remember it?

Cathy Cathy bow Bathy

Banana fana foe Fathy

Me my moe Mathy

Cathy

I picked up right away what she was trying to piece together and taught it to her. When we got back to the flat, the dad – as he is ever want to do – found the song on the intranet so his daughter could hear the tune. She proceeded to use all of her friend’s names, incorporating them into the words. I was lucky that none were named Chucky. (I tried to think of a name that would morph into bloody but couldn’t think of one.)

             It’s the laughter that connects us to each other.

Talk to Strangers III: Accents

I wonder how accents evolve. I’m sure someone knowledgeable in phonology could tell us but I’m ignorant and curious. [Side note: That really sounds like a subject line for a personal column. “Ignorant and curious”.] I recently came to know two lovely young ladies from London. The family seemed quite international to me, the father being from South Africa and mum from Malaysia. The girls are home schooled, beautiful and brilliant. Beyond brilliant. These 8 and 11 year olds are extraordinary in their approach to the world, the questions they asked, their attentiveness and speech. We had a glorious time comparing the pronunciation of words or how words are used. I admired in their accent, as they did mine. They wanted to know how to say “Oregon” as an American and I learned that locals refer to Birmingham as “Brim” with a rolled R. (Try it.) And so began the game. They would say something that was especially charming and I would repeat it, trying to soften my Rs and reshape my mouth. Hearing them pick up my Ohio accent with such ease was captivating and would catch me off guard. What a delightful surprise! We would go through the usual – roof, water, carpet, laundry, train. Pretty much anything that included that notorious letter.

            In Asia there is no comparable sound for the 18^th letter in our alphabet and so it’s difficult to pronounce when learning English. Even after years of practice, angry becomes angly. “I am very angly!” looses all of its power and punch. An etymographist would be able to tell us why, but again I have no idea.

            I’m traveling north into a continent where the language is my own but the accent will make it more and more difficult to understand. Here is one of the first rules when traveling: Do not be shy when asking someone to repeat themselves more then once if necessary. Do not be embarrassed if you can’t understand and be willing to admit it. Who knows what conversations will ensue.

Talk to Strangers II: Indianapolis

Cynthia grew up in Indianapolis and except for a year she spent in Africa, she’s pretty much never left the state.  Her story is typical in some ways and unique in others. Cynthia was married to a man from Botswana just before 9/11 making it impossible for them to be together. The Rwanda conflict and Homeland security keeps her husband in Africa. Cynthia’s devotion to her mother keeps her in the states. Her home is a testament to her husband and her hope to someday join him.

            Cynthia was my next host and she’s the reason why I’ve decided to stay with strangers during my journey. Not only is she gracious, but also she was very open and emotional about the guests she has welcomed with open arms into her home, guests from Korea, China, Italy, France, Germany, all over the United States, England and Australia. Tears came to her eyes as she told me, “I am poor. There’s no way I could even dream of traveling to these countries. By accepting folks into my home, to break bread at my table, to our share stories and, briefly, share our lives, I am traveling in a sense. I am lifted beyond these walls.”

            But those walls she refers to hold a lot of love. Her friend Jerry is one of most vivacious people I have ever met. My friends tease me all the time about my dreaming, so I could easily keep up with Jerry, matching her dream for dream; we both love the idea of living in intentional community. The joy is that Jerry appreciates the dreams of others. When Cynthia expressed a desired to explore her ancestry, she bought her an online membership to allow her to easily research. When she knew her good friend had a desire to travel she suggest the Couchsurfing website. Both of these changed Cynthia’s life in a profound way. And mine as well.

            My heart if full with the generosity of strangers who are strangers no more. Thank you Cynthia and Jerry!

Jerry and I driving around Indianapolis

Searching for Grandmothers

I stood on the grave of two great grandmothers. It was as though I had found long lost family, which I had. Katherine (Katie) Whalen, my grandmother’s mother on my father's side, died  too young in 1908. Katie is kneeling on the far right of the above photo. There isn’t a record of death and there aren’t any family stories. My grandmother Charlotte (Chotsie) made a pilgrimage around 1968 to Ireland where Katie’s parents were born, maybe to discover some stories.  She traveled alone and I always thought this was incredibly daring, but I wasn’t surprised. Chotsie was a dynamic woman and the story is that she was the first female to wear pants in the little town of Greencastle Indiana.

            It took time to find the gravesite of Lucy Webb Hoover, my 3^rd great grandmother on my mother’s side. I had to put coordinates into my GPS to find the little pioneer graveyard in rural Indiana. And then I stood on her grave and said “Hello Lucy”. The name is a beloved one in our family and now I know it’s been passed down, skipping generations, to become my niece’s. My great grandmother was a pioneer, having moved from then developed Philadelphia to the territory of Indiana before it was a state. I sat on her grave, gently making a rubbing of the stone that will soon be unreadable.

            I’ve always loved cemeteries – they are peaceful parks filled with stories – though I’ve never liked the idea of graveyards, to use the land in such a way. I want to be placed in a remote area where I can easily be turned back into the earth. No embalming. No grave stone. But now I wonder, who would tell my story if I’m not marked in some way? Who would find me hundreds of years later and stand on my grave saying, “I am here. I am you and you are me. Hello Cathy.”

Talk to Strangers I: Milwaukee

Couchsurfing.com is one of the recent community websites offering free housing to travelers. Sounding like something I would do in the 70s, it’s a brilliant way to meet people who live in the city you’re traveling through to find housing for the night, free of charge. It has safety features for those who pay attention with the ability to filter. I always start by searching for women over 40 (with apologies to my beautiful, young pals), and look for folks who have been “vouched” for and have a number of references. It’s required that your profile includes a description of the bed offered (Any shared space? Privacy? Available bathroom?), occupation of host, other family members, places they’ve traveled and more. People who abuse the system – hitting on someone is an excellent example – gets them reported and removed. I’ve had a number of delightful couchsurfers stay at my home and now it’s my turn to travel.

            Jean is my first host and at the risk of sounding gushy she was the best! Ok. There’s no comparison yet, but she certainly sets the bar high and was a delightful start to my adventures. She’s a professor at Marquette University in Milwaukee WI and an avid traveler. She’s also a Unitarian Universalist (small world) and liberal in a not-at-all-liberal city and state. She gave me a marvelous tour of Milwaukee and we shared a dinner together. Thank you Jean! I fully expect that we will continue to develop a friendship and my hope is to someday visit her in Italy after she moves there to be with her sweetie!

            One of my good friends said to me before I left, “Talk to strangers”! What a brilliant piece of advice. Traveling alone can be, well, lonely. Because of the kindness and good company of strangers I am seeing even more of the world, through the eyes of others.

The Aurora Farm I

I love this photo! The people in it look happy and ... like family. It was taken over 100 years ago on a farm in Aurora Ohio. My grandmother, the little girl in the front with bows in her hair, would visit it with her mother - my great grandmother - Katie Whalen Chance. I don't know everyone in the photo, but I do know that Aunt Meg Smith is the adorable woman in the back right in the middle with the smile on her face. I discovered her through a family album and there are several photos of her.

During the next month I hope to discover more about the people in this photo and maybe find the farm, if it still exists. Katie Whalen is a bit of a mystery. As far as I can figure she died fairly soon after this photo was taken. My imagination has me looking at her closely; she's kneeling down on the far right. Her eyes look sunken and there's a handkerchief in her hand.

So come with me, as we discover together who these people are and how they fit into the story of my life!