The Papers (and Other Stuff) of Our Lives
I have a problem.
I like to keep papers. I kept them at the office for 43 years, and now have kept them at my home for (when did I retire?) almost 6 years ago.
Melodie, it is time to clean the stash. Let go.
My husband has myriad bolts he won’t let go of, he might need them some day. But do I really need to keep the Mennonite Convention papers from 30 years ago because I might need to know what seminar or workshop to go to next. Those were precious, wonderful, fun, and explorative years. I loved going to conferences, going to seminars, collecting papers and mementos. But do I need to keep an office newsletter (See the “Alert” below) from 1975? Um … Melodie, you have a problem.
Do you have a problem too? Write to me, I will love it and probably keep your email or letter for 20 years. Until I die.
Okay, I’m 73. Do I really want my kids to have to decide what to keep and what to throw? I remember when my dear mother began throwing stuff away, I was surprised about some stuff. Truth be told, I have some of her keepsakes. My sisters and daughters do too. And that’s okay, to a certain extent. But oh paper. Paper paper paper. It will go. Soon.
Some things have gone to a local Mennonite & Brethren Heritage site. I gave them them freedom to throw the stuff they didn’t want. Some items have gone to local libraries and Elkhart, Indiana archives. We like to be remembered. Our work likes to be savored. Especially writers who write things down. Like now.
But here goes:
[Melodie closes her eyes and plops some old old columns into a very black plastic bag and takes them to the dump. One chore done. Many more to come.]
You know what? It feels pretty good to be finally getting rid of some things. Decluttering, they call it, yes? I still have plenty of things to hang on to but slimming down our closets and garage and basement … pretty nice. And you know what else? I can keep things I’ve written here on the blog forever and ever if I want to. Oh yeah, my kids will have to delete some stuff. Some day.
For now, I need to go throw some more papers.
One daughter and husband recently talked their sons into allowing a darling little “play kitchen” that they had given their oldest son when he was just two, I think, to be given away. But when the three boys (now 11, 9, and 6) realized they’d be giving it to the little cousin they adore, they were happy–even excited–to do so.
That little two-year-old girl cousin is eating it up. She loves it. She serves tea in very tiny metal cups to her dad while he works at his job in their home.
Oh the beauty of passing things on.
(The cat finds it interesting, too.)
What do you need to get rid of?
What have you gotten rid of that was difficult?
How do you choose?
Snow, snow, snow!
Well. Here’s our fourth or fifth snow of the season, I’ve lost count. I do still care, and the soft snowfall today is, yes, beautiful and calming. We stay at home, mostly. And wait for cleared roads and the toil of snow blowing and scraping our driveway and sidewalks. It is nice as retired folks to not HAVE to go anywhere.
Even my brother and his wife built snowmen in north Florida a few weeks ago, to their delight. (They’re back to wearing shorts etc. by now but it was quite extraordinary for Floridians. Yes?)
Some of my citified grandsons in Virginia had the opportunity to build snow huts in their front yard (remember those?). They were enchanted with cuddling up inside those little holes. For as long as it lasted. When you live near a big city, things do melt pretty fast.
I am trying to be unendingly grateful, because waterfall and snowfall have been very scarce in many sections of our county and state and country (while of course some places are flooded and inundated and having to start over their lives and homes). This past week we saw rivers and creeks in our area swelling to nice heights—not over the top, just nice. Keeping fingers crossed.
We’ve lost electricity two times, so far. We can count on losing electricity 5-7 times a year. I guess that’s what we get for living in a somewhat mountainous area, where trees crash and tumble from too great of burdens on their limbs.
That’s what happens for people, too. My prayer list grows longer.
So I lived with almost two weeks of poison ivy irritating my skin and happiness. Huh? Poison ivy in the middle of winter? At last the various creams I apply get things under control, and both my husband and I (he had it too, not as bad as me) will be very very careful as we move the wood around for our woodstove in the basement which heats the whole house … using gloves and other protective gear.
Between times, we celebrate two birthdays in the family and manage to drive about 100 miles to both on days when snow was not an issue. Virginia is nice. Come on up, or down, or east!
Do you like snow, or not?
What is your favorite season?
What state or country or city do you enjoy the most?
I’d love to hear from you. Is it snowing where you are?
Saving Animals
Did you know that animals are praised in the Bible?
Ok, some of you probably have no use for animals in the house and yes they can be annoying and make extra work. They cause young and old alike to fall at times, breaking hips, arms, shoulders. Especially here in the middle of winter, it’s especially treacherous to be outside with pets and have them accidentally brush a little too close to you and you end up in the hospital.
But, I had forgotten this praise for animals in the Bible: “Lord, you save both humans and animals” in Psalms 36:6. Remarkable, yes! God cares about the animals in this world.
And of course there is the whole history of Noah building a huge animal ark in order to save animals from the flood that came in ancient times. Elephants, hippos, lions—and we hope dogs and cats—sailed on the sea for quite a while. Our pastors have held “animal appreciation” services in the summer—outdoors—so people could share their love on animals and pets.
My husband and I have had numerous cats and dogs in our lives and in our various homes (we only had three moves—lucky, I guess). We both grew up in homes with some acreage and pets were expected to stay outside—in barns, sheds, and occasional dog houses. My dad allowed our dog to sleep in our covered porch in the winter, on a rug, and I’m sure while it was chilly, it was decently warm enough for our various dogs (only ever had one at a time).
Stuart and I now usually travel with our dog Velvet and she has come to expect that she gets to go with us on various excursions. (We never take her to town … just on trips.) We’ve paid extra to have her sleep in our motel or hotel rooms and she watches and guards us like the “sheep” that we are. She is a mix of Australian shepherd and mutt, and as she gets older the more tuned she is to making sure animals and us are dutifully taken care of. (Annoying as heck for her to bark and bark for our cat Pumpkin when she wants to come in through the deck door, and then sniffing the cat to make sure the cat’s ok.) Velvet also barks goodbye on the phone to our grandchildren, who love that. Not sure who likes that little fun more: grandparents, grandchildren, the parents of the grandchildren, or the dog.
Our cat history is expansive, mainly when the children were preschoolers up through high school. We had batches of kittens that had lovely coloring and were easy to find homes for. All our children had their specific favorites. Let’s see (records kept by Michelle, recorded in January 1997) there were all these:
Tigger, Ceasar (Dad’s cat), Bibbs, Sunshine, Puff, Shelly, Darkhorse, Boots, Butterball, Squirrel, Muffin, Sad Sack, Blacki, Wonder, Perfect, Inky, Autumn, Sicky, Torty, Bossy, Comet, Cleopatra, Space Bars, Midnight, Bubbles, Sage, Paprika, Brainy, Sniffles, Reebok, Nike, Kodak, Lucky, Tie-Dye, Larry, Curly, and Moe. 😊 (There are some missing cats on this list because Michelle stopped recording them for us. I know there was at least Paisley but can’t name any other. And ask my husband sometime about his cat Tango who scared the daylights out of me once upon a time, before we were married.)
Now there’s a list of cat names if you are in need of any. Most of these were adopted out to friends, neighbors and occasionally we advertised in the paper about our kittens. I did adopt a cat, Riley, who had very white long hair from my daughter’s friend who needed to find a home for him. I looked at the photo they sent us and he charmed me so much that I agreed to adopt him. I loved/took care of him until he died a natural death in 2015. And Boots was Michelle’s very special cat for many years. But Boots ended up dying of cancer. We even actually paid for the first surgery (something we rarely did for animals with cancer), but we knew she and Michelle were so attached.
Our dog history includes: Wendy, Junebug (or just June), Fable, and now Velvet. All of them were basically of mixed heritage.
Are you an animal fan—or prefer not to have pets?
I’m sure the day will come when we can no longer take care of a dog. A cat? Maybe.
You might enjoy reading about a neighbor friend who adopted Dog 3 because he was very much in need of a home. She’s writing a book on their trials and adventures. Check out Sharon Landis’ stories here.
You can also read more about the life of my dear Riley here.
Farewell and Godspeed
As the world bids so long to former President Jimmy Carter, I will just share this wonderful photo of Jimmy with my Mom and Dad. They were “hard Democrats” as my mother used to call themselves, so supporting such a devout church goer and hard worker and helper around the world was an easy choice. Please note how firmly Jimmy held Dad’s hand in that photo, literally helping Dad with his cane (cane not visible in the photo). So many are paying deserved tribute these January days to this fine man.
Dad is holding his cane in the right hand, and Carter helps him be steady. Photo sometime between 1992-2004.
My daughters and I were also privileged to hear Carter speak at a Mennonite Church Convention in Orlando, Florida in 1997.
Mr. Carter reminded those at that convention that the word Christian literally means “little Christ.” He explained that “every time I make the claim, ‘I’m a Christian,’ I am saying I am a little Christ.”
I looked up the origins of that term and here is what I found at Christianity.com: “Scholars say ‘Christian’ comes from the Greek word christianos, meaning “little Christ.” Stories say the term was used as a jeer, as their enemies would poke fun at them by calling them diminutive versions of their Savior — as in, “Look at those ‘little Christs.’”
I like Carter’s explanation. He said “We do not claim this in a proud, boastful way. Instead, we are to strive in every way to be as loving, giving, humble, wise and self-sacrificing as Christ was and is.” The wordplay helps remind us that Christians need to be aware of that truth and live it every day.
So long to Jimmy Carter. He is enjoying a holiday from his many efforts and reunion with his dear wife, Rosalynn. I was privileged to receive a personal letter from her thanking me and others when our organization, Mennonite Media, included her in a documentary sharing her long journey at the Carter Center in Atlanta, working to help those suffering from mental illness.
I will remind us that no matter what you think of Mr. Carter’s politics or the job he did as president, in his years after his presidency he demonstrated over and over again what a loving, gentle, daily walk he had as a “little Christ.”
May we be and do the same.
Parts of this appeared in a devotional I wrote for Rejoice! Magazine. More devotionals or a subscription from Mennonite Media can be found here.
Guest post by my mother Bertha Miller (1924-2021), and used in Purpose magazine in 2009.
“During retirement, our home also served as a small bed-and-breakfast. My husband, Vernon, also operated a modest carpentry business since he could no longer farm. In our garage he loved making wooden doll houses, toy barns, and other wood projects.
To advertise, we erected a large heavy sign on the corner of two busy roads in Elkhart County, Indiana.
We made the sign ourselves years earlier. It worked well as our main advertising tool. Then a storm blew it down, breaking off its heavy wooden posts.
In his high 80s, Vernon was diabetic and mostly wheelchair bound—but he puttered around in our yard working from either his wheelchair or our riding lawn mower, taking care of flower beds, dwarf orchard trees, and shrubs.
Even though it was hot in the middle of summer, my husband insisted the sign had to go back up, as soon as possible, or we’d lose business.
Vernon was as stubborn as a dog on a leash following an interesting scent. So nothing would derail him from trying to fix that sign ourselves, alone, without asking for help.
All of our tools for that job were old fashioned: a manual post-hole digger and a shovel. The temperature was 85 – 90 the day we went out, and sweat poured form my husband’s body as he began to dig. I knew the exertion would make Vernon’s blood sugar plummet, but I hadn’t thought to bring candy or anything to drink for him. We only lived a quarter mile away and I had ridden my bike and Vernon had attached the digger and shovel to his lawn mower.
I knew we couldn’t do the job alone but who would take time to stop on busy State Road 19 to help us old folks? Old folks who should have known better, right?
Then out of nowhere came this couple, young and strong. They stepped out of their car. They seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever. The husband saw what was needed, grabbed the digger and dug two deep holes in no time. And I, sensing an opportunity to get Dad some sweets, pedaled home for water and candy for Vernon as fast as I could go.
The couple stayed long enough to get the sign set up and make sure it was in those holes, deep and secure.
My faith in humanity was restored. We wanted to pay them, but they just said, “Give it to your church.” Then they turned to their car and left.
Were these people angels to help two elderly folks living near a state highway?
Whether celestial or human, they were angels to us.”
By Bertha Miller published 2009. She gleefully accepted payment from Purpose magazine, which is no longer published.
***
Mom died in October of 2021 and Dad died in 2006. We miss them both. We will try to be angels whenever we can!
Did you or your parents or grandparents make mistakes?
Take risks you didn’t approve of?
Did you ever have someone help you out and then quickly disappear?
Blog post – December 23, 2024
I was so weepy all Sunday morning.
Mainly it was the deeply moving and beautiful song which starts out, “My Soul Cries Out with a Joyful Shout.” Our hymnal (and thankfully I have this hymnal at home) tells us that the “world is about to turn.” The title of the song is actually “The Canticle of the Turning.” It uses an “energetic Irish folk song” as the melody (yes, my name but not spelled that way), and is basically Mary lifting her thoughts to God after being told by the angel that she would be bearing a special child.
But for me it brought back to life my father’s deep deep call to do what he could to help others—to save the world, if that doesn’t sound like too big of job. Here on Monday morning it again speaks to me of our Dad (and Mom, who was his right-hand-woman all her life and beyond). The tears just eek out of my wet eyes. It is also the season of course, of remembering our many loved ones who are no longer with us.
In our congregation alone, it keenly brought back our loss of six members who passed on to glory this year. Our loss. Their gain, glory be to God.
Dad was born to be a farmer, like many of his generation, worked hard all his life until he could work no more but along the way his call to other farmers to help raise corn and wheat and whatever to share with “needy people” around the world by starting a farm for the entire community to till, plant, and harvest. And then he invested money himself to go with Mom to see the countries where the food was going so it could satisfy his curiosity that it was indeed reaching the “hungry peoples of the world” as he used to pray, (using his awkward 8th grade education in sharing his yearning with others). He was a Conchie, (conscientious objector who served almost four years). I was reminded of this in the World War II book I am currently reading, so he was mocked for that in a difficult, horrible war. We still pray and long for an end to all violence and war, dear God.
I think I was also weepy thinking of our grandchildren, and particularly that we had just spent 3 days deeply involved with our youngest grandchild in “babysitting” as her parents tried to work at home. This grandchild was especially welcome for the whole family just because she turned out to be a girl (at last, after five wonderful boys!). She is at the stage where she wants to “help” or asks for “help” and cries madly if and when she is shuffled off to bed. There is more playing to be done, of course. Reading books and singing along with verses that we know. Doing little dancing jigs. (Irish?) It was a glorious time and spoke to me that I am now of the generation where I must also help see that my grandchildren are raised and taught to be good people, no matter what.
I’m still crying, see my red eyes?
No, that’s good you can’t see me. I’ll be fine and knowing that we too must do what we can to impart wisdom and energy and faith and good will to the world. The hymn ends with a strong message “Though the nations rage … we remember who holds us fast … till the spear and rod can be crushed by God who is turning the world around.”
Again, wishing you thoughtful holidays and love shared around tables, in backyard football fun, opening gifts large and small, hugs and kisses for one and all. Amen.
***
For more on my father and mother, perhaps you would enjoy our family memoir book. If you haven’t already read it.
December 18, 2024
“Girls, girls, GIRLS!”
No, this is not a dance, nor a bawdy house of women entertaining men, or the other way around. I’ll get to that in a minute.
Christmas is coming and things are getting wild in many a household where children are getting excited and think they can’t wait for the big day, or days.
Here at our house, the Christmas tree is finally up, the various manger scenes are staged around the house, our biggest manger scene decorates the entire top of our piano. Thanks to our dear neighbor Barbara who made clay figurines and gave them to me one Christmas, which I was drafted (and happy) to paint, however we wanted, by the following Christmas. Those figurines have been going strong 40 some years.
Going back 40 years, my oldest daughter reminded me today of how I used to calm our daughters down when things started getting wild. Not just at Christmas but anytime in the year.
We owned only a few videos that we played and one of their favorites was the old classic “Cinderella.” If you recall, the ugly stepsisters in that story or movie were frequently found clashing with each other, tearing clothing or objects on their jealous days.
Well, recently my oldest daughter was having one of those days with her three sons, ages 11, 9 and 6, heating up for Christmas. They were bickering loudly in the back seats of the minivan. My daughter said she was reminded of how I would sometimes say “girls, girls, GIRLS” in an operatic overly-dramatic voice like the stepmother in Cinderella when I wanted their attention or cooperation.
But my daughter didn’t say that. Instead she started chuckling to herself, which was so weird for the boys to hear her laughing in the middle of their squabbling that they stopped their wrangling and asked what was so funny.
Thus my old reminder for our three daughters, (then ages roughly 6, 9, and 11) came circling or gushing back to her at just the right moment, and she relaxed. And she couldn’t help laughing, because they did settle down and changed course a bit.
Another line I used to use with our daughters also came from the Cinderella video. If our daughters were all lazing around their rooms like say on a Saturday morning when they were supposed to be picking up books and toys and dolls and stuff, I had another Cinderella classic line to dig up. As in, when the wicked stepmother would get that mean look on her face and scold her poor young Cinderella with “Oh, I see we have timmmme…. on our hands,” she’d look Cinderella crossly in the face and dragged out the word “time.” Which of course was a reminder to Cinderella to get busy with her endless chores, and kinda worked for my poor little Cinderellas too. It also kind of worked when they were complaining about being bored…
So if things are getting a little upshtona (a Pennsylvania Dutch word, I think, for a big mess, correct me if I’m wrong, dear sisters), which MY mother used to use if indeed our house was messy with Christmas doings–just take a big breath or so, sit down in your favorite chair, look around the house, and treasure each and every minute you have with those little ones … and the bigger 11 or 16-year-olds too.
It’s almost Christmas.
Mary and Joseph didn’t have a great time either juggling along a dusty road to their destination in Bethlehem to pay taxes (of course our local property taxes come this time of year, too). And Mary, greatly bloated with the precious baby still inside her, had to ride jostling on the donkey.
Enjoy. Savor. Gather your kids or grown-ups around as you can, and cherish the moments.
Merry Christmas.
Travels through Spain – Part 4 – Final
Back to Barcelona and Parts South
I was interested in touring the various parts of Spain that I hadn’t seen when I lived there 1973-74, where I had only visited several key parts. [When my friends and I had opportunity for week long vacations or holidays that year, some of us were more inclined to explore other parts of Europe (France, Scotland, England, Austria, Italy) than visit important parts of Spain.]
I was excited that this trip with my hubby would take us to the massive and beautiful Alhambra complex in the Granada area of southern Spain, the Costa del Sol (Sunny coast), Ma’laga, and more. We went through an area where people walk a “pilgrimage for miles and miles” on the “Camino de Santiago,” and also Pamplona, where they enthusiastically “run the bulls” every year, risking broken bones and even death.
But I was especially eager to get back to Barcelona where I lived for about ten months in a large brick/cement residence (“Residencia” in Spanish), where the caretaker’s family lived in the basement. The mother of the house made our breakfast, and also served dinner in early afternoon before “siesta” time.) A small group of Catholic nuns also lived in the basement, and kept a garden for fresh veggies.
Most of our fellow students were from the U.S., and ended up living with local families in Barcelona, the better to hone their ability to learn and use Spanish in the families they lived with. But our professor/organizer ran out of willing families to host us, and instead he asked for four volunteers to live in the residencia. I felt disappointed about not living with a family, but maybe a little bit noble in accepting “dorm” lodging instead. That turned out to be fun and educational also, especially when several Spanish roommates joined us in our rooms for second semester. (The University was closed for first semester after protesting students and others had forced the shut down because of Generalissimo Franco’s strict leadership running Spain at the time. Our leader lined up local professors to conduct private classes instead of official courses.)
I remembered that the University of Barcelona had grown exponentially of course over 47 years and our tour bus passed by those modern buildings, out near a large hospital complex. Several miles later, I saw what had to be the very building where I had most of my classes in 1973-74. I had come “home”!
I did not get a decent current photo, but here is one from my files from 1973 (notice those older cars!). Very near the university was a metro stop, and we could also easily walk from the university to Plaza Catalonia where people and pigeons met up and old men (especially) played checkers or chess. (Today it is called Plaça de Catalunya in the local language, “Catalunya.”)
I was also not able to take a metro to the residencia where I had lived, and for awhile I had hoped that maybe one of our tours would take us by that building. But it was not to be. I was a little disappointed but not crushed.
The main highlight of this part of the tour was seeing the greatly expanded and nearing completion Sagrada Familia Cathedral (The Sacred Family—meaning Mary and Joseph and their little ones). I had seen some soaring steeples of the place in the 1970s and pondered whether the interior would ever be finished. For awhile their finish date was set as 2026, but I understand it has been moved back some additional years. Interestingly, the construction of the church was carried out illegally for 137 years, until 2019, “when a building permit was finally issued by Barcelona’s city council.” Authorities only discovered the “anomaly” in 2016 that it had never been granted a building permit!
But my biggest thrill of this trip was being able to visit Gibraltar, which is near Seville. I had no idea of the size of the rock or the views we would be able to see of Morocco and Africa from Gibraltar. The weather was perfect that day. We had a great and funny guide who introduced us to the Barbary macaques, which are monkeys, and the history of Gibraltar goes back and forth from Europe (and England) to Spanish control and back to England. I’m thinking that my mother used to say something like “that’s as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar” when she was spouting off about something.
I so wanted to visit the residencia where I lived, and I’m 99% sure it is still there, for over 100 years and launched by one Dr. Andreu. Here’s the bread boy dropping off wonderful Spanish bread or croissants for the day for all the residents.
Studying and keeping warm in our room: no turning on heat until Nov. 1. My roommate was a student at Bridgewater College, Va., and the program we both used for study abroad is called Brethren Colleges Abroad.
Will I go back? I doubt it, there are way too many other places around the U.S., Canada, and the world to spend time or money going again. But I very much appreciated renewing my acquaintance with this fascinating, friendly country and history. Before we went, we were warned by various visitors from the U.S. who said Spanish folks were sometimes mocking tourists who are flocking to Airbnbs in Spain, making rent or housing purchase costs too expensive for local families. And we did not experience any pick pocketers, as we were usually walking fairly close together in groups.
***
I must add that we were also so sorry to hear the news of the terrible flooding in the city of Valencia we visited soon after our two-night stop in Barcelona. If you recall, flooding happened about October 29 (less than 10 days after we’d been in the city of Valencia); 220 or more persons died in the flood waters and aftermath. Our tour director always kept a sharp look out on weather reports for us, and when I got home I emailed him about Valencia and he indicated they left Valencia early on October 29, which was a smart thing for them to do, before it got really bad.
***
I must admit the travel bug came from my parents and we were able to take our children to a number of places in the U.S., and later they were able to travel some on their own too, to various countries, including South Africa and more. My husband has been an enthusiastic traveler for the most part, and we hope to enjoy that in our 70s, for as long as we are able. There is much to see, learn and experience in these explorations of new places, and becoming more aware of history and older times and other fascinating people!
And the nice thing about traveling with a bus driver? You can take a very long nap!
Speaking of Rocks:
Bible readers may reflect on a passage in Matthew 16: 13-20 where Jesus asked his disciples what people were saying about him, and then Jesus asked directly what they thought of him. Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Peter! … I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”
Of course he was not talking about Gibraltar, but I like the “rock” foundation that we can all hang on.
***
Who or what is your rock?
What was your best trip ever? Why?
What was your worst one? Why?
Another “Lost Boy” True Story
Some of you will remember the “lost boy” story I shared this past summer about my 5-year-old grandson getting lost (and found) at a North Carolina beach.
Recently I was a little surprised to see a boy, probably 5-7 years old, shopping (playing?) around all by himself with some bicycles outside one of our local Walmart stores. It was Dec. 1 and it was cold.
I pondered, where was his mother? Or father? Surely they were not far away.
I was hunting for an item my husband wanted/needed and he had asked me to find it since I was in town and he wasn’t. I finally found the item on a shelf—also outside. It seems funny to have items stored outside on a freezing day—and with no clerk or helper around. I was getting ready to go back inside the store to check out when I decided to ask the boy if he was lost.
To somewhat of a surprise, he nodded yes. I said “Oh, you don’t know where your mom or dad are?
He shook his head. He had dark black hair, huge beautiful black eyes, but he looked—well, lost. He looked sad but was not crying.
I said, “Would you like me to help find your mom?” He said yes. He spoke very clear English.
So we went inside, I was carrying the item my husband wanted, and then we got to another toy aisle. He looked happier, being among lots of toys, but when I asked if he thought he could find his mommy, he shook his head no. He looked somewhat puzzled and like he was still open for some help.
So we walked to a bigger wider aisle and at that point I saw a Walmart employee, probably more than someone who just sorts or straightens up clothes. She was six steps or so ahead of me so I called out “There’s a lost boy here.” She stopped, looked at us, and called over another employee and asked the other woman to take charge.
I was relieved. I didn’t really want to be responsible for him, and I needed to hurry home. And it looked like he was in the hands of professionals.
I hope. And pray. And wonder how many other kids get lost in a large department store. I pray none are misused or abused or, God forbid, kidnapped. My children got lost among clothing racks a time or two, but we were mostly nearby.
At any rate, as the season wears on, God help us all to watch out for the children. And call on staff to take over as needed. I thought of the song our family used to sing that we had on a record telling children that if they got lost, “Look for a grandma or mother with children.”
This is not a real boy. AI helped create this picture.
Here is more help: https://www.safewise.com/blog/what-to-do-when-your-child-goes-missing/
Travels Through Spain – Part 3
You want to hear about the fun, the fabulous, the unforgettable.
But the truth is, bad or disappointing things happen on trips too. Right? Break downs, illness, accidents, arguments.
For instance. In Spain many small shops close down for siesta time in the afternoon, and don’t open back up for meals til 7 or 8 in the evening.
So there was one evening when Stuart and I walked and walked and walked to find an open restaurant or coffee place or anywhere—and were getting pretty ticked off at each other and tired that in a large large city, where we knew there were plenty of restaurants etc., they just weren’t near our hotel. Our neck of the woods had apartments and grocery stores where we could have easily found plenty of eats, but we wanted a warm meal (but not a $50-75 extravaganza). We finally found a small place where the owner was preparing some BBQ chicken—yes, just like we make (or pretty close to) our Lions’ Club BBQ chicken. We had to wait a while on that, but it was very tasty and filling. We truly had a hard time finding anyplace to eat our supper that night, without going out to eat from 9 – 11 p.m.
These are things that you don’t usually get photos of, right?
Then there was this. I was most alarmed when our bus driver—who was sweet, an excellent experienced driver, very cautious and safe—suddenly, right outside our bus window, almost got into a fight with a taxi driver. They were both vying for space, both trying to get through a narrow passage. I have a feeling the taxi driver (reminiscent of taxi drivers in New York City) was getting anxious about pleasing his passenger who was probably needing to hurry somewhere—perhaps to the airport? I don’t know. Anyway, it looked dangerous and ugly. Our bus driver was trying to unload luggage for us. Then he gave the taxi guy some space, so it worked out, more or less.
A more serious altercation took place another day on a lovely, fairly large plaza where we had sat down on some park benches to enjoy some ice cream. A Spanish artist (at least he looked like he was likely Spanish) was engaging in some painting on the plaza, the better to illustrate to passersby his excellent work and perhaps propel someone to pause and get a painting made. Then another artist of a different kind—musical—claimed part of the plaza space and began to serenade us with delightful Spanish guitar music. However, it looked like the painting artist was not a bit happy and looked threateningly at the guitarist who appeared to be just wanting a space to practice his art as well—(and collect euros in his guitar case). Then things got lively—the painter taking a whop at the guitarist with a board which actually broke the guitar. The guitarist got out of the way and we kept watching if he was going to call some police, which he did and finally one arrived to handle the dispute. We didn’t hang around much longer, and the artist drove away on his bicycle toting his bag, supplies, and backpack. I was not taking pictures, of course!!
In the city of Pamploma, there was a festival of some kind going on, with religious overtones, and all of a sudden two women approached Stuart and me and put strands of Rosemary (spice) into our hands and then spoke a blessing. Stuart told the woman who approached him he didn’t know Spanish, and while I got the gist of what the woman who approached me said, when she put her hand in mine and asked for money, I said no, sorry! And then she got angry and plucked the Rosemary wisp back into her hand and frowned at me and she and her partner went to their next “blessing.” But that was all of that encounter. Thankfully.
Finally, this last item makes me mad at myself. I took some notes about the places and palaces we were visiting, but it is really hard just a month later to keep track of what you did when, and in what city or countryside. Luckily most photos on my iPhone bear the names of cities or towns we visited, and sometimes reveal what building we were looking at. But I wish I had done a better job of keeping notes. (I’m still an avid writer!) Next time I’ll try to do like one of our friends on the bus did every day—took out her iPad and jotted down what she had seen or done. Great plan.
I’ll wrap up this travelogue next time. Meanwhile, some random-ish favorite photos or sites.
alaga, Spain hearing secrets from yours truly.
Do you take notes or notebooks or keep a diary on your adventures? What works best?
Have you traveled as a group with family members? Does that work out for you?
I’d love to hear your adventures and advice, good or bad!
findingharmonyblog 