Skip to content

ccblogs-badge

Have “a coffee?” Travels through Spain, part 2

Travels through Spain

November 6, 2024

Have “a coffee”? Or bacon that hasn’t been fried?

Our guide for the trip around most of Spain was a man named Samuel. He was probably in his mid-40s and had done this kind of work for at least a decade, I’m guessing—very experienced and well-traveled both in Europe, the U.S., Canada, and likely South America—but I’m not sure he ever leads tours there.

Our tour guide, Samuel, with the bright purple umbrella, to help guide us.

He says his work pattern is to lead a week, ten days, two weeks or more tour, and then takes a 4 or 5 day break in between such tours. He lives somewhere near where his parents do towards southern Spain, but in an apartment. He was pleasant and good looking but not married, although we were sure he was talking to friends on his phone from time to time. He had energy and was well-organized for what his job called for.  

In addition to a salary he gets from the tour company, most travelers, if they’ve had a good experience, pony up and give a pretty generous tip at the end: ours was about 196 euros as a couple, at the advice of our travel agent. Multiplied by 40 travelers or so, that makes a pretty nice bonus (around $4,000 U.S.). But also pretty exhausting for the leader, who had to coordinate our arrivals to locations so they were pretty much on time and to meet up with additional local tour guides who went into more depth than one single overall tour guide could ever manage. Hard but interesting and fun work. He also had to coach us to get our suitcases outside of our rooms by 6:45 a.m. or 7 a.m., before eating our breakfast, and getting on the road again. (Hotel staff picked the suitcases up and took them to the bus. IF we wanted to brush teeth AFTER breakfast, we had to carry our toothbrushes and paste in our backpacks.)

Here are “Whispers” (blue) attached to our ears to facilitate hearing our guide without having to hear five other guides in various places.

When Samuel would tell us we were having a bathroom break where everyone needed to get off the bus, and we could take time to go into a large cafeteria and sit down and “have a coffee”—at first that was a little strange to my ears. Yes, I’ll have coffee, thank you,—but A coffee? It sounds pretty British but I do remember my friends in Spain talking that way.  Of course in Spanish the correct word for coffee is technically café. Such as what we in the U.S. call places where we drink coffee.

And that reminds me. I learned to not look at a Spanish breakfast buffet and think ewwww, that bacon has not even been cooked! Well, the custom is not to “cook” bacon as such. But it is seasoned well over time, and you get used to eating a “bocadillo” (sandwich) made from delicious freshly made bread, with one tasty but thin piece of jamón.  

(This was when we had to wait on our chicken to be cooked, and then had to rush to the bus so we wouldn’t miss it. The bread was wonderful while we waited.)

More about Spanish bacon: There is “jamón iberico” and “jamón serrano”cut thinly and usually eaten at room temperature, not fried. It is salt-cured. The taste is delicate and salty, with varying soft textures. Jamón slices are enjoyed on their own as a snack or “tapa,” or eaten with bread or cheese. My husband loves salt-cured ham which we know here in Virginia as “country ham,” which we soak in water before dipping it in flour and then frying it in a frying pan for just a couple of minutes. I eat such too, but it is not my favorite way to fix ham. (And you pronounce jamón as ha-món. The serrano ham is a little like prosciutto, but not the same either. It has to do with what the pigs have been fed. For more info try here.)

Next time, I’ll get back to more of the sightseeing we enjoyed throughout a country that is a bit smaller than the state of Texas.

Chicken houses in brown parts of rural Spain.
Beautiful mountains and countryside in northern Spain.
From chicken houses and raw bacon to the renowned Prado Museum--we enjoyed our adventures in Spain.
An excellent guitarist entertains numerous people waiting for entrance to the Prado Museum in Madrid. And a masked visitor contributes euros to thank him.

***

What have been your surprises or learnings when you’ve traveled to a new place or new people?

Globus Tours can be found at www.globusjourneys.com

Travels through Ancient and Modern Spain

October 24, 2024

Travels through Ancient and Modern Spain – Part 1

We just got home from traveling two weeks abroad in Spain. Boy am I out of practice of the simple acts of cooking. I’ve forgotten how I make homemade macaroni and cheese from scratch, but finally figured it out, etc. Two weeks off kitchen duty—after having yummy delicious breakfasts made for us each morning at gorgeous hotels, well, I’m spoiled. And of course it takes our bodies several days to overcome the six hour time change. But it’s worth it. We waited some 48 years for this trip.

***

Long long ago as I was wrapping up my sophomore year of college, I saw a notice on an Eastern Mennonite College bulletin board that piqued my interest. It offered information on spending a year studying abroad in Europe such as Germany, Spain, and France through Brethren Colleges Abroad.

The cost was little more than a typical year of college at that time ($2500), and my parents had already been around the world themselves on a six-week spin. I knew Daddy would be very supportive. I was excited. After all, I had spent a year in voluntary service in Eastern Kentucky and it had been an interesting (and wonderful) growing experience.

So in 1973, in spite of not knowing a single other person in the group (even though some were students at Bridgewater College about 10 miles south of my own college), I flew on my own from Indiana to New York City to meet up with the other students planning to study in Spain. We spent an evening getting to know what to expect, and flew to Madrid the next day.

Packed and ready to go to Spain in 1973 (photo from our home near Blountstown, Fla., where Mom and Dad lived 8 years). I think I took that pillow with me to Spain!?

My goal at the time: learn Spanish better, meet new people, have adventures, maybe figure out what occupation was calling me. 

In mid-October of this year, my husband and I boarded a United flight and again, not knowing a soul in the group we would be traveling with, got a two-week replay of life in Spain.

United flight.

It was Spain on steroids—a huge airport at Madrid, and before we landed, miles of watching Spaniards driving to their jobs in the early morning darkness from way out in the countryside. It was almost like watching the commuter traffic flow into the Washington D.C. area where two of our daughters and four of our grandchildren live. (While Saudi Arabia airports win the “largest airports in the world” prize, Madrid’s airport had mushroomed in the 48 years since I’d landed there as a very green novice in Europe. Dubbed “Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport,” the 7,500 acres makes it the second-largest airport in Europe by physical size, right behind Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport.) It also has the privilege of being located pretty much in the center of Spain which makes it great for flying to other locations. To compare, Texas has 678,052 square miles (biggest state after Alaska) and Spain has 505,370 square miles.

Gothic Cathedral in Barcelona

***

Most of my readers here are people of faith, mostly Christian.

How amazing it was to go back centuries, to just a couple hundred years after the time that Jesus walked on earth, and to see with our own eyes aqueducts, palaces, basilicas, cathedrals, chapels and majestic gardens (The Alhambra) that were begun way back when. I was impressed with the fact that Muslims and Christians could share the same cathedral space, taking turns. Jewish quarters going back centuries were acceptable neighborhoods close to cathedrals.

City of Toledo, about 45 minutes from Madrid.
Aqueduct in Toledo.

In the city of Valencia, in one of the cathedrals we toured, I picked up a small newsletter in Spanish and (partly in French) that described the activities of that group. For instance, it gave news of an international youth gathering in Seoul, Korea, coming up in 2027 for interested teens and sponsors or escorts. It showed the logo for the event—just like an event for Presbyterians or Mennonites or whatever. I was surprised and impressed. The news sheet described long ago Saints, such as one called St. Virginia Centurione, who lived from 1587-1651. That was when some of the Catholic church was undergoing reform, etc. The saint’s story included a scripture passage from 1 John 3:18, “My little children, let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth.”

Wow: something that we all need to take to heart in this time of anguish and troubles.

One of many gardens at the Alhambra near Granada, Spain.

(For more on the differences between basilicas, cathedrals and the like, check this out. For more on other reformers of the time check out a little of my religious upbringing.)

***

Spanish village in green area. Many more areas were brown and dry.

The trip my husband and I were fortunate to take covered numerous cities and many miles of Spanish countryside, some pleasantly green but much of it drab and dusty brown. There were many miles to walk in some cities and towns, such as Toledo and Segovia, two of my favorite villages where ancient aqueducts still hold a trickle of water! More coming in the next few weeks on my blog.

Stuart took my photo on the glass roof of our hotel “Riu Plaza Espana” in Madrid. A few wrinkles have been made since 1973.

The trip was planned through Charlie Turner’s Turner Travel Agency here in Harrisonburg, Va., with arrangements made through Globus Vacations.

Do You Know What a “Townie” Is?

Do You Know What a Townie Is?

October 1, 2024

Townie.

I hadn’t heard that word in quite a while. But I remember well when I overheard the conversation one of my acquaintances—not a close friend—said something that kind of hurt. She was a good student at the same college I went to and at some point she said this to one of my friends, something like “Why does she [Melodie] go out with a townie?” Or, she may have used the term, “local yokel.”

That hurt a little, but why did it matter?

Townies, or local yokels, in this part of the good old U.S.A., were kids who didn’t go to college but after high school worked locally somewhere, sometimes in a factory or mechanic shop or McDonald’s, and hung around downtown (or elsewhere) after work, enjoying the presence of many good looking girls. And guys, I suppose.

Maybe I shouldn’t write about this now, it truly has not impacted my life in any way and my townie/local yokel is now my husband. He’s a country man who presides over our eight acre “farmette” where a local man harvests our hay on seven of the acres for his cows and pays us a little for the privilege. My husband enjoys nothing more than cutting wood for our basement woodstove (which heats us all winter) and we don’t pay a cent for any of it anymore. (So many trees have fallen everywhere, and they need chopping up.)

Urban dictionary says the townie word has negative connotations. Townie guy: “Things haven’t been the same around here since they built that hotel where the old hardware store used to be …” a townie guy might say, wishing for good old days.  

My townie guy and I have raised three delightful and almost brilliant daughters who have given us six delightful and almost brilliant grandchildren, Townie or not. Their parents are teaching them to be good if not great kids, and of course along the way, we and they all have bumps along the road.

But trade in my townie guy, nah.

He’s a good man, saved his/our money and while not perfect (and I’m not either) we’re still together after meeting almost 50 years ago.

My townie guy at that time had a second job that he loved because he worked for a skating rink on some evenings as a “floor guard,” keeping kids safe. He also enjoyed the presence of many good looking girls at the rink at times. He even thought I was good looking and his first line to me was “If you bend your knees a little more, you’ll skate better.”

What a pick up line, telling me what to do.

He still tells me what to do. And I tell him sometimes.

Our brilliant daughters seem to love us.

Our well-loved grandchildren know and love us too.

That’s what my townie guy got me—five grandsons and now one granddaughter!

And I love him and all of them.

Usually. Yes we get mad, we shout, we cry, we make up.

We plan to go the distance. Hard times will come, we’ve had a few of those already.

And the words of that acquaintance long ago? It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s fine, she’s got a good husband.

My townie man in overalls at my Mom and Dad’s house in Indiana, after helping make hay one summer.

My Dad was a farmer, and Mother loved him. They raised us well, even with the ups and downs.

I’m one lucky woman and I know my townie man thinks he’s one lucky man.

Do you have or know a townie guy or gal?

Or a local yokel?

Or? I’d love to hear from you!

What are You Especially Thankful for Today?

What are You Especially Thankful for Today?

September 23, 2024

The other day I awakened and pondered how thankful we can be for toilet paper. That may be a weird thought to wake up with, but really, what a luxury toilet paper is, for some people.

I know, that’s not a polite topic, but we all deal with it, and can be very happy we live (many of us) where toilet paper is not an issue. Remember the Covid-sparked rushes in 2020 which cleaned out (no pun intended) the toilet paper supplies in many big box or grocery stores? Gradually those necessities returned to the shelves and we didn’t have to hoard them.

In the old old days, (I’m dating myself), I do remember visiting friends who only had an outdoor johnny house. I remember using newspaper or pages from old catalogs in order to clean up. I was pretty young. This also may have happened when camping.

If some of these things make you say or think ewww, that’s the way it was for some homes even in the good old USA.

From the rest of the world, these are shocking numbers:

  • In 2022, over 1.5 billion people still do not have basic sanitation services, such as private toilets or latrines, according to the World Health Organization (www.who.int).
  • Of these, 419 million have to defecate in the open: in street gutters, behind bushes or into open bodies of water. http://www.who.int.

How very very sad.

This stat is interesting though: 57% of the global population (4.6 billion people) use a safely managed sanitation service. Fortunate indeed. Remind you and your family to be grateful.

As fall arrives, we have so much to be thankful for. And we can turn “the good luck of where we were born” into opportunities to help others who aren’t as fortunate. Many many “Relief sales” (as some are called, particularly among Mennonite groups) are held to raise money and goods for people all over the world. Through many organizations, people are blessed with the gift of toilet paper, bottled water, bags of rice or flour, canned meat, clothing donated and shipped around the world by freight.

But that’s not everywhere, lest we forget.

Food banks abound here in many parts of North America. Good citizens join hands to see that families where parents can barely manage to pay their rent, receive a free weekly food bag from a school-centered food bank. Lion and Rotary type clubs and others raise money to help feed hungry people. Organizations like Habitat for Humanity, Heifer International, Women for Women International, UNICEF, Dave Thomas Foundation, hundreds and oodles of other organizations I cannot name here, do their best to help others. For instance, I love that many grocery stores solicit us to donate $2.50 on our grocery bill to help families receive free tasty apples in this fall season.

I know that many readers do this and more, to help others. May God bless you every one!

A beautiful closet of cloth used to make countless quilts and blankets for those who need warm covers, made by many women and men for Mennonite Relief Sales. https://vareliefsale.com/
Where families used to get their clean water supply.

***

What are you especially thankful for today?

What charities do you choose? (We get many many solicitations but focus on just several to be able to offer more.)

Did you know those statistics about the millions and even 1.5 billion lacking basic sanitation?

How many toilets did your house have growing up?

Bringing Back Beverly

Bringing Back Beverly 

September 10, 2024

A solid, long-term member of our church died recently. I knew she was ready to go, was in hospice care, and was surrounded by the love and dedication of her family. I saw her as a pillar of our church, who frequently spoke up with prayers, pertinent questions at church business meetings, and sweet smiles for all. For most of us at our church, Beverly was someone who made a point of warmly greeting newcomers and welcoming them to our smallish congregation.

I had volunteered to help with ushering for her memorial service. It was Saturday afternoon and we arrived early: my husband to help park cars, and me serving as an usher.

But I did not expect to cry as soon as I walked in the door of the church.

There, lined up on a table were dozens of small glass jars of party-mix, topped by a lovely golden lid.

And just like that, Beverly was there with us in our midst, and, if memories hold, she will be there/here for years to come.  

Others in attendance that day were also gob-smacked with welling tears and the instant memory those jars brought back of Beverly.

You see, every December, several weeks before Christmas, there were sweet little jars filled with yummy party mix in our church mailboxes. She didn’t need to tell us they were from her. It was a tradition as sure as singing carols or opening presents.

Our family usually munched on that special treat on our way home from church, and saved the rest to enjoy closer to Christmas. It was not Christmas without those jars. And dutifully, we all (mostly) returned the empty jars to Beverly, so she would have them to use the following year.

We will miss her, but not because of the party mix.

Beverly was quite a bit more than that. She took care of her mother in her mother’s last years. She graduated from Madison College, with a degree in biology, and earned a Master’s and PhD from two additional universities. She was a professor of biology until 1997 when she retired, and enjoyed exploring the world with friends. She also took care of her grandsons five days a week for their first five years, till they went off to school. You can read more here.

About a year ago, Beverly approached me with a suggestion along the lines of “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had more than members’ names and birth/death dates on the wooden plaques which line the walls of our hall at church?” I think she was approaching me as a writer (she read my blog regularly, until managing a computer got too difficult). At a church retreat, we began brainstorming some of the epitaphs which might tell generations to come who someone was and what they did with their lives or what they were known for. We have a long way to go in creating such a book or manual where pages can be added, but I like the idea and will continue to plug away.

Beverly’s son-in-law gave a beautiful and comprehensive description of much that Beverly was to our congregation and her family. Mike ended his tribute talking about her passion for life and generosity. “Since we will all die someday,” he encouraged us to live life now to the fullest. Then he closed with a good reminder, “Let’s live it up.”   

A “cookie cutter” gift from Beverly years ago for my daughters.

What special memories do you have of persons in your family, church, or community? Post them here!

How can we remember our loved ones?

The Biggest Scare

August 27, 2024

The Biggest Scare

This summer we had the biggest scare we ever want to have at the beach. This being Labor Day weekend with plenty of beach activity occurring on both sides of our country, I want to share what was a recent nightmare for our family. One of our young grandsons slipped away and disappeared.

Sunset Beach, NC

We share this difficult story to maybe help someone else avoid the drama we lived through for something like 40-45 minutes.  

Our hearts seemed to stop beating as we hurriedly looked for him, each of about 10 adults in our party spreading out in various directions, plus some of the older grandsons.

One of the child’s brothers was crying his eyes out and needless to say, the child’s mother could barely talk she was so panic stricken. I could hardly breathe.

There were/are no lifeguards at this beach, although there were beach police keeping watch up and down the beach in Jeeps. I finally spotted one of the Jeeps coming our way, quite a way down the beach. Finally, I waved to her and was able to pull her attention to us as she came to stop for us. I quickly spelled out our dilemma, close to tears.

She began by asking the basic questions: What’s the child’s name, what color swimsuit was he wearing, how old is he? My other grandson knew the exact colors and shared them with the woman in the Jeep. She called one of the other beach patrols who apparently also had found a child who was lost, who matched our swimsuit color description and couldn’t find his family. This at first made us breathe a bit easier, surely they had found our grandson. Hope, hope, hope.

But several minutes later, as the Jeep driver tried to get help, she learned that the other child was twelve years old, much older than our five-year-old, which tore my daughter—the mother—even more. We began to fear the worst. Had he somehow slipped by his father who had been keeping very close watch, and slipped out to sea? The five-year-old was only a beginning swimmer and we knew he could easily panic under such a situation.

We had all tried to do our best to keep our eyes on all the kiddos, but so many waves tend to move unsuspecting children down the beach, and too quickly out of eyesight. There wasn’t really a riptide going, yet it was very hard to see sometimes with the sun beating down.

Another mother who went through a similar situation says they’ve been helped by always appointing one adult at a time to focus on a child as in: “You’ve got Frank now.” (Not his real name.)

Also we noticed a great idea another family utilized: a flag pole with a college-related flag flying on it, and having a dedicated space where a child should head if they become lost. And the child needs to remember that rule!

Walking our dog on the boardwalk.

Finally, our young man’s other grandmother called my phone, saying she’d found him at their rented beach house! Apparently, when he got turned around and couldn’t find our cabana, he’d taken it upon himself to trot away from the beach sand, up over the boardwalk, and over the main street to get back to his beach house. He, five years old, crossed the street all by himself, searching for “the pink beach house.” He later told us he’d spotted one pink house that was the wrong shade, and kept going until he found the right pink house. Shortly after, this grandmother and another kind woman helping with the search found him on the family’s screened porch, safe and sound.

Years ago, my husband and I had spent a couple days at a different beach with my sister’s children when they were small. And one of them, the younger, disappeared for way too long. But at last he was found. My sister was just as emotional, just as relieved.

May you and yours find ways to keep track of the littles on the awesome beaches around our country, and may you have as happy of ending as we did. Both times.

Artwork by Aunt Florence Yoder, who painted many beach and travel scenes.

Tell your story here, or of someone you know?

What do you enjoy about the beach? Or not?

A Flower (and much more) from Willie

July 11, 2024

A Flower (and much more) from Willie

My next door neighbor died recently and we have been mourning our community loss. A little over a week ago her family and friends buried her and we were glad, but sad, to be there with them.

We lived just across the road from Willie, which was her real and true name. I say community because over decades, she probably took care of (babysat) dozens of children who knew her well. Some were her grandchildren and great grands but many were just local school children who either needed care before and after school. Or they were preschoolers, and got to drink from her fountain of love and joy.

Willie, with long braid, enjoying our first grandson near their garden.

I loved her smile which took up her whole face. When we moved to our current home, about 15 years ago, she had undergone a stroke, I think it was, but made a great recovery. I also have many memories of watching her work in her garden, back bending work even in her upper 80s, pulling weeds, planting beans, corn and what have you. She and her husband would also sit on the porch come fall and hull black walnuts, from their tree and others. Come spring, Willie would ask me if I wanted some of their asparagus shoots, or as fall neared, she would ask if I wanted some dill for pickles. She enjoyed reading the paper, and took scores of photos—I’m guessing hundreds and even thousands, back in the day before anyone had cell phones.

Top photo: night out at BBQ Ranch restaurant; bottom, neighbors and friends visiting for supper soon after we moved, before we had a long table and hutch.

We would invite them over or out for supper; my husband loved talking and laughing with her husband, whose booming laughter rang out across our yard to our own front porch. Harold took good care of Willie, even learning to cook for both of them when she was no longer able to cook the way she used to.

At one point in our years across the road, she gave me some flower starts that I dutifully planted and soon they took over my entire flower bed in front of the house. I had no idea how they would multiply, but they were delightful. In recent years I gradually tried to keep them from overtaking the flower bed. Then here in July a week after her memorial service, this reminder of dear Willie popped up. And more!

At times we went for drives with Willie and Harold in our minivan, for as long as she could manage to get up in it, and my husband would be asking Harold about who used to live where, or what did this or that neighbor do, and just trying to get to know community members.

My mother and Willie enjoyed laughing together when Mom visited us from Indiana. Mom became a widow in 2006, just a year before we moved into our house across the road from Willie. My mother was known for being funny, or fun loving, maybe I should say, just laughing up a storm, and Willie loved it as much as Mom did.

I hope Mom and Willie have found each other in the promised land, wherever that is and whatever form their spirits continue. I know one thing, I miss them both. My husband misses Harold’s laughter, may it ring out forever.

I do have one regret that I never realized was a hurt until years into our living across the road. Willie loved to sit on her porch and look at the mountains to the east, a view which was impeded by our house. If we had known, we could have easily situated our house slightly to the north, and she would have still had her view. But she was good natured about it, and I know that now she has the grandest of views and is singing the best music ever, and taking photographs without ever running out of film.

Here you are, Willie, only it’s me taking the pictures and still loving you, plus many memories.

Willie keeping warm for her husband’s April birthday party.

Let’s Not Fall

Let’s Not Fall

June 25, 2024

My sweet little 16-month-old granddaughter—who’s only been walking about four months, perhaps saved me from actually falling today.

I’m a 72-year-old woman. I fear stumbling. I try to walk very carefully.

She’s an adventurous little girl who took my hand as we walked around the outside of a huge and popular steak house on a very busy Father’s Day lunch. Her parents were finishing their meal, after having worked diligently to help feed Ayla so she would get some good nutrients, and not just eagerly swallow the wonderful warm rolls they serve there.

Ayla’s grandfather reminded his own daughter how she used to fill up on rolls at restaurants (and elsewhere) before learning how tasty the world of food was—beyond bread.

So Ayla was done eating, and restless of course. Grandma, me, planned to take home the second half of my meal, saving it for another day, so the parents happily affirmed Grandma’s offer to take Ayla for a walk while they finished up.

I was wearing a newish pair of sandals that I only wear in summer. I saw an awkward piece of sidewalk that raised up a bit and started to fall but I think the fact that I had hold of Ayla’s hand—and didn’t want her to fall on the cement, her hand in mine helped us both to not fall. Is that possible?

At any rate, we both loved the little walk together, something she has taken up, walking for part of the way home from her daycare. They walk just a block or so, (and rides in a stroller for much of the way) but she walks like she owns the sidewalk. Walking like mommy, daddy, grandma and grandpa.

As we walked past some loud speakers playing some tunes, I could tell Ayla wanted to wiggle a little, doing her little dance moves that she enjoys with her mother and father. So we danced on the sidewalk for maybe 7-8 seconds, then continued on.

***

We had gone to church that morning on the Sunday before Juneteenth, a ceremonial holiday in some 47 states, which commemorates the day on June 19, 1865 when a Union general read orders in Galveston, Texas stating all enslaved people in the state were free according to federal law. Juneteenth was designated a federal holiday in 2021. As we sung the traditional and oh-so-moving anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” my heart went back and forth between sorrow for the wrongs and torment experienced by people in the times of slavery, and joy and hope that this granddaughter would grow up in better times.

My father diligently taught us children the error of our country’s ways during its early days, when slavery, for many, was an accepted part of life. He took us to visit a church in a larger city nearby where we first heard the energetic music common in many predominately Black churches, which always included spirited dancing too. When we moved from northern Indiana to northern Florida in 1969, I was a senior in high school. There my brother and I experienced the first year of full integration of blacks and whites in the schools in Florida. Some of it was exciting to experience as we all went through this huge change in the culture of that area, but some teachers were known to use derogatory racial language if they knew that no blacks were in the room. If teachers used that language, it was no surprise that some students, not all, used that insulting slang. How shameful.  

***

Let’s not fall into old, reprehensible ways. May we all do better, know better, love greater, affirm all persons, and pray for more care and understanding all around the world.

Your thoughts? Experiences? Stories to share? Pictures you’ve drawn?? Comment here ….

My Dad was “Talking” to Me Recently

Meeting a Mentor of Dad’s

I was intrigued to visit friends at East Chestnut Street Mennonite Church (Lancaster, Pa.) on May 12, 2024. The speaker for the morning was a man named Don Sensenig, who I know my Dad and Mom met in Vietnam in 1967, amidst the heat of that terrible war.

Don was just a young man at the time, probably in his mid to late 20s, responding to what he felt was a call to serve through Eastern Mennonite Missions in Vietnam from 1963 to 1973. Dad and Mom were “young” too, considering. Dad was just 50 and Mom was a youthful 43. My oldest daughter’s age now!

Mom and Dad took an opportunity to travel around the world, first landing in Amsterdam, for a church gathering that happens once-every-five-years in the Mennonite churches of the world. From Amsterdam they traveled to Paris where a couple who had visited us in the U.S. hosted them, and took them to see the sights in that part of France. From there Mom and Dad went to the Holy Lands and other countries (India, Thailand) where they wanted to meet various missionaries they had supported. They also visited Saigon, Vietnam where bombs and shots were firing through the nights.

This is where Mom and Dad met Don Sensenig, who was moved to live in Vietnam during those difficult years as a way of showing the Vietnamese people that not all Americans were there killing people. (My brother-in-law, in fact, was a U.S. medic who was touched and weighed down with the plight of the children in Vietnam who were sometimes used as bombs themselves.)

Dad brought home his experiences the best he could, speaking in churches, to organizations, to farmers at local meetings, to friends, to his family. He was not a preacher but a committed deacon in the church who cared deeply about poverty around the world. My Dad was so impressed at that time to learn that some volunteers were doing their best to help others in a very difficult situation and horrible war. He loved sharing those stories with us as children and older grandchildren.

***

But back to this mentor. I was fascinated to hear that after Don Sensenig’s father died an early death, his mother Elta, married Orie Miller an extraordinary man. One of Orie’s uncles was Moses P. Miller, my grandfather’s father. For awhile Orie and Elta lived near where my Dad and Mom lived, south of Middlebury, Indiana (if you are trying to follow).

Orie was the spark for beginning many church organizations after World War 1 and 2. He constantly saw opportunities to help, such as MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) that organizes various kinds of relief, education (colleges such as Goshen and Eastern Mennonite), mission work, peacemaking, postwar reconstruction, mental health issues—the beginnings of many long-term Mennonite organizations. And surely part of the inspiration for the current Don Sensenig, now in his 80s, was to be very active and helpful in worldwide service as well. Today elderly Vietnamese refugees who came to the U.S. after the war was over sometimes need a translator for their medical care—someone who knows the very tricky/difficult Vietnamese language and English. Doctors and others know to call for Don’s language services.

Don told us about a very difficult night in Saigon when 50 or more people sought shelter from the Tet Offensive of 1968 … (a coordinated series of North Vietnamese attacks on more than 100 cities and outposts in South Vietnam. See History.com). Don and his wife Doris lived in a plain cement block house of two stories, and he still remembers that about 50 people headed into that house for overnight protection from the bombs and destruction. I doubt that anyone slept that night.

Don Sensenig, at home. Photo by Brenda Burkholder / Mennonite Central Committee)

Sensenig has been a volunteer facilitator with the Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Center for Community Peacemaking. A reporter, Paul Souder, noted that since 2003, “Sensenig helped in 64 incidents to see that a victim and offender make things right between them. To make things right and bridge the divide between people is a theme that runs through Sensenig’s years of service. Don said it was challenging, to say the least, to “live in the middle of a conflict involving massive violence by our own country, while trying to grow into and live out a gospel of peace and nonviolence.” There he and his young family, along with Mennonite co-workers, were involved in church-building and relief service, marked by “deep fellowship, debate, prayer, sadness, and learning together. We are much enriched by our Vietnamese sisters and brothers who joined us on the journey.” For more, see Eastern Mennonite University news.

Don’s wife, Doris, who was also present at the church service on May 12, (Mother’s Day), shared in the above interview that “even more telling than these public roles are his behind-the-scenes activities – volunteering in preschool Sunday School classes; washing windows for church spring cleaning; taking service workers to and from the airport; helping mentally challenged people with paperwork, appointments, or other needs; washing the dishes each evening. These ‘smaller’ unpaid actions indicate a servant’s heart to me,” Doris said.

I happily shook Don’s hand as we left the service, and told him, just briefly, how much his testimony and witness meant for Dad in Vietnam in 1967.  

***

I loved hearing this history from Don, Doris, and remembering the teachings Dad tried to etch into all of us. We thank Dad for being the amazing Dad he was in spite of only an 8th grade education and working as a farmer most of his life. He served in World War 2 as a conscientious objector and worked in a mental hospital and road work in Glacier National Park in addition to other locations.

Daddy as “deacon” in his plain coat. On left, yours truly, oldest sister Nancy, Mom, little brother Terry and Linda.

Vernon U. Miller, “Dad” died of natural causes in 2006 at the age of 89, but he became alive to me again on that Sunday and in the weeks since, remembering his passion and dedication to help needy people around the world, however he could—and however we today—are able.

A wonderful Father’s Day coming up for you somewhere in the heavens, Dad. Love, Melodie

For more on Dad’s story (and Mom’s) you can find or buy our family memoir here.

For more on the extraordinary life of Orie O. Miller, you can find a very complete history here.

What messages, experiences, or stories have stuck with you?

I’d love to hear comments!

Visiting the 9-11 Crash of Flight 93

May 18, 2024

Visiting the 9-11 Crash of Flight 93

I have a friend who I had never met. She is a homemaker who with her husband ran a busy farm in western Pennsylvania, which is now farmed by some of their children.

Carol had been a reader of my newspaper column in The Daily American, a newspaper covering the area where she lives near Somerset, Pa. The column ran for 37 years there (I retired from doing my Another Way column in Dec. 2023). She had written letters to me occasionally which I was always glad to get, but she never sent email responses, because she didn’t use a computer. A few years older than me, we now can text each other on our phones.

She and her husband invited us to visit them and spend the night. This was pretty brave, all things considered, especially since I had to ask if they would tolerate our dog being along. They have a dog too, and the two animals barked at each other, but otherwise got along fine. And our husbands enjoyed meeting and yakking together!

The main reason Carol invited us to their farm home (which was quite popular as an old-fashioned “Bed and Breakfast” for a number of years) was to encourage us to visit Shanksville, a village near their home. Shanksville was the place where Flight 93 went down in the most tragic of ways on September 11, 2001.

If you are old enough to remember that fateful day, plane hijackers had earlier that same day flown jets into the massive World Trade Center’s Twin Towers in New York City, and also torched a major section of the U.S. Pentagon headquartered in Washington D.C., instantly killing thousands, and injuring more. The hijackers present on Flight 93 had intended to hit the U.S. Capitol (many people assume) but the bravery and sacrifice of some 33 people on Flight 93 turned that mission around and took over the airplane from the hijackers. The hijackers had conspired with other al-Qaeda terrorists (a militant organization) in a major planned attack on the U.S.  

The memorial there is heart wrenching, especially listening in on the conversations these passengers had with their families and loved ones. The intentions of the hijackers alerted the passengers of the need to call home. The jet had telephones on each row of seats, so even those without cell phones were able to try and reach out to their families, friends, and authorities. You might be surprised there were only 33 passengers on that huge jet, but in those days jets often flew with empty seats. At the point the passengers called home, no one knew their eventual outcome. But as we listened to the voices of those passengers, and saw tears of some of us at the memorial, many visitors were moved to tears of their own. I finally understood why my friend had been so desirous of us visiting this horrifying history.

Passenger Todd M. Beamer was one of the renowned heroes who took over the plane from the terrorists in order to squelch their mission of reaching Washington D.C. He and everyone else perished as it hit the ground upside down and exploded. A local resident photographed the crash exploding when it went down. Today the “debris field” is where the remains of passengers and crew still lie buried in bits and pieces somewhere in that crash site. The field was investigated for remains for years by the FBI, and the cockpit voice recorder became critical evidence.

Those of us in our 40s and up certainly remember that day. My children remember getting out of school or college classes early as terrified parents picked up school kids early, not knowing how long the attacks would go on, or where.  

This sobering memorial is definitely worth visiting and many high school students in buses were attending the day we were there, in chilly rain. A tower with harsh metal clanging and musical sounds, which is erected in the flight field, represents the desperate and conflicting voices as passengers argued over their options. This National Memorial is free to visit. I would not recommend children under 10 visiting but teenagers and up should be exposed to this difficult time in our nation’s history.

Regardless of what party or political stance you take, the courage of those 33 passengers and crew, will move and speak to most individuals. My eyes are still watering as I write this.

I am grateful to my friend for reaching out encouraging us to come experience this heart moving memorial. Carol wanted to share this history and I do too. God save us all from such horror, but we know so many terrible things are going on right now around the world. May we reach out in love, caring, and resolve whenever and wherever we can.  

Have you visited the Flight 93 Memorial? Comments?

What are your memories and experience surrounding Sept. 11, 2001

I ordered this hardback book available for under $10 and am anxious to read it. Came in my mail today.

Heart of Loia `'.,°~

so looking to the sky i will sing and from my heart to YOU i bring...

Kana's Chronicles

Life in Kana-text (er... CONtext)

My Awesome Blog

“Log your journey to success.” “Where goals turn into progress.”

Carla's Book Crush

Faith, life, and Christian books worth reading.

Storyshucker

A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.

Jennifer Murch

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home. -Twyla Tharp

Trisha Faye

Cherishing the Past while Celebrating the Present

Traipse

To walk or tramp about; to gad, wander. < Old French - trapasser (to trespass).

Hickory Hill Farm

Blueberries, grapes, vegetables, and more

The Centrality and Supremacy of Jesus Christ

The Website & Blog of David D. Flowers

Cynthia's Communique

Navigating careers, the media and life

the practical mystic

spiritual adventures in the real world

Osheta Moore

Shalom in the City

Shirley Hershey Showalter

writing and reading memoir

Mennonite Girls Can Cook

Harmony, grace and wisdom for family living.