"I'm not a racist, but....."

I was recently at our local village farmer's market at Vista Ridge, overlooking the Bay of Fundy.  It's set up weekly in a large barn, where local entrepreneurs can sell the food and goods that they've grown, cooked, or created. Bread bakers, goodie makers, cheesemongers, knitters, hobby farmers, a butcher, and other vendors all gather to offer their wares to tourists and residents.  It's a gathering place for socializing and shopping, where the Vista Ridge family operators always serve your breakfast and coffee with a story, an anecdote, or a simple friendly welcome.   

I'm getting better acquainted with Angela, one of the vendors who lives in the village, since we've sat together on a few committees over the years, attended each other’s potluck suppers, and shared a few bonfires at beach parties.  She's a young mother of two boys and reminds me a little of my far-away friend, Jen (yes, I have more than one friend-- see pregnant woman with lemon in The Cheese Stands Alone, and In Over My Head.)  Like Jen, Angela is quiet, unassuming, observant, and when she does speak or contribute to conversation it appears that she has carefully chosen her words.  When she's funny, and she often is, she's smart funny.

At last Sunday's farmer's market Angela was set up with the early season offerings from her small farm.  After our breakfast, I stopped for a few moments to chat and catch up from the previous week's market, when I'd purchased some of her home-grown sprouts.  This week she offered eggs from her variety of chickens and ducks.

There were several dozen remaining in damp cardboard egg cartons.  She lifted the lids to reveal an assortment of shades of brown eggs, fat eggs, large eggs, white, blue-tinted, green-hued, beige.  All clean and pretty.

And then she quietly said, "Maybe if everyone regularly saw their eggs come in a variety like these, people could all just get along.  It's just colour, the eggs are all the same."

We bought a dozen.

And it made me think over this past week about her comment, and racism, and naturally, my history with “the N word.”

I was about five or six, and we were on vacation in our Volkswagen van. We ate our familiar and favourite go-to camping lunch of fresh tomato with mayonnaise and salt on store-bought white bread.  My brother and sister were sitting on the bench seat and my folks were in the driver and passenger seats, and as usual, I sat on the Taffle™; our picnic tote in the middle. We still have this, 45 years later.


My folks and older siblings were talking and I'd missed most of the conversation, which probably went over my head, but at some point I heard my Dad remarking about the different ways to describe a black person.  As they all discussed this, my mother, sister, and brother all came up with different terms.  There I sat, and heard a variety of words -- Negro, African American, Coloured, Afro-American – and some others less acceptable. Eager to be considered a part of the adult conversation, I offered my contribution:

"Nigger!"

Everyone gasped.

My sister shrieked, "JANE!" My mother, said, "OH NO! You must never use that word! Where did you hear that?" Dad choked down the bite of sandwich he had just taken and shook his head.  My brother laughed in disbelief.

I was immediately and thoroughly crushed.  I don't know where I heard it -- it certainly wasn't ever spoken in our family, and after all, I was only about five years old.  I just wanted to be taken seriously in what I thought was an important conversation among the grown-ups. It did not go as I expected.



I was about the same age when a black family living in a white neighbourhood was burned out of their house. I remember my mother's troubled and anxious remarks about it.  I didn't think she actually knew the family, but she was very distressed about this racially motivated attack.  I remember her smoking, and jabbing out her cigarette as she talked angrily about it.  I think it was about that time (the mid-sixties, when we lived in a Chicago suburb) that she became involved in the equal rights movement in some capacity. 

For years, I somehow equated this local family's incident with the Medgar Evars assassination, which had actually taken place several years earlier in Mississippi.  It wasn't until very recently, when reminiscing with Dad, that I learned that my mother was so troubled because it was actually someone in our own neighbourhood that simply refused to have a black family live next door to them – no matter what.



A few years later when I was about nine, after we'd moved to Michigan, my Dad and I were snacking from a bowl of nuts, cracking each almond, hazelnut, walnut, or pecan one at a time and picking out the meat.  We had a small pile of broken shells and made each selection carefully, one at a time.  Dad picked up a brazil nut.  I never chose those since they were impossible for me to crack open.

He held it up, turned it over a few times and then held it out between his thumb and finger, looking at it intently. I anticipated a nut-cracking lesson, but instead, he said, "You know what my mother used to call these?"  I shook my head and said, "No, what?" and he quietly said, with a slight grimace and shake of his head,

"Nigger toes."

I was horrified!  GRAM?  Sweet, kind, generous, soft-spoken, gentle Gram had uttered what I then knew to be an awful word?

We were alone in our own living room, but still I quietly whispered, in case someone would overhear us, "Why? Did she hate black people?" thinking some deep dark secret was about to be revealed.

And he simply said, "No, she was just ignorant about things like that, sometimes old people are."

When I hear someone say, "I'm not a racist, but ..." I know what they already said says more about them than whatever they're going to say next.

NAP Time

Back when I had four very small children and life could be a little overwhelming with the demands of motherhood, household repairs and needs, financial struggles, with few friends or family, I was someone's pet project, but didn't realize it until many, many years later.

I can't precisely remember how I got involved initially, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with being appointed as recording secretary for our neighbourhood association's monthly meetings.

We met in a church social room with fellow neighbours who were concerned about the transition of our depressed older neighbourhood (most homes, including ours, were built in the late 1800's and early 1900's), where some pristine homes were next door to dilapidated rental units with absentee landlords, or had vacant lots that became temporary illegal dump sites demanding immediate attention.  We'd lost some key businesses in the area -- most significantly, the cattle stockyards -- and the ripple effect was felt both economically and culturally.  The area was changing, but we felt that we were on the cusp of the renaissance of South Omaha, and looked forward being part of a positive change with our growing family.

Most of the members of the association were retired senior citizens who were long-time homeowners.  We were on the opposite end of the spectrum when we arrived a few years earlier. We were in our twenties, had two small boys and more on the way, and had just bought our first home that needed significant repairs and improvements -- none of which we knew how or could afford to undertake.  But we were a happy, if at times chaotic, home and we were on track with a good life plan.

I remember that one of the senior women in the association asked me to join her at one of her upcoming meetings across town for the National Association of Parliamentarians (NAP), so I could be the best possible recording secretary for the meetings.  I remembered using Robert's Rules of Order back in high school when Stephen and I were part of the Model United Nations Club, and later on committees in college, so I was at least familiar with how a meeting should run and how minutes should be recorded.   And so I accepted.  She drove us both in her Crown Victoria to the country-club reception room where the NAP meeting was filled with about 25 older men and women all dressed in business attire.  They were attending to a speaker who was addressing the ways to make an amendment to a motion after it had been moved and seconded, according to Robert's Rules of Order Newly Revised. 

Then the entire group was quickly rearranged, and got engaged in a spirited mock meeting led by an authoritative ruddy-faced chairwoman wearing a polyester pant suit and fake pearls who enthusiastically employed flip charts, an extendable pointer, fat magic markers writing in black and crossing out in red, and a large, solid, mahogany gavel.  She guided select members who had been given a small scrap of paper telling them what to call out when prompted.  Some were purposeful distractions which were immediately called to order, others were additions and amendments to the original motion which required a precise orchestration of protocol to be addressed, and some were points of personal privilege, calling for a vote, or a variety of parliamentary procedures to bring a mock resolution to final approval or rejection.  Each action provided a lesson within a lesson on how to properly run a meeting and get stuff DONE, impartially and without prejudice.

They had me immediately with "The chairman has not recognized you to speak, sir, sit down!" I think it was the NAP's version of "You can't handle the truth!" I  was completely and utterly enamoured with the entire process.  There were rules, and people had to follow them.  No room for confusion, self-doubt, no letting a blow-hard take over a meeting, or someone bully a topic or disrupt the agenda.  Oh Robert, you and I were about to become very good friends.

So with elderly Mrs. Anderson, I'd attended a few meetings, earnest with enthusiasm and interest.  At one meeting the group ceremoniously presented me with an expensive (for me) fat edition of Robert's Rules of Order Newly Revised, sending me home with a few minor homework assignments.

But one time I had to cancel.  There was a scheduling conflict with the neighbourhood gal who was babysitting for me, and I wasn't able to get away for the next meetings and lessons.  But this group made sure to hire another responsible mother, and even paid for her services to ensure that I'd be able to attend in the future.  They arranged it all for me.  So I continued to go.

The lesson meetings were wonderful, efficient, tidy.  Everything that was accomplished was done  methodically, without frustration, and with reason.  And before I knew it, after a few months I was standing in front of 13 members of the group leading my own mock meeting and hearing murmurs of "she'd have no problem with the testing", "waive fees" "extra tutorials".

The next thing I knew, I was given study guides, a NAP membership card, and a 3-ring binder of booklets to take home with a plastic laminated quick-reference guide for handling motions and amendments.  Even the materials were efficient, and I carried them with pride to another NAP member's house in the affluent neighborhood of Dundee, where we sipped iced tea in her opulent sun porch while she circled my notes with her gold-plated Cross™ pen.  It finally dawned on me that I was being groomed for the Parliamentary Law exams to become a Professional Registered Parliamentarian.  They want me to actually accomplish something more;  I would have credentials!

But then life suddenly got very hectic in those early years.  The youngest of our four, Olivia, became seriously ill and required our undivided attention; we eventually had to move to another city; I had to stop going to the meetings and lessons, resign from the neighbourhood association, and we uprooted from our life in Omaha for a little while.  My group of mentors was very understanding.  

It wasn't until just recently, that it occurred to me that these mature, senior women (and men) probably saw me as a good candidate to 'become something' under their guidance, and support. There I was, a young woman with a gaggle of small children in a run-down area of town in a 'fixer-upper' home, with no extended family or other support system.  Someone who they probably saw going nowhere fast.  I now suspect they were collectively trying to give me a foot up with opportunity -- arranging and paying for child care, buying membership dues, purchasing educational materials, driving me to meetings and lessons, and giving tutorial support to make sure I was following up with the studies, leaving no room for failure because of excuses.  I'm glad I was naive at the time, but looking back now with this realization, I am pleased to think about the kindness they extended to me, and glad I accepted and embraced it.   I really, thoroughly enjoyed it all, and still employ what I learned to this day. 

I secretly look forward to the time when I can bang a gavel with authority and confidence during a meeting and call out, "The Chair does not recognized you, SIT DOWN!"

On the next episode of Survivor

When Stephen and I were first dating, one of our mutually favourite Monty Python routines was the  SPAM sketch. "Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, SPAM lovely Spam, wonderful Spam!"

And so, as newlyweds, and just getting started in our small apartment in Omaha, Nebraska, one of our first purchases for the pantry was a genuine can of Spam.  We never intended to eat it, but kept it as a knick-knack on the shelf as a memento of our early days of shared humour.  Over time it became a symbol of our relative prosperity: we had never been too poor or too hungry to have to open it.

After about ten years and being relocated several times to different houses and kitchens, we noticed that the can was beginning to bulge! It had held pride of place in our home in each move, but by now long past its expiration date, it was time to dispose of it.  Somehow, simply buying a new grocery-store replacement lost the original significance, so we were resigned to simply and unceremoniously throw it out.  Later, Dad saw a novelty gift catalogue that featured the familiar SPAM can (with the key-turn opener on top and everything) that had been made into a battery operated clock. He had it shipped to our door.  Now, in our 30+ years of marriage, it sits in the Cleveland Place pantry reminding us that though we've had a few hardships along the way, we've never really suffered, we've survived.

Several years ago I travelled from New Jersey to New Brunswick on the tail end of a fierce winter nor'easter. Kathryn, Olivia and I drove in our minivan following snow plows, sand trucks, salt spreaders, and passing several abandoned vehicles that had skidded off the snow covered roadways. It took us about 20 hours to take the typically twelve-hour trip because of the road and travel conditions, and we finally arrived in Alma particularly road-weary.  We weren't surprised to find the driveway at Cleveland Place completely snowbound, so we parked next door where the wind had blown the church parking lot clear.  We waded through drifts to Cleveland Place only to find the normally unlocked door was locked!  Even the secret hiding place for the spare key only revealed an empty and cold disappointment, and we realized: we were locked out ....after midnight, below freezing, with no cell phone.

Undaunted, I announced we'd drive onward to the Gazebo (our three-season cottage) about 10 minutes away. We could start a fire and hunker down until morning, when we could round up a spare key from somewhere.  The drive took another 1/2 hour since we had to take a longer route (the minivan couldn't get up the hills of Alma with the recent and yet unplowed snow). Arriving at the Gazebo, we found that more drifting prevented us from driving right up to the door as we usually did.  So we parked on the road and hiked up the driveway through deep snow to get to the door (one that I did have a key for).   Finally inside, the three of us found ourselves in total darkness -- flicking the light switch uselessly, we remembered that the power had been shut off for the winter.  We lit a candle or two to shed light and as our eyes adjusted, we saw to our further dismay there were merely a few sticks of kindling and two small logs for the wood stove.  This would not get us warm, let alone keep us warm until morning.  Nevertheless, we set to the task of lighting the fire. The wood burned with the sound and the speed of a freight train, quickly reducing to ash while we huddled under sleeping bags.  The remainder of the woodpile outside was under several feet of frozen ice-covered snow, probably with the missing hatchet close by.

Unanimous with our complaints, we realized we couldn't stay and freeze until dawn, so we hoofed it back down the hill to the van and drove back toward Alma.  By now it was about three in the morning, and sliding sideways down the hills with absolutely no traction, we assumed our safest position for the night in the recently plowed parking lot of the general store, just a few doors down the street from Cleveland Place.  Sporadically snoozing and waking and freezing and running the engine to keep us warm, we spent the next several hours in fitful, uncomfortable bouts of sleep. When the store opened, we used their phone to call Dad to rescue us and deliver a spare key. 

There was no rest for the weary, however, since once Dad arrived almost two hours later, he employed the girls to shovel out the driveway, and chastised me for not choosing a window to carefully break and sending one of our skinny girls through it, to get ourselves inside.  Damned if you do, I thought to myself, damned if you don't.  But we survived.

----------

Alma in winter is a much different place than in the summer.  Many of the residents are seasonal, and spend winter in Florida or warmer points south.  Though there are plenty of winter activities -- amazing cross-country ski trails, pristine snowshoeing conditions, and miles of snowmobiling opportunities -- most of the tourism-supported businesses shut down.  Many of the fishing boats keep working, though, and being tide dependent (Alma has the highest tides in the world) the fellows going back and forth with their trucks or equipment on Main Street in front of Cleveland Place are scheduled by tide-time, not clock time, for their work at the village wharf.

The waters of the Bay of Fundy are some of the most treacherous in the world, too.  Winter fishing can be brutal.  The guys on their boats have to be strong; they have to withstand the rough seas and frigid waters, resist the harsh winter winds, haul the weighted lobster traps, and winch the scallop trollers -- all physically demanding non-stop activity in the open seas. Tough work for tough men.

Several years ago, we were enjoying the company of friends with a cheerful wee fire on a snowy, howling, winter night at Cleveland Place. We were wearing cozy pajama pants and slippers (as we certainly weren't going outdoors). Our house guests told us that the front storm door had come unlatched, and it wouldn't close tight now due to the snow that had blown in.

So Stephen -- just starting to be known in the village as a new resident -- grabbed the tiny metal shovel from the coal hearth and a short scarf that was handy, and shuffled out to the front door. There he tried to shoo away the drifting snow, free the threshold, and relatch the door.  He returned just a few minutes later, breathless, as the wind was cold and strong as it came straight off the ocean up to the front porch. He came back into the living room, paused, red-faced, and held up the tiny black shovel with a chagrined expression as he described for us all his perceived reactions of the fishermen passing by in their trucks watching him.  He could imagine them all shaking their heads on their way to the wharf at high tide, about to cast off a line into sub-freezing temperatures in white-capped waters, hauling eighty-pound lobster traps, and seeing Stephen, in thin pants, a dangling skinny scarf, and a T-shirt, out in the weather and battling the snow drifts with the smallest shovel ever known. "That's guy's never gonna survive a winter around here."

Are you gonna eat that?

I notice that a lot of people who write blogs include their own versions of domestic advice, recipes, life skills coaching, and platitudes.  I started writing the Jugular Vein stories on the advice of our long-time friend Betsey Grecoe who suggested that other people might enjoy reading about our family adventures and mishaps.

Now that I have half a century of experience and gathered wisdom, I can join the ranks of those who offer unsolicited advice, snobbish culinary expertise, and household hints for frugality from their poorer days. And I can easily disseminate this wisdom via the internet with my blog! Let's see what I can pull together.

Some of the finest, most fun, and most fulfilling experiences I've had in my life have been in the camaraderie of a kitchen, creating a meal for a crowd, or at the table enjoying a meal with friends and family. The more, the better.  I thought about recounting them here while including recipes, helpful kitchen tips, and proper etiquette reminders, like other blog writers do so successfully. 

These days, on the rare occasions when we're enjoying fine dining, we often find ourselves comparing the experience to past meals and the atmosphere of a little out-of-the way restaurant in rural New Jersey called Duo Fratelli (the Two Brothers).  It was a small restaurant that featured Italian haute cuisine, where the staff outnumbered the guests.  On our first visit – a wedding anniversary dinner – we were greeted and our reservation status was confirmed by the maitre d', who was dressed in black tie service uniform.  We were shown to our table in the dimly lit but spacious room, where the panorama of windows were draped with expensive fabrics offering privacy with taste.  The fresh white linen tablecloths and napkins were smooth and clean, under a full dinner setting of gleaming flatware and glassware.  My chair was held while I sat and my napkin carefully laid in my lap.  The meal that followed was exquisite, the service impeccable, and their recommended wine has become one of our favourites.  Though this was an expensive restaurant, we enjoyed sharing meals there for special people and special occasions.

On one of those visits, we were seated at a rear table far from the entrance.  As we leisurely savoured the many courses of our meal, we noticed the special attention given by the staff to the large round table in the far corner.  Most remarkable was one large dominant man.  He was dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit with gold chains and rings that caught the light.  As each new (and similarly attired) guest arrived and approached the table, he stood to give a large shoulder-forward embrace, ending with a flat-handed slap-slap on each other’s back.  One after another, his guests arrived and were seated until there were approximately ten imposing men gathered.  Each was greeted with the kind of respect usually seen only in a tense episode of The Sopranos.  Wide-eyed with wary observation, we were torn between staying to see a fascinating first-hand glimpse into what appeared to be a mob meeting, and leaving immediately in case tommy-guns suddenly appeared in a gangland shoot-out of epic proportion.  But we couldn't possibly have left, as Duo Fratelli’s crème brûlée dessert is simply the best – it's to die for.

When Kathryn and I took a cross-country road trip and finally landed in Los Angeles, we were eager to shop and see where the rich and famous shop.  To fully appreciate the contrast, we spent a day thrift store shopping in Santa Monica and Venice Beach first. Then we headed to the fabled stores of Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive.  We dressed up to help ensure we received the full-service treatment (just like the people who actually could afford to be there).  Kathryn, naturally, had a fashionable outfit, and I tried my best not to look too dowdy, and actually brushed my hair.  Since it was hot and sunny, we wore big sunglasses, and I kept on my wide-brimmed straw hat.  Kathryn's trendy sundress, impeccable makeup, and gorgeous looks in general were the perfect attire for the outdoor cafe we visited for a late-day lunch.  If a celebrity passed by, we had a great view and prime photographic opportunity. 

We were quickly seated in a crowded outdoor section of the small café. Shortly after we received our water (with lemon!), a family of four was seated at the table next to us -- just far enough apart for the disinterested wait staff to pass between us.  Staggered by the price points of toast points, we opted for a simple cheese plate with fruit and wine, and amused ourselves with wishful conversation about what we would like to have purchased to augment our wardrobes and jewellery chests.  Brooks Brothers and Harry Winston would have been very happy to accommodate us, but our wallets could not.  At their table next to use, the mother, father, and two adolescent girls chatted amiably, while Kathryn and I finished up. Neither of us removed our sunglasses as we sat under the awnings.

Our waitress, totally indifferent about quality of service though not unpleasant, eventually brought our bill, and I presented a credit card for payment.  When she returned with our receipts and offered a cursory "have a nice day" in mid-retreat, I frowned at Kathryn, who shrugged her shoulder in acknowledgement.  So I replied loudly enough with a bright cheerful sigh of satisfaction for the family sitting next to us to hear, "Well, that was really nice -- just what we needed!" to which Kathryn cheerfully agreed.  I then added, "… and for once, NO paparazzi!"  The two young girls at the next table immediately looked up and around.  So I drove it home with one final comment to Kathryn: "I don't think the waitress even recognized you!" and then we made our way out. All eyes were on Kathryn until we were down to the sidewalk, where I took one last glance back to see the two girls extending themselves over the railing, desperate to see who they'd just missed. 

At home, cooking for our large family was usually routine, but when my folks visited they sometimes seemed overwhelmed with the volume of food, preparations, and portions that four growing teenagers required.  One simple dinner we often made to feed a large crowd was fettuccine that we'd make ourselves.  A bowlful of flour with eggs, water, oil, and salt added in the right proportions can quickly become a homemade pasta; add just about anything to make a complete dinner.

One night, after a long day of visiting, I dug in to prepare a basil pesto and other sauces with some homemade noodles while we waited for Stephen to arrive home from work.  My folks were keen to watch the process, and with two extra guests joining us, I doubled up on the ingredients, and started mixing, kneading, rolling and cutting the noodles right at the kitchen table.  And then the inevitable call came from Stephen mid-transit stuck in a classic New Jersey eight-lane rush-hour traffic jam.

So my folks and I drank more wine while I continued rolling and cutting the dough, and strung the strands up while the sauces simmered and the pasta water boiled.  Since fresh pasta only takes about three minutes to cook, I didn’t want to put it in until Stephen could join us.  My pasta was hanging all around us, on open cupboard doors, the backs of chairs, and over the edge of the table.  When Stephen finally bustled in, we were all famished and eager to start eating, and the ensuing activity in the small kitchen quickly became frenzied as the dog enthusiastically greeted him, steaming bowls of sauces were waltzed about the crowded room to be set out for serving, drinks were poured, and the four kids all came in to take their seats. With all this going on, we didn’t notice that most of the heavy strands of fettuccine had stretched under their own weight, broken off, and fallen onto the floor. 

Our dog Scout noticed it first, and tried to eat as much of it as he could, as quickly and quietly as possible. Stephen noticed it second when he stepped on it and it stuck to his shoes, making him slip and slide on the floor as he tried to get around the dog, who was busy trying to eat all he could get.  It wasn't until I heard "what the hell??" from Stephen that I noticed my long beautiful strands of golden pasta were all gone. Only a few scraps and remnants on top of the doors and chairs were left.  Meanwhile, Dad stood transfixed at the chaotic scene, and my mother was absolutely hysterical with laughter as she watched Stephen hop from foot to foot, grabbing at clumps of pasta dough, and scolding the dog who was being chased around the table by the kids.  Stephen paused, looked around at the whole situation, held up two hands full of dough and said in his best Ricky Ricardo voice, "Luuucy -- you got some 'splaining to do."

When a nephew in central Tennessee was about to get married between Christmas and New Year's Eve, our family of six made the trip from New Jersey to go to the wedding. Unfortunately, our dog Scout had just had a procedure on his eye, and had to wear a large cone around his head. This took up a lot of room in the back of the van, and in the small hotel room where we stayed. 

The wedding was great, and it was nice to reconnect with far-away family and cousins. But it was at a time of the year when we couldn’t really afford such a trip. Stephen was between jobs, so funds were unusually tight, and the credit card was red-hot with transaction friction from the trip, meals, and accommodations.  On the way back home, we stopped at a Wendy's drive-thru for their $1 menu.  We could all get lunch for less than ten dollars!  Poor Scout, who couldn't easily eat and was off his food because of his cone, the stress of travel, and just being out of sorts was especially pitiful.   When we got to the window, we asked the server if they had anything that might have fallen on the floor or was too old to serve that we could give to the dog for a treat, and pointed to the forlorn cone-headed Scout in the back seat.  She said she had nothing, but took pity and gave us a box of chicken nuggets fresh from the fryer. We thanked her sincerely, and headed on our way.  When we got back on the road, we realized there was actually nothing wrong with this free addition to our meal, so we divided the box among ourselves.  They were absolutely delicious. I think we may have given poor Scout just one.

When my dad remarried, he and Anna flew to Slovakia, Anna’s home country, for a honeymoon. On their way there, they stayed with us in New Jersey for a few days. Anna cheerfully put up with our jokes of how backward and primitive Slovakia was (of course we knew differently, but anything for a laugh!) and played along.  One day we walked to a tiny mom & pop shop that featured Polish and Czech ethnic foods, snacks, and videos.  Anna was delighted to find a box of round wafer cookies and brought them home to share.  Apparently, it was a treat she rarely found in Canada, but was a well-known Slovak goodie.  The box was about six inches square and about two inches tall, with bright colors, bold Slovak words, and pictures of happy children anticipating the indulgence and decadence inside.  But the wafers themselves were awful.  The flat cookie was the size of a salad plate, pale and bland in color, and with the texture and taste of a cardboard egg carton.

We ridiculed them mercilessly.  Stephen pantomimed their many potential uses (none as an edible treat) in quick succession – they could be used to play a song, as he cranked a victrola, spinning one on his fingertip and mimicking a jolly tune from the 1800's; he flung one across the room like a Frisbee, announcing its playtime merits in a television-commercial-announcer voice; picked up another, perched it on his upturned fingers, and draped a dishtowel over his arm in full British butler mode, presenting a tray to a Lady.  Then it became the brim of a boater hat while he reminded us of our responsibility to vote for a long-past American president, finally wrapping up his performance by driving himself out of the room using a wafer-cookie steering wheel.  We were convulsed with laughter, and glad Anna took it in equally good humour, laughing along with us. She didn’t take offense, but she did close up the tin and refuse to let us have any more.  She fits right in with us.

As I wrap up this story, I've see that I failed to offer any helpful hints, tasty budget recipes, and certainly no life lessons, but thinking about what has made me personally happy in life, I can offer some unsolicited advice:

"Every day have someone to love, someone who loves you, and something to look forward to."  Allyn S. West II (1953-1988)

Charmed, I'm Sure

When I was thirteen my brother gave me a small sterling silver pendant of a half moon face mounted around turquoise.  He was several years older than me, and dating a pretty girl at the time -- the first sibling to be in a relationship that I remember being aware of.  He told me that the image of the moon was the universal symbol of love-- I was delighted to think that he was in love with this girl.  I wore the short pendant around my stubby, sweaty adolescent neck every single day.  Not much later, when the thin chain got broken, my sister gave me another small sterling pendant on a similar thin silver chain.  To me, she always had cool, trendy, teenager stuff, and this charm was similar to Robert Indiana's LOVE pop art sculpture which was fashionable at the time.  I put them both on the new single chain and wore them often until 1980 when I graduated from high school and received a small sterling '80 medallion as a graduation gift from a long-time family friend, Eileen Roe.  That was the tipping point for me to start a charm bracelet.  It has been growing heavier ever since, with the 53 charms weighing in at nearly half a pound.  Collected over the years each charm that is linked to the bracelet is also linked to someone in my life or represents something that has touched my life.

Here's one:

Barb Henney was my first and perfect friend.  Both of our families were members of The Unitarian Church in Omaha, Nebraska.  The Henney family had three children our own children's ages, and as our friendship grew, we spent many long nights playing cards, sharing holidays together, camping, and going to garage sales.  She welcomed "the pop-in", and I was a frequent popper, always delighted that she was pleased to be distracted by my unannounced visits where they lived on the other side of town.  When we moved to New Jersey, I was tragically home-sick for Nebraska and her friendship, and she promised with good intention to write often, but rarely did.  Instead she sent me a mailbox charm with a flapping door, reminding me that she thought of us often, even if she rarely wrote to tell us their news.

When the Henneys eventually visited us in New Jersey, we took a day trip to Atlantic City which was over 2 hours south of our home.  We took turns at the slot machines with little luck. The seven kids were tired, restless passengers after a full day of sun and surf, so I told a family story about our fathers to keep their attention and pass the miles.  It's a story my Dad had told our family a long time ago.  It went a little like this:

My father served in the Air Force in the early 50's, and like anyone in any branch of the armed services, had to get through boot camp.

Wallace West was a fit young servicemen, and boot camp challenges were intended to prepare him both physically and mentally for whatever he might encounter when fighting the enemy. In boot camp Wallace climbed ropes over tall walls, slogged through trenches, ran mile after mile carrying his own weight in a pack on his back, shimmied under barbed wire barricades, and met every endurance, strength, stamina and agility test he was put to.

But during that time, the government was low on military resources after the Second World War and all their weapons, ammunition and equipment was sent to the men fighting at the front during the Korean war in the early 50's.

On a training day of a simulated battle the men were divided into two opposing sides, lined up alphabetically "first name last, last name first" and ordered to stand at attention as a rifle with a bayonet was passed out to each man.  They were shown how to dismantle, reassemble, load and shoot the rifle.  Instructions were given on how to quickly attach and use the bayonet in simulated hand-to-hand combat if they ran out of ammunition.

But with the supply shortages, by the time the quartermaster reached the end of the alphabetized line where Wallace West stood, they'd run out of equipment.  Following orders Dad stood at attention while substitutions were made.  Dad was handed a straw broom and told if he sees the enemy, to use the broom for his rifle.  "YES SIR!", Dad saluted, and right shouldered arms with his broom.

His officer demanded swift, convincing simulated rifle activity, so with military precision, Dad presented arms with the broom as if it was an actual rifle, aimed at an imaginary enemy soldier and shouted with authority, "BANG, BANG, BANGITY, BANG BANG!!!"

Impressed with his quick action and adaptation, the officer took one step back and announced to all the enlisted men on the opposing side that if they get "banged" in this exercise they must immediately drop dead.

In unison, "YES SIR!" was heard, and the officer asked, "Any questions?"

Dad reported back, "Question, SIR!"  "For my bayonet?"

The officer snatched the broom from Dad, yanked two straws out of the business end, turned it over placed one straw sticking off the end of the handle and wrapped it tightly attaching it with the second straw.

Tossing it back to soldier West, he called for quick bayonet action, and Dad put one foot forward, jabbed the single straw back and forth and with a booming voice called out, "STAB, STAB, STABITY-STAB STAB!!"

Nodding, the office called to the ranks, "Soldiers, from this point forward, if you are in simulated hand-to-hand combat and you hear "STAB", you will clutch your gut and immediately fall dead.

"YES SIR!" was called back by all ranks, and "FALL OUT" was then ordered.

The simulated battle began, and Dad told his animated story of incessant shooting, and how he dodged fighting men, jumping behind boulders for shelter, drop rolling into trenches, all while shouting out his unlimited supply of ammunition as he made his way closer and closer to the mock enemy front line.

All the kids in the car were listening and interested, but the Henney kids wanted to hear about their grandfather. Chuck Warren was a decorated forward observer in WWII.  They knew he had seen some action and had dark memories from that time in history.  But like all good soldiers, he had to earn his stripes and pull his weight in Army boot camp. I explained that Mr. Warren would have had a very similar story to Dad's boot camp story, so I embellished and continued:

Your Grandfather, Chuck Warren, also found himself at the end of the alphabetized ranks when he was ordered to fall in.  Except he was divided on to the enemy side.  He also experienced the mock battle and the shouting men hating the enemy who all wanted him dead, the rush of adrenalin it created, and how he had to watch each man who had weapons and listen for the dreaded 'BANG, BANG, BANG-ITY, BANG' or fear the painless nod of failure if he heard 'STAB, STAB, STABBITY, STAB'.  He, too ducked behind shelter and rolled into trenches.  But to his surprise and disappointment, there were two soldiers standing above him when he peered out of one of those trenches: one pointing a rifle-broom, and the other brandishing a straw bayonet. 

Thinking quickly, Private Warren stood tall and squared his shoulders.  "BANG, BANG, BANGITY-BANG, shouted the delighted broom wielding enemy expecting the defeated soldier Warren's surrender to death.  But Chuck climbed out of the trench, determined.  The other soldier stood forward and repeatedly jabbed in his direction while shouting louder and louder with each air-thrust, "STAB, STAB, STABBITY, STAB!!!!".  Undaunted, Chuck approached these fellows, and pushed them over, using his strong shoulders, his big arms, fierce hands.  He pushed on their faces, and mashed them down to their knees, while they continuously berated him with their vocal weapons.  Confused and laying on the ground they looked up at soldier Warren, as he persisted crushing and pressing them into the dirt. Not until he actually lifted his steel-toed black army boot to step directly on top of one of the enemies' chest did he he stoically and repeatedly call out as he walked right on top of them, "tank, tank, tank, tank, tank, tank....."

I have a small sterling silver slot machine to recall that fun day, long drive, and sorely needed visit with The Henney family those many years ago.
 
There are 52 other stories to tell for each one of my charms.  When I put it around my wrist and connect the clasp linking the two ends and hear them tinkle I, too, am connected; I am part of the people, places and events that they each represent.

I am linked to this world.

"Wait! I can explain!!"

You may have read in earlier blog entries how I've praised and respect the work ethic of my folks, Patricia and Wallace.  Here, in their early days at Cleveland Place, they worked long and hard to bring it to what it is today.  One of the many chores and labours that Dad frequently describes is about the original brass and lead antique light fixtures that he at first thought were wooden. How he stripped them of at least 6 coats of paint, buffed them back to a good patina and lustre, and finally shellacked them so they glow as warmly as they did many years ago.  Together, he and my mum transformed this historic village home into a gorgeous five-room Bed and Breakfast.  Dad replaced the heavy, dark solid-paneled doors between the parlour, the dining room, and the den with cheery, beveled-glass French doors that he made himself, then stained to match the wood throughout the house, opening it up to daylight.  I've recounted before on The Jugular Vein blog how they brought the pantry back to its original wood counter tops, and buffed and waxed wood and floors to show and shine.

Back in the summer of 1926, Judson Cleveland had his portable sawmill down at the village wharf when it threw a fatal spark. The ensuing wind-fed conflagration caught and reduced most of the homes in Alma to ashes, including the Clevelands’ original home.  Only the fireplace mantle and hearth were saved, taken down to the water’s edge as the house and the village burned. The following year, Judson rebuilt this house, barn, and garage, and put back the original mantle and hearth.

So Dad fixed and repaired and my mother picked out wallpaper, stripping each room down to the bare walls from the five or six layers of vintage papers in various conditions. Then they spackled, sanded, and pasted quality, tasteful wallpapers, replacing the garish flocked medallions, cracked plaster, and dated 1947 pinks, 1956 aquas, 1962 yellows, and 1973 avocados.

The antique furnishings and family pieces – whether collected over the years, inherited by my folks, or purchased after settling into Cleveland Place – each have a fitting place. Wiring, plumbing, siding, roofing, window sash and pane replacement, wool oriental rugs, new bathroom porcelain to match and complement the original clawfoot tub, were all painstakingly appointed, repaired, improved, cleaned, and maintained during their nearly twenty-five years here together.

When mum died, the obvious woman's touch was lost, and Dad eventually started over with Anna, making a new and happy home at WallyAnna Farm.  There his work ethic has merely changed direction: with Anna at his side, they've made the hundred and twenty-five-year-old farmhouse a comfortable hobby-farm and harvest bakery, where Anna bakes over a hundred loaves of bread and European pastries each week for market sale.

Stephen and I fast-forwarded our goal to settle in New Brunswick, and for several years we timed our work to spend our summers at Cleveland Place running the B&B and bookshop, always following the high standards my folks set.  But two years ago, we finally settled here permanently –fully involved in continuing the business, being members of the community, and making new and keeping old friendships in the area.

Most recently, we've re-established The Artisan Shop (the former barn for Judson Cleveland's horse, Kit) as a quality gift shop carrying only fine Maritime artists and crafts people's work.  That`s how my folks ran it until the late 1990s, when they leased the space for several years to another entrepreneur, who filled the shelves to capacity with mass-produced tourist novelties.  We're delighted to once again represent the abundant artistic talent of the Atlantic Provinces.  The Bookshop has been vastly improved from its humble beginnings as a wood shed, and now holds an eclectic collection of new and lightly used books of every kind.  The B&B continues to host families from all over the world as we open our home and our part of the world -- the wonder of Fundy.

So, this short blog entry is really to pay homage to the hard work, heroic efforts, long hours, great expense, and exacting attention to quality and detail that my folks expended over the years together, allowing us to comfortably step into their shoes and continue in their tradition.  As I find my days filled with work that I enjoy, I invariably feel Mum or Dad sitting on one or the other shoulder, keeping an eye and judging my efforts and standards.

Stephen has quickly brought Cleveland Place into the modern world of technology.  The three businesses are completely represented on spreadsheets of daily activity, income, expenses, and so forth.

At one point in time, Cleveland Place was the telephone junction between the neighboring counties, and the switchboard was in Judson’s office.  Hearing the telltale buzz, he would go into his office, put on his headset, and pull out the wire to connect the calls.

But these days, of course, we've got the internet.  Stephen created an extensive website that tells visitors what Cleveland Place is all about, including the neighboring Fundy tourist destinations.  He's installed Wi-Fi for the use of our guests, and established a QR code on our signage for passers-by.  And, although his carpentry skills aren't yet at the level he’d like, he's been keen and competent to fix or improve the inevitable problems that arise with a house and property of this age.

So, following Mum and Dad's example, we find we're working hard, enjoying what we do, feeling satisfaction at the end of the day, and sleeping well after a full day's effort.  Yet, somehow, I feel I'll never live up the standards they set, or ever be worthy of the luxury their efforts have afforded me.  I sometimes think that I appear entitled, and sometimes feel like I have to convince people that I actually do work hard (sometimes) too! 

Early in the season this year —high tourist season in this area is from June to late August – a local business announced the date for National Lobster Day, and living just down the lane from one of the three village lobster shops, we were eager to participate.

We spent the first part of National Lobster Day in a morning-long business meeting so we didn't open the Artisan's Shop or the Book Shop.  After the meeting adjourned, we made our way home and decided to get two good-sized lobsters and take photos for the latest update on the Cleveland Place website.  While Stephen went to the lobster shop, I set the table for a photographic opportunity, featuring the finest seafood supper that Fundy and Cleveland Place have to offer. 

I unfurled a freshly ironed white linen tablecloth, and set out cloth napkins surrounded by the sterling silver flatware we use for our B&B guests.  Wine was poured into tall crystal goblets, and lemon slices floated in steaming water finger bowls.  The proper tools, lobster crackers, picks, and cloth bibs were set aside a small dish of complementary black and red caviar, near chilled glasses of iced sparkling water.  The scene was set and ready for two large red lobsters on platters with the liquid gold of melted dipping butter, in individual candle-heated stands. 

Since we'd left for our early morning meeting, we still hadn't lifted the window shades, and decided to leave them drawn for the lighting for the photos.  After we'd taken several satisfactory shots of the fully set table with the sharp contrasts of white linen, red and black caviar, bright yellow lemon, and red-hot lobster, we sat down to enjoy our National Lobster Day lobster.  Our first of the season.

We quickly cracked shells and devoured the flesh, enjoying the wine and sopping up the hot butter and caviar, eager to open up the shops for more business; it's a short season and every operating hour counts.  As we often do when we have the rare occasion to indulge, we did a haughty laughter imitation of Thurston Howell III, and pondered out loud, "I wonder what the poor people are doing, today?" with a full mouth of fresh-from-the-bay lobster meat and butter dripping down our chins.

And then, suddenly, they appeared again on my shoulder.  Dad on one side, Mum on the other, and my laughter changed to a shriek!

I choked, laughed, and said to Stephen, "Watch Dad and Anna pull into the driveway, right now.  Curtains pulled in the middle of a busy work day in high season, and here we sit, glistening with butter, mouths full, gulping wine, surrounded by the luxuries of expensive fine dining.  They'll NEVER believe why we’re doing this!"

You can see it all at www.cleveland-place.com

Lost and Found Department

I know I'm not the only one who has experienced overwhelming loss -- the crushing grief of sadness that confounds the mind to comprehend how deeply an emotion can render oneself completely incapacitated.

Dear reader, you might need to reach for a tissue box as I recount some of my losses.

On second thought, actually I won't. Those are things too difficult for me to express, and require meaningful words and literary skills that I don't possess to thoughtfully compose, so I'll tell you about a few less gut-wrenching things I've lost (or found!) instead.

In our early days of home ownership we belonged to the Spring Lake Neighborhood Association.  It was a suburb of Omaha that was 'in transition'.  Senior homeowners were the majority, but as the changing economy of the nearby stockyards waned, smaller local businesses failed and the middle class neighborhood was at the tipping point of failure and depression.  We were part of the new generation of families moving in, with renewed energy and enthusiasm sparking entrepreneurship and neighborhood pride.  Thus we went to regular meetings with like-minded neighbors and community leaders.  After one evening meeting, I was on my way home after dark, riding my 49cc Honda Hobbit moped. A stuttering start, too quick an acceleration, and poor handling landed me face-first onto the dark roadway.  Stunned, hurt, and bleeding, I pushed the moped off me and saw half of my front tooth glistening on the pavement.  I could feel the warmth of blood running down my face, and a jabbing pain in my leg, so I flagged down the next passing car which took me home.  I left the moped (and a few layers of skin) in the middle of the road.

My injuries didn't require medical attention (until later when wound infection took hold), but I was hurting.  I know that people lose limbs, eyes, and best friends to war, so I can't complain or compare to those who have suffered grave injuries for far more heroic reasons, but for me this was just so devastating: I'd lost a tooth!

An early morning visit to the dentist revealed that he couldn't save the tooth, and would have to perform a root canal and later cap it.  It'd be good as new.  He did the root canal, and told me to return in a month when all my other injuries healed to finish the job.  Meanwhile, for cosmetics, he'd glue the broken-off fragment to what remained rooted so I wouldn't be gap-smiling and snaggle-toothed.

But I never returned.  My overwhelming phobia of dental procedures prevented me from making that follow-up visit. Predictably, the short-term fix didn't last.  Months later when we were out to supper with our good friends, Barb and Dave Henney, the tooth broke off again.  But Barb is a good friend (the kind who holds your hair when you drink too much and have to vomit into a shrub late at night in a bad part of town) and will cheerfully and willingly interrupt a rare adult night out to stop and buy you a tube of Crazy Glue so you can put your tooth back in place.  That's the kind of friendship I hope to never lose.

Eventually, I forced myself to revisit the dentist, whose X-ray revealed damage to the underlying bone, requiring oral surgery and a complete loss of the tooth.  My smile, though now changed, is not lost; my fear of dental procedures, though, will never fade.


 
Another time when a loss left me crushed was when I looked down to see an empty setting on my engagement ring.  At a time in our lives when we certainly couldn't afford a replacement diamond, we scanned the floors of the house and emptied the vacuum cleaner bag searching, but found nothing.  Stephen promised me that at some point he'd put one back on my finger.  Then he left for work.

He was still in the US Air Force at this time, and on this particular day instead of going to his office, he found himself assigned to a clean-up detail for litter patrol around the Air Force base -- an annual chore that everyone eventually had to do.  He spent the day outdoors on the side of the road, around parking lots, and behind buildings, stooping and picking up spent cigarettes, wrappers, and general debris, growing hot and tired as the day wore on.  A particular annoyance was a pebble that had worked its way into his boot, and he found himself repeatedly kicking the ground to keep it at the toe of his boot, rather than taking the time in the hot sun to stop, unlace his boot, shake it out, and lace it all back up again.

When he came home at the end of his long day, he finally and with relief took off his boots, describing how cross he'd become over that irritation added to his already menial work day.  As he dumped his boot out, a small white diamond fell out.



Something we all lose from time to time is a memory.  Years ago when we were first getting acquainted with Karin Bach and Tim Isaac, we visited them several times as they were building their home.  Our pop-ins were usually unannounced, and they would willingly interrupt their work for a short while as we visited. Karin is a hard worker, and we always left them feeling unworthy and exhausted.  In between her work creating fantastic sculpture and art for sale in her studio, she would be pegging beams for the construction of their house, pouring cement floors, nursing exquisite plants and flowers in her garden beds, all while being savagely attacked by the unrelenting black flies and mosquitoes of the summer season.  She never seemed to stop.

But something small and out-of-the-way caught my eye on one of these visits, and it drove me to complete distraction. It was a small, thin, black cast-iron ashtray in the shape of a fish. Seeing it stirred some vaguely familiar image in my mind that I couldn't quite identify.  Was it from my dreams, or a vintage household item? I just couldn't place it.  Finally I interrupted our conversation to ask about it.  "Get a load of that fish!" I said.  Karin stubbed out her cigarette into it, looked up at me, and asked smiling, "Do you want it back?"

AH HA!  It was from the deep recesses of my memory; it was from my home years ago.  It all came back to me.  We had two of those ashtrays while I was growing up; they were from Mrs. Prouty's estate back in the 1950s, and my grandfather gave them to my mother, who smoked in those days.  Decades later when my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer (and immediately quit smoking), all the ashtrays were stored away.  Many years later, Dad gave them to Karin as a keepsake. Much of her pottery and sculpture work features elaborate fish designs, so the fish-shaped item seemed apt. I'd rather she used it for a candy dish.



One memory I'd lost completely was brought back to me when our son, Andrew, recounted a most loving maternal memory he had stored away.  He remembers from when he was very young:

"We were at one of Daddy's company picnics (we call them 'forced fun events')  Justin and I were playing on the playground equipment and Justin had a crush on a girl there. He pointed her out on a slide and told me to watch out, because if she looked at you twice, you'd turn into the Devil. I was young enough to believe anything my older brother said and I was very concerned. I needed to know if it was twice over the course of the day or if a double take would do me in, or just twice overall, ever.  I hid behind a tree for a while until the coast was clear and lost some quality playground time.

"When the devil-inducing girl was finally gone I found you guys eating in the indoor area. Sobbing, I told you about the incident and with motherly concern you grabbed my skull and began examining it. I was eagerly awaiting the "all clear", but instead you parted my hair and gasped, saying that you were pretty sure that you saw horns growing.

I hate that I didn't remember that story.  I'm sure with four children there are countless things they recall that I have no recollection -- no doubt, a series of lost memories.



Our longtime family friend and Maritime artist Rod MacKay first met my folks in Sussex at least thirty-five years ago; we have a lot of his art hanging at Cleveland Place.  One in pride of place in the living room is titled "Huginn and Muninn."

They are two ravens that were taught speech by the Norse god Odin.  The legend tells that Odin would send Huginn (the Norse word for "thought") and Muninn ("memory") all over the world, and each day they would return to his shoulder and tell him what they learned and saw.  Concerned that one day they might not return, for being lost or harmed, Odin declared that he wouldn't mind losing Thought, but he'd hate to lose Memory. 



But really, not much is forever lost; there are only four things that will never come back: the spoken word, the spent arrow, neglected opportunity, and time past.