Mulberry Meatloaf & 1976 Holidays

Let's start with the 1976 Holidays before we talk about that meatloaf. In researching the previous post, I noticed that my mom's 1976 Dailyaide Diary (The Silent Secretary©) thoughtfully lists the upcoming holidays at the beginning of each month, so that diarists are never caught unawares. Here's a list of each month's notable holidays. Some are familiar, and some, well, aren't.


January
Thursday, Jan. 1 - New Year's Day (so far, so good)
Tuesday, Jan. 6 - Epiphany
Thursday, Jan. 15 - Martin Luther King's birthday
Saturday, Jan. 17 - Benjamin Franklin's birthday
Monday, Jan. 19 - Robert E. Lee's birthday

February
Monday, Feb. 2 - Groundhog Day
Thursday, Feb. 12 - Lincoln's birthday
Saturday, Feb. 14 - Valentine's Day
Monday, Feb 16. - Washington's birthday

March
Tuesday, Mar. 2 - Mardi Gras
Wednesday, Mar. 3 - Lent begins
Wednesday, Mar. 17 - St. Patrick's Day
Saturday, Mar. 20 - Spring begins
Friday, Mar. 26 - Kuhio Day, Hawaii
Tuesday, Mar. 30 - Seward Day, Alaska

April
Sunday, Apr. 11 - Palm Sunday
Thursday, Apr. 15 - Passover begins
Friday, Apr. 16 - Good Friday
Sunday, Apr. 18 - Easter
Thursday, Apr. 22 - Arbor Day

May
Saturday, May 1 - May Day
Sunday, May 9 - Mother's Day
Monday, May 10 - Confederate Memorial Day
Saturday, May 15 - Armed Forces day
Monday, May 31 - Memorial Day

June
Thursday, June 3 - Jefferson Davis' birthday
Friday, June 11 - Kamehameha Day, Hawaii
Monday, June 14 - Flag Day (I might as well leave mine up)
Sunday, June 20 - Father's day
Sunday, June 20 - West Virginia Day
Monday, June 21 - Summer begins

July
Thursday, July 1 - Dominion Day, Canada
Sunday, July 4 - Independence Day
Tuesday, July 13 - Nathan B. Forrest's birthday (Holy Crap! White sheet & hood, anyone?)
Saturday, July 24 - Pioneer Day, Utah

August
Wednesday, Aug. 4 - Colorado Day
Saturday, Aug. 14 - V-J Anniversary
Sunday, Aug. 15 - Admission Day, Hawaii (does this state seem to be hogging the holidays?)
Monday, Aug. 16 - Bennington Battle Day

September
Monday, Sept. 6 - Labor Day
Friday, Sept. 17 - Citizenship Day
Wednesday, Sept. 22 - Autumn begins
Saturday, Sept. 25 - Rosh Hashanah
Monday, Sept. 26 - American Indian Day (no longer popular, I guess)

October
Monday, Oct. 4 - Yom Kippur
Monday, Oct. 11 - Columbus day
Wednesday, Oct. 20 - Alaska Day
Monday, Oct. 25 - Veteran's Day
Sunday, Oct. 31 - Halloween

November
Monday, Nov. 1 - All Saints Day
Tuesday, Nov. 2 - Election Day
Friday, Nov. 12 - Elizabeth Cody Stanton's birthday
Thursday, Nov. 25 - Thanksgiving
Sunday, Nov. 28 - First Sunday of Advent

December
Wednesday, Dec. 15 - Bill of Rights Day
Friday, Dec. 17 - Wright Brothers Day
Tuesday, Dec. 21 - Winter begins
Saturday, Dec. 25 - Christmas

Now you can plan accordingly, at least for the remainder of the year. I think it is interesting that a few of these holidays have dropped off the calendar. I also found it astounding that a holiday was still noted in 1976 for the founder of the Ku Klux Klan - or ever, for that matter.

Thursday, on my way home from my dawn meeting, I talked with my buddy, Sheldon. He had just returned home from a walk, and was excited about finding a mulberry tree growing wild. I swung by his place, and we picked mulberries, which I had never eaten before. You should always pick mulberries in the nude, or in dark clothing. The stain factor of mulberries is off the charts. They would cause Lady Macbeth great unhappiness.

We picked quite a few of them, and I brought them home. They look a lot like blackberries in size and color, but are more elongated than round (sort of like miniature grape clusters). They have a sweet flavor, and when you pick them the stem comes off the tree along with the berry. This morning I made Mulberry Muffins. I made up the recipe, but they turned out pretty well.

Mulberry Muffins
¾ cup all-purpose flour
¾ cup whole wheat flour
¾ cup wheat bran
2 tablespoons ground flax seed
1/3 cup brown sugar, packed
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
1 egg
¼ cup molasses
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup mulberries
Combine white flour, whole wheat flour, wheat bran, flax seed, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and cloves in a large mixing bowl. I always sift the flours, spices, and salt through a plain old screen-style strainer. I have a handled sifter, but it's too aggravating and hard to clean. My point is, you can probably make do with whatever you have when it comes to cooking. Feel free to improvise. Your grandmother didn't sit around waiting for the food processor to be invented.
In a smaller bowl, beat the egg slightly. Add the molasses, vanilla, and buttermilk. Stir thoroughly to combine.
I didn't find many mulberry recipes on the Internet, but I did read that you can just leave the stems on the mulberries when you bake with them. If you want to do that, it's fine. OCD-Bill could not do this. I had just bought a new pair of nail clippers earlier this week as a spare pair (coincidence? probably not!), so I washed and used them since I hadn't used them on my grubby ol' fingernails. Now I have a new kitchen tool, but I still need a spare pair for my nails. The clippers worked great for snipping the stems off the mulberries.
Toss the mulberries in the flour mixture in the large bowl. Dump the buttermilk mixture in all at once, and stir just until moistened. The more you mix, the tougher your muffins will turn out. It's a gluten thing.
I use paper cupcake liners, but if you don't, be sure you grease the muffin tin cups. Fill each cup about ¾ full. Bake at 375º for 17-20 minutes, or until the muffins test done.

Some of you are still wondering where the meatloaf comes in. Those of you who know me well are familiar with my love of spicy-hot food. The other day I made a meatloaf that pleased me greatly, but most of you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Yes, it is very hot. Another exclusive Planet Bll recipe that I will include below just for fun.

Afterburner Meatloaf
1-½ lbs. ground beef
1 medium onion, chopped
½ stack saltine crackers, crushed
1 egg, beaten
1 can Ro-tel Hot tomatoes with green chiles
2 fresh Habanero peppers, seeds & membrane removed, finely chopped
¼ to ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
A few shakes of garlic powder
1 or 2 dashes of cinnamon
Get out a large mixing bowl, and get your ingredients prepared. Wash your hands thoroughly! Now it's time to have fun. Toss everything in the bowl. Mix & squish it all together by hand. I use one hand for mixing, and keep the other one clean and free for grabbing stuff. When you've mixed it all thoroughly, form it into a cohesive ball. You can either place it on an edged pizza pan or a baking pan in a rounded mound like a rustic loaf of bread, or you can place it in a loaf pan. Bake at 350º for one hour or until done.

Of course, the (sensibly) faint-hearted can adapt this recipe for sensitive palates, but the basic assembly is the same. You can throw a meatloaf together in two shakes of a lamb's tail, and scoff at the "comfort food" restaurants that currently charge a hat & an ass for food like Grandma cooked. The leftovers make fabulous sammiches.

I did have a bad experience once with a stuffed deep-fried jalapeno appetizer. Jalapenos are not usually very hot at all. The restaurant didn't remove the seeds from the pepper. I think the peppers were grown in chicken manure, too, which I've heard raises the Scoville units. I thought my mouth was on fire, but it was nothing compared to my trip to the bathroom at 3 a.m. I truly had tears running from my eyes as I sat on the throne, rocking back & forth, clutching my stomach, and drumming my heels on the floor. It felt like a pixie in the porcelain bowl was holding a lit match to my bottom.

But I still love that hot, spicy food. And, yes, I did fall on my head when I was a baby.

Two Frogs and a Prince, Chapter Two

I intended to write this chapter sooner, but this damned thing called Life kept getting in the way. The usual stuff, plus seasonal activities. I entertained my first housefly of 2008 the other day, and as soon as I got out my fly-swatter, he disappeared. I'm still standing watch. It's also midge season here on Planet Bill. You probably call them gnats or no-see-ums, but I like calling them midges because it reminds me of my mom's friend, Midge Warner. Midge wasn't gnat-sized, though. She was a strapping woman from West Virginia, not fat or stout, but what John Steinbeck or Flannery O-Conner would call "raw-boned."

On to Chapter Two of our tale...

My dad seemed like Superman when I was a boy, because he never got sick. Never! This changed in 1974. He returned home from an out-of-town business conference, and my mom & I could instantly see that something was amiss when he stepped out of the car. In the full sunlight on the driveway, he glowed bright yellow. The whites of his eyes were gold, and he didn't feel well.

Persistent nagging from my mother got him to the doctor right away, and he was sent to the hospital. Surgery was indicated to remove his gall bladder, and the surgeon kept us waiting far too long for a routine operation. After about six hours on pins & needles, Dr. Miller came out and told us that my dad had inoperable, terminal cancer.

Fortunately, this diagnosis proved false, and I will write more about this someday, but there was something seriously wrong. Modern medicine just had a hell of a time figuring it all out. For the purposes of this chapter, let's just skip ahead to 1976. Following two surgeries with baffling results, my father's case was accepted by Dr. Kenneth Warren, who was associated with the Lahey Clinic. Dr. Warren, a world-renowned specialist, reviewed my dad's medical history, and wanted to examine him personally.

My father took a flight to Boston to consult with Dr. Warren, and was admitted to New England Baptist Hospital. My mother and I were thrown into a panic when my dad called and said that Dr. Warren would be operating on him immediately. Surgery was scheduled for 7:00 the next morning. It was too late in the day to catch a flight from Norfolk, so we packed the car. My father had barely survived his previous operations, so we wanted to be sure he saw us before he was rolled into the surgical suite.

We left at 5:20 in the evening on September 16, 1976. My mom notes in her diary "It took us 14 hrs. - a hard trip - Had rain & fog - Got mixed up a few times & off the road. Bill done most of the driving." Looking back, it's funny to see that hellish trip reduced to these few lines mom's diary allowed. I have never since experienced such torrential rain and heavy fog at the same time. It seemed that we were constantly paying tolls and changing roads. I did most of the driving, because when I turned the car over to my mom in the wee hours, she dozed and I had to grab the wheel to keep us from hitting a tractor-trailer.

We were both emotionally and physically exhausted, but we had to keep moving in hopes of seeing my dad. He had twice before been told he had little time left to enjoy life, and Mom & I feared that his luck had run out. We wanted him to know that we were right there with him in that strange, distant hospital. Mom & I talked to each other to stay alert on the road.

I drove north up the east coast through New Jersey, across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and headed east across New England. It was past the Witching Hour, and we were both having trouble remaining awake. The windshield wipers were hypnotic. My mother decided that it was time to take action. She took a deep breath, and told me a story that jolted me awake.

My mother grew up on a farm just outside the town of Morrison, Iowa. Morrison is still just a dot on the map, so small that several Morrisons would fit inside most neighborhoods. She went to high school in a town due east named Reinbeck, about four miles away. Although there were many photographs of Teenage Carolyn with her friends, she did not have a high school album from her senior year. There were also a couple of pictures that had been cropped so that only my mom remained in the photo.

My mom reminded me of telling me about her former husband, Jon Minor. Well, she admitted, Jon was her second husband. Holy shit! If it hadn't been for pouring rain + dense fog, I probably would have given my mom a full-on stare to be certain she hadn't metamorphosed into Elizabeth Taylor-Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner in the seat beside me. Fortensky hadn't happened along yet, for either my mom or Elizabeth.

My mother married her high-school boyfriend, Wayne Prusner, shortly after graduation in 1949. They may have wed because my mother was pregnant; she didn't say, and it didn't occur to me to ask back then. They moved from their farming community to Waterloo, Iowa, which would have seemed like Metropolis compared to Morrison. I don't know much about this first husband at all, but what I have learned about this time in my mother's life still makes me very sad.

My mom was a sensitive, talented, capable person who was plagued by self-doubt and low self-confidence. The origins of these feelings are explained in this earlier post. I guess this is why she allowed herself to remain too long with Wayne after marrying him. They moved into an upstairs apartment, and once they were married, Wayne's natural cruelty became apparent. He belittled and criticized her, tormented her, and beat her. He kept her from her friends and family as best he could. He treated her worse as soon as her parents left after surprise visits. My mother grew terrified of him, and would not go down a flight of stairs ahead of him because she was afraid he would push her to the bottom.

She had every reason to be fearful, because this marriage ended just as you would expect. My mother was in the final weeks of her pregnancy, and something caused Wayne to fly into a rage. He beat her to the floor, and kicked her repeatedly in the stomach. The child, a boy, did not survive his violence.

Anger probably kept me awake for the remainder of our journey. Emotions carom like free radicals in a teenager's mind on a good day, and the thought of someone harming my mother gave me murderous fantasies. As soon as I was old enough, I would hunt this man down and kill him.

Several years later, grown and on my own, I flew out to visit my grandmother by myself. We had a wonderful time together. At one point, I told Grandma that Mom had told me about her previous marriages. "Oh, so you know about all that, huh?" said Grandma. In talking about Wayne, my grandmother told me "Clayton and I would go to see your mother in Waterloo. We would both cry all the way home. We were worried sick about her, but we couldn't get her to come home." It took that final beating and the death of her child to give my mother the courage she needed to break away.

I'm still in contact with my Aunt Issy in Iowa. Aunt Issy is in her 80's now, and we stay in contact through the Internet and snail mail. She told me that she was at the hospital when the stillborn child was delivered. The doctor, in plain sight of my mother, threw the tiny body in a bin. My aunt still gets angry when she thinks about it. My mother was too battered to attend the funeral, and remained in the hospital while her family watched the little boy's burial at an unmarked grave between my grandparents' future grave sites.

My mother and I reached Boston as dawn was breaking on a Friday morning. The day was rainy and gray. Rush hour was in full swing. We fought our way to the hospital, arriving at 7:25. We were too late to see my father. He had been taken into surgery at 7:00. I saw something I had never witnessed. My mother sank down in a nearby chair, and sobbed like a child, as though she would never stop.

Pressing My Luck?

Boy, it is an incredibly beautiful day here! The sun is bright, the skies are blue, the breeze is sweet, birds are singing, and it's mild with low humidity. My neighbor is out of town, so I went down at 6:30 and took her newspaper in and fed her cat. When I returned home, I hung my big ol' American flag out front in honor of my dad and his service to the USA.

The humidity is low today, too. Did I mention that?

When I came back inside, a television commercial caught my attention. Haynes Furniture is running the biggest sale in their history this very weekend. Incredible! I had planned to stay home doing housey stuff today, but I may need to reconsider.

Then, on the heels of that commercial, the fellow from Victory Nissan breathlessly informed me that his car dealership is running the biggest sale in their history. Now I'm starting to get excited, and here's why: these merchants have been running the biggest sales in their histories regularly for at least a couple of years now. At this rate, their merchandise must be reduced to mere pennies.

I've decided to wait. I have laundry to do, pasta sauce to make, and some impatiens and geraniums to plant. Besides, Independence Day will be here before you know it, and by then it's likely that I can swing by Victory Nissan to grab the keys to a free truck, and then zip over to Haynes Furniture to load a free sofa in the truck bed. That's my plan. I may even be able to negotiate money for gas. I just hope I'm not pressing my luck by delaying.

By the way, the humidity here today is comfortably low, in case you were wondering.

Happy Memorial Day, Dad, and thanks for helping us win World War II!

Less Than 20/20 Vision

I've been doing some research in my mom's diaries in preparation for the next chapter of Two Frogs and a Prince. I have to say that these diaries are a more valuable resource than I would have dreamed when I saw her writing in them as I was growing up. It's too bad I didn't keep one of my own, because as I flip through her diaries I am struck by how much I have forgotten.

The diaries I have been skimming through recently are her 1974-1976 volumes. I was in high school, and it was rare for me to come home when school let out. Nearly every day I was involved with extra-curricular activities. I also had a lot of friends, and the puzzlement comes when I keep running across names and events that I have no recollection of whatsoever. Sometimes the names are vaguely familiar, and sometimes they are not.

One of the friends I do remember, Debbie Schell, had a sister named Julia who died. My mother notes that another friend & I went to the funeral, and that my mother made "cherry dessert" for me to take to the Schell family. I don't remember any of this! It's a bit like walking through a heavy fog, though, because when I read about Julia, an indistinct image of an older girl with 1970's dark blonde hair started to float around the edge of my mind. I have a sort of rippling feeling that Julia had been ill for a long time, and that her death was a dreaded outcome rather than a sudden event.

It is entirely possible that my mind will slowly release more and more of these memories because of my mother's disciplined writings. This has already happened through writing about my childhood on this website. I know that some of our memories can be awakened after a long slumber. Right now, I'm thinking about what an amazing gift these twenty-six handwritten volumes are from my mother to me. Thanks, Mom!

Two Frogs and a Prince, Chapter One

One day, when I was in the early years of high school, my mom & I were in our big, sunny kitchen. She was starting dinner preparations, and I was sitting in the handmade ladder-back rocking chair, staying out of her way. For her own reasons, she decided that this was a good time to share part of her life with me that I had never suspected.


A few of you have browsed through my mother's diaries (there's a link in the right column), so you may find this story of interest. Part of the joy of becoming an adult for me was the slow realization that my parents were whole and complete persons unto themselves. Before I entered the picture, they both led interesting lives before meeting each other and marrying.


"You've probably wondered how I happened to be in Virginia, working for Fred, when I met your father," she began. Actually, I hadn't; I just figured she had moved from Iowa in order to meet & marry my dad and have me. "I don't want you to think I was some idiot who just moved here on a whim. You see, I was married to another man when I first came to Norfolk."


Clunk! I was glad she made sure I was seated before she dropped this bomb. I was stunned. My mom had a secret life I had never heard about? I think I managed a thoughtful reply like "Okay," and then she told me this story.


In the early 50's she was married to a man named Jon Minor. They both lived in Iowa where she grew up, and he joined the Navy. He was stationed in Norfolk, and she followed him to Virginia after he relocated to the East Coast. She owned an old car, and drove from Iowa to Virginia by herself in the winter to be with her husband. Somewhere in Ohio, she was traveling through a town in a valley. The roads were icy, and the car would not make it up the hill leading out of town.


She went to a service station to see what was wrong with the car. The mechanic took a look and told her that her tires were as slick as glass.
"What kind of man would let his wife drive with tires like this?" the mechanic said, shaking his head in disgust. This man was an oracle as well as a garage mechanic, as time's passage would reveal. My mother bought new tires, stayed overnight in this small town, and continued her journey to Virginia.


According to my mother, Jon Minor was not a mean person. He was lively and fun-loving, and had no sense of responsibility. He spent money on sweet gestures like flowers and nice gifts, instead of food and shelter. He was Peter Pan. He continued to let the Navy house him on base or ship, and let my mother fend for herself. During and following WWII, Norfolk had a severe shortage of housing. Given these circumstances, and little money, my mother found a studio apartment in Ocean View. It was a basement apartment.


Anyone familiar with the Ocean View section of Norfolk will understand my question to my mother. "A basement apartment? In Ocean View?" This section of Norfolk borders the Chesapeake Bay, so the elevation is quite low. Basements are not common or desirable. My mom said she had to pull the furniture away from the walls because they dripped with water. I read a book, Conscripted City, a few years ago that described the housing crisis during WWII in Norfolk. This sleepy southern port city suddenly mushroomed into the largest Naval base operation in the world. Residents were pressured to rent out any available space, and desperate people would take anything they could find. Apparently, the owner of this apartment got used to the extra income, and continued to rent this unsuitable space after WWII was over.


My mom said that she had to beg Jon for money. There were days when she could not afford food. She tried to find employment, but jobs were scarce and Navy wives were not desired by employers. They moved away suddenly when their husbands were reassigned. She became an Avon Lady, but she did not have the personality to be a successful salesperson. She frequently went hungry, but was too embarrassed to ask her parents for help.


At some point, Jon's ship was deployed, and getting support from him was even more difficult when she was out of sight. His ship was temporarily reassigned to Charleston, South Carolina, and my mother drove down there. By the time she found a place she could afford, a lonely cabin court on the outskirts of town, it was after dark. When she unlocked her cabin and flipped on the lights, the walls crawled with palmetto bugs. She screamed and fled, and spent the night in her car. The next day, she found a boarding house in Charleston.


Meanwhile, Jon, on board his ship, had a bunk and all the food he could eat. He claimed he had no money to give my mom. Finally, desperation and hunger made my mother call home to her folks. My grandmother immediately took a flight to Charleston.


When my grandmother arrived at the airport, she hailed a cab. She didn't even know where my mother was staying, but she described the rooming house as an old place in town with rooms that opened onto a wrought-iron porch. The cabbie recognized this as the historic district, but in the early 50's it was a dismal and blighted area. My grandmother and her cabbie searched the boarding houses until they found my mother. The cabbie and my grandmother carried on a friendship via letters for many years afterwards.


I believe Grandma convinced my mom to go back with her to Iowa, but at some point my mother returned to Norfolk. She felt it was important to make her marriage work. The reasons for this became clearer to me later, and I think it was more than the stigma of divorce. Back in Norfolk, she beat the streets looking for a job. Once again, no one wanted to hire a Navy wife. My mother would never lie about this as many women did.


There used to be an office building in downtown Norfolk called the Flatiron Building, named for its conformance to the wedge-shaped block on which it was constructed. My mother interviewed for a job there with a tall, kindly man who ran an insurance company. He hired her on the spot. His name was Fred Dowling, and he told her later that he hired her for two reasons. One, that she didn't lie when he asked her if her husband was in the Navy ("I could spot a Navy wife from a mile away"), and also because my mother looked so pitiful. My mother worked for him for several years, eventually moving in with Fred and his wife, Catherine. They were like in-town grandparents to me growing up. The Dowlings were lifelong family friends.


He said my mother was the best secretary he ever had. She was conscientious and efficient. Once, when a hurricane was blowing in, Fred kept urging my mother to close the office so they could head home to Catherine. My mother told him that she needed to finish the payroll. Finally, he made her leave, and as soon as they got outside she found out why. What did she know about hurricanes? She was from Iowa. If he'd said "tornado" she'd have been out the door in a flash.


Downtown Norfolk was deserted, and they had to hold onto signposts, each other, and anything bolted down to get to the car. The ride home was perilous. Store windows were exploding, building signs were falling, and debris was flying everywhere. Downed trees blocked the usual routes home. When they finally pulled in the driveway, Catherine (a very nervous woman on a good day; she had to get down on the floorboards when they drove through mountains) was on the front porch hopping up & down, screaming hysterically. When my mom and Fred reached her, Catherine pointed back to the car and fainted. A tree had fallen and crushed the car as Fred and my mom were walking to the porch. Catherine had been trying to warn them, but if you've ever been in a hurricane, you know that the noise is unbelievable.


One day, while husband Jon was away on a ship, he sent roses to my mother at work. The next day he served her with papers for divorce. He had met another woman in a distant city. My mother didn't bat an eye and did not hesitate. She signed the papers, and closed that chapter in her life.


I looked at my mother with newly opened eyes. It had never occurred to me to speculate on the years between her graduation from high school and marriage to my father. I was just entering an age when I could appreciate the hard work that my mother put into making our house a gracious and welcoming home. The story of a previous marriage was very interesting to me, because no one had ever hinted of such a thing. And that was that.
Or was it?

The Cat Lady of Monte de los Almendros

For several years, my friend Suzanne lived on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain. Recognizing a golden opportunity when I saw it, I was her first guest from the States. I enjoyed my visit thoroughly, and returned as often as I could. I made a total of fours trips during her years there, ranging from ten days to three weeks in duration. Suzanne lives in Amsterdam now, but I have yet to make a trip to The Netherlands. Keep the faith, Suzanne!


My first trip to Spain was also my first European journey, so I decided to splurge and fly first class. I bounced from home to Atlanta, spent some time in the private lounge, and boarded the big jet for an overnight flight to Madrid. The flight was wonderful, sort of like traveling on Air-Tran, I would imagine. I've never flown Air-Tran, but my buddy Sheldon tells me that no matter how long the flight, they won't throw you a pretzel fragment - or even a life-threatening peanut.


Before the plane left the gate I was presented with a crystal flute of champagne and a dinner menu. There was also a small dop kit in my seat containing all sorts of comfort items, including one of those eye-masks I remember seeing in old movies and I Love Lucy episodes.


What to order for dinner? As I pondered the menu, a flight attendant brought me a dish of mixed nuts. Served in a gold-bordered white china bowl, the nuts were piping hot, and there wasn't a lowly peanut in the bunch. See what I mean about being similar to Air-Tran?


Here's what I ordered, as described by Delta's sky-chefs:

Warm Smoked Chicken Roulade topped with grilled Eggplant and Feta
Cheese
Chilled tender Citrus Shrimp served on a bed of Lettuce
Tomato and Caper Relish will accompany your Appetizers (Well, I should hope so!)
Spring Mix with sweet Pepper Julienne and Cucumber
Assorted Rolls and Butter

Asian-Style Beef Tenderloin
Pan-seared Omaha Steak crusted with Szechuan Pepper and Ginger,
accompanied by authentic Shaoxing Rice Wine Sauce, served with Shiitake
Mushrooms in a Jasmine Rice blend and Bok Choy

Fruit and Cheese
Dried and Fresh Fruit with an International Cheese Board featuring
Gloucester, an English cheese with a silky texture and mild flavor; Domaine de
Provence, a goat's milk cheese from North America with a tangy, distinctive
flavor; and Danish Esrom, a piquantly-flavored semi-soft dairy cheese

Raspberry Poached Pears with Mango Puree

I was so relieved to see that I would be dining just like I did at home every night, and the meal was delicious. Just like Air-Tran, the flight attendant brought a tray-sized tablecloth, and tucked a cloth napkin over my lap. Wine flowed, chomp chomp, and the service was attentive.


Breakfast was Fresh Fruit (no descriptives!), and a Savory Carmelized Onion and smoked Gouda Cheese Omelet accompanied by lean-grilled Canadian Bacon and roasted New Potatoes (with the amount I was paying, those potatoes had better be new).


The sun was coming up as we flew over Spain, and in Madrid I boarded a flight to Malaga. Once I located Suzanne in the airport, we set out for the Costa Tropical along the coastal road. Heading east, we gradually left the tourist-laden Costa del Sol, and the road hugged the seaside mountains. All I needed was a head-scarf and sunglasses, and I would have felt just like Grace Kelly. I just hoped for a happier ending as we whipped around the cliffs. The Mediterranean was sparkling and blue, and I was with my dear friend from childhood. Life was good!


I'm sure I will write more tales of my travels to Spain, but this story is about a lady I saw from afar until my final visit to Spain. To have a clear picture of the story, though, I need to tell you about the location of Suzanne's home. She lived above the tiny village of La Caleta, which adjoined the slightly larger town of Salobreña.


We turned off the coastal road and began to climb the mountain, Monte de los Almendros, named for the almond trees which dotted its slopes. The drive up was dizzying after my long flight, and involved a lot of gear shifting as the vehicle negotiated the serpentine road. The drop-offs were sheer, and the road was closely bordered by villa after villa, each enclosed by stuccoed privacy walls and secured by gates. Good Lord, how far up did this mountain go? The sea looked far away down below.

Suzanne's villa, like the others, sat on a steep slope. I soon settled into the leisurely lifestyle, waking and sleeping whenever I liked. Each evening found us on her upper terrace, wine or martini in hand, talking and laughing, gazing out at the blue sea. Each evening, I noticed that cats began gathering at the same time, when the shadows started to first lengthen. Each evening, they came, singly or in pairs, and perched on the top of a wall separating two villas down below Suzanne's place. There were a lot of cats.


Then, as the cats waited, we would hear the car before we saw it round a curve in the road. Every day at this time before twilight, a Mercedes sedan would pull up beneath the cats gathered on the walls. A man was behind the wheel, and he left the motor running while a strikingly elegant older woman got out of the car and began placing bowls of food along the top of the wall. After she stepped back, the cats would begin to eat.


Suzanne explained that these were feral cats, and this English woman came very day to give them food. And so, each day I would watch for her, and I would gaze at her ministrations through Suzanne's binoculars (a must with such a scenic view of the Mediterranean, and handy for spying on neighbors). I noticed that the lady never attempted to touch the cats, and they never drew near her. They waited patiently and warily until she withdrew before they began to eat. When her work was done, she would get back in the car, and her husband would drive them back to their villa.


Watching the daily feeding of the wild felines became something I enjoyed each time I visited Suzanne. Prior to my last vacation in Spain, I got word from Suzanne that something terrible had happened. The Cat Lady had gone to England to visit family, and left the care of the cats to her husband. Somehow, either by accident or carelessness, he got too close to one of the cats. The cat, feeling threatened, bit the man during his evening duties in his wife's absence. He returned to his home, and treated the wound himself. He sickened quickly, and by the time he sought medical attention, it was too late. He died of septicemia.


On my last visit to the Monte los Almendros, we were invited to a garden party at a neighboring villa. There I met the Cat Lady. Her name was Glynnis, and she was as lovely in person as she had been from afar. And she still came each day when the shadows grew long to feed the cats that gathered on the wall.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

D.G. Berg

D.G. Berg
Originally uploaded by bakingbill

In March I wrote about a road trip that Michael & I made to Iowa in the late 1980's. Many of you wanted to see the photograph of my grandmother's teacher, D.G. Berg. My friend Jean scanned this photograph of the turn of the century man-in-drag so that I can post it for you to view. I think my great-grandmother did a nice job making the dress for him. I wonder how the conversations went during those fittings? Did they discuss what would be suitable for fake boobs?

If you have not read the original post, and are therefore a bit bewildered, you may click here for the story of how this studio portrait of a "confirmed bachelor" became part of my grandmother's photo album. D.G. Berg was a former soldier who became a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse in Iowa in the early 1900's. He lived with my grandmother's family when she was a girl.

Found in My Mailbox

I'm peeling and chopping a new post, but here's something to tide you over (as my mother used to say). I found this in my mailbox this morning.

A Day at School: 1957 vs. 2007

Scenario: Jack goes quail hunting before school, pulls into school parking lot with shotgun in gun rack.
1957 - Vice Principal comes over, looks at Jack's shotgun, goes to his car and gets his shotgun to show Jack.
2007 - School goes into lock down, FBI called, Jack hauled off to jail and never sees his truck or gun again. Counselors called in for traumatized students and teachers.

Scenario: Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.
1957 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins. Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up buddies.
2007 - Police called, SWAT team arrives, arrests Johnny and Mark. Charge them with assault, both expelled even though Johnny started it.

Scenario: Jeffrey won't be still in class, disrupts other students.
1957 - Jeffrey sent to office and given a good paddling by the Principal. Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again.
2007 - Jeffrey given huge doses of Ritalin. Becomes a zombie. Tested for ADD. School gets extra money from state because Jeffrey has a disability.

Scenario: Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.
1957 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal, goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.
2007 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse. Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang. State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers being abused herself and their dad goes to prison. Billy's mom has affair with psychologist.

Scenario: Mark gets a headache and takes some aspirin to school.
1957 - Mark shares aspirin with Principal out on the smoking dock.
2007 - Police called, Mark expelled from school for drug violations. Car searched for drugs and weapons.

Scenario: Pedro fails high school English.
1957 - Pedro goes to summer school, passes English, goes to college, gets a great job.
2007 - Pedro's cause is taken up by state. Newspaper articles appear nationally explaining that teaching English as a requirement for graduation is racist. ACLU files class action lawsuit against state school system and Pedro's English teacher. English banned from core curriculum. Pedro given diploma anyway but ends up mowing lawns for a living because he cannot speak English, he cannot support his family and goes on welfare.

Scenario: Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers from 4th of July, puts them in a model airplane paint bottle, blows up a red ant bed.
1957 - Ants die.
2007 - BATF, Homeland Security, FBI called. Johnny charged with domestic terrorism, FBI investigates parents, siblings removed from home, computers confiscated, Johnny's Dad goes on a terror watch list and is never allowed to fly again.

Scenario: Johnny falls while running during recess and scrapes his knee. He is found crying by his teacher, Mary. Mary hugs him to comfort him.
1957 - In a short time, Johnny feels better and goes on playing.
2007 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job. She faces 3 years in State Prison. Johnny undergoes 5 years of therapy.

Never Argue with a Drunk Person

Yesterday morning I put on my Good Deed Hat, hopped on my unicycle*, and went to our local AA Intergroup office. Nancy, the lone office employee, had a pre-paid vacation that she would lose if she couldn't get the time off, and she ran into an unexpected snag. The two people who normally fill in for Nancy were not available; one had recent surgery, and the other is out of the state. Nancy works like a dog, and I hated the thought of her missing her vacation and losing that money, so I volunteered along with others to help her out.


The Intergroup office is in a blocky old building that was built, I'd guess, in the late 1950's. It's all right-angles and long hallways. The only curved parts of the building that I've discovered are the toilet seats, and they are concealed from view by right-angled Sany-Metal partitions. As I was telling Scott, everytime I walk down the hall to the Intergroup office I feel like Jonathan Pryce in the 80's film Brazil.


This office building would have tumbleweeds rolling around the lobby on Saturdays, but since they are round they are banned. I pasted the how-to-get-into-the-building sign on the main entrance, went up the elevator to the sixth floor, visited the curved element in the men's room, and unlocked the Intergroup office. I woke up the hamster that lives in the office computer and got him running on his wheel, took the 24-hour hotline off the night service, and hung the reassuring We're Open! sign on the door. I was prepared for a busy day.

Tick.

Tock.


Tick.



Tock.



I got a few phone calls, but no customers for awhile. The Intergroup office, in addition to administrative chores, stocks books & literature, newsletters, sobriety chips and medallions, jewelry, cult-wear robes, magic wands, and blueprints for Druidic circles for AA members and groups. I bought a book and was reading it when the phone rang.


Here's something I've learned. If someone wants to get sober more than anything else, they will get sober. If someone wants to drink more than anything else, they will drink. Either way, no obstacle will stand in their way if it is something they really want. My caller was a 66-year-old man in Williamsburg. He was afraid he was going to go to the liquor store. He had been sober and relapsed many times. He had lost his wife because of drinking. He was a retired military man and war veteran.


How old was I? Good, he didn't like calling and getting a young person.

How long had I been sober? Good, he didn't like talking to people who got sober the day after the Lord's Last Supper.

Blah blah blah blah blah. It soon became obvious that this man just wanted to talk. Loneliness is a big problem for many active alcoholics, and no wonder. When you act like an asshole, people tend to disengage. I kept steering the conversation back to his problem with alcohol, because on Saturdays the only way a client can get into the building is by calling me from outside and getting me to buzz them in. I asked Mr. Williamsburg if he was looking for a meeting. He was, but not in Williamsburg, because everyone went to the meetings drunk. I had a feeling that everyone meant him.


I suggested a meeting in Richmond, and gave him the directions, telling him that it was at the corner of Monument and Staples Mill. He told me there was no such intersection. I assured him that there was. He said that Staples Mill ended at another street. I told him that I was sure it didn't, because I went to this meeting five days a week. I thought we had settled this, and that he could find the meeting with confidence.


But no, he had to go back there: If you would look a a topographical map, you would see that Staples Mill does not extend to Monument. Well, dang, I must have been driving through peoples' yards for the past year.


"I'll tell you what. You come to the meeting at 4819 Monument Avenue tomorrow, and I'll show you," I replied. He hung up.


It's probably a good thing he did, because Nancy doesn't take any crap on the phone, and I won't either. I try to exert restraint of tongue, so I wouldn't have said anything more than "I understand. I always had to be right, also. But then I realized that I'm human, so I can't always be right, and thinking that I could always be right and then getting frustrated helped me keep drinking." The restraint of tongue would have been not adding "I'll bet these are the kind of stupid arguments you started with your ex-wife, and that's why you're alone now." He probably hung up the phone and made a beeline for the ABC store, thinking "AA is nothing but assholes." As I said, if someone wants to drink, they will drink. At least I got a rueful chuckle, and he got the excuse he needed to drink.


He will drink because it's a bad day. He will drink because it's a good day. He will drink because he is angry or sad, happy or depressed, it's rainy or sunny or windy & cold. Because his wife left him/dog died/truck broke down or his dog left him/truck died/wife broke down. He will seize on any excuse to drink, and blame everyone else for every problem in life as he raises the bottle to his lips. I know this from personal experience.


I am sober today because I want to be sober.


During my morning visits today I found an interesting meme on Lemuel's blog. Here's how it works:

1. Pick up the nearest book (at least 123 pages).
2. Turn to page 123.
3. Find the 5th sentence
4. Post the 5th sentence.
5. Tag 5 people. (I'm not tagging anyone. Do this if it sounds fun to you.)


Okay, can you believe the the first three books I picked up didn't have 123 pages? Maybe it's time for me to put the Dick & Jane books away. Then I tried my mother's 1963 diary. No page numbers, and I didn't feel like doing even simple math. Then I found this:

We would not believe that our adult dreams were often truly childish.

That's from Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, a staple of the Alcoholics Anonymous literature.


* If anyone believes that I really hopped on a unicycle, jump up and grab a thermometer immediately. You may be running a dangerously high temperature. I did long for a unicycle when I was a boy, but my mother would have none of that nonsense. She hated spending time in doctors' waiting rooms when she could be ironing clothes or scrubbing a bathroom floor.