Is a Rose Still a Rose?

I'm a writer. I like words. I don't have a particularly extensive vocabulary, but I'm working on it. As a writer and lover of words I should probably appreciate etymology a little more. While I find it interesting, sometimes even fascinating, how words come to be, I apparently don't like watching it happen. I'll explain.

I was working on my novel the other day and one of the characters said that she was 'empowered.' I cringed after I wrote that and sat back and considered it. The woman had gained an important lesson and, consequently, life skill from a dream she'd had. She came away from that dream truly empowered. I have new-agey images that come to mind with the word empowered. I see people rolling their eyes and waving their hands in the air, "Oh, she was empowered, was she?"

That's too bad. I kept the word because that's what I meant because that's what she was. When a word is overused, used in the wrong context or is associated with a certain stereotype it loses impact, even definition.

I don't like seeing what is happening to words like appropriate. I'm so aggravated with parents who watch their child hit another child on the head with a sand shovel and say, "Now, Titus, that's not appropriate." Do they know what the word appropriate means? 'Suitable for the situation' is my definition. Just when is it appropriate for little Titus to hit little Carlos over the head with the sand shovel, mommy? Call it what it is: it's mean, it's cruel, it's wrong, it's (gasp) bad.

But we don't like using (truthful) words like that, do we? Oh how we are cheating the coming generations out of a recognition of truth and clear, truthful speech. When adults use words haphazardly like that, they miss out on wonderful teaching opportunities. Teach Titus that, though he is a good boy it is a bad act to hit Carlos on the head with the sand shovel. Why would a good boy like you, Titus, do something like that?

That way, Titus not only learns that he is good, though a living contradiction at times, he learns that good people can do bad things. Maybe mommy hasn't learned this yet.

The next time, and I bet I won't have to wait long, I hear a gay couple introduce each other as "my partner," I'm going to ask, innocently and wide-eyed, "Partners in what?" That ought to bring about some stuttering. Why do they insist on referring to each other as though they are half of a law firm or vaudeville team? Why can't they introduce their lover as their lover? They obviously aren't ashamed of their love since they have come out as a couple. I don't get it.

I'm disturbed at how many times people describe an area hit by a hurricane or earthquake as "a war zone." I'm betting most of those have never been in a war zone. Maybe I'm wrong. I've seen pictures from war zones and earthquakes and, yes, I see how alike the aftermath can look. I just think it's not a good idea to toss out the comparison between man's atrocities in war to nature. I know we like short cuts. We don't want to take the time to say, "houses are leveled, bodies are strewn, cars flipped over into ditches, burned out buildings . . ." I fear we may be missing out on the impact it has had on those who suffered the tornado, or whatever natural disaster. Those people see every bit of the destruction I listed (and more, probably, I don't know) bit by bit with every step they take through their neighborhood. They don't have the luxury of abbreviating anything now. They must collect every body, haul away every piece of debris, rebuild every house. (Instead of that sentence, I almost wrote that they must 'deal with' the aftermath, but that, too would have been an inappropriate shortcut.) Perhaps if we reported more truthfully - what actually - happened we'd have more empathy.  If we're short on time just say, "It was utterly destructive."

I'd like to, even just once, see a sign at a business that, instead of reading "Sorry for the inconvenience" says "Sorry we failed to think ahead." Or, "Sorry we're too dependent on computers, which we know to be are unreliable, and they're down right now ."

The attention-grabber of the month is not usually 'speaking out,' they are being interviewed (likely for pay and a make-over) or relishing their 15 minutes. Speaking out sounds like they have something to contribute that is unknown or hasn't been said. Too many of those people are just on the show for ratings, self-glorification or public pity-party.

Awesome is a word that particularly bugs me. Awesome got popular during the time in my life I was getting serious about God. A skateboard trick is not awesome; God is awesome. A picture your child drew for you is not awesome: a lightening storm is awesome. The home run you just hit is not awesome; an approaching habub is awesome. I love the definition of awe. It's a blend of "reverence, fear and wonder" according to the New World Dictionary. I guess a skateboard trick could be awesome, like the acts in Cirque du Soleil. I still say the word is overused, no - misused.

Since I was raped I take the time to tell people that, no, the bank didn't rape you with all those fees, they charged you or they over-charged you. Know your audience folks when using dramatic language or it has strong unintended consequences.

One more. Discovering that your skirt got caught in the top of your thong undies is not horrifying to you, it's embarrassing. Now if we're talking about me and I've managed to tuck my skirt into my thong and you use the second definition of horrify, "shock or disgust" (again New World Dictionary) then it is indeed horrifying for those who can see it, but not to me. To me it remains to be embarrassing.

I do understand exaggeration, I really do. What I want to know is why isn't being embarrassed strong enough? Why bring horror into it? Actually, I think I have the answer. It's the same reason the word 'excellent' won't do for some, that it must be 'awesome'. And the same reason someone wants to say that being robbed was like being raped. We want to dramatize our experience so we exaggerate. Those exaggerations become overused, popular catch-phrases that others grab at rather than thinking of how to express themselves. We are guilty of a limited vocabulary. And we are not utilizing our creativity in expressing ourselves.

Instead of reverting to 'awesome' (in the above situations), how about 'fabulous' or 'Picasso would be proud,' or 'Just like Al* taught me'.

Instead of saying over-charged, robbed or raped, get clever. I had a friend who miscalculated his expenditures and the bank bounced about a dozen checks. His issue was the order in which the bank bounced them. There was one check for a couple thousand dollars and twelve for under $100 or so. The bank processed the largest check first, in effect emptying the account, then proceeded to bounce - and charge fees on - the rest of them. He called the bank and said, "Do you want me to sing the 'I'm stupid' song? I'll sing the 'I'm stupid' song for you right now." They reversed the charges on all but one. (I don't know what he sang.)

If embarrassing isn't good enough when you find yourself exposed, try "It was like I was open for business." It will be much more meaningful, showing that you can laugh at yourself. And memorable, though there are some things we'd prefer lost in the cosmos of time.

*Alex Rodriguez. For those readers who, like me had I not written this, would have no idea who this is.

Still Rising

Of all my posts, this one may be the one that most fits with my blog title, As I Rise. I recently spent three weeks in Phoenix helping out my parents. My poor mother fell and broke her shoulder. She already suffers with diabetes and arthritis so a fall like this affects her entire body. She has fallen before and broken bones so each time, in her own words, she bounces back a little less.

When I arrived in Phoenix she was in a rehabilitation facility being cared for by pretty good people. Her insurance company was under the delusion that two weeks is enough time for an 83 year old woman to recover from a broken shoulder and be done with physical therapy. Do these people know how long a broken bone takes to heal on a younger, fitter person?

Bringing her home was not a viable option. My father, feeling the affects of age, is no longer strong enough to give her the help she needs. Neither of my parents want to leave their home of about 60 years. Understandable. So I needed to find affordable in-home health care. A man who is an agent for such care visited with me and mom and, after talking with us, said that he felt that in-home care was not enough at this point. That left the rather immediate need to find another facility where she could stay and recuperate and regain enough strength to return home. I had three days.

We considered leaving mom where she was, as that was an option. You'll soon find out why we're glad we didn't do that.

I met with a woman the rehabilitation center recommended. Her name is Sue Royer (602-663-4000). She proved to be a gem. She met with me and mom, assessed her needs and desires and found a place about seven miles from their house so that it would be easy for dad to visit. I visited the house with Sue and got a good feeling about it. It is a ranch-style house that has been converted into a long-term care facility. It is run by kind, loving, knowledgeable Filipino women who laugh easily, care, cook delicious food and take their jobs seriously. Part of my good feeling came from the fact that when Sue walked into the house she knew some of the residents and they knew her. There are eight other elderly women living there who were sitting in the living room alert and engaged. Mom had the option of sharing a room or having a private room. She chose to have a private room.

Let me insert here that if any of my readers ever find themselves needing to find a place for an elderly person to live, find a senior placement agent like Sue. She was invaluable.

We moved mom into her new room after a harrowing last night at the rehabilitation center. I got a call from mom around 7:30. She needed assistance and no one was answering her call light. Her emergency call light. I won't go into too many details, but this is something I'd already discussed with staff there. When I visited it took them as long as 10 minutes to respond. "Do you realize that she's diabetic?" I asked. "Do you understand what an emergency is?" I asked. Well that night, after waiting a half hour or so and calling the only extension within the facility she knew (the kitchen where no one was) mom called me. Mom's body may be failing her, but her mind serves her quite well, thank you very much. I had just returned home from having visited her. She had pushed the call light before I left and someone responded. It turns out this person turned off the light and said she'd be back. She didn't return until after I got there and walked up and down the halls shouting for help. Mom wasn't in danger; it was the principle. I'm glad mom is in the house she's in now.

So how does all this fit in with my blog theme, 'As I Rise'? Some of the things that I had to deal with in Phoenix include setting up transportation for mom to and from appointments and her new (temporary) home, trying to talk some sense into her insurance company to cover more than two weeks of rehabilitation and setting up powers of attorney - all new territory for me. (Did I mention that Douglas and I were in the middle of buying a house? I had to sign over power of attorney to Douglas so he could sign in my absence.)

Usually when I go to Phoenix I'm enjoying Mexican food every other day, visiting friends, dashing off to See's Candy for a fix. Not this time. I could not believe how many errands there were to do. I also marveled at my energy. I was on the job, focused. I have a notebook with more notes than I've taken since German class. I was organized. I had to be. I put off nothing. I hadn't the leisure. And I came away with the realization that, when I'm given full reign, I can accomplish a lot.

This is big for me. This is something I wish I had come to decades ago. At least I made it.

I have spent my life doubting and second guessing myself. I have taken on jobs where people criticize and question my methods, discouraging me and sucking all desire to help out of me. This has left me very hesitant to take on anything I don't know with certainty that I can do. This last trip to Phoenix changed that.

I've had few other experiences like this in my life: getting to know God, marrying Douglas and storytelling. Perhaps in another blog I'll expound on those. Comment if you'd like to hear about the difference these three things have made in my life, that will prod me along. After a particularly enlightening prayer time or storytelling session I ask myself, "How can I hold onto this? How can I make this grow?" So now I reflect on Phoenix and ask myself those same questions.

So far I've told Douglas that I want a more active role in matters of the home like finances. What have I actually done? I'm a bit limited as we are two out of three shipments into moving into the house. I must sort through things, decide what to keep, what to donate and what to try and sell. I figured out how to list a dress I want to sell on Craig's list with a picture. (We purposefully bought a small house so we'd have to pare down our possessions.) I took on a challenge with a friend to write 1,700 words a day in the month of November. (I'm editing this November 13; so far, so good.) Writing is something that often gets pushed aside when there is so much going on. I have interest in my novel from a book scout in Germany so I must move forward with it and finish it. Douglas and I are budgeting and I must shop and cook smartly. That coupled with limited space means I must plan. (Those of you who really know me - stop laughing. It can happen.) I realize the importance of long-term health care insurance. I called Douglas from Phoenix and told him we've procrastinated long enough and need to buy it this year. And I've decided that I must do push-ups, sit-ups, squats and/or plies every day. (Notice the lack of update on this matter.) I see what my parents are going through physically I don't want to lose too much strength. If I do, I don't want it to be due to complacency or laziness. If I lose it, so help me, it will be due to injury or illness. Though I've set the bar rather low, 10 each per day, I'm still not doing it daily. Feel free to comment in the future, Laura, are you doing your push-ups?

One last thing. Those of you who read my "If I Can" blog remember how instrumental visualization was for me. I came away from Phoenix seeing myself having done all that I did and that makes it easier to see myself doing the more every-day things like finding my way around a new city, researching free, engaging activities for Douglas and I to do in the D.C. area, acquainting myself with my political representatives and begin writing them. (I have written to my senators and representative.) Maybe even buying my own long-term health insurance. (Looked into it, got mad, walked away; will likely give in this weekend and get it.)



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Why I’m Grateful for Donald Trump

This morning I was watching CNN in the aftermath of the “debate”. (I use quotes because as I understand rules of debate, these “debates” don’t go by them.) Carly Fiorina was asked to comment on Donald Trump’s persona. Donald Trump’s reaction to her being asked this was to look at the camera, give a little shrug and let go a monkey-like “Ooh.” Carly Fiorina responded, “You know, it’s interesting. Mr. Trump said he heard Mr. Bush clearly and what Mr. Bush said. I think women all over this country heard very clearly what Mr. Trump said.” Donald Trump’s reaction to this was, a smirk-like smile and “I think she’s got a beautiful face and she’s a beautiful woman.”

The point has been made already that no one comments about what male presidential candidate’s look like. The exception to this would be body language and Donald Trump’s hair which has long been a joke unconnected with his running for President. Of course any woman will be judged in part by her looks regardless of what she’s doing because society is so biased and unashamedly stuck on what women look like. People tend to pick on males on this issue, I’m going to focus on women instead. Women support keeping themselves in this base sexual role every day. Women support it whenever they go to a movie with nudity since the nudity is female unless it’s someone’s back end. When nudity is a male’s back end chances are it’s comic relief. I almost broke down the other night to watch “Wild” with Reese Witherspoon. There was nudity in it. The warning said that a female was lying on a bed naked, or bare chested I think, then rolled over facing a mirror in which she was reflected. I almost watched it because apparently there is male nudity in it, too, “from a distance.” First of all, why is it overwhelmingly female nudity in movies and advertisements? Secondly why show the man from a distance? Do we want men to be ashamed of what they look like? Do we want women to continue to live with others expecting them to be judged by what they look like in every way? How can anyone make sense of wanting equal treatment while they are willing to regularly support women being kept in the subservient role of sex toy? Maybe Donald Trump’s foul behavior will bring this to light and open discussion. 

I have heard Donald Trump say nothing of substance. What I mean is I have not heard him say specifically what needs to be done with the problem of immigration, for example. I heard a supporter say that Donald Trump sees the need for a wall built on our border. Perhaps he did say that. There was a day when I would have jumped on that bandwagon shouting, “Build that wall! Build that wall!” Today I only have images of China’s wall and Germany’s wall. Different, I know, but sad. Donald Trump says he has the solution to ISIL, but he won’t share it. Of course this makes people wonder if he really has a solution. It makes others wonder why someone who puts himself out as one who loves his country would keep this a secret. Why would he sit back silent while more people die rather than sharing it so it can be implemented and we can end this suffering and terror? It makes me think that Donald Trump sees himself and his personal agenda as more important than implementing this supposed solution.

More disturbing than his behavior is the number of people who support him, the number of people who want him to be the face of America on the world stage. God help us. I've heard it said that Donald Trump says things that Americans need to hear. That may be true, but to revert to third grade and call names and to smirk and make goggly eyes while others are speaking isn't a respectful, intelligent, civilized way to do it.

I once wrote that we need to learn how to disagree, how to argue respectfully. It would help if these debates were truly run as debates as I understand them – people speaking in turn one at a time. Donald Trump’s behavior is bringing this to the forefront of my mind again. I have lost a family member and two friends because they will not discuss our differences with me. That’s sad. If a friend refuses to discuss something uncomfortable, how can they ever expect others to employ diplomacy? If their idea of a solution to differences is to avoid contact, how can we ever bridge cultural differences? Perhaps Donald Trumps abominable behavior will bring this to light.

Please, my few readers (I think there are about nine now) this must start somewhere. I’m going to use one of my favorite words: we must practice civil argument. In order to practice this, we must engage in it. I don’t mean picking fights, I mean not shying away when we don’t see eye to eye with someone. Ask them how they came to their beliefs. Be ready to tell someone how you came to your beliefs. If it’s hard to put into words, tell them that. Tell them you need tine to formulate your thoughts into words then walk away and do it. If you don't know how to, think of someone who is good at it and ask them how they do it. Ask them to help you A good debater can formulate thoughts and ideas for either side of an issue. When someone has a difficult time defending their position and putting into words how they came to their beliefs, be quiet and give them time – silence – to share it with you. Let’s love each other and our society enough to do this. Please.

My Personal Pool of Bethesda

I returned to the States with a bit of apprehension. You see I have a volatile relationship with food. I fairly obsess over it. (I'm lucky I'm so hyper or I'd be huge I'm sure.) Anyway, I had a line up (in no particular order) of what I looked forward to putting in my mouth when I got home: fountain served Pepsi, Taco Bell (grilled stuffed burrito - no beans, no guacamole, extra beef), dark chocolate M&Ms, Bruegger's Bagels (rosemary olive oil bagel with light herb garlic cream cheese), Haagen Daz Belgian Chocolate-Chocolate ice cream,  (I could go on, but it may get boring or I may need to take a break and dash to the mall). I was afraid I'd come home and gorge myself. So far, so good. This is, in part, due to the healing properties Falls Church has on me. 

When I first lived in Falls Church in 2009 I was in my own personal boot camp. (You can read about it in my first blog called "If I Can.") Basically I started eating better, exercising regularly, praying daily again and studying. The first morning back recently I went for a walk along a trail I frequented when I lived here before. There was a moment (unsolicited) in which I felt a small wave or sensation drape over me and I knew I was going to be alright. I knew I would maintain the discipline I hoped to. 

One of my favorite local trees. I don't know what kind it is, I just love the wood; it looks rich.

Immediately I thought of the Bible story about the pool of Bethesda. Many sick or in some way physically unwell lay around this pool waiting for an angel to stir the water. Whoever got into the water first after the angel stirred it would be healed. I guess that, as I walked down that path that first morning, it was a bit of a Pavlovian response. Long ago I established Falls Church as a place of self improvement. Even though I've been away twice for years it is still a magical place that enables me to be what I most strive to be. I have succeeded here before; that success will continue today.

Four Mile Run Stream

It's only been two days, but I've already had small victories like ordering salmon instead of the french dip and fries and water instead of Pepsi. I'm seeing the importance of practice and forming habits. In the two years that I lived in these apartments I can count on my fingers how many times I took the elevator - due to luggage or an excessive amount of groceries. I am currently living on the seventh floor and automatically take the stairs.

I'll be living in this area longer this time - at least two years, quite possibly three - so I need some goals so I can ride this tide of betterment. One goal is to learn my way around. I never did in the past, in part, because of the amount of time required to study language. This time I don't have that excuse. Douglas and I'll likely be living in Silver Spring, Maryland while he works in D.C. proper. I've heard of an urban orienteering group I may join.

I failed to achieve my one goal I set for living in Munich. I did not finish my novel. I'm disappointed in myself because of that. If I don't finish it while living here I don't know what I'll do. I did form some good writing habits in Munich so I'll use those to move forward.

I'm planning on teaching piano again so I'll set some goals for my practice - memorizing pieces for example.

In Munich I had the English Garden to walk through; in Silver Spring we'll have Wheaton Regional Park and Rock Creek Park. (Douglas and I have had fun with Rock Creek Park in our search for the perfect neighborhood. We like the idea of living near a park, but we are fans of NCIS and know how many people get killed in Rock Creek Park. So we always say, "Not Rock Creek Park! People get killed there." In reality, between 2002 - when Chandra Levy was found dead there - and 2013 there were no murders in the park. I guess that's comforting.)

There is an ornamental tree garden along part of the path I walk on.

A detail from the tree.

Goodbye Munich

As I begin writing this Douglas and I have about 20 more hours in Munich. It is with mixed emotions that I leave Munich. I have loved my life here, but this has been a difficult post for Douglas as he has been working his required position as a Consular Officer – not his favorite position he soon learned. Tashkent was the post of hikes; Munich has been the post of surgeries. I had shoulder surgery shortly before arriving and have had two surgeries on three fingers since I’ve been here. The Embassy social life was much more active in Tashkent, but here in Munich I joined the Munich English Language choir and the Munich Creative Group. In the spirit of Emily’s goodbye monologue in Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” I want to say goodbye to Munich.

Goodbye Munich.

Goodbye caring, helpful people who would drop everything to help me find my way and often just as soon walk me there as give me directions – in German or in English. 

Germans are even tidy when they litter!

Goodbye pedestrian zones, like long, outdoor malls often with a festival, through which I’d rather walk than ride the U-Bahn.

Sometimes the pedestrian zones are as crowded as a freeway at rush hour, like during Christmastime and the Weihnachtsmarkt.

Goodbye cobblestone streets that tear up my heels, but look so nice and make me feel like I’m back in time.

Goodbye church bells – real church bells, the kind like in The Sound of Music where you see the boy dangling from the pull rope – especially the Sunday bells when all the area churches agree it’s time to ring them.

I had the pleasure of singing in this gorgeous church.

Goodbye old, ornate buildings that echo the sound of the bells until I don’t know where the ringing is coming from; that play with the sound of the bells, tossing the sound around long after the bells have stopped ringing.

This is two views of Odeonsplatz, the gateway to the pedestrian zone where you can walk for about a mile in a couple different directions without automobile traffic. You can buy Christmas trees there in December and relax in a beanbag chair there with a book in July.

This is the Rathaus (city hall). I passed this often. On this night I was walking back from a choir rehearsal when I noticed the moon. (I would have missed this had I taken the U-Bahn.)

Goodbye Munich English Choir. Though your rehearsals were run in German (something I never understood - in more than one way) I loved singing again. I loved participating in the Evensong services and the Advent service. I loved singing in some of the amazing German churches in the area.

St. Ottillien's where we sang an Evensong and an Advent service.

Goodbye English Garden (“the backyard”). I will miss your miles of trails and rivers. I will miss autumn when I’d lie under your trees and watch the leaves rain onto me. I will miss snow winters when I got to trudge around in snowshoes. I will miss the daily assortment of musicians, the Sunday drummers, the sunbathers, the slackline walkers, the beer gardens, the dogs frolicking, walking through after a storm and experiencing the after-rain from your trees. And I will miss Confucius, Chopin and Ting-Ting the click-clack man.

The English Garden in the Wintertime and in summer.

Goodbye Orff Zentrum. There was never a better neighbor. I enjoyed the concerts – the one I attended, and all those I overheard through our open windows.

Goodbye to Prague, Salzburg, Tirol and all the beautiful German cities we visited while we were here.

Prague. Sorry for my face being a bit in the way. It was quite rainy when we were there and we have few pictures of Prague. The only other choice had some strange man's head in it. I figured it was either mine or his 

This is Bamberg, aka Little Venice.

This was taken when Douglas and I were in Neuss (along the Rhine River) to see the Rose Ensemble.

Quite possibly the most beautiful spot I visited. This is the Eib See in Garmisch.

This was taken on the Limesstrasse near an old Roman fort. I heard cuckoos talking to each other here. Delightful. This next picture was taken in this same area.

I thought the architecture of this church was interesting. (I don't know why this cursed blog keepss changing fonts on me. Anyone?)

Tirol, Austria.

Douglas's next post is in Washington D.C. for two or three years. This job will have him travelling into Central Asia - Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan as a Country Assistance Officer.

We're down to about ten hours now. We enjoyed one last walk in the English Garden in hopes of wearing ourselves out to sleep tonight and sit for nine or so hours on the plane tomorrow. The moon is almost full. I'm not sure whether it's waxing or waning, but I know that Douglas and I are still in our waxing years.

(Okay, that kind of sounds weird. I don't mean my upper lip and his nose cavities. No. Cripes! I mean we're still growing, maturing. (Waxing sounded so poetic in my mind.) Um. . .  We're becoming more fully rounded. Lord, it just gets worse.)

The End

Anticipation and memories

Douglas is counting down his final ten working days in Munich. We were packed out yesterday, we are down to a fraction of our clothing and toiletries, our computers, four books, a few food stuffs and several (mostly spent) candles. No piano. No CDs. No yoga mats (not that they've been getting that much use as of late). No TV. We like it like this.

I was asked by a friend last week what I'd miss most about Munich. "I'm looking at it." I answered as she looked at me. Mrs. Julie (not to be confused with my friend Miss Julie in St. Paul) is my steady writing and walking companion in Munich. I met her as part of a creative group. We stayed in that group, but also split off and formed a writing group which for a time dwindled down to just the two of us. The following is my latest contribution to the writing group. Our assignment was to write as though blind - exploring our other senses. We could still describe what we saw, but we were to emphasize the lesser senses.

Summers in our little red brick oven of a house in St. Paul nearly exorcised the saint in me. I grew up in Phoenix where temperatures in the 110’s were common so I’m not put off by hot weather. (I can hear your thoughts, “But it’s a dry heat.” Yeah. You walk around all day with an iron set at cotton a half inch from your skin then tell me it’s a dry heat. You spend a summer being able to etch your name in your skin with your fingernail regardless of how much lotion you rub in and then tell me it’s a dry heat.) In Phoenix we had the sense to put in air conditioning units in our houses. St. Paulites don’t like destroying the integrity of these ‘nice old houses’ by installing air. What about our integrity?

My last summer in St. Paul, I took classes towards a degree in piano pedagogy which meant I needed to spend a lot of time at the piano. Opening the windows did little good. It was like sitting in the oven turned up to 300 with the oven door open. Big deal. I sat at the piano trying to concentrate on theory so difficult I cried (in class and at home), fingers slipping off the keys from sweat, rivulets of sweat trickling and tickling down the backs of my calves, my own stench beginning to overwhelm me. So I took to the basement and my keyboard.

The basement is also where my husband and I often slept during the summer. Summers in St. Paul were not good for the marriage bed. Calls of “you want to?” were replaced with warnings “you’re touching me!” Trying to have sex in that weather was like going at it covered in cooking grease (appealing to some, I’m sure) with baggies pulled over our heads. The slap-slap of our wet bellies was only sexy for a minute or so. The slap-slap of my wet breasts was never sexy. The effort it took to keep it up and breathe could not have made for a ‘come hither’ expression on my face. It’s one thing to share in grief with one you love by touching and tasting a tear; it’s another thing entirely to get a mouthful of your lover’s forehead sweat in your mouth wide open gasping for air. St. Paul water torture.

So we often took to the basement. One night I woke up from what must have been a very pleasant dream. I felt light. I felt floaty. I even thought I could hear a gentle, soothing waterfall. Hypnogogic images. As I relished this feeling I rolled over on the air mattress and realized my nose was dripping – or was it sweat? Either way I needed a tissue. I reached my hand over to where my tissues were and my hand fell into inches of water. We were adrift in the basement. The weird thing about this (there were so many) was my first thought of all the centipedes that were probably taking refuge on the air mattress with us. Immediately I began to ‘feel’ them.

“Douglas!”

“Wha . . .?”

“We’re floating.”

“Mm zzammazzam . . .”

“Douglas!”

“Shit!”** (Don’t tell him I told you he said that. He has a reputation.)

“Where’s the flashlight?” I asked.

“You put it in the tissue box.”

“Where’s the tissue box?”

It was storming outside and, we later found out, the downspout had become disattached from the house so all the water from the roof, the high, pointed roof, was now pouring into the basement. He, being the man, was the one required to leave the relative safety of the air mattress to find his way upstairs to the light switch. I felt for him, I really did. It’s bad enough in the light prodding one’s way through the spider webs, but it’s worse for tall people like Douglas. He’s almost 6 feet tall the pipes hang about 5’6’’ off the ground. After this night I wrapped all the pipes in bubble wrap. Over his feet sloshing through the water I heard toes thumping into pallets, hands feeling past plastic bags of stuff from the attics of our childhood homes, his poor head finding every low hanging pipe and a vocabulary I never knew he possessed. At least the water wasn’t cold.

He made it to the stairs and up to the kitchen where he turned on the light. Of course the power was out. Lightning storm, it would be. I heard muffled footsteps through the ceiling as he searched for a flashlight, candle, firefly – whatever.

Water has a way of embellishing scents like the heat has a way of magnifying – I mean embellishing – tempers. While awaiting Douglas in this dark, splashy basement where the air mattress bounced off my Barbie dream house I could smell the years from the blocked drain. I could smell the rotting wood of the pallets we brought down to keep boxes of Douglas’s old army uniforms and my old singing telegram costumes dry. (While he kept you safe I kept you laughing.) And ever so faintly above all these normal basement smells wafted the memory jerking scent of my old Avon perfume bottle collection.

Somewhere in a distant corner I could hear the occasional piece of peeling plaster break off and splash into the water. That stirred up the bats, the wings of which could be heard . . . no that was Douglas’s slippers flip-flapping on the kitchen floor directly above where I had drifted.

Candle in hand, he descended the stairs. He stood at the bottom of the steps and told me to come to the light like I was a moth.

“Did you bring my slippers?”

“Why do you need your slippers?”

“I don’t want to walk on the basement floor in my bare feet.”

“It’s covered with water!”

“I know.”

He stomped back upstairs. All this happened just a couple of months before we left St. Paul for the Foreign Service. I had been reading a book, “Our Man in Belize,” about a Foreign Service officer in Belize during a hurricane. The day after the hurricane he slogged through waist deep water stepping on the submerged bodies of dogs and people. There was no way I was walking across this basement in the dark with bare feet. Douglas returned with my Wellies. This was the night I found out my Target brand Wellies (not really Wellies, I know, I know) leaked. Walking up the stairs I sounded like an eight year old playing his armpit.

“I’m not farting,” I told Douglas. “It’s the Wellies.” 

*Note to Douglas's mother: He didn't really say shit, that's just artistic license.

* Note to my mommy: Indeed Douglas did say that. I would never think of using a word like that under the guise of artistic license.

Salzburg

One of the blessings of being married to Douglas is the number of 'firsts' I've experienced with him. Many of these are a result of his working for the Foreign Service like studying Russian and German and living in and visiting different countries. I had another first over the weekend - we went to Salzburg. If I could go back and tell my ten year old self that one day she'd go to Austria where The Sound of Music was filmed she (I) would have been ecstatic. Douglas and I did not go to the touristy Sound of Music sights; neither of us wanted to walk away with "Doe a deer, a female deer" stuck in our heads all weekend. But no matter, we had a fabulous weekend.

In short Salzburg is inescapably beautiful. The presence of the mountains standing over and around everything is a constant, glorious feature. Add the old, stylized buildings, walk the streets and it is like being in the past or a character in a novel.

We didn't have much time so we didn't get to see a lot. One surprise was the Salzburg Panorama Museum. In the early 1800's Johann Michael Sattler decided to paint a panorama of Salzburg as it looked from atop the castle. He did this before photography so he must have had an excellent mental image of the city because there is enough photograph-like detail in it to see many aspects of daily life in 1829 Salzburg. It is displayed in a round room so you can stand and imagine yourself on top of the castle looking at it through what Douglas would call "history goggles". Also on display are his many cosmoramas - paintings of various cities throughout the world which he painted so that those who could not travel could still see Cairo, Syria, the Hudson in the United States, Mecca, Athens, and many more foreign places. Unfortunately we were not allowed to take photographs in this museum.

We visited Mozart's birthplace and saw the tiny 3-4 octave piano on which he composed The Magic Flute. We learned that his sister Maria Anna was also an accomplished pianist playing many concerts and recitals, but as a female was "encouraged" to marry rather than pursue a career.

The Salzburg Cathedral is lavishly ornate with many chapels, five sets of organ pipes (four smaller and one grand set in the back) and carvings and paintings everywhere. You can descend into the catacombs to see not only what you'd expect to see, but a small collection of day of the dead style shadow art.

Douglas wasn't feeling very well after lunch (too much strudel) so I ventured into the Hohensalzburg Fortress alone while he stayed out in the fresh air. On the lower floor was a marionette museum which is either charming or terrifying depending on how you feel about things like clowns. Upstairs I saw a collection of torture implements (it seems like you can't go to any of these old cities without seeing some good old torture devices), antique musical instruments, swords and guns (not to be confused with the implements of torture) and a few rooms set up the way they would have been back in the day. This is when my prince comes into the story. Not Douglas. He was still downstairs getting some fresh air, though, as there was a front moving in (more on that later) he would have been fine in these breezy rooms with the windows open. An older guard pointed to a closet or cabinet - looking structure and asked me, with a gleam in his eye, if I knew what was hidden in it. I took a guess. Something to heat the room? "No, my princess." he replied. "Guess again." "A toilet?" Wrong again. He told me to look around the room to see what was there then return and try again. I did and then guessed a closet. Nope. He then made a dramatic production of unlinking the chain that held back the masses and allowed me - just me - to go back and look to see what it contained. He made me promise to not be angry with him when I realized how disappointing it was to discover its contents. I promised. It was enclosed on three sides by two by fours, but I could see a bit through the cracks and within it hung a bat - a stuffed bat. But that wasn't it. There was a staircase just visible in the corner that spiraled down. That was what was hidden in/under this closet-like place. He then took me on a short, private tour. He made a show of pulling from his pocket a key which opened a window through which one could peek into the private gardens of the monks. "No one but the monks can go there, ." He said. 'Except through this window with their eyes.' This man loves his job. He then showed me the famous red marble of Salzburg and a shape in some of the decorations. "Do you know what that is, my princess?" He asked me. "It looks like a turnip." I answered. He was delighted. "That's right. Now come with me." He took me to one of the ornate ceramic stoves used for heating and showed me first his "favorite turnip" then  a figure holding something in his hand that looked like a drinking vessel. He asked me if I knew what was in it. "Beer?" I guessed. "No, not liquid. Something essential to the diet." "Wheat?" Nope. I slowly put two and two together and guessed salt. Actually I guessed "salz" which is salt in German. My prince was impressed. (He was fairly easy to impress.) He was a charmer. I wish everyone enjoyed their work as he does.

The Monk's private garden.

The ceramic stove with my prince's favorite turnip.

It was raining steadily and we were a little crowd weary so we decided to return to the hotel, which was on the outskirts of Salzburg, for dinner. The bus that brought us into Salzburg was either an apparition or only ran into the city. We looked and looked, walking, passing bus stop after bus stop finally making our way (did I mention it was raining now?) to the main train and bus station where we were told where to catch another bus which would take us to yet another bus. (My skirt was wet nearly to my knees.) This was about six bus stops from where we stood - in the direction from whence we'd come. Sigh.

Moral of the story: if you go to Salzburg beware of Bus #120.

That was Saturday.

Sunday we drove to see the Hellbrun gardens. This is a delightful little place that Prince Archbishop Sittikus had built. This was a man with a sense of humor. He had trick fountains installed throughout the gardens. While his unsuspecting guests were leisurely strolling admiring the flowers he'd push a secret button or turn a magic key and snarf someone would get a shot of water in the face. After the garden tour his guests were not safe seated at the picnic table (you'd think the hole in each of the seats would have clued them in) because he would give them a shot in the fanny as they ate. (His seat remained dry.) He had a tiny theater with figures that moved about to the strains of organ melodies powered by, what else, water.

It was just a short walk to the zoo from Hellbrun so we walked there. The zoo holds special memories to Douglas's family; his parents and he were there together when he was about 20. Douglas remembers seeing a bird called a Beo bird. As they stood looking at it he said, "I wonder why it's called a Beo bird." Just then the bird turned its head and said "Beo." They all shared a good laugh and carry the story to this day.

Alas, we did not see the infamous Beo bird. We did, however, get quite a show. Some of the animals were particularly amorous that day. It began with the Pumas. We couldn't quite see them (not that we were really trying) but we could hear them. And we knew what they were doing. I guess, judging by the sounds they were enjoying it - hard to say, I'm not a Puma. After a few minutes the female came strolling down the hill. The male trotted behind. He must not have been, um, finished as he was pawing at her. She'd snarl at him. She'd had enough. He rubbed her. Swipe! She wasn't having any more of it. He tried one time too many and she let go a growl that nearly made the spectators scatter. Then it was the monkeys. (I'm sorry, I don't remember which kind - one of the small breeds.) No pictures - I do have my limits - and no big story here, just doing what nature calls us all to do. But the lions . . . they were entertaining. They were just barely out of sight. Again we could hear them. There were lots of contented growls. This time, after a few minutes, it was the male that walked away. The female followed, passed him then fell sprawled on her back in front of him. Apparently she had not had enough. They were decent about it. They took it behind a rock, but we could still see her paws up in the air! I didn't think cats did it like that  I guess that's what I get for being raised in the city.

Another glorious view of Salzburg.

The White Blouse

If I had known it would have caused such a ruckus I would have left it with my umbrella at the coat check. But I’m getting ahead of the story. Let me begin by saying that I understand and respect rules. I particularly understand rules wherever people gather and in places like museums where there are rare and socially and historically relevant artifacts on public display. But to save my life I could not explain why the owner/manager/curator whoever came up with the rule that one cannot stroll through a museum with a white blouse. I will try to explain.

One of the most prized artifacts in the Neues Museum in Berlin is the Gold Hat. It is made of thin gold leaf, circa 1,000 – 800 B.C. It is one of only four such hats remaining and is the only one fully preserved. It is covered with symbols representing a lunisolar calendar. What is particularly interesting about this hat is the fact that the information on it wasn’t thought to be figured out (or discovered) until much later. The existence of this hat proves . . . something.

It was at this point I was interrupted for the first time by one of the many guards at the Neues Museum, one of the many guards whose job is a dearth of activity. He spoke to me in German, a language I was still struggling to learn. I didn’t understand him, but I could tell he was talking about the small (I’m a size 4) blouse slung on my arm. I got that he wasn’t complimenting me on my fabric choice, but otherwise couldn’t figure out what he was saying. Through the little German I spoke and some pantomime I guessed I wasn’t allowed to have the blouse slung on my arm. That was so ridiculous I was certain I was dreaming so I just walked away from him. He pulled out his walkie-talkie like a saber and called for backup. Really? Pushing through my bewilderment at that, I asked why I couldn’t have my blouse. I understood that it was against the rules. I gave him my best ‘duh’ face. I asked again, hoping for an answer this time, why? He then looked around, stepped back into a corner and writhed around in a twist-like manner then held up his hands and made the ‘duh’ face right back at me. Obviously the man was touched and I feared for my safety lest my reaction to his dance frighten him. I slowly stepped back, said something non-committal like “Ahh” then slowly pretended to do something with my blouse and left his room.

What the . . .?

Did I mention that we were allowed to take pictures in this museum? There were only two rooms where photography was prohibited and this was clearly marked for the illiterate as well as the literate. I was learning about Nefertiti whose name means “the beauty has come.” She carried many titles including “Main King’s Wife.” I’m not sure whether that meant that she was the wife of the main king or she was the main wife of the king, but it is understood that they married for love as she was a commoner. Supposedly she reigned for a time as the king was . . .

Then I was again interrupted. This time a female guard approached me. Again the white blouse was distressing. She and I had an exchange similar to the one I had with the male guard earlier, though she was no mime. She meant business; her words carried enough weight. So did she. I tried walking away again, but she drew her saber – almost dropped it she was so adamant at reporting my behavior. So I stopped. As we stood there people were fondling Nefertiti’s bust, taking turns running their hands all over it. Apparently that was acceptable, but my blouse was not. I again asked why I couldn’t carry a blouse on my arm. I was told it is against the rules. For a people of whom so many the word ‘why’ means nothing, how did so many scientists come out of Germany? I appealed to her feminine side, though there wasn’t one in evidence. I told her I was in menopause and frequently got hot, then chilled. No good. I was then tempted to take a picture of her and show it to her saying “This is not a happy person.” But that would have been wrong and petty. I did manage to get what I thought was an extremely helpful clue as to why the blouse was causing so much distress amongst the guards: it was not “fest”. Fest means, among other things, stable. Neither, in my opinion were the guards in this museum, but that was beside the point, to her anyway. So I tied the sleeves of my blouse around my purse. That satisfied her and I was off to another room and another encounter.

Nefertiti was actually the Pharaoh’s wife. Pharaoh, I learned means “great house.” The Egyptians prided themselves on caring for their whole being. The males would gather regularly for symposiums to strengthen themselves physically (where nude wrestling was common), mentally, spiritually and morally. I then learned that a “symposium” was really a huge drunken whore fest. We women should be alert when our husbands take part in any symposiums. This was getting juicy until I was again interrupted.

The man who had earlier busted me for my umbrella (against which I put up no fight) told me I couldn’t carry my blouse like that. He spoke good English. I told him that the woman in the other room said I could carry it like this. He shook his head and told me that was incorrect. I tied it around my waist thinking (logically) what’s the difference between a skirt and a shirt tied around my waist? That, too was unacceptable. I asked him why . . . well you know that part of that story already. I asked him what the reason for the rule was. He shook his head and confessed that the rule was passed down from the owner/manager/curator – whatever, and he was hired to enforce it. At last someone who knew what was going on! I said, “So there is no reason.” He just shook his head and walked away.

I walked through several rooms unassaulted and thought that perhaps my friend had notified the other guards that we were calling a truce.

Nope.

I was in the erotic room. I had seen a statue of a Satyr and hermaphrodite (which was unclear until you viewed it from a certain angle). I finally realized what Cupid’s arrows represented. (I’m slow.) I was examining a very rough, wooden carving (for lack of a better word) of a figure with a hole between its legs for, to quote the audio guide, “obvious purposes.” I’m slow, remember, and I was trying to figure out what obvious purposes those were when I was again accosted by a guard.

This guard had a new approach. It had occurred to me that the same people who didn’t want a blouse slung on my arm (or tied to my purse or around my waist) were okay with my carrying around a (museum issued) metal walkman swinging around on the end on a long string. So I asked her what made my blouse more dangerous than the metal hanging and swinging off me. She took the fabric of my blouse and brushed it against the corner of a display case, then held up her hands and gave me the ‘duh’ face. Well, that explains that.

I was a lifeguard and I hated it when people would argue with me as to why they couldn’t dive into six feet of water nor run around on the wet deck. I know from that experience that there are two things many, many people don’t want to be told: the truth and to not do something. I don’t want to make people’s jobs harder just as I didn’t like it when people made my job harder. If these rules showed the vaguest sense I wouldn’t have given these guards such a hard time.

I had one final encounter. Possibly my favorite, that’s hard to call. This man spoke a little English. “Lady, lady” he interrupted me. He whipped out a rule book – a rule book! “Look. In English.” He showed me the written rule. It stated that there would be no carrying of coats around the museum. Coats?! Now I just love it when people use some piece of information that they think will win them their argument when really it works against them.I told him, "Das ist nicht ein Mantel." This is not a coat. “Was ist das?“ “Das ist eine Bluse!“ This is a blouse.

He threw up his arms and walked away from me. Should I have reported him for not doing his job?