Ok. Living with roommates can be the pits, especially if those constant companions are Arthur and Ritis. I mean, com'on, three-digit outside heat--feels like four-digit inside my house--is no cause to get all testy, making feet and legs and other body parts of mine all swollen and painful and unsightly. Hardly recognizable as feet, is a more accurate description. I had places to go, people to see, things to do!
My first try at putting on my one pair of shoes--4-E's, wide toe depth--that usually work, proved fruitless. Maybe loosening the laces ALL the way was the answer. Nope! Drank lots of water, hoping that pee-pee-pee-ing would help. Nope! Just as the body can't be told nor relied on to lose fat in a particular spot of choice, the pee-pee-pee doesn't necessarily end up reducing the swollen condition of feet and certainly not on command!
Shoes on all the way this try, laces flapping, lose and untied. A few minutes pass, or maybe even 10 or 15, considering that I have an extremely well-developed tolerance for pain--over more than 30 years--but despite that lengthy delay of time, the pain finally registered in my brain and off came the shoes, both of them, fast, like pulling a finger away from something hot. The sensation of hot? That also takes a while for me to notice, given the nerve damage that those joint wreckers, Arthur and Ritis, have inflicted. But that's another story.
"Well, I've got fingers that work." Sort of, since they are not all pointing in the same direction anymore, have knobs and bumps that get pinched and caught and cut somewhat regularly. My thumbs? Oh, the thumbs are way off track! But yes, it was always a GOOD morning when I could unbend my fingers from a night's clench. And I had already successfully showered. Didn't need shoes for that! However, in my case, shoes might have provided a little protection, as I'd caught a wayward toe on the lip of the shower door frame a couple of days previous. And oh my, how that toe bled. Like a scene for a Hitchcock movie. Blood, lots of it, is a little startling on a white shower floor. I must have popped the toe that bends down, having little of the first joint left to hold it up in place--yup, another of the great works of brothers, A & R--and in the process, I'd split, torn, or cut the skin under what was once a joint.
I'm thinking of re-naming those devilish twins of disease, Ruema and Toid, but the cousin, Osteo, might feel left out, given no mention. That's another story, too.
Dressing. "I should try that" I decided, just something big, the fewer buttons or other closures, the better. And something cool, not only because of nature's heat of the day but anything that cools inflammation, even from the outside, was a good thing.
Shoes were staring up at me. "Another try?" they seemed to say. First, several tries with an ankle brace. "Yes, I know you don't like to wear this," I said. Was I really talking to my ankle and it's corset? Well, it has been said that to really help yourself when faced with health issues, you have to REALLY get to know yourself! The brace was on and had been adjusted a couple of times, an operation that was not as easy as it sounds considering my knees, one real and real damaged, the other fake. I've stopped calling it "Bionic" because it still hurts and isn't always 'there' for me when I most need it, like stepping down or stepping up, and there is sometimes conflict between the two. The socks even went on without a major cramp. Did I mention those? Down the backs of my legs, with the grip of some giant on my calves, and the feet and toes. It happens without warning. And if it happens in the feet, as it often does, the minute I try to put socks--or shoes--on, the toe on my left foot stands at attention, even doing a little back bend, just for flair, the BIG show-off, and it takes concentration and mind-over-matter relaxation to get that darn toe to lie down in place again. You know the old get-to-sleep trick of consciously relaxing each part of your body, working your way down? I take a short cut, starting at the ankles. Sometimes I can talk that toe down off its ledge of sorts.
Progress! Showered, fully dressed, shoes and socks and brace ON for keeps! Yeah, it hurt. I'm use to that. Took my cane for a walk to the car and got on with my day. Even followed a cart through the grocery store to get stuff to make Krispy Treats. It isn't the 3rd of July at Lake Tahoe without those and I intended to make and take some along to share.
It was a beautiful drive along I-80, taking the cut-off on HWY 28 I think it is, through that lovely meadowland stretching out to reach stately pines. I LOVE that drive. I LOVE the first sighting of BLUE water through the pines. A wave and a 'Hello' to the large, standing wooden bear, past the golf course, one more left turn and there we were. King's Beach, Lake Tahoe, lots of real-sand beach. And here's where it happened, the MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. After devouring four, beyond delicious pizza's at Steamers--not all by myself, I feel the need to make clear--I had time to sit outside alone, while family and friends secured a spot on the beach for our group, setting out blankets, setting up chairs. So nice to have a moment, remembering the many times we've repeated this scenario. The smell of pine, the sight and sound of water lapping at the sand, happy exchanges from locals and others, pure glee of children excited about the celebration. And then, taking an arm, with my cane in hand, both just for balance, I WALKED through the SAND, quite a distance from pavement to chair. Yes, I did! And after the last explosion of beauty slowly fell from the sky--fabulous as ever, spectacular visions of light and color shot from a huge barge anchored off the beach with a flotilla of water craft, lit up just enough to mark that they were in the area--I WALKED, again holding an arm and my cane for balance, yes, Walked along the SANDY BEACH, many, many steps, to reach the community center parking lot for the ride home.
I'm tooting my own horn on this one. This was HUGE, for an old, arthritic Gramma! HUGE! And so delightful! Thanks, to Jenn and Tom for making it possible. Thanks to family and friends who joined us.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
From Sardine Squeeze to Home by Degrees
The four of us squeezed back into three, small rooms on Vidas Avenue in South Salt Lake. This was to be our last apartment. We were saving to buy a house! We didn't own much so we left everything but the barest essentials packed and lived cooped up with our boxes stacked around us for most of a year, saving every penny we could for a down payment. One might think that the ambience created by stacked boxes and the Sardine squeeze could have helped my home business a bit. As I had done in Ogden, I set up shop wherever I could in our cramped living space, to sew again on consignment and supplement our cash flow. I did make a lot of bridesmaid dresses even in cramped quarters but home-sewers--I use that word loosely--often brought their botched projects to me. "Can you fix it?" Some things could be fixed though this wasn't something I liked to do but when a customer stood there, yardage in one hand, a size 8 pattern in the other, I sometimes had to wonder, "Are they mixing up their shoe size with their dress size?" Sure, I knew how to fit a pattern, but even multi-sized Simplicity, McCall's, and Butterick had limits on how much larger a pre-determined-sized pattern could be made. And if it was a Vogue, forget altering that pattern, much. Can't say that customers found my skilled sewing any more worthy of the price it should have commanded in my new location than they had in my previous one. Most folks considered custom sewing a way to clothe themselves on the CHEAP. True, if a person sewed for themselves. Not true or fair to expect that of someone trained and capable of sewing a beautiful finished product for you. Still, those small earnings helped buy groceries.
We had purchased a simple Maytag washer--On/Off, Hot/Cold--soon after the arrival of our first child for $264. Our only other belongings were a child's twin bed, a baby's crib, and a Chevelle, the only close-to-new-car we ever owned. We'd inherited an old bed frame that had to be propped up on National Geographic magazines and "How to Adjust to Married Life" self-help books. When you sat down on one corner of the mattress, the opposite corner popped up, dumping you on the floor if you weren't prepared for it. The rest of our furniture was just as classy. We got someone's green couch, already used up and ready for the dump. It had no arms and the seat sank down permanently in places that had supported its most weighty occupants at some time. I thought I could make it look a little more presentable so I recovered it in cheap, sale material, a big, just plain awful, flower print but pinching pennies, I could not be choosy about fabric. Looking better? Not so much! Our table was an old weather-beaten wooden one that my father-in-law had used as a ladder to trim trees and shrubs or to paint his house. It really had an "Early Junkyard" finish--chipped paint revealing about a thousand previous coats and colors, a variety of paint spatters and splotches-- and raised nails sticking out or missing altogether. I just covered it with one of my lovely, trousseau linens I'd made, a beige, coarse-weaved fabric, fringed instead of hemmed. That bit of handy work even came with milk chocolate colored, same fabric-same fringed edge napkins. I was just doing the best I could and makin' do or makin' it up as I went along, then, but today, my "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without" decor might show up on Pinterest!
Days were filled with sewing deadlines, keeping track of the older sibling, and running interference for the younger one who, like her brother, was learning to walk early. About a month before our daughter's first birthday, we bought our first house on Bon View Drive for $26,950 at 8% with $2033 down and monthly payments of $211. We thought those were mighty steep payments. That left us with only $500 dollars in the bank. The house was sound but the carpets were threadbare and the drapes hung with slits along the folds, some places, tattered from sun rot. Our furniture fit right in!
Wow! Three upstairs bedrooms? We splurged on a bed for ourselves, a Queen-size for $114.90. The ancient electric stove in the house still worked, though I was sure it must have fallen from a Pic and Pull truck that had hauled if off a Columbus ship before they set sail. Have you ever tried to "clean" the oven of such an old beast? I thought "Easy Off" was my friend but even duded up in long, rubber gloves, with all the windows and doors opened to ensure I'd come out of that project still breathing, the end result didn't support the sales pitch! There was a small--I'm talking small--refrigerator in the basement that the previous family had used for party drinks and snacks. It stayed in the basement. Do you know how many trips up and down those stairs I made in a day, making meals and getting milk for kids, as a result of that decision? There was unfinished utility space to plunk our washer down. In that same area, generous, floor to ceiling shelves would be used for food storage and jars of home-canned foods.
The basement had been divided in half, lengthwise, then professionally finished with cabinetry, closets, cupboards, counter and desk space at one end, while the other end was dedicated to a fireplace and wall-to-wall raised hearth for sitting, room for couches, a game table and in the center of the room, a regulation-sized pool table. The remaining space at the end of the house, on the other side of the utility room had been finished as a bedroom.
The back yard had garden space, two mature peach trees, an apple tree, clothes lines on a side yard. Just a car port and no garage meant a whole lot more snow to shovel, living there on the East bench, close to the mouths of Big and Little Cottonwood and Millcreek Canyons. Perhaps the view of Mt. Olympus through the almost full wall, living room window was the biggest plus. We were the only house on the street with a view, at that time.
As prized a possession as it was, one would think I would remember every detail about my reunion with my beloved piano and when it came from my mother's home to reside again with me. I don't. I feel sure, though, that it happened in this home. Otherwise, the living room remained empty of furniture for the years I lived in that house. The drapes and carpet were never replaced until the house went on the market, more than a year after I had said goodbye to Salt Lake City. I loved the formal, white fireplace in that room. Those were the days when I could sit comfortably on the floor, and then, get up again, on my own! I spent quite a bit of time in that room, free of decoration and distraction. There was always the wondrous view of the mountains. There was always a quiet, peacefulness about the room.
We had purchased a simple Maytag washer--On/Off, Hot/Cold--soon after the arrival of our first child for $264. Our only other belongings were a child's twin bed, a baby's crib, and a Chevelle, the only close-to-new-car we ever owned. We'd inherited an old bed frame that had to be propped up on National Geographic magazines and "How to Adjust to Married Life" self-help books. When you sat down on one corner of the mattress, the opposite corner popped up, dumping you on the floor if you weren't prepared for it. The rest of our furniture was just as classy. We got someone's green couch, already used up and ready for the dump. It had no arms and the seat sank down permanently in places that had supported its most weighty occupants at some time. I thought I could make it look a little more presentable so I recovered it in cheap, sale material, a big, just plain awful, flower print but pinching pennies, I could not be choosy about fabric. Looking better? Not so much! Our table was an old weather-beaten wooden one that my father-in-law had used as a ladder to trim trees and shrubs or to paint his house. It really had an "Early Junkyard" finish--chipped paint revealing about a thousand previous coats and colors, a variety of paint spatters and splotches-- and raised nails sticking out or missing altogether. I just covered it with one of my lovely, trousseau linens I'd made, a beige, coarse-weaved fabric, fringed instead of hemmed. That bit of handy work even came with milk chocolate colored, same fabric-same fringed edge napkins. I was just doing the best I could and makin' do or makin' it up as I went along, then, but today, my "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without" decor might show up on Pinterest!
Days were filled with sewing deadlines, keeping track of the older sibling, and running interference for the younger one who, like her brother, was learning to walk early. About a month before our daughter's first birthday, we bought our first house on Bon View Drive for $26,950 at 8% with $2033 down and monthly payments of $211. We thought those were mighty steep payments. That left us with only $500 dollars in the bank. The house was sound but the carpets were threadbare and the drapes hung with slits along the folds, some places, tattered from sun rot. Our furniture fit right in!
Wow! Three upstairs bedrooms? We splurged on a bed for ourselves, a Queen-size for $114.90. The ancient electric stove in the house still worked, though I was sure it must have fallen from a Pic and Pull truck that had hauled if off a Columbus ship before they set sail. Have you ever tried to "clean" the oven of such an old beast? I thought "Easy Off" was my friend but even duded up in long, rubber gloves, with all the windows and doors opened to ensure I'd come out of that project still breathing, the end result didn't support the sales pitch! There was a small--I'm talking small--refrigerator in the basement that the previous family had used for party drinks and snacks. It stayed in the basement. Do you know how many trips up and down those stairs I made in a day, making meals and getting milk for kids, as a result of that decision? There was unfinished utility space to plunk our washer down. In that same area, generous, floor to ceiling shelves would be used for food storage and jars of home-canned foods.
The basement had been divided in half, lengthwise, then professionally finished with cabinetry, closets, cupboards, counter and desk space at one end, while the other end was dedicated to a fireplace and wall-to-wall raised hearth for sitting, room for couches, a game table and in the center of the room, a regulation-sized pool table. The remaining space at the end of the house, on the other side of the utility room had been finished as a bedroom.
The back yard had garden space, two mature peach trees, an apple tree, clothes lines on a side yard. Just a car port and no garage meant a whole lot more snow to shovel, living there on the East bench, close to the mouths of Big and Little Cottonwood and Millcreek Canyons. Perhaps the view of Mt. Olympus through the almost full wall, living room window was the biggest plus. We were the only house on the street with a view, at that time.
As prized a possession as it was, one would think I would remember every detail about my reunion with my beloved piano and when it came from my mother's home to reside again with me. I don't. I feel sure, though, that it happened in this home. Otherwise, the living room remained empty of furniture for the years I lived in that house. The drapes and carpet were never replaced until the house went on the market, more than a year after I had said goodbye to Salt Lake City. I loved the formal, white fireplace in that room. Those were the days when I could sit comfortably on the floor, and then, get up again, on my own! I spent quite a bit of time in that room, free of decoration and distraction. There was always the wondrous view of the mountains. There was always a quiet, peacefulness about the room.
Birthday Wishes for Jenn
It's the first week of July, a week important to my personal story, a week that ended with the birth of my daughter, in my mid-20's. From the beginning, Jennifer was a sweetheart.
My daughter somehow finds her way through the rigors of employment and a busy household while finishing a college degree, and being a go-to person for her nieces and nephews and her mom.
Some things I love about Jenn are her beautiful, brown eyes, her ready smile, laughter that comes easily, and her compassionate spirit for those around her. She takes delight in simple things, is a dedicated, loving mother, a supportive wife. She's a talented problem solver and organizer who can make things happen. She's a doer, generous to a fault, a hard worker, and my daughter.
Happy Birthday.
My daughter somehow finds her way through the rigors of employment and a busy household while finishing a college degree, and being a go-to person for her nieces and nephews and her mom.
Some things I love about Jenn are her beautiful, brown eyes, her ready smile, laughter that comes easily, and her compassionate spirit for those around her. She takes delight in simple things, is a dedicated, loving mother, a supportive wife. She's a talented problem solver and organizer who can make things happen. She's a doer, generous to a fault, a hard worker, and my daughter.
Happy Birthday.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Be It Ever So Humble, It's Home
For less than a hundred dollars, my husband and I rented a furnished home southeast of downtown Ogden, Utah in the fall of 1967. I was pregnant with our first child. He had accepted employment at the Utah State Industrial School and was also working on his Master's Degree. A spacious place for the two of us, this home had a finished half basement bedroom and bath that his brother and a cousin used when they were between apartments, college semesters, or marriages. I heard our elderly neighbor's voice one day, getting louder and quite animated. Looking out my kitchen window, I could see her standing in the driveway talking with our landlord. I listened a little closer and heard her informing him about all the "goin's on" in his house, men coming and going at all hours and she just didn't think that was right, considering that I was pregnant! "I just thought you should know," she said. The landlord never said a word about it, to me. I suspect she had been his neighbor when he lived in the house and had kept him informed about his neighbors, then, too. I found a way to let him know who the "traffic" in and out of his house was, just a couple of family members who needed a temporary place to sleep now and then.
This home on Porter Avenue wasn't far from a home where the South family had once lived. Now one of those children was absorbed and busy 24/7, establishing a special education program at the school and attending classes at U of U in Salt Lake. I didn't know a soul in Ogden and had made no effort to meet people. My pregnancy was difficult and I was without a car during the day and into evening. From birth, my first child was a baby who didn't sleep so I did a lot of walking, often with him in a stroller. By the time he was a toddler, I ventured out to go to church to meet some people. This child also wasn't a quiet sort who could be entertained and coaxed to be quiet at appropriate times, not even with Cheerios, so when the meeting began and the music started, he was just so tickled that he stood up on the bench and sang right out, loud, making up some words as he went, all the while leading the music right along with the chorister but not necessarily stopping when and where she did! He caused quite a commotion in a short time. I was a young mother, sleep deprived, with absolutely no experience, and was easily embarrassed. When a well-meaning member suggested that I should wait until he was older to bring him again, I did just that but never went back to that ward.
When this home was sold, we moved a little further south, to Brinker Street into a newly built, four-plex apartment. It was a great place with a spacious kitchen and more cupboard and bedroom closet space than I'd ever seen before. Here, I decided to hire myself out as a seamstress. With a fabric store within walking distance just off the main street, through a gully and dry ditch, then across an open field, walking there with my kid in a stoller became a way for me to cope with spending almost all 24 hours of every day alone with a very active toddler. Willows still grew along the ditch so we'd stop in the shade there, going and coming.
The stairs inside the apartment, leading to the lower level, were a problem. It was an open stairwell without a door. Coming in that back door, you either stepped up one step directly into the kitchen or stepped down a flight of stairs to reach the laundry and storage area assigned to our apartment. My toddler had already taken a tumble, like a Saturday morning cartoon character, bouncing off each step to the next, just a smidgen beyond my reach, all the way down. On this morning, I was sorting laundry when I heard a racket behind me. Thinking it was my child who'd followed me, head first, down those steps yet again, I whirled around and started for the door, hoping to get to the bottom of those stairs before he did. But instead of my kid, I came face to face with the young woman who lived in that apartment. There she stood, just outside her open doorway, stark naked! It was summertime and very hot. She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor and was putting her mop and bucket in the utility room. That was the noise I'd heard. What does one say when you meet someone for the first time under those circumstances?
Another morning, I had just put my biggest pot on the stove, filled to the brim with tomatoes, to stew. The big butcher knife I had used to cut them up was still on the counter. "I'll just run down and put a batch of clothes in the washer while this water gets hot," since my child was entertained and content for the moment, or so I thought. I had barely gotten the laundry going when I heard rattling on those darn stairs and rushed to the door. I'd left it open a bit. Now it was closed. The rattling I'd heard was not a child falling down the stairs. No, it was my child playing with the lock, the kind you slide across to engage. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, he made the right connection, sliding the bold into place. I talked to him through the door, trying to coax him to push the shiny knob back the other way. He tired of that game quickly and went back upstairs. Oh grief! The top lock was not on the back door. It was early morning but I'd already been in and out taking garbage. And the pot must be boiling by now. That knife! He wouldn't be able to reach it unless he spied it and pushed a chair up to the counter. The couple in that apartment--yes, the naked mop lady--usually worked nights and slept all day. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, with a little more urgency. Still no answer. I checked the window to see if I could possibly go out that way. What was I thinking? I took a couple of runs from the washer across the room, throwing myself at the locked door, thinking maybe I could rattle it enough to dislodge that bold so I could force it open. Wow! That hurt! I abandoned that idea, luckily before I broke any bones, and went back to pounding on my neighbor's door and yelling until I finally woke her up. The minute she opened her door a crack, her eyes still half closed, I pushed past her, dashed through her apartment, not stopping to explain, and ran out around the building and in through my unlocked back door. Everything was okay. My curious toddler hadn't escaped out the back door. If he had, the busy street, the gully and willows and field were within sight and he'd been there many times with me. That was my fear, that he'd try to go to the place I took him to play on some hot days. The pot was just beginning to bubble a little around the edges. And the knife wasn't where he could have reached it. Whew! And my neighbor? I guess we were even, on the strange meeting's score.
Fearless and curious about everything, my little boy heard kids laughing and playing while I was hanging clothes out to dry. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. He had new red Keds on his feet and had been running back and forth from the apartment front door, then across the parking pavement at the back of the complex, to the clothes lines. He wasn't yet three but already had about a million allergies and his nose was running so I turned my back on him only the few seconds it took me to take a couple or three steps up to reach a Kleenex from the table just inside the door. When I turned back around, he was gone! He had heard the kids voices again but couldn't see them so he followed the sound, putting those tiny, rubber soled toes in each space of the chain link fence, all the way to the top and over, into the adjoining yard. Panicked and pregnant, I had quite a walk, going around the block, searching and calling his name before I found him, still in that back yard just across our fence, happily playing away.
The father in one of the other units was hauled off to jail for selling porno movies. You just never know what goes on behind closed doors. The rest of us who lived there were about to find out. His teenage sons, left to their own devices, hooked up a hose and had a water fight inside their apartment, flooding it while punching holes in the walls and tearing down the inside doors. This was pretty unexpected behavior and activity in this lovely apartment building in a nice neighborhood. When our new baby was about a month old, we moved back to Salt Lake City. It was the end of a five-year cycle, something that would seem to repeat itself.
This home on Porter Avenue wasn't far from a home where the South family had once lived. Now one of those children was absorbed and busy 24/7, establishing a special education program at the school and attending classes at U of U in Salt Lake. I didn't know a soul in Ogden and had made no effort to meet people. My pregnancy was difficult and I was without a car during the day and into evening. From birth, my first child was a baby who didn't sleep so I did a lot of walking, often with him in a stroller. By the time he was a toddler, I ventured out to go to church to meet some people. This child also wasn't a quiet sort who could be entertained and coaxed to be quiet at appropriate times, not even with Cheerios, so when the meeting began and the music started, he was just so tickled that he stood up on the bench and sang right out, loud, making up some words as he went, all the while leading the music right along with the chorister but not necessarily stopping when and where she did! He caused quite a commotion in a short time. I was a young mother, sleep deprived, with absolutely no experience, and was easily embarrassed. When a well-meaning member suggested that I should wait until he was older to bring him again, I did just that but never went back to that ward.
When this home was sold, we moved a little further south, to Brinker Street into a newly built, four-plex apartment. It was a great place with a spacious kitchen and more cupboard and bedroom closet space than I'd ever seen before. Here, I decided to hire myself out as a seamstress. With a fabric store within walking distance just off the main street, through a gully and dry ditch, then across an open field, walking there with my kid in a stoller became a way for me to cope with spending almost all 24 hours of every day alone with a very active toddler. Willows still grew along the ditch so we'd stop in the shade there, going and coming.
The stairs inside the apartment, leading to the lower level, were a problem. It was an open stairwell without a door. Coming in that back door, you either stepped up one step directly into the kitchen or stepped down a flight of stairs to reach the laundry and storage area assigned to our apartment. My toddler had already taken a tumble, like a Saturday morning cartoon character, bouncing off each step to the next, just a smidgen beyond my reach, all the way down. On this morning, I was sorting laundry when I heard a racket behind me. Thinking it was my child who'd followed me, head first, down those steps yet again, I whirled around and started for the door, hoping to get to the bottom of those stairs before he did. But instead of my kid, I came face to face with the young woman who lived in that apartment. There she stood, just outside her open doorway, stark naked! It was summertime and very hot. She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor and was putting her mop and bucket in the utility room. That was the noise I'd heard. What does one say when you meet someone for the first time under those circumstances?
Another morning, I had just put my biggest pot on the stove, filled to the brim with tomatoes, to stew. The big butcher knife I had used to cut them up was still on the counter. "I'll just run down and put a batch of clothes in the washer while this water gets hot," since my child was entertained and content for the moment, or so I thought. I had barely gotten the laundry going when I heard rattling on those darn stairs and rushed to the door. I'd left it open a bit. Now it was closed. The rattling I'd heard was not a child falling down the stairs. No, it was my child playing with the lock, the kind you slide across to engage. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, he made the right connection, sliding the bold into place. I talked to him through the door, trying to coax him to push the shiny knob back the other way. He tired of that game quickly and went back upstairs. Oh grief! The top lock was not on the back door. It was early morning but I'd already been in and out taking garbage. And the pot must be boiling by now. That knife! He wouldn't be able to reach it unless he spied it and pushed a chair up to the counter. The couple in that apartment--yes, the naked mop lady--usually worked nights and slept all day. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, with a little more urgency. Still no answer. I checked the window to see if I could possibly go out that way. What was I thinking? I took a couple of runs from the washer across the room, throwing myself at the locked door, thinking maybe I could rattle it enough to dislodge that bold so I could force it open. Wow! That hurt! I abandoned that idea, luckily before I broke any bones, and went back to pounding on my neighbor's door and yelling until I finally woke her up. The minute she opened her door a crack, her eyes still half closed, I pushed past her, dashed through her apartment, not stopping to explain, and ran out around the building and in through my unlocked back door. Everything was okay. My curious toddler hadn't escaped out the back door. If he had, the busy street, the gully and willows and field were within sight and he'd been there many times with me. That was my fear, that he'd try to go to the place I took him to play on some hot days. The pot was just beginning to bubble a little around the edges. And the knife wasn't where he could have reached it. Whew! And my neighbor? I guess we were even, on the strange meeting's score.
Fearless and curious about everything, my little boy heard kids laughing and playing while I was hanging clothes out to dry. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. He had new red Keds on his feet and had been running back and forth from the apartment front door, then across the parking pavement at the back of the complex, to the clothes lines. He wasn't yet three but already had about a million allergies and his nose was running so I turned my back on him only the few seconds it took me to take a couple or three steps up to reach a Kleenex from the table just inside the door. When I turned back around, he was gone! He had heard the kids voices again but couldn't see them so he followed the sound, putting those tiny, rubber soled toes in each space of the chain link fence, all the way to the top and over, into the adjoining yard. Panicked and pregnant, I had quite a walk, going around the block, searching and calling his name before I found him, still in that back yard just across our fence, happily playing away.
The father in one of the other units was hauled off to jail for selling porno movies. You just never know what goes on behind closed doors. The rest of us who lived there were about to find out. His teenage sons, left to their own devices, hooked up a hose and had a water fight inside their apartment, flooding it while punching holes in the walls and tearing down the inside doors. This was pretty unexpected behavior and activity in this lovely apartment building in a nice neighborhood. When our new baby was about a month old, we moved back to Salt Lake City. It was the end of a five-year cycle, something that would seem to repeat itself.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Setting Sail on the SS France
The guidelines for the trip home on the SS France advised wearing dress-up clothing for dinner at the Captain's table on the first night out. Frank had packed "Sunday Best". I had a "little black dress", made a beautiful, black lace jacket to wear over it, and packed heels and jewelry to "dress" for that much anticipated dinner. To protect the jacket during the more than a couple of months it would be confined to a suitcase, it had been packed with tissue in the sleeves, and in plastic--a pain when getting in and out of our bags--then carried, with any other would-wear-only-once clothing, all across Europe. The cardboard box we put in storage when we left Paris the first time contained that delicate jacket, two sweaters purchased on our return trip to Oslo, and the few trinkets we'd collected during our travels. We took one, last wild taxi ride in Paris to retrieve our brown, cardboard box and got to the train station just in the nick of time to make our connection.
It was a relaxing ride, as I remember. The passenger seated directly across from us was a wealthy businessman in the Arabian horse breeding and selling business, and a delightful conversationalist. Arriving at LeHarve, we checked in, excited about this final adventure of being on an ocean liner--SS France--for the next five or six days, and were standing in line waiting to board, when we got the bad news. NONE of our luggage had made it to the ship, for loading. Our bags were still sitting on a train or at a station somewhere along the way, between Austria and France.
This wasn't a time when we could say, "No problem. We'll wait for the bags and take the next boat." We had invested far too much money in our passage home to cancel. So...we boarded, looking like homeless waifs, climbing from street level to the ship's entrance, carrying the little, brown cardboard box tied up with raveling twine, wearing the clothes we'd slept in the night before, holes in our shoes, and more than two months growth of shaggy hair. Yup, walking right along with the ladies in furs and pearls--real ones--and other finery, the gents in fine Italian leather shoes, custom leisurewear, and silk shirts.
Our cabin was tiny. First or tourist class, room size or location, it didn't really matter, at that point. Even in a room with bunk beds and toilet, leaving barely enough space to stand up and turn around in, all we really needed at that moment was room enough to have a good, cleansing CRY before dinner. Sure, I had that lovely lace jacket that had been all over Europe, and we could replace just about anything lost or taken from our luggage, should it ever make it through customs and arrive home again, but my "little black dress" to wear with the jacket was packed in the lost luggage! So was Frank's suit coat and tie.
The SS France, constructed in 1960, was to be a showcase of modern French art and design, the fastest transoceanic liner--six days, six nights, France to New York--and the longest ship in operation. It WAS the longest passenger ship ever built until 2004 when the Queen Mary 2 took on that title. Unusual attention had been given to the ship's kitchens, serving the best French Cuisine, staffed with 180 of the best cooks, sauce and pastry chefs, rotisserie cooks, waiters and stewards, that France had to offer. It earned the title of the "Finest" restaurant in the world.
There were officially just two classes--First and Tourist--instead of the more common three, but after a few voyages, rooms and areas originally designed to be restricted to a specific class were named, instead, and once the ship got underway, class barriers were withdrawn and all passengers could use all areas aboard, equally. We were a little behind schedule leaving port so the first evening's dinner meal was to be a casual affair. Everyone on board would be served in one of the two dinning rooms. The special Captain's Table event was postponed until the next night.
Soon after boarding, the emergency horns, bells, and whistles sounded, without warning. We were instructed over a LOUD speaker to locate, then don life jackets and quickly but orderly go to the main deck of the ship. There, we would receive further instruction. As we stood there in a sea of orange life jackets, an older couple came up the stairway. The Mrs. was just about to step on deck when she looked around, surveyed the crowd standing there, then turned to her husband saying, in her distinctive, highfalutin voice, "Good Lord, Harry, this is Tourist class!" and promptly went back down the stairs, refusing to join us. We and others who had heard her comment, laughed so hard! The thought was voiced aloud that when the ship was sinking and we were all making a scramble for the life boats, we would hear her say, "Good Lord, Harry, we can't get in this lifeboat! It's Tourist Class!" POOR Harry.
The first night at sea, I was fine and enjoyed the wonder of this new environment. We wore our new, clean Norwegian sweaters, from our cardboard box, hoping to disguise our true condition a little and went to dinner. The food offerings were endless in variety and availability. There were shops--buy a tie? TOO expensive--and swimming pools, a library and theater, games and much more. Dinner conversation with others at our table, some foreigners, others Americans, like us, returning home, was fun, interesting, amazing. I don't remember when that all changed for me in the next few hours, but from then on, I spent a good deal of time and for the rest of the crossing, in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet bowl, even though the captain announced that the seas were calm, the crossing the smoothest he could remember in a long time.
Frank wanted to attend the dinner the next night in the worst way. I gave him my blessing. I could barely get out of my bunk. He put on the new sweater, again, and left the room but was back within a short time. He could not enter the dining room for this event without at least a suit coat and tie. Such DISAPPOINTMENT. Aside from that meal, he did get plenty to eat while we were at sea, at any time of the day or night and as much as he wanted of anything and everything. After all, he was eating for two, my food and his, all of it already paid for.
I was not a bit of fun but did manage to sit in the theater to watch every movie they had on board. It was the one place where I felt no movement at all and could sit there, somewhat in control of the extreme nausea I was battling. I don't remember seeing much of Frank during this time. I was glad he was doing as much as possible to enjoy this event. Even so, those five or six days grew to be very long, for both of us.
We caught sight of the Statue of Liberty through the mist and fog, early, on our last morning aboard ship. I was able to join Frank and so many others on deck. It was a very powerful and emotional moment, hard to put into words and something I'll never forget. We were home. But it was more than the usual feeling of homecoming. Many of us cried, without shying away from tears welling up in our eyes, and spilling over to run down cheeks, each for their own reasons. On deck, there was mostly silence among us. We were caught up in that moment, the noise and chatter associated with parking and making things ready for passengers to disembark, went unnoticed.
We had originally planned to see the sights of New York upon our return to the States and take a train to spend a day in Boston before going home to Utah. We made it as far as the top of the Empire State Building. Having stood in long lines each time we had to take the next elevator--there were three--and finally reaching the observation deck, we hadn't been there long until I started to spot heavily and unexpectedly. A bit frightened by that, Frank explained just enough of our problem to hopefully be allowed to take the service elevator all the way to the bottom, immediately. The attendant would hear none of that, saying,"Emergency? We hear that all the time from people who don't want to stand in line." So we got in line, hoping for a bit of a miracle that would get us back to the street quickly. Within hours of disembarking, we were on a plane, flying to Salt Lake City, Utah. Maybe there was something to the notion the Family Pasching had mentioned.
I've had fun remembering this adventure when I was just 22 years old. As I've re-read my writings, I'm reminded of a few things I've left out, like the ferry boat ride we took in the company of a tour group of youthful mandolin players. I thought I'd never forget the name of the song they played for hours, over and over, the only one they knew, without any break, but thankfully, I have forgotten. I wouldn't want that stuck in my head again!
And our lost luggage? Anyone curious about it and where it ended up?
I'll continue making notes. I may need to finish out a page in the book so the things I've forgotten to mention here may come in handy, there.
We learned some days or a couple of weeks after returning home that I was, indeed, pregnant. I've blogged about my entrance into motherhood, the first and second times but of course, once a person becomes a parent, has a traveling spouse, or gets into a few predicaments of her own, there are more stories to tell. So little time...so much to tell...It's all a part of who I was, just a sweet, young thing.
It was a relaxing ride, as I remember. The passenger seated directly across from us was a wealthy businessman in the Arabian horse breeding and selling business, and a delightful conversationalist. Arriving at LeHarve, we checked in, excited about this final adventure of being on an ocean liner--SS France--for the next five or six days, and were standing in line waiting to board, when we got the bad news. NONE of our luggage had made it to the ship, for loading. Our bags were still sitting on a train or at a station somewhere along the way, between Austria and France.
This wasn't a time when we could say, "No problem. We'll wait for the bags and take the next boat." We had invested far too much money in our passage home to cancel. So...we boarded, looking like homeless waifs, climbing from street level to the ship's entrance, carrying the little, brown cardboard box tied up with raveling twine, wearing the clothes we'd slept in the night before, holes in our shoes, and more than two months growth of shaggy hair. Yup, walking right along with the ladies in furs and pearls--real ones--and other finery, the gents in fine Italian leather shoes, custom leisurewear, and silk shirts.
Our cabin was tiny. First or tourist class, room size or location, it didn't really matter, at that point. Even in a room with bunk beds and toilet, leaving barely enough space to stand up and turn around in, all we really needed at that moment was room enough to have a good, cleansing CRY before dinner. Sure, I had that lovely lace jacket that had been all over Europe, and we could replace just about anything lost or taken from our luggage, should it ever make it through customs and arrive home again, but my "little black dress" to wear with the jacket was packed in the lost luggage! So was Frank's suit coat and tie.
The SS France, constructed in 1960, was to be a showcase of modern French art and design, the fastest transoceanic liner--six days, six nights, France to New York--and the longest ship in operation. It WAS the longest passenger ship ever built until 2004 when the Queen Mary 2 took on that title. Unusual attention had been given to the ship's kitchens, serving the best French Cuisine, staffed with 180 of the best cooks, sauce and pastry chefs, rotisserie cooks, waiters and stewards, that France had to offer. It earned the title of the "Finest" restaurant in the world.
There were officially just two classes--First and Tourist--instead of the more common three, but after a few voyages, rooms and areas originally designed to be restricted to a specific class were named, instead, and once the ship got underway, class barriers were withdrawn and all passengers could use all areas aboard, equally. We were a little behind schedule leaving port so the first evening's dinner meal was to be a casual affair. Everyone on board would be served in one of the two dinning rooms. The special Captain's Table event was postponed until the next night.
Soon after boarding, the emergency horns, bells, and whistles sounded, without warning. We were instructed over a LOUD speaker to locate, then don life jackets and quickly but orderly go to the main deck of the ship. There, we would receive further instruction. As we stood there in a sea of orange life jackets, an older couple came up the stairway. The Mrs. was just about to step on deck when she looked around, surveyed the crowd standing there, then turned to her husband saying, in her distinctive, highfalutin voice, "Good Lord, Harry, this is Tourist class!" and promptly went back down the stairs, refusing to join us. We and others who had heard her comment, laughed so hard! The thought was voiced aloud that when the ship was sinking and we were all making a scramble for the life boats, we would hear her say, "Good Lord, Harry, we can't get in this lifeboat! It's Tourist Class!" POOR Harry.
The first night at sea, I was fine and enjoyed the wonder of this new environment. We wore our new, clean Norwegian sweaters, from our cardboard box, hoping to disguise our true condition a little and went to dinner. The food offerings were endless in variety and availability. There were shops--buy a tie? TOO expensive--and swimming pools, a library and theater, games and much more. Dinner conversation with others at our table, some foreigners, others Americans, like us, returning home, was fun, interesting, amazing. I don't remember when that all changed for me in the next few hours, but from then on, I spent a good deal of time and for the rest of the crossing, in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet bowl, even though the captain announced that the seas were calm, the crossing the smoothest he could remember in a long time.
Frank wanted to attend the dinner the next night in the worst way. I gave him my blessing. I could barely get out of my bunk. He put on the new sweater, again, and left the room but was back within a short time. He could not enter the dining room for this event without at least a suit coat and tie. Such DISAPPOINTMENT. Aside from that meal, he did get plenty to eat while we were at sea, at any time of the day or night and as much as he wanted of anything and everything. After all, he was eating for two, my food and his, all of it already paid for.
I was not a bit of fun but did manage to sit in the theater to watch every movie they had on board. It was the one place where I felt no movement at all and could sit there, somewhat in control of the extreme nausea I was battling. I don't remember seeing much of Frank during this time. I was glad he was doing as much as possible to enjoy this event. Even so, those five or six days grew to be very long, for both of us.
We caught sight of the Statue of Liberty through the mist and fog, early, on our last morning aboard ship. I was able to join Frank and so many others on deck. It was a very powerful and emotional moment, hard to put into words and something I'll never forget. We were home. But it was more than the usual feeling of homecoming. Many of us cried, without shying away from tears welling up in our eyes, and spilling over to run down cheeks, each for their own reasons. On deck, there was mostly silence among us. We were caught up in that moment, the noise and chatter associated with parking and making things ready for passengers to disembark, went unnoticed.
We had originally planned to see the sights of New York upon our return to the States and take a train to spend a day in Boston before going home to Utah. We made it as far as the top of the Empire State Building. Having stood in long lines each time we had to take the next elevator--there were three--and finally reaching the observation deck, we hadn't been there long until I started to spot heavily and unexpectedly. A bit frightened by that, Frank explained just enough of our problem to hopefully be allowed to take the service elevator all the way to the bottom, immediately. The attendant would hear none of that, saying,"Emergency? We hear that all the time from people who don't want to stand in line." So we got in line, hoping for a bit of a miracle that would get us back to the street quickly. Within hours of disembarking, we were on a plane, flying to Salt Lake City, Utah. Maybe there was something to the notion the Family Pasching had mentioned.
I've had fun remembering this adventure when I was just 22 years old. As I've re-read my writings, I'm reminded of a few things I've left out, like the ferry boat ride we took in the company of a tour group of youthful mandolin players. I thought I'd never forget the name of the song they played for hours, over and over, the only one they knew, without any break, but thankfully, I have forgotten. I wouldn't want that stuck in my head again!
And our lost luggage? Anyone curious about it and where it ended up?
I'll continue making notes. I may need to finish out a page in the book so the things I've forgotten to mention here may come in handy, there.
We learned some days or a couple of weeks after returning home that I was, indeed, pregnant. I've blogged about my entrance into motherhood, the first and second times but of course, once a person becomes a parent, has a traveling spouse, or gets into a few predicaments of her own, there are more stories to tell. So little time...so much to tell...It's all a part of who I was, just a sweet, young thing.
Austria, A Place to Sing, A Place to Dance
It was Sunday. Frank had been waiting with GREAT anticipation, for this part of the trip and the chance to see old friends. He found a pension in Dornbirn where we could stay. The owner even came to the station to pick up our bags. I wasn't feeling well. My husband thought it was exhaustion. He served me breakfast in bed before he left on foot to find the branch house. It wasn't until our sweet pension friend drove him around that Frank found where services were being held. He was just in time for priesthood meeting.
One of the members changed some money for us since we had only Swiss money. Frank said our lunch of schnitzel and mushrooms was delicious. Austria was known for good food, rich and substantial, a place where snacking was embraced and more like a meal and deserts were irresistible. I could not eat.
At the sacrament meeting, I didn't understand a word. I had tried to learn a little of the language before we left home but was pretty limited in what I could say--hello, goodbye, thank you--three or four words was about the extent of my repertoire The entire congregation totaled maybe 20 people. There was one deacon to pass the sacrament. A sister, baptized one week before, opened the meeting with prayer, one she had written, then read. Family Griells insisted we go home with them after the meeting. They called a taxi for us. They rode their bikes. The taxi stopped to pick up two other people, then went to the other side of town to let one of those out, and back to the branch area to let another one out, and finally, the driver took us where we'd asked to go. We whispered that he must have learned to drive in Italy! This family lived simply, was warm and friendly and luckily for me, they spoke some English!
Buildings looked a bit like candy land cottages plucked from the pages of a child's story book, with white, lacy, 'Gingerbread' TRIM and lots of flowers. Many of the girls wore Dirndls, boys wore Lederhosen. Some adults wore traditional, native dress. It was nice to be with regular people and off the tourist track.
By the time we arrived in Innsbruck, I was really sick. We found a hotel easily. Frank had recovered from our bout with food poisoning in Zurich, but I had not and was so glad to be off the train. Frank went to check on members for his brother, John, who had also served a mission in the area.
Breakfast the next morning, at a bar, was milk and semoles with shinken (rolls with prosciutto). Our walk around the city seemed proof enough to me that what I'd heard said must be true, that Innsbruck was the most beautiful spot in all of Austria, steeped in history with unique buildings and always when you looked up, there were those wondrous mountains, The Alps, all around. Even sick, it was easy to appreciate the beauty of it all. My husband's plan placed us in Wolfsberg, next, but a phone call telling him that the folks he wanted to see there weren't at home meant we'd go, instead, to St. Polten.
He telegraphed the Family Pasching that we were coming and we caught the next train. We passed through Salzburg--home of the "Sound of Music" story--and again said that this must surely be the MOST beautiful scenery we'd ever seen, as ski resorts, waterfalls, greenery everywhere, and farmers in their fields cutting hay by hand passed by our train windows. We changed trains somewhere along the line and instead of walking for what seemed like it would be miles to get to our first-class car, we had climbed on a second-class car to avoid that long walk. A strange looking fellow sat across from us and kept to himself for awhile, drinking his beer. Then he started showing signs of the alcohol, talking and rambling on to no one in particular. He got pretty wobbly and finally picked up the paper cup still half full of drink and tossed it out the window. The window was closed! The fellow sitting directly across really moved fast and didn't get much on him. The rest of us were not so lucky. We really STUNK the rest of the way.
Pasching's daughter, Marianne, met us at the station and had a taxi waiting. Sister Pasching hadn't expected us until Sunday so when we arrived early, on Tuesday, she was all involved in painting a room for us. Imagine, painting and rearranging a room in her home just for our visit of a few days! How wonderful it was to be in a clean, fresh room, away from the hotel and train smells. Locals rented garden plots in forested areas away from their homes. It was a relaxing time admiring the many vegetable, fruit, and flower varieties they were growing.
Somewhere in our travels, I had found a Reader Digest magazine printed in English and bought it. Now, as my husband visited with his friends and it got to be just too cumbersome to translate every conversation to English, I had something to read. I read it cover to cover many times! Sometimes, I tried to join the group and eat what was being served but in about 15 minutes, I had to excuse myself. That became a bit of a joke, though in a kind way, when someone seated 'round the table would check their watch, then nod, as I headed to the bathroom to throw up. There were also nodding heads and knowing smiles and questions directed at Frank. He translated, "They want to know if you're pregnant." Among the family's book collection, Frank found American Short Stories, so one evening, he READ to me. It was no fun to be sick so far away from home. It was somehow comforting, and sweet to have him read to me. By Friday, I was spending most of my time in bed. Frank took our laundry to a laundromat, a new experience for him! He said the women looked at him and chuckled but he got the job done.
Paschings did not have running water at home. At the bath house--my FIRST experience of this kind--you paid your money, stepped into a stall and soaped up before turning on the water, then rinsed down, quickly, because the water was on a timed meter. Having a shower felt so refreshing that I went through the whole process of soaping up and rinsing off a second time, fortunately beating the clock before my water turned off!
Frank had been close to this family so there was some catching up for him to do. Marianne, a new bride of one month, married a man talented in working with wood. A proud Sister Pasching showed us many of his finished projects. She then moved on to show us the wardrobe Marianne--a skilled seamstress--had created. All of it. The slide show came next, of the wedding, trips to Yugoslavia and Salzburg. They still had the projector Frank had given the family before he left the area. From my notes, "Frank feels at home here; Even eats all the strange food and acts like he likes it!"
Sister Pasching and I walked to Sunday School, mostly in silence, unable to communicate with each other in words but with hand gestures and facial expressions, we both agreed that the wind was making a mess of our hair. It was a different experience sitting through the meeting, not knowing what was being said. While I relaxed, Frank spent his afternoon biking all over, seeing old friends. He was asked to speak at the evening Sacrament meeting and did very well, by the reactions of the congregation. He sounded good to me, too, when I got the translation. It was a great time for him and for the members, seeing each other again.
It was a forty-minute train ride to Vienna to stay with Sister Hasiebers. Another wild taxi ride--did all cabbies learn their craft at the same driving school--then a hike up what must have been three miles of stairs to reach her apartment. Frank sure got his exercise living there, as a missionary. She fixed one of his favorites, Marillenknoedel, remembering how much he loved those apricot dumplings, rolled in fine bread crumbs, drizzled with melted butter and sprinkled with sugar. Then, giving us her key, she was off to stay with her sister, giving up her apartment to us for however long we could stay in Vienna!
We spent the late afternoon into evening in downtown. I fell immediately and thoroughly in LOVE with Wien. I'd heard about the city not only from my husband but also, from his Czech mother, Jane, whose family had fled to Vienna from Czechoslovakia in her youth. We walked through the gardens of the old winter palace, went to the famous Vienna Opera House, St. Steven's Cathedral, the Parliament building, the Rathaus and stayed a bit longer at The Votive Church where Frank's grandparents--Jane's parents--had been married. We circled the entire old city, following the Ring. Stadtpark was all lit up with tiny, twinkling white lights, come evening, as was the statue to honor Strauss. An orchestra was set up in the park, playing his famous waltzes. People, locals and tourists, stopped to listen. Some took a few waltz steps and some twirls before moving on. It was almost impossible not to do so, the mood captivating and romantic. Close by, a fountain flowed, forming different patterns, stirring occasional squawks from floating ducks when the water changed directions, having ruffled a few feathers. Along the Ring, a weather tower told the time for cities all over the world, and also, the temperatures and date--day, month, year--with the weather forecast, a rundown of what to wear, plus distances to those cities from the location of the tower. It was fascinating!
Schonbrunn, a 1,441 roomed palace, once the summer residence of Austrian Royalty, was a place of meticulously tended gardens, fountains, and paths lined in trees with statues placed among trees cut out and sculpted to fit the figures, as an alcove would be. While I did make it all the way through the lengthy tour of the inside of that spectacular palace, as elaborate, ornate, fabulous and as much a must-see as one can imagine, when I ran out of waste receptacles and bathrooms available to the public, I spent time retreating to the grounds and those trees where I could throw up somewhat discretely, or so I hoped. We also walked through the adjoining zoo--the world's oldest--then found American food but no baked potato. I'd had dreams about baked potatoes, sure that if I could find one and eat it, my constant nausea would be cured. So far, I hadn't been blessed to find a baked potato anywhere. Heating an oven to bake was too expensive for most households. It was customary to visit a corner bakery, daily, for baked goods. But those bakers didn't bake potatoes in their ovens, either.
The Rathaus concert was thrilling. To hear the Vienna Philharmonic--one of the best in the world--playing within the open air square of the building was engaging...captivating. I could see the sky but the surrounding walls made for perfect acoustics. To be in Vienna, the City of MUSIC, where prodigies like Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms and others had once studied, was sublime. I thought, if we returned to Europe one day, as Frank had said we would, surely we would return to Vienna.
When my husband lived in Austria, he could not afford the expense of taking photos. Returning, he was anxious to capture as much as possible on film. One night, he left me sitting on a bench near the Ring while he rode all the way around, jumping off and on the train or tram, here and there, capturing the beauty of the city lit up at night. An old fellow sat down on the same bench. He spoke a few words of English. After sitting for a time, he asked me if I was alone. When I said yes, he scolded a bit, saying that one so young as I, should not be sitting there alone. I don't think he intended to sit more than a short time to rest, but when the husband I'd told him would be along any minute didn't show up, the clock now ticking past midnight, this old fellow did not move from his spot on the bench. More than once, he shook his head a bit, and quietly repeated what he'd said. I don't remember giving much thought to sitting there alone, late at night or being nervous about being there, so taken was I by the lights, the sounds, everything about the city. I had felt much better that day but didn't have energy enough to keep up with Frank in his quest for night photos. The old gentleman continued to sit with me until, at last, my husband returned. Perhaps a guardian angel? Certainly an earthly ANGEL, on that night, bless his heart.
Catching trains, again, this time to Zeltweg, we made the change needed in order to go to Wolfsberg. This train ride was one-of-a-kind, slow moving and with no uniformed officials, just a very laid back engineer in the drivers seat and a conductor, both dressed in everyday sport clothes, the conductor wearing a red hat. The train stopped at every cow crossing. If the engineer needed a drink of water or saw someone along the way to chat with, the train stopped and he got off to do just that. The guy in the red hat would sometimes walk to the front end of the train and find the driver's seat empty, then leave the train, himself, to find the engineer. At one point, the engineer asked his passengers if anyone would like to drive the train!
Frank had lived with the Family Egger, described by my husband as typically Austrian and very nice. They were very kind to us during our brief stay with them. The grandfather of the household fretted and showed concern for me. I was still having little luck keeping much food down. (At journey's end, I'd lost about 20 lbs.)
We were nearing the end of our journey and back on a train, returning to Paris. We'd been traveling for those final few days with nothing but the clothes we were wearing--washed out and hung to dry most every night, slept in, on occasion--and a toothbrush. I had on a sage green, checked cotton, short-sleeve, a-line-skirted dress and Frank, a simple, short-sleeved, cotton shirt and long, casual pants. The new shoes we started out with now had holes in the toes and soles. I don't remember but I assume Frank was clean-shaven. He hadn't yet begun his mustache-beard phase, I don't think, but without a hair cut in more than two months, both of us were looking pretty SHAGGY. [I'm wondering why I hadn't taken a pair of scissors and a razor with me, since I cut his hair, on a regular basis at home and could have done my own, as well.] To make the last days of our travel through Austria a little easier, first, we bought the largest bar of chocolate I'd ever seen--filled the entire length and width of one suitcase--for Bill, Frank's dad and a large tube or two of Senf, a mustard for Jane, something she loved and missed having in the States, and added those gifts to one of the suitcases. Then we checked our luggage at a train station, assured that our bags would be at the dock at LeHarve, in France, when we arrived.
One of the members changed some money for us since we had only Swiss money. Frank said our lunch of schnitzel and mushrooms was delicious. Austria was known for good food, rich and substantial, a place where snacking was embraced and more like a meal and deserts were irresistible. I could not eat.
At the sacrament meeting, I didn't understand a word. I had tried to learn a little of the language before we left home but was pretty limited in what I could say--hello, goodbye, thank you--three or four words was about the extent of my repertoire The entire congregation totaled maybe 20 people. There was one deacon to pass the sacrament. A sister, baptized one week before, opened the meeting with prayer, one she had written, then read. Family Griells insisted we go home with them after the meeting. They called a taxi for us. They rode their bikes. The taxi stopped to pick up two other people, then went to the other side of town to let one of those out, and back to the branch area to let another one out, and finally, the driver took us where we'd asked to go. We whispered that he must have learned to drive in Italy! This family lived simply, was warm and friendly and luckily for me, they spoke some English!
Buildings looked a bit like candy land cottages plucked from the pages of a child's story book, with white, lacy, 'Gingerbread' TRIM and lots of flowers. Many of the girls wore Dirndls, boys wore Lederhosen. Some adults wore traditional, native dress. It was nice to be with regular people and off the tourist track.
By the time we arrived in Innsbruck, I was really sick. We found a hotel easily. Frank had recovered from our bout with food poisoning in Zurich, but I had not and was so glad to be off the train. Frank went to check on members for his brother, John, who had also served a mission in the area.
Breakfast the next morning, at a bar, was milk and semoles with shinken (rolls with prosciutto). Our walk around the city seemed proof enough to me that what I'd heard said must be true, that Innsbruck was the most beautiful spot in all of Austria, steeped in history with unique buildings and always when you looked up, there were those wondrous mountains, The Alps, all around. Even sick, it was easy to appreciate the beauty of it all. My husband's plan placed us in Wolfsberg, next, but a phone call telling him that the folks he wanted to see there weren't at home meant we'd go, instead, to St. Polten.
He telegraphed the Family Pasching that we were coming and we caught the next train. We passed through Salzburg--home of the "Sound of Music" story--and again said that this must surely be the MOST beautiful scenery we'd ever seen, as ski resorts, waterfalls, greenery everywhere, and farmers in their fields cutting hay by hand passed by our train windows. We changed trains somewhere along the line and instead of walking for what seemed like it would be miles to get to our first-class car, we had climbed on a second-class car to avoid that long walk. A strange looking fellow sat across from us and kept to himself for awhile, drinking his beer. Then he started showing signs of the alcohol, talking and rambling on to no one in particular. He got pretty wobbly and finally picked up the paper cup still half full of drink and tossed it out the window. The window was closed! The fellow sitting directly across really moved fast and didn't get much on him. The rest of us were not so lucky. We really STUNK the rest of the way.
Pasching's daughter, Marianne, met us at the station and had a taxi waiting. Sister Pasching hadn't expected us until Sunday so when we arrived early, on Tuesday, she was all involved in painting a room for us. Imagine, painting and rearranging a room in her home just for our visit of a few days! How wonderful it was to be in a clean, fresh room, away from the hotel and train smells. Locals rented garden plots in forested areas away from their homes. It was a relaxing time admiring the many vegetable, fruit, and flower varieties they were growing.
Somewhere in our travels, I had found a Reader Digest magazine printed in English and bought it. Now, as my husband visited with his friends and it got to be just too cumbersome to translate every conversation to English, I had something to read. I read it cover to cover many times! Sometimes, I tried to join the group and eat what was being served but in about 15 minutes, I had to excuse myself. That became a bit of a joke, though in a kind way, when someone seated 'round the table would check their watch, then nod, as I headed to the bathroom to throw up. There were also nodding heads and knowing smiles and questions directed at Frank. He translated, "They want to know if you're pregnant." Among the family's book collection, Frank found American Short Stories, so one evening, he READ to me. It was no fun to be sick so far away from home. It was somehow comforting, and sweet to have him read to me. By Friday, I was spending most of my time in bed. Frank took our laundry to a laundromat, a new experience for him! He said the women looked at him and chuckled but he got the job done.
Paschings did not have running water at home. At the bath house--my FIRST experience of this kind--you paid your money, stepped into a stall and soaped up before turning on the water, then rinsed down, quickly, because the water was on a timed meter. Having a shower felt so refreshing that I went through the whole process of soaping up and rinsing off a second time, fortunately beating the clock before my water turned off!
Frank had been close to this family so there was some catching up for him to do. Marianne, a new bride of one month, married a man talented in working with wood. A proud Sister Pasching showed us many of his finished projects. She then moved on to show us the wardrobe Marianne--a skilled seamstress--had created. All of it. The slide show came next, of the wedding, trips to Yugoslavia and Salzburg. They still had the projector Frank had given the family before he left the area. From my notes, "Frank feels at home here; Even eats all the strange food and acts like he likes it!"
Sister Pasching and I walked to Sunday School, mostly in silence, unable to communicate with each other in words but with hand gestures and facial expressions, we both agreed that the wind was making a mess of our hair. It was a different experience sitting through the meeting, not knowing what was being said. While I relaxed, Frank spent his afternoon biking all over, seeing old friends. He was asked to speak at the evening Sacrament meeting and did very well, by the reactions of the congregation. He sounded good to me, too, when I got the translation. It was a great time for him and for the members, seeing each other again.
It was a forty-minute train ride to Vienna to stay with Sister Hasiebers. Another wild taxi ride--did all cabbies learn their craft at the same driving school--then a hike up what must have been three miles of stairs to reach her apartment. Frank sure got his exercise living there, as a missionary. She fixed one of his favorites, Marillenknoedel, remembering how much he loved those apricot dumplings, rolled in fine bread crumbs, drizzled with melted butter and sprinkled with sugar. Then, giving us her key, she was off to stay with her sister, giving up her apartment to us for however long we could stay in Vienna!
We spent the late afternoon into evening in downtown. I fell immediately and thoroughly in LOVE with Wien. I'd heard about the city not only from my husband but also, from his Czech mother, Jane, whose family had fled to Vienna from Czechoslovakia in her youth. We walked through the gardens of the old winter palace, went to the famous Vienna Opera House, St. Steven's Cathedral, the Parliament building, the Rathaus and stayed a bit longer at The Votive Church where Frank's grandparents--Jane's parents--had been married. We circled the entire old city, following the Ring. Stadtpark was all lit up with tiny, twinkling white lights, come evening, as was the statue to honor Strauss. An orchestra was set up in the park, playing his famous waltzes. People, locals and tourists, stopped to listen. Some took a few waltz steps and some twirls before moving on. It was almost impossible not to do so, the mood captivating and romantic. Close by, a fountain flowed, forming different patterns, stirring occasional squawks from floating ducks when the water changed directions, having ruffled a few feathers. Along the Ring, a weather tower told the time for cities all over the world, and also, the temperatures and date--day, month, year--with the weather forecast, a rundown of what to wear, plus distances to those cities from the location of the tower. It was fascinating!
Schonbrunn, a 1,441 roomed palace, once the summer residence of Austrian Royalty, was a place of meticulously tended gardens, fountains, and paths lined in trees with statues placed among trees cut out and sculpted to fit the figures, as an alcove would be. While I did make it all the way through the lengthy tour of the inside of that spectacular palace, as elaborate, ornate, fabulous and as much a must-see as one can imagine, when I ran out of waste receptacles and bathrooms available to the public, I spent time retreating to the grounds and those trees where I could throw up somewhat discretely, or so I hoped. We also walked through the adjoining zoo--the world's oldest--then found American food but no baked potato. I'd had dreams about baked potatoes, sure that if I could find one and eat it, my constant nausea would be cured. So far, I hadn't been blessed to find a baked potato anywhere. Heating an oven to bake was too expensive for most households. It was customary to visit a corner bakery, daily, for baked goods. But those bakers didn't bake potatoes in their ovens, either.
The Rathaus concert was thrilling. To hear the Vienna Philharmonic--one of the best in the world--playing within the open air square of the building was engaging...captivating. I could see the sky but the surrounding walls made for perfect acoustics. To be in Vienna, the City of MUSIC, where prodigies like Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms and others had once studied, was sublime. I thought, if we returned to Europe one day, as Frank had said we would, surely we would return to Vienna.
When my husband lived in Austria, he could not afford the expense of taking photos. Returning, he was anxious to capture as much as possible on film. One night, he left me sitting on a bench near the Ring while he rode all the way around, jumping off and on the train or tram, here and there, capturing the beauty of the city lit up at night. An old fellow sat down on the same bench. He spoke a few words of English. After sitting for a time, he asked me if I was alone. When I said yes, he scolded a bit, saying that one so young as I, should not be sitting there alone. I don't think he intended to sit more than a short time to rest, but when the husband I'd told him would be along any minute didn't show up, the clock now ticking past midnight, this old fellow did not move from his spot on the bench. More than once, he shook his head a bit, and quietly repeated what he'd said. I don't remember giving much thought to sitting there alone, late at night or being nervous about being there, so taken was I by the lights, the sounds, everything about the city. I had felt much better that day but didn't have energy enough to keep up with Frank in his quest for night photos. The old gentleman continued to sit with me until, at last, my husband returned. Perhaps a guardian angel? Certainly an earthly ANGEL, on that night, bless his heart.
Catching trains, again, this time to Zeltweg, we made the change needed in order to go to Wolfsberg. This train ride was one-of-a-kind, slow moving and with no uniformed officials, just a very laid back engineer in the drivers seat and a conductor, both dressed in everyday sport clothes, the conductor wearing a red hat. The train stopped at every cow crossing. If the engineer needed a drink of water or saw someone along the way to chat with, the train stopped and he got off to do just that. The guy in the red hat would sometimes walk to the front end of the train and find the driver's seat empty, then leave the train, himself, to find the engineer. At one point, the engineer asked his passengers if anyone would like to drive the train!
Frank had lived with the Family Egger, described by my husband as typically Austrian and very nice. They were very kind to us during our brief stay with them. The grandfather of the household fretted and showed concern for me. I was still having little luck keeping much food down. (At journey's end, I'd lost about 20 lbs.)
We were nearing the end of our journey and back on a train, returning to Paris. We'd been traveling for those final few days with nothing but the clothes we were wearing--washed out and hung to dry most every night, slept in, on occasion--and a toothbrush. I had on a sage green, checked cotton, short-sleeve, a-line-skirted dress and Frank, a simple, short-sleeved, cotton shirt and long, casual pants. The new shoes we started out with now had holes in the toes and soles. I don't remember but I assume Frank was clean-shaven. He hadn't yet begun his mustache-beard phase, I don't think, but without a hair cut in more than two months, both of us were looking pretty SHAGGY. [I'm wondering why I hadn't taken a pair of scissors and a razor with me, since I cut his hair, on a regular basis at home and could have done my own, as well.] To make the last days of our travel through Austria a little easier, first, we bought the largest bar of chocolate I'd ever seen--filled the entire length and width of one suitcase--for Bill, Frank's dad and a large tube or two of Senf, a mustard for Jane, something she loved and missed having in the States, and added those gifts to one of the suitcases. Then we checked our luggage at a train station, assured that our bags would be at the dock at LeHarve, in France, when we arrived.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Almost to Austria
Stepping off the train in Florence, Italy, the heat hit me right in the face! The day was a SCORCHER! Then, a look around and it seemed that I'd stepped into a pulchritudinous place, like an animated art gallery. Aged, yes, everything patinaed and tarnished, representing centuries of history. In my young mind, marble was a stone limited in its use and then only by the wealthy but in Florence, marble was 'common' and in use everywhere, without a show of any particular grandeur. There were churches on every corner. We used those to our advantage, tomb-like as they appeared, stepping in and out of them to cool ourselves, as we went along. That's how we found "Moses" in a corner of a corridor, facing a wall, a marvelous work of art. This was not Michelangelo's famous "Moses" with horns but a piece meticulously carved in brown marble. It was, too, a famous piece. I'd seen pictures of it. And there it was, just hanging out in a hallway, taking a break from display. I was so excited! I wondered if the residents of Florence recognized how grand a place this was and how awed young adults like us, were by it or if they found everything quite ordinary like, "Yeah, ... pass by that on my way to work every morning."
The mosaic's were impressive and used abundantly on facades, walls, corridors, and in jewelry. I bought a couple of small pins. Replicas of grand statues once there, now lined the city square. Seeing the original Michelangelo masterpiece, "David", has become more wondrous in my mind, with time, as has the memory of seeing the Venus De Milo, Mona Lisa and other remarkable works of art in Amsterdam museums and in Paris, the Louvre, itself, quite a work of art. Beyond the lifelike quality of "David", a famous and much talked about sculpture on display at The Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence, I remember how his eyes appeared to follow me as I moved about the room. I was a bit taken back--sweet young thing that I was in 1967--having walked down a long hallway to his place of honor, to then be standing in front of a larger than life nude male, his every detail on full display. I'd been to Oslo's Vigeland Sculpture Park filled with 200 statues of men, women and children--"A Study of Humanity", the artist called it--ALL naked and I'd been to the Follies in Paris, for heaven's sake, but the art world's focus and fascination with nudes still made me a little uncomfortable. Once I got past the initial, "Oh, my!", I began to appreciate that the stone appeared unbelievably soft and subtle, lifelike to the point that I thought he [David] would take a breath at any moment.
Damage from recent flooding was visible but also, there was evidence of attempts to restore and rebuild. One example of this could be seen on an unusual bridge where homes were built all along the outside edge and on top of the structure, and a variety of shops lined the inside of the bridge.
Another crowded train ride, thru Bologna, we thought as we were en route to a resort town to rest. Just too hot, Italians too many, our patience too thin so we got off the train in Bologna. It worked out, with another glorious and welcome shower, a real bed, a pizza picnic in a park and time to talk about and sketch plans for our dream home, back in the States. There were two kinds of parks in Italy, the nice ones with sculptured gardens and lush, green grass that the public wasn't allowed to walk on, and the kind we were in, where grass was hit or miss--mostly miss--replaced by profuse weeds, lots of dust and dirt and cement plus the ever present bunch of dirty kids, begging for money. With time to kill and an ice cream cone came the challenge, "Can you make it last for 30 minutes?"
Something I didn't know, though I had given consideration to dress customs while sewing my travel wardrobe, was that women native to Bologna, did not wear pants. They STARED at my culottes. When I changed to Bermuda shorts because of the intense heat, those got even more attention, so much that my husband insisted I change into something else.
We caught a 3:00 am train to Rome and found the station there, still standing. It was in flames the last time we'd been there. Our bags had escaped the flames and had been checked at an air terminal while we continued traveling. Now, we discovered that terminal policy required them to keep bags for 24 HOURS, only. We'd been gone for more than two days! Luckily, our baggage had not yet been auctioned off. Relieved, we took a long walk around the city, past the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, lots of marble, lots of ruins. They seemed to be everywhere. This was my husband's kind of place!
The effect of travel was beginning to show. Back in our hotel room by early afternoon, we slept soundly for several hours, waking just in time to join a night tour of the city. White marble pillars of ruins were spectacular, lit up against a night sky. The Trevi Fountain at night? That was really something to see! I learned that the city had 350 fountains. I was sure we'd seen them all! And from the hill tops, even at night, you couldn't miss St. Peter's Square and the Vatican, all lit up.
Inside St. Peter's church, one of the four original Michelangelo Pieta's was made available for viewing. His work was [is] hard to describe. Like his statute of David, the Pieta', appeared eerily real, having an intelligent look of expression, the skin warm and clothing draped and soft though cut in stone, the figures seeming about to take another breath. It had been said of Michelangelo's work that he was the first to make a live body look alive and a dead one look dead. His work left a lasting impression on me.
At St. Peter's square, we splurged on a big lunch at a good restaurant. Even at the better eating places, flies were always served as your first course. Vatican City looked dead between noon and 4:00 o'clock, with everything pretty much closed down. Having now experienced midday heat that seemed to bring the flies out everywhere, in everything, and those crazy Italians who got so excited about even the simplest things, hollering and shaking fists, we could see why.
Wayne Ferraday and his companion met us on the streets of Rome. Wayne was Judy South's brother. Judy was married to Frank's brother, John. They invited us to try an authentic meal at a place recommended by their landlady. The working girls on the streets were not the least bit put off by my presence. They were after the three good looking men I was walking with and my, oh my, were they ever persistent! I ordered veal Parmesan, then watched the cook scrape green MOLD from the slab of meat hanging nearby and cut a hunk off. That was what was coming to me on a plate.
In the early morning, Frank was back on the streets, taking pictures. I stayed in to do my hair. It had been weeks since I'd had a cut or color--a habit I'd picked up in beauty school--but peroxide in Rome wasn't the same as peroxide in Salt Lake City, evidently. When Frank returned, he found a stranger in our room, a woman with much DARKER hair and not a color he'd ever seen before! On his walk, he had stopped by the American Embassy, as he had done all along the way as we traveled. Sending a letter to a US Embassy was the only way for family to reach us. The letter on that day bore bad news. Uncle Paul had been killed in a car accident. He had come to the airport to say goodbye and wish us well on the day of our departure that last day of May. Now, just a week into July, we were shocked and saddened by the news of his death. We checked out of the hotel, had lunch and wrote a few postcards to pass the time but found it near impossible to move on with our day. We so wanted to give Aunt Valois a big hug. By evening, we'd walked another 100 miles or so, taking more pictures, but stopped to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain.
To Switzerland by night train, we awoke to high rising mountains, pines, chalet's, their window boxes filled with flowers, beauty everywhere. Berne was a place to love. Our stop was too brief. We didn't know we'd be back and soon. On to Zollikofon. Joy Urry's parents were president and matron of the temple there. Joy was the wife of our Haven Ward bishop back home in South Salt Lake. The site was spectacular with flowers, a small forest to one side and mountains rising up all around the temple grounds. Swiss chocolate lived up to its reputation for being the BEST! Brother Sommer found us a place to stay, near the temple. Fresher, cleaner, and more rested, we joined members on the grounds in the evening. A large group from Denmark who had come to go through the temple were meeting with local members in Bern. It was a long drive back to Bern by car but the most picturesque of anything we'd seen. Breathtaking, really. The campground was more of the same with majestic mountains, trees, a river running by and lush meadow grass. As we stood there among the friendly crowd, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Elmo Keller from Preston, Idaho. He and his wife were long-time friends of my brother, Marion. They hadn't seen me since I was a child so I was amazed that they recognized me.
What about the Alp horns? I remember hearing them played. And what a sight they were, stretched out across the grass just about forever. Without any mention of them in the journal notes, I have to rely on memory. I feel sure it was at this same event that we saw and heard those.
One of the fathers in the crowd, a clown by profession, gave us a little show with his three small children, all dressed as clowns. A professional group of yodelers in native dress, performed. Without warning, the rain came down in sheets. Our evening outdoors cut short and in our place of lodging for the evening, we met a bishop from Portland, Oregon who had a son serving a mission in Austria. He and Frank had great conversation. Small world, isn't it?
Walking through the old city of Bern was a bit like walking through a child's story book, with painted scenes on many buildings, big clock towers with carved or sculpted figures that performed to tell the time, filled flower boxes everywhere--bright, red geraniums predominated--and everything so clean, both the old and the new parts of the city. The bear pits in the center square gave the town its name. It was so good to be back in milk country that we each ordered two tall, cold glasses and drank them down right away!
The train to Zurich was the best by far of any--clean, plush and comfy--with TALL windows, allowing us to drink in the awe-inspiring views of a country that was prospering, showed no signs of war, whose architecture of homes was marvelous and very Swiss, almost fairy-tale-like, and always, window boxes filled with flowers. The rains came down as we arrived. We walked the streets in the rain, looking for a place to sleep for the night. In such a beautiful place, situated on a very large lake filled with white swans and sail boats, high in the mountains, we didn't mind getting soaked. But watch out for the food specialty there, Fondue. We regretted our decision to try it. We were both sick the next day but took a train to Austria, changed trains at Bregang, going on to Dornbirn, still climbing higher into the mountains. The scenery was almost too majestic and marvelous to be believed. My husband said he thought I needed a camera of my own to dedicate to pictures of all the scenery. That comment could have been driven by the fact that I was on the move the entire ride, pointing and ooohing and awwwing from any window within my sight, and pestering him to take pictures of all of it. I know...how many shots did I need of the same mountain, really!
The mosaic's were impressive and used abundantly on facades, walls, corridors, and in jewelry. I bought a couple of small pins. Replicas of grand statues once there, now lined the city square. Seeing the original Michelangelo masterpiece, "David", has become more wondrous in my mind, with time, as has the memory of seeing the Venus De Milo, Mona Lisa and other remarkable works of art in Amsterdam museums and in Paris, the Louvre, itself, quite a work of art. Beyond the lifelike quality of "David", a famous and much talked about sculpture on display at The Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence, I remember how his eyes appeared to follow me as I moved about the room. I was a bit taken back--sweet young thing that I was in 1967--having walked down a long hallway to his place of honor, to then be standing in front of a larger than life nude male, his every detail on full display. I'd been to Oslo's Vigeland Sculpture Park filled with 200 statues of men, women and children--"A Study of Humanity", the artist called it--ALL naked and I'd been to the Follies in Paris, for heaven's sake, but the art world's focus and fascination with nudes still made me a little uncomfortable. Once I got past the initial, "Oh, my!", I began to appreciate that the stone appeared unbelievably soft and subtle, lifelike to the point that I thought he [David] would take a breath at any moment.
Damage from recent flooding was visible but also, there was evidence of attempts to restore and rebuild. One example of this could be seen on an unusual bridge where homes were built all along the outside edge and on top of the structure, and a variety of shops lined the inside of the bridge.
Another crowded train ride, thru Bologna, we thought as we were en route to a resort town to rest. Just too hot, Italians too many, our patience too thin so we got off the train in Bologna. It worked out, with another glorious and welcome shower, a real bed, a pizza picnic in a park and time to talk about and sketch plans for our dream home, back in the States. There were two kinds of parks in Italy, the nice ones with sculptured gardens and lush, green grass that the public wasn't allowed to walk on, and the kind we were in, where grass was hit or miss--mostly miss--replaced by profuse weeds, lots of dust and dirt and cement plus the ever present bunch of dirty kids, begging for money. With time to kill and an ice cream cone came the challenge, "Can you make it last for 30 minutes?"
Something I didn't know, though I had given consideration to dress customs while sewing my travel wardrobe, was that women native to Bologna, did not wear pants. They STARED at my culottes. When I changed to Bermuda shorts because of the intense heat, those got even more attention, so much that my husband insisted I change into something else.
We caught a 3:00 am train to Rome and found the station there, still standing. It was in flames the last time we'd been there. Our bags had escaped the flames and had been checked at an air terminal while we continued traveling. Now, we discovered that terminal policy required them to keep bags for 24 HOURS, only. We'd been gone for more than two days! Luckily, our baggage had not yet been auctioned off. Relieved, we took a long walk around the city, past the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, lots of marble, lots of ruins. They seemed to be everywhere. This was my husband's kind of place!
The effect of travel was beginning to show. Back in our hotel room by early afternoon, we slept soundly for several hours, waking just in time to join a night tour of the city. White marble pillars of ruins were spectacular, lit up against a night sky. The Trevi Fountain at night? That was really something to see! I learned that the city had 350 fountains. I was sure we'd seen them all! And from the hill tops, even at night, you couldn't miss St. Peter's Square and the Vatican, all lit up.
Inside St. Peter's church, one of the four original Michelangelo Pieta's was made available for viewing. His work was [is] hard to describe. Like his statute of David, the Pieta', appeared eerily real, having an intelligent look of expression, the skin warm and clothing draped and soft though cut in stone, the figures seeming about to take another breath. It had been said of Michelangelo's work that he was the first to make a live body look alive and a dead one look dead. His work left a lasting impression on me.
At St. Peter's square, we splurged on a big lunch at a good restaurant. Even at the better eating places, flies were always served as your first course. Vatican City looked dead between noon and 4:00 o'clock, with everything pretty much closed down. Having now experienced midday heat that seemed to bring the flies out everywhere, in everything, and those crazy Italians who got so excited about even the simplest things, hollering and shaking fists, we could see why.
Wayne Ferraday and his companion met us on the streets of Rome. Wayne was Judy South's brother. Judy was married to Frank's brother, John. They invited us to try an authentic meal at a place recommended by their landlady. The working girls on the streets were not the least bit put off by my presence. They were after the three good looking men I was walking with and my, oh my, were they ever persistent! I ordered veal Parmesan, then watched the cook scrape green MOLD from the slab of meat hanging nearby and cut a hunk off. That was what was coming to me on a plate.
In the early morning, Frank was back on the streets, taking pictures. I stayed in to do my hair. It had been weeks since I'd had a cut or color--a habit I'd picked up in beauty school--but peroxide in Rome wasn't the same as peroxide in Salt Lake City, evidently. When Frank returned, he found a stranger in our room, a woman with much DARKER hair and not a color he'd ever seen before! On his walk, he had stopped by the American Embassy, as he had done all along the way as we traveled. Sending a letter to a US Embassy was the only way for family to reach us. The letter on that day bore bad news. Uncle Paul had been killed in a car accident. He had come to the airport to say goodbye and wish us well on the day of our departure that last day of May. Now, just a week into July, we were shocked and saddened by the news of his death. We checked out of the hotel, had lunch and wrote a few postcards to pass the time but found it near impossible to move on with our day. We so wanted to give Aunt Valois a big hug. By evening, we'd walked another 100 miles or so, taking more pictures, but stopped to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain.
To Switzerland by night train, we awoke to high rising mountains, pines, chalet's, their window boxes filled with flowers, beauty everywhere. Berne was a place to love. Our stop was too brief. We didn't know we'd be back and soon. On to Zollikofon. Joy Urry's parents were president and matron of the temple there. Joy was the wife of our Haven Ward bishop back home in South Salt Lake. The site was spectacular with flowers, a small forest to one side and mountains rising up all around the temple grounds. Swiss chocolate lived up to its reputation for being the BEST! Brother Sommer found us a place to stay, near the temple. Fresher, cleaner, and more rested, we joined members on the grounds in the evening. A large group from Denmark who had come to go through the temple were meeting with local members in Bern. It was a long drive back to Bern by car but the most picturesque of anything we'd seen. Breathtaking, really. The campground was more of the same with majestic mountains, trees, a river running by and lush meadow grass. As we stood there among the friendly crowd, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Elmo Keller from Preston, Idaho. He and his wife were long-time friends of my brother, Marion. They hadn't seen me since I was a child so I was amazed that they recognized me.
What about the Alp horns? I remember hearing them played. And what a sight they were, stretched out across the grass just about forever. Without any mention of them in the journal notes, I have to rely on memory. I feel sure it was at this same event that we saw and heard those.
One of the fathers in the crowd, a clown by profession, gave us a little show with his three small children, all dressed as clowns. A professional group of yodelers in native dress, performed. Without warning, the rain came down in sheets. Our evening outdoors cut short and in our place of lodging for the evening, we met a bishop from Portland, Oregon who had a son serving a mission in Austria. He and Frank had great conversation. Small world, isn't it?
Walking through the old city of Bern was a bit like walking through a child's story book, with painted scenes on many buildings, big clock towers with carved or sculpted figures that performed to tell the time, filled flower boxes everywhere--bright, red geraniums predominated--and everything so clean, both the old and the new parts of the city. The bear pits in the center square gave the town its name. It was so good to be back in milk country that we each ordered two tall, cold glasses and drank them down right away!
The train to Zurich was the best by far of any--clean, plush and comfy--with TALL windows, allowing us to drink in the awe-inspiring views of a country that was prospering, showed no signs of war, whose architecture of homes was marvelous and very Swiss, almost fairy-tale-like, and always, window boxes filled with flowers. The rains came down as we arrived. We walked the streets in the rain, looking for a place to sleep for the night. In such a beautiful place, situated on a very large lake filled with white swans and sail boats, high in the mountains, we didn't mind getting soaked. But watch out for the food specialty there, Fondue. We regretted our decision to try it. We were both sick the next day but took a train to Austria, changed trains at Bregang, going on to Dornbirn, still climbing higher into the mountains. The scenery was almost too majestic and marvelous to be believed. My husband said he thought I needed a camera of my own to dedicate to pictures of all the scenery. That comment could have been driven by the fact that I was on the move the entire ride, pointing and ooohing and awwwing from any window within my sight, and pestering him to take pictures of all of it. I know...how many shots did I need of the same mountain, really!
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