Musings

I don't "do" softball

2010-09-16T22:01:00.001-04:00

I can honestly say I've never been sporty... at all. It wasn't for a lack of trying; my mom diligently enrolled me in gymnastics, tumbling, softball, cheerleading class, and more gymnastics, all without a glimmer of talent. Art, music, verbal? Yes! Sports, games, competitive, coordination? a resounding no.

Softball was the worst by a long shot.
Another, more athletic kid from my team lived in the next subdivision, so I got a ride. I would walk to the end of my subdivision street and wait by the Greencroft sign and shrubs. Mom would watch to make sure I got there and I would cheerfully smile and wave. She'd go back inside and I would duck. Soon enough, my ride would drive by, not see me hiding in the bushes, and decide I wasn't coming. As soon as they passed, I hopped to the other side of the bush before mom looked back outside to make sure I'd been picked up. It was a brilliant plan. I would cross the street and head to the swings at the park until I felt like it had been about the right amount of time. It didn't take long before my coach called mom and asked her if I'd dropped out or would be coming back. I was in TROUBLE! It was, however, the end of forced team sports.

As an adult, my office had a team that played other companies. Loathe to play, I had them get me a jersey that said benchwarmer, player #00. I went to every game, but served lemonade and never went to bat. I don't "do" softball.

Garlic Festival, complete with vampire picketer

2010-09-12T23:20:00.002-04:00

This weekend was the first year of an annual Garlic Festival here in Cleveland, and it was a smash hit. Organic garlic farmers sold dozens of varieties of garlic, all grown right here in northeast Ohio.Garlic necklaces, garlic keepers, garlic foods, garlic decor- amazing.
I sampled and enjoyed garlic popcorn, garlic jelly on cream cheese, and raw garlic and went home with the popcorn, fresh farm eggs, snickerdoodles, a few gifts, and 5 or 6 varieties of garlic for cooking. At the garlic tasting, visitors could sample raw bits of about 7 varieties. One started super spicy, then faded. Another started mild, but had a super hot finish... the stuff in the grocery store is barely garlic. I had no idea! I didn't have the guts to try the garlic butter donuts or the garlic ice cream, or the vanilla ice cream with garlic sauce... next year I will be more bold! I was genuinely impressed with the extreme variety of what could be done with garlic! Who knew?

Live music all weekend kept things moving. I particularly enjoyed the zydeco band, who inspired several people to get on their feet to dance. A hula hoop station and the crazy zepplin car tours kept kids and families busy. It was a huge success. Next year, I'm going to help it become a zero waste event, which should be fun.

The most bizarre part of the weekend was the un-invited vampire picketer. A slightly bizarre woman showed up in a black sweat suit, black snow boots, a long red wig, white face makeup, a cape, sunglasses and vampire teeth. She also had bits of black tulle netting sticking out of various parts of her costume. She carried a typical pickett sign that said on one side "Unfair treatment of vampires" with the word garlic in a red circle crossed out a la ghostbusters. On the other side, it said "Garlic causes sanguinary starvation". She wasn't paid and she didn't ask for any money... she just meandered around the event for about 10 hours a day. As I was leaving, I asked "Doesn't the sunshine hurt?" She pulled out her vampire teeth and said very seriously, "SPF 10,000, tasty-sweetie" then popped the teeth back in. I about lost it.

Hope to see everyone there next year!

Falling in love with Atticus

2010-09-12T21:19:00.001-04:00

I can't really remember reading To Kill a Mockingbird. It's almost as if I absorbed it- as if the pages turned themselves or that it was a book on tape playing inside my head. It was alive to me.

I was about Jem's age the first time I read it in 7th or 8th grade reading class for school, followed by the first time seeing the film. I read it again as pre-freshman year required reading for high school. I read it a third time in junior year of high school honors american lit, and again quite recently as an adult in celebration of its 50th anniversary.

I was born in a small town in rural Illinois. As the county seat, Princeton was a big city of 6000 compared to the surrounding communities of just a few hundred. At 11, we moved to an almost exclusively white, affluent, suburban community outside of Cleveland. At 12, reading about Macomb, I remember tapping into my experiences in Princeton: the small town awareness of "different" people, the long memory, the class distinctions, the reality that tragedy can happen any time to any one. I did not, however, have any understanding of race in America, of justice, of injustice, of war, of true manhood, of alcohol, of pride, of moral conviction, of hate, of true poverty. This one book shaped my perspective on all of these things and had a part in making me the woman I am today. Each time I read it or saw the film it would draw me in and I would see something new or different. I'd be drawn in just like the first time, calling me to answer important questions. One not-so-long book. I've never had another reading experience like it.

Fifty years old, and seemingly fresher each time I read it. So, now, all that's left to do is to keep looking for my own Atticus...

Pick it up again- see what it has for you this time through.

Corn Dog- a canine obituary

2010-09-12T19:37:00.007-04:00

My nephew Mark, or Markie as I still am prone to call him, and his long-term girlfriend found Corn Dog running free with no tags on the highway last summer. A cute little guy, Corn Dog had a rakish and joyful personality. He was a mix of things with perhaps some papillon or mini collie hidden in his genealogy. He had pointy ears and a fluffy neck that made him look like a little lion. His flaxen color and Mark's sense of humor earned him the name Corn Dog (aka Corny), and he quickly settled in to everyone's hearts. His perky disposition was popular with my two pups, and last year on family vacation they got along famously. It was so nice to see Mark with Corn Dog- two happy, goofy guys.

Recently, he and his girlfriend called it quits, but Corn Dog stayed with Markie and kept him company through those difficult times. I remember being so glad to hear that Corny would stay with Mark; it gave me relief that he wouldn't be alone. Mark's ex continued to help out with Corn Dog when he needed to travel, so this weekend she pitched in while he went to a football game out of town with friends.

Markie came home from the game and Corn Dog was so excited to see him, one of the great things about having a dog. Mark opened the front door to a jumpy, happy dog when Corn Dog saw a cyclist riding by on the road and bolted. Mark ran after him yelling "No!" and thought that, for a split second, Corn Dog was listening and was about to turn around. At that precise moment the car hit him.

Still alive, Mark ran to him and picked him up in tears. Broken, bleeding and surely in pain, Corn Dog stayed alive long enough to let Mark say his goodbyes. Mark's friends who had dropped him off witnessed the tragic scene and stayed with him to help him dig a burial place. Mark had the presence and grace to call his ex, who'd left the house only an hour or two earlier, and waited to bury Corn Dog until she'd arrived and said her goodbyes.

Corn Dog was laid to rest with love this evening after living the happiest year of his short life. His absence is already felt. My heart and love goes out to Markie and to little Corn Dog- who brought so much happiness into my nephew's life.

Please leave comments here, as you like.

Moniker Misstep

2010-08-14T12:31:00.002-04:00

I am a fan of monikers. I have a terrible memory for names. I have always used monikers to help me remember, and monikers to help new friends build context. For example, there was a guy in college name Joe who played the lap harp, forever remembered as Jarp. I have a friend from my days in Brooklyn who moved back home to Kansas City around the same time that I moved home to Cleveland whose permanent name is Kansas City Dave or KC Dave for short. With all the Dave's I've met, it's a great way for someone to know which Dave I'm talking about.

Bill, who's mentioned a few places here already, has had several monikers: Bill the Geek, Bill the Monk, Bill the Ex Monk and Billiam. During college, he was always but affectionately called Bill the Geek in my storytelling, and my new college friends quickly began to use the name, too. Since Billiam was my first boyfriend and an important part of my life to that point, he showed up in all kinds of retellings like prom, dating drama, school, church, etc. Even though he was also at Miami, my new pals never met him, and came to know him as Bill the Geek.

At some point during freshman year, my buddy Mikey and I ran into Bill. I introduced each, highlighting that I'd known Bill since 7th grade. Mikey was immediately animated, saying "Wow! You must know Bill the Geek, then!". Always a quick thinker, Bill just extended his hand for a handshake and said "I believe it is I who am Bill the Geek." Mikey turned crimson for just a moment before we all had a good laugh. Lesson learned.

Brewing my first cup of coffee

2010-08-14T12:01:00.001-04:00

At about age 14, I was still dating my first boyfriend, Bill, after at least one or two breakups since we met at age 12. One summer, we found ourselves at my parents' house alone for a little while. As any hormone-ridden teens home alone would do, we decided to make coffee. Scandalous!
Always precocious, Bill was already a coffee drinker at 14, or so he led me to believe. Despite my protestations that I had no clue how to work the coffee maker, he insisted that I make coffee so I gave it a shot. All during the exercise I remember chastising him for chauvinism. Needless to say, the coffee was terrible. He immediately spit it out and said, "When we get married, I will make the coffee". I still can't make a decent cup of coffee, and have never learned to drink it.

Bill came and went in and out of my life during high school, including occasional bouts of proposing on a weekly basis. He'd get all silly and give me a rose, go down on one knee and propose like a goof. He often said "Marry me; but I will make the coffee". I'd always retort "No way!" or "Don't be ridiculous". Prone to romantic gestures, he'd leave notes on my car while I was working in the library that simply said "I will make the coffee" and I knew he'd been by.

We fell out of each others lives in college and our twenties, but as my first love, he was present in my stories as I made new friends. He settled in our home town area, soI'd see him when visiting home for the holidays; it was always nice to connect. Eventually, he fell in love and proposed for real to a lovely woman. I was happy for him. That summer, I was headed to Tokyo, so would have to miss the wedding. To make up for missing it, I spent days assembling the perfect gift: a big box full of everything he would need to make coffee for about a year. It had beans, cups, a few kitchen towels with coffee beans on them- a whole bunch of stuff. I sealed it up and sent it off with a sort of sentimental smile. It wasn't until after I'd sent it that I panicked and hoped that his new wife wouldn't be upset! It was, for me, a great way to close a formative chapter, to tell him I hadn't forgotten the magic of our first love, and to wish him the best.

Neighborly Fly By

2010-08-14T11:30:00.001-04:00

It's embarassing, but true.
When driving through my lovely neighborhood, I often pull over when I see someone leaving or entering a fabulous house or garden, wearing a fabulous coat or walking a dog like mine, and hurl a drive-by compliment at them. For example, last month, a house in the neighborhood got a great paint job, so when I saw someone working in the yard, I pulled over, asked if they lived there and complimented the new paint scheme. That same week, a house sold and the new people were unloading. I pulled over, hollered "Are you my new neighbors?", they smiled and nodded, so I yelped back "Welcome!" and drove off. Most of the time it is no more than a sentence and the people are happy to get a random act of appreciation thrown their way. It's never seemed a weird thing to me, until I lobbed one at an ex-boyfriend.

There's a house a few blocks over that I adore. It is a gorgeous, well-restored, arts and crafts, low-slung ranch or maybe bungalow that has a stunning garden. I often hope to run in to the owners while walking the dogs, but have never seen someone coming or going. I intentionally walk by it with the pups to admire it, and take that route in the car frequently, always taking note of something new in bloom in the garden. I've become a kind of a house stalker, waiting to spring into compliment mode.

A few weeks back, I was in luck! A couple was leaving the house at the exact moment I was driving by. I did a dramatic swerve over and said- "Are you lucky enough to live here?", like a complete dork. The man spun around and said "no, but they are friends". My jaw dropped. Instantly recognizing him, I must have turned a dozen shades of red. I hadn't seen this guy in at least 5 years. I could tell he recognized me, too. I stammered, "John! Um, Hello! Do you, uh, know these people? I just, um, wanted to compliment the garden... I love the house and drive by it every day... I walk the dogs past it, too and admire the gorgeous garden...", I blabbered on and on. He asked what I was doing in the neighborhood, I explained I'd moved in recently. We exchanged a few more awkward but polite sentences before I asked me to be sure to tell them that they received a random compliment. He said he would, and would mention that it was from an architect, no less. I drove away with my tail tucked. I am certain that it looked like I was stalking not only the house, but him- the dramatic swerve when I saw him, the lame reason for pulling over, the blushing... I was downright creepy. Mortifying.

Mount Fuji's jealous kami

2010-07-06T23:12:00.004-04:00

Hopefully I won't butcher this, but here goes. In the Shinto tradition, all of nature is inhabited by spirits (kami) benevolent and otherwise. 'Age and beauty appear to indicate benevolent or particularly revered kami. Believers build and place small wooden gates at the base of huge old trees that mimic the design of the gates to Shinto and Zen Bhuddist temples. The little gates show that, just like the temple, the tree's space is hallowed ground.

Fuji-san's kami (spirit) is a jealous woman. She is widely called Fuji-san, the suffix signifying respect like "Mr." or "Mrs". While in Japan, my moniker was routinely Kurisutiina-san. Mount Fuji's kami is particularly important to the Japanese; in fact, it was only relatively recently that women were granted permission to climb her, because the jealous Fuji-san would fling any rival women to their death.

Even today, climbers purchase a walking stick with jingle bells tied to the top to wake up Fuji-san so she knows you are coming, for if you startle her, she may fling you to your death. Pilgrims still climb Fuji-san in traditional dress, covered in jingle bells, wearing a woven conical hat and traditional dress, complete with soft two-toed sock-shoes that looked completely inadequate.

A volcanic cone, the mountain is absolutely devoid of water or vegetation, and the summit is a huge crater. It's entire surface is made up of half -dollar-sized and smaller loose volcanic rocks. The path to the summit is marked by 10 gomei, which are sort of passage points to measure pilgrims' progress. At each gomei, climbers can pay a small fee to have the milestone hot branded onto their wooden walking stick. Even after all my travels, my branded Fuji-san walking stick is my most prized souvenir.

On a practical note, climbers arrive in bus loads from Kyoto and Tokyo, and there are a few special nights per year when the mountain is downright crowded, like the night I climbed, the O-bon festival. Trains and buses serve the area, and in addition to hotels and ryokan (traditional inns), there is a nearby pine forest campground for the budget or adventure traveler that is spectacular. The 5th gomei is the current starting point for climbers, and is the last point where water, food and hiking supplies can be purchased. On the day I chose to climb, at 5 pm the temperature at the 5th gomei was close to 100 degrees F, and at the summit the next morning, it was about 38 degrees F, so layers are essential. All supplies that reach the various levels along the way, including oxygen inhalers and water, are carried up the mountain on someones back. Offerings are limited to only the essentials: green tea, water, oxygen, bells, and noodle soup, all sold at a steep premium.

There are hotels of a sort on the side of the mountain at about gomei 8 or 9 that allow climbers to have some basic shelter during the wee hours of the morning before sunrise. Basic may be generous to describe what's offered. The hotel is one large room with two levels of open plywood platforms. Guests are instructed to sleep foot to shoulder so that more people can fit onto the platforms. Most hikers only sleep for about 90 minutes before hitting the trail again. Innkeepers are expert in waking guests up in just the right amount of time to summit for sunrise.

The trail is a switchback that is largely made of loose volcanic stone, with only the occasional boulder to scramble across. The stones are sharp, and those that stumble end up with painful scrapes, burns and cuts similar to coral. The switchback is at a gentle but unwavering grade. Many climbers simply climb in sneakers, and it's really more of a hike than a climb. It typically takes about 5-6 hours to climb up, and about 2 to climb down. The route downward is unadorned but for one or two water and noodle spots. The entire downward switchback is on the sunny, south side of the mountain, and the slope is perfectly consistent the whole way. Many brave souls sort of skip downward, sliding on the razor sharp pebbles as if on a sand dune, making short work of the decent.

It's worth climbing Fuji-san to see the sunrise at the summit- a truly once in a lifetime experience. Just don't sneak up on her!

Places to Revisit: The London Flu

2010-07-05T18:50:00.002-04:00

Ever been somewhere, and feel you didn't actually go there?

When a student in Luxembourg, my then-boyfriend and I traveled everywhere we could. It was tough to get to the British Isles over a weekend, as trains and boats would have consumed the entire visit. Just before Valentine's Day we got wind of a long weekend Valentine's deal via Luxair that would fit in our budgets and our schedules. When we got on the puddle jumper, more than half the seats were taken by fellow students on the same promo. I was in hot pursuit of nachos.
By this point I'd been in Europe with only a quick trip home since the prior June, and was really craving Mexican food: cheddar, hot spices, nacho chips, the works. It was the only type of home food that wasn't available anywhere on the continent. Knowing we were heading to London, I knew that the Hard Rock Cafe would have nachos, so it was first on the list once we left Heathrow.

We found a cheap place to stay in a 5th floor walk up hotel and headed straight to the Hard Rock. I ordered nachos and anticipated them with relish, but once they arrived, I couldn't make myself put a dent in it. My boyfriend insisted on seeing buckingham palace at night after dinner. I couldn't keep up with him.

While walking a sudden need for liquid hit me. I raced into a 7-11 and grabbed a litre of apricot nectar and downed it all on the spot. I don't remember anything much after that. Somehow my boyfriend got me back to the hotel where I was so delirious with fever that he said I actually spoke in tongues! He covered me with all the bedding from my bed and his bed, plus all of the clothes in my pack and in his. The next morning, I came to for a few minutes. He was releived and used the opportunity to ask me if it was ok for him to go sight seeing, since I was better. I said yes, and spent the rest of day two in the room, shivering and sweating off the fever. I never really forgave him for abandoning me!

When he came back from seeing cool stuff we called mom and dad to find out if I was covered go to a doctor in London. The only part of the conversation my parents actually heard was that we had a hotel room together, and didn't answer our questions about medical attention. My boyfriend was certain that my dad started polishing the proverbial shotgun that day. I could barely walk, but was strong enough to catch a cab to picadilly, where we caught a movie and ate some horrible beans in water that was being passed as soup.

I finally had the strength to walk a bit about 6 hours before our flight home. We packed up our stuff and went to see St. Pauls then straight back to Heathrow. We cut it too close and the Heathrow guards had guns and no sense of urgency. Weak, sick, and tired, I could barely carry my pack, let alone run with it. My boyfriend found the strength to grab my pack and run with both. The gangway was closed and we thought we were lost in London, but Luxair came through and let us on, holding the door until I could make my way to the gate.

I think a return trip to London is required.

Sticky Songs

2010-07-05T15:49:00.003-04:00

Like many, it's not hard to get songs stuck in my head with the slightest provocation. The difference is that I'll actually start singing it. How about you?

When I was working at T+E, I sat next to a kindred spirit. Tiffany was a feisty mezzo soprano architect, and the two of us were unstoppable hummers/singers. Sometimes, we'd find ourselves singing the same tune under our breath in harmony without even knowing it.

The others at the office noticed this, of course, and soon found ways to turn us into a source of entertainment. Our manager, who also sat within earshot, discovered that he could subliminally "plant" the song he wanted us to sing, as long as he did it very softly and without turning his head toward us. He tested this repeatedly before sharing with the rest of the office. A favorite plants? "Rollercoaster of Love" and "Workin at the Car Wash". Quality.

Soon, he devised a scheme. Since it was a small office, everyone could hear us. He would send an email to everyone but us, informing them that he was going to plant a song. People were asked to guess which of us would be the first to sing the song he planted. He woud then hum a snippet; just enough of the song to get us going, but not so much that we'd notice, and the whole office would wait to see. 9 times of out 10 the song would take, and either Tiffany or I would start quietly singing "rollercoaster, of love, roller coaster" and the other would chime in "wa woo woo woo"

After I left T+E, the office found a new way to torment me. They would dial my new work number, and without saying hello, I would hear several voices sing into the phone: "Roller coaster, of love" and then hang up. 10 minutes later, they would call back and see if it worked and had stuck.

To this day if I hear either of these tunes, I am right back at that desk, drafting away, singing in harmony with Tiffany.

Duties as Assigned: Beverage Director

2010-07-05T14:46:00.002-04:00

We all get bizarre assignments from time to time at work that we didn't sign up for. What was your oddest role?

Just out of Columbia grad school I worked for a wonderful little architecture firm in Manhattan for two years , I will call it T+E. It had its challenges, like any workplace, but this place was like living in a sitcom with a great cast of characters that kept us all laughing and crying.

On my first day of work, I was informed that, in addition to my traditional role as a young architect/designer, I was also to be the new Beverage Director. I think my boss got a kick out of assigning this to the wide-eyed little girl from Ohio.

The Beverage Director, or BD as I was called, was responsible for procuring and preparing libations for our weekly Friday night staff meetings. Each week at 5:30, we would have an all-hands-on-deck staff meeting to report on project progress, any issues, assign tasks, socialize and drink. Since we all routinely clocked well over 60 hours/week, it was always a welcome closing to a busy week and put us in a more charitable mindset about all the weekend hours we were about to put in.

As BD, I would select the week's beverage based on mood or an office poll and put down my mouse at about 3pm on Fridays. I would check our supplies, write a shopping list that could serve at least two drinks per person, raid the petty cash and then hit the streets of Manhattan. Our offices were right by Union Square, which meant that there were several larger delis, a nearby bed bath and beyond, and several liquor stores in the area. Scouring the westside teens, I would go in search of such rarities as fresh lemons, cherries, brown sugar, or unusal liquers like Pimms. I'd pick up necessary barware, like the right glass or a muddler, plus a beer or two for those who opted out of cocktails for the week.

Back at the office I would toil to make the perfect cosmo, muddle the sweetest caipirinha, or mix the smoothest old fashioned. Just in time for the meeting, I'd serve and enjoy the smiles and company of my colleagues, over the sparkling rims of those perfect cocktails.

When I left the office to take another position, I was heartbroken to leave. My colleagues bought me a bartender's guide and signed it like a yearbook. I miss the T+E family; you are not far from my thoughts.

Stage Stories: Fiddling on the Roof

2010-07-05T14:02:00.000-04:00

As a high school and community theater vet, I've got loads of stage memories. How about you?

It hurts to bind your chest and pull off spirit gum beards! I don't recommend trying it. My sophmore year muscial was Fiddler on the Roof, and, yes, you've remembered correctly that I went to an all girls Catholic high school.
Due to the lack of Tevye-calibre men at our school and our brother schools, we had an adult in the lead role, which was contraversial to the students and a blessing to the theater-goers. Tevye's voice just can't be changing and have credibility. The rest of the cast filled in beautifully, and the set was a work of art.

As the lone violinist in the pit orchestras at the time, I was cast as an impish fiddler in this fantastic staging of the much-loved show. Rather than featuring the fiddler in just the opening and closing scenes, my fiddler was a constant presense representing tradition in almost every scene. When Tevye would plea to God and tradition, I would be there to interact with him. I had to memorize the score and play from stage, got to dance and pantomime- a fantastic role.

It was, however, terrifying, painful and nervewracking. Inspired by Matisse, the external set was colorful, assymetric and abstract. In the center was the house whose facade opened at the center to reveal the sombre, traditional interior of the home, referencing Tevye's disrupted outside world and traditional hearth. The interior floor of the house was raked, and the bed at the center was on wires so that it could roll down the rake during the famous dream scene. A fireplace at the back allowed cast and crew to slip in and out of the house while the facade was closed. the large facade panels were hinged at each side, and each half hosted half of the raked roof, which was just a peice of plywood at an angle.

My costume included binding my chest, knickers, white pirate blouse, velvet vest, velvet hat, spirit gum beard, and strands of my hair left loose and curled as earlocks. Very attractive, I assure you.

Now that I've set the stage, I can explain why this is so vivid in my memory. The opening scene of Fiddler was me under follow spot on the "roof" playing the famous violin solo. Cool, right? NO! I was sitting with one bun on a ladder, the other bun and leg hung over the plywood raked roof peice, which was hinged and unstable. The ladder was sitting on top of fluffy bedding, which was on a plywood platform bed on wheels that was held from sliding down a steeply raked floor by guidewires. I had to sit up there, shaking, and play my violin at my absolute best with character and animation, then I had 7 counts of blackout to hand off my violin and bow to a tech, climb down the ladder, quietly step off of the bed, help take down the ladder, safely take back my violin and bow, hand it to another tech through the little fireplace, crawl through the fireplace, turn around and catch the end of the ladder in time for the whole ladder to exit, along with the tech.... all just in time for the doors of the house to open and full on lights! At the end of thw show, I'd have to do it all over again to close the show, with another fast exit to take part in company bow. Every night was a panic, and the more I panicked, the more heavily I breathed, the harder I breathed, the more painful my binding would become.

Each night, bruised, happy, nervous and anticipating the cast party, I'd head to the dressing area and painfully peel off my beard, unbind myself, sit, breathe, and grin.

Running on Empty, a Cleveland Story

2010-07-05T13:28:00.001-04:00

Good Samaritans come in all shapes and sizes, and seem plentiful in my home town. Sometimes my city surprises me.

In summer 2009, on my way to work, I was running late, as usual. I was certain I had enough juice to make it to work, despite the fact that the low on fuel warnings started two days before. About halfway to work while going 65 on the highway I ran out of gas. One of the hidden benefits of a hybrid is that you can keep coasting and going on battery for quite some distance before you're completely kaput. I pulled off the highway and tried in vain to spot and steer toward a gas station to no avail. I came to a full stop on a one-way street just shy of a low-traffic intersection on the border of Cleveland and Lakewood.

Frustrated, I called work and AAA and settled in to listen to npr and wait. After a few moments, the good samaritans started lining up to help. The first to stop by was a pick up equipped with a snow plow offered to push me through the intersection to a spot he thought might be safer. Another just asked to make sure I was ok.

A young man passed me up by several hundred feet when he suddenly changed his mind, threw on his brakes and then backed up all the way up to my car. Sharing that he lived very near by, he kindly offered to go home, get his gas can, fill it at a station and bring me some gas. I declined, thanking him and assuring him that AAA was on its way; I didn't want to trouble him. After declining several times, I sent him on his way; he was still clearly more worried about my predicament than I was.

The next good samaritan to stop was a pick up truck with two women in their 70s. Passing me at first, they had been headed to meet a third friend who owns a business on the opposite corner. Curious, and sensing I was stuck, they walked over to the car and asked if they could help. I explained that AAA was on the way, and that I was "just fine, thank you!". Not willing to take no for an answer, all three ladies insisted that we move the car to the other side of the intersection. Despite my objections, they simply went behind the car and started pushing, shouting to me to put it in neutral. There I was, in my shiny silver thirsty Prius, being pushed along the road by three tough old ladies! Had they been fictional, I couldn't have imagined them more vibrant. With white hair and dressed in colorful decorated sweatshirts and jeans, I imagined they had names like Flo, Maud or Gertie. These three were up for it, laughing all the while, having fun, and enjoying the opportunity to help. I couldn't say no, no matter how embarrassing. After we moved the car, they peppered me with questions about the hyrbid engine, how it worked, what it felt like to drive, what kind of mileage I (normally) get, how much they cost, and on and on. After I'd answered everything they could think to ask, just as quickly as they'd arrived, all three friends hopped into the pickup, heading for their weekly ladies breakfast.

Still smiling from the senior brigade, the young man from the neighborhood unexpectedly returned. This time, with two gallons of gas in hand. I was amazed. Instead of getting on the highway as he'd originally planned, he had gone home, got the can, filled it and came back, just as he'd offered to earlier. He said he didn't like that I might have to wait as long as an hour for AAA, and simply felt obligated to help. Not 30 seconds after he arrived and started filling my tank, AAA arrived with another gallon of gas. We all laughed and smiled as I told them about the snow plow and the three ladies, laughing about how none of our mornings turned out the way we'd hoped, but instead turned out for the better.

Running out of gas on South Marginal Road on my way to work on a fall Thursday could have been a disaster, ruining my day and been a source of frustration. Instead, it turned out to be a mini-miracle of the best of who we are.

Thank you, Flo, Maud, Gertie, Triple A guy, Neighborhood Guy, the couple with the snow plow... Thank you, Cleveland!

Fitting In: an Irish Debutant at the Hungarian Ball

2010-07-05T13:17:00.000-04:00

The Hugarian Society in my community holds an annual debutant ball for the girls coming of age. They never saw my Chinese boyfriend, "Harold", and little irish-y me coming, that's for sure.

In high school, I had, among many other interests, a little business playing violin duets with another student. Let's call her Aggie. Aggie's family were hungarian; her father a handsome violinist and her mother an exotic gypsy, complete with flowy clothes and a crystal ball (More about Aggie's mom in my Frozen Music Post). We would play for open houses, dinners or even a wedding for a few bucks' pocket change. Almost all of our gigs were for the Hungarian Society, who were very proud of Aggie's mad skills. After a while, they started to see me as part of the family and invited me to participate in the society's annual debutant ball. My boyfriend, Harold took some convincing, but agreed and our crazy Hungarian deb season began.

Every weekend, we were expected to attend dance classes. The first time we walked in, we felt like such misfits! We tried desperately to learn formal court dances and waltzes, including the classic Hungarian chadash. We were terrible. Harold was second worst in the class, and I was the worst. Instead of rescinding the invitation, they just helped us more. Every week we showed up, and finally were excited for the ball.

When the big day arrived, we were ready. I looked the part; a hungarian classmate who had debbed the previous year lent me her dress. It was a gorgeous, princess-style dress with a full skirt, off the shoulder puffed sleeves and a boned bodice, all in pure white satin. A crown, long white gloves and white shoes completed the look. I felt like a storybook princess. Harold was decked out in a tux and his fishing hat that he wore every day, which thankfully was removed for the main events. He looked so handsome.

The ball was held at a party center, complete with a color guard with swords, a sit down meal, formal dances by all the girls, their fathers and their escorts. I'm sure we were quite the sight, the little pasty Irish girl with her Chinese boyfriend. No one batted an eyelash. We were accepted, just as we were, and never felt like the interlopers we certainly were. What generous people they were to allow us to share in their rich heritage for one lovely evening.

First Dates

2010-07-05T12:56:00.001-04:00

Everybody has one. What was yours?
My first real date was in 8th Grade with my first love who's still a part of my life, in his own way. Already an item, it was a big deal to go on a grownup date. Having no transportation, we rode our bikes to a nearby "fancy" restaurant at a holiday inn for lunch. Being a picky eater and worried about the cost of such a meal, I ordered a salad and asked them to hold everything- just plain lettuce. He still gives me a hard time about ordering lettuce on our big date. We were about 13. The server must have thought we were a hoot.

Career Starting Line: Frozen Music

2010-07-05T12:18:00.002-04:00

I remember the moment I chose my career. Do you?

"Aggie's" mom looms large in my memory. I remember her as the most exotic creature. Her thick accent, wild gray hair, brightly colored clothes that seemed to flutter, and crystal ball made her the most fascinating person I'd ever met. A Hungarian immigrant, she identified herself as a proud gypsy and was very intriguing to this Irish-American midwestern Catholic school girl. At the time I was having a little crisis of direction and was trying to select a career path. I was researching options with guidance counselors and at the library, but just couldn't decide. Aggie's mom ended up changing my life.

Aggie and I were both students at an all-girls Catholic school on Cleveland's west side, Magnificat High School. In my junior year, we started a mini business playing violin duets around town, mostly for Hungarian Society of Cleveland events. We'd earn a few bucks, challenge ourselves with new music and have a great time rehearsing and performing. I was a talented amateur and under no illusions, she was on the professional track and followed music into college. Our business was fairly short lived, but it changed the course of my life.

It happened on the way to a gig one day in Aggie's mom's volvo station wagon. Aggie's mom was wearing a brightly colored flowy kaftan with her thick salt and pepper hair wild and gorgeous, while Aggie and I were in the back seat giggling about something or other.

Aggie's mom casually asked me if I'd made any progress on choosing a career path . I told her that I'd been looking into a few different things, "I looked into medical illustration, but it seems too narrow and I'd probably get bored, a graphic designer but it doesn't seem socially engaged or technical enough, and architecture, which might be good because it taps into math, art and physics, my favorite subjects."

Aggie's mom threw on the brakes with a screech and a jolt- just like in a cartoon! "What?", she said, spinning around in the front seat with her hair flying around her face. She looked intensely right into my eyes, "Did you say architecture?" I nodded. "This is it," she said. "This is what you are to do, no question. Did you know that the greek word for architecture is frozen music? Yes. Is perfect. This is what you will do."

I didn't argue. Stunned, I just said OK and set about to become an architect.

A day I wish I could re-do: Amish Country with Harvey

2010-07-05T11:42:00.003-04:00

One lovely summer week, my church choir had an appreciation picnic. Loathe to go, a friend insisted that we make an appearance. As with most things that I resist attending, it turned out to be a fun, delicous pot luck picnic, complete with my favorite Polish food, cabbage and noodles. We sat with a group of choir members and their families, and somehow the conversation turned to Amish Country. I explained that my only visit had been a few years back in the early winter, and that we'd not really seen much on the trip.' Harvey", a sweet, retired, never married senior in his 70s immediately perked up and suggested that he be my guide. Thinking he meant that he would provide me a map and a list of "hot spots", I agreed. We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and talking about dozens of topics, and Harvey's offer slipped my mind.

A few days later, Harvey called me at home. At first, I couldn't place him, since I hadn't given my number. He launched right into planning our big trip to Amish Country. Did I want to go this Saturday or next? Was I available on a weekday next week? He would drive and pack snacks. Did I have any dietary restrictions? Suddenly, I was committed to a full day trip with him, no doubt about it. Not wanting to be rude, I agreed.

The big day arrived. We met at church at 8 am, he showed me the fully stocked trunk filled with a weeks' worth of food, and off we went. It's about a 90-120 minute drive to the heart of Amish Country, but he had a plan! We were to stop every 20 minutes or so for snacking on cherries or to stretch our legs. We must take scenic routes (no highways), stop at all attractions along the way, and take pictures at every stop.

Accustomed to a pretty prefunctory travel style, I found this suffocating. I had no patience for yet another old barn; I wanted to get to Amish Country so that I could get out of Amish Country and end this endless trip. Far from the quaint, back-road view of simple living I'd been hoping for, this is an industry! We finally reached Amish Country at about 1pm, just in time for lunch at his favorite spot. The restaurant seated hundreds of people and had all the modern amenities. It was like a cracker barrel with Amish decor, if there is such a thing. The food was pretty good, but seemed to have the same things I could order anywhere. If it weren't for the lovely view of the countryside and the little cap our server was wearing, we could have been anywhere.

After lunch, it was time to hit his favorite shops... at least 15 of them. Some were clustered, others were far flung and required more driving. Not being a tourist trinket, woodcraft or quilt buyer, I finally realized that Harvey was dragging me to shop after shop hoping I'd finally see something I'd like to buy. He was trying to please me. In the hopes that buying something would get us back on the road home, I bought some chocolates. It was our last stop.

Released from shopping, it was gaining on 6pm; I realized I needed to cancel or delay my plans with friends for the evening. A little tense at this point, I impatiently searched for cell signal and called to let them know, saying I didn't know what time we'd be back, but to please go ahead without me and I would call them when I got home. Harvey heard me and my tone, and I could tell was crestfallen that he was inconveniencing me and that I'd made other plans on our big day. I felt awful.

He started heading back and took the highway, only stopping every 30 minutes, rather than 20. He stopped telling me his stories from delivering mail in the 50s and 60s or of life in the neighborhood where he grew up and remains. He stopped incessantly offering me more cherries and water. We didn't go to any other roadside attractions. I tried to tell him it was ok, that I don't mind getting back later or missing my friends, and not to hurry on my account, but it was no use. It was quiet. I'd dropped my facade of enjoying it as much as he, and ruined it for him.

He only told one more story on the way home. Harvey's first job was when he was just a kid during the depression. He worked in the rail yard slitting cherry bags for about a penny a bag. The minute fruit is picked, it starts to decay and release methane. When fruit is trapped in a bag with its methane, it accelerates decay and feeds fungi. Bag slicers were almost always child labor. Boys would climb in and out of box cars in risky situations, slicing bag after bag after bag. That's why he always has cherries when he can get them.

A few weeks later, he brought in the pictures from our trip to a choir rehearsal. There I was, smiling at the historic house on one of his detours, smiling in front of an old barn, smiling while eating a meal in a huge mega-restaurant, smiling holding my bag of chocolates. I think I was having a great time and just didn't know it or let myself see it. Harvey didn't invite me to do anything again, and now I've lost touch with him. I wish I could tell him that I really did have a great time, thank him again for his wonderful hospitality and tell him that one of my biggest regrets in life was to take him and that beautiful day in Amish Country for granted.

Some of the best moments of 2003 were spent on detours and side roads while eating cherries with Harvey.

Observations: Cafe shoe anthropology

2010-07-05T10:45:00.002-04:00

What many expats learn during long stays in Europe is that shoes are the number one indicator of new arrivals or tourists. One can sit in a lovely Pairs sidewalk cafe for hours watching feet go by and gain a confident sense of which are the Parisians, which are the Germans on vacation, which are the Brits, the Itamians, etc. The diversity of footwear is at once immense and singluar. It's one of the pleasures of an extended stay in a new place. Each culture has a style of its own which only be learned by experience, quiet, observation and fierce shopping. At first, subtleties are lost on new students of footwear, but gradually a certain game can be played; put together all the clues and be surprised by the cohesive nature of cultures or, if you are wrong, be reminded that no one can really be labeled.

An ugly American in Paris: en Francais, s'il vous plait!

2010-07-05T10:37:00.002-04:00

While in Lux, my French skills earned me the dubious honor of being a drill instructor. More advanced students were given the role to coach their beginner classmates in a series of real-life instruction settings. I had about 6 students, and make worksheets and field trips a regular part of our required weekly classes. We did all kinds of things like go to a fab cafe, ask for a table, review the menu in detail, order our cafe au lait, comment on the cafe or the service then ask for our check. Students were forced to do so in French, and I would get them out of any pickles with an assist if needed.

Our entire class took a trip to Paris to learn about architecture, culture and, of course, language. While in Paris, each drill instructor had to plan an activity for their group. I chose preparing for a picnic at the marche (the open-air market). At this point, my French was fully conversational and I'd been in Europe for about 9 months, so I was no longer instantly discernable as an American. My students, however, were glaringly non-continental.

Each student had to order what they needed for their lunch, which was composed of bread, cheese and charcuterie (salami-style meats). They had to describe quantities, slicing instructions, bread types, costs, cheese types and portions. It was a great learning opportunity, and they were doing great. I greeted the vendor, explained that we needed his patience and assistance and then we got started. I corrected grammar, joked a bit with the vendor, answered questions and made quips. It was fun!

An eternity later, the students were wrapping up and saying thank you. The vendor, who had been delightful to this point thought he was being cheeky when he said "how did a nice girl like you get stuck with all these ugly Americans?" Simultaneously offended and proud, I was able to respond in perfect French and loaded with disdain, "Sir, it is because I am also an ugly American." He blushed and apologized profusely to no avail. I walked away proud that I'd gained such skills that I couldn't be sussed out as a foreigner immediately, proud to have taught him a lesson, and proud to be an ugly American in Paris.

A note on Characters

2010-03-08T21:51:00.000-05:00

The characters in my stories are friends, family, colleagues, teachers, boyfriends, and community members. Where I can, I will seek permission to use names; under most circumstances I will hide identities, and do my best to protect their privacy. If you recognize yourself, and feel exposed, let me know immediately so that I can pull or modify the post.