MaineCourse

Black Glass

Adam Kibbe

Reflections in�night's window block my view.

They were there by day, just invisible.

What is outside is still there, just not seen.

Such balance

shapes what is available to us.

And what I see through this window (when I can see)

is not all there is,

but it shapes my perception

as the frame of a camera describes a worldview.

"Careers are limiting" said Michael,

and of course he's right --

in that we will do what we will do

and no more.

But the things we do

expose us to what we come to know.

Were our actions other, we'd be too.

Is there always more to more?

Are there not paths that

in leading inwards,

expand?

To know something well from one perspective

can be limiting.

But to know that point of view at all

is a gift.

To know knowledge, however thorough, deep and vast, to be finite,

is to come to a field

rich with life.

All the blossoms of that field are beyond one's picking.

And to find one's limitations,

measured against�such multitude,

may be daunting.

May be liberating.

But we are pickers,

and we�walk this field.

One is as fair as another.

I am inside this window.

What is outside is outside.

Tomorrow will come,

and tonight's separation will have no relevance,

save for these reflections on a reflection.

Mom Story # 3

Bertha Downing as told to her son, Dan.



Jim Downing



Bertha, Emerson and Jim Downing

�When Jimmy was born, it was in Mexico�s ABC Hospital. He was delivered by our long-time family doctor, Dr. Castorena. His mother wanted her aunt Peg, who lived in Mexico City, to be there. JoAnn was never very friendly. I remember having a shower for her; all the ladies came, but she would not come downstairs. You three stayed with us for about a month, then went back to your Junior year at RPI.�

�I think that�s the last we ever saw of JoAnn. You got divorced the next year."

�Your father and I maintained contact with Jimmy through his great grandmother, Hazel Anderson. I remember we visited him at Mrs. Anderson�s tiny apartment in Pontiac. I have some pictures taken of your father and me sitting on her front door steps in June �73. Jimmy was 6 years old. Tom [Tillson JoAnn�s father] would send us photos of him every birthday, and I have a bunch when he took Jimmy to Florida in 1974.�

�Later I remember that Tom befriended you and Bonnie, and we invited him to come and spend Christmas of 1973 in Mexico. He never had such a good time as that Christmas with our whole family. He brought lots of presents, and he brought me lots of books. Mrs. Cambon [Gaby�s mother, Dan�s sister Lilly�s first husband] also came from France that Christmas.�

�We took them to a Pastorela [a re-enactment of the birth of Jesus] �in Tepozotlan [a little village near Mexico City]. The performance was outdoors, after sunset, played by the shepherds and inn keeper where Mary and Joseph seek shelter. All the players wear colorful Mexican costumes. �We all sang, and afterwards they served pozole [a light stew with beef and corn in chicken broth]; this is a typical Mexican Christmas dish.�

�Tom took us all out to dinner at Normandie. Here�s a photo of the whole crowd.�

�That was a long time ago. Long past the time when a spanking or an injection would cure anything.�

Pain Free

The pain in my jaw had reached that tipping point. Could I could suffer through it, or would I have to jump in front of the first bus? The last three days�had been�unpleasant , but for some reason, as I walked to the dentist's office, the throbbing that had been a discordant cymbal player morphed into a Mephistopholean version of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring.

I thought about my friend, Sharon, who developed RSD (Reflexive Sympathetic Dystrophy) after she separated her shoulder. My short, butchered form of this syndrome is that once the pain pathways have been established, the brain lays pavement for a superhighway. The initial injury heals, the pains remains, and as a free add-on, it gets worse. Now we have tandem tractor trailers rumbling up and down the Autobahn. In Sharon's case, after failing to get relief from every pain pill on the planet, her inventive physician implanted a morphine pump which injects directly into her brain. The trucks now have softer tires.

I thought about Sharon, because I couldn't think about anything else. When I approached Dr. Wang's receptionist, she looked up at me and asked, "Are you okay?" I wanted to ask her, �Do you drive a bus?� But then I realized she wasn't asking about the tears on my cheeks, but about the blood on my forehead.

Earlier in the day I'd stacked new wood on the railings of my neighbor's porch, which I had been hired to rebuild. As I stood in the yard, the pointy ends of those boards happened to be slightly lower than my forehead. Every time I looked down to pull a nail from my tool belt, or bent over to retrieve a dropped tool, I'd bonk the board. The first whack, cushioned by my glasses, produced a single drop of blood between my eyes. The second raised an ostrich-sized egg way up on what my brother, Peter, refers to as the living version of Half Dome. The third whack, a direct hit on the ostrich egg, struck oil.

"You mean my forehead? It's nothing." I said.

She handed me the requisite forms to fill out.

"But you have blood all over you."

I had some blood, but it was not all over. Mostly on my sleeves, which served as emergency gauze pads. I wanted to engage this trim, sparkly blue-eyed, raven-haired receptionist in conversation, but I could only clench my teeth.

After I'd scrawled through my health history, Dr. Wang ushered me into his office. I gingerly leaned back on his vinyl chair, and then a very strange thing happened. The pain disappeared. So completely I couldn't identify the offending tooth. Nor could Dr. Wang, but boy, did he try.

He tapped each tooth with the heavy metal handle of a dental probe. He began with my first upper canine and worked back. Clang. Nothing. Clang, nothing. Clang, still nothing.

"Is it heat sensitive?" He asked.

"I can't even breathe in without pain."

He yanked his air gun from its cradle and hosed down the upper right side of my mouth. Nothing. He reached behind where I couldn't see and returned with an instrument he dipped in ice, and then placed on each tooth. Still nothing. Finally he applied a similar probe, but this one with a red hot end. I could hear sizzling as moisture evaporated from the enamel, but I felt no pain. I thought about Dustin Hoffman in the movie Marathon Man.�

Dr Wang smiled; not a malicious Zell-like smile, but a caring, curious one. "This is like going to the doctor and having your symptoms disappear." Take out the �like,� I thought, this is the real thing.

"I took Nuprin before I left. Do you suppose that's the problem?"

"It could be. Is that Ibuprofen?"

I still had the bottle. I reached in my pocket, past my keys, assorted nails and loose change,�and I pulled it out. There on the label it said - Ibuprofen.

"I guess the anti-inflammatory did its thing. I'd been taking aspirin without much relief, but I talked to another dentist today and she said to take Advil, so I switched."

Frustrated, Dr. Wang held up the new x-rays and explained which tooth he speculated needed the root canal. The one capped by silver.

"I could do a root canal on this one, or you could come back tomorrow when you're certain which tooth hurts."

I opted for door number two.

**********************

Next week: That Filing Feeling

Toledo to Ciudad Real to Cordoba

Rakkity



The next part of our trip to Spain--Toledo to Ciudad Real to Cordoba

After this will come Chapter IV: Sevilla and Italica.

He's For Me

Bertha and Emerson Downing

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I remember when I first met Emerson. I was at work, and my aunt called me and told me to come home early, because a Gringuito was coming in answer to the ad for the room, and I was the only one who could speak English.

My mother, sister and I were living with my Aunt in a brand new house she had bought with lottery winnings, on Mazatlan 161 (Colonia Condesa, right near the Angel). The house had two floors and three bathrooms, and she advertised one bedroom and bath for rent to supplement her income.

I came home early; it was raining. I peered out of the Venetian blinds waiting for him. He arrived in a little beat-up old Ford. The minute he stepped out of the car, I said �He�s for me!�.�

He came into the house; we showed him his room; he rented it on the spot�and he never left. Poor Bolton Mallory -- I dumped him right away.

This is the house we were married in. We did not get married in the church because Emerson was not a Catholic. His best man was Oliver Ormond, an FBI friend from Texas, who was later killed in a plane crash. Only my side of the family came to the wedding.

Mom Story # 1

Bertha Downing as told to her son Dan

In February of 1943 I embarked on a trip by myself to visit my fianc� Emerson and his family in Michigan. As a passenger service representative for Mexicana de Aviacion, I flew for free on standby from Mexico City to Dallas, where I would change planes to Detroit. However, in Dallas I was bumped from the connection to Detroit because I had to give up my seat to soldiers that were scheduled to fly there.

So, I took a taxi to the train station, and boarded a train to Detroit, within minutes of its leaving the station. It was an overnight trip, and I was treated very nicely by soldiers aboard. I arrived in Detroit the next morning, and the station was completely empty � what was I going to do? I knew I could call on American Airlines for help if needed�and just as I was about to do so, Emerson rushes into the station to get me. Apparently the arrival time had changed, and that�s why he was late.

We drove to his cousin Lucille�s house in Detroit, where we had breakfast. I remember that a call came in from Aunt Estelle, who �wanted to meet this woman�. She was a retired English professor that later had a building named for her at Eastern Michigan University. When we arrived, I started discussing Charles Dickens with her, and her opinion of me immediately changed for the better. That was a relief, as she had written Emerson a nasty letter when she learned that he had broken off his engagement with Mary Ducat to propose to me.

There we waited for Emerson�s brother Jack to take us to the family farm in Romulus. I was greeted by the formidable Downing family, all waiting to meet this Mexican woman that was going to marry Emerson. There was Jim Yarger and his wife Marion (Emerson�s eldest sister) and their little kids Harold, and Alvin; Jack�s wife Margaret, and their eldest daughter Susan. A large family reunion was organized, and I mainly remember being stuck with washing all the dishes afterwards.

I was fascinated by snow, which I had never seen, and by the chickens on the farm. The chicken house had heat and music from a radio to encourage them to lay more eggs.

We stayed at the farm in a small room, and visited other family members and friends in the area � Miss Cooper, The Greggs. �Emerson took me to visit Cleary College, where he had graduated from, and also to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. We went shopping at Hudson�s in Detroit � I was fascinated by Hudson�s � such a large, fancy department store! I shopped every department on every floor.

We stayed about two weeks, and then flew back to Mexico together. Oh for those times again. I was full of enthusiasm and self-confidence, and scared of nothing.

The Door Swung Open

Jennifer

Elsie called this morning, worried because she hadn�t heard from my Aunt Beatrice in a long time. She had last gotten through to Beatrice by phone in early February. Beatrice has often been hard to reach; she leaves her phone off the hook when she writes, and maybe at other times as well. But two and a half months was longer than usual; Beatrice usually goes to a writing group Elsie convenes, and Beatrice usually goes to an Easter potluck at Elsie�s house. I usually see her there. Elsie and I are connected through Friends� Meeting. Beatrice and I are connected through my mother�s brother who died about 4 years ago. They married when his children and I were all teenagers, and although we should have a lot in common, there�s always been tension and hurt there.�

I decided to make copies of my mother�s senior paper and bring her one; that would be a good pretext for �dropping by�. (One point of hurt for Beatrice was why didn�t my mother like her? I thought reading the senior paper would help her see just how not-personal that dislike -- which Beatrice had explicitly asked about several years ago, and about which I had tried to answer honestly -- was. The paper was written long before Mummy met Beatrice, but one could see in it the beginnings of someone not-at-all-interested in politeness for politeness� sake, which was one sticking point between them. I�m not sure one had warning about Mummy�s competitiveness as a writer in the senior paper, but I HAD been able to tell Beatrice about that.) In the past, apparently, when Elsie has become concerned and asked the police or fire department to check in, Beatrice has been fine, apologetic about worrying her friends, but hasn�t offered an alternative solution for future panics.�

I arrived at the house around 1PM, rang the doorbell, noticed dog feces smell, checked the mailbox (empty, and Elsie had written), opened the screen (unlocked, unusual, hmm), st.a.r.t.e.d .. to .. r. a. p. on the window and realized it was broken and the door swung open.�

This is a true story. It happened to me, today.

So, I called 911 on my cell phone and it took a while (an hour plus) but it turned out the fire department had broken in 2 days ago at the neighbor�s request, found her and her dog�s bodies in the house, but been unable to figure out the next of kin. The detective was glad to hear from me. The bodies had been there for some time.�

One thing I got was a clear visual answer to why Beatrice sometimes left her phone off the hook for a month or more. My family had become aware shortly after my uncle married her that she was an alcoholic, but neither she nor my uncle ever admitted it. (That combination was the biggest reason my mother never liked her, but I had found myself unable to tell Beatrice that.) When she totally stopped drinking about 20 years ago, she still never admitted she had been a closet drinker. When my uncle died, or maybe before, she apparently went back to it. ��

I rather wish my immediate family wasn�t out of town just now. It�ll be a little hard not to brood over sights and smells tonight.�

April, Come What May

Poem written by Jennifer's mother.
Photograph of Jennifer's grandmother.

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January, February, March, April

Christmas was one of the times to be born:
Christmas or January, the Christmas mothers
having quickened to the call of spring
more urgently, put out their shoots
like indoors plants in the pull of the early sun,
before the warmth of air and sky
and earth and water could tempt the rest.

Yet she was not a Christmas baby,
but an April, conceived in summer
when all the world was hot and vibrant,
not gone to seed. She was moreover
an inflation baby, thought of
before depression, born after.
No, they had not wanted her,
they said so, later, frankly.
�But you were such a cheerful baby,
you smiled, and we were glad you came.�

And yet she knew, she had her birthday mates,
born the self-same day: parents divorced,
baby squalling in the background.
The grandmother brought them up, the aunt.
Not hers, no, with her mother too Puritan
to quit the father, penniless, despondent.
Hers stuck, said nothing but,
�We didn�t want you, no, but you
were such a happy baby, you smiled,
we had to laugh.�

Yes, it was one of the times of year
to be born, April, conceived in summer,
carried triumphant through the blazing fall,
holding heavy through the long
New England winter, holding, heavy, despondent.
(And will we all get through it this year?
she couldn�t help but wonder. No,
for Grampa died on Friday.) And then,
in April, the hepaticas curling silvery
and the skunk cabbages curving purple,
then to come: sturdy, smooth,
small, dark and determined. Then
to come, yes, to be born.

Yes, it was one of the times of year to be born,
April, the world waiting expectant,
ready to laugh and smile through the wet,
and she grew like an April child, shy,
expectant, into summer. �What,�
she said, �will the world do, now
I am come? Will it perhaps change?
They will war no more when they see me.
People will work and war no more.
There will be no orange peels thrown in the street.�

So she went forth to seek her fortune,
and was strong, willing, worked hard and was tired.
She stooped to pick up orange peels
a thousand times a day, candy wrappers, pop bottles.
But they threw them, and at her, and she said,
�Good heavens, whatever is the matter?�
and they said, �Shit. Aw, shit.�

�You know,� said her friend one May morning, �it seems
really quite senseless to me, yes,
it is very lovely to sit here under
the apple blossoms eating liverwurst
sandwiches on pumpernickel bread,
and carefully saving the waxed paper to stow
in the receptacle at the end of the park,
but it really does seem quite senseless to me:
when you look underneath, there is absolutely nothing
holding it all up. It is like Euclid,
lovely and simple and complicated, but
there is nothing behind those geometry
theorems at all.�

�Oh, that is true,� answered the girl helplessly,
�but the apple blossoms are lovely,
are they not?� Yet her heart sank
within her, for her friend, too,
was an April baby, born that self-same
day of affirmation just past,
but her friend asked so very much.
�I,� her friend said, �am not sure
that I shall bother to look again,�
and the girl knew the bottomless panic
for the first time. When her friend
died, and by her own hand, the girl
was furious. God was stupid, exceedingly stupid;
there had been a terrible mistake.

So she wrote to a boy she knew, also April.
�Come,� she said, for she knew no other
word, �is the world not beautiful,
will they not war no more when they see us?
Come, we are grown, it is May already,
time that we and our lives bore fruit.
Come, we will work and be tired, come.�

And so there was marriage, January children,
all but the first. Tired. They were tired.
Christmas came, January and winter
set in. �Here,� she said, �it is only
February, I am exhausted, they
are driving me wild, here it is only
twenty to three, supper at five,
bed at seven, and already they
have crayoned the walls, clayed the floor,
spilled milk twice and left six leaky
orange juice cans in a pool on the couch.
Only nineteen minutes of three
and the fifth of February.�

�Come,� she said to them, snowsuits, mittens,
boots, hats, �out, under the sky,
along the Charles, under the sycamores,
there will be a sign.� And the sign came:
black birds came alight on
the forsythia branches, shaking the snow.

She gathered the large sprays and hurried them home.
�These will be forced,� she said,
�before you know it, it will be March,
the room will be ablaze with yellow,
it will be lovely. We will see
the philodendron sprout and
the kalanchoe bloom. The long
winter weeks of brooding will be over.
Spring will come for us, yes,
rebirth, yes, the affirmation.
Why could she not have waited? �My friend,
we are all, else, here. We all are,
though Grampa did die on Friday.��

It was, it was a good time to be born, April.
More babies were born into the world,
sons of April sons, daughters
of April daughters, those that were left
after war, suicide, divorce and darkness.
More babies wriggled in wrenching agony
toward the world, strong and moist
as hyacinth buds freshly surfacing,
tensed for the last huge pushing pop.
�Yes, pop, they do pop, corks from bottles,
except slightly more dignified. Yes,
sweetheart, you did, too. I was
tired, but I was glad you came.�

More babies were born into the world,
January, February, March and April,
some on her birthday: a boy, Christopher,
a girl, Sarah (the names that year).
Six pounds, twelve ounces, eight
pounds, four. Did the parents know
that Christopher was �Christ-bringer,�
Sarah, the middle name
for Hitler�s Jews? What
did they know, except for club feet,
which didn�t happen any more,
though flippers did. What could
they know, except for constipation?
Over and over she bore them
or bore them with her, through
January, February, March
and April. They�d make it
to April, many an April. Such
a fine time of year to be born.

Except then it struck her:
May was the problem.

Nancy Tomlinson Hall Rice 1930 - 1988
(This poem was written sometime between 1962 and 1973.)



"Sturdy, smooth, dark and determined."

Lightfair

With permission, I'm posting this email Adam sent to both me and his father.

The New York Lighfair was enormous, though lacking some familiar names. Lots of big names don't show a booth, both because of industrial espionage, but also the cost -- the bigger you are, the harder to distinguish yourself, so the more it costs. $30k - $50k seems like the low end of the high end. Didn't see any of those factories'�people either -- they sometime send folks to walk about just for the sake of being there politically.

The trip was good, though not especially "productive". We took the Acela high-speed Amtrak train�down from a stop on 128/95 south of Boston --�3 hrs. 15 min. there to Penn. Station. And just days before they were grounded for brake problems. Rode down sitting with a rep friend�and Tracy from Ripman, who's just gotten engaged, her boyfriend proposing underwater while scubadiving in Curacao!

Dropped our luggage at the Times Square Westin (not to mention dropping several hundred dollars) then a free shuttle to the Javits Convention Center on the lower West Side. Walked onto the floor about noon, where we were to meet a German manufacturer for lunch.

There'd been a change of plans, though, so no lunch. Invites to Germany on their dime at some unspecified time, but no lunch. Despite grumbly stomachs, we decided to just hit the aisles and later bought savory crepes (of all things) from a sales floor vendor. Huge show, with hundreds of booths. Lots of interesting new stuff, though little approaching revolutionary. LEDs have really hit their stride, showing up in everything from track fixtures and outdoor spotlights to neon-like linear things and television-like panels. Much of it kinda silly, really, though some of it quite useful and clever. And Chinese firms were as usual�dense around the fringes, making few contacts that I could see but engaging in the aforementioned subtle espionage. Luke even saw someone thrown off the floor for unauthorized photography. And China itself (or its trade commission or something) took�several whole "blocks" of booths, a first in my experience.

Show closes at 6:00 each day, and after waiting in a huge line for the shuttle bus and changing back at the hotel, we were off for the first of the night's attempt at three parties, at the Guggenheim, arriving there about 7:30.��Few familiar faces, and the museum devoid of art for the first four floors due to an installation in the atrium -- a 90-degree outside-corner mirrored tower reflecting the Frank Lloyd Wright spiral back on itself, with small panels of neon-green colored taped applied as dashes to the insides of the spiral rail/walls for visual clarity. Clever for about 5 minutes. Then funny for the funhouse mirror moments for�a few minutes more, and then the stark whiteness of the place begins to gnaw, the black-clad human ants insufficient and equally stark counterpoint. Tasty hors d'ouevres and free drinks kept us there a half-hour or more, but then we were off for the next party, thrown at storied The Tavern on the Green in Central Park.

More mirrors, but a�whole other experience. Zigzagging paneled halls of faceted mirrors confuse the eye but ultimately�lead you into a brashly frilly open space full of white latticework gingerbread and drippy crystal chandeliers, where hundreds of people were hoovering up extensive tablefulls of food and free booze, a few dancing in the central greenhouse atrium (to cheesy Abba covers as we arrived, almost spinning on our heels and departing in response). Many hundreds more were in the�equally drippy�garden outside, where the huge trees are wrapped trunks-to-branch-tips in glitter-light nets. We're told that over 700 showed up, about double the expectation, making a harried night of it for the waitstaff.

Some compatriots and old friends were smoking cigars outside (like everybody else who for some reason finds that habit a social necessity -- not that you'd get any truly fresh air in NYC, but you had to go inside for it there), so we stayed to talk. After about as much as we could take, though, we were rescued by a phone call from the third party, which was nearing its close at 9:30, our friends about to head out for dinner. So we scooted by foot a couple blocks down to the Time Warner complex on Columbus Circle, a fascinatingly massed almost twin tower of curved glass, up to the 15-minutes-of-fame-trendy new Stone Rose bar, where I managed most of a quick Glenmorangie port finish, one icecube, which beat the Red Label and Dewars from the last parties, before wistfully leaving it half-full as the last member showed up and we were off for dinner.

Which was at one of New York's most famous steakhouses. And me a vegetarian. One walks in past the deliberately windowed meat curing room full of darkened slabs of aged and tagged meat. A macabrely repetitive scene of bizarre simplicity, floor to ceiling beef. Despite that, we forged ahead, and later, my ordering the "Seasonal Vegetable Platter" was a rollicking moment of irony, the wine good, the stories entertaining, ranging from my growing up in Venezuela to one of the reps' it-only-gets-worse tale of misbehaving and being serially thrown out of a Jimmy Buffet concert for his increasingly insane attempts to get back in after the first transgression forcefully separated him from the clients he was entertaining.

It wasn't all fun and games, as some business and politics were slid in subtly, but after we left, we declined the last stop at a swanky bar and instead wandered back to our hotel through Times Square marvelling at the excess, and hit the hay about 1:00 a.m.

We also declined our last offer, breakfast at The Rainbow Room the next morning --�probably a mistake, but Lukas, father of two small children, never gets to sleep in, and that seemed more enticing. So he and I went to a small cafe for a leisurely breakfast, then checked out, and got back to the Javits about 11:00. Many more familiar and long-lost faces, and more in-depth conversations, the pressure to see it all dispelled by the first day's efforts. I was less effective than Luke, staggering about on legs that were quite done yesterday, thank-you-very-much, and randomly hitting up interesting booths. Our separating both days was good strategy, though, as there was little overlap in our efforts.

Perfunctory lunch there again, some political intrigue to do with reps and firings and Machiavellian scheming, more old friends, then off for Penn Station for our 7:00 p.m. train., home about 11:00.

Soul Mates

Wendy-Jean

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After a weekend of salty sea air and sumptuous seafood, we are refreshed and ready for anything that may come our way.

Wednesday, Flo will be discharged from Rivercrest and Diane will move her ( I�m in charge of the TV) back to Concord Park. We expect a rousing welcome from staff and residents.

Our friends� house on the Cape had cable TV and we watched two new releases, both of which I recommend: The Fugitive and The Bourne Identity.

Diane�s best meal? Raw Oysters on the half shell with crab cakes and a glass of Rosemount Estate. Mine? Scallops saut�ed with capers.

You�ll be happy to know that I talked to only one person, Richard, the owner of one of Chatham�s oldest and most respected galleries. With a kelly green cable-knit sweater over a blue pin stripped shirt, weejans, and black rimmed reading glasses far down his nose, I thought, here is someone with whom I have nothing in common. Until he misunderstood one of my comments.

�That�s a good price for the Falconer painting!� At fourteen g�s, I meant, don�t be ridiculous. But he heard it as it reads. On our way out, I said, �I hate the traffic now and it isn�t even the summer.� He replied,

�This is a town of five thousand which grows to thirty thousand in July. When the crowds descend, I take my two most expensive paintings and put them in the window. That keeps the �I Am With Stupid� T-shirt crowd from coming in and dripping their ice cream all over my art.�

Thaw

Adam sent me this photograph about a month ago. This river to be is now all river.
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Matt is on Spring Break in Florida and we are going to be in Chatham on the Cape until Monday. No computer access and no updates unless the Benedict Arnold Twins, Adam and Dan, chime in.

All In The Family

When you read this remember when my grandmother was born - a long time ago - and where she grew up - the southwestern part of Missouri.

Helen and I are waiting to see her liver doctor.

�What do you see?� I held up my fingernails.

�You�re not anemic.�

�That�s right. And do you remember when you looked at my fingernails and said I was?�

�Vaguely.�

�Back in 1970, when Diane and I were Macrobiotics. You said I was anemic. I said �Bullshit.� But you were right, just like now when you said I should have checked in with the receptionist. We wasted twenty minutes because I thought they�d see us sitting here.�

Sitting here, waiting for Dr. Schneider. Our appointment had been for 2:10 and now it was 3:10. I owned twenty of those minutes, but he owned the rest. Helen was exhausted, but as in all things, there was good. Helen told more stories.

I continued.

�You reminded me of Dr. Phillips. He talked to me, and with no lab tests, diagnosed my hypoglycemia."

�You said I sent you to a psychiatrist. That he didn�t even listen to your chest.�

� A smart aleck, even at thirteen? I should cut myself some slack. Maybe I was being funny. I still can�t believe he figured that out.�

�Dr. Phillips knew my mother had atherosclerosis of the arteries in the brain. He said she had a classic �frozen mask.' "

�And he was right. Well, she had dementia, but who really knows why.�

�I told my mother and she said he was just a fat Jew.�

�Yeah, and... .�

�That�s what she said.�

�And... .� My mother, and my father for that matter, had they lived in Selma, might have marched with MLK. I needed some kind of acknowledgment that what her mother was saying was off the wall.

�She was half right. He was a Jew and he was overweight.�

�And...come on here.� I needed tenderizer for this tough piece of meat, but I wasn't getting any.

�You know what Francis Gallagher used to say?�

�Do I want to know?�

�He said he would be sure his doctor was a hebe.�

�Classic Archie Bunker.�

�He said a Jew would have to work extra hard to get into medical school. I didn�t know what a hebe was. My mother had a bridge club. She told me one of her neighbors, a Jew, wanted to join. She asked me what I thought, because she didn�t know any Jews. I told her that would be a good reason to invite that woman to join. She looked at me and said, �You always were peculiar.�

�Did your mother have a sense of humor?� I asked this only because my older brother, Brian, thought she was a bit on the stern side.�

�She did, and she told this one joke, but she couldn�t tell it right. It goes like this. There was an evangelist. Her name was Aimee Semple McPherson. ( I heard, Amy Simple McPherson but when I looked it up Google asked me if I really meant Aimee Semple). My mother would say, �What do you call an Aimee Semple McPherson salad?� The answer was, lettuce cutup without dressing. But she would say, �Lettuce cutup without Mayonnaise.� Everyone would laugh.�

�Wait a minute. Lettuce cutup without dressing? This was a joke?�

�It was slightly vulgar�

�Vulgar? Aimee Semple ...Lettuce cutup without dressing?�

Helen laughed so hard, she turned red. �You are as bad as my mother.�

�Lettuce cutup...�

She slowed it down for me, enunciating each syllable, �Let--us--cut--up--with--out --dressing.�

Old Time Radio

Chris is tall and his grey hair, parted on one side, complements his blue eyes as if it were dyed to match. He looks like he could be Ted Kennedy�s son, and when he told me his mother knew Ted, I thought, okay.

�I don�t need much, a couple 1x8�s of quarter-sawn white oak.�

As Chris punched the keypad of his calculator, multiplying board feet by price, I asked, �Do you remember old time radio?� He paused and looked at me quizzically, as if the fifty years had to be traveled in real time.

�The Shadow, Ellery Queen, Dragnet, Sam Spade.�. I bought a three CD set from Willow Books, and now I can�t get out of my truck. �

�No, we were TV watchers.�

�How old are you?�

�Fifty-one; my brother, Mark, is fifty-three.� He and Mark run this business, a hardwood outlet. Suppliers ship rough cut lumber which is then dressed to order in the brothers� mill.

�That was the beginning of TV. You would have listened to the radio.�

�The only thing I remember was the Dickens tale on WBZ. They played it two years in a row on Christmas Eve. It helped me get through the nightmarish night before Christmas Day.�

�I�ve never heard anyone call it nightmarish. Exciting, over-stimulating.�.�

�Maybe I exaggerate, but we could never fall asleep, thinking about presents waiting under the tree. Once my mother gave us sleeping pills.�

�Sleeping pills. I�d be afraid to imagine what they might have been.�

�You know, I don�t even know if they were sleeping pills. Could have been anything.�.�

�Placebos.�?�

�Like aspirin. That was the only time she gave us something to sleep. I wish I had asked her what they were, but I don�t think she would remember.�

�My mother would. She remembers everything.�

�Not mine. She had late-in-life depression which affected her memory, and she had electroshock therapy.�

�This was before Prozac?�

�No, it�s only seven years ago. There is a small percentage of people those medications don�t work on, and my mother was one. They contain speed, or something like speed, and it made her agitated. Instead of depressed and lethargic, she was depressed and hyper. But don�t think of mad scientist electroshock.�.�

�I know. My wife works at McLean.�

�It made my mother feel much better, but the side effect is it erases your memory. Not long term, but your short term memory.�

What is it about me that gets people to reveal this stuff? I don�t know that I�d even tell a friend my mother had electroshock. I could have gone on, but I changed the subject. �Are those your girls?� Portraits of two high-school age girls, both redheads, hung on the wall behind Chris.

�No. They are Mark�s, which means they are my nieces. The one on the left is sixteen and a half, just got her driver�s license.�

�Uh oh.� My father worried when we got our driver�s licenses, and even with safer cars, that worry was passed down.

�And she had a fender bender.�

�As did my son, Matthew, not long after he got his license. It seems to be a rite of passage.�

�She was driving in the snow. She slid right through an intersection.�

�Matthew has done that, too, without running into anything.�

�But she uses the snow as an excuse.�

�Let me guess. She said she was driving soooo slowly.�

�But not slow enough.�

�I know. It�s as though teenagers have established a minimum speed, below which they won�t go, and if they have an accident, it is not their fault. Was she alone?�

�She was, but she doesn�t pay much attention to the law about not driving with other kids for six months.�

�Doesn�t pay attention? Don�t you tell her not to?�

�We compromised. That is one law very few kids obey. I told her if she drives with kids it can�t be at night and she has to be extra careful.�

�That is your compromise? Think about the cops that stop her. They don�t compromise anymore. There is no longer any we�ll-make-sure-they-get-home-safely stuff. It�s all leg irons and handcuffs. I hate the rigid world Matthew inhabits.�

�Don�t get me started on that. We�ve lost control of our police departments.�

�That�s a great way of putting it. It�s all punitive.�

I could see my morning disappearing inside this two-room building.

�We could go on and on, but I�ve got to get back to work.�

***********************

My day�s project was to add connecting side rails to an antique head and footboard. I had the matching lumber, now all I needed was the hardware to connect the pieces. Next stop, my local lumber yard.

�Mr. Miller!�

�Jim.�

�What can I do for you?�

�I need bed rail hardware.�

�We don�t have any.�

Jim is sixty-two, has a lived-in body and acts at work as he might at home. He is so pleasant and so casual, I expect him to pop a slice of pizza in a nearby microwave and offer me half. I�ve known Jim for years and have learned that he is divorced, has two sons, and a daughter and two grandchildren. He claims his job killed his marriage. Or should I say, his jobs. For the last twenty-four years he worked two: one behind a desk, selling building materials, and the other, evenings and nights, patrolling the streets as a town cop.

�Okay, forget the hardware, tell me more about your two jobs. I can�t wrap my brain around the lack of sleep thing, and even worse is the space issue.�

�Like outer space?�

�Inner space. When I get home after work, I kick my dog, my wife and my kid in that order. You don�t go home, you go to another job. What do you kick?�

�Remember, I was doing two entirely different things.� Jim ended the sentence with a lilt, as if the change in tone added emphasis.

�Oh, yeah, that would do it. Go from your day job to your night job, the one where you carry a gun. And this is on how many hours of sleep?�

�Four, but never all at once. And you know, it never bothered me. My doctor couldn�t understand it either, but he said I was so healthy, to keep on doing what I was doing.�

�Here�s a question for the old time cop in you. I was talking to Chris down the street, just before I got here, and we both agreed we�ve lost control of our police departments. Nothing is settled in a friendly fashion. Like the old days. You remember the old days.�

�You mean domestic disputes?�

�No, we were talking about driving...but, yeah. That too.�

�You can�t anymore.�

�Can�t what anymore?�

�Walk away from a fight. It�s the liability. If I walk into a situation, I own it. From the moment I arrive, it�s on my shoulders. If I leave and someone gets killed, I�m in trouble.

�You can�t stop the fight, dust your hands off, and say goodbye?�

�No. If I get a call and it�s a couple, one of them is going in. No matter what, and I have to decide who. I got a call once and it was a woman beating her son. She had pulled the glass and wooden shade off a ceiling fixture, smashed it on the floor and was hitting her kid with the wooden slats. She said she was trying to teach him who was boss. I had to take her in.�

�So you go from child abuse to, �I don�t have bed rail hardware?� No stops at Jim Beam�s house, let alone your house?�

�I don�t drink, and that lady hitting her kid is far from the worst. I had a seventeen year old point a gun on me. He kept me at bay for forty minutes.�

�And then what?�

�He put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.�

Farm Girl

The Big Picture

Madrid

Begin here for new photos and integrated pics with rakkity's travelogue across the pond. At the bottom of the page is a link to Chapter II - new pics, a new story.

It's 4:30 AM and I am on my way home. Given the hour I lose, I hope to be in Acton by 11 PM.

Spring Flowers

Helen, after her first office visit, admiring her flowers.

Yesterday reminded me of one of the camping group's fall bushwhacks through the Maine woods. We have a plan, a view, we have a destination, a mountain top, but we never quite get there. A rocky outcrop, an opening through the trees, a glimpse of the lakes below, a settling for less than what we desired.

In the shortest form possible, her primary care physician said, �Move.�

Her gastroenterologist said she might have autoimmune liver disease or Primary Biliary Cirrhosis, but we won�t know until we do more tests.

Helen. �No.�

Me. �I am her health care proxy.� I�m pretty proud of this now that Chris tells me it means I�m her favorite.

�Dr. Bieker to Helen. �Does he know what you want?�

Me. �I do. At the first excuse, she wants to see what�s next.�

Dr. Bieker. �Many people are afraid to die.�

Me. �Not this one. she is not afraid enough and that�s a problem.�

Dr. Bieker. �And some people reach a point where they have had enough.�

Helen smiled. I knew she wanted to raise her hand.

The Right Thing

Jennifer

When my grandmother died in a two car accident at around age 75, my family was pretty convinced that she had desired her death, and I decided that the uninjured teenage driver of the other car deserved to know that.� My family agreed, and (partly since it was my idea, and partly since I was a teenager myself) I was the one who called him on the phone, and told him �� gosh, what DID I say?� I think I explained who I was and then said that we thought that she might have been trying to kill herself and that we were glad he hadn�t been hurt.� I think he mumbled �Oh� and then there was a kind of uncomfortable silence and I said goodbye and hung up.� Every now and then, I muse on the situation, and reconsider whether she really had desired her death, and whether the call was of any use to him then or ever.� Did he muse on it every now and then and wonder if that was really why I called?� Or had he already (a few days later) essentially forgotten an unpleasant incident?� Did my family really think it was true or were some in my family deceiving themselves and/or others in order to feel better?

My Business

As I sit here my mother tells me stories. Because “here” is at her fabulous new computer, I try to write them down as fast as she speaks, but I get behind. She’s a terrific story teller with a scary memory, and if I could keep up, I’d have no editing to do. Today, I’m not in a spiffing up mood. Here's today's, ragged edges and all.

But first, a short update. Tomorrow we have Helen’s first doctor’s appointment at 9:30. It’s with her primary care physician, the one who will tell me Helen has to move to be closer to her children. Joan wants me to say, "My sister, Joan, would be happy to have her parents move in with her, and she will do everything humanly possible to facilitate it. Michael, however, thinks it’s okay if his mother dies a miserable and neglected death in bed in her computer room."

At 2:30, we drive back to the same building to see the gastro-enterologist who will tell us if the Prednisone is keeping Helen’s auto immune liver disease under control. Joan, wants me to ask him about interferon lozenges.

On to today’s story:

“When Ron Coleman killed himself, the police wanted to interview me. I told them, no, I didn’t want the police driving up and down the street in front of his house. “

“That was the guy across the street?”

“Oh, you remember. Ron came over asking for money and we gave him a check for forty dollars. I made it out for twenty and he looked at it and said, ‘Couldn’t you make it out for forty?' I said, ‘No,’ but Mack gave me that don’t-be-so-stingy look. Later that day the bank called to ask me if I had written a check for four hundred dollars. Anyway, the investigating detective wanted to come to our house to interview us. I told him, ‘I do not want you parked in front of my house because I live across the street from these people. They don’t need the embarrassment.’ He said, ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’ I said, ‘I’m not so sure it’s not,’ and then I said, ‘Why don’t I meet you at the bank?’ His answer, ‘I don’t have time to do this.’ I’m getting impatient now, so I asked him how about if we meet at the bank in two hours, and the detective agrees, but he doesn’t show up. After I got home from the bank, I called him in his office to ask why he didn’t wasn’t there. He said he didn’t feel like it. He wanted to meet me here."

“Anyway, I turned the news on the next night and there is a story about a man found dead in an abandoned house of a drug overdose. It was Ron. I had to call his brother to tell him what happened. As much as I knew. He was greatly relieved by my call because he was afraid he had caused his brother’s death after he stopped giving him money.”

Against The Grain

We enjoyed another active day. Jeff helped me pull the cap off the back of my truck so I could wax underneath it and wash those impossible-to-get-to windows where the front of the cap faces the back of the truck (yes, I am running out of things to fix and polish). After breakfast, and after the morning�s crossword puzzle, HO and I worked on her new email address book and continued to explain her absence to her cyberbuddies. Then I drove to the mall to buy food and computer-related parts, and for dinner we all went to Jeff and Karen�s.

The amount of food consumed by the Millers was most impressive. Helen had, in her subtle way, complained of the lack of flavor in the fixings I�d been providing. Little did I know that the chicken soup I created was so similar to what she�d been eating for the last two months. We feasted on salmon, tuna, baked potatoes and spinach salad, as much for taste as hunger.

After dinner we drove the thoroughly exhausted Helen back and put her to bed. I switched on her TV and did what I always do - sit at the computer and respond to her minor requests. She watched another British comedy, and I typed; she fell asleep, I played computer chess. We experienced one brief scary choking period before I left, and I think that helped set the stage for what happened next. Let�s say it knocked over another chess piece on an already messy board.

With my camera slung over my shoulder and my new black Irish sweater tossed almost preppy-like on my back, I headed towards Jeff and Karen�s. The streets were dark. This time as I shuffled along I thought about the girl who had been shot in the park across from the Ruthenburgs. I even imagined her slumped on one of the benches. I don't know the real details.

From behind me, I heard a voice, a question. I turned and saw a guy on a bicycle. He appeared too old and too big for the bike; I said �Hi.� He looked at me and mumbled, �I thought you were someone else.� I thought, I�m much older than you, I�m white, and other than my blue jeans I�m sure I�m not dressed like anyone you know.

�It�s an easy mistake,� I offered under my breath. I might as well have said, �Yep, I�m prey.�

He turned on his bike, looked harder at me, and said something else I didn�t understand. I walked on and he cut his front tire sharply and coasted up to me. For some reason, maybe it�s that ingrained male thing, when I feel like someone is �pushing,� I push back. I knew where he was headed, my face, and I knew where I was headed, his face. Now he�s straddling his bike and I�m staring through the dark lenses of his glasses, our noses maybe five inches apart.

Had I a moment to reflect, I might have laughed at this ridiculous scene. An old white guy, far from home; a young black guy, in his hood. And moments before I was sitting with my mother clearing the phlegm from her throat.

We stood for a few moments, then he said something slightly conciliatory, and I responded in kind. We disengaged.

�I�m in a lousy mood. I�m visiting my sick mother.�

We walked together the last two blocks to Jeff�s house, me telling him about my mother, he telling me about his parents, where he went to high school, his military service, the work he does, the work he has done, his belief in God, how he prays when he is depressed, and on and on. We talked so long that Jeffrey, who was inside listening to music and thought he was hallucinating me outside talking to this guy, moseyed out to see what was up. As Jeff approached, my new friend said,

�Hey, man, I didn�t mean anything earlier. No disrespect or anything.�

All Liquored Up

We�d just finished breakfast and my mother, the only person I know who enjoys the past more than I, asked me, �Do you remember the Brady�s, next door in Cincinnati?�

�Of course I do. There was Cassie, Roger and John and their parents, Rommie and Gordon. I remember the camper Gordon made from plans - it took him months - and I remember the night when he got drunk.�

�That�s what I was going to tell you about.�

�I was twelve; it was 1959. I was upstairs. The noise woke me. He kept screaming about his glasses.�

�That�s because Rommie broke them. This was the night before they moved to Milwaukee. They were going out; they were very social people. The next thing I know, Rommie is at the door in her slip, her hair is messed up, and she�s yelling, �He�s trying to kill me.� �

�But Mr Brady was a Mr. Peeper�s type guy. As were his sons. Peter might call them brainiacs�

�He was a Mr. Peepers, but not when he drank. Rommie said he hit her and the only way to stop him had been to break his glasses so he couldn�t see. I told her to go up into our bedroom and stay there.�

�She was small, right? About five three, 150 lbs ?�

�Yes, and her husband would make three of her. He made two of Mack. He and Mack were the same height, but Gordon was much huskier. Rommie ran upstairs and then I hear this banging on our back door. It�s Gordon and he says, �I need to see my wife! � I told him to sit down and I�d make him some coffee. He said, �You have no right to keep me from my wife.� I said, �Gordon, if you don�t calm down, I�ll call the police.� Meanwhile Mack is looking in from the next room. I wave him off, thinking the worst thing would be to have two bulls going at each other.�

�All this time Rommie is upstairs?�

�On our bed with a pillow over her head. Trying to block it all out.�

"She spent the night at our house, and the next morning they both came for breakfast as had been planned. Gordon said, �Helen, I am really sorry about last night. I do apologize.� I said, 'I accept your apology, just don�t ever let that happen again.� "

Wild Root Cream Oil

�Helen, do you remember WildRoot Cream-oil?�

�It sounds familiar. Do you mean Brylcreem?�

�No, WildRoot Cream-oil. Brylcreem came after it.�

�That was oily wasn�t it?�

�Those old time radio shows, that I�ve been listening to on CD, play the original commercials. I remember that stuff. Can you imagine smearing something on your hair that they call cream oil, and that they boast has lanolin in it? They talk about using it on your kids to train their hair. Probably train it do situps.�

�I remember when you and Stevie Brown would slick your hair down with Brylcreme. Then you�d put your leather jackets on to look like Elvis Presley.�

�We looked pretty sharp, didn�t we?�

�Not too.�

�What do we have to lose? Let�s run that copper wire between the two terminals as you suggest and eliminate it.�

My father and I had been, for most of the morning, banging our heads on the puzzle that was my nonfunctioning, driver�s side power window. We�d pulled the whole door apart, and I had in my hand, the small motor that lifted the window. Next to me on the ground were exposed wires, flapping plastic, screws, and multiple trim door parts. We had tested and retested and tested again resistance and voltage, but mostly we had tested our will to succeed.

We were sure we�d isolated the problem to the motor, which is as simple a device as the abacus. But we couldn�t determine the root problem. We�d get to a point, after checking every lead, where we were sure it should work, but when we reconnected the motor to the electrical harness - nothing. In frustration I called the local parts store - $210.00 for a new motor. Fat chance. I�ll continue to roll slightly pass those toll booths, and open my door before I pay that kind of money.

In the old days my father would have never given up. I knew he had the answer- he always had the answer, no matter how esoteric the problem- and all I had to do was keep him at it.

�Let�s take the motor into the breakfast room and work on it at the table.� Remember, this is not a greasy car part, but an isolated, compact, metal and plastic device. We�ve done much of our most important work at this table. Our last resistance check revealed an inline chip of some sort, that when wiggled, would either register as a closed circuit - good - or an open one - bad. That was the problem, and that was the in-series gizmo that made no sense to my father. We wired past it, reinstalled the motor and sure enough, the window went up and down.

I smiled to myself knowing that the only other person in the family who would truly appreciate the inventiveness of this solution would be Matthew. He had discovered countless part workarounds on the old BMW, oddities even his teacher at Minuteman Tech was clueless about. I just wished Matthew had been here for this one. Need I say, I miss Matthew?

Which reminds me of my phone call to Diane on Saturday. I stood on the porch in Evansville, warmed by the sun, as she watched the rain patter against the windows from inside her kitchen in Acton. With the lovey dovey stuff out of the way and a quick synopsis of Patti�s health, Flo�s progress, Kate�s broken foot, Matt�s tire purchase in NH, the overworked sump pump, her upcoming trip to Montreal, Susan, Jimmy, what movie I should watch with my mother, when I might be coming home and how things are here, I popped the most serious question. �How has the blog been without my editor?� Meaning, my posts from afar without Diane�s eagle eye.

�It�s been great. I love it.�

�But wha about punctuation and typos and ... ?

�I didn�t see any.�

Then it dawned. I can, write; anything: I want, in pretty, much my usual stlye. an as long sa it ends, with: I miss Diane - it�s perfect.

Iberia Bound

Chapter I

Some pictures to go with this may be found at:

Pick and choose as you like.

3/18/05 Viernes, Dia zero: Iberia bound
When Papacita Ed & Mamacita Beth set off on their trip to visit Ni�a Katie in Sevilla, for her Junior-year semester abroad, they got a more promising start than Ni�a did back in Februario, when she faced blowing snow and closed airports. Now there were only warm breezes from the south to speed us on over Delaware Bay on the sunset flight from Baltimore to Newark. Flt #4791 turned out to be a smaller plane than Mamacita likes--she hates prop planes-- but at least this was a small jet and the air was smooth. Papacita, however, loves small planes, and enjoyed the views while perusing "Breathing the Blogosphere" by James Patrick Kelly: 40 recommended weblogs. (No the millerblog wasn't there).

3/19/05 Sabado, Dia uno

Adventure #1 started in the hour of landing in Lisbon. Mamacita, her lovely hermana Kathy and I (papacita, your dutiful scribe) had groggily worked our way thru the airport customs, picking up the bags and heading towards the main lobby. I was in the lead and glanced at the Customs-Declaration-only area we didn't have to pass through as I headed for the opaque glass exit doors. Exiting that sector, while pushing my two rolling bags, I assumed that Mamacita & Hermana were following, but as the one-way doors closed irrevocably, I found myself in the main terminal, in the midst of Portuguese fast food, and ex-passengers fleeing from the never-never land of Customs into the light and air of Portugal. I stood there, looking back at the opaque sliding doors, wondering where my companions were. Going back was a "n�o-n�o", as two uniformed guards informed me. In fact, waiting close to the doors was also a "n�o-n�o". So I moved a few m away by the wall and waited and waited.

Meanwhile behind the "n�o-n�o" doors, our poor Hermana was desperately looking for her jacket, maybe it had been left on the plane or the luggage concourses, but no luck, no jacket.

Finally, about when I had concluded that mamacita & hermana had been dragooned by the Customs-declaration people, and the agencia were searching every seam of every garment, they emerged, somewhat downcast, from the opaque door. So we walked out to find a taxi to the hotel and Ni�a. A quick ride thru the avenidas to the Orion Eden in the Pra�a Dos Restauradores (The Plaza of the Two Restaurants?), and we strolled into the lobby, finding Ni�a Katie waiting for us. She had ridden 6 hours on the midnite bus from Sevilla, navigated the Metro to get to the hotel, and looked (through our sleep-deprived eyes) refreshed and relaxed.

We found that our suite had a kitchenette, a living room with pull-out couch (2 beds) & bedroom with bath. We all blew Z's for a couple of hours. After waking, we tried unsuccessfully to get cash at an ATM, and then had lunch. Luckily Hermana Kathy had the foresight to bring euros from the estados unidos.

Following our invaluable Rick Steve's guide book, we went to the funicular
around the corner and rode up into the Barrio Alto (high city) to see the
views of the lower city (Baixa) and the opposing hill (the Alfama). Again
following Rick's advice, took the train to the Torre do Belem, a castle in a
mixed Gothic-Manuelite style on the river, but it had closed a little early,
this being almost the beginning of Semana Santa (about which lots more later).

Back into town by taxi, we searched fruitlessly for the trolley that takes
vistors up the hill to the castle on the Alfama, and ended up taking a taxi.
The Alfama is one of the oldest districts of Lisbon, which was mostly
devastated by the 1755 earthquake. We found lots of fabulous views down into the now-darkening city. The twilight makes Lisboa look less ramshackl�o and more romantic�o.

We toddled down into the Centro, and found a hidden restaurant on the 6th floor of a nondescript downtown bldg. Recommended by amigo Rick, The Cimmarr�o is a Brazilian restaurante with a special 6.00 euro deal. 4 kinds of meat, hot rice & beans, and a complete buffet of cold salad dishes. Their vinho do Casa was terrific, costing only 8 euros/bottle.

3/20/05 Domingo, Dia Dos

Adventure #2: Somewhere between the hotel and The Cimmarr�o, mamacita lost her wallet. After discovering that, she spent some time burning up the international phone lines to cancel our credit cards and her driver's license. Luckily she didn't lose her ATM card, which was not in her wallet. We had now to depend on Hermana and Ni�a to pay all our bills!

In the early morning we found the Metro in Pra�a Rossio, after reading the
base of the obelisk in Dos Restauradores, we learned that "Restauradores" means "Restoration" of the Portuguese kingship and departure of the Spanish in 1640. The Lisbon Metro is magnificent. Decorated tiles cover the walls of all the stations. The floors are all marble and spotless, the trains are frequent and rapido. We rode to Esta��o Oriente to pick up our rental car, where it turned out that the sole agent of Avis had gone to the airport for an unexplained reason. We waited for his return while munching on fruit from the "Hiper Mercado". On his return, Beth showed the agent our rental agreement. "But this is for March 21. That is tomorrow." Oh well, so we're a day off. We shifted gears mentally, and revised plans. We would take the train to Belem, a riverside suburb with many Muse�os, parks, monuments and a castle. The castle, unfortunately closed before we got there, but it's small and compact, so we got to see it from 3 sides. Up the river, there was the Ponte Vasco de Gama, which looks a lot like the Golden Gate Bridge. The reason it does, is that San Francisco's bridge was designed by the same engineer who planned the Ponte V. de G. Behind it on a high hill is a famous looking monument which resembles the statue of Christ in Rio de Janiero. The locals proudly assert that the Lisbon statue is bigger.

The following day, we got our car and drove to Sentra, a picturesque town near the hilly coast north of Lisbon. Several kings (Manuel, Ferdinand, Carlos?) had lived there, and made their marks architecturally and botanically. The town is surrounded by a temperate rainforest, which is now a UN world-heritage area. The castle at the top of the hill above Sintra is full of (what else) ornate tiled walls, and the views are spectacular when there is no fog. (Unfortunately, there was fog.) The rooms had intricately carved woodwork and rooms stuffed to repletion with art deco furniture. Mamacita said that she was "really glad she was not a queen and forced to put up with such crowded extravagance."

The forest park below the castle was filled with trees, ferns, and flowers
imported from tropical rainforests by the king and queen in the 1880s & '90s. it reminded us of the UC botanical gardens in Berkeley, but Sentra's botonico is far more extensive. We walked down the trails, a rainforest drizzle dripping down on us. wondering where exactly we were headed. At last we came to a road with a bus stop. According to a sign there, the last bus was due at 17:30, in just 10 minutes. We remarked on our perfect timing, but 17:30 came and went without a bus. Maybe we had missed it? So we began hiking up the road, and a km or so later reached the place we had first entered the forest. No bus came. "We're doomed to walk all the way back to Sentra in the rain", I thought. But soon the bus chugged up the road to us.

We got on, expecting to ride smoothly onwards, but the road was so slippery, the bus wheels just spun fecklessly. With many gesticulations, the driver had all the passengers move to the back of the bus, weighting the rear wheels so he could get traction. Standing there, we all mentally pushed the bus. We moved upwards slowly, and we could smell burning rubber of the tires. After endless slipping and sliding, we reached the top of the local hill. It was all down hill from there. But the driver popped out of the bus and disappeared. Perhaps he was picking up pieces of hot rubber from our trail and re-surfacing the tires? Or helping some poor driver who was slipping on the asphalt like us? We never did learn, but he returned eventually and we continued on down into town.

Back in picturesque Sintra on a steep, rainy sidestreet, we shared a great
dinner with Portuguese Vinho Tinto, pizza, and penne shrimp in a restaurant tiled with marble and blue ceramic. We were surprised to be charged for bread, olives and butter, after they were placed on our table without our requesting them. But that, it turns out, is a common practice in Portuguese and Spanish restaurants, and we adapted, and we geared ourselves up for our next ciudad--Madrid.

--To Be Continued --
--rakkity

Coded

Follow these directions:

Select any three digit number such that the hundreds digit is at least two greater than the units digit. (For example: 672) Call this number w.
Reverse the digits of w. (For example: 276) Call this number x.
Subtract x from w. Call this remainder y.
Reverse the digits of y. Call this number z.
Add y and z.
Multiply the sum of y and z by 100,000.
From the product obtained in the last step, subtract 8,685,432.

This number is the final answer. However, it is in code. To produce the message, substitute a letter for each digit according to the following key:

0 - o
1 - l
2 - f
3 - m
4 - i
5 - r
6 - p
7 - w
8 - a
9 - g

If your work is correct, you should be able to read the decoded message.


Thanks to shinydome