Počitelj

July 20, 2017 Sally7 Comments

Coke machines aren’t unusual — except when seen on a trail from a medieval fortification.

One of my favorite days on my recent trip to Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina involved a full day tour from Mostar. Our tour guide, Emir, was very knowledgable, engaging, and absolutely wonderful. I highly recommend him. (See: Kravice Waterfalls, Pocitelj Old Town and Blagaj Tekke Day Trip) I’m sure I’ll write more about his tour in the days to come.

But Počitelj.

It was our last stop after a full day of sightseeing. Emir drove us to the top of a little mountain or large hill — I’m not sure what the distinction is.

Side note: Bosnia is a country of panoramas. Every time I looked out the window of the train or car or bus, I was struck by the beauty of the place. A town nestled in a valley. Sheep grazing on a hillside. Haystacks. Farmland. Mountains. Rivers.

From the top at Počitelj, we looked out over the Neretva valley and down on a cluster of homes and the mosque.

According to Wikipedia:

The entire historic urban site of Počitelj and surrounding area suffered extensive collateral damage during the 1992-1996 war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Namely, it was heavily damaged by Croatian forces during the 1993 Bosnian War. Following the bombing, Počitelj’s sixteenth-century master works of Islamic art and architecture were destroyed and a large part of the town’s population was displaced.

That’s Bosnia — beauty and war damage intertwined with each other everywhere. Destruction and rebuilding, rebuilding, rebuilding.

Hope.

Everyone else in our group climbed to the top of this tower, but the stairs of Dubrovnik had done me in. (I made 5x my stair goal one day in Dubrovnik.) I relish alone time, too, and saw this as an opportunity to sit and just enjoy the views.

The place was spectacular.

The Coca-Cola machine on the path down, undoubtedly pre-war, was a reminder of a different time.

I laughed when I first saw it; it was so unexpected.

But if I think too much about it, I may cry.

Mostar

July 9, 2017July 9, 2017 Sally3 Comments

Mostar is a confusing city.

We’ve been here about 12 hours.

The bridge is lovely.

People bustled around last night — both visitors and locals (I assume) with the vibrance of any tourist destination.

But this morning’s quest for coffee drove home the urban blight — not a US city’s urban blight, but war’s scars still festering and ugly.

I took pictures so I could remember, but I won’t post them here. Not now anyway.

I drank my tiny cup of Turkish coffee at an outdoor coffee bar. All around me were signs in Bosnian. I was pretty pleased with how much I understood.

The sign that spoke the loudest, however, was in English. However, the reason it spoke so loudly wasn’t that it was written in my native tongue. It was the message —

The Stari Most, the bridge for which the city is known, is missing in the drawing, a casualty of the war that has since been rebuilt.

But, I dare say, the city and the country have not fully recovered.

The world has moved on.

Other cities have bombs dropping on them now.

But we who live in peace and safety mustn’t take it for granted.

Or forget.

Life

Postcards

July 3, 2017 Sally2 Comments

I hope Leah doesn’t mind, but we’re going to spend some of our evenings dashing off postcards from the former Yugoslavia.

Mary found my postcard list in my travel folder. It has names, addresses, and boxes to check off, so I can have that sense of accomplishment.

“I don’t know who some of these people are,” she said as she read through the names.

“They’re people I met on the internet,” I told her.

I know, it goes against all the internet safety rules, but I didn’t respond to phishing letters or meet these people in sketchy chat rooms — they’re fellow bloggers. I think I’m allowed to use a little common sense.

I sent one an email the other day, worrying all the while that I would seem like a stalker. Her response was so heart-warming. “Thank you SO so much for contacting me – you’ve rather made my day,” she said.

That’s how I felt when my former classmate reintroduced himself to me at the grocery store. That’s how I feel when someone does some little nice thing. That’s how I hope my postcard recipients will feel when they receive a note from Croatia or Bosnia.

A few years ago at Laity Lodge, during an informal conversation around the fire pit, one woman shared how special it makes her feel to receive a hand-written note from someone.

“I’m holding something in my hands that they held in their hands,” she had said. “They took the time to write something for me. They wrote my name and signed their name. It’s a gift of time and thought.”

During the A-to-Z Challenge this year, I stumbled across a blogger who daily posts snail mail that she has sent or received. I look forward to seeing Hawwa’s Mail Adventure‘s in my inbox every day.

I contacted her to see if she wanted a postcard from Bosnia or Croatia, and she replied that she had never received a postcard from Bosnia — so I put her on my list.

I sent a trial run postcard to her — just a collage I had made.

She received it — and put it in a post! I was honored.

Last week I received a postcard back from her.

I held a postcard that she had held in her hands. She took the time to write something for me. She wrote my name and signed her name. It was a gift of time and thought.

And I appreciated it.

family

Mentor

June 30, 2017 Sally4 Comments

A Facebook friend has been asking a “Question of the Day.” Yesterday, he asked this:

Who is your “I’ve never met you and likely never will” mentor?

I realize more and more how much of a mentor my mother was for me. She was, above all the other things, a caregiver. Obviously I’ve met her, though. I just didn’t appreciate her enough in that role.

The thing is — a caregiver’s mentor is never going to be in any spotlight.

She’s going to be home, quietly doing mundane tasks.

She’ll find her strength and solace in an abiding relationship with God.

She’ll be able to count on one hand her closest friends, but will still have a wider circle of loved ones, people she cares deeply about and who care deeply about her.

However, most people won’t even be aware of half of what she does.

*****

The other day, at Cooperstown’s Antiquarian Book Fair, I found a treasure that comes close to finding my mentor.

I found a Book of Common Prayer with a name imprinted on the front: Rachel Ware Fuller.

Inside, the inscription told me that the book had been a gift from her son.

And then, there were pages and pages of handwritten notes.

I thought I had found the treasure I’ve been searching — a mother’s spiritual summation, all the things she has learned through parenting and wifing and friending and living. This would have been the mentor I never met and never will.

However, further inspection showed the notes to be from a Samuel Clark Harbinson, an Episcopal rector at a New England church. I’m not sure how the book was transferred from Rachel Fuller to him, but it was. Another inscription revealed that.

His notes are fascinating. And challenging. And thought-provoking.

Someday though, I hope to find a well-worn book with the margins and flyleaves full of notes written by a caregiver. I want it to have a coffee spill on a page or two, and ink smeared by tears on many pages.

And notes. Lots of notes.

I’ve already started accumulating a collection of other people’s journals and some religious books with notes in the margins.

But I’ll keep looking, at book sales, and in book boxes, for this Holy Grail of books.

That’s where I’ll find my mentor.

family · Life

Good-bye, Odyssey

June 29, 2017 Sally15 Comments

Bud said that he woke up in the middle of the night wondering if it was the right decision.

I reminded him all the reasons why — the catalytic converter, the exhaust system, the timing belt, the short circuits in the electrical system.

Still, our Honda Odyssey had taken us many miles — well over 200,000. Many trips to Florida, to South Carolina, to North Carolina, to Washington, DC, as well as the hundreds, maybe over a thousand trips between Cooperstown and Greene.

It’s almost as old as Laurel.

It has served us well.

When Philip was a little boy and we traded in one of our cars, he drew sad faces in the dirt on the windows. Laurel did the same last night with the Odyssey. My bookend children think the same.

Sad face, broken heart, bird poop (right to left)

We’re trading in the Odyssey. It makes us sad.

We’re getting a new car. It makes us happy.

I told a friend that we get a new car every twelve years or so, whether we need one or not.

We need one.

It was the right decision.

Life

A New Slider

June 28, 2017 Sally5 Comments

Taking out the door totally opened up the room.

Over the years, the room slowly become the repository for everything. I mean, the attic was pretty full and the stuff had to go somewhere. This is an American problem.

When we hoed the room out at Christmas — when the feng shui (Frank Schwa) was all wrong — we discovered that the slider no longer closed properly and was, in fact, warped. The bleak midwinter is not the proper time to change out a slider. It’s the time to keep the door shut and locked. And the 40 year draperies mostly drawn shut — because, if we’re going to be closed up and closed in, we might as well go for broke.

A Christmas tree in front of the slider (and draperies) years ago

But when the workmen took the old slider out last week, we had a whole new room.

The draperies, or what was left of them (they had somewhat disintegrated when Bud took them down), went straight to the trash.

Now the sun pours in.

I’m tempted not to replace the drapes, at least not during the summer.

This morning, I sat in the room with a whole new feng shui. Sunny. Bright. Inviting.

A doe and her fawn nibbled grass outside the window. I wished I had washed the windows or not had the screen in.

Instagram should make such filters — just to keep things realistic.

Still, Frank Schwa would be happy with the room.

Travel

My Next Travel Adventure

June 27, 2017 Sally14 Comments

I’m letting go of the wheel again.

For one week, while we were in France, I didn’t drive at all.

Thankfully.

We relied on other drivers.

The guiding principle for that trip was to make everything nice for my father, so we had a car-and-driver take from the airport to the door of our hotel, even though other ways may have been less expensive. The same driver picked us up in Bayeux and drove us to Paris a few days later. For the record, I would not ever want to drive in Paris.

My next trip is more about the adventure.

My first trip to Nashville was a solo adventure. I flew to Nashville and used public transportation to get around the first day. I had to change buses downtown, an adventure in itself.

I loved the bus ride. It reminded me over and over that I was no longer in New York. The people around me, mostly working people on their way home, spoke in the lilt and drawl that is distinctly southern. I loved eavesdropping.

When I walked from the bus stop, I used a map I had sketched on the little notepad in my hotel room. It took me through a charming tree-lined neighborhood to the church. During my walk I let go as best I could of the worries I was carrying. It was perfect alone-time before meeting a bunch of strangers-now-family.

But this next trip is shared adventure.

Hopefully Leah, my travel companion, will not get too frustrated with me.

I still am not 100% sure how I’m getting to the airport in Newark, NJ. I’m not worried, though. I’ll get there.

From Newark, I fly to Frankfurt. A red-eye.

In Frankfurt, I’ll meet up with Leah.

“How will I find you?” I asked her.

“Uh — we’ll be at the same gate to Dubrovnik,” she said.

Oh, yeah. That.

Once we get to Dubrovnik, though, how will we get from the airport to our Airbnb?

Our hostess mentioned several options: taxi, uber, public transportation. Guess which one appeals to me?

We’re taking a bus to Mostar. That’s been booked.

But from Mostar to Sarajevo, we want to take the train, and I can’t figure out the schedule. Guess we’ll have to wing that part, too.

What’s an adventure without a little flying-by-the-seat-of-the-pants?

Are you up for this, Leah?

If I was driving, though, that would be a totally different adventure. Let’s not do that.

Faith

Paper Prayer

June 22, 2017 Sally7 Comments

Please, God, don’t let me become a paper snob.

Thank you for my expensive journals with paper that doesn’t bleed through, but remind me that words written on a napkin or the back of an envelope are no less important than those written in a Moleskine journal — just harder to keep track of.

I love that watercolor paper has both a rough and a smooth side, but let me not look down upon those who have yet to discover this wonder or on watercolor papers that lack this attribute.

Help me remember that the lesser grade papers are not lesser in importance, but may require gentler handling or may be suited for a different purpose.

The variety of paper in this world is astounding — paper towel, parchment paper, wrapping paper, newspaper, brown paper, filter paper, toilet paper, loose leaf paper, rag paper, wood pulp paper, even elephant poo paper. Thank you for each one, although I don’t ever see myself using the elephant poo paper.

I worry about becoming a pen snob, too, so tomorrow, can we talk about writing instruments?

Amen.

elderly · family

Surgery

June 21, 2017 Sally12 Comments

Each member of the surgical team looped through the room. An introduction. Name and date of birth requested. The why-are-you-here question.

My mother didn’t know the answers when I had sat in the same spot with her some years before. I helped.

My father knew — for the most part.

“Did you have anything to eat this morning?” the anesthesiologist asked.

“Not too much,” he answered.

“He had nothing,” I said.

“Has the surgeon marked on you yet?” a nurse asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered.

“Yes, he did,” I replied.

“Can you tell me about your other surgeries?” the surgeon asked.

“It’s been years and years,” my father answered.

“Last August he had a VP shunt put in, and a few years before that he got a pacemaker,” I answered.

He knew his name. He knew his birthday. He knew what the surgery was.

All in all, I’d say he did pretty well.

A few weeks ago, he had had an episode of chest pain that landed him in the Emergency Room. They ask a different set of questions.

“Are you still a full-code?” the nurse had asked, but then she looked to me for the answer. It’s an uncomfortable question.

“Well, I’m not ready to cash in yet!” my father answered.

“Would you like to be placed on life support?” she asked.

“I’m not going to live forever, you know,” he replied.

His mixed responses were confusing, but he and my mother had both very clearly written out their wishes many years ago. I told his doctor and she asked that I bring in a copy to put in his chart. Just so it’s there.

Last night, I went for a walk. The fields were fifty shades of green. The timothy alone was a full palette of color — spring green, grass green, grey green, a whispery pale green at the very edges of the flower-head.

The fields whispered with the breeze, carrying along its little breaths like a melody passed around an orchestra. The meadow swayed and danced, and the only audience for this performance was the deer, the red-wing blackbirds, and me.

When the Bible talks about grass, it’s usually in reference to transience.

“The grass withers, the flower fades…” (Isaiah 40:8)

The comparison isn’t that man will last forever. We are just as transient.

A surgery day is a time to remember that.

It’s a time to pause. Even if we’re not ready to cash in, it’s okay to remember that we aren’t going to live forever either.

*****

The surgery went well. He’s already home. He’s not ready to cash in yet — and neither am I.

friendship · Life

The Power of Hello

June 20, 2017 Sally17 Comments

I go to the grocery store, on average 20-21 days every month. That’s like going every single day for 3 weeks and then taking a week off.

My shopping frequency combined with my New Year’s Resolution to not use the self check-out has given me ample opportunity to get to know the people at my local store.

One cashier is coming up on her 50th high school reunion.

Another was at work shortly after surgery, telling me, “I can’t afford to take three weeks off. My family needs the money.”

A male cashier thanked me for shopping at Safeway — but I was at Price Chopper. His eyes widened and he put his hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe I said that. I haven’t worked at Safeway for over 10 years.” Plus, for the record, there are no Safeways in our area. He and I laughed about it. “Your secret is safe with me,” I told him — except, I guess, it wasn’t because I just told all of you.

One of the deli guys took up the challenge of slicing my swiss cheese thin. “Is that thin enough?” he asked, holding up an imaginary slice of cheese held between his forefinger and thumb. We both laughed.

Then there was the cashier with the sugar-daddy. (See “In the Parking Lot“)

I now recognize most of the people who work in the meat department, the flower shop, the service desk, and produce, and I try to greet them. It was an introvert hurdle — but I think I’ve gotten over it.

The other day, one of the produce guys greeted me. I had grabbed my bunch of bananas and was headed out when he said, “Are you Sally?”

“Yes,” I replied, wondering how he knew my name.

Then he asked again, this time adding my maiden name.

“Yes,” I said, “How did you…”

Before I could finish, he introduced himself. He had graduated with me from high school.

Boys can undergo a dramatic metamorphosis between high school and life. I doubt I would recognize many of the boys-turned-men with whom I graduated just on sight. He was no exception.

As soon as he said his name, of course, I remembered him. I remembered when his family moved to Cooperstown. They were from a strange place called Lon Guyland. In fact, it was always referred to as “down Lon Guyland.”

Besides my mother’s Boston that snuck into her speech every once in a while, and a local doctor who was decidedly southern, I couldn’t have identified any other American regional accents. Now I could add Long Island to the list.

That day in the grocery store, I was so happy that he said something to me. It was the day I wrote “Bleh” and was feeling just like that.

Discouraged.

A mess.

A failure.

And then someone reintroduced himself to me. As we caught up on each other’s lives, it turned my day around.

The power of a simple hello.

Last night, the local guy behind me in line said, “Remind me why we like Cooperstown in the summer.”

The store was crowded with tourists. The couple ahead of us in line, probably grandparents come to watch their grandson play at the Dreams Park, hadn’t noticed the Express Lane sign for the register — 15 items or less. But all the registers were busy like that.

Cooperstown in the summer: Busy. Crowded. Baseball teams. Tour buses. No parking spots. Few familiar faces.

Across the store, I could see Mark putting out tomatoes in the produce section. I thought about how nice it is to live among people who have known my family for nearly half a century, and especially how nice it is to be recognized and greeted.

“Because it’s lovely,” I replied.