on the last day...

...of our sojourn in the chilly, windy nation of Iceland, we poked around in downtown Reykjavik. Got everything packed up and stowed in the rental car, for a last excursion along the waterfront area. Going to check out a flea market on Saturdays, in a building that apparently is not used for anything else. It was surprisingly, precisely what you would expect of the average Alabama flea market. Except there was a lot more stuff made of itchy scratchy wool (most of which was imported from Poland or made in Taiwan rather than handmade right there by Icelandic knitters from local sheep.)

Old albums, old VCR movies, old Cd's, old clothing,old shoes, old stamps, old coins, old Halloween costumes,odd bits of old military uniforms and embroidered badges,odd vases, plates, cups and glasses. An area that caught my eye had baked goods, lots of interesting breads, an item called Icelandic donuts, that were much denser than any donut I ever ate, and oddly shaped as well. Cakes with really thin layers, and some sort of wonderfulness in between holding it all together. Quite a few beautiful hand-knit sweaters, with the classic snowflake designs, mostly in shades of grey, white, brown and black, those colors that naturally occur on the hundreds of sheep we saw out in the pasture land. We saw not the first woolly mammal with pale pink or blue coat, so it is obvious those colors were synthetic (as the labels indicated: made in China) rather than produced by those saggy beasts clinging precariously to steep inclines.

We stopped in a little cafe right on the waterfront that claimed to be Haitian. Everyone we encountered spoke with an accent, and I could not discern if she sounded like she was from the Caribbean or some place in Africa - I would have believed anything. Some had hot cocoa, others had blistering hot coffee, and a slice of apple pie that was about three inches tall. It must have been cooked in a spring-form pan, with about a bushel of apple slices to be so densely packed with layer upon layer of fruit, really impressive, and yummy looking.

It was surprising to see so many flowers blooming in planters all over the downtown area. It was so cold and windy, it felt like south Georgia winter to me, so every planter filled with bright blue bachelor buttons, brilliant red dianthus and pure white yarrow was an unexpected surprise. A reason to smile in a country where so much of the landscape is bleak and often barren of any signs of life. Though there were very few mature trees, the ones we saw were about half and half between evergreens, some type of fir, and deciduous ones that were beginning to shed leaves in an early autumn. But the planters full of colorful blooms, in neighborhoods, on street corners, door steps provided a pleasing exclamation point where ever they were sighted.

A really impressive mural on the wall of a large building we passed a couple of times driving. And walked by at a speed more conducive to taking photos. There is certain to be a story attached, but I cannot share the specifics. Only know how impressive the crafting of the long illustrations was when I stopped for a picture. Made of thousands of wee square terrazzo tiles, the full scene was at least a hundred feet long, probably a depiction of the early days of boats on the bay in that area of prolific shipping businesses.

It was a pleasant day with nothing on the agenda other than getting to the airport to catch the Iceland Air flight back to NYC. A five hour trip, plus you loose two hours going through time zones, so we were zombies when we got to JFK, staggering through customs. I am always, always thankful to be a US citizen. And found another reason for that thankfulness when everyone  traveling on a US passport was shunted off into a line that was much less shorter than most of our fellow travelers deplaning from Iceland. I expect some of them are still struggling with the process of being allowed to exit the airport.

We had reservations at a hotel in NY, and fell into bed when we arrived, with scrambled brains. Not able to think well enough to figure out what time it really was, though we knew it was too late to care about finding food, just ready to crash.

in the countryside...

... along the southwest coast. Out in a powerful wind all day long, and mostly drizzling rain with a bit of sleet now and then. More of the landscape that is very similar to what we saw when headed into the capitol, Reykjavik. The goal today was to get to a little church 'way out on a peninsula where the wind blows unceasingly. Even though this is a completely made up number, I am convinced it was whipping the grasses in those pastures, along with few small shrubs that can survive constant force of the air, at about thirty miles per hour. At one point had to cross a bridge over whitecaps, and felt the full brunt of the pushing, punishing winds.

Lots of sheep out in the pastures, in the misting rain and persistent wind, grazing or resting in their soggy woolen coats. A few cattle as well as small ponies with manes and tails whipped sideways in the blow. Plenty of low flat fields used to grow grass, that has been baled into hay, wrapped in plastic to keep it dry, for feeding livestock in the winter months. Practically no other traffic on the roadway, but we passed several huge tractors pulling trailers, driven by farm workers, doing their daily business.

Looking out over the flat plains, near the ocean, there is the occasional mountain that literally seems to pop up out of the level earth. Pastures, smooth grassy fields, then boom! Mountain with steep sides, snow at the highest level that is often obscured by low blowing clouds. Very different from the low hills that give way to higher hills, then distant mountains rising level by level I have seen in the US. The mountains here just seem to shoot straight up, from wide grassy fields full of grazing sheep to vertical rock. And more waterfalls spilling cascading water over the edge, splashing down those steep inclines to gurgle and blurble of the rocks and find their way to the sea. With powerful winds blowing today, some of those cascades appeared to be blowing sideways instead of falling from the heights.

The church that was our destination was discovered on Atlas Obscura, a tiny wooden structure built in the mid 1800's, painted black, with white trim. Surrounded by a low stone wall that was covered in mosses and grasses, with a cemetery on the grounds, holding maybe two dozen departed Icelanders. I assume the wall was stacked to keep sheep out of the cemetery, as it appeared to be as old as the building. We have passed many tiny church buildings on our travels, not much bigger than what I would consider a 'chapel', designed to hold maybe thirty or so people. Likely built by prosperous landowners who would have itinerants perform services as they passed through when no one would travel a great distance for attending services on a Sunday.

We have seen, entered, passed by, stopped at, been lured into a number of shops selling hand-made woolen goods.Gorgeous knitted sweaters, cute little hats, beautifully crafted gloves, colorful scarves often with the name of the crafts-person in the label of the item. I am tempted over and over again, but then remember all the woolen sweaters I have given away, donated to thrift shops. And remind myself there are so few occasions in south GA that call for a warm, itchy, wool garment.

Stopped at a small town on the way back from the Black Church at a museum about earliest settlers. The narrative of the Northmen was taken from ancient manuscripts, telling of a family that came from Norway, who established farms, but continued to ply the seas and return to the continent. At times a little creepy, at times amusing, but certainly not suitable for small children with magicians, spell-casting, evil miscreants, malice and bloody murders. Folktales abound, stories of trolls, dragons, handed down from Norse mythology, repeated with each generation to keep little ones constantly fearful of what might be under the bed.

personal quirks...

... we all have them, some of which we readily, willingly admit, and others that will remain in the closet until death, when someone looks in that secret space we thought well hidden. I will not divulge what we found when confronted with the task of cleaning out my uncle's home in Virginia. I don't recall any interesting secrets when faced with the final emptying of drawers, closets, various confidential spaces in my parents' house. My mom had apparently done her own sorting before that ability slipped away.

My reference here is not so much physical items, but a tendency to balk when invited to enter a small space. I do not like going into narrow, confining places from which there appears to be  no avenue of escape. I will not voluntarily enter, and will be profoundly antsy if forced to get into a place that requires turning sideways and wiggling to pass into the open again. Like the 'Fat Man's Squeeze' of the winding trail on top of Lookout Mountain when you are admitted to Rock City. No problem for me to take the stairs up and back down again to get around without hunching down and wriggling through side-stepping. Just too narrow and confining.

When anticipating boarding an airplane it requires either giving myself a stern talking-to, or deliberately not thinking about being cooped up in a relatively small cylinder traveling at a high rate of speed for great distances.Especially if this confinement also involves a great distance, and considerable time spent in that silver tube. Plus, even more limiting if  you are smooshed in between two larger individuals headed in the same direction. This requires even more muttering and mumbling to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge, edging towards loosing my gumption.

Al this to explain why I have no intention of going into a cave, confining space. Crazy, but the pitiful truth. This has not always been a factor in my life as I recently told someone of going into a cave full of bats when traveling on a family vacation as a youth. My dad loaded us and camping equipment in the Ford Fairlane station wagon and drove to California. One of the stops was Carlsbad Caverns in NM. My brother and I went in the big dark hole without hesitation, after thousands of bats had come swarming out in search of their evening meal. Maybe I did not have a choice? Maybe I was foolhardy or gullible enough to believe paying for a entry, purchasing a tour ticket made it perfectly normal and safe? I cannot say. I only know I would  not do it now.

All this to say:  when I had to pull that 'dry suit' over my head, and it wrapped tightly around my neck to make a water proof seal, I knew it was not going to work for me. I later learned, after I had backed out, that the thing around your neck gets even more confining. So though I missed seeing the underwater sights, I am thankful that My Personal Sanity is intact. I am learning that it's no fun at all putting yourself in a situation that invites misery, and becoming fairly adept at prediction. Which also allows me to get over the being sad at missing out in a timely manner. If you know it's not for you, you know it's not for you.

If you have Facebook and can view this video that Chad took, click here.

musem-ing...

...in downtown Reykjavik today. On again, off again rain showers that drizzled our heads but did not slow us down from our meanderings. We saw the 'Settlement', which was the earliest structure unearthed, in a museum under the level of most buildings and streets. Well over 1000 years old, recently discovered and thoroughly examined for archaeological treasures. Most likely people who originally came to settle from Norway, bringing livestock and seeds to plant as well as families to establish communities.

We saw a museum devoted to the history of fishing - never thinking there would be a museum dedicated to that. Plenty of material here as fishing has always been a major source of food and export. Amazing that those guys would deliberately go out to sea in those tiny open vessels in unrelenting harsh weather to bring in a catch for subsistence or sale.

Another museum that is the National Museum of Iceland, continuing lots of treasures and history about the people, industry, culture, social events. Sections devoted to saddles and horse riding gear, as that was the primary mode of transportation for centuries. Other areas preserving the religious history of the island, converted to Christianity then becoming primarily Lutheran when influenced by years under the control of Denmark.

The people I am with had hotdogs for lunch, bought at a kiosk eaten standing up. Apparently eating hotdogs handed up 'all the way' is a favorite pastime here. They thought the dogs would have everything, but the shop had just opened for the day and chili was not ready. I am saving up for dinner where we have reservations at a fancy restaurant.

sightseeing...

... in the capital and most populated city in Iceland: Reykjavik. On the southwestern coast, not so far from where we got off Iceland Air last Friday morning. Plenty to see and do, poke around, walk the streets, look in shop windows, ponder eating options. We drove into downtown and parked to go to the big  cathedral that can be seen from most any vantage point in the city. Then wandering down the thoroughfare, ostensibly in search of the 'posthaus' to mail the kards I wrote yesterday. The kards needed stamps: when I asked at the gift shop in the church, she actually had postage, which I bought after asking about where to drop them. Hoping they would be delivered to addressees in the US before my return next week.

Meandering along, we found a little hole in the wall cafe, and ordered lunch that, when served, also served to improve attitudes markedly. We purchased tickets for entry to various points of interest, and began to try to get our money's worth out of those fifty krona passes. Back to our wheels that might have been parked illegally, and off to a 'historic' village sited on an old farm, with houses that had been moved from closer in town to preserve the buildings. Lots of displays, evidencing history of changes over time, growth of the town post-WWII (population boom of 70%: we know what they did for recreation!) and economic impact of modern conveniences, imported products from Europe and the US.

A few of the buildings from the time this preserved area was a family farm: built of stone and sod, in a nation with a surfeit of rocks. Some were built with sod on the roof, like you see on postcards and calendars. I've pondered, and made some thoughtful conclusions: that a house that has a lower roof line is going to be warmer in a country where the wind never stops blowing. A house using the most available of building materials, earth, for the roof is going to be well insulated. That roof covered with living grasses, growing interwoven roots, is going to be more stable and secure when the wind blows unceasingly.

Noticing as we toured the old farm house, in between each layer of stones where you could see the assembly/mechanics in the interior: an actual layer of sod about an inch or so thick, dirt and grass roots. Adding stability as the rocks are hand stacked with nothing else to help cement/secure the layers together. Yes, there was a constant need for sweeping for the compulsively tidy, like those settlers on the plains in America who lived in 'soddies', the only building material available being dirt and grass with no trees for miles around.

We did not get to the museum that has all the info about Vikings and marauders. Maybe tomorrow. There was a big bronze statue to Lief Erikson, dressed in fur and the classic hard metal viking helmet with horns on a tall granite pedestal in front of the cathedral, marking the 1000th anniversary of his arrival. A gift from the USA...

traveling the countryside, part 3...

... included going on an excursion booked by our travel planner long before we left the States.There is a place  you can go, on the coldest, windiest day of your trip, and get in water that is so cold it is just one degree above freezing and jump in the lake! Sounds like the most fun I never had! Especially when the locals report winter started early: two days ago.

There was copious rain overnight. We've had a bit, off and on, but so intermittent it has not altered our plans: clearing up at remarkably convenient times when we would be making a stop for viewing waterfalls or  geysers. Suddenly sunny as we would get to a destination and be ready for a new activity or adventure. But the mountains we saw yesterday in our travels topped with cold bare rock, were today covered in snow!

The lake is situated on a fault line: (this is No Joke,I am not making this up) where 'they say' the North American tectonic plate rubs up against the European tectonic plate. You don't have to be a scientist, or a person who believes in evolution vs Bible thinking to know that it all had to start someplace and the planet is thousands of years old. I won't have an opinion on fish with legs vs full grown adults here. But I do believe the guys who are operating the dive business can say that they 'will show you where the tectonic plates meet', and you won't know any better than to believe what they say, as well as pay good money to take a peek.

I was so apprehensive about the idea of putting myself in that icy water I could not get to sleep last night. I was so anxious with the thought of my perpetually cold hands and feets voluntarily going into miserably cold water, I was talking quietly to myself all morning. A running pep talk like the Little Engine That Could: "I think I can, I-think-I-can, IthinkIcan." We got up and started putting on layers, preparing for getting into that wet suit that is actually a 'dry suit'. I was nearly convinced. But not.

I got past the point of stripping down to my thermals in the parking lot (in a cold spitting drizzle) in front of dozens of complete strangers. I wriggled myself into the outfit that looked like a quilted, insulated, black union suit: one piece from ankles to neck. And started working my bottom half into the one piece outfit that is the 'dry suit', covering a person from toes to chin., except for hands that get waterproof gloves forced on separately. But then at the part where you pull the top half over your head, and it fits tightly around your neck, 'IthinkIcan' no longer worked, and I had to say:"I cannot." I did not even get to the place where they force gloves on your hands to make you look like a lobster, or the tight head-covering that leaves nothing exposed but your little round face. And tighten the neck opening to make it waterproof as well as make you feel you are being strangled.

Then if you got that far, you get flippers, a mask/snorkel and flop your way to the water. Jump in and say: Holy S#!t! Half of us did, half of us didn't. The wind was blowing ferociously when they got in and when they got out, but I know it can be amazingly calm below the surface even when there is turmoil above. I think it would be a nifty story to tell, but I'm ok with being able to say I was there even if I did not actually see it or participate in being profoundly cold. Is it really true? Who knows?

There are a number of places in this National Park preserved area, where it is obvious that geological factors have been at work: buckled up stone with deep (possibly bottomless) fissures, places that look like molten lava just cooled a week ago. And other places where the stone has been there for centuries, covered with lichens and moss that takes a hundred years to grow an inch. More of those mountains that spring up from level horizontal pastures to create immense vertical monoliths. Truly a fascinating, intiguing landscape...

interesting trivia...

... about this island nation: no trees. At  least none with any age or size on them. I was so curious I had to look it up and find out why the ones we have seen in our travels have been fairly small, which would indicate recently planted.

According to the information I found, a thousand years ago at least forty percent of the nation/island was covered in forest. Over the years the trees were felled to use for buildings as well as a source of heat when burned. Since the northern edge of the country is remarkably close to the Arctic Circle, I can imagine the necessity for being certain you have ample firewood stockpiled for those many months of darkness and freezing temperatures. It is possible that as each tree was felled, no one thought: "hmmm,  perhaps we should plant a replacement." It apparently never occurred to the tree cutters that the trees were  not in endless supply.

Back in the 1940s, the Forestry people began planting. We have seen places where there are many growing, but most seem to be deliberate: in neat rows, growing in tidy lines, often not a mix, but the same variety row upon row.  Places where there are some sort of evergreen, a type of fir I think. Other young trees, beginning to loose their leaves that might be beeches, as their bark looks like the beech I am familiar with. The article I read when I became curious about this treeless island reported that some type beech was a native, so it is reasonable to guess that would be a variety that would be replanted to reforest areas now bare.

Lots of smaller scrubby bushes growing out in the wild, in those areas where there livestock are pastured. My guess is they will not get much size due to living in the rocky,inhospitable environment and unceasing wind. Yesterday, all the ponies had their back-ends to the brisk constant wind, manes and tails riffling, still grazing, but providing the only protection they could from the elements. With wind a continual factor, other noticeable alternations to the landscape are berms of earth piled up in places that are obviously meant to be windbreaks. Piles of dirt covered with grasses or trees to prevent the full onslaught of the blasting north wind. It seems to be incessant, a fact of life with nothing to stop the full effect of the elements.

And the other thing I read is that when the first settlers came from other nearby lands, and were determined to stay, discovering enough arable soil to plant crops for feeding families, they disassembled their boats. Using wood to shore up homes, though most were largely below the surface to use earth as insulation. The pieces from the boat became the interior supports for their dwellings, covered them with earth to protect from the elements and established villages, governing themselves independently from other nations.

traveling the countryside, part 2...

... going to see a huge waterfall that is at least as impressive as that dinky little one on the US-Canada border near Buffalo, NY. Plus the water gushing off the stone precipice into the gorge is all glacier melt, so if you were foolish enough to get close, it has been snow for a thousand years and is safe to drink. Even though this word is so overused as to be trite and trivial: it really was awesome...and quite a bit of wow!

We went out in the country again today, with map/GPS to find that biggest ever river flowing over the  rocks into the  canyon, apparently carved out by glaciers eons ago. Actually two falls, as it steps down from the highest into a mid-level, before flowing again like a river, but with a gazillion rocks from centuries of churning water as it runs off the thawing glacier. On the way, lots of pasture land with horses, cattle and sheep grazing out in the fields, and more of those note-worthy mountains that seem to just sprout from the smooth, level fields suddenly bolt upright into rock monoliths.

We also stopped at a place to witness geysers, hot springs that spout steam, and gush forth with clouds of heated water. The weather has been rainy on-and-off all day, but that did not stop us from going out, or the hot springs from blowing off a head of steam periodically as the gawking tourists gathered around, crowding near the rope barricades to get a good view. Then suddenly backing off as the heated moist air billows out from underground for about two seconds. Then it's over until the steam builds up again to burst out of that narrow hole in the earth like a whale's blow hole.

After roaming around all afternoon, we returned to the little town with the unpronounceable name and stopped for dinner at a restaurant we had passed a number of times in our travels. A place advertising the food is cooked using the geo-thermal heat that come from underground. Those steam vents you  are surprised to see all over the place, alongside the highway, out across the fields, up on the side of the mountains. Somehow harnessed to provide the heat for cooking breads, cakes, meals served in the little neighborhood eatery. It was done in a flash! I don't recall ever having table service so quickly after orders were placed. Reportedly, water will boil in seven seconds using geo-thermal as the heat source. Very good eats: my only disappointment was that I could not eat it all and had to leave some on my plate.

traveling the countryside...

... gawking like touristers. Which we are. At one point I asked the driver if we would be returning to our rental home on the same road we were traveling, hoping I could observe the scenery on the opposite side of the byway as we came back. Motoring along a highway that traces the southern edge of the island. Often times within sight of the coast, other times a bit more inland, but always seeing cattle and sheep grazing in wide open pastures. This part of the country was more open, wide level fields, often cut for hay as we saw many bales in covered in plastic to protect them from the weather. Those pastures were fenced to keep livestock from being hit vehicles, should they venture on the road, but drivers were warned by signs to be wary, that they could be held responsible for the value of that animal if damages occurred.

The landscape is so unusual to these south Georgia born-and-raised eyes. Wide almost perfectly flat smooth plains will suddenly become mountains. Often huge rocky faces appear to just bolt upright straight out of the level pastures. In some places the rocky surface has eroded, and there is evidence of slides as the area at the bottom of the mountain looks more inclined plane-like rather than going from horizontal to vertical. And the sloping cascade of rocks will have grass that attracts the nimble hoofs of sheep by the hundreds. The livestock can be so far away, high up on the hillside, from the distance it is difficult to decipher if the animals are sheep or cattle.

All the land we saw yesterday was below  and affected by a huge glacier up in the mountains off  in the distance. Numerous waterfalls pouring thousands of gallons of glacier-melt over the precipice down  rock walls to land crashing on nearly horizontal surfaces and burble along alluvial plains to the ocean. Rocks everywhere: in stream bottoms where they wear away into smooth flat objects, gravel for paved areas, huge boulders left by receding glaciers in the middle of pastures. It is a very rocky land. No shortage of gravel or rocks to quarry as a building material, as well as numerous stacked stone fences delineating property lines, made from rocks that were obviously picked up as the land was plowed for planting.Trying to remember that word for the debris left behind as the wall of ice recedes: moraine.

Our tour guide had plans for her little ducklings to take a hike on one of three glaciers in this cold mountainous place. After making pbj sandwiches for our lunch, we drove a couple of hours from our Airbnb to the spot where the guides would equip customers with gear for walking on ice. Waterproof clothing, hiking boots, crampons for stability to wear on bottoms of boots, harness for rescue (?), helmets, ice ax and off they go! I concluded I could not keep up and did not want to hold the guide/ group back, so I became an observer rather than participant. I did hike up the trail, and looked over the edge. A good sized lake, filled with huge chunks of glacier (icebergs if floating out in the open sea!), but they were black? From volcanic ash as the snow/ice has melted over years to get down to the layers where active eruptions covered the land with ash that compacted over time.

I understand that the water flowing down the mountains, through rocky stream beds across alluvial plains towards the sea is so clean and pollutant free you can stop anywhere and drink from open sources. I did not. After a memorable experience in Mexico, I am hyper-wary of unfiltered water: that in the streams is cloudy, with micro-bits suspended in the flow. Never convenient, away from home and comfort, to feel the effects of a small microbe that can spoil a day or a week.

After the glacier, we went to find the Black Beach: fine-grained volcanic sand that made the beach completely black - not at all like what you expect after seeing tourist magazine photos of south sea islands. Really unusual. Plus large monoliths out in the ocean, huge rocks called 'haystacks' sticking up out of the crashing waves. Several small caves near the place where those basalt columns left by volcanic action stand guarding the beach.

swimming...

... in this amazingly warm body of water called the Blue Lagoon. Not precisely a natural wonder, as it has been improved upon considerably by people who charge admission. Not surprising in this age of the primary focus being the almighty krona. It was amazing, and well worth seeing, doing, and being there. Our trip planner obviously did her research, and made reservations for us to lunch here (delightful dining) then take a dip the pool.

Our reservations for the afternoon included the premium package: thick white terry bathrobes and thick absorbent towels. A place to change, then shower before you get in the pool, with instuctions to coat your hair with conditioner, so the naturally occurring chemicals in the water (silica)  won't be absorbed. Shower shoes (flip flops) and your swim suit complete the outfit. I am sure you could go 'natural', but fortunately that was not the fashion on Saturday when we were there.

That water from a natural geothermal source below the surface of the earth was amazing. It was definitely not your grandpa's 'swimmin' hole', and much improved over what you would find in nature. Though the basin was carved out of lava rock, it was almost completely smooth on the bottom, having been surfaced with some man-made substance agreeable and kind to the tender feets  of all who entered.  I read someplace that the water would normally be near the boiling point as it emerges from the earth, so I assume there is a complicated recipe for having it almost perfect temp. for bath water when patrons enter. 

After we ate so much we needed a nap, we put on swim togs and entered that deliciously comforting pool. With about two hundred other guests, all milling about in waist to shoulder deep steaming blue water. I found myself floating, and knew if I closed  my eyes, I would soon be snoozing.Though there were probably two hundred people slowly treading around, moving through the mineral water from one side of the large enclosed area to the other, it was not crowded: I'd guess the watery space at least the size of four Olympic swimming pools. Vast enough, surrounded by rough hardened lava rock to easily hold even more bodies enjoying their mud facials.

Included in our price of admission was an adult beverage, so we slowly smoothly, nearly completely submerged, made our way across the large pool to the 'bar'. Standing in line with dozens of others, we ordered smoothies or juice. Languidly sipping our drinks, easing back across the vast expanse of steaming water, it was remarkably pleasant. Chilly in the air, but delightfully warm on the body.

an interesting day...

... literally driving in circles. Partially because there are so many traffic circles deliberately put at intersections to avoid traffic lights as well as jams. The occasions when we have encountered other vehicles at those round-abouts have been few, though we have visited at least a dozen today. Or maybe just the few intersections turned into multiples when we would miss a turn, or take the wrong road. forced to retrace.

We arrived in Iceland after an overnight flight from Newark, NJ on Thursday. Dragging in every way: big wheeled suitcases that are rolling smoothly\well, but after sleeping for a total of thirty seconds sitting blot upright surrounded by snoring, coughing restless travelers it was a rough night. Part of the planning was reserving a vehicle for getting us to the many sights to be seen, so we went straight to the car rental area, along with hundreds of others also expecting wheels on demand. The one we were to get was not on the property: had not been returned to agency from previous driver. It appears we might had accidentally acquired an upgrade after a two hour wait. Loaded up and on our way.

This area is so sparsely populated that it is apparently considered a 'crowd' when more than two cars or trucks meet and someone has to 'give way' as vehicles arrive at the same round-about at the same time. P., our logistics person with much experience, the planner and organizer for this venture said that a happenstance meet of three or more in a parking lot is considered 'crowded' by the locals. I guess part of living here on this sparsely populated island is being willing to spend long stretches of time in solitude. There are several good sized towns, but many live out in the empty spaces, miles from service or neighbors. They are truly independent, which is a polite way to say 'loners' or possibly curmudgeons,

We have definitely been tourists today, found ourselves in situations where there were other people: sometimes three or four, but once where there were dozens. Driving through some areas where the landscape was so bleak it truly looked other-worldly, like it could have been modeled after the surface of the moon. Raw, rough-edged bare rocks with places that were so obviously lava flows the surface appeared to be just now cooling. I am sure it occurred hundreds of years ago, but the pattern of the cooling lava, pooling, running into low spots was so plain, it  might have happened last week.

Other places where the earth was fertile enough to grow grasses that rolled in the wind as if it were a living thing. The grass had been harvested for hay to feel livestock over the long winter months, with sheep and horses being put out to pasture. Many places where some type of small, low growing mosses and lichens have almost completely covered the barren rocks. Providing the appearance of Special Effects team being used to provide a soft covering to moderate those sharp angles and edges of the hurtful looking rocks that cover many square miles in the aftermath of long ago volcanoes.

Those eruptions that occurred so many centuries ago, continue to happen today. As we traveled the highways of the country we saw many places were steam constantly escapes from fissures. Some of this geothermal energy is used for heating homes and businesses, trapped and piped put to use, to impact the population. I believe some of that intense heat is converted to energy and used to enhance the lives of Icelanders. We saw miles and miles of pipeline laid to transport the steam to places it could be put to good use: a natural product from their environment being harnessed to provide for the community.

in transit...

... cooling my jets in the Newark airport. Uneventful trip thus far, if you are very generous with the allowance you will permit for excessive lag time. Up at 5:15 am, to get across town in Chattanooga, on the flight that left at 7:15. Fast easy TSA process. It was pretty speedy compared to the business-as-usual tedious inching que in ATL. Plus, we did not have to inch through ATL at all today, just travel on the underground plane-train from one concourse to another to get the flight from ATL to NJ.

Not being the one who makes travel arrangements (ever) for myself, I had no idea I would be killing time in Joisey, waiting for Iceland Air. Not just waiting for the chance to board the flight, but actually waiting for the employees to staff the check in desk so we can get our printed passes to make the jaunt through TSA again here. Our bags were checked in TN, through to NJ. Causing us to wait in ATL for cargo to unload so we could retrieve luggage and proceed to drag around up and down escalators, like a little waddling row of ducklings following their mother. Me with my gimpy knee at the tail end of the line.

The vast majority of employees in this massive, multi-level facility are obviously foreign nationals. I wonder if the HR people deliberately hire from all over the planet. I am convinced they are tasked with seeking out workers who speak a wide array of obscure tongues: on stand by if needed as translation staffers for waylaid or misplaced travelers. We asked several workers for directions to the desk where we would check our 'rolling chests-or-drawers', filled with multiple changes of clothing.  No one could even understand we were aiming for Iceland and not Ireland.

After asking several times and getting really 'bad intel', we found a 'native': anyone whose first language is English!. After we had made several trips up and down,up-and-down, upanddown escalators due to being profoundly misled, the 'local' guy had good intel.He informed us we were quite close to the desk, had nearly arrived. Adjacent to that the place where we would check luggage and get new boarding passes.

 But there is only one flight each day, and we were hours early. Employees of Iceland Air do not even open their space until mid-afternoon. Now we see a serious dearth of seating in the Newark airport. I don't know if chairs were removed post 9-ll or there has always been a shortage, but very few places in the terminal to rest your weary bones. Plenty on the concourses, but very few for those of us with hours to waste in the terminal area.

Even so: here we are, sitting, watching passers-by, rolling their luggage to-and-fro. Viewing the United Nations of travelers as pedestrians pass by in a wide variety of clothing items/unlikely attire. Some making me want to wave them down and say: 'does your mother know you are out in public dressed like that?' And others that make me hope I don't fall out of my chair laughing at their choices.
Happily blogging away......

before leaving...

...home, I made a concerted effort to get all the laundry done, everything in all the baskets washed and put away before loading the car to take off. It's anybodies' guess as to what it will look like when I return in just over a week. A pipe dream if I am thinking those baskets will be pristinely empty, as they were when I hit the road on Thursday morning. I am constantly reporting that "I am doing my best" to coworkers, so that seems to have become a mantra. And I cannot do anyone else's best so mine is all I can do!

Driving up to Decatur for lunch, before heading north to TN. I knew full-well I was putting everyone: me and all the others on I-85, in jeopardy when I got on the road about 2:00 p.m. after that sleep-inducing lunch I ordered - so much I could not eat it all. I had never in all my days, during my sheltered life of being a south GA bumpkin been to the famous "Mary Macs" restaurant to eat and rub elbows with the semi-rich and soon-to-be famous.

I can't say if it was all those tasty little corn muffins I consumed before the meal came, or that bowl full of fried okra, but I had to quit long before I was ready.  I could not put the excess in my pocket, so gave it to my cousin, hopefully she will eventually enjoy it. It would be seriously distressing if no one enjoyed that broccoli casserole I ordered and could not possibly eat.

On to TN, to spend the night and get up in the dark to head out for the airport. They tell me that the TSA line at that small regional location takes about two minutes on a slow day. I have lately been surprised at how inconsistent the requirements are from one location to the next. Some places: have you remove shoes and belts, put electronics on the conveyor belt for separate scanning. Others: you keep everything on, and leave your computer in the case, but empty your pockets. Some places are a breeze and some much more tedious, which should make us feel safer once we get in the air, knowing the bad guys are not traveling today.

I am wearing a brace on  my knee, held in place by Velcro, with a metal joint for flexibility. Enough metal to set off the scanners in every airport. I've learned to put the brace on outside my pants, so it is visible. This is often enough to get special treatment heading into TSA lines, along with people in rolling chairs needing assistance and families with stroller babies. Usually I am asked if I can take it off, to run it through the x-ray machine. Which I can, and do. Getting out on the other end much quicker, plus the special treatment of being shunted through that shorter line with the disabled and families with toddlers in tow.

one of the things...

... that I am frequently thankful for is a variety of modern conveniences and the support system necessary to enjoy these appliances in frequent use around the household. I spent the day yesterday doing loads and loads of laundry. Due to digging into closets at my auntie and finding multiples and duplicates of linens: bed sheets and pillowcases. Some of which looked nearly new, barely washed and apparently hardly ever put on bedding for sleeping comfort. Others, the flat/top sheet and assorted pillow covers had been around a long time, though they were not threadbare from years of being in a washer and dryer. With handmade embellishments that brought back lots of memories.

I had a friend who often hung clothing to dry, as well as linens like bath towels and bed sheets: convinced that the thing that caused washables to wear over time is the abrasive nature of using that tumbling machine to speed the process of drying laundry. When you see how much lint accumulates in the screen, that you regularly empty and trash - you should think: I am throwing away my pants and shirts one ball of fluff at the time. Part of the reason she was so 'old school' in her ways is due to the fact that the electric dryer she had was out in a shed in her back yard, rather than conveniently situated adjacent to her washing machine. Part too was likely the the wonderful aroma of bed sheets that have been hung out on the clothes line. That delightful outdoor smell you enjoy when you lay your weary head on a pillowcase that spent the day in the bright sunshine and fresh air. The residual joy of bringing the out doors in.

Those sheets that came out of years of storage in my auntie's closet were old enough to be good quality, made of 100 percent cotton, instead of the blends you often find today. Funny how we choose to purchase things that we know are durable, but then don't use them so they won't wear out? That is surely one of the corollaries of Murphy's Law, along with 'your keys will be in the last place you look', since when you find them - you quit looking.

The thing about those linens carefully squirreled away all these years is not the DNA from my auntie, but that of her mom: my grandmother. Many of the sheets and cases are embroidered with my aunts' initials. Others have painstakingly hand-made lace that was hand-sewn along the edge of the top sheet, hand made by my grandmother. Now that's worth keeping! I am certain there will be looks askance, questioning facial expressions when anyone comes to visit and find themselves sleeping under pink-trimmed sheets, monogrammed with 'CLB'. So what? Lots of love in each stitch, guaranteed to provide a good night's rest.

I have things in  my house that my grandmother made over the years, most specifically at my request, that are framed and preserved for posterity. Embroidery and cross-stitched designs I look at every day. She was of that era to be resourceful: crafty, an excellent seamstress who made numerous outfits for family members, including Easter dresses and Birthday clothes for me beyond remembrance. Crocheting an endless stream of handy hot pot-holders, knitting sweaters and bedroom slippers by the dozens. Tatting miles of beautiful lace, for trimming those bed sheets and handmade curtains covering windows. Plus those hundreds of delicate lacy snowflakes crocheted with thread, made as ornaments given to decorate trees of friends, neighbors relatives at Christmas.

So, I spent the day looking at bed clothes, washing, drying, guessing at sizes, folding sheets and cases. Some I am compelled to keep, others I gave to a friend who will make use of them as liners for reusable bags she makes and gives away, donating to a non-profit organization, or just passing along to friends and neighbors in need. Guess the next generation will be going through my stuff years from now, wondering how/why I would treasure items that have a strange monogram, some mysterious initials they don't recognize, neatly embroidered on each one....

tasty...

... and almost as yummy as the first bite, even though it is always best-est when still warm from the oven. Oh, my goodness, it is so fine. And have you discovered that food always seems to be better when someone else has prepared it (with love, of course) and all you had to do was show up, sit down and pick up a fork? When you are blissfully unaware of the effort required as well as not being the one who will have to do KP afterward?

When I went to VA last week to visit, before we could even get back to the house from the airport, we purchased a bag full of fresh local'ish peaches. The sign claimed they were Virginia grown, and they did smell like summer: big, round, fat, fuzzy fruit as large as any I have seen from Georgia: The Peach State. My s-i-l had a recipe for a cobbler she decided to make, that turned out to be so taste-tempting we had Sin for Supper. Meaning: vanilla ice cream on top of still warm fresh, delicious homemade peaches baked into a super easy cobbler recipe.

The recipe when sat down, looked at the cookbook and talked about it reminds me of one I got from my grandmother many years ago. I expect I was a young teenager, starting to be aware of recipes, ingredients, where good food comes from: good cooks! The ingredients in the recipe I copied in VA are very similar to what I vaguely recall writing on a now lost bit of paper as grandma told me how to put it together. Equal parts of several things like sugar, flour, maybe milk or butter. I've looked, and cannot find that little scrap of yellowed paper containing the valuable information, and have not yet resorted to 'googling'.

I think you mix flour and sugar in equal amounts, then use a fork or pastry blender to cut in softened butter until crumb-like, sprinkle over fruit, put it in the oven. That's really non-specific. I have not given up on finding that magic concoction, and expect it is now in a hundred cook books by assorted personalities and media chefs. Ready to be reproduced, and shared by home cooks and the nearly famous all.

I cannot help but tinker with a recipe, providing small alterations to the original. Sorry. If that is my worst bad habit/compulsion, I think I am doing OK and will  not need medical attention or pharmaceutical assistance. Just a little improvement you can consider, or overlook entirely....

Fruit Cobbler
2 cups of cut up fruit: I used two 15 oz cans of sliced peaches. Drained and set aside. You can use apples, or whatever strikes your fancy, or seems to have been overlooked on your pantry shelf.
3/4 cup flour (I used self-rising, as that was what was on hand, so eliminated the salt and baking pow.
1 cup sugar (I only used 3/4, thinking I was duplicating grandmother's recipe?)
2 tsp. baking powder plus pinch salt - do not add if you use the self-rising flour
3/4 cup milk (almond or soy is what's in my fridge, so it wont' be from a cow)
Mix the above together, stirring well to break up clumps of flour that dont' want to get wet.
3/4 stick butter: melted in the dish you are going to cook it in. Why could it not be an iron skillet?
Pour the batter into the center of the pan, casserole dish, whatever you will bake your cobbler in. I used a 8x8 inch square Pyrex so I could melt the butter in the microwave. Pour in batter, then pour fruit over. Don't stir. Do Not Mix. Bake in 350 over for 1 hour. Serve with vanilla ice cream to add another thousand calories.

It's in the oven now. The second one. I told my s-i-l I was planning to go home and make it once a week. It's been two weeks, and peach cobbler # 2 will be out of the oven in half an hour - sadly there is no vanilla ice cream on hand...

feelin' low...

... while going through a life-time of accumulated belongings in my auntie's house. It's not that they have no value to me, but I don't have the sentiment attached and cannot appreciate the personal significance of articles like she could. Sad too that her memory is gone, and she cannot recall those connections, stories from the past that caused her to keep items that belonged to her parents or previous generations.

There are so many treasures, things that she has continued to hold on to over the years, that would have sentimental meaning, if only she could remember and share that history. Furniture that belonged to her parents, things that were hand made by her dad nearly a hundred years ago. Back in the era of self-sufficiency, when people would put the time and effort into creating storage units, or building cabinets on site, with the available materials and hand tools. All made using physical labor for each saw-cut, nail pounded and hole drilled, well before any time-and-energy-saving tool that had a cord!

Beautifully planned and assembled, very utilitarian with spare clean lines, made as a result of considerable thought when nothing was wasted: a cabinet for a huge radio, when that luxury item was finally bought, affordable after months of careful saving and setting aside pinched pennies to purchase. Bookshelves meticulously  assembled at the request of a freshly minted teacher, beginning a long career of sharing her knowledge. Cabinets built for a industrious wife, needing storage space for her many jars of jellies and jams, home-grown vegetables and pickles tediously canned in a hot steamy kitchen.

Beautiful pieces of handwork, yards and yards of handmade lace, created inch by inch by gnarled arthritic hands. Neat, precise stitching on monogrammed bed sheets, still in good condition, preserved rather than used and laundered a hundred times.  Colorful designs of crewel work perfectly finished, completed one stitch at a time, done on needlepoint canvas with wool threads, now covering seats on straight-back chairs and rockers that are nearly a century old.

And snowflakes! A blizzard of handmade snowflakes! Beautiful decorations on family Christmas trees spread from south Georgia to Virginia and the Rockies in Colorado when family members celebrate the season. Tiny hand wrought designs of crochet or tatting, that appear each year when seasonal decorations come out of attics. Angels for tree toppers, tiny baskets carefully wrought of the size to hold one wrapped peppermint candy, butterflies, candles, with wee yellow flames. Made with miles and miles of white crochet string and thread, untold hours of industrious fingers producing handmade works of art.

Snowflakes: there are a half dozen framed here, hung on a wall, so I see them every single day. Admire the time, effort, devotion that those talented fingers invested in such a mundane occupation. From that woman whose hands could not be idle, she always with a basket of handwork by her chair, darning or needlework to pick up. When she would sit, producing hundreds and hundreds of neat, tidy, starched snowflakes made of fine white thread.

The auction company has already begun to look at items, one by one, starting to put tags on pieces of furniture and write descriptions. all will go on line (professionalauctioneer.com) with photos of each, along with a brief description. To a new owner, that anonymous person who most desires to own it. Making you feel low yet? Yeah, I know. Like looking a photos of sad-eyed rescued pets online: we can't save 'em all.....

drivin' in the dark...

... might cause you to question my sanity, as I left home after we ate yesterday knowing dark was fast approaching and I would arrive in the black of night. Going to south Georgia to spend the night in my auntie's house in order to take her to an appointment early today. Due to a major conflict I called the doctor's office  in an effort to grovel and finagle rescheduling for a more conducive date/time. With limited options, I choose an appt for this  morning at 9:00,  which would have required  me to be up and on the road by 5 a.m.. Won't you agree driving in the dark preferable? Yeah, me too!

 I made the mistake one day recently of consuming caffeine late in the day, causing me to be up wandering the house at nearly midnight. It was actually, surprisingly a pretty productive time: pants I needed to shorten, and used the time to rip the hems out so I could cut them off and re-sew. Not that I especially enjoyed roaming around in the dark, wide-eyed, but thankful the time was well spent.

Now wondering if just the act of driving after dark might have been the reason I had a hard time wanting to get sleepy last night. I finally went to bed long past  my usual time, and did not sleep well at all. Some of that can be attributed to that problem of being in a 'strange' place: you know how the first night in a different environment is always rough, not restful. A strange room plus a strange bed, multiplied by ambient light from different sources equals feeling like the truck backed up and ran over you again.

Even though there is definitely some residual effect of  insufficient rest, it has already been a productive day: I have my car packed to the gills with stuff that needs to go to the thrift store. The beneficiary of household goods, linens, what-cha-ma-call-its, collectibles, useless misc. will be a store here that supports hospice programs. I am a bit anxious about the (remote) possibility that the auntie will have questions about all the boxes and piles of clutter filling my back seat and floorboards. But have been practicing vague, noncommittal answers, hoping to divert her interest and attention.

This process has caused me to conclude there is some benefit to being forced to pare down and relocate every 'x' number of years. Though I have never felt I would have been a good candidate for the military life, or a wife/dependent - I see now that knowing you would have to pack it all up and move across the nation, or globe every four years is a good thing. It would certainly force you into some serious decision making: 'how much do I really want/like this picture, or piece of furniture, or child?' Even though the military contractors/movers would to the heavy lifting, just knowing you were uprooting would inspire yoube in a constant mode/awareness of the value to pare down.

I know my mom got rid of a lot of stuff in her latter years, and I think my auntie did the same, donating things she knew she would not use or did not want. It is a blessing to those who will have to make some sad, tough decisions, helping weed through so much accumulated flotsam from many years. Plus those things that have sentimental meaning to you will not have those same emotional strings attached connecting one generation to the next generation.

a call from the distant past...

... or more accurately: a friend I have not seen in years. A pleasant surprise. She lives in Washington State, so we do not often visit. I met her years ago, when her husband was in the Army, stationed at Ft. Benning. He continued a military career, though I don't know how many years he put in before retiring to move back to the northwest and return to civilian life.

Daughters and I went to visit several years ago, flying out to Seattle, where we were met by a cousin who, though we grew up in south GA together, lived in western Wash. state for many years. The cousin was actually just visiting too, and stayed with us at a very comfortable house owned by her parents who lived next door. The well appointed house, adjacent to her parent's home, was located on a tiny lake in the suburbs east of downtown Seattle: a beautiful setting, with a dock, canoe, patio that would make you feel like you were always on vacation if you were invited to come and stay.

The friend, E.P., called - out of the blue - last night. We've not talked in months, but it was good to hear from her. She has a daughter the same age as my oldest: we (the mothers) were in a child-birth class together. Now, that's a bonding experience for you! And had babies a short time apart, enjoyed a friendship for years before the family returned to the west coast. Being a military dependent, her first child was born on post at the military hospital, where no one gets coddled: after you deliver, you get up and change your own sheets.

My older-est daughter and I went to visit them when they were in upstate NY, while he was attending SUNY, at the behest of Uncle Sam. We toured the state, and went to Buffalo to see Niagara Falls, with two four-year-olds in tow. This was the trip that circled the Atlanta airport on our return: unable to land in a storm, diverted to Chattanooga to refuel, then returned after the bad weather had dissipated to get back home.

Oddly  - I had just written/mailed her a note: 'I have not seen your photo on a milk carton, so I guess you are still OK?' So it's uncanny, ironic that she would call last night, just to visit. Reporting that her daughter and grandchildren had been visiting from Norfolk. A very good time to NOT be on the Virginia Coast with 90 mph winds, 15 foot storm surge and 30 inches of rainfall, courtesy of Hurricane Florence. They were all at her mom's in that wonderfully relaxing, charmingly furnished, delightful house on the tiny lake, where little people probably would have been in the water from dawn until dark.

I might have invited myself to come for a visit again to Seattle, as I would love to see her. You know how I stay in motion, having become very adept at inviting myself? Not that I am necessarily assuming the 'Welcome' mat is always out. I do understand 'no'. But would much rather hear a counter-proposal than have the door shut on my nose.

P.S.Remember how Carol Burnett would always pull on her ear love at the end of each week's show? Sending a little message to her mom? This is for MM: hey! 

bloomers...

...in my yard, popping up out of the accumulated leaf mulch, in places I have no memory of planting them: bright red spider lily blooms. When I did a little research, I found another common name is 'hurricane lily', because they come up in the early fall, during the season of hurricanes in the southeast. The plants come up from bulbs, so they are tend to appear in unexpected places: you forget from year to year where you put the bulbs in the ground - then they shoot up on tall slender stalks, with no foliage, and this amazing bloom seems to suddenly open overnight - which is why they are also called 'surprise lilies'.

When I returned home on Thursday evening, from travels to Virginia, avoiding the seriously bad weather along the Atlantic Coast in VA and the Carolinas, I noticed dozens of stalks had appeared since I left home on Monday. And saw on Friday that many of them had opened up overnight: almost instantaneously. Like those amazing recordings you see on nature shows, where a bloom that takes hours or days to fully open is shown at an altered speed, reaching full flower in seconds instead of hours.

I expect with a little rainfall as it blows in from the east, they will all pop open in the next day or two. Grasshoppers seem to love them, will gnaw through the stalks and topple the bloom just as it is beginning to put on a show. Causing me to be especially diligent when I see those nasty black insects hopping across the lawn or driveway, chasing them down to be the executioner. It is especially gratifying to stomp a pair when they are attempting to reproduce. Euwwwh!

Even though I have nothing to base it on, I am of the opinion that the hoppers lay their eggs in the foliage of these plants, which is why so many tiny ones can be seen as they hatch out in the early summer. It would be most entertaining to see a video of me jumping around in the yard, trying to stomp all the little ones as the scatter under attack. But I try to get them when they are young, less than an inch long, before they can grow to full size and reproduce as well as eat my spider lily plants before they bloom. These creatures are so unwelcome at my house, I always think 'plagues of Egypt' when they start hatching out, wee little things hopping around in the pine straw mulch. I saw a couple of stalks yesterday that had been chewed through and destroyed by those disgusting bugs, proving I had not completely eliminated the pests: plus it only takes two to create hundreds of the next generation.

I started counting the number of stalks I could see all over, out under the leaf mulch, where they have been planted and multiplied over many years. You know I am tragically math impaired, right? When I got to two hundred I quit trying to number them all. I am so looking forward to seeing them open up in the near future, and bloom gloriously by the dozens, all over the place. Oh, wow!

volunteer job...

... today at Callaway Gardens, probably not nearly as entertaining as the one over Labor Day weekend when the hot air balloons were on the scene. I wrote a little cryptic note on my calendar months ago when I got their newsletter and sent an email offering to be present and helpful.The now Written on my calendar for Saturday morning is 'containers'. I am assuming it was to remind me that the workshop has to do with planting things for fall. Maybe not, but my hope is that it will be a short classroom talk, then an opportunity to get hands in the dirt after the participants have a lesson in the finer points of successful container gardening.

I'm no expert by any stretch, but the thing I would warn those attempting to put bloomers in pots: how difficult it is to find things that will be happy with roots squished together, all smooshed up in the same container. Putting unlike annuals together with perennials is a recipe for failure. When they need different types of soil to be successful, as well as different watering requirements, it is highly unlikely you will be pleased with the end product. Assembled together in the same pot where some need a lot of sunshine, plenteous light and others do not care for full all-day exposure to bright sun, is asking for trouble.

It will be interesting to see how this workshop turns out. Even though I am a 'worker bee', having volunteered as a helper for people who have made reservations and paid to attend the event, I am looking forward to listening and learning. It will be interesting, seeing what the Expert will bring for compatible plantings as well as containers that will meet the needs of the fall flowering plants provided for the attendees to use. Not sure if the instructions were to bring your container of choice, but I can imagine all sorts of baskets, farm implements, rusty buckets people might bring to fill for colorful outdoor decorations.

the weather...

... specifically a massive hurricane out in the Atlantic, headed towards landfall in the next twenty four hours seems to have changed course. My original travel plans had me returning from VA to ATL late in the afternoon. Then I got a call suggesting I should consider negotiating to get out of the path of the storm, by changing my ticket to be back in GA earlier. Here in eastern Virginia, we have had practically no rain, zero effects from that 'monster' storm the weather trackers are obsessively monitoring.

But I will leave sooner than originally expected. Admittedly I bought tickets well over a month ago, in early August, in order to get a better price than could be had with making last minute reservations. With no way to know I would be putting myself in harm's way weeks ahead of purchase date. The only thing that could happen is the flight would be cancelled and I might be stuck in Virginia. So what then? You just have to figure it out, make alternative travel arrangements..

Transportation at airports closer in the direct path of the storm has ceased, flights in and out have been discontinued. And thousands of residents along the coasts, in low lying areas have been strongly encouraged to evacuate, head to higher ground. I would be ambivalent about leaving home, but aware of risks. I can say with near-certainty I would be one of those traveling inland. Photos on last night's news had all lanes of interstates, including east-bound, filled with cars heading away from coastal areas. Those encouraged to leave, captured on the news feed, griping about law enforcement insisting citizens make an effort toward self-preservation.

Upon hearing an interview on the radio about someone who had a home on a coastal island, complaining they had been flooded three times in three years, I want to question their sanity. Can you not see a pattern here? Are you completely unaware of the environmental talk of global warming and rising sea levels, melting icecaps? What did you think would happen when you built a house on the barrier island? Making me think this of that song I learned in Sunday School as a child, about the foolish man who built his house on the sand and ... guess what? Washed away!

here in...

... Virginia, where the area is saturated with Civil War buffs and re-enactors, where they periodically dress in shabby homespun garb, go to battle sites and spend the weekend in canvas tents. There are many historical markers, identifying locations where battle lines were drawn, field hospitals were located, skirmishes were fought, generals camped, deceased interred in mass graves . The downtown area was surrounded by fortifications, cannons and hand-dug  trenches,  areas of encampments when the town became the capitol of the Confederacy. Much of that property is protected, under the care of the National Park Service, guardians of history.

Similar to other southern states, this area was invaded and subdued by the north. Citizenry would spend years under the control of Union officials during the time of reconstruction while recovering from human, physical and financial toll of war. The leaders of the insurrection were elevated to status of hero, even though they returned home as a beaten army. The 'nation' of the Confederate States of America was dissolved.

As a result of so much armed activity in this area, the generals of the Confederacy are memorialized in statues, prominently displayed in traffic circles and public parks through out the city. Those long dead leaders continue to be esteemed, beloved by generations of survivors still devoted to the memory of the vanished nation. The visibly displayed statues are a continual bone of contention, with constant disagreement and dialogue over the placement of the monuments to the deceased leaders. So it's OK to put up a memorial to MLK in every city across the nation, but let us discard any dedicated to the hopes of a lost nation, failure of an army to prevail.

There is also ongoing discussion in reference to schools that bear the names of those same men. Originally so named to honor their service and keep their memory alive. The school superintendent and school board make an effort to placate and please the citizens, but point out the expense of changing a long established name to the population.  Reminding them of the urgent needs of maintenance, materials for instruction, improvements essential to education. The head of the board recently made news saying children should not have to enter a building dedicated to the memory of some who would have refused them education. Point well taken. Now let us get on to the education they can receive in that building in need of wiring upgrades, new desks in classrooms and books in the library.

touring...

... Holly Wood Cemetery in Richmond, VA. After arriving from ATL on Tuesday, 9-11, on an uneventful flight. Accidentally making reservations to travel into what is predicted as the worst hurricane of the season. Hopefully I will be safely back home before all flights are cancelled!

We met a family friend this morning at went on a personal guided tour with a guy who is a marvelous store house of trivial information. He is a guide/docent, and has done much reading and research  about the150 acre cemetery that has over 60,000 people resting under the grass or in locked mausoleums. I assume the locks are to keep us who are still wandering around above ground out, rather than to keep those interred securely inside for all eternity.

In Holly Wood (named for the numerous Holly trees found growing on the property, along with many other native trees, some nearly 200 years old), are twenty odd Confederate generals, two U S Presidents, one Supreme Court Justice and thousands of Civil War dead, many moved from Gettysburg to be re-interred in southern soil.We spent several hours driving up and down hills and dales looking at old monuments, statuary, ornate tomb decorations, wrought iron fence enclosures. Many obelisks, plinths, draped urns, grieving angels: made of stone. And a cast iron dog, keeping watch over the resting place of a small child. Some of the earliest monuments are sadly eroded due to being made of soft sandstone, or even cement. Most now are granite or marble that withstand the elements and weathering much better.

There are beautiful views of rapids on the James River from overlooks in parts of the acres of stone. Well tended plots, with grass neatly trimmed. A sign near the entrance indicates that no artificial flowers can be left at grave sites, so some have seasonal flowers planted that appear to be well cared for by surviving family members. A beautiful, quiet peaceful place, it was designed as a destination for early citizens to come and enjoy the bucolic scenery and view of the water.

when we had...

... time on our hands: or more accurately, I had both excess time and an auntie on my hands between the two doctor appointments on Wednesday, I wondered what we would do. And decided we should go to Q'town and visit the cemetery. I go several times a year, to change out flowers on graves and be sure everything is tidy. Perverse? Well, maybe. But raised by people who cared for their forebears, and would visit when close enough to stop by for a 'howdy' even if the elders were not precisely sitting on the front porch drinking lemonade. Instead, the ancestors were tidily interred, contentedly resting in repose waiting for the 'rising up' day.

I am not at all uneasy or fearful of cemeteries (though I have yet to visit one at midnight on All Hallows Eve! That is just asking for trouble!), and have been in many over my life. Often traveling with grandparents when they would plan to visit family members including the occasional detour to honor the departed.This  might not be a universal occurrence, but I think it is pretty common in the south. Those same folks who continue to frantically wave the banner of The Lost Cause, tend to remember those generations long gone who were the participants.

It was quite surprising when the auntie thanked me repeatedly for the drive through the rural farm land, and short visit to the place of her birth. Her short term memory has been so unreliable, I really did not expect she would be that aware, or have any knowledge of our jaunt after we returned to Valdosta.  As we were driving back she began to question me about our family, saying she knew that her parents were gone, but she did not know anything about my family. I told her my dad had died almost twenty years ago, and my mom (her sister) had been deceased nearly ten years. She was very surprised to hear this, and asked repeatedly why no one had told her they had both died. Since all this occurred many years ago, it is obvious she just cannot remember anything.

Then I told her I had some more really sad news: and reminder her that my brother died as well. Even though this was not 'new' news, and I have shared this with her on other occasions, she was very upset. Could not accept that, repeatedly saying what a 'good boy' he was. With that last bit of bad news, she pretty much freaked out and was well past being able to control her distress, emotional wreckage.

She had another doctor appointment but was soooo agitated, I realized that we did not need to attempt that. I took her back to the facility where she has been a resident for over a year, and left her there. She was visibly disturbed, and could not calm down - even though she likely could not recall the reason. It is distressing to see her so distraught, when she gets so worked up and emotional about something - in the way a small child will start to cry, sobbing so they cannot stop, even if they cannot tell what the source of the anxiety is. Hopefully the staff members who care for her and deal with extended outbursts daily are  more adept at calming and reassuring her. She was frantic, and I was at my wit's end.

finished...

... working for this week: for some unknown reason my employers' work week starts on Saturday and runs through Friday night. I have put in two nine hour days yesterday and today, and have completed my assigned responsibilities. With travel plans for several days this week, I had requested to have three days off - and got a little surprise when it became five days instead. Which suits me perfectly, other than the part where the paycheck will be very slim for less than twenty hours of labor.

Upon discovering I have plenty of opportunities to keep myself busy on Monday and Friday, I kept my mouth shut, and no effort into badgering the schedule guy for more work. There are several things on my calendar for Monday, as well as Friday, so it appears I could not possibly work 'working' into my busy life even if an opportunity should arise for a paying job to ensure ongoing prosperity. There are likely plenty of substitute teaching slots awaiting some hapless volunteer, but my life has too many other demands for squeezing that into the upcoming week.

One of the things to do on Monday is to meet a friend who volunteers at the local botanical gardens. I met her some years ago, when we were donating our time together. We began to talk (S.is very chatty) and established a friendship with planting things and a history of Presbyterianism in common. There are pairs of people, often members of local garden clubs who growing/nurturing plants around their homes. Folk who have agreed to on a specific week, once a month at the botanical gardens.

S. and I will make some decorations, fresh flower arrangements to brighten the various rooms in the restored farm house that is the base of operations for the gardens. For some time we were getting donations from a local market when the flowers were not fresh enough to sell, the culls were pretty shabby. Then the retailer did not make the donations any more. Fine with me, as I am not accustomed to working with trash. Other volunteers bring blooming things and greenery from their home gardens. I usually purchase a couple of fresh bouquets to work with, as I have nothing flowering: the deer think the buffet is open here.

I enjoy visiting with S., the opportunity to be creative with fresh flowers and greenery, making the rooms there in the hundred-plus-year-old farmhouse more attractive. It usually takes us a couple of hours to dismantle, dispose what was done the previous week, put together several arrangements for mantles, table tops, etc. Then we clean up our own mess and depart, on to the next project....

book review: "Here and Gone"...

... so riveting it kept me up too late trying to get to the end. Written by a well known author, under the pen name of Haylen Beck, published in 2017. Why he could not publish the book under his own name of Stuart Neville I will never know.  I took the book with me to work this morning at 6 a.m., hoping I could finish it during my lunch break. I was up 'way too late reading when I knew I had to get up to be at work at six a.m., but desperately needed for that mother to find her children and get them away from the abductors who had stolen them.

Audra was driving across country, leaving an abusive husband, headed for California where she thought she had a friend who would take them in. With two youngsters in the back seat, she had been driving for days, was mentally and physically exhausted. She was pulled over by a sheriff in very rural Arizona, who claimed he found drugs in her car when he searched without her permission or a warrant. Audra was taken to jail, and the children were spirited away by a deputy, taken to a very remote cabin in the mountains and locked up. The children were frightened, the mother was not believed when she tried to convince federal authorities that law enforcement had abducted the kids.

The book was very well written, a tight plot that read as if it were a screen play: the kind of story that you readily envision being made into a movie or television script. I was really anxious just reading, rushing to turn pages and help Audra get free from confinement and get to the children. Very realistic, making me think about the permanent scars this family would struggle with from the stress of their experience of being abused by authority figures. You think you should teach your children to be cooperative and respectful of law enforcement personnel - but in this case, those people you had trained them to believe and trust were the ones who were  most dangerous.

book review: tales by Sue Grafton...

... are stories that feature a female PI named Kinsey Milhone. She appears in a  number of books by this author, who has written a series featuring different letters of the alphabet. There is "D is for Deadbeat" and "J is for Judgment", the two I read when I drove to south Georgia earlier this week. I try to have talking books in the car when traveling, and stopped by the library on Tuesday just before heading out on the road. Having read, or listened to a number of stories by Grafton, I feel like I know Kinsey personally, and sure to enjoy helping her deduce 'whodunit'.

'Deadbeat' was published in 1987, and 'Judgement' in in 1983, so they have been around awhile.  I vaguely recall someone doing an interview with the author asking what her plans were when she got to 'Z', but don't know what the response was - I guess she had not expected to get that far? Kinsey tells the stories, so they are all written in the first person. She was in law enforcement in the small southern California town where she lives for several years prior to self-employment. There are always bodies that appear and mysteries to be solved.

Easy light reading, entertainment while traveling. I put a Cd in when I started driving, and had completed both books (3 discs each) by the time I got back to town. I have enjoyed quite a few in the series in no particular order, so there are still some left to pursue, suss out the bad guys. If I can just figure which letters I have not yet read!

the chicken salad chick...

... was lunch today. I have a friend who had met me several times for an extended visit over plates of chicken salad, where there are so many choices it is a struggle to pick the most bestest one. I first encountered J. when she was shopping in the store where I work. We started talking as she pushed her grocery cart through the fresh produce area. Her husband would push and fill a cart for her mom, and she would shop for herself and spouse. Agreeable, congenial folks to encounter. She told me about her ninety-odd-year-old mother, and we began to get acquainted.

J. called me some weeks ago, when her mom was in the hospital and she needed to find someone who would come and sit for several hours. I gladly agreed and took my book, enjoyed spending time with her sweet mom. Mom died in early August, 97 years old, in the comfort of her own home and bed, but I did not know about her death until well after that time. I've been writing Joyce notes with words of encouragement, as her mom became less and less able, more dependent and began to need round the clock care. As I would think of her, and recall  my experiences caring for parents as the aged and needed increasing assistance, I would just send a card to let her know she had been on my mind.

During all this with her mom, J. has been struggling with melanoma. She has started some awful treatments for the cancer that is on the top of her head. She attributes the problem to living in south Florida for years: long before anyone ever heard of 'skin cancer', sunscreens or the thought of wearing a hat to protect your head and face. A 'poster child' for the necessity to wear a hat when you walk out the door.

I had not seen J. since I left her in the hospital room with her mom several months ago, though we had talked several times, and I continued to send words of encouragement. She called last week, and we started making plans to have chicken salad for lunch. Though she has not specifically said, I can imagine she does not like to go out anyplace (other than treatment center), with that  gauze pad covering the raw wound on the center top of her cranium. So I had offered to get the goods and come out to her house in the country: about 25 miles to the southeast.

I got the yummy eats, and delicious fresh chunked cantaloupe, and drove out through the sand hills and piney woods of middle Georgia to her house. She had just returned home from another round of cancer treatment. We had a good lunch, pleasant chat and enjoyed our time together. Do I need to remind you that Time is our most valuable commodity? Spend it wisely, with people you care about.

sleeping like a log...

... finally, thankfully after I got home about the time it was getting too dark to see. I spent the day on Thursday in south GA with the auntie, getting her in and out of doctor's offices. Returned her to caregivers at Fellowship, then spent three hours driving to get back home, I was mentally and physically exhausted. There is probably some curious graduate student secluded in a brick building filled with computers that can analyze anything, who is running a program right this minute to explain how sitting and doing practically nothing all day can be so tiresome. Will write a paper and win a Nobel Prize or some such fantastic recognition when the complicated algorithm determines how being inert can be so wearying.  I would like to blame it on the heat, as I felt like it must be a million degrees by the end of the day.

She had two Dr. appointments: it was a complete waste of time and effort on my part, but I am sure the Dr. staff will bill insurance and be compensated.  By the time I had loaded her back into the car for the third time, and returned to Fellowship, I knew I would not be doing that again. Even with the light weight chair I was using to get her in and out of offices, it was very stressful. Unless she has reason to be transported to ER by EMS, she is  not going anyplace... ever again.

Part of the problem is that she is simply not ambulatory. She has been immobile for so long, she cannot walk. The staff seems to think she is so fearful of falling, she is unwilling to put the effort into trying to keep her joints limber and maintain any muscle strength necessary to support her body. She seems to be frequently overwhelmed by anxiety, fearful of what the future holds: 'What's going to happen to me?'

And because she cannot transfer herself, and needs to be moved, raised out of the car or chair by someone else, I cannot keep being that person who bears most of her weight. I am not willing to risk personal injury to provide the assistance necessary to get her in and out. I know she cannot remember what someone just said to her, or what she had for her last meal, but it is distressing to think she has forgotten about walking, and taking herself to the toilet.

The slow, sad decline of dementia is disheartening to see, as she gradually looses more and more of the person she used to be, and also frustrating to see her loose interest in things she has long enjoyed like plants, gardening, flowers, reading. I don't spend  much time with her, only going when she has need of transporting, but seeing her often enough to be disturbed by the precipitous decline. Observing the  rapid loss of facilities and abilities she so recently exhibited, walking and feeding herself without assistance.