The Old, Worn Quilt

     It was chilly the other afternoon when I took a break to read so I pulled the old quilt off the back of the futon for a bit of warmth. It's very old, thin, and worn, hardly thicker than a flannel sheet, but doubled over it works fine to take the chill off inactivity in a cool room. For an instant, I envied those ubiquitous thick, fluffy throws available everywhere – often large boxes of them on sale for a ridiculously low price. Like so many things that were once hand-made and special, they've been replaced by mass-produced yet, I must confess, often pretty, practical and machine-washable items. They're also disposable with little regret when they wear out.

   
    That brief mental detour reminded me of how much family history and how many stories lie

From storage to comfort

behind this well-worn quilt. I was momentarily flooded with regret that I know so few of its details. Though some might have tossed it years ago, our family knew there was something special about it beyond its frayed-in-spots and a stain-here-and-there appearance. Something that made us keep it. Every family has things like that. Items of sentimental value that keep you from getting rid of them when they're no longer used or useful. Is it out of guilt? Or do we think someone, somehow will come up with all the details we wish we had? That's not going to happen. Everyone who could tell us the quilt's story is gone now. We have only vague memories of brief conversations about it – mere snippets of detail to piece together the history stitched into it.

     For years, I'd kept it tucked it away, in part because of its somewhat ratty condition. I was also conflicted about what I “should” do with it. It deserved respect, but wasn't of a quality to hang to display so into the closet it went until I figured out what to do. When I came across it recently I decided it would be useful for reading breaks or a lap-warmer while working at the computer. Time to use it. What good is it forgotten in storage?

                                                                What I Believe I Remember

My father (standing), his mother and brother

      That my father helped make this quilt when he was a boy. Was it made with some of his baby or childhood clothes? Or those of his mother? His brother's too? Was it his mother he helped – or his grandmother? His mother died when he was just five, so it may have been his grandmother who made it, maybe with some of his mother's clothes.

      I remember his grandparents as rather stern, not cuddly (but not unkind), people of Scandinavian descent. We would travel the hour to their small town on the High Plains to visit them every once in a while. It was boring for kids. They didn't have toys or fun things for kids to do while the adults talked. I don't remember anything about the inside of the house, just wandering about outside. It was the edge of town, rocky terrain. I don't remember a lawn to play on. We have photos of my Dad and his older brother on a pony there, but don't remember seeing a barn or fences when we visited.

     Maybe his Aunt Alice worked on the quilt too. She was a memorable character and would have been around in his youth, someone a kid would have enjoyed. She remained a part of his life until she died and left us with many Aunt Alice stories that still bring smiles and laughter today.

     Maybe this isn't an actual quilt, though it has traditional quilt designs and was hand-stitched. Maybe it was intended as a light bedspread. It would have easily covered a double bed (now called a “full”), the largest anyone would have had back then. It doesn't look like it ever had a layer of batting. In fact, if you look closely, it appears some of the red basket parts are larger than others, so were covered along the edges with white to make them look more uniform. It's intriguing to think about what might have happened, or if more than one person worked on it over time. Did someone forget to tuck the applique edges, or was  there was a mix-up in instructions? Had Dad's mother started it, then he and his grandmother finished it? We'll never know.

     How would it have been laundered? Likely by hand. Perhaps they had a wringer washer to squeeze water out. Or, maybe two people twisted it. It would surely have hung on a clothesline outdoors, since there wouldn't have been a clothes dryer. Given the terrain and climate, dust would likely have blown on it. How discouraging that must have been after working so hard.

     All of this would have happened in the late 1920s or early '30s. The quilt would eventually move

Frayed evidence of a long, useful li

with family to four other states and four other countries. All four of us kids used it, paying scant attention to its history. When the quilt was about 40 years old, a family cat found it in a box with no lid and decided it was the perfect place to give birth to her kittens. There's an ink stain that suggests someone used it while doing homework.

     What memories did the quilt bring for our father? How I wished I'd listened the few times he mentioned helping to make it. His grandmother and aunt meant a lot to him. He made sure they were cared for in their final years. I remember his brother sobbing uncontrollably when their grandmother died. Many stories lay behind those tears, ones we'll never hear.

     All these thoughts give more heft and warmth to the very lived-in quilt and I find myself reaching for it frequently. Some would say such an heirloom should be carefully cleaned and stored. I've also read that you could cut out pieces of such heirlooms and frame them. For now, I'll continue to use it and appreciate its worn softness and the people and times behind it.

    

Phones as Sheilds

    

Early winter morning at the train station in a seedy part of a city is depressing and lonely. A handful of people occupy a fraction of the plastic seats when I arrive. Fluorescent lights buzz, bouncing light off the worn linoleum floor. No one makes eye contact though everyone who enters is furtively sized up in quick glances. Then, eyes avert; heads bend to phones, thumbs swiping them rhythmically.

A weatherman on the t.v. in the corner looks slightly harried as he reports closed schools and roads, or accidents slowing traffic because of last night's snowfall. Scenes sent from viewers' phones of freshly-formed snowmen waving stick arms, or foot-deep snow mounding patio railings as the sun rises, are interspersed with commercials. The yay-no-school-today scenes are mute contrasts to those of downed trees, flashing patrol lights and reports of power outages.

One guy a few seats over looks like he must have spent the night here, maybe does so frequently. A waft of sour odor confirms the hunch as he hitches up his dirty backpack and moves outside for a smoke, then disappears.

This is going to be a long trip, I thought as I sought my own solitude to write or read without the distraction of the t.v., or conversations between new arrivals and the ticket agent. Since I don't have a smart phone, iridescent green earplugs signal my desire to be left alone. Would earbuds have been a more courteous gesture?

Earlier reports by the harried reporter prompted my host and me to head out early, fearing bad roads and traffic delays. We encountered neither, in fact much less traffic than usual, so had made it to the station in record time – a full hour before scheduled departure.

But the train arrived almost two hours later than scheduled. By then, the almost-full station waiting room was noisy with conversations among people dropping family or friends off, giving awkward last-minute instructions to have a safe trip, call when you get there. Most of those not in conversation were still staring at their phones or pacing outside, impatient for the train's arrival. The t.v. host with lists of closures had been replaced by cooking shows.

It was, as anticipated, a long trip with frequent delays to let other trains pass. Once we rolled out of the station and the conductors had everyone accounted for, I left the gloomy passenger car for the brightness of the observation car – always my favorite perch to watch the countryside glide by. If you pay attention, you'll likely see bald eagles, deer, even otters along the many riverways woven through Amtrak's Cascade route. Conversations seem more friendly in the observation car, the mood more lively. Is it because of the brighter, natural light?

I sat near a young man whose dress and demeanor suggested he could have flown, if he'd wanted to. Soon, we were in conversation and my suspicion was confirmed. He was headed all the way to southern California, over 24 hours of travel (if the train is on time – very unlikely). He'd been visiting a friend in Seattle. When planning the trip, he realized he'd always flown and had never seen the country in between, so booked the train instead. So far, he was glad he'd chosen the slower option. I would wonder about it early the next morning, when his train should be arriving at his home station.

Our conversation wandered through backgrounds, trips, professions. I learned about his favorite aunt who had purchased a house in Haight-Ashbury in the '60's. When she sold it (surely at a tidy profit in this historic district), she bought a triplex in downtown San Francisco, then rented that out and moved to a nice cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains - her ideal combination of solitude and paradise. Such an interesting life. Wise and timely investments by this school teacher insured an enjoyable retirement. The young man had traveled quite a bit – still single and flexible, with friends in various parts of the world to visit. He'd recently been to the wedding of a British friend in Poland. Turned out we'd probably been in the same town in Nicaragua at the same time a decade ago. Our conversation moved on to South America and he wondered aloud about the cost of living in Ecuador. Well, it happened that a woman across the aisle had lived there, working as a teacher just a few years ago, so she joined the conversation. The father of a young family next to us was reading to his daughter in Spanish – more people to draw into the conversation. The teacher who'd lived in Ecuador noticed the book I was reading, Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance, and said her book club had just finished it, so we compared our impressions. When I mentioned “Pawpaw,” Vance's grandfather, it drew the woman next to her into the conversation since she was from Louisiana and said that's what grandfathers are called there too. She and the teacher had been stranded at the Seattle airport by the snow storm and had finally decided the train was their best bet to get home: one to Portland, the other to Vancouver, Washington. Strangers less than 24 hours ago, flying in from different parts of the country and otherwise unlikely friends, they helped each other through a long, frustrating night and found moments of humor in it.

Phones appeared occasionally, but only to check a route, look up an author, or confirm a piece of information, never as a signal to say, “leave me be.” It was refreshing and heart-warming to realize all these strangers had quite a lot in common, something we'd never have discovered had we used phones, books or earplugs to discourage conversation.

Yes, it was a long trip. But a surprisingly enjoyable one that will overcome the initial dread of phone-obsessed strangers the next time I'm in a train station early of a dark, cold winter morning.

Winter Reading and Art

     I have admired 1859 magazine and the amazing people found within its pages since it first hit the newsstands. One year ago, I vowed I would add to their pages some of the interesting people and happenings in our community. It was a tumultuous year that took me away from writing much more than I'd have liked, but I do finally have an article in the January issue - exactly one year later. You can find it at the library or local newsstands, or read it on their website.

Photo by Joan Martelli

     My piece in this issue is on Bud Thomas, local horseshoe sculptor whom I wrote about in this blog in early 2016.  The magazine hired local professional photographer  Karl Maasdam to shoot photos to accompany the piece.
     My friend, neighbor and amateur photographer, Joan Martelli also took some cool shots of Bud's work on a perfect fall Saturday in a private yard that I really like. She is more into landscape photography and has a fetching display of some of her work at The Beanery by Market of Choice in Corvallis at the moment. She'll have more exhibits elsewhere later in the spring.

Photo by Joan Martelli

I also have two articles in the winter issue of Take Root Magazine. One is on Thompson's Mill Heritage Park, which I wrote a bit about here in the fall. The Take Root piece is called Of Grit and Grist. It's an amazing place that I highly recommend you  visit. The other article is on what farmers do in winter. Much more than you might think!  Look for copies of this magazine on newsstands and libraries throughout Oregon and Washington, just like 1859 magazine. Or, find pieces on the website. If you like the magazine, please consider subscribing or purchasing copies (four published per year - one each season). That's how writers and publishers survive! There are more articles in the works on other subjects and for other publications, so stay tuned...

   

Wallowing in Walnuts

     A few years ago, our neighbors invited us to share in a walnut glean. Now, it's an annual task we look forward to and don't mind the work involved, given the reward. This year's crop was surprisingly (given weather) bountiful.

     The walnut tree (yes, only one) is a few miles away, perched on a hill at a small cattle ranch owned by a retired dentist. Its probably a century old and shades a wood-frame farmhouse that hasn't aged as gracefully as the tree. Stately in stature, the shapely old tree still produces prodigious amounts of walnuts. Would that we all remained so productive in our later years.

Hands & Knees Harvest

     The harvest happens when the nuts start to fall to the ground, sometime in October or November.

This year they were early and fell during one of the wettest Octobers on record (19.6 ins. in our neighborhood), so it was a muddy job. Normally there are at least two, sometimes three, harvest days. Collecting them from the ground is tough on the knees and back – a reminder of how little certain muscles get used nowadays. Still, it's a pleasant few hours visiting and joking with our neighbors over the constant plunking sound of nuts landing in our 5-gallon plastic buckets. Plus a grunt and “ouff!”, here and there, as we straighten up to move to another spot or empty our buckets.

      We empty the buckets into large totes in the back of the tree owner's pick-up. He usually comes by when we're there, tending to his cattle. When the harvest is complete, he hauls the load to a commercial nut dryer where they're dried and cracked (well, most of them). Given how many hazelnuts are mixed in with the walnuts when they're returned, it's apparently a multi-nut facility. The owner lets us know when they're ready and our neighbor picks them up and gives us half. This year that was about 200 pounds!

      The deal is, we shell all the nuts and get half and the owner gets half. Most years, it's just enough for a year of baking and snacking. This year we're shoe-horning them into the freezer and combing cookbooks for recipes using walnuts, especially savory ones. In fall and spring when the spinach crop is at its peak, we enjoy at least one wilted spinach salad each week with garlic and walnuts sauteed in olive oil. Nuts are also part of the topping for crisps composed of apples, rhubarb, blueberries and raspberries from our garden. Some swirl through carrot bread. More are roasted and ground into walnut butter for morning toast. Some are roasted and kept at hand for a healthful snack. I've read that eating a few before bed will help you sleep.

Nutritious Nuts

     Most nuts are good sources of protein, unsaturated fats, fiber and vitamin E. Walnuts are

especially rich in omega-3 fatty acids. Apparently, it's the amino acid tryptophan (think sluggishness after Thanksgiving turkey) in walnuts that induces sleep by nudging the body's serotonin and melatonin hormones into action. All in all, the good news is how many positives are packed into the oddly-shaped little nuts. The not-so-good news is the high-calorie fat (albeit unsaturated, it's still fat) in them. So, it's best to nibble, rather than grab handfuls, tasty and nutritious as they are.

Food Web

      I love the fact that a tree just a few miles away gives us another reason to be grateful for—and aware of—our local bounty for healthful daily sustenance. The walnuts it produces perfectly complement other local ingredients, such the wheat, triticale and rye grains I get from another local farmer to grind and make bread for toast. And there's plenty of jam wanting to join the party, made with rhubarb and gooseberries from the garden.

      It's proof again that we live in food nirvana!
P.S. (Piles of Shells)
     Wondering where all those shells go? They make great filler for garden paths!

Thompson's Mill (once Boston Mill)

     Last week I had an early-morning interview scheduled with the park ranger at Thompson's Mill State Heritage Site near Shedd . It was one of the first really chilly fall mornings and a foggy drive through beautiful farmland set the sepia-photo mood for delve into a chapter of Willamette Valley history.

     The gate was closed when I arrived so I parked and made notes while admiring the gorgeous fall colors surrounding this site on the Calapooia River. After a few minutes, I looked up to see a young woman approaching the gate, then opening it. What was most striking about that simple act was the crowd that followed her: a huge flock of chickens in lock-step with her every move. They knew exactly what her next chore was: breakfast! Sure enough, by the time I grabbed the camera and followed them, the menagerie had expanded to include ducks and turkeys and they were noshing away in the nearby field, just this side of the garden fence.

     I was soon to learn this is part of the park's plan to bring this flour mill and its history to life. The original founders, and later the Thompson family, lived on the property, as did some of the mill workers in the late 1800s and early 20th century. Many took meals in the big family home. Gardens and animals were what fed everyone, along with baked goods made with flour from the mill.

     There is  rich history to discover here and the more you dig, the more you think about what life

must have been like back then and how much easier our lives are today. The mill was founded in 1858. Bread wasn't purchased in supermarkets back then., people made their own. And since this was wheat-growing country, the grain came straight from the fields to this mill in heavy bags on wagons. Almost a century later, when bigger mills and big-name bakeries came on the scene, people didn't make their own bread as much. Eventually, Thompson's Mill couldn't compete and had to move on to milling animal feed. The flocks that roam the grounds today must be channeling that history.

     Before this mill was built, there were thousands of little ones on streams and smaller rivers in the foothills throughout the valley, grinding grain, carding wool and carrying logs. In fact, the main "highway" was the Willamette River, which carried goods and people from the valley north towards Portland.

     While Thompson's Mill was cutting-edge for many decades, eventually it could no longer keep up with the changes in production and commerce. Besides milling flour and later animal feed, it also produced electricity. In fact, the house and mill had electricity well before the rest of rural Oregon because the mill, already using hydro-power to operate the grist stone, produced its own.

     Today we think of rivers more for sports and pleasure, but there was a time when they were key to economic survival. I learned a lot from Ranger Tom Parsons and look forward to returning to learn more. I'll share some of it in the winter issue of Take Root Magazine but I encourage you to explore it yourself too. I highly recommend the Peoria Road/Fayetteville Road route. You can ponder all the horse-drawn wagons that travelled dirt roads from these very farm sites to the mill. Imagine the fragrance of  bread baking in wood-burning ovens wafting through the countryside, made from wheat grown right there and milled just up the road.
       "Slow food" and "locavore" weren't in vocabularies back then, they were just the way of life.

The Winning Locavore

     Fall fell with a heavy curtain of rain on October 1^st. The summer play is over, folks. Gather your toys and dig out the sweaters. Within the week, Smokey Bear, who stands vigil over his sign at the Forest Service indicating the level of fire danger spring through fall, packed it in. The sign is in the shed and he's fluffing his pillows, prepping for hibernation. Looks like this could be a longer one than we've seen in recent years.

     Usually we gardeners have a lovely October in which to gradually say goodbye to another productive season. Not this year. Summer crops are pulled, tender winter crops covered against excessive rain and cover crops planted between storms and in soggy soil. Not good. But, you take what Mother Nature gives you. It's better than no rain and high fire danger.

     I've been focusing on compost, sifting the last of what was stuffed into my compost “bin” last fall. Life's circumstances prevented me from finishing it in late spring, so the remainder was especially nice, rich compost. We're well set for next season.

 

"Yuck!," said the woman, "Yum!" said the worms.

My rather “institutional” looking compost bin was built from concrete blocks, many left from our first year here when we built a lean-to shed of them behind the tacky trailer we lived in while building our house. It works pretty well. The “lid” is part of the old metal roof from the Community Center down the road. It intensifies the heat during summer. Snakes love it.

     It occurred to me the other day that the compost pile is an even better locavore than any of us humans because it continues the cycle ad infinitum. Its diet is seasonal, just like ours, but a step ahead. Right now is its Thanksgiving as it gorges on huge piles leafy plants, vines (hops, beans, porcelain berry, etc.), and what remains of flowers, fallen, wormy apples and shriveled veggies. Doesn't sound like much of a feast to us, but the worms love it and are at the top of their game right now. When you get right down to it, all that rich humus we sift is worm poop. And it, in turn, is the soil's favorite food.

     The compost's seasonal diet starts in spring when lots of freshly-cut perennial grass heats things up after a cold, slow winter. Throughout the summer fresh produce trimmings from the garden and kitchen compost bucket are layered in. By mid to late summer most of the contributions are brown and dry, except for the kitchen buckets bringing “wetter stuff.” It all perks up when the gardens are ripped out at the end of summer.

     The bulk of this feast is trimmings from our gardens (flower, vegetable and greenhouse) or from what we bring home from summer and winter farmers' markets. Some of it spends its entire life cycling through an area of less than a quarter acre, year after year, year-round (thanks to my husband's winter garden). Now that takes the locavore prize. No Hundred-Mile Diet challenge for the compost pile; how about 100 feet, garden to house with the compost pile smack dab in between.

     We humans may beat our chests about being locavores, but compost quietly wins the contest – over and over and over again.

Loss and Nature

     It's been a rough year. The roughest part was losing our mother to a surprise illness, rather than helping her move to a retirement center, as planned. The “good” part was we had a final month to be with her. Still, you're never quite prepared for the loss. Then you're thrown into dealing with the estate, another journey without a clear map. It's confusing, exhausting, and hard on families, but can also bring them closer together.

     It's almost cliché but if there's ever a season that reminds you of the cycles of life, it's the one we're in: one foot in the overwhelming bounty of summer produce while dry leaves, morning chill and shorter days announce fall - the death of it all. You're especially aware of the change if you garden or spend a lot of time outdoors. I've spent far less time working outdoors this spring and summer. Fortunately, my husband more than took up the slack. But the pull is inevitable when you have big gardens and acres of property right outside your door. They're demanding and comforting at the same time. You're forced to get out and do physical work, which helps process the mental and emotional aspects of change and grief. And it reminds you that life marches on. Our parents lost their parents and our grandparents lost theirs, they lost children and siblings, all the way up the family tree to the highest branches – or is it deepest roots? Some of them likely found solace in nature too.

Breakfast in the Garden

     They say never go grocery shopping when you're hungry. You could say the same about harvesting your garden. But, why not? You'll never find fresher, more nutritious food than right off the vine or branch.

     I was harvesting raspberries the other morning, then discovered some overlooked plums, and just a

Wait! There's more on the tree

few feet away, shipovas (like small pears). We've never gotten much of a crop so usually half the harvest is consumed right in the garden. Yum!    Blueberries were a few short steps away; by now, only the smaller, intensely flavored ones remain. I even took the cover off to let the birds enjoy the last few too. Then, a red strawberry caught my eye. There's often a bonus smaller crop in fall – a nice farewell to the season

First crop of quince 

     Quince are weighing down their branches and the rhubarb is still producing – pretty amazing, given the recent heat. And that's just the fruit. There are plenty of vegetables to nosh on while harvesting. The super-rich couldn't possibly have better mornings.

     Though you can smell and see summer dying, a few things are just hitting their stride, such as the porcelain berry and scarlet runner beans that provide walls of shade that enclose our patio.

Porcelain berries are aptly named

They, too, will be gone in a flash, but for now they're crowding each other with lush vegetation and glorious color. The porcelain berry colors don't show up until the very end and are messy between flowers and berries, but their water-color pastels are worth the hassle and wait. During the summer they're a bee magnet and their wall comes alive with the hum of thousands of bees once the sun hits them. It's somehow comforting to hear so much hard work in progress.

     A big crop of figs nearby will absorb the last days of sun to store in their delicate fruits. Another all-too-brief crop.

    Last come the apples, just when we're exhausted from preserving everything else, like the last guest showing up after the party starts to wane. They were the first fruit trees we planted 35 years ago and wear the ravages of time, weather, pests and increasing shade as the fir trees nearby

grew taller. Each year, I think it might be their last hurrah, but (so far) they've come back with more than we can use every fall. Would that we all could be so hardy and productive in our golden years.

In a Matter of Minutes

     Recently, I was reminded--forcefully--how little we know about our food sources and what the farmers who grow or raise it face. You can do everything right: till, plant, fertilize, cultivate and the weather can cooperate perfectly, then BOOM! In a matter of minutes it's all wiped out by a hail storm.
     That's exactly what happened in the small farming community I was visiting. Late afternoon thunderstorms aren't unusual and often bring needed moisture. That was the predicted potential this particular evening when all of a sudden it sounded like a large crowd was pelting the house with stones. For several minutes the sound was deafening and I braced for broken windows as large hail bounced hard off the neighbor's roof onto upper story windows and yards turned white as though it were a blizzard. In minutes the basement flooded with torrents of water entering through windows and the old coal entrance as the hail hit what had been hot cement and hard rain joined the wild dance. The sights and sounds were awesome and terrifying. I had sudden empathy for people who go through tornadoes, earthquakes or other disasters where you are totally helpless and can only watch as nature takes control.
     I remembered, as a child, watching my grandfather who had a grain elevator and his own farmland, pace the same living room floor during summer storms. He'd seen it numerous times - a freak storm wiping out farmers' fields in a matter of minutes. One watches, helpless, as a year's work is destroyed.
     When it was over the town was a mess. Birds that weren't killed by the storm, staggered or sat, stunned. Cars were pocked like golf balls, windshields broken, house windows shattered, fences down, siding damaged, home gardens totally wiped out, flowers and trees stripped. By morning, the whole neighborhood would be out with rakes and shovels to clean up the debris, swapping details. Soon, swarms of roofing companies from across the state would be knocking on doors. Insurance agents would be busy for weeks. Stories will reference the storm for decades.
     While roofs, windows, siding and fences can be replaced and dents removed from car bodies, annual crops were lost for good. There's no time to start again and make harvest before winter. Anyone who gardens in that town could empathize. The few starts left at local nurseries were snapped up and planted with great hope. A summer without fresh homegrown tomatoes or corn on the cob is a sad one indeed.
  

Corn field after the storm

Photo by Bobbi Topjoj

The town is surrounded by fields of corn and wheat. Or was. The corn, most of which feeds animals, took the biggest hit. You could see the size and path of the storm's swath by what fields survived. None directly around the town did. Wheat fared a bit better. Some, though not all, was salvageable. And this in a year when wheat prices are at record lows anyway. One wonders why or how farmers do it. Gamblers in Las Vegas have nothing on them or the risk they live with every single day. We don't see it in the price of bread or meat but, trust me, they feel it.
     But it's not just the farmers who suffer. In a farming community, everyone does, just like a mill town or factory town. When a major employer is hit, the whole town is. It's a temporary boon for the lumber yard when plywood, windows and shingles are needed, but the manager of the nearest one said his eyes filled with tears as he travelled home through the wreckage that night. He wasn't the least bit happy, even as he hauled plywood home in response to frantic calls at closing time.. These were his friends and neighbors who were hit. It's going to mean a lean year. Another major employer in the area is in the crosshairs of a hostile takeover. Folks were already nervous about job security. This just adds to the soup of worries.

Wheat harvest in full swing

Photo by Bobbi Tohoj

  


But, a couple of weeks later, those whose crops did survive were deep in harvest. For some, it willbe an ok year, though not as good as when prices per bushel are where they should be.

Most who lost crops had crop insurance and some had fields elsewhere that weren't hit. And, as any one of them will tell you, "We'll hope for better next year."

Think about them the next time you eat bread or meat. I sure do.

A Different Breed

     Perhaps you, too, know someone who makes you feel like you've spent your life sitting on the curb, watching life march by, while he or she was leading the parade.

     That's how I feel about Román, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in Colombia. I wasn't totally taken with him at first and he seemed to feel the same about me. But, once I realized I had erroneously judged a book by its cover (again!), we became good friends. He served in the same department (state) and would pass through our apartment occasionally.

     Román was as fluent in Spanish as he was English, but neither was his native language though you'd swear they both were. He'd been born in Ukraine but his family fled to Argentina when he was a baby. They had hoped to get into the U.S., but that didn't happen until he was in high school, when they moved to Pittsburgh. He was probably a “sponge” his whole life, absorbing everything he could, especially in the natural sciences, languages and culture. Did this come from being a refugee, or was it genetic? His parents were both well-educated and Román now has  2 bachelors degrees, 3 masters and a PhD. He's covered great swaths of the world, but not as a jet-setter. Many of those miles were covered by foot, bicycle or motorcycle, and always to explore and discover.

Head for the Hills

      One of my most memorable adventures was visiting him at his final work site, the one for which he had extended his time in Colombia: the Cueva de los Guácharos in southern Huila. Guácharos are also called “oil birds” because of the high amount of fat in their bodies, especially the young. People would catch them to use for cooking oil or torches. (Yes, gruesome.) They live in caves, especially in South America.

      I was working in the Pitalito area, in the region  where the caves are located, near the end of my second year in Colombia, and Román's third. He met me there early one Sat. morning to head to the caves, along with his dog, Smith.

Palestina

We squeezed on to a  mixto bus headed to Palestina, a village straight out of the old west. There we picked up a horse and some supplies and headed up the first of several hills.
  
   One of the first veredas we passed was one I had visited two years earlier when shadowing a Colombian instructor. The house we'd stayed in didn't look as poor as I'd remembered it. Was that because I'd learned to appreciate the beauty in spartan life by then, or because the sun was shining, which it rarely did during my first visit? I'd be stopping at a neighboring house on my way back from the caves for a follow-up visit from a leadership course I'd taught in Pitalito the previous month.

Beauty of the Beaten Path

       The entire area is naturally beautiful, but the higher we got, the more beautiful the mountain forest became, lush with a variety of trees and bird calls. We took turns on the horse and stopped a few times when Smith lagged behind. He seemed to be getting sick. At one point, after a dust-up with the horse, he crawled into some bushes and wouldn't come out. After going back several times to find him, Román finally decided he would catch up when he was ready; he knew the way home.
     At about the half-way point was a house Román called “Howard Johnson's.” It had a hitching post and benches and the family sold pop and beer to passers-by. He emptied two bottles, then half of mine.

Taking a break at "Howard Johnson's"

     By the time we finally reached the cabins near the caves, the hike had taken about six hours. We unloaded the horse and Román went off to check on a project. I headed to the make-shift “shower” rigged up in a nearby stream. It was ice cold but felt wonderful to get semi-clean. Later, three other Volunteers, Dusty, Dave and Ed, doing research for INDERENA (Colombia's National Institute of Renewable Resources and Environment) arrived from the caves. We shared a dinner of beans, rice and lively conversation.

Román with a wounded guacharo

      Dusty was a semi-professional photographer so he and Román  left at 4 the next morning to set up cameras in the caves to photograph the birds when they came back at daybreak. They're nocturnal, relying on echolocation to forage at night for seeds and fruits of various trees. The fellows returned to the cabin with a wounded bird about 8 a.m., so we got to see one up close. They took blood samples and photos, then we all trekked back to the caves after breakfast.

      The walk itself was gorgeous and the caves were spectacular. We spent the morning exploring, slogging through streams and mud, then scaling walls and ledges to get closer looks at nests. The dim light, bird shrieks, guano, water coursing from walls and streams, plus rocky, uneven terrain made it a challenging but exciting environment.

About mid- afternoon we went back to the cabin for more beans and rice. It was Sunday dinner so Ed, brought out a can of meat to add to the beans. Vegetables and fruits were rare here and lasted just a few days when brought in. No wonder Román had scurvy at one point. He learned to go to the market when he got to Pitalito and “pig out” on fruits and vegetables.

      After Sunday dinner, we went to another cave, but were delayed almost an hour at the entrance when Dusty spotted unusual butterflies to photograph. It was a veritable field day for this group of naturalists. The cave required crawling through a claustrophobic narrow space, but opened to a huge cavern. A couple of the fellows used ropes to get the camera to treacherous ledges for photos of every aspect of the caves, birds, nests,  guano, etc. That, too, was fascinating to watch and would contribute to the extensive written research Román was doing.
     It was getting dark when we finally headed back to the cabins. The fellows shook trees to get some seeds for the wounded bird as we slipped and slid along the muddy path. It had been an unforgettable day.

Heading to the caves

      On Monday morning, I convinced Román I could handle the walk back down the mountains by myself. The other Volunteers would be heading back to Pitalito in a couple days and would take my little suitcase on the horse. I took enough for the visit to the womens group at the vereda later that afternoon and a night in Palestina. His advice as I left was not to stop when going uphill—and don't look up to see how much farther. Right… I, waved, turned to leave and immediately ripped the leg of my pants on some barbed wire. Great. But, that was soon forgotten as I became totally absorbed in the stunning surroundings and sounds as I walked. It was so beautiful I wanted to celebrate somehow – so did in my head, grateful for the experience.

      A few miles later I rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a 3-foot coral snake. What an idiot to think I should do this alone! Fortunately (yet sadly), the snake was dead. A short while later I surprised myself by drinking two bottles of pop when I stopped at “Howard Johnson's.” When I got there, the owner's little boy was screaming in pain. He had fallen and hurt his arm. His father asked me to look at it. I always felt  uncomfortable in such situations because people assumed I knew more than I did. Though I taught first aid, I was not trained in medicine. I felt the boy's arm and there didn't seem to be a break. The father wrapped a small, seemingly useless, bandage on it, but it seemed to comfort the boy.

      The trip down took about an hour longer than I expected (this was downhill, after all, and I didn't have a horse and dog this time) but I arrived in time for the meeting with the women and, thankfully, they had a wonderful lunch prepared. For once, I truly had earned it! After the meeting I walked on to Palestina where I checked with the police about Smith (they hadn't seen him), then fell into a deep sleep on a thin cot at the hotel.

Still Missing

      Smith never did show up at the caves that weekend and I'd asked the few people  I passed on my way down but no one had seen him. When I got to Pitalito the next day, I went to the radio station, per Román's request, to put a paid notice out that he was missing and who to contact. Our fingers were crossed, but it wasn't looking very hopeful.

      A few days later a woman left a message at the residencia where I was staying in Pitalito to say Smith was in a vereda called Tabor. I immediately went to the radio station to get the message on air for Román.

      Two days later, Román showed up at the residencia when I returned from a meeting in the country. I asked if he had found Smith. He had; but when they were on their way down the mountain to Pitalito that afternoon Smith died. It was so shocking and sad. He buried him in a coffee field. He was devastated. Smith had been a gift from another volunteer and the two had been best buddies. I wished I could have kept him company that evening but, somewhat ironically, I had a date with a veterinarian to go to—and I'm not making this up—a séance. Who could pass up such an opportunity? The vet been out vaccinating cattle all day but we arrived just in time (they don't allow anyone in once the séance begins). It, too, was another fascinating experience.

Postscripts: Román spent almost a year at the caves doing research and writing numerous papers on it. When he finished and was in Bogotá just before leaving, all his work was stolen from the Jeep he was using. That, too, was heartbreaking. If he were doing it now he could have saved back-up copies in so many ways. I doubt it meant a thing to whoever broke into the car looking for valuables. Little did they know how valuable the papers were.

      When he left Colombia, Román bicycled all the way back to the U.S. (I told you he's a different breed). Many months later, when I was working in El Salvador, I got a postcard that had been forwarded from Colombia. It was from Román, written in the very same office where I finally received it.
     One day, about six years later, when my husband and I were working on the house we were building in Oregon, a motorcycle came up our rural driveway. It was Román. He had just finished a job on an oil rig and was headed back to school to earn one of his many degrees, after motorcycling across the U.S. and Canada, visiting friends along the way.

Lasting Impressions from Colombia

The Pilgrimage

     One community event at the second site I taught at was particularly memorable. It was an annual religious pilgrimage. The people in the vereda invited me to watch them prepare their Virgin Mary statue for the trip, then we got up at 3:30 the next morning (no class that day—a Friday—since no one would be around) to prepare food for the journey and get ready to leave on foot at 5:15 a.m. There were about 30 of us and it was a beautiful 3½-hour walk – a good way to get to know people in the community. When we arrived at the designated site in a field, there were already about 300 people there with lots of dancing, drinking and visiting in progress; it reminded me of a country fair. The priest didn't show up until almost 11 a.m. so some of the fellows were rather unsteady on their feet by the time the mass was said. In spite of protestations and the fact I'm not Catholic, the group I was with pushed me up onto the wooden stage to sit with the priest and all the statues. How embarrassing! Fortunately, I wasn't asked to speak. Soon thereafter the priest left and everyone headed (some staggering) home. Someone loaned me a horse to get to the main road where I soon caught a cattle truck to the nearest town, then a bus home for the weekend.

      Over the years, I've stayed in touch with one member of that community who invited me to stay at her home a few weekends, and whose sisters I met at other sites. Like many Colombians at the time, they had two photos on their living room wall: one of Pope Paul VI, who visited Bogota in 1964, and another of President Kennedy, who visited Colombia in 1961.

Butcher Shop: the burro is tied to the "counter" where meat was sold by someone who butchered an animal each week, rain or shine.. Customers brought their own pan or bag in which to carry purchases home.

Gimme the Keys, Please

     When you rely on whatever form of  wheels that happen by you can find yourself in uncomfortable situations. Sometimes on Friday trips back to the city, the Jeep or truck that happened by was driven by someone who had already started celebrating the weekend, or perhaps atttended a clausura. On one such trip when an obviously inebriated driver stopped along the way for another drink, I suggested he let me drive. He laughed, saying I wouldn't know how to drive a stick shift. I insisted I knew how and, surprisingly, he handed over the keys. The other passengers were men but they seemed relieved and nixed my offer of letting one of them drive. I drove straight to our apartment and handed the keys to one of them. The original driver slept the whole way.

Mule carrying cane that will be processed into sugar, brown sugar (always added to coffee here), or fermented into gurarapo, a strong alcoholic drink.

“Because He Loved Her”

     Something worse than drunk-driving happened as I arrived at the office in the city one Friday afternoon. I was getting my things out of the trunk of a shared taxi when the driver rushed back and pulled me to the ground behind the car. He pointed to the building and we peered above the car to see a man with a gun menacing one of the childcare workers who was supervising children in the big fenced yard. He shot her. The children screamed and ran and someone came out to grab the man, another to carry the girl inside. When the man was under control and the police arrived, I continued into the building and in the confusion was asked to say something to the children. I couldn't speak. How can you explain what they just witnessed to a child? Fortunately, another woman came to the rescue and handled the situation beautifully. I truly admired her calmness and ability to convince the children that if everyone sang for the girl, she would feel much better. They sang and sang through their tears. The girl survived, fortunately. I was still shaken when I went to the SENA offices (my Colombian bosses) a short while later and was distressed when even they weren't alarmed and said the boyfriend had surely done it “because he loved her.” He was apparently jealous when she rejected him for someone else.

Beliefs

     Every culture has them, ones that seem odd to people from elsewhere. I encountered many in Colombia, especially in rural areas. Some were harmless, others had merit. Among them:

Childbirth: after giving birth, a woman was supposed to remain in bed and not bathe for 40 days, resting and eating only chicken and beets (beets were believed to be good for the blood). I never talked with a woman who had done that and can only imagine how difficult it would have been without strong family support since, without the modern conveniences we take for granted (electricity, running water, cooking and washing appliances, etc.), daily life was quite demanding. And chicken was not cheap, even if you raised your own. It was served on special occasions. Besides, how awful would you feel being cooped up so long without bathing or exercise? Childbirth itself would surely have been more pleasant.
     I was told girls and women should not eat limes or avocado during their periods. One group asked me if it was true that women shouldn't look at snake bites then either.
     One woman told the class if you have a nosebleed, you should inhale smoke or put your head over a cup of lime juice (limes were supposed to "cut" the blood).
Asthma: a driver told me that turtle blood is the best remedy.

Year Two in Colombia

Second Year as a Peace Corps Volunteer

     The year was filled with  preparing and teaching eight leadership courses, then visiting the dozen or so communities represented at each course the following month. It meant traveling even more in remote regions but, to me, that was the best part. Visitors were rare and a foreigner even more so, hence the women were most welcoming. Not only was I immersed in beautiful country, but Colombian culture. While I sometimes envied volunteers who spent their entire time getting to know one community really well, I appreciated that I got to see so much of the country and meet so many people (and I'm a relatively shy person!).

    In the end, I extended my service for a third year to work as assistant to the Peace Corps' health and nutrition director. It meant broader travel throughout the country and frequent trips to Bogotá.

Rural teaching site

Both were nice but I still remember the people and time in the remote rural areas best.

     When you extend your service you get a month break at home, in the U.S.. While there, I got a call from P.C. headquarters asking if I'd go to El Salvador for two months on my way back to Colombia, to prepare and execute a training program for women volunteers. It was another unexpected and fascinating opportunity.

Here are two memorable Colombian cultural experiences:

Transportation:

Getting to remote rural areas was often a challenge and a good way for clock-driven gringos to learn to just go with the flow. Often the better part of a day would be spent getting to a teaching site, no matter how early in the morning I'd leave my home base. It usually involved a pre-dawn arrival at the dusty bus plaza where the aromas of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cigarettes and diesel fuel mingled in the cool air with tinny cumbia or ranchera music coming from transistor radios.

    Young men would stand by each bus to watch for potential riders, sell tickets and bark the bus's destination every few minutes. Inevitably, just as the bus was taking off, they'd be engaged in deep, important conversation with someone a distance away and would have to run to heroically jump on the bus when it was in full motion. Very macho, very amusing, very predictable - and dangerous.

Fellow ag teacher heading to an assigned site

     The bus would arrive in a town or village where one would take another bus deeper into the campo (rural area), usually on bad (sometimes very bad) roads with steep climbs and no guard rails on narrow mountainsides. Fortunately, the view was usually breath-taking enough to keep your mind off the deadly possibilities. These vehicles were called mixtos and were actually wooden frames with bench seats, a flat roof (for baggage, jute bags of produce and often extra passengers) built on a flatbed truck. They were painted in the colors of the Colombian flag: yellow, blue and red. Roll-down canvass covers on the end of each row offered a bit of protection during driving rainstorms. Otherwise, it was all open-air.
     Mixtos were especially fun to ride back into town later in the week, because I knew many of the passengers by then. Everyone else knew each other and would greet the entire busload as they got on. The chilly pre-dawn bumpy, jostling ride was filled with friendly banter and often live animals headed to market at one's feet or back – chickens, goats, or piglets. It was a community on the move, in for a long day at market, appointments, or doing errands. Most would return on the same bus later that day.

     For really remote sites, the last stage of trip was by foot, horse or mule. Someone would meet me at the road – either a woman from the class, or a young boy, usually barefoot, who would walk the whole way if he'd brought a horse or mule, unless I could convince him to take turns riding.

     The mixto drivers were sometimes messengers, as well. Once, I got a message upon its evening return that I needed to call the Bogota' office immediately. I couldn't until the same mixto went back to town at four o'clock the next morning, then phone from the telegraph office. After worrying all night, wondering who in my family had died, I learned it was just a photographer who ended up going elsewhere when I didn't respond quickly. All that worry for nothing.

La Violencia

      We think of the terrible violence that wracked Colombia during the recent decades of drug wars

Hard to imagine such violence  where laundry dries in the street

. However, there was a period called “La Violencia” that began in the mid-1940s as liberal and conservative parties fought over control of rural land. Most fighting took place in rural areas until the killing of a presidential candidate, Jorge Gaitán, in 1948 took it to city streets. Guerrilla groups formed which would eventually morph into now-recognized forces such as the FARC (Revolutionary Forces of Colombia) or the ELN (National Liberation Army).
    The violence became as terrifying as that in Mexico in recent years where the press was driven out by murders and threats, leaving no official record of the number of deaths, though it's estimated in the hundreds of thousands.
     Though La Violencia was supposedly over when I was there, I met numerous families with horrible stories of what had happened to family or neighbors within the previous two decades. It's hard to imagine witnessing such atrocities, most committed with machetes, to women, children, even the unborn, as well men. Occasionally, it would flare up again near sites where I was working. My roommates and bosses in the city monitored news and would send someone to get us if the need arose. Fortunately, it didn't at my sites, though the other volunteer working for the same Colombian organization, was evacuated once when guerrillas were reported approaching her site.

      Ironically, I felt very safe in the countryside – more so than in the cities. If the people I stayed and worked with were fearful, they didn't express it in my presence.