The Rhubarb Indicator

     In the waning days of March, I harvested an armful of rhubarb from our garden. Soon the house was enveloped in that must-be-spring fragrance of a rhubarb and nutmeg crisp baking. Just as the smell of apples and cinnamon mean fall, or the fragrance of basil means summer, rhubarb in the oven means spring.

What's Wrong with This Picture?

 

Early rhubarb 2015

In my early years of gardening some 35 seasons ago,  considered myself lucky if I could harvest enough rhubarb around Mothers Day for a pie for my husband's birthday (he's not a fan of cake). Year by year, that's become less of a challenge. This year, rhubarb may well have peaked by then. It's a hint that our climate truly has changed over time, and continues to do so. At least in our micro-climate. I often wonder how much time deniers of climate change spend outdoors, truly observing. We often couldn't rototill the garden until June. This year it's been tilled already.

     So, what is our normal climate? What is “normal” anyway? Are we just in a temporary change? We've had those before. And surely will again. Still, the numbers rolled out each month and year for driest, hottest, coldest and stormiest  hint at bigger changes. Definitions come from looking back at the solid numbers that have occurred. How much do our lifestyles, mainly energy-use affect it all?

     When we first moved onto our rural acreage about a quarter of it was forested. Back then, I thought the trees that did exist were as tall as they'd get. The fact they weren't was just one of many lessons this property and over three and a half decades of living on it have taught me. We've planted several acres in trees, as have birds, squirrels and just thinning other spots. If you have the luxury of time, you could watch a forest slowly expand from cones dropped along its edges.

     Growing up on the Great Plains where trees were fewer and mostly deciduous, I adored being surrounded by forests when we first moved here. I loved every single one, from those sprouting conks (indicating the were dead, even if not immediately obvious) to the tiniest saplings. They were all somehow a comfort, a crowd of silent, reassuring new friends.

     Now, I see them differently. They're more ominous, less comforting. Rather than just appreciating their shade in summer (though I still most certainly do), now I worry about fire danger in our current drought. The cigarette butts we find on our roads, even hiking paths in the woods, leave me fearful and angry. The piles of slash from thinnings look more like kindling. Our entire neighborhood could lose everything from one carelessly tossed cigarette.

     Still, we're in far less dire straights than California. That's been fairly well known for a few years, but an article I read by Tom Philpott recently really brings it home. He talks mainly about the water used by almond groves. Another consideration he doesn't mention in this particular piece is the number of beekeepers from around the country who must haul their hives to the Golden State just to pollinate the orchards. What is the environmental effect of that?
Local a Necessity?

     I keep wondering what effect the increasingly-evident environmental changes will have on how we source our food. And even our diets. We have no clue about the effects our choices have on the areas they come from and the people involved. If we had a clearer picture of that would we change our habits? Like most of us, I try to “do the right thing,” but so often I feel profoundly ignorant. And am.

     It's not just the environment and the climate we affect, but people. Generations of people. The farmers, farm workers and the people who live in areas where our food is grown. If we eat more that is grown nearby, will we choose more wisely?What would it do to our health? That of our region? Our economy? No one knows for sure.

     Just like the creeping availability of rhubarb in my own (increasingly shady, thanks to trees getting still taller) garden, we (more the 20-somethings of today) will look back someday and see how much things have changed.

     Just the sight of camas blooming every spring reminds me that native peoples saw a much different food scene than I've seen in my lifetime. My “always” has not be the always. There is no such thing as always, thanks in large part to human nature and its effects on nature itself.

Alice

     Every family has at least one colorful character, whence come legendary family stories. Aunt Alice is still one of my family's favorite sources of anecdotes that start with, “And remember how she...”. Her view of the world was just enough askew that it brought the everyday-ness of daily life into sharper focus for the rest of us. But, who knows? Maybe Alice was the one most tightly tethered to reality and we were the ones who were slightly off balance.

      Alice was my father's aunt, sister to his mother, Maude, who died when he was just five. He and his brother were raised by Maude and Alice's parents. Their father, a printing press operator, was in and out of their lives during their formative years.

      Alice was a little “slow,” perhaps due in part to the fact she was somewhat deaf. Both traits made her all the more endearing and memorable.

Meant for Each Other

      Her courtship with Sam was a truly amazing story. Alice and my Dad's family lived in the small Colorado town of Wray. During World War I, as trains passed through carrying soldiers off to war, the young ladies of the town would take sandwiches and baked goods to the railway station and hand them up to the young soldiers, along with slips of paper with their names and addresses so the boys could write to them. Alice tagged along with her sisters to the station one day and fate put her sandwich and slip of paper in Sam's hands. They exchanged letters over the next couple of years.

      When Sam got home from the service, he was determined to marry Alice. He had no car so he walked from his home in Ovid to her house, about 62 miles “as the crow flies” and about 77 on today's highways through the rolling hills of the windy Great Plains. I suspect he cut across some fields so it was somewhere in between those distances. In any case, it was a very long walk. Alice had no idea he was coming until she saw him walking up their dusty road. No one today knows how they got back to Ovid. They must have borrowed or hired a wagon to take Alice and her possessions back with him.
Fifty Years Later and Over Half a Century Ago

      I first remember visiting Sam and Alice when I was in grade school. They lived about 10 miles from us and my father had promised his grandparents he would look after Alice. She and Sam lived in a small, tidy house on the main street, which was also the state highway. Back then highways went right through towns. The main employer in Ovid was the Great Western sugar beet factory, fed by farmers through out the region. All other businesses served farmers, the beet factory workers and their families.

      Sam was the janitor for the school and by then he owned a pick-up truck. When it snowed or the streets were icy, Sam would have Alice ride in the back of the truck as ballast. Alice was shortish and while not obese by today's standards, she was “roly poly.” She always wore flower-print house dresses, thick support hose, black “sensible shoes” and had a scarf tied tightly on her head when it was cold out. Because of the toll her size took on her knees, and the fact she was slightly bow-legged, she waddled as she walked, slowly listing from side to side.

      Alice was not offended when Sam asked her to act as ballast. She was glad to help. In fact, after Sam died and she flew for the first (and only) time to California to visit a sister, when the plane banked in a turn, Alice asked the stewardess if she'd like her to move to the other side of the plane to balance the weight. She was totally earnest in her offer and I suspect that stewardess (what Alice confusedly called a “seamstress”) never forgot Alice.

      Sam was big too, and rather quiet. He wore overalls all the time, as I remember. Their house seemed dark, but cool on a summer day. One entered through the mud room/ pantry where Alice had a wringer/washer where you hand-fed clothes into the wringer to get as much water out before hanging the clothes out to dry – outdoors in dry weather, indoors when necessary.

     In the kitchen, was a large, deep sink with a single spigot with just cold water. There were canning jars filled with produce from the garden at the side of the house. That suggested a certain genius and skill to me since I didn't know anyone who canned, other than the chokecherry jelly or strawberry preserves my grandmother “put up.”

      As a child, I didn't see Sam and Alice's world as better or poorer than ours, just different - and intriguing.

      Sam and Alice's life was pretty much contained in their house and little town. A big trip for them was driving the pick-up to Sidney, Nebraska, about 45 miles away. If she sent Christmas cards, it was surely mentioned as a highlight.

      I don't know what education level Alice reached but she was self-sufficient and independent. When Sam died and one of his relatives tried to trick her into signing a letter giving them the rights to Sam's pension and property, Alice knew not to sign it. Instead, with my father's encouragement, she used the money to fix up her house and buy some new furniture. My Mom was impressed with Alice's taste.

      After a few years, though, it was apparent Alice shouldn't live by herself any longer. My parents moved her in to the nursing home in our town. Alice was not one for mixing with others by then so she had a room to herself and would go just so far into the dining room for meals and always sat by herself. The staff knew to set her place close to the door and not insist she participate in activities. She always welcomed family and friends who visited, though, and loved it when they took her out for lunch or a ride.

      My family visited her regularly and she would often ask my Mom to bring her two hamburgers from the local cafe. Eventually, Mom discovered that Alice ate one of them immediately, then would stash the other in her dresser drawer to eat the next day. Amazingly, she didn't get sick.

      I remember Alice as neither cold nor affectionate, but she always seemed to have a smile in her voice and would often chuckle at her own stories, saying, “Oh, what a circus!”

      Like Lawrence (see One of a Kind Neighbor), her interpretation of certain words seemed childlike, but could well have been because of her difficulty in hearing. For example, as mentioned, she called stewardesses seamstresses, and would say “blood pleasure” instead of blood pressure. When my family lived in Phoenix, she called it Felix.

     I always thought Alice and Lawrence would have made a good pair. They would probably have enjoyed each others company, but they'd probably have argued some too. Each was quite independent and single-minded, after all. I can almost imagine being one of Lawrence's parakeets above the kitchen table as they visited while they ate their dinner. It would have been a loud conversation. "What a circus!" as Alice would say.

A One-of-a-Kind Neighbor

     If you mention the name Lawrence to anyone who has lived on our road for a few decades, they'll smile and say, "I miss him." Newer residents have likely heard the name and a story or two. There are lots and lots of Lawrence stories.
Slow Down!
     You know how sometimes you think you're too busy to make certain stops, especially to see people who you know like to visit, or whose life seems so much "slower" than yours? Often younger people feel that about older people. Well, I soon learned (and had to repeatedly, I'm embarrassed to admit) that stopping by Lawrence's was a good thing, especially when I felt most rushed. Invariably, when I left his house, my head had been adjusted and my breathing and pace slowed. It didn't take all that long, really, even if it took longer than I thought I had to spare.
Who Was That ?!
     We first met Lawrence while digging a ditch to install drain tiles where our driveway meets the county road, shortly after we moved onto our property. We'd noticed a Santa-shaped man in overalls and tennis shoes ambling up the road toward us. When he got to our spot, he stopped and said, "Hello." Actually, it was more like "Hu-oh." His speech was indistinct and you might think he was either tipsy or mentally challenged. He had a droopy hang-dog face, with sad-looking eyes. His overalls were grey & white striped, worn with a white short-sleeved shirt and black high-top tennis shoes. It was his uniform.

      I don't remember much of that first conversation other than it was curious and a little uncomfortable because of Lawrence's speech and because we had no idea who he was. He seemed like an OK guy but you never know. When he finally ambled on down the road, my husband and I looked at each other with a quizzical who-was-that look.
     That evening, our next door neighbor called to say she'd heard we'd met Lawrence. He was, it turned out, walking to their house, all told over half a mile from his house, which he probably normally shortened by walking through what was now our property." Don't worry about Lawrence, he's perfectly harmless," she assured me, and proceeded to tell me where he lived and how all the neighbors knew and liked him.
Seemingly Simple
     Lawrence may have been "simple"and uneducated but he was very resourceful and self-sufficient. He had no car so he walked to work at a sawmill near Philomath, 7 miles or more. Sometimes he would get rides, but if he didn't he'd walk rather than miss work.
     Lawrence raised a few sheep and sold the wool

Lawrence and his sheep barn across the road

and he had a flock of chickens ("shickens" in his unique language). He was retired by the time we met him. A neighbor would take him into town every couple of weeks for groceries and supplies at the feed store or elsewhere. He loved to go out to lunch those days too, at the CD&J Cafe in Philomath. At the end of the year he'd collect calendars from all those businesses. His favorite was the kind with pockets where you could keep receipts, but he loved the pictures on all of them. Mostly illiterate, he did know how to use a calendar, but he kept important dates and facts in his head.
     Anyone who stopped for eggs entered his big back porch/pantry which was also his mud-room and laundry room. Then the kitchen, which always smelled of whatever meat he'd cooked for the most recent meal, usually bacon or hamburger. A red and white oilcloth covered the kitchen table, beside a big window where he could see the "shicken" yard. The parakeets in the cage above the table provided their own unique chatter and music. In the living room was a big fish tank, a little t.v. and a big picture window looking across the road to his apple orchard and classic, weathered sheep barn. Favorite pictures from calendars and magazines were the art on every wall. He had a big picture of the covered bridge at Chitwood, near where he was raised.
     Children loved to visit Lawrence. To them he was their year-round Santa Claus. He always had a treat on hand just for them - hard candy, Tootsie Rolls or, in summer, popsicles. He especially loved Halloween when they'd come by in costume, trick-or-treating. He was ready for them and they knew it!
      Every Christmas he strung lights on an evergreen in his yard near enough the light pole that he could use an extension cord.

Lawrence stands proudly in front of his Christmas tree

Though likely a fire hazard, the tree was his present to the neighbors. It really was a cheerful sight on a dark winter night or early morning, as were his colored lights in the window. When he was pleased about something he'd grasp his hands together and pull them over one shoulder. A compliment about his tree always brought that sweet physical response. I kidded him that if he started much earlier (he usually started just after Halloween), he'd have it up for Labor Day.
      Lawrence loved getting Christmas cards as much as he enjoyed collecting calendars. It seemed silly to mail him one when I saw him several times a week, but he loved getting them in the mail, so that's how I'd send it to him. Neighbors would always have to tell him who they were from when he first received them, but he'd remember who each one was from after that and would proudly show his stack of cards to everyone who dropped by.

The tree a few years earlier with no snow

Famous in Town
     Though he didn't drive, it was usually Lawrence who would call the county when our dirt road turned into a pot-holed washboard in winter or spring from accumulated rains. The rest of us just groused about it but he did something about it. I can only imagine the person at the county road maintenance department picking up the phone and hearing his gruff, bellowing voice. After the first call or two they surely knew without having to decipher his speech that they'd better get some equipment to our road a.s.a.p. And they did!
Thinking Out Loud
      Lawrence talked to himself all the time. I remember once sitting on his stoop for a good 10 minutes because he was in deep conversation when I stopped by for eggs. I assumed he was on the telephone and I didn't want to interrupt. After a while, it dawned on me that he was probably talking to himself so I knocked on the door. Sure enough...
     A neighbor and her husband had rented a cabin up in the woods above us. When our elderly next-door neighbor moved away, they bought his house down by the road. When Lawrence heard someone had moved into the house he put on fresh overalls and shirt and walked over to meet the new neighbors. When she opened the door and he saw it was someone he already knew he looked disappointed and said, "It yoo-ou?!" We still laugh about it and inject that phrase whenever it's appropriate.
     Another set of neighbors almost lost Lawrence's 20-year friendship when their dog got out one day when Lawrence was at the telephone cooperative meeting, which always included a dinner and pie and cake contests. The dog killed a dozen of Lawrence's chickens. The neighbors who owned the dog discovered the carnage before Lawrence got home and buried the birds, then waited for Lawrence to return so they could explain what had happened. They tried to find replacement chicks, but it wasn't the right time of year. Lawrence thought he wasn't going to be reimbursed for his chickens so called the dog catcher. Lawrence was given money for the loss of chickens and egg-income, but the dog ended up with a criminal record.

The Last Dozen of Eggs
     One day a few years later, coming home from a walk in a nearby wood with a neighbor, I stopped at Lawrence's  for eggs. The house was unusually quiet and I called his name as I came through the door. No response. I saw him lying on the couch and was concerned that he didn't hear me and respond as he normally would. I shouted, then touched him. He was cold. I bolted out the door to a neighbor who was a nurse. It was early enough that she hadn't left for work yet. She had the presence of mind to call the sheriff and went back with me to confirm my worst fears. It was a blow to the neighborhood, totally unexpected but, in retrospect, a good thing for Lawrence. It appeared he had just laid down for a rest. Later another neighbor discovered wet laundry in the washing machine. He must have laid down while waiting for the cycle to finish. Of course; it was Monday and he was a creature of habit. He was 80 years old.
     The women of the neighborhood gathered at Lawrence's house the next evening to box up his belongings. The house had been willed to the neighbors who had taken care of his taxes and legal business over the years. The gathering was like a wake - sad, fun and cathartic with, of course, lots of Lawrence stories.
     We all gathered at the gravesite for his burial a few days later, sad to say goodbye to one of our favorite, most colorful neighbors. It was the first time I've ever asked to be a pall-bearer at a friend's funeral. Somehow, it seemed to be the right thing - and something I really wanted to do.
     Lawrence would be pleased to know he is so fondly remembered by his non-blood "family," neighbors and friends all these years later. He'd be clasping his hands and pulling them over his shoulder, a big smile growing across his hang-dog face.

At the coast with neighbors shortly before he died

A Few "Lawrence-isms" :
 "overhauls" for overalls
"leaf program" for relief, or public assistance, such as food stamps
"trouble-ouble-ouble" - it was always a multi-sylable word for him 
"canney" for candy

When we cleaned out Lawrence's house, we found this photo of his parents, which I love. Lawrence looked so much like his mother and it appears he had some of her personality. The photo always makes me smile and wish I had been able to meet his parents too.

The Frau

     Three weeks into visiting eight European countries, we were beginning to appreciate fixed itineraries where you had a room reserved when you arrived in the next city. We didn't have reservations, other than scheduled flights from Budapest to Copenhagen, and later the flight home. The rest was winging it with a Eurail Pass and guidebooks.

      It was fall so we figured most of the tourists had gone home - as did everyone else on the crowded train. Europe was in the height of festival season, something we'd have been more aware of had the Internet been available back then. ATMs weren't even in common use and forget credit cards. Half the adventure was finding places to cash enough traveler’s checks and change currency for the next leg of the journey.

      Our concerns about finding a place to stay grew more intense as we neared Vienna. Upon arriving at the train station, everyone moved as a herd to the bank of phones, calling the same numbers from identical tour books. No rooms. It was warm, we were frustrated and cranky and must have advertised such as we headed downstairs to the tourist office.
Air B&B '90s-Style

      Neither noticed the short, stocky woman with a scarf tied tightly under her chin approaching. Babushka came immediately to mind when she pierced our grey cloud of frustration with a mix of German and English. “Look for room?,” she repeated, following us closely. At first we kept walking, but she knew to jump into our first hesitancy. Wary but intrigued by this fairytale-like character, we stopped. She offered a buffet of languages, gestures and persistence to assure us she had a “ 'utiful room, very cheap, by park.” My husband speaks enough German that she spoke mostly that, but slowly so we could understand. 
     A slightly gnarled finger pointed to a spot on a city map she pulled from her sweater pocket, then she motioned for us to follow as she turned toward the streetcar. My husband and I looked at each other, admitting we had little to lose at this point. We didn't want to get back on the train; we wanted to see Vienna. I remembered an older friend describing doing something similar in Moscow, at night, and not only surviving, but having a wonderful experience in spite of misgivings as they ascended dark stairways. 
      Second thoughts visited me a couple more times as we boarded different buses (she had passes in hand for all three of us) and she pointed out museums, McDonald's, a street named for JFK, and expensive hotels, commenting on what a bargain her “ 'utiful” apartment was. A ticket conductor boarded at one point and hassled her but she stood her ground and he moved on in a huff.
Is This Legit?

      We got off by Schönbrunn Palace, then walked a block to her apartment building as she pointed out bus stops, where to get tickets and little restaurants. As she unlocked the front door to her building, she pointed out all the doctors listed on the sign. Was this a business building or apartments? Apparently both. We followed her to the third floor, then her apartment at the end of the hall.

      The entry was crammed with furniture, plastic flowers, bottles and kitchen appliances, all in orderly chaos. She led us to a large room with a double bed, well-worn furniture, a table covered with an oilcloth,  and glass knick-knack shelves full of mementos from many countries, gifts from previous guests. She was very proud of this proof that hers was a good place, enjoyed by people from all over the world.

      The room was sunny and had a little balcony which opened to a noisy boulevard below. We asked if there was a quieter room. Yes, she said, but it was smaller, with twin beds. Her hands were behind her back as she turned, opening and closing one in a follow-me gesture. We followed. The smaller room was cooler, and quieter; the window opened to treetops and a little courtyard. Perfect. We discussed price and number of days, all the while she told us about breakfast,where we could buy cigarettes by imitating a smoker in an exaggerated fashion, and pointing to the map of the city taped to the bedroom wall. She used more gestures to indicate food, music venues and other attractions. We took the room, mainly intrigued by her. Still, we slept with our money belts and passports under our pillows the first night.

No Vacancy

      We began referring to her as “The Frau” and the next day when we returned from exploring the city, she excitedly told us she had rented the other room for five whole days. What a relief it must have been for her, not having to go to the train station to find other boarders for the better part of a week. I asked her why she didn't get listed in one of the guidebooks and even offered to help her do so. She didn't have a phone and insisted she didn't want one, it would be too noisy an intrusion for her guests. I suspect she was “flying under the radar” and renting space illegally; installing a phone might bring attention from the authorities. 
A Red-Faced Run-In 

      Breakfast was simple but good: fresh rolls, marmalade, excellent coffee and tea, and some fruit. I usually went for an early-morning jog on the grounds of the nearby palace or a park and saw the Frau hurrying to or from a nearby bakery. One morning I was up extra early and ran into her as we both headed to the one bathroom. I realized she got up well before dawn to use and clean it before her guests awoke. She was “buck-nekked” and embarrassed, but I was glad it was me and not my husband who had run into her, and insisted she go first. While waiting, I noticed she slept on a little cot in the tiny kitchen. The rest of the apartment was rented out. The bigger bedroom was, in fact, intended to be the living room. No wonder the entryway was so crammed.

       Often while we were gone for the day, she would rearrange the hand-laundry we had hung near the window, or she “improved” how we had arranged things. Normally, I would have resented it, but somehow it was OK that the Frau did it; we could laugh about it.
     When we'd return after an evening out, she would be sitting in the tiny entryway, watching her little TV by an extension cord plugged into the outlet in our room. She'd immediately jump up and pull the plug, apologizing for the inconvenience. I hated to intrude on her evening's entertainment.

      The morning we left she brought in some wall paper to show us what she planned to do with the drab little room we'd been staying in. Maybe she showed it to all the guests who left, hoping they'd return or send their friends. Who knows if the room really ever was wall-papered.
      I would have loved to learn more of the Frau's story. We did learn her real name and that she was from Hungary. Was she a legal immigrant? Where was her family? Was the apartment hers? We're likely not the only ones to remember her after many years. 
A Belated Memento

      When we got back home I bought a robe and slippers at K-Mart and mailed them to her as our thank-you memento, half expecting she'd never receive them. A few weeks later a postcard arrived with the tiniest handwriting I've ever seen covering every inch and curving along the corner. It was from the Frau, thanking us and sharing her latest news. Ours wasn't a memento she would show guests, like those on her glass knick-knack shelves. But, if they did see it, surely it brought a tiny bit of comfort and helped her avoid embarrassment.

      We spent four very full days, seeing wonderful sites and art, hearing great music, and enjoying some famous Viennese pastry. Still, twenty-four years later, when I hear the word Vienna, the Frau still springs to mind first.

Moon Walk

Last Summer of (Relative) Freedom

     It was the summer of 1969. Judy and I wanted an adventure while we earned money for out last year of college. If all went according to the proper sequence—graduation, finding a job—this would be our last chance.

     Judy's parents had visited Galveston, Texas and thought we could get jobs there for the summer. They were right. We both landed jobs at the historic Hotel Galvez, across the street from the beach. It is so solid many Galveston residents have ridden out severe storms there since 1911.

     Judy was hired as cashier in the bar. I started as a waitress in the dining room and was soon promoted to hostess, but filled in as waitress when staff was short, which turned out to be often. Tourist towns knew college students were temporary so got as much as they could out of you. Maybe laws have changed that now, but I had a strong work ethic and was reluctant to say no to extra hours. I went weeks without a day off and by August was suffering heavy burn-out, grateful I wouldn't have to do that my entire life. It was sobering insight into the plight of those who have little choice, including many of our co-workers there.

     We rented a cheap, shabby house just a few blocks from the hotel. It had the basic amenities but cockroaches so big we joked you had to step on them with both feet. But, we were rarely there, except to sleep or change clothes, so it was acceptable.

That's One Step for Man...

     I've never had a strong interest in space exploration or spaceships but the world was focused on Apollo 11 that summer because the astronauts were about to land on the moon. Even I was caught up in it. On July 20^th, we gathered around the television in the apartment of a fellow waitress from the hotel, with her three small kids, to watch the historic event. It was impossible not to be impressed and wonder if it really was happening.

     In late August, Judy and I bid farewell to Galveston and took the train from Nuevo Laredo to Mexico City for the last leg of our summer adventure. My family was living in Mexico City at the time so we saw the sights there, then traveled down to Acapulco. As part reward for a summer of hard work and a soon-to-graduate present, our parents put us up at Las Brisas, a beautiful resort hotel with private cabañas. It was great being the guest and not the worker, for a change.

The Mexican Connection

     Late one afternoon, we had just returned to our cabaña from the beach when there was a knock on the door. A staff person greeted us with tropical drinks and invited us to a reception on the main patio for the astronauts. Really??! We had no idea they were even in Acapulco, let alone staying where we were. So, we got dressed and joined the party. Those generous fruity drinks were deceptively strong and my words were probably slightly slurred as I told the astronauts how very proud we were of them. Looking back, they must have been so tired of hearing those words and continuous superficial events like that—and much larger ones—for months on end. They must have wished they could be sealed back up in that tiny space capsule, far from the adoring crowds.

The Colombian Connection

     Fast forward exactly two years. I'm a Peace Corps volunteer in Colombia, working with Servicio Nacional de Aprendizaje, the National Service for Learning. They offered classes throughout the country, from business and technology in cities to raising animals and home economics in the countryside. I was teaching nutrition, health and first aid in rural areas as an itinerant teacher, spending 2 or 3 weeks in a site, then moving on to the next place a course had been requested. I usually stayed with a family or in the casa cural with the priest and his housekeeper.

     This assignment was high on a mountain in the cordillera of the Andes, in a little vereda called Valparaiso. A vereda is a small community where, rather than living next door to each other, residents are scattered on little fincas (farms, mostly coffee and cacao) on the sides of hills. You could watch the children work their way up, down and across the facing hills to get to the school, usually built by the Colombian Coffee Federation.

     Getting to Valparaiso was a challenge since the vague outline of a “road” had long been washed out by rain, leaving a very rocky path. There were no horses or mules available my first trip up, but another Colombian service organization loaned me their driver and '59 Jeep (the gas pedal tied to the steering column with a rope!). It was a bone-jarring, neck-wrenching hour, but we made it with just one flat tire. Thereafter, the most comfortable trips to and from Valpariso were by mule or horseback. Those involving vehicles (Jeep or truck) always took other passengers, which was understandable since there was no scheduled transport to Valparaiso and no one in the vereda owned a vehicle.

     I stayed with a lovely family at the top of the mountain and, as always, learned more than I taught while living with them. There was no electricity there, though they had rigged up pipes from a stream for water. All cooking was with wood and baking was done in a hand-built mud oven. It might seem a “simple” life, but when you realize all labor was physical, there was no refrigeration, corn was pounded by hand into meal, and fresh milk shaken in a gourd for butter, all clothing, sheets, towels, etc. washed by hand and dried by air, even in the rainy season, it didn't look so “simple.”

     In the evening we would visit (no t.v, of course) and one night the subject of the astronauts walking on the moon came up. Most of the family was skeptical that it was real. The father was convinced it was all done in Hollywood.

     Each weekend I returned to the apartment I shared with three other volunteers in the capital of the state we were living in. It happened there was an article in Time magazine (all volunteers received a free subscription) with spectacular pictures of the moon walk on the second anniversary. I took the magazine with me to Valparaiso the following week. When I showed it to the father, he just looked at me with a crooked smile that said I was so gullible to believe photos that good could be taken on moon. They were really good; he even had me entertaining fleeting doubts. And why not, living where and as they did? When he'd asked how I had gotten to Colombia and I said by airplane, he asked how many days that took.

     At another site, which was a village, not a vereda, I was walking in the town square with my hostess one night when the moon was full and beautiful. She, too, brought up the moon walk and was amazed that men had actually done it, She harbored doubts too.

     At the time (1971), it seemed we were in such a modern era. I couldn't have imagined Peace Corps Volunteers today using cell phones, nor even the concept of cell phones or personal computers, and being able to keep in touch with their families through e-mail and Skype. "Snail mail," telegrams, phone offices (in larger towns) and notes sent with bus drivers were the main methods of communication then.
     I often wonder what places like Valparaiso are like today. It occurred to me last night that I could Google it. I didn't find much, other than the weather and some maps. Valparaiso is a common name for towns and the photos showed a flat place by a body of water, obviously not the same one.
     Colombia went through some horrific years during the drug wars. The family I'd stayed with had moved to Valparaiso from elsewhere due to the previous political violencia in the 1950s. I do hope the daughter who wanted to be a teacher, and was an excellent student herself, was able to fulfill her dream. If so, she'd be near retirement now. How I'd love to sit with her in the evening today to hear her story.

The Berry Spoon

    This essay is about a special neighbor, one of the people I refer to in my previous essay, The People in My Recipe Box. Grace is not her actual name, she was the embodiment of it.

     The Berry Spoon, as my neighbor, “Grace,” called it, is one of those items in my kitchen, left with me by a friend, thus imbued with special memories. It was her favorite spoon. Now it's my favorite. I understand why she liked it so much. It has a slightly larger “bowl” than average and has a solid, friendly feel without being imposing.

The Berry Spoon

Come to think of it, that describes Grace too.

      Grace left me many indelible lessons, as well. Often her spirit comes out of the drawer with the spoon, broadening my perspective on that day's worries. We often say someone is our inspiration; Grace truly was, and still is, just for being herself.

      In her final years, Grace was so crippled with arthritis that her physical world shrank to the confines of her small house. For a woman who loved the outdoors and could name any wildflower, plant, tree or animal, this was especially difficult. You wouldn't know it to be around her, though. She offered those who stopped by a cheerful welcome and such interesting conversation you stayed longer than you intended. A computer entered her life at just the right time and became another lifeline to the world and her many friends. She was an avid reader, plus a nephew gave her a top-of-the-line radio for listening to her favorite news programs and music. Her mind was in the broader world even when her body couldn't be, and since her house was in a woods every window offered a comforting view of nature.

      It's somewhat miraculous Grace could be so cheerful and welcoming, but she refused to let adversity bring her down. At least not for long. It was her nature, and tested throughout her life. Occasionally when I'd stop by her door was locked, indicating the pain was winning that day and she wanted to handle it alone. Invariably, she'd be back to her gracious self the next day. I never heard her complain.

      As someone who is also independent and doesn't like to ask favors of others, I understood not to push when I offered to do something and she declined. I did learn to off-handedly ask if there was anything I might do as I was leaving. She would sometimes ask me to open a can of soup and just leave it on the counter, thank you. She'd take care of the rest. It would have been slow and painful, but she was determined to manage what she could on her own, as long as she could. I'll be exactly the same someday. Meals on Wheels and prepared foods brought by friends were welcomed nourishment beyond what was on the plate – for both parties.

      Listening to her stories about her friends you'd wonder how Grace managed to know all the most interesting people in the world. Everyone has a story and she loved hearing them. She was a thoughtful listener who sifted details as one would pan for gold, mining gems in everyday lives.

      I never heard her speak ill of anyone. You knew when she disagreed with someone's views, including your own, but she was kind in disagreeing with you, prompting deeper consideration rather than resistance.

     Grace would sometimes reveal interesting aspects of her own life but it wasn't until after her death when a group of us gathered to honor her memory that I learned some of the saddest chapters of her own story.

      She never spoke much about her husband, but did say he taught at the college where they both worked and had met. Among the two pick-up loads of items I took to the landfill for her when she was preparing for her final move were framed certificates from his professional life. She had told me once that she learned she was pregnant just before they were to visit his homeland where she would meet his family, shortly after they were married. It was her first foreign trip and she wasn't going to miss it. She knew if she told him he wouldn't allow her to travel, so she didn't tell him until they returned. Apparently it was a wonderful trip and she got through morning sickness, no doubt like she did arthritis in her final years.

      But, her husband later proved abusive and would sometimes lock her and their child out of the house while they were outside. Rather than frighten her child she would turn the predicament into an opportunity and they'd go into the nearby woods "for an adventure and camp” until she knew he had left the house.

     Among her happier stories was that she had been the first woman allowed to take forestry classes at another university and, after much petitioning, was allowed to wear pants in the field. It made for mad dashes between classes to her residence since she could wear the pants only for that class, but she was very willing to do it and was a good runner.

      Grace was a Christian Scientist, which meant she shunned medications, often to the frustration of those who loved her. As she neared 90 years of age, she was convinced to sell her beloved rural property and move to France to live with her child, a renowned artist there. It meant Grace would also finally spend more time with her beloved grandchildren too. She was, of course, happy, yet sad to leave her friends and home of so many years.

      I'd been at a meeting the night before she left so it was around 9 p.m. when I got to her house to say good-bye. We both pretended it wasn't for the final time, but knew it likely was. It was also election night, 2004. She had been determined to vote before leaving and the results of that election made the sadness even greater. Yes, she leaned towards Democrats, but listened to all candidates and recognized virtues no matter the candidate's party. She chuckled at the irony of her, a widow on a small pension, supporting a wealthy Kennedy candidate during a previous campaign.

      Grace's physical world continued to shrink as her condition worsened with age. Some of her friends visited her in France which delighted her no end. The rest of us kept in touch through e-mails and letters, both of which must have caused her physical pain to read or write at times. Even when bed-ridden she would describe the birdsong and budding bushes at her window and imagine the scene beyond just from the little patch of visible sky. She kept friends back home in touch by sharing news and was the first to tell me of illnesses and unexpected deaths in our neighborhood. Her connections never ceased to amaze and inspire me.

      Every spring when the first wildflowers appear, if I know their names its likely she taught me. As my own aging brain can't recall a name, my soul aches to go to her house to ask her.

In her element as a young woman. I still "see" her in my walks in our neighborhood woods.

     Grace has been gone for over a decade, yet I can recall her soft, gentle voice as if I last heard it this morning, or the twinkle in her eye when she told a fun story or about a friend's good news. The Berry Spoon feels warm sometimes, like she's held it until I picked it up.

      Grace and the extra big bowl of her Berry Spoon taught me that if you open your heart wide enough, it will fill with kindred spirits who will nourish your life, even when they are long gone and you are “alone” in your kitchen.

Local Food is Not a "Fad"

     Yesterday I attended the 9^th annual Local Food Connection at Lane Community College in Eugene. I'd been among the Benton county contingent who helped organize it the first three years, but then got too involved with other events to continue. Some of the original organizers are still going strong, as are the major sponsors.

      The Local Food Connection is designed to bring food producers (farmers, ranchers, fishers, wildcrafters, etc.) together with buyers (processors, restaurants, grocers, schools and institutions). There is, naturally, lots of networking, lots of energy.

Food, Food, Glorious Food!

      Opportunity to connect is the main draw, but the food itself “seals the deal.” Over 30 participating food producers, processors and distributors donate ingredients and while we're busy in the main room, then in workshops, LCC's culinary arts students are busy in the nearby kitchen, turning them into what is a now-legendary buffet. This year, for example: fresh green salad, root vegetables(prepared in various ways, from roasted to pasta sauce, casseroles), beans, pasta (yes, made of local grains), beef (roast, prime rib, meatballs), chicken, pork, albacore, ling cod, quiches, soups, breads, dairy and non-dairy ingredients and spreads, herbs, etc. Oh, and local ice cream for dessert.

      But great food began before dawn when organizers and those who were tabling arrived to set up. Besides the much-appreciated coffee and tea were scones made with Camas Country grains and their gluten-free teff bars. Soon granola, Lochmead milk and Nancy's kefir appeared, and local bagels with Nancy's cream cheese and local hummus spreads. And then a big pot of locally-made Chai. As one who was up before 4:30 a.m. to get there, I was especially grateful. (I attended with Debbie Duhn, publisher of Take Root magazine, a sponsor who also tabled.)

Impressions

      I was really struck by some of the changes in the local food world, comparing this year's event to the first one. For starters, the aforementioned pastries made with all-local ingredients were not available back then. Nor would a gluten-free option have been offered.

      The local food “movement” is definitely not a fad. It's serious business and our communities are stronger for it, both economically and in food security. It continues to evolve at an impressive pace, especially when you consider that it involves sizable pieces of land, and seasonal crops and other food sources (fish and animal cycles).
      A few things that were not workshop topics, but addressed at the Oregon Food Bank table were various ways low-income folks are able to access more fresh food each year, and how rural communities are wresting control of dismal and disappearing food systems through community organizing, like FEASTs (Food, Education, Agricultural Solutions Together). New community gardens and programs that teach folks of all ages how to grow and process their own food crop up each year.  Kids are being introduced to fresh foods at school, and sometimes even grow it themselves in the school yard, then enjoy it in the cafeteria. What will the state of our country's health look like in coming decades because of these important changes?

     Among workshop topics offered this year were ones that were barely if even considered nine years ago: food sensitivities/allergies, food hubs, regional branding and social media.

Leaders in the Field

     Keynote speakers were Danielle and Alex Amarotico, owners of StandingStone Brewery and Restaurant in Ashland. They're doing lots of innovative things and talked about how they've learned to encourage ideas and innovations by their employees and how they've adjusted their hiring practices and employee support to enhance creativity. They also talked about challenges and “failures” that became valuable lessons and stepping stones. It was an impressive presentation and since we had enjoyed our first meal in Ashland at Standing Stone last October, I was especially interested.

Food Allergies

The first workshop I attended was Navigating the Dietary Restrictions Market. It was a little surprising there were no farmers on the panel, but they may be included in the future because those who want to certify such things as gluten-free grains are required to use separate farm equipment and follow certain cleaning standards.

      On the panel was Mandi Bussell, owner of Bussell Sprouts, and who created alternatives to cheese because their first child had a a major cheese allergy. Huge challenges for businesses like hers are the ever-changing definitions and requirements for labeling products. Label changes are very expensive. Interestingly, she's discovered that if you use the word vegan, it turns a lot of people off and they walk away or won't buy the product, even if they tasted it and liked it. Hmmmm. That comment had me examining any prejudices I might have without even realizing it.

      A chef on the panel, Ben Nadolny, said if you have food allergies, you should always let the restaurant know when you make your reservation. Most chefs have options to offer that might not be on the menu. Ask. Don't think you are limited only to what you see on the menu. Good chefs want to work with you because they want their guests to be happy.

      Another panelist introduced a unique concept that is about to be beta-tested in numerous restaurants. She's nutritionist Xena Grossman who joined the panel via Skype (something else not used 9 years ago!) from California. She has developed a computer program (not an app – yet) called Menu Genie for restaurants to help you navigate food sensitivities by entering them online before you see the menu so you'll see only the dishes from which you should choose. Grossman's goal is to price her software as affordable as possible so it will be used widely. Naturally, there are—and will always be—challenges and “speed bumps,” but this program could make eating out a far more comfortable experience for people with food allergies, from mild to serious, and can save both customers and restaurants a lot of time and frustrations. Learn more and watch (maybe even help) this project grow and spread at her website. 

Cycles of Success

      Hundreds of business relationships have been born at the Local Food Connections over the years as new farmers and businesses discover this unique opportunity. It would be interesting to learn about every single story.

      It was at one of the first LFCs that I met a young couple who came to find local vendors because they were planning to open a brewery/restaurant in Corvallis. Their goals seemed ambitious, especially when you consider how wobbly the economy was at the time. My concerns about their potential success proved unfounded, though. Nick and Kristen Arzner have done quite well with Block 15 and have since opened Les Caves, as well!

      Maybe Nick and Kristen will be keynote speakers at the Local Food Connection one day. And maybe you'll happen upon that announcement when you go to their website to check out food allergy options.

      It could happen.