OUR FRIENDSHIP NEVER MISSED A BEAT.

Old friends from Fremont visited me two days ago. They were camped nearby and called. With a little background, Sandy and David Barron were the youngest members of our square dancing group, the Kuntry Kuzzins back in the early 1970’s. Square Dancing is one of those activities that you have to drag your husband too in the beginning, then once he realizes how much fun it is, he’ll go without you if you’re sick. So we enjoyed them, often teasing Sandy that she was the “baby” of the club even though she was a mother of two. We were excited when they bought a house.  Sandy was always a bit shy. David, out going, from a large extended family. A nice young couple, building  the American Dream.

We talked for several hours and I realized what an amazing couple they are.  They look the same.  Neither has aged much. David has less hair.  I didn’t know David was a disabled Marine from Viet Nam. It never came up.

We checked through their pictures on the phone and I got to see the grandson David helped raise. Their son Mathew’s two beautiful daughters. A great-grandson. Neither Sandy nor Dave have a college education, but their daughter, Jennifer, has several degrees and a fantastic job. She worked during college days beside her mother as a motel maid, making beds and cleaning rooms.  Sandy worked outside the home for 22 years. But, even more revealing to me, Sandy and Dave took in nine foster children. I had two foster children and love them and have contact to this day.  But I was stunned at nine. What a commitment over all of those years.

What a pleasure to sink back into a friendship, after a long gap. I guess you can tell I’m impressed. I enjoyed getting caught up with mutual friends from our club.  His sisters, brothers, step-father and some amazing tales. I didn’t know Sandy’s siblings.

They brought me flowers and I took pictures of the bouquet. This new computer is driving me nuts.  I could not get those pictures out of my camera. So, you’ll have to settle for a poem by David J. Irvine, called Ownership.

Man’s pet, the kitten, lives nine lives.
Man one: three score and ten.
Man claims the ownership of earth,
Of every glebe and glen.
What modest claim do kittens make?
The ownership of men.

It speaks to the bonds of love… for Sandy and David, those loving bonds are kids and grandkids and other people’s children.

WE NEED A RAINY DAY...

There's a song that starts I LOVE A RAINY DAY, ... Well it's cold and wet and miserable today, especially since I turned the pilot off on my heater and cleaned up my wood stove for warmer weather.

I can't say I'm loving this rainy day, but we definitely need it. And, there is comfort to hanging out in your robe and slippers for half a day, to work on a project set aside and waiting. For me, a couple of unfinished rugs and one needing repair. And a chance to slog through saved scraps for quilts and begin another while other blocks lay forgotten and tucked away.

I took the time to read some poetry and I like this one enough to share. It is in the public domain.

Loveliest of Trees, The Cherry, Now

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

By A. E. Housman

And, another:
I normally don't like poems that don't rhyme, but this one reminded me of journey's I've had on trains and it was just as described in this narrative poem.

The Dining Car of the Southern Crescent, By John Campbell

The Southern Crescent
snakes its way through
the rolling fog shrouded
piedmont landscape;
a young man on spring break,
returning home from
college, crosses the creaky
passageway that leads from
Pullmans to the dining car.
Breakfast smells give rise to
an ambitious order of fresh coffee,
country ham with red eye gravy,
grits, scrambled eggs and
biscuits with blackberry jam.
The waiter, agile and accomplished,
dressed in a white starched apron,
steadies himself against the swaying
motion of the train; with serving tray
in hand and balanced, he places the
piping hot breakfast on a table decked
with a linen table cloth, pewter
creamers, thick silverware, coffee
cups and saucers and plates etched with
a crescent moon insignia; a small
bundle of daffodils sit in a crystal
vase near the window.
The young man with the vittles before him,
relishes a feeling of adult composure
and delight. "How could life be this good?"
A breakfast fit for a king, waiters
eager to please, railway views of
rural Carolina: tenant shanties,
grazing black angus, abandoned junkyards,
brownstone depots and sleepy towns.
He, still unfamiliar with the niceties
of the wealthy elite, or even the
acquired dignities of his college
professors, avows, while pouring
coffee from a silver carafe into
a Syracuse China cup, that the
dining car of the Southern Crescent
is a place of utmost refinement.

John Campbell's poem was delivered to my mailbox by A Poem A Day, that I subscribe to. His poem is available framed from Poem A Day, and is not in the public domain.

CLOUDS.

One cloud black and brooding, maybe hiding thunder and lightening along my road, as I drove to the dump. We rarely see a building cumulus, those rare beauties of the sky.


Gotthold called  them chariots of the sky. I turned around to take the picture before they disappeared.


By the time I reached the highway, they were bigger, bolder. Again I stopped and thought what beauty, and how much better they would look without the interference of signs and telephone poles and wires. So, I decided to look up a poem about clouds. I couldn't find any that weren't ominous. Though I own 34 books of poetry. I was stunned when I counted them. I didn't take the time to look in every book, but each time I pick up a tome, I'll be chasing clouds.

TO MISSING FAMILY MEMBERS.

Thanksgiving day, we will be missing several family members. Some years are like that. But, Doug, my son building my house in Oregon, though within driving  range, and a famous cookie baker, is missing and we will sorely miss him. So, this old Edgar Guest poem seemed a proper tribute. He will join folks at the grange and help them cook. Another of his talents.

THE COOKIE JAR   by Edgar Guest
You can rig up a house with all manner of things,
The prayer rugs of sultans and princes and kings;
You can hang on its wall the old tapestries rare
Which some dead Egyptian once treasured with care;
But though costly and gorgeous its furnishings are,
It must have, to be homelike, an old cookie jar.
There are just a few things that a home must possess,
Besides all your money and all your success—
A few good old books which some loved one has read,
Some trinkets of those whose sweet spirits have fled,
And then in the pantry, not shoved back too far
For the hungry to get to, that old cookie jar.
Let the house be a mansion, I care not at all!
Let the finest of pictures be hung on each wall,
Let the carpets be made of the richest velour,
And the chairs only those which great wealth
can procure,
I'd still want to keep for the joy of my flock
That homey, old fashioned, well-filled cookie crock.
Like the love of the Mother it shines through our years;
It has soothed all our hurts and dried away tears;
It has paid us for toiling; in sorrow or joy,
It has always shown kindness to each girl and boy;
And I'm sorry for people, whoever they are,
Who live in a house where there's no cookie jar.
Cedric is the chief pie baker and he, along with daughter Virginia, who prepares a pear tart every year,  and grandsons Owen and Theo, who supply lots of  noise and fun,  are in Australia. We will miss you so much.
Daughter-in-law Laurie has stepped into the gap, and is preparing the pies.
Kristanne and Austin and Mason, will also be absent. It feels downright cruel to be missing so many at this family time of year. When it comes to the clatter round the table, the dogs and yak and fun;  the card games and a bit of wine. we'll try, but without Kristanne,  and Austin and Mason to banter, we feel a loss for those missing three.

This poem FAMILY, by Suzanne Comer Bell describes it perfectly.
Inside a house they reassemble—
food an operation on the table,
dogs sealed against the back steps
waiting for the blessed day’s remains,
and a world of neighbors knows
to leave their gifts and wishes at the door—
then they eat and eat, clear, clean the table,
move to the kitchen and rumble family tales
til the ancestors sound, drown the silver clatter—
no bounds here to joyful noise because it’s family—
then disappear, each wandering off
to a silent, private nest, where
inside the cocoon of sleep will grow
the shapes and skills of being in this family.
One by one they’ll wake to a new world,
take ball, gun, racquet, cards—some
instrument of fun to play with another—
and the skills of this family bloom, reborn
in their memory, in the movement of hands, voices, feet,
the presence of children coming of age or an aunt
who carries the same genes of natural talent,
some newly awakening, some reawakening,
recognizing themselves in the mirror
of each other’s faces. Then they’ll line their shoes
by the door, warm up the leftovers—
do it all over again.

© Suzanne Comer Bell.

While I complain about being bereft of family, I know how very lucky we are and we will be giving thanks and  counting our blessings for our cups runneth over.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE.

NO REST FOR THE WICKED.

My mother and her sisters, my aunts, always left little quotes at the bottom of their letters and cards. It was always fun to read them. And, my mother was full of homey homilies like, No rest for the wicked, or Itchy palm? You're going to get some money; Cold feet, warm heart; Itchy nose? You are going to meet a stranger; Always eat a little sour with your sweet; Waste not want not.

Her sayings came so automatic, kind of a mixture of advice, superstition, moral admonitions. Who knows where they came from?  It was just a part of her personality. I miss her so much.

I chose the title because I'm so busy, super busy, I feel like the fox chasing his tail.

I'll be absent these pages, off and on while I take a trip into the Bay Area working on a fundraiser for the archive. And, another trip to Oregon for a walk through on the house my son is building for me that will be wheelchair assessable. Then it is time to get ready for Thanksgiving that I'm hosting at my house.  So...

MY FEET

My Feet they haul me Round the House,
They Hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to Steer them, and
They take me Everywheres!

This little ditty is by Gelett Burgess and I can think of a half-dozen verses to add to it to describe my life right now, but I'll let it go at that.  Maybe some of you can add some verses if you are so inclined. This one is in the public domain and does not require permission.

SOOTHING SPIRIT OF SONG AND POETRY.

Goethe said:  One should, each day, try to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if possible, speak a few reasonable words.

Music is all around us, rowers still chant and call their strokes, campers sing around the fire, auctioneers and street vendors, sing to sell their wares, mothers sing to their children, father's too. Protestors sing on the picket lines.  Music comforts the sick and weary and inspires writers, and thinkers and all of us to grander effort, or a lighter mood. Music wafts through stores and elevators, and one is never far from television and radio. And, music for the most part is poetry.

I've been rummaging around in folk anthologies about working people's songs.
Most of us can remember Sixteen Tons,  Eight Hours, The Old Chisholm Trail.
I got caught up in the music and forgot they were real men working real jobs and suffering exploitation by the "company."  I knew Sixteen Tons was about back-breaking work at a low pay day after day where the coal miner was unable to get out of the trap of indebtedness. Employers knew how to set up that invisible net to keep them in that trap.

And, of course, I'm familiar with the happy sounds of Ty Yi Yippy, Yippy, Yea... of the Old Chisholm Trail .  Somehow I didn't hear or remember the other verses of the song that  make the exploitation clear. The boss can fire you on a whim and dock your pay if he sees fit and they always did.

A-ropeing and a-tying and a-branding all day,
I'm working mighty hard for mighty little pay,
I went to the boss to draw my roll,
He had me figured out ten dollars in the hole.
The boss says to me, "I'll fire you,
Not only you but the whole damn crew."
We organized a union and it's going mighty strong,
The boss minds his business and we all get along."

The song, Eight Hours was a rallying song from the late nineteenth century when people worked from sun-up to sun-set, the whole year, no vacations, no time off, no cushion against illness. Unions made things better, but young people today, don't recognize what they owe to unions and in some ways, our middle class is working very hard for low wages,often both parents, and not getting ahead. I see some similarities.
The song says:
We mean to make things over, we are tired of toil for naught,
With but bare enough to live upon and never and hour for thought.
We want to feel the sunshine and we want to smell the flowers,
We are sure that God has will'd it, and we mean to have eight hours.
We're summoning our forces from the shipyard , shop and mill,
Eight hours for work, eight hours for rest and eight hours for what we will.

Carpenters won an 8-hour day in 1890, but it took decades before the majority of workers won a shorter work day.
For me it was a repeat education and a reminder of what we owe unions and a treatise on the power of the people when they are maligned.

PUSHING SOUTH FOR HOME

Jim drove a long stretch that brought us to Springfield, Oregon. The weather was beautiful, and warm.  We set up in a barren Moose Club parking lot. After lunch, Jim took a long nap after partying with the Eagles the previous night until 9:00. We're boring after 7:00 p.m. Didn't do anything but read and I finished a really gripping book, Stones From The River, by Ursula Heigi.


I was rummaging through some pictures this morning and remembered seeing this spinner. It is a triple. Up close it is just a flat burgundy color but when all three parts flash in the wind, it becomes a thing of beauty.


They are kind of magical the way they reveal hidden colors and constantly move. I have no real needs in my life other than enough to eat and a steady supply of books, but if I ran into one of these, I'd buy it. It is called the Hummingbird.


The middle section spins a single...

...to a double heart, over and over again.  The bottom heart has hearts.

Kind of silly, but I stared at it and took pictures until I caught the movement at its best display.
The camper told me he bought a motor for it so it spins constantly. He too is mesmerized by the spinner. He bought it from a guy in the park who made them. The guy  has since moved on. Dang.

I'm cooking Mexican rice tonight, it is an earthy food, simmering in the pot. It sustains whole countries as their basic food. So here then look at rice through the eyes of poet Mary Oliver:

I don't want you just to sit at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk into the fields where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud like a blessing.

We move to Rogue River State Park today as we push relentlessly for home.

A POEM A DAY.

In October, my friend Monica Rose emailed she had a poem  accepted by www.yourdaily poem. I subscribed and now I get a poem in my mailbox every day. Most are copyrighted and not for republishing. I like copying those I find exceptional into a document file to read over for my own pleasure. Sometimes one will be in the public domain like this one by D.H. Lawrence:

DECEMBER NIGHT

Take off your cloak and your hat
And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth
Where never woman sat.

I have made the fire up bright;
Let us leave the rest in the dark
And sit by firelight.

The wine is warm in the hearth;
The flickers come and go.
I will warm your feet with kisses

Until they glow.

I didn't know much about D.H. Lawrence. The site had a short biography I found interesting as well:

David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 – 1930) was an English novelist, poet, essayist, critic, playwright, and painter. The son of a miner and a school teacher, Bert (as he was called) grew up in extreme poverty and suffered from poor health. Although he loved to read, he was not a particularly good student. He did, however, manage to win a high school scholarship and became a teacher before success as a writer allowed him to pursue that career fulltime. Accused more than once of spying for the Germans, Bert eventually left his home country to travel the world with his wife. The Lawrences intended to settle in America, but problems with his health forced them to return to Europe; Lawrence died in France at the age of 45. A prolific writer who produced work in multiple genres, Lawrence is best known as a novelist, although he wrote more than 800 poems and was considered an extremely gifted travel writer. Public opinion during his lifetime and even till today paints him as either utterly profane and depraved or as a brilliant and creative genius.

YOU DECIDE

I am hoping to get some Christmas cards out today.

POETRY-YOU DECIDE.

I have more paperwork, unfinished from yesterday. It is always more complicated than we think.

I subscribe to a poem a day. If you like poetry, it is a nice way to start the day.  Some, like the one below, are in the public domain. Others not. Poetry soothes the soul. For me, anyway. You decide.  The link:

http://www.yourdailypoem.com/

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS THE NIGHT

How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven;
In full-orb’d glory, yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

By Robert Southey

CHRISTMAS PAST

My gang arrives today. Nostalgia for Christmases past and simpler times come to mind as I sort through old cards, but I know, Christmases past are best remembered and not relived.  I wonder how different my kids remembrances of Christmas will be as they get older and look back.
The beautiful lettering on this card, along with the clothing says “old-fashioned”.

Children cry when meeting a scary department store Santa. What would it be like to see this Father Christmas at the door? Smithsonian Magazine’s website asked people to vote for the scariest Santa from about twenty pictures. There were some doozies.
Quaint language tickles my fancy since I love poetry and doggerel, both :
When Christmas comes to your abode,
May care be laid aside,
That naught but cheer, good will and mirth,
And joy and peace abide.
or:
We wish you a glad, merry Christmas
Surrounded by dear ones and friends;
We wish you a sweet, pleasant pathway,
For New Year, wher’er it wends.
And from 1931 :
We hope you’ll have a drumstick that is eatable,
Potatoes mashed , and gravy of the best,
A slab of mince or pumpkin pie unbeatable,
And-it doesn’t  matter much about the rest.
.
Today, I’ll finish any cooking to be done ahead of time, clean out the ashes in the stove, stack in some wood, turn on the music and wait for the best part of Christmas-the family’s arrival.

TIME, LOVE, BEAUTY

Time is:
Too slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love time is Eternity.  (By Anonymous)
I’m feeling poetic this morning.
Hope you enjoy this beautiful piece as much as I did.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQ7khO7KHjI&feature=related

GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON MUSEUM

Fittingly, the locals near Chiriaco Summit, Ca. have a war museum dedicated to the exploits of General George S. Patton. It was their aim to put Patton on the record in the area where he trained desert troops to go up against the Desert Fox, German General Erwin Rommel. Its all privately funded and includes other war materials, as well;  a Viet Nam Memorial Wall with those who died from the western states; some artifacts from Korea, and other branches of service, gathered by, and honoring locals.

Outside is a "garden" of tanks, about ten of them, located in the desert sands near where they once gave our  troops the experience needed to fight in desert conditions. The museum has a film about Patton that contains remembrances of people who served under him, clips from news reels and speeches he gave. 

Patton was a relatively unknown general when he was tapped to take over the desert training detail in an area of 18,000 miles of desert. Afterward, he took his troops to Africa and not only defeated the Desert Fox, but he plunged headlong into major battles of his own strategy in Sicily, England, France, Belgium,  Holland and Germany. It is said that he saved more American Soldier's lives than any other American General.  There are many books and colorful anecdotes about Patton, for he was a colorful and forceful general, not always popular but fearfully respected.

Besides the usual artifacts of war, this museum has more personal  pieces that drew my eye and interest. I remember having to save copper, and rags and tin, but bones? And paper? 

 War posters hung in every Post Office, but this one was hung where soldiers would see it, not the folks back home.

  Individuals who lost a son or daughter submitted letters, medals, art and poetry to the museum.

And during training, boredom in the desert gave soldiers a chance for artistic expression by carving shell casings.

 Patton and Eisenhower, both made the German people parade through the prisons and view the bodies of the tortured souls who died in them. Patton wrote a letter to his son explaining the reasoning for that and told him the local officials denied responsibility or knowledge of the death camps in this one town. The next morning after the tour and denial, the Burgermeister and his wife committed suicide.

This is the only museum I've seen in America that has scrapbooks on the Holocaust although there are 24 memorials or museums throughout the U.S. that tell the story in various ways; they have study centers and elementary education about hate and tolerance and man's inhumanity to man.
While not as professionally done as a national museum with the money and access to materials, this museum is well worth the stop.

CHRISTMAS PARTY FOR ARTISTIC SOULS

In yesterday's blog,  I mentioned the Red Hats. Joellyn Gano, left,  is also a member of the Calaveras Arts Council and enjoyed both parties on the same evening at the Murphys Hotel.  Her husband Dave is a painter. Joellyn plays a mean accordion, just one of her many talents. Penny West, served as director  of the Calaveras County Arts Council and kept that organization growing and strong,  nurturing all of us since 1981.  She now shares that position with Mary Jane Genochio.

Judi Caine Papais, left, has a marvelous studio with wonderful north light and teaches as well as paints. She is a well known artists along with many others too numerous to name. Judi belongs to another arts group in the county. Murphys may have the most galleries of all the small towns in Calaveras, but there are many others if you wish to spend a day perusing the awesome talents of this community. If you are looking for culture,  music, dance, visual arts, sculpture, or pottery, you will find it here.

 Good friends, Dave Self and Pastor Meg Self attended. Dave, with talents previously hidden from view. He drew illustrations for Glen Wasson's book and will be coming out with a book of his own poetry soon. These talents I never knew about before in my friend, surprised and delighted me.

 Glen with his wife Joan, a talented photographer. Glen provided the entertainment for the night and kept us laughing with renditions from his current book, Tales Mark Twain Would Have Loved To Steal.
Glen is well known for his doggerel. He writes on the spot and read a poem he composed just for the evening. But, I mentioned the Red Hats. Glen wrote "A Gentleman's Response To The Red Hat Ladies" and kept us laughing at his indelicate response to the repression of men's natural tendencies.

When I am old I will not care
About the kind of clothes I wear
They may be tattered, old or ripped
And I won't care if my fly's not zipped.

In crowded elevators I may break wind
And look as though I'm quite chagrined
At some innocent person standing there
Whom I'll indict with a reproachful stare.

And I don't care if the ladies mind
That I pinch them hard on the behind
I've always longed to play such sports,
Especially those with bulging shorts.

I'll go to church in my overalls
Wear polyester plaid to formal balls
I'll watch TV in my under wear
And scatter beer cans everywhere.

I'll scratch myself in private places
Just to see the look on people's faces.
In mixed compay I'll tell lewd jokes
To scandalize those proper folks.

At dinner time I will pick my nose
And wipe the boogers on my clothes.
And to me it really doesn't matter
If I grab the last thing from the platter.

Until I'm old I'll still behave,
It isn't nice to be a knave.
But, I can't wait for that joyful day
When I'm old enough to act that way.

I SHALL WEAR PURPLE AND HAVE FUN AT THE DENTIST

  It struck me as funny when I saw one of the gals at my dentist, Dr. Paul Berger's office, walking around with a handful of teeth. I meant to get her name and didn't, but she smiled and let me take her picture.

Then one of the dental techs stepped into the room, and clowned around as well. This was my first visit to Dr. Berger, so his staff members are still strangers to me, and obviously fun to be around. The proof is in the pictures. These two beautiful women with a sense of humor made getting a filling a lot less stressful. 

It was late in the day, and with mouth still slightly swollen, I dashed home, changed and headed for a party at the Murphys Hotel for the Calaveras Arts Council.  I walked in and there were the Red Hats enjoying a party of their own at the bar.

My good friend, Joellyn Gano was the first person I saw, outfitted in her gorgeous red hat and purple dress.

Several years ago,  I expected when I had "time", as though I could simply catch some, I would join the Red Hats because they have a lot of fun. I can always sit home and quilt when I'm old, which somehow is ten or more years beyond  my curent age.

I know nothing about the Red Hats organization, but I do know what inspired it, the poem: When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.
I expect everyone has heard of, or read the poem, but just on the off chance, I copied it from the poem's author's book by the same name. She is Jenny Joseph.

 WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

A SUITABLE BOY, A SUITABLE BOOK

One of the advantages of living on the road is less housework, no yard work and more time to read. And, I love it!  Even so, deciding to read a book like A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, takes a commitment.

 
 Its physically bigger than a normal novel in size; thicker, as well, at slightly over two inches. And, the print is smaller than a regular novel with a whopping 1474 pages. (Compared below.) 

Its the only book I've ever read that has the table of contents in poetic form. Also, his tribute and thank you is a delightful poem and I'm going to reprint it here.

        A WORD OF THANKS
     To these I owe a debt past telling;
     My several muses, harsh and kind;
     My folks, who stood my sulks and yelling,
    And (in the long run) did not mind;
     Dead legislators, whose orations
     I've filched to mix my own potations;
     Indeed, all those whose brains I've pressed,
     Unmerciful, because obsessed;
     My own dumb soul, which on a pittance
     Survived to weave this fictive spell;
     And, gentle reader, you as well,
     The fountainhead of all remittance.
     Buy me before good sense insists
     You'll strain your purse and sprain your wrists.

I said commitment because even in the motor home where I can easily read a book or two a week, this wonderful story is not a light read. Its a novel surrounding four families, Hindi and Muslim. But more than a novel, it is history, imbued with real people we know. It is set during the 1950's when India is experiencing Independence from British rule. You experience this book, the clash of generations, from the traditional ways to new ideas; both exciting and painful, exhilarating and difficult. It deals with the politics, religions, social hierarchy, and fascinating traditions of India with its biases, superstitions, varied religious beliefs, death, marriage, mixed marriage, money, laws, agriculture, food, clothing, manners, family relations, work, business, politics...in detail with great warmth and affection. Its a saga that is educational and exciting as you wonder who Lata will marry; the man she loves? Or the man her mother has chosen for her? Will India ever overcome the caste system? Will Muslim and Hindu live peaceably side by side in acceptance?  There is so much of the normal upper and middle class here that we never hear about. Its always the teeming slums of Calcutta, or the famous pacifist Mahatma Gandhi that we hear about.
I plan to visit India and I'm so glad I read this book first. Try it, to enhance your understanding and provide you with calamities, gossip, spectacles and excitement that will linger in the mind. Then watch The Slumdog Millionaire, which we did, last night.

SEA-TAC AIRPORT, A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

Wenatchee, Queets, Ilwaco,Hoquiam, Willapa, Kanogan, Omak, Quinault, Kitsap,Skamania, Skagit, Wahkiakum,Wicomico, Chico
Tulalip, Quinault, Snohomish, Nisqually, Clatsop, Chinook, Puyallup, Clallam, Kitsap, Klickitat, Okanogan, Skagit, Skamaimia, Spokane, Yakima, Walla Walla, Wahkiakum, Atanum, Algona.

Like poetry, the Indian names and places and history enrich Washington State. The state is also known for its rivers, the thick evergreens, ferns, wild rhodedendrons, fox glove, moss, cool summers and its beauty. Lewis and Clark estimated the Indian's living on the Columbia River had 10,000 pounds of dried salmon in their stocks. In places the salmon were running the river so thickly it appeared you could walk across the river on their backs.
The SEA-TAC Airport has a river in tile running through it, brimming with bronze fishes. One even carries his airport bag.