Senior slips or fidgety blips

The phone rang as I was checking one last thing on the computer, right  afterwards I'd  venture out into this grey dreary day for a walk.  I  have nearly conquered this cold that has bothered me a  few days and am really  missing my physical activities while my body demanded a couple days rest to recover.  We are waiting word from a roofer and the contractor  who did our addition in 2007 about a seeping in the roof line over the guest bedroom,  that happened some time ago, we are not sure when but noticed a spot on the ceiling when we had the windows washed this month.  Lots of things going on, but I am used to juggling  many things at once, being a multi tasker driven sort while Jerry is a one thing at a time no rush kind of guy.  I might have known it would be this kind of a day when  I immediately began to gather clothes for a washer load, as I walked out to the kitchen this AM.  Usually I first get a big glass of water, take my meds, and  make a cuppa, but with the cold and sore throat I've  resumed hot tea instead,  likely I am lacking caffeine alertness. 

As soon as I answered the phone and heard Barb, the dental  hygienist who cleans my teeth every six months say, "Pat I expected to see you an hour ago?", I shreiked "OH NO"   I completely forgot my dental appointment  which might not sound like that big of a deal but it is bugging me.  I had to call their office to confirm this appointment a couple weeks ago; it was on my calendars on my  tablet and smart phone, neither of which I use much or look at  while at home and it was on the kitchen calendar which I walk by mindlessly entering the kitchen.  Jerry sits right near the calendar reading the daily newspaper with his morning coffee and usually looks at it and can remind me of things but he said nothing today either.  Well Barb laughed to hear I had just flat blanked out and said, "senior moment?" Because I never miss my appointments, she called to be sure I was alright.  We rescheduled for a couple of weeks from now and I circled the day in red on the kitchen calendar....now I have to look at it.  

I  Googled and reaffirmed what I  have learned that such things can just happen; here's a  link to interesting info on  a Psychology today website.  http://psychology.about.com/od/cognitivepsychology/p/forgetting.htm

Ebbinghaus Forgetting Curve and Study

Forgetting like this or being absolutely mindless may seem no big deal, but to me whose Mom had Alzheimer's, I  worry.  I think many of us aging pre and  baby boomers worry about dementia, memory loss, and certainly the big A more than other generations.  We have seen more of it and are more aware.  Jerry shrugged and counseled, "well it's not fatal, no one died, go on about your day, be happy."  I did leave for my walk, out into the misty grey to clear my cobwebs and I started to hum  "don't worry, be happy" the old Bobby McFerrin . Released in September 1988, it became the first a cappella song to reach number one on the  Billboard 100 chart, a position it held for two weeks. It was a philosophy I never quite adopted but here it came back clear as a song.  

Maybe I shouldn't worry about my senior moment so much or is it a blip from my fidgety?  Must I begin to pay better attention, one thing at a time?  Certainly  I must look at that calendar each morning first thing.  Here in retirement I make my own schedule but live a rather uncomplicated routine.  Deliberate forgetfulness or mindlessness?  I have  heard that simply forgetting is nothing to show concern  about unless it becomes routine and or unless one does not immediately recall when reminded, as I did in horror today.  That's my Halloween fright 2013 style. 

Sepia Saturday 200 Rerun from Week 13 Frank Ostrowski

So here I sit at keyboard in Minnesota, USA looking back oh so fondly at how many years it has been since I first learned of and participated in Sepia posts. Sepia got me to blogging and researching my roots and afforded the way to use so many old photos. Now as we are celebrating our 200th week of Sepia posts, I have chosen my contribution from Week 13,  February 27, 2010.  I am excited about Alan's proposal to publish our collection into a volume for week 200. Here with very slight updating is  my Sepia Week 13 post about my great grandfather, Frank ( Francis) Ostrowski. 

Frank Ostrowski

Frank Ostrowski is my maternal great grandfather who was a coal  and sometimes iron ore miner in Poland, Prussia and in the United States. I knew my family was entirely Polish on all sides, (2013 note:but after submitting my DNA to Ancestry.com for analysis in 2012, I learned there is a very slight trace of Ireland or the British Isles as well, proof that the British Navy was everywhere in the world once.   I have found no connection to that Brit ancestry yet, despite periodic Ancestry.com suggestions of 8th or so cousins however many times removed).  However, I have learned a lot more since 2010 and my research indicates German, Prussian, and  Polish heritage matching with my study of  Poland's history that reveals how often it was invaded, conquered and annexed to another country.  Those Poles are a hearty stock though and do not go down without a  strong fight.

My grandmother and her sisters spoke Polish as did my mother and aunt; it was especially annoying to me as a child because I could not understand what they were saying. I know that was the reason they spoke it around me! But little by little I learned enough to eaves drop and discern the secrets.  I discovered Frank in 1977 when my great aunt Francie gave me the photo of the Ostrowski (aka Ostroskie) gathering which I posted last week on Sepia Saturday. I spent most of my childhood with my grandmother, Rose, Frank’s daughter from his second wife. How I wish I had known about him back then and could have asked my Baba (babacis in Polish) about her father. She talked very little about her family or else I paid little attention, but said that her father died of stomach cancer as did several others in the family; she feared that and sadly she died of pancreatic cancer and  diabetes; perhaps that was Frank’s diagnosis too.

Frank Ostrowski my maternal great grandfather
Coal miner, pick axe,  lantern hat and white shirt

After Aunt Francie gave me the gathering photo she also found this snapshot of Frank in his miner’s hat which I had copied and enlarged into a 5 x 7 Sepia print that has been prominently displayed in our home ever since.  It is a good conversation piece. My grandmother’s hand writing is on the back so at one time she had the photo but there is no date. I adore the old coal miner hat. Those were the most dangerous days of the mines and many Europeans flocked to the states to do the dangerous dirty work. My mother and aunt were of no help in verifying dates, saying that they never knew any grandparents but lots of aunts and uncles. Notice the clean shirt and the pick axe over his shoulder, arm crossed and holding hands with someone.  Likely this was not what he wore into the mine, but there must have been some special occasion to pose.  Someone really had to work at keeping that shirt clean and starched, back then, without today's automatic  washers and dryers.

Frank married three times and outlived two wives. By his photo he does not appear to be that handsome, but staunch, determined and I suppose an employed coal miner in America was a good catch for the times. If the historical fiction “A Coal Miner’s Bride “by Susan Campbell Bartoletti has any truth, the old miners wanted a woman to care for them. Frank fathered many children so that would also account for his need to remarry when one wife passed on. I notice he has one eyelid that droops and my grandmother had the same affliction; I in 2013 notice the same has happened to my right eyelid so that ultimately I will have to have that "fixed" or lifted..

The spelling of the name Ostrowski changes depending on who recorded it, Ostrowski, Ostroski, Ostroskie, etc.  I have two different years for his birth 1855 and 1857 and have been unable to confirm which is correct. However, the date of November 11 is certain making him my fellow Scorpio. Perhaps on our next trip to PA I can visit the Union cemetery in Arnold where he is buried and that may clarify date of his death. I should hope it will not add yet another date. (2013:  Note several years ago we visited the Union cemetery; the office building was not open but there was a note on the door that if one wished to locate a grave submit a letter in writing and pay a fee of $15 or more and allow several months.  We tried roaming and found some  caretakers who directed us to the area known as Polish hill, far in the back, with few gravestones, quite over grown with shrubs, etc.  No luck finding Frank's grave.  I suppose one of these days I will send that letter and the fee and wait and wait.  This is a strange thing as most older cemeteries are very helpful at no cost and willingly look in their records.) 

Frank was born in Prussia, Poland or Germany to Franz Ostrowski and Katazinea (Kor Catherine) Biegonski. who likely immigrated to America with the children, but the records of when and where they arrived are sketchy. His sisters were Kate, Mary and Pauline who is recorded to have been born in Cleveland, and a brother Maryn John. It is possible that they came through Canada, but I have hit a block wall with that as well.

Information shows Franz was buried in Detroit, Michigan in 1893 and Catherine died in 1910 and is buried in Cleveland, Ohio.  That date makes me wonder if the mystery Ostrowski photo taken in Ohio which I dated at about 1910 could have been for Frank’s mother’s funeral; perhaps confirming some of what my mother alluded to of a funeral in Ohio. ( I used that photo last week for my Sepia contribution; here is the link  http://patonlinenewtime.blogspot.com/2010/02/sepia-saturday-mystery-ostrowski.html  )While some of her research is flawed, I am grateful to my 2nd cousin who attempted to piece all this together with infrequent trips to PA. Maxine lives in Utah today is in poor health but as a member of the LDS church had access to many records. Still, I know she had some errors in the lineage and names and am skeptical of some of the information where dates show as "appx."   Maxine spent some time interviewing my grandmother in the 1960’s, but I know that my grandmother could be evasive as  were many of the Polish.  Whether they were untruthful to avoid attention or sometimes could not understand the questions,  I cannot determine. I know that they feared and respected government authority and as immigrants escaping tyrants or worse in Poland, or the old country, they kept quiet about many things. Someone usually knew someone back in “the old country” though and kept in touch, frequently sending some  cash along to help out.

Frank married his first wife Frances appx. 1877. Her last name is incorrectly recorded as my maternal grandfather’s last name on the documents so I know that is wrong. She was born in Poland and died appx 1888 in PA. They had three children Joseph (born 1878 with a twin John who did not survive the birth), John (the second son to be so named born appx. 1882), and Benjamin Frank who was distinctly given the middle name (born 1883 appx.) Years ago Sharon, a cousin I had not previously known, granddaughter of Benjamin contacted me. When I asked my mother and aunt about this, they shrugged their shoulders. While they knew nothing about a grandfather they recalled their aunts and uncles and made no distinction of their being half brothers and sisters.

Frank’s second wife who was my grandmother’s mother was Frances Swartz (aka Schwartz) whom he married about 1889. Frances came from Poland, was born in 1869, died in 1902 in PA. Sometime during this marriage they dropped the “w” from Ostrowski off and on. They had five children although I recall my grandmother mentioning that some of her brothers died when very young; there is no record of others. These were Walter  (born 1889 in Detroit, MI who went by Bill and changed the family name to Austin), Mary (born 1891 in Salamanca New York), Veronica Bernice (born 1892 in PA), and Rose (my grandmother born 1894) and Adam Maryan who died at birth in 1899 or shortly thereafter. My grandmother said he was her mother’s last child and did not live. I never referred to any of her sisters or brothers as "Great" they were all aunt and uncle to me; I  called them the Polish word for aunt, “czotczhe”.

Helen Sajikowski aka Sekoski, Frank's 3rd
and last wife

Frank married his third wife, Helen Sajowksi (aka Sekoski) in 1905. Their only child was Frances born in 1906 and was always known as the baby sister. Helen is seated next to Frank in the Ostrowski Ohio gathering, the photo I shared last week.  Helen would survive Frank who died April 19, 1915 making him either 60 or 62 depending on which birth year is correct.  My grandmother was fond of her step mother Helen and spoke well of her.   Whether Frank fathered more than nine children is unknown but each wife seemed to give birth annually. How they traveled around from Michigan, to Ohio, to New York and to Pennsylvania is a mystery; I suspect it was by rail car. They certainly did not own vehicles to drive. Tracing the different places the Ostrowski's moved from Salamanca area of New York, Michigan and Ohio before settling in Pennsylvania,  it appears Frank was following the mines in the heyday of coal mining; some how Pennsylvania must have offered him steady employment because he set roots there and his children did so as well. It was hard dirty work that the immigrants took on.  Today, his descendants are all over the eastern United States, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, and on to Michigan and Ohio into Newfoundland, Canada as well as some in California. All my years living in California I was never aware of any Ostrowski relatives there. (2013 note:  A few years ago another contacted me from southern California where she still resides.  They spell the last name Ostroskie).  When I see the Ostrowski (Ostroski) name today I wonder if that is a shirt tail relation. Writing this piece I googled and found many; one example is Frank, a "falsely accused murderer in Canada" released on bail to his daughter. 

Coalfield in Pennsylvania, father,  Frank and son , John

Finally here is the last photo I have of Frank with his son, John. I found this in a drawer after my mother died in 2004. The back has the names and says "coalfield", but no date. My grandmother told that she learned to cook as a very young girl because her father was skinny but ate like a horse and said that her daughter, my aunt, Virginia took after him. Not all Frank’s progeny were as lean as this photo where Frank is poking John’s belly! John who was born in 1882 must be at least  20 years old here which would date this to 1902. I can only imagine what was being said.  But there he is my great grandfather, Frank Ostrowski, I wish I could have known him or learned more when my grandmother was alive. 
Click here to travel across the pond to the    http://sepiasaturday.blogspot.com/2013/10/sepia-saturday-200-26-october-2013.html   Sepia website and visit other posts from shared stories.

Sepia Saturday 199 Dressing up, down for around town 1983

1983 December almost ready to roll

            
Initially I considered some Halloween costumes for this week's prompt, as the day approaches, but while rummaging I found these of a happy time, almost twenty years ago now, when we lived in Newcastle, CA and when a friend and I decided to accompany the volunteer firemen on the  truck delivering sacks of candies to the children and the Indian homes. This was before the Indians went into the casino business and mightily enhanced their incomes after which they gave candies out at Christmas. This was known for a long time as one of Pat's brainstorms.   It was December 1983 and Shirley and I determined that the day could be brighter with our presence and the firemen could have an easier time if we volunteered to help with delivering the goodies to the homes.  It would end up with a stint in the little town where the children could talk to our Santa, portrayed by Bill Weber, a local grandpa.  

This little boy wanted the bag of candy but was not fond of
Santa and almost started to howl as this was snapped

Elf Shirley decorating the fire truck with tinsel before
we  depart for the local hillside

Just because it was California did not mean it was warm and sunny, in fact December could be quite cold, damp with the foggy over cast and downright cold hanging there off the back of that firetruck moving along with us  in the open air.  Santa Bill was a senior citizen and  smarter than Shirley and this (s)elf, he sat inside with the driver and waived through the open  window; he also kept warm and toasty with frequent nips from his flask.  The driver kept reminding Bill that he had to have children in town and not to empty the flask.  Bill did not heed that and kept himself merry.  Meantime, we elves and a couple firemen could hop off and on to the doors of the homes.  Really we hung on for dear life as the truck slowly wound down some very  bumpy, gravel, dirt and twisty country roads.  

 We dressed warm, layers and layers, but after an hour or so we were frigid and thankful to be done. I thought it would be fun and it was and we made quite the impression around town for some time but we did this one year only, one experience proved sufficient.   So here to the left is myself as elf, donning the down vest over which I would wear another down  jacket, underneath were layers of long underwear, a sweater, and a shirt, long underwear  on the legs and ski pants with some wonderful striped socks that I felt were just another whimsy. I had borrowed clothing form many people, especially the larger jacket I needed.  It had to be red or else the elfin affect would be diluted.  

 I tell you it was difficult to move, I waddled and I feared rolling down a hillside and not being able to stop with all this padding.  I suppose this was my equivalent of a fat suit.  Today I could have had a much more streamlined attire along with those packets of hand and toe warmers.  Well today this is a memory of younger times and not something I would consider.   I even made a top hat of sorts with ribbons and papers which did not fare well on the back of the truck, despite being attached  with numerous bobby pins and tied under my chin.  

Do I look puzzled or was I just frozen?

Don't ask me why but I thought I  would be more colorful if I had a red polka dot face, using lipstick.  I see looking back it might have more resembled some mysterious skin affliction. This was my first time elfing and it was fun to act out around the kiddies.  It was more fun after it was over and I could peel off all the layers and have a nip with Santa. Bill and Shirley are both gone now from this planet, leaving the elf to tell the tale.  

 Thankfully we prevailed.   These photos are fading somewhat as happens with those color ones from the  1980's.   So there you have it my dressing up as an elf, for some hours in time, back then.  

To see how others have dressed up their blogs with this Sepia  prompt, click here or above on the prompt photo to the international Sepia site.  
http://sepiasaturday.blogspot.com/2013/10/sepia-saturday-199-19-october-2013.html

Doing what it takes to triump in the battles of the bulges

Autumn colors different around  town.
Partial color changes, early leaf drop, 

I've  had a fairly healthy lifestyle over the years and yet it is not enough, so to step it up, I  enrolled at the YMCA sponsored diabetes prevention program at the advice of my doctor who commented that the past two years my fasting blood glucose levels had risen.  While not yet to a stage considered medically "pre-diabetic" he advised, "don't let this get away and take your good health."  I have some family history of diabetes so I do not want to go there and will avoid it with all my power. Well, I also avoid the scale like the plague but was aware of carting along some excess poundage  because my clothes did not fit as well.  My annual doctor's check up (or any medical visit) involves encountering my enemy, the scale;  I could go in with a broken arm and I would be weighed first.  The pain of reality is diminished slightly  though because the pounds are no longer visible instead a metric version is displayed these days which gives me a content moment, being blissfully unaware of my weight in metrics. That lasts until the nurse translates it to  pounds for me or leaves the chart and I see the conversion.  I am a "nosey" inquisitive person so I always look or ask her.   Well my annual check up this July followed our month long trip in the motor home to New York and Pennsylvania which involved good times, good food, good drinks, good friends. 

Mid morning "snack" of immense cinnamon rolls
at Braeburn Lodge, Alaska

There in is the culprit, the food, always. Why does so much of social life revolve around food, meals, snacks, treats.  Food is all over everywhere.  It is no wonder we have an obesity problem.  Most of us eat way too much. Our trip to Alaska involved more food than I could consume in any given  setting and less physical exercise daily than that which I routinely do, so those pounds joined my body.  But not to fear back home, again it is boot camp, baby, I cannot allow that poundage to become overly attached to me.  BTW, the other half  of this household seldom battles weight and is one of those fortunate people who can eat whatever.  Even he, did some cut back to trim back after the trip because he is very conscious about weight gain and will not go there. 

While I battle poundage, the  last maybe 20years especially, and acknowledge my metabolism is not what it used to be when I could eat half a bucket of KFC chicken and not gain an ounce. 

This is week 5 of the 16 week program; my doctor will retest my fasting blood  glucose in  December when I expect a clean slate, "ya done good girl".  This program developed by the American Diabetes Association after significant research and clinical trials is administered by local YMCA's country wide.  Like anything, results require commitment  Changing habits takes time.This multi faceted approach (food target and physical activity) involves a weekly meeting, a program lecture and participation, recording  every bite and morsel into our food journal  along with  amount of daily exercise, daily weight, any issues or concerns.  We turn these journals in at each meeting to our group leader who returns them the next week with helpful comments.  She has advised me to eat more and use those 33 grams of fat each day to avoid yo yo bounce dieting.  Yeah!  Eat more, slow down the loss which they set at only 15 pounds for me, but I set at 20. We have these dandy graphs to track our weekly weights, officially what her scale shows and yes, we weigh in every week. I still have not made friends with the scale. 

Because we meet at 6:00PM which  would be  right at  or before our dinner time.  I learned after weighing in the first time to not eat my dinner until after class.  There in is another mystery--how can I gain 3  pounds when I don't eat three pounds of food at a meal?  Yet, there's that dreaded scale lying in wait to annoy me.  There are about 20 other participants in the program with all their varying tales and excuses.    

 The sessions are interesting and I am reeducating myself in a lot of healthy food lifestyle choices.  We count total fat grams for which my daily allowance is 33 very easy to reach when eating cheeses (one of my favorite foods) and other non-essential things. My daily lunch or  midday snack was always apple, cheese and  maybe some crackers.  Now it might be a sandwich, apple, yogurt and only an ounce of cheese, that's a 1 inch cube.  I could eat 10 of those no problem.  So it is a process of learning or relearning.  I have indeed become a "fat detective" and carefully consider whether an indulgence is too costly a price to pay, in fat grams. So far I have dropped 12 pounds and the program has me stepped up to increasing my walking to many miles a day instead of just one or two, interspersing some jogging on the track, and finally  adding water aerobics, lap swimming and Zumba classes and toning at the Y where we have a free membership with this program.  Our weather has cooled down a lot so it is good to have the option of indoor classes at the Y.  

Wooly caterpillars abound; legend predicts winter by the
middle red, the head represents remaining time of autumn
and the tail the length of spring. 

So it goes with a step up in physically challenging activities and carefully paying attention to foods.  I doubt I will ever befriend that scale, but keeping healthy is my goal, healthy aging.  I love it when folks think I am much much younger than my 68 years. A healthier lifestyle, that's the choice here.  Doing what it takes.  This endeavor is requiring that we delay snow birding south until January; ironic in that now that we have no responsibilities of caring for elderlies, this old gal gets tied up in  a delay.  Such is life in retirement.    

Not gone but busy

I continue in a catch up mode on blog land and cannot shake that rut, not for lack of writing material or observations, but for lethargy or the "later on"  when I get  around to it" goblins. It is October and the goblins must be emerging.    This week I  went to our local City Hall to renew my MN driver's license while out and about and dressed less than the casual helter skelter way I usually walk around town.  Today for this photo shoot  I even had applied a semblance of make up, and had combed my hair in the style for which it is cut, not the  free windblown model.  This was to be an easy process involving paying  $23 and getting my photo taken.  But here in this small town, there is one person who staff's the local motor vehicles  and when she, Janie goes to lunch, the office closes.  Well, I know that, so I  did not go there until after I had run other errands across the river, putting me at the door at 1:30PM.  Wrong again, Janie is at lunch between 1:00 and 2:00PM, just as has been for years, but who would guess that time.  Choosing not to drive home, only a mile+ away because I knew that I would become distracted and not return, I  went up to the library and chatted with my friend the local librarian who has been besieged of late by the gang of clowns that serve as councilpersons to this rag tag city government.  Small town politics is as annoying to me as the circus in our nation's capitol, and perhaps more so because the good old boys reign supreme in these parts of Mayberry, the clowns really do run the circus and the locals seem to thrive on electing one idiot after another.  Of course I cannot say much because I have absolutely declined to run, I cannot see myself in prison orange at this age and I know that if I had to see the jokers in action at meeting after meeting murder would be my agenda.  So it is we have a ship of fools.  

 It could be oh so much worse.  I could be in California where a trip to the Motor Vehicles on a good day would involve an appointment,  if one could be had, plus a very complicated long time amidst crowds, herded from window and clerk to clerk.  So I accept the reality  and settle in for a 30 minute wait for the lone person to return from lunch.  Not all that bad, except that I heard the "city" had hired another part time worker and wondered why that person could not be available to keep the office open.  There are many things most logical sane people wonder about government at all levels but sooner or later we merely mumble and grumble and get over it. 

Which now brings me to the 2:00PM time for the office to open, but I have visited too long and now I am in line behind another man ahead of me and true to the character of the area, he is in no hurry.  In fact, this might be the high lite of his social interaction so he and Janie visit incessantly while I stew.  Whether she knows him, likely so because she has worked there forever and knows all the locals, doesn't matter, they discuss the weather, his health, his shirt, and the chicken soup his mother used to make.  This man is in his 80's if he's a day and is there for the same thing as me, a process that could take five minutes  really stretching it, but oh no.  Not now. I suppose she has to entertain herself "chewing the fat" or have to do other work, whatever it might be.  I am doomed to wait and wait, another  twenty five minutes+ while they go thru trivial pursuit. Why did I not bring my smart phone or tablet then I could have checked my email.   Finally he is ready to go, and turns while she motions me through the doorway, with a brusque, "fill out this, this and this, 1-6 and don't sign it yet, write a check for $23.25 and I will take your photo."  Suddenly she becomes efficient, maybe it is nearing break time,  and while I am filling out the brief form she  quickly helps and dismisses another young guy.  But then, here we go again, it is another local  older man, with a question and a need for social interaction and conversation.  Trouble is I am standing at the counter putting the answers on the form into those little boxes, trying to somewhat concentrate and Janie and he are talking right along side me.  I have long been against racket, interference and people having side conversations into my ear, particularly when those conversations are not pertinent to me.  As I look up and sigh loudly, I ask an inane question about the form  which directs her attention back to me and he decides to leave, whatever he wanted over with.  Perhaps oneday I will be  older and bored too, but I hope if that happens I will be content to amuse myself or read, or blog, or browse the internet.  

So after my photo shoot and her collecting my check, one of the few checks I will write this year, but it is small town MN no accepting ATM's, check or cash only, I am done.  About 1 hour and 20 minutes after admittance to the gallery counter I can return to the car and home.  All in all, that's life in Mayberry where things could be worse, all the children are above average and annoyances are minor.  I think about Chicken Alaska where we stopped this August on our way to Fairbanks.  Chicken is really the wide spot in the Top of the World road,  140 miles from the Arctic, the population is three and there is only a line when the tour bus arrives. 

Garage shop at Chicken

Cafe stop at Chicken

If these walls could talk.....

Spirit house at a Tsuchone Center in
Alaska

  Certain American Indian tribes practiced animism, the belief  that natural physical entities—including animals, plants, and even inanimate objects or phenomena—possess a spiritual essence.  Remember the song from Disney's film,  Pochahantas, "Paint with all the Colors of the Wind" and the lyrics...if not here is a link to one  you tube rendition  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diQgSDWJL7o
 In particular, there is a verse:  
You think you own whatever land you land on
The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know every rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name
The photo we took in August of the Alaskan Tsuchone Indian spirit house to the left is one way that they honored that belief, by putting an array of items and belongings that the person enjoyed and cherished while alive into  the house, built  above ground so that the spirit of the deceased would be pleased and happy in the hereafter.

While animism is deemed primitive, I  say there are shades of  that mystique alive and around us today.  When my late Uncle Carl died, and I was selecting his casket and arranging the burial, I asked  the undertaker to  place some memorabilia into the casket, his old sling shot that  Carl used from his porch to chase squirrels from the bird feeders, a cap for his WWII Army Unit, a pin from the VFW and firemen' s insignia.  For my aunt it was a dust rag, no kidding because she was so very tidy and neat and clean as well as an old bracelet I ha given her as a child.  I suppose it  made me feel better, but I like to think their spirits appreciated the items.  

 Recently a friend in PA shared that  one day she was graced with a very unexpected visitor, a stranger driving by slowed down, turned and came back by the house.  When she stopped my friend, Pat, who was outside asked if she was lost and needed directions.  No, but the woman was in PA visiting  from MN where she too lives; she had grown up in Pat's house, the house Pat has owned for 40 years.  Pat asked if she would like to come in and see the house and the woman accepted, thrilled.  They had a wonderful visit that blessed them both and wove them together.  The woman had not been there in over 40 years and shared some tales about growing up in the home.  She may not return to that area again, but she left with great memories.  

This story and Pat's gracious generosity demonstrate how outreaching to someone casually can bring joy. (Entertaining strangers unawares who turn out to be angels in disguise.)  I  so related to that woman, because I have been there. I was fortunate when selling Uncle Carl's home in PA that relatives of a longtime school friend bought it, are doing lovely work landscaping and did the few cosmetic fix ups inside that were needed.  She  sent me photos last year and said,  "stop by" so gracious and really pleased me.  

My old PA home, hedges gone from along
 the side and back got this off Google.
Can't locate the ones I took of the house. 

On the other hand,  I doubt I will ever again see the inside of what was home, Mom' s house in PA even though I am back  there every year.  Sometimes I have driven by just to see it from the street.  I never see anyone there at  the home where I grew up in PA, lamentable because a nephew owns it and lives there with his wife whom I never met.  He is into his own world, I never hear "boo" from them.  So I think, "if the walls of the house could talk, what tales they could tell."  I suppose his father, my estranged (I say ex-brother) can relate some to him, but he cannot tell them about the backboards in the closet off what was my bedroom and the words that I carved there and why, nor about my crawling out my bedroom window onto the porch over the roof (window over the back porch was to my bedroom)  to toss crab apples at the neighbor hood boys, nor about what was once the coal cellar and many other tales.  They will never know because those walls cannot talk, but some how I believe those walls  have retained  some of our spirits from all that they saw over the years. 

Wistful yet perhaps sometimes it is  better not to look back but to keep memories of what was.  That's what I learned in CA when we were back there visiting and the man who bought our former ranch invited us to come by.  In that case, I would have been better off not to accept  his invitation, my  former gorgeous rose garden was filled with weeds and odd shrubs, the landscaping looked like a Sanford and Son junkyard.  No, that sight was not one I needed to see.  

The original owners who built our now home are elderly  but live in this town and have been here to see what changes we made.  They were thrilled that we love the house as much as they did.  I remember LaVerne said, "part of me lives in those floors and walls.."  Yes it is so. And we enjoy their  stopping by which  is infrequent because he is quite ill. We are blessed by all the stories  they can share about living here and the efforts they put into this home. They in turn are pleased that we have it; he remembers my husband when Jerry was a  little boy growing up here.  

In PA my old home from the street does not look the same, he painted what was white always a murky dark foreboding grey.  Planted a tree in the front yard; Mom's spirit must fuss because she was always sweeping away leaves that blew up the alley and stopped at the side door.  

Yes, if walls could talk, the stories they could share.

Much ado about too much



Trinkets, tidbits, treasures await

I confess that I am a tinkering techie,and have indulged myself with latest smart phone, tablet, laptop, pc, and all sorts of  software and email, Gmail, Facebook and blog.. .I have avoided Linked in and Twitter although the latter appeals  in its brevity, .but after spending hours tinkering and organizing and loading and downloading the Alaskan adventure photos I  shrug my shoulders and throw up my hands and pine for the old days.  I am convinced that the pre-digital camera times were easier.   

Remember we  took film out of the camera,  left it at the photo shop or local drugstore to be developed and a week or so later had the results of those vacation photos.   Maybe the photos did not come out as expected and we certainly did not have real time option to share with  the interested and the lurking folks on Facebook.  Maybe we could not preview and redo on the spot.  We certainly could not edit in real time, bookmark, date stamp, etc, etc.  But  I remember when it was easy to  return home from vacations, have film developed, look it over, slap it into a family album or order extra copies of photos to send back to family who would enjoy them too and that was that....not so today..

Array of pamphlets to peruse, readings, and scrapbook materials

Now, it is assemble to download from phone, tablet, digital camera and even the nice DVD made enroute courtesy of  Hall's Alaska.   Trouble is that DVD of photos taken along the way is in a read only file so to work with it, those photos too must be downloaded.  I vowed I would not take too many photos this Alaskan adventure...but often I would be overcome with peer pressure and while the rest of the folks snapped every inch along the way, I resisted a lot.  But  still I would succumb to the moment and now have  over 400 photos finally downloaded to the Alaskan folder on the main PC from all the sources and have edited and labeled perhaps 150 of those. .   I was also  disappointed once  back home to discover that notes I kept as a trip log on my tablet could not be printed..I need a Samsung printer..not going to buy for that so another project to type. This is all a very time consuming process and being a fidgety person who has so much else happening and beckoning to me unlike a recluse who can do only what appeals to him/her, one or two hours at a time is my limit to set at the PC console, fingers on key board and mouse in hand, photo shop ready to edit, rename, brighten, crop, adjust in myriad ways. 

This is what sits at the computer, scan, download, get it together.

I ask my self, "Why are you fussing and causing frustration to yourself?  After all who cares?  Get to it when you want to."  There is the rest of the story, if I do not complete this soon I will have lost interest completely and moved on to our next trip planning or whatever is grasping my attention at the moment.  It is the double edged sword of our  leisurely life of retirement, I can be moving along at my own pace, don't worry, be happy, and  tomorrow is another day. And of course there is the diversion of research about a certain photo, more information to read about and best of all  36 new friends from the tour to keep updated and contacted, some are bound to the use of only email making it more difficult to communicate.  Some of us may reunite this winter.  Some may reunite using the  free cruise voucher.  But now away from those early morning risings, long hours on the motor coach and late arrivals  to destinations only to repeat it again the next day, we  have bonded with several nice people.  The joy of travel is the friends we make along the way.   Some phone calls here and there and touching base to stay on the same page as we await our refunds an vouchers for the cruise.  Some are far more concerned about that than we are...I expect it will take at least until November and as I have said over an over I am thankful we were with John Hall's tour  who took excellent care expeditiously to get us back home. Ah travel, the place where anything that can happen will, an event where Murphy will have his way and the only way to deal with it is to roll along and ride the waves.  Kind of my attitude with working through the scans and downloads....to scrapbook or to photo book ala Shutterfly, that is the next question.  



Some of our group lingered lakeside where our guide waded into the beautiful Kluhane shore,
largest lake in the Yukon, the Ruby Mts are to the right, part of the
 Wrangells St Elias range.  I snapped this back on the bus, through the window...
ahh wish we were there. That is the the sign of a good time, reverie

So, blogger pals, I have not abandoned the blog, I am otherwise entertaining myself...here in the banana belt of MN, where it is all far too warm for September.  And as our heat wave in 80,s and even 90 degrees rolls by, we ask where is our MN weather. Sadly we are also in  a drought, bad enough for us watering flowers, gardens and lawns, but the farmers are desperate.  Trying our rain dances, they've got to work soon.   

Alaska adventure Lake Labarge and the Cremation of Sam McGee

Lake Labarge

Our Alaskan adventure was cut short when Celebrity Cruise lines had repeated problems with propulsion systems on their Millennium ship which has been transported to dry dock in the Bahmas for through repairs, stranding passengers on board and canceling all cruises on it for the rest of the season.   We  heard the news of the first  problems as our land  tour began. We learned later into our second week that the problems continued and there were about 2000 passengers in Ketchikan awaiting transport to Anchorage and Seattle to  return to their homes.  Consequently our 3 weeks were reduced to 2, our tour company, John Hall's Alaska handled everything perfectly, we will receive full refunds for the cruise and vouchers for a free one to be used anytime the next year. Anyone who has traveled extensively for business or pleasure knows that "stuff" happens.  We traveled 2700 miles by John Hall's coach all over and into the interior of Alaska and the Yukon.  Now we are home again in MN where it is just too doggone warm as the heat that plagued Anchorage Alaska  days before we flew there has moved eastward.  Tomorrow it begins to leave here and that is a good thing.  

I vowed not to take  too many photos because once home what to do with them, download to the computer while my attention span hangs in, but armed with my smart phone, tablet and digital camera there were many shots taken.  Now I am quite busy downloading, sorting, cropping, deleting. I have been absent from this blog for so long that I hope I have not lost my readers.  I am sharing just one brief moment from our journey.  

Alaska and  the Yukon are distinct areas, the Yukon is in Canada so we crossed back and forth into and out of customs along the journey.  Many people confuse them or think the Yukon is part of Alaska, it is not. Many are not aware of the distinction between the  Alaskan ports and their access over the mountains  to the Klondike gold strike of 1898, but it's knowledge I have embedded now. Today  I know more about the history  of the north lands than before even though I read Michener's "Alaska" and did extensive research for months prior to departure.  There is absolutely no way to prepare for the  sights, vastness and sheer awesomeness of that wilderness.  We have traveled all over this country, seen many wonderful sights, natural beauties in the past 40 years but still nothing compares. We have been all over Alberta and British Columbia and seen majestic mountains there still, grandeur in the Sierras, the Rockies, Glacier Park, Yosemite, Grand Tetons do not compare, to Alaska and the Yukon from the inside deep inside.  It is not visible from cruise ships, one must journey in land, far inland.  . 

 I don't know that I would repeat this trip of very early mornings and very long days in the coach,  nor that I would have chosen this had I really known the extent of the trip ahead of time, but I am glad we went.  Jerry knew,  but I live in my own world and despite looking at maps  did not get it through  my head that we would have many  hundreds of miles daily to cover, miles on muddy or dusty narrow dirt roads, very narrow switchbacks that left me in awe of our guide and driver, Caryn, a most capable young woman who is a converted Alaskan. Some in our small tour group of 38 had been to the Swiss Alps, to Austria, to Germany and all agreed Alaska tops that.  The scenery almost becomes redundant, vast miles and miles of trees, mountains, glaciers and lakes. In MN we are the Land of 10,000 lakes, Alaska has more than 100,000. Take your breath away moments abound.  Big city people and those who want  modern comforts might not enjoy it, many times we had neither cell phone nor internet reception, out into the wilds, but who cared? And yes,  I am a ciy girl, not known for roughing it anymore by choice these days.  Still on this nature offered the daily mighty,  the spectacular and the lack of people to contaminate the sights make it heaven in Alaska.  Our trip was not for the feeble or the slow.  The days could start at 5 or 6 o'clock and  continue until 7 or 8 at night.  Yes there were stops along the way, bu the pace was very tiring.  The following shows one day's journey in the Yukon from Whitehorse to Dawson and the wonderful experience of Lake Labarge. 

Lake Lebarge, 30 miles from Whitehorse, on some paved  road and some not is noted for it's strong and sudden storms lasting anywhere from several hours to all day. Because of the possibility of a sudden change in the weather and the size of the lake, 30 miles long and 2 to 3 miles wide, those who may choose to canoe or camp there must carefully set up.  How many people do you know who have stood on the shore of Lake Labarge and heard the "Cremation of Sam McGee" recited aloud.  We did.  It has been a long long long time since I heard that poem. But our guide, Caryn,  planned a stop for us along a campsite at Labarge.  We arrived about  9:00 AM and  unloaded as a camper was leaving.  The expression on his face at a busload of folks, descending  in front of him to the lake was priceless and even more so when he heard we were to hear a poem.  It is a sportsman's haven, fishing, canoeing, etc not  known for poetry reading and  certainly not the place where  a bus appears.  Dorothy from our group volunteered to read it aloud and what a job she did, she is a retired 9th grade English teacher from upper northernmost, Minnesota   When I told her it had been maybe junior high since I'd heard it, she acknowledged, "Yes, I taught that in 9th grade English." 

It is but one poem by Robert Service, the bard of the north.  I found this online:" Service, a Canadian poet and novelist, was known for his ballads of the Yukon. He wrote this narrative poem which is an outstanding example of how sensory stimuli are emphasized and it has a surprise ending.  Robert William Service was born in Preston, England, on January 16, 1874. He emigrated to Canada at the age of twenty, in 1894, and settled for a short time on Vancouver Island. He was employed by the Canadian Bank of Commerce in Victoria, B.C., and was later transferred to Whitehorse and then to Dawson in the Yukon.  In all, he spent eight years in the Yukon and saw and experienced the difficult times of the miners, trappers, and hunters that he has presented to us in verse."  

Perhaps the opening lines are familiar to you, as they were to me, but here it is in it's fullness; making this one long blog post.  : 

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.” 

  

Lake LaBarge, courtesy of internet search