Challenge - Day 2: "Something You Adore"

Day two of my writing challenge and I am already cheating. Well, maybe not cheating, but at least interpreting the challenge to my advantage. But since I made up the challenge, I decided I get to determine the rules. My guess is that they will change as I go along, a little like Calvin Ball in the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip.

"Something You Adore" defines that it should be a thing and not a person. At first I let my head run with that for a while. What do I adore? A few things popped in for a brief visit but didn't stay long. I thought, "If I don't even want to think about these things in detail, why would anyone want to read about them?" The meaning of "adore" carries with it a higher, almost reverent tone. "O come, let us adore him," is a little more serious than my feelings about favorite foods or Masterpiece Theatre. 

During all these ramblings my mind kept coming back to one object, something I did adore, but here's my dilemma. The thing I adore is a studio photograph of My Girl, about whom I have written here and here again. Plus, this is supposed to be a writing challenge and not a photo one. But then I got decisive. This photo is a thing and when you see it, you will know why I adore it. My Girl's mom gave it to me for Christmas and it is one of the most beautiful, creative portraits I have ever seen. I adore both the photo and the subject. Don't you?

Challenge - Day 1: "Breakfast"

I'm starting a early on the February writing challenge described in my last post. Today's topic is "Breakfast."

I love breakfast food even though I don't always eat it at breakfast time. A weekday breakfast for me is typically Sugar Free Instant Breakfast mix (chocolate) with an extra scoop of protein powder or  Fage 0% Greek Yogurt split cup with cherries. But on weekends and sometimes even for dinner, I cook wonderful breakfast food. 

Eggs are my staple and I cook them many ways, but none pleases me better than a perfectly scrambled egg. I am very precise about the cooking method, not too soft, not too hard. Just call me the Goldilocks of scrambled eggs. A perfect weekend breakfast is eggs, bacon or sausage patties, fresh berries and oven-style (not toaster) whole wheat toast. I learned to love oven-style toast from my Grandmother. She didn't have an electric toaster for many years so she made white bread toast in the oven. Each slice had four dots of butter because the butter was in the refrigerator and too cold to spread. The oven would toast the bread all around the butter to a nice brown, but, if cooked just right, those little dots had a hint of crustiness but remained golden yellow and soft underneath. Our weekend breakfasts are wonderful but here's my guilty breakfast passion, one that I only let myself have once or twice a year - French Toast. I love, love, love French toast. 

The starting bread is important, preferably Challah or brioche, 1/2 inch slices that have been left on the counter overnight to get a little stale. Dip them in a mixture of eggs, half-and-half and warm honey and then fry in a little butter. This frying part is critical; it can't get too brown around the edges before the middle of the slice is done. "Done" means browned patches mixed with lighter spots that are crusty but still golden yellow, kind of like my Grandma's oven toast. The edges are uniformly brown with a few little strands of lacy egg mixture hanging off here and there. Cook both sides of the bread and then put the slice in a hot oven for about five minutes. This really sets the outer crispiness and leaves the inside soft and custard-like. Top with a little maple syrup but no powdered sugar. OK, a little cinnamon if you must. I serve it with bacon to get that heavenly salty/sweet combination going and also to insert some protein into this carb-laden feast.  I think if I were going to be executed, this would be my last meal.



 

Now I'm hungry. By the way, here's a link to the French Toast recipe I use, courtesy of Alton Brown. Let's hope Day 2's topic doesn't concern food or I may gain more than writing experience this month. Thanks for stopping by today; I'll talk to you tomorrow.
 

My Challenge

This month two of the blogs I follow, one written by a very dear friend of mine, have been participating in a Photo-a-Day challenge. I have really looked forward to seeing their photos and commentary each day and will be sad to see January and the challenge end. In case you are interested, here is the link to my friend's blog.

As some of you know, I've been absent from this blog for quite a while and have been struggling with getting inspired to write more regularly. That's the best and only way to really hone your craft. So why not issue myself a writing challenge using the topics of the photo challenge? I think it will be a good method for me because, not only will it jump start my writing with a topic each day, but I don't plan on using a photo with the post. I hope to rely on words to create a scene or story for you in place of a photo. Maybe I will include a photo at the end of some of the posts so you can tell me how well I did. Will you do me a favor and give me that feedback?

The January photo challenge had thirty-one days, but since February only has twenty-eight, I'm going to knock off three of the topics they used. Days one and thirty-one were "You" and "You, again." Since I write about me all the time, those are going away. I'll determine the third one as I go along, probably dumping it on the fly if I get stuck. 

So thanks for stopping by today. I'll start the challenge February 1, maybe earlier. Just writing this blog has gotten me enthused about it so I may start tomorrow. Check back, OK?

Back in the Saddle . . . Maybe

Here I am, back, out of the blue. I've thought about doing it for weeks but got bogged down with wondering how I would explain why I haven't been posting, so I finally decided that I just wouldn't. Explain, that is. You'll just have to use your imaginations. I will say that nothing bad happened; I may have just needed a break.

Now the big question, what to write about. A lot has happened in the past few months, not just to me but to our nation. At some point I am going to write about how we are letting paranoia affect our lives, but right now, I'm going to write about something that recently happened to me. 

On a Sunday evening, about two weeks ago, our phone rang. Neither Scott or I recognized the caller ID, so we let it go to the answering machine. When the caller started talking, identifying herself, at first I was stunned. I mean, literally, mouth open, frozen in my tracks, stunned. I was holding my breath. Then my brain started to scream, "Answer the phone before she hangs up," and I did. The voice was one I had not heard in about 38 years -- my best friend from high school. She wasn't certain she had the right person; I'm babbling on the other end, "It's me, it's me." And then we laughed, and, when we laughed, I heard her. Gone were years of aging, hard times, disappointments and living with the consequences of the abuses and neglect we inflicted on ourselves. We were here in the photo, 1974-75, senior year as the Editor and Assistant Editor of the Gander Gazette, our high school newspaper. That's me, third from the right, and her, on my right, me wearing a trench coat and her a  hat, both chomping on cigars. This was our staff parody of hard-bitten newspaper men and women, although that guy on the far left looks more like a pimp. From what I remember, he acted more like a pimp (that coat was velvet,) but I digress.

 
That's our teacher on the far right end. It turns out that she was the reason my friend started looking for me. The teacher, Linda, had run into my friend's brother and asked about her. He gave Linda her contact information and she called. It turns out that she (Linda) left teaching and went to work for the State Department and has been with them for 30 years, living and working all over the world. During their conversation Linda asked about me and my friend told her we had lost touch right out of school. (Am I the only person who feels weird calling their teacher by her first name? I am trying to be adult about this.) That started my friend thinking and she went on a search for me, resulting in the phone call.

Now the reason I was so stunned by the call is that ever since I learned about Google, et al, I have repeatedly searched for her. I've kept up with one or two of my high school friends, but they had no news of her either, other than they thought she worked for Exxon after college. So when I heard that it was her on the phone, my old sentimental heart was bursting. I wanted to cry, but instead, I laughed. We both did. We laughed and talked, just like the years since we last did had not passed.

We talked about everything -- the obligatory "this is what has happened to me since I last saw you," politics, dogs, sex, the "old days" -- everything. We talked and laughed for over three hours, until our voices started giving out. Then we emailed and talked again this week. I'm planning to visit her in the next month or two so that we can reconnect even stronger. We hope to include the guy whose head is between the two of us in the photo. He was along for many of our adventures and was as excited as I was to hear that I had talked to her. 

I've thought about her every day since her first call. My internal soundtrack is running songs and movies from the 70's. She was a fabulous musician and her instrument was the flute. She was first chair, not only in our band, but in State competition. I can close my eyes and see her on stage. Scenes of other things we did keep flashing into memory. Our town opened its first Chinese restaurant while we were in school. I had never been to one before, but she had. We tried it out and she ordered egg rolls and because I didn't know anything on the menu, so did I.  In the years since then, every time I have eaten an egg roll, I have thought of her. We laughed about that, too. Turns out we both think Asian is our favorite ethnic food.

This whole experience has been so large for me that I had to just sit and think about it for a week or so before I could even begin to write about it. I had to wrap my head around narrowing it down to one blog; one that didn't sound like the ramblings of someone with dementia. I'm trying to keep my expectations about our future friendship in control, but it's hard. My head tells me, "Many years have passed. You are different people. Don't expect too much or you may be disappointed." But my heart knows that we were "friends of the bosom" in those days and I don't think that much has changed. 

I'll keep you posted on our progress and will also try to stay on the writing horse with other subjects. Either way, thanks for stopping by again.  

No Brag, Just Fact

My nephew is brilliant. He is two years old, won't be three until the end of September, and is already computer literate. I recently spent several days visiting my brother and his family and came away amazed by this child. 

Let me say that he has the benefit of an older brother and sister (12 and 15) who spend a lot of time with him. They are both very tolerant and attentive, which is wonderful to see. Big sister, Katie, has an iPod touch, on which she has loaded numerous apps for "the Baby," which is what everyone, including himself, calls him. His real name is Andrew. Whenever Andy is bored or needs entertaining, he says, "Tatie's pod?" and immediately starts to play. He knows which apps are his, knows how to open and play the games, knows how to change his avatar if necessary. 

Staying occupied at Cracker Barrel

While I was visiting, he discovered my iPad and was instantly intrigued. "Net Net's pod?" he asked. I cautiously handed it to him.

Andy and brother discover Net Net's pod.

Lest you think we had to tutor him, let me correct that notion. He knew exactly which apps were games or kid stuff and went right to them. He played the games by himself, loudly refusing any assistance. A few times he mixed up the "play" and "menu" buttons, but quickly learned the difference. One time he opened a spreadsheet function by mistake, but knew he wanted out of that one. 

He grinned up at me and said, "Baby likes Net Net's pod." One afternoon he found me, sitting on my bed, checking my email. He stayed at the door and just stuck his head in. "Hi Net Net." "Hi Baby, what are you doing?" I replied. "Net Net's pod?" he asked with a grin. Who could resist that face?

He's a genius. No brag, just fact. Just had to share. 

Thanks for stopping by.

In Flanders Field

A little over a year ago I spent some time in Germany, visiting my niece who is stationed there with her husband. I wrote about some of our sightseeing at the time, but held back from writing about our visit to the Flanders Field portion of Belgium until I had more time to digest the devastation of World War I. I've been thinking about that visit a lot lately and am ready to share some of my impressions and photos. It was a very moving day for me. 

Prior to this trip I really didn't know much about World War I other than the basics. In this country we get much more teaching and television time about World War II, so the history I learned in Belgium was eye-opening for me. WWI, The Great War, The War to End All Wars, came at a time when the world was shifting from 19th century views of imperialism and power to a modern 20th century of industrialization and democracy. The war combined the worst of both. Many of the generals were old-world leaders who viewed soldiers as expendable commodities, sending millions of them to die, ill-equipped in the face of new-world weapons and tactics. I have learned since my return that many of the acts committed during this war would, under today's standards, be considered war crimes.


Flanders Field is a crescent-shaped area of 25 square miles between the cities of Paschendale and Ypres in Belgium. It is a low-lying coastal plain along the North Sea, with a major port at Nieuport. This area was held by the British, French and Belgian forces; Germany occupied the remaining 90% of Belgium. To slow the German progress across their country, the Belgians destroyed the system of dikes, flooding the land and making the mud one of the major obstacles in the war. Because the land is flat, even ridges of 10-12 feet elevation were significant and intense battles were fought to defend them. The British/French/Belgian forces had to hold this land because it was their only port to supply the troops from England. Today it looks much like this.

But in 1917 it was a very different story. Imagine no green, no structure standing anywhere and nothing but a sea of mud and standing water. These next photos show specific spots today and in photos of how they looked in 1917.

Memorial atop Tiger Mound

Tiger Mound during 1917

View of countryside then (front) and now.

Gas was first used in this war by the French, rather unsuccessfully, then taken up, improved and used by the Germans. All the countries involved used gas. In fact, the British used ten times more than the Germans because they had the prevailing coastal winds at their backs. The winds often hindered the Germans because they would blow the gas back on their own troops (who at least had gas masks.) It took a while for the British to develop the gas mask technology to protect their troops. 


"Iron Harvest" is the term for recovery of unexploded shells (regular and chemical) that continues today. Billions of shells were fired during WWI and fully 1/3 of them did not explode. Each year Belgians encounter hundreds of shells as they plow fields or otherwise disturb the soil. They are supposed to leave the shell where it is and call the police, who then call the Army unit charged with disposal. This may take months, so usually the farmer puts the shell by the side of the road and goes on with his work. The Army or collectors will eventually pick up the shells. Here is a photo of some the shells found by a local farmer.

Last year over 700 shells were "officially" found. Belgians estimate that at the rate the diffuser group works today, it will take another 90 years to diffuse the shells that have been found so far. One village, Poilaplie, used spent shell cases to melt down and forge the bells of their village church. It took over 16,000 pounds of metal casings. Belgium spends millions of dollars each year on WWI shell recovery and disposal.


By 1915 there were no structures left for shelter, command centers, etc. in Flanders. In was all mud and destruction. Thus was born the system of underground tunnels throughout this area. A few sections have been preserved just outside Ypres, but most are filled with water and underlie everything in Flanders. It is not unusual for structures to partially shift or collapse because their foundations are compromised by the tunnels. Here are some photos of the restored trenches near Ypres now and during the war.

Over 65 million men were deployed (on all sides) during WWI. The British and their Commonwealth nations lost a generation of men. Over 250,000 of them are buried in Flanders, in 174 cemeteries and mass graves. Ten million (on all sides) were killed in this war and they estimate that only one third of the bodies in Flanders were identified. All the memorial cemeteries here include headstones identifying the man's nationality and regiment, with no name, only "Known to God." During this war they did not send bodies back home for burial, hence the many cemeteries. Here are some photos from Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest of the Commonwealth cemeteries. It includes the names of 35,000 "missing" carved on the walls. The soil in Belgium is topsoil with underlying clay. Soldiers reported that men would be wounded, fall face forward and disappear into the mud. Skeletal remains are still found frequently and the remains are buried with ceremony. Representatives of all the involved countries attend these funerals. 

The city of Ypres was an 11th century walled fortress that was completely reduced to rubble in the war. Their buildings were historically restored from architectural drawings afterward. The appearance today is of a medieval city, but no buildings are more than 80 years old.

Ypres as seen through the WWI memorial.

Ypres appears medieval, but is totally rebuilt.

Dr. John McCrae was a British surgeon stationed in Flanders in 1915. His first aid station was Essex Farm, just behind the front lines. Part of the aid station, adjacent to a cemetery, has been preserved for visitors.

John McCrae wrote what is, arguably, the most famous poem about WWI, "In Flanders Fields," written at this aid station. With a little literary license, that poem is presented here, more in a prose style than in the typical poetry line and stanza form. I think reading it as prose, trying to forget about rhythm and meter, makes it more meaningful.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow beneath the crosses. Row on row that mark our place.

And in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly; scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved. 

And now we lie in Flanders Fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe. To you, from failing hands, we throw the torch. Be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep. 

Though poppies grow in Flanders Fields.

This tour of Flanders Field had a big emotional impact on me. I continue to read and learn more about this war, which, like all wars, was full of horror and atrocities. I hope you haven't found this post too depressing. If so, I do apologize. I needed to write about this experience and I appreciate your stopping by to share it.

Silent Spring

I've been absent from this blog for a long time and, unfortunately, it's not because I've been doing other productive writing or activities. Since April I have been riding a wave of illness and disappointment that took a large toll on me. I just didn't have the heart or energy to write. But I'm feeling better now, at last.

Shortly after we returned from our vacation in March, my husband and I both came down with a stomach virus. It hit me harder than it did him and took about a week for me to recover. Another week or two passed and I still was not at the top of my game. Then I started running fever and really feeling poorly, along with experiencing some fairly yucky intestinal symptoms. I went to my doctor, who told me he suspected something called post-infection colitis, which happens when your digestive system has a hard time getting back to normal after an illness.  I took a round of antibiotic and felt better for a few days. Then the infection must have re-bloomed because all the symptoms came back with a vengence, with a UTI on top of things. I was in a lot of pain, hence another round of antibiotic, this time piggy-backed with a pain reliever to make me more comfortable. I finished the last of the antibiotic last week and soon started feeling better. I don't think I'll have another "bloom" so a lot of anxiety is gone as well, plus, I'm almost pain-free at this point. I still have a little trouble at the end of the day. Now I'm just working to get my stamina back without overdoing it. I'm struggling to find that balance.


Physically, I'm on the mend and doing much better. But emotionally? Not so good. In the middle of my extended illness, we learned of a betrayal by someone very close to us. It involved the death of our son and other long time wounds. We were devasted and even now, I feel nauseated when I think about it. I'm sure it did nothing to improve my health, but it's something we have to come to terms with. 


So I'm recovering on both levels, but still have a way to go. I think it's a good sign that I felt like writing this today because so far, it has been a very silent spring.


Thanks for stopping by.