Wednesday Night, April 29, 2009
Allie and I watched Amistad, and I enjoyed my Mariestad 6.5%. Then went to the AC for email and Skype. I spent time reviewing / revising my exhortation for Sunday evening and watched a bit of American TV with Swedish subtitles. A Seinfeld episode was funnier because the cast were so young – their voices were younger, too; they sounded like they’d inhaled helium.
To bed around 1AM.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
I was wakeful at 0500 hours. Noticed it was already light outside. The natives tell me that in the middle of summer, the sun rises at 0400 hours and sets at 2200 hours. I fell back to sleep until 0730.
Had muesli – naturally. Showered and went to AC for email. Alice left word that Sam Walton wanted his money and had called to remind me. I paid him via MyCheckFree.com. Wow – technology.
I rode on several errands with David Leander and Allie. We met Gary at 1100 for a meeting to plan the next two days’ events. The Kenneth Lindberg Memorial Baseball tournament. Five teams: Karl Skuga, Stockholm, Alby, Gothenburg, and Nykoping. Each team with 15 players and some number of parents and / or coaches. Four of the teams would be staying over, so their lodgings would be divided between the Gymnasium and the space used previously by the Kyrchan. There was one single key to the shower area, so Colin would be responsible to let people in when needed. There were two guest apartments that needed to be cleaned, including one for the Gerry Lindberg and her children. None of the teams were obliged to eat their meals at Stoeryd, but in case they wanted to, we would go to Lidl and Willy’s at some point to buy provisions. Dinner on Friday would be pasta and marinara sauce with meatballs. Breakfast the next morning would be cereal, toast, yogurt, milk, coffee, cheese. On Friday evening, the AC would become the cybercafé. Colin would oversee the use of computers for viewing MLB.com. Tables would need to be located, removed from storage and (along with chairs) placed at the AC and down at the Stoeryd field. Other games for older players (juniors and elite) would take place at Hätte (pronounced heh-tah) field, about a ten minute drive from Stoeryd. We would arrange to offer concessions at Stoeryd to include burgers, hotdogs, sodas, candy bars and water. Most items for a few kronas.
A lot to do, and not much time.
Afterward, Allie, Colin and I had lunch in the AC. Colin prepared a dish called Pitty-Pan with potatoes, cheese, eggs, and gyro chicken (like the Hassel-Pfeffel my mom used to make for my dad). Tasty.
As Colin made lunch, I tried to list out all the “hip-shot” directions and ideas that came up at the meeting. After we ate Allie went to clean two guest apartments, while Colin and I got tables and chairs out of storage. We brought them to the AC where they’d be picked up later. When we were moving the tables out of one storage area, I thumped my head on the top of the door frame. Doors in many places are lower than I am. Note to self: Swedish Doors = duck. We set up three of the tables at the AC, and cleaned all of them (and the chairs). Colin headed down to the field to cut the infield a final time. I worked some more on my exhortation.
Allie had a scheduled cheerleading class that was cancelled. Many businesses and schools had a light day, due to Walpuris Night. So, Allie and I went to Lidl and bought a ton of stuff. David Leander picked us up in the van and we distributed things to refrigerators, freezers and storage areas for the night. To be moved down to field or used in AC the next day. I made the purchase using David’s credit card. I still know the code. After the delivery of stores, I also began driving his van around Tranas. Same side of road as USA, so not a huge adjustment. Had no idea what most traffic signs meant. Just guessed right every time.
We’d planned to have dinner and do BBQ chicken at Jonatan’s, but the tournament plans required us to work later than we’d thought initially. So, we’d move the BBQ to the baseball field. Brought the A1, Worcestershire Sauce, and butter down to the field, with a medium size pan. Fired up the grill and blended the ingredients over the coals. Took a while for the butter to melt (should have melted it alone first – next time I’m in Sweden, I’ll do it right). The pan was almost brim full with sauce. The plan was for Allie, Caroline, Colin, Jonathan and me to have dinner there. In fact, half the Johnson clan, several Leanders, and the two Lithuanian ballplayers arrived as well. Had plenty of food (David brought hot dogs with him), but we didn’t have enough plates, forks, knives, etc. So, it was a truly finger food event. Primitive BBQ in the land of the Vikings. Colin, in keeping with the Walpuris Night tradition also lit a bonfire. This also served as the means to make a gob of trash from around the field “go away”.
The grill was downwind from the bonfire, so all of us reeked of smoke-smell when the night was over. Lidl sold chicken drumsticks and thighs, but the only breast meat was already marinated. The BBQ sauce on marinated meat was not purist, but we made do with what we had. No real complaints from the adults. Some of the kids were a bit impatient, but on the whole a good time. Plus, it was Allie’s exposure to the Three Equal Parts BBQ sauce that my dad used when my sisters and I were younger.
We got things mopped up, and David Leander brought adult beverages to share. Allie also brought a bag of Godi’s which we passed around. We sat at the bonfire for over an hour, telling jokes and laughing a lot. A good time.
As the fire burned down, Allie, Caroline and I loaded the bikes with the BBQ supplies and pushed them home. Colin dowsed the fire.
Back to the apartment for a little TV, then to bed.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Went to the field at about 0900. Used David Leander’s van to haul food and two more tables. These table were rectangular and getting them into the van took about 20 minutes. No table legs broken, so a success. At the field, we set up a tent, the grills and concession area.
Little leaguers, coaches and parents began arriving, and the games began. The new scoreboard got it’s baptism.
The grills were lit at 1100 hours per the plan. We grilled, bunned and foil-wrapped burgers and hotdogs. E-man, the Lithuanian ballplayer, was the plate ump. He wore a Detroit Tigers warm up over his pads. I told him I grew up in the area and was in Detroit when the Tigers won the World Series in game seven against the St. Louis Cardinals. He nodded politely at all of that, but caught only a little of it. Said his girlfriend was from around there.
It was an enjoyable morning watching baseball.
An aside: When the international players come to play ball in Sweden for the summer, they stay in men-only lodgings. No girlfriends, no wives, etc. Not a moral matter, just simpler and uncomplicated. The Lithuanians are not fond of the milk across the Baltic (in Sweden) and had wanted to bring their cow. Really. Request denied per Section 2, Paragraph 7 of the Trans-Baltic Bovine Baseball Regulations. Several families in Allie’s circle had been joking about getting a collective cow. When I heard the Lithuanian’s request, I understood where the ideas came from.
At around 12N, Colin was “called up from the minors,” and made the junior roster over at Hatte field. I drove him over in David Leander’s van. Passed a peleton of cyclists on the way, and suddenly missed my bike. Stayed focused however, and got Colin to the ballpark. As I pulled away, a short fast guy (turned out to be Gary) in a red shirt rushed at the van, pointed at me and barked in Mississippese: “I need you to umpire! Turn around and come back!” Not a problem. I turned around, parked the van, inquired as to the closest restroom (var ar too-ah-layt), was directed to the men's tree, got comfortable, and headed to the field as infield umpire. The plate umpire was an elite player from Canada, and he got me headed in the right directions. No one on base? Straddle the first base line to judge (fair or foul) any hits up the line. Man on first? Move behind and left of mound to make calls at second. Man on second? Move behind and right of mound to make calls at second and or third. Make calls on check swing appeals. Judge occasional outfield fly fumbles (time of possession, cause of dropped balls). Piece o' cake. Let’s go!
I spoke Spanish in Sweden to a Dominican first baseman. He told me he lived in Sweden. I asked if he spoke Spanska. He looked at me as if that was a distasteful thing to say. So, I threw him out of the game. JK.
Colin was 4-4 at bat with two hits and two walks. He had two stolen bases, and scored twice on RBIs. In left field, he made one catch for an out (he slipped after catching the ball, then dropped it, but had possession long enough for the out to stand. As I stood in the infield, umping, I took a picture of Mighty Colin at the Plate (and on base). His folks’ll be proud.
I met another junior coach named Todd, who’s home is Crofton, Maryland. His wife is Swedish, and he’s been in Sweden for 13 years. Helps Gary coach. Lives an hour or so away. Works in a modular construction factory (like Nanticoke) and was a construction manager in the states. Has thought about returning to America, but enjoys not having to work too hard in Sweden. Good work if you can get it.
After the game, I drove back to Stoeryd field and finished BBQing, selling food, etc. We mopped up, and stored perishables until the next morning. Went to the AC to begin making pasta dinner for 45 hungry homer hitters. As the saying goes in Sweden, "We threw a fika and no one came." Only served 10 players dinner. The rest went to town for pizza. Brilliant. Oh well. Allie has to prepare dinner for Sunday evening, so will turn it all into a casserole. De rigueur for church suppers.
We hung around the AC until about 10 or so. I booked my return train ticket from Norrkoping to Arlanda (will use one of the passes Allie uses weekly to get from Tranas to Norrkoping). Had conversation with Tony and Adam, both elite level ball players. Tony’s living in Sweden but is from San Jose, CA. Tony is from Toronto and had just arrived that day. We talked psychology and theology.
Cleaned up dinner, prepped for breakfast, staged supplies for the field. Just as I was thinking about a relaxing day at the grill, while watching young Bjorns pitch to young Svens, David Leander informed me that I would be umping the first two games on Saturday. Sole ump, calling balls / strikes from behind the mound, while making infield calls. That all you want me to do? Piece o' cake.
I recall Skyping home at some point and Alice reminded me that Saturday was the Running of the Roses at Churchill Downs. She’s making Hot Browns and Derby Pie. I want to go home. Oh, well. Perhaps a sliver will be left for me. Went to bed. 1130-ish.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Woke up at 0630. Went with Allie to AC to have things ready by 0800. Caroline and Colin helping. Also gathered all supplies that would need to go to Stoeryd field. David Leander to come by and transport in his van.
Meanwhile, all the players who did not come to dinner made up for it at breakfast. HUGE crowd. Ran out of yogurt and milk, so when David arrived, we also took Colin to Willy’s to get food. David took me to the field with the supplies. I set things up. He went and got Colin from the store and they resupplied Allie at the AC. As the first game time was drawing closer, David and Colin actually brought bowls, spoons, cereal, yogurt and coffee down to the field. Ah, yes. Breakfast behind the backstop in Sweden. Breakfast a serious meal here. Not to be missed or messed with. To borrow from the Lone Star State, “Don’t mess with breakfast.”
I got the concession area set up and met both coaches of first game. Told them I was going to be the ump. That I did not do this regularly. That they could let me know if they had any issues with my calls. Blah, blah, blah. That the games would run 6 innings or 1:45 – whichever came first. They all smiled and nodded Swedishly, and said very little. Play ball!
First game crept along. One team distinctly better. There is a rule that says a team can only bat through its line up once, after which they have to take the field. Additionally, the games were played for 6 innings or 1:45, whichever came first. Were it not for these rules, it would have been a veeerrry long first inning, and an even longer game. 6-0 bottom of first. After that, things settled down but the score still wound up lopsided. One team had no coach, and the (I’m guessing) oldest player called all the shots. The other team's Coach was Jens - a nice guy who helpfull spoke very good English.
Some of the pitchers arms were scarely strong enough to lob the ball in an arc to home plate. Calling balls / strikes in those cases was a challenge. Many of the batters were barely four and a half feet tall, so their strike zone presented a Himalayan challenge to the baseball lobbers. I’d been coached to not let too many walks take place, and to keep the game moving along. So lobbers, four and a half foot tall batters, and my license to not call things with overmuch precision now and then left me a far from favorite umpire.
The second game went faster, due to noticeably better talent. Still, having stood for three and a half hours with my lily white city neck to the sun, I was quite sunburned. Later learned it’s what Swedes call an “umpire’s tan.”
I met Gerry Lindberg, after whose husband, Kenneth, the tournament had been named. She was very nice. A saint whose life has been very difficult in the wake of Kenneth’s death of an infection contracted in hospital, where he was being treated for cancer. Clearly, she has been sustained remarkably by the Lord, and is unwavering in there testimony to that fact. She has two daughters and a son, all of whom appeared to carry themselves very impressively. I noticed how well they related to all age groups as they were around the ball fields. Gerry had been a scholarship softball player at Penn State, and later coached and umpired in Europe on an international competition level. She umpired the last game of the afternoon, which was the all stars game. Her son pitched one inning, and it was funny watching her call her son’s balls / strikes and tease him as he pitched.
Saturday had been a very long day, all in all. After the games were over, we rounded up all the supplies and staged most of them to be put back on Monday. I told Colin I’d be thinking of him finishing the clean up as I was bound for Frankfurt. We took food and particularly valuable things up to the AC.
Allie and I were very tired, and had dinner from StatOil. I had the Swedish version of Salisbury Steak (Stockholm Biff?) – a TV dinner, and Allie had a sandwich. We watched TV, ate and chatted. Later did a bit of email (had to know who won the Derby) and went to bed.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Allie and I got up about the same time. Had coffee. Had a nice wandering chat about light things at the sunny-spot window.
After getting dressed, we walked to church. It was cool and pleasant.
Allie, Colin, and several Johnson kids practiced their pieces. Sounded nice together. Colin plays classical guitar and would be doing the prelude.
The Metodist pastor, Freidrick (sp?), preached (in Swedish), and communion was served in the morning service (also in Swedish). As with last Sunday, I phonetically fumbled my way along, and appreciated the spots where English enlightenment was offered. The Stoeryd group takes communion weekly during their evening service on Sundays when the Metodist church does not do so.
I met Britta, Freidrich’s wife, who was very appreciative of Allie and complimented her ability to both understand and speak Swedish. Also met Trigvy and his wife Marianne who were also very happy to have Allie there.
We learned that Sune’s and Karin’s son, Andreas, was in the hospital and would have his gall bladder removed on Monday. He had a flare up while away for the weekend in Malmo with his wife.
We had lunch at the apartment with Colin. Allie made a tasty gyro chicken dish, and tomato and red pepper salad with a soy-sauce. I subjected Allie and Colin a read through of my exhortation, who offered several helpful suggestions.
Caroline arrived and she and Allie prepared a casserole for dinner after church. Freda Leander would pick up the food and drive it over.
Allie and I walked to church a bit before 1700 hours.
The service was mostly phonetic Swedish for me, with a few English interludes. I presented an exhortation entitled Hopefulness Based on the Most Solid of Comforts. My text was 2 Corinthians 4:8-18, and I also cited questions 1 and 2 of the Heidelberg Catechism. I had 30 minutes and used them all. Felt flat. A bit rushed, though I purposely did not look at my watch, having run through it with Allie and Colin. I incorporated the larger portion of a letter written by Charlene Park, a woman in my home congregation who has been through chemo and radiation treatments for an aggressive cancer - while pregnant. Her thoughts during and following these treatments, and the healthy birth of her son, are a powerful testimony to God's powerfully working in and through trials, to comfort His saints. Hard to get a real sense as most were not native English speakers. Still several folks indicated it had been helpful. I’d received helpful suggestions from David Bergmark to help de-Americanize certain phrasing, expressions and examples.
As a hymn of response, we sang Horatio Spafford’s It is Well With My Soul. Not a Swedish hymn, so not familiar to most. There were enough English speakers with good pipes to carry things, with melody and harmonies. Allie played accompaniment. The hymn was beautiful. Afterward, Karin Jaderberg came to me and asked about the hymn, expressing deep appreciation for both lyrics and tune. I told her of Horation Spafford's loss of wife and children whose ship had sunk at sea. She said, “These lyrics (she was holding the song sheet) are going into my Bible right away! (On Saturday, Allie and I spent the afternoon with Sune and Karin and learned that one of their three sons took his own life during the past Christmas season.)
We had dinner at the Bergmarks and good discussion afterward. I ran to Hemkop (Home Buy) for a few items that I was urged to bring the family (coffees, chocolates, Lingonberry jam, and Godis [candies by the kg.]). I got there 10 minutes before closing and rushed up one aisle and down another looking for things whose labels I couldn’t (at least quickly) figure out. Managed, though.
Allie, Colin, Caroline and I got a ride back to the apartment.
I spent part of the evening visiting with Gary and Linda Johnson. A very good time. Gary poured a couple of rounds of Gammel Dansk Bitter Dram. That, as my mom would say, is “good fer what ails ya.” Time tested elixir aboard Swedish maritime vessels. Nothing nice about it. Kind of like Fisherman’s Friend in a bottle. But, it sure warmed me up. The ingredients include spices from many different places around the world, roots that are reputed to have medicinal powers, and berries that are well-known particularly to children from the Roskilde area on the Danish island of Zealand. Every autumn, the distiller buys all the buckets of rowan-berries the children can pick. The distiller does not disclose the names of every ingredient or the exact blend of ingredients. Hmmm.
Grateful to hear of the Johnsons’ appreciation for Allie and her helpfulness in very many ways during the past six months.
Went back to pack for very early wake up and a 0547 train to airport. Gary was kind enough to let me take his van back to the apartment, and then use it to get to the train station in the morning.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Woke at 0410. Showered. Shaved. Woke Allie. Finished packing. Allie added a few of her things to come back ahead of her return to the states.
It was raining! And, cool. 10 days of perfect weather and only raining the day I leave.
We loaded the luggage and drove to the church. Parked across from Bergmark’s and walked a block to the platform. Train was on time. As pretty as things were with clear warm weather, the rain and overcast conditions cast a different beautiful light on things. Allie and I chatted a bit, but we mostly just sat and dozed some. Passed through Boxholm, Mjolby, Mantorp, Vikingstad, Linkoping, and Nykoping, arriving in Norrkoping at about 0655.
Allie and I found coffee and croissants and ate them standing in the terminal. I was a bit axious, as I did not see on the display that my train terminated at Arlanda. Figured I’d figure it out once on board - I was headed the right direction anyway. All too soon, I had to go to the platform. We hugged, and cried a bit. Hard for me to go, realizing now just how far away she really is from home. She jumped on the next train back to Tranas, and I boarded for Arlanda.
The train was a sleak double decker. Very modern. I’d not arranged for access to email ahead of time, so I attempted to do so on the train. Couldn’t seem to provide the UI with the proper telephone country code + AC + phone number to get the order to go through. No problem. Just used time to journal. Found the coffee dispenser and used 10 kr to get a kaffe. Made several stops on the way to Stockholm, and then on to Arlanda.
The Arlanda train station was pretty cool. Clean, well lit. Big flat circular lights hung from ceiling. I found the elevator from track level to the terminal. This time the elevator worked. Stepping off the elevator, a nice lady asked for my train ticket. I displayed it and she let me enter the terminal. Arlanda is a cool looking airport. I wandered around and bought a package of moose sausage. Slipped them into my suitcase.
Next moved in the direction of flight check-ins. It took a while, and I had to ask around, but I found the ticket counter (they’re not clearly brand labeled as is the case in most US airports. Lufthansa’s activity at Arlanda is done through SAS. I got my ticket and boarding pass. My soft suitcase was too long to make the conveyor turn at the ticket counter, so I had to take it a few yards down to the special luggage handling gate. I placed it on the conveyor. They guy scanned it and asked for my passport and boarding pass. Looked at his screen. Looked at me. Looked at his screen. Looked at me. (Probably wanted my moose sausage.) He then handed me back my passport and boarding pass, and sent me on my way.
I had more two hours before boarding for Frankfurt, so I found an internet kiosk. Tried to Skype-call Allie. I could hear her, but she could not hear me (maybe that cost extra). Rats. Sent her a note and responded to several other email’s I’d received. I’d heard the night before the Jack Kemp had passed, and Alice sent me a note about it as well, so I sent Jeff a note of sympathy and condolence. Picked up a few more trinkets, quickly consumed a shrimp salad and a hard cider, then boarded.
Flight to Frankfurt was smooth. Napped a bit despite being in the middle seat. Sorry for the two ladies who had to contend with my girth. Had another tasty cheese sandwich on pretzel bread, as well as a nice red wine (X2). All compliments of Lufthansa. As with both flights to Stockholm, those Lufthansians were right hospitable volk.
At Frankfurt, I found my gate for Untied 933 to Dulles. I had an hour and change before boarding at Frankfurt, so poked around. Bought gum, a book and airline size Jagermeisters to “spruce up” my Diet Cokes en route to Dulles.
Boarded. Flight was a 777. I wandered up the aisle looking for seat 40A (window). Found it. As my aisle partner had not arrived, I sat in that seat and tried to decide if I’d go aisle or window. No – maybe both. Just stretch out and veg for 7 hours. Just then, a bearded, bespectacled academic across the aisle asked me if the window seat was taken. I told him I had 40A, but was deciding if I might like the aisle seat or not. He began to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk . . . and before you knew it, I was drinking from his autobiographical fire hose: He’d been speaking at some European conference . . . was very well traveled and knowledgeable about trans-Atlantic routes . . . had flown from Chicago O’Hare to Bejing via the great circle route . . . our flight time would depend upon the weather and we would probably be flying into a head wind . . . blah, blah, blah . . . . Oh brother. I slowly reached for my MP3 player, slipped the in my ear buds, and Dan Tyminski transported me to nirvana a la “I Am A Man of Constant Sorrow.” I raised the arm rest between the seats and slid over to the window. No way was that guy gonna get that seat. As he continued to yammer, a woman came down the aisle, stood at 40B, placed her carry-on in the storage compartment, checked her boarding pass and sat down. Phew!
During the flight, I Watched Frost-Nixon, and Gran Torino. Napped a bit. Four hours in, I got up for 30 minute stretch break. Filled out U.S. Customs Declaration. Tried to nap some, but couldn’t really get comfortable, so just toughed out the rest of the flight.
Landed at 1805 hours. About 30 minutes late. Landing was smooth. Got through customs fairly quickly, but waited a while for my luggage. My declaration form was flagged due my having declared moose-sausage. Had to go through special inspection area and wound up forfeiting my moose-sausage. Due to the swine flu. Oh, I see. Pigs and Moose. No use. No moose. Rats.
Wandered out to the waiting area and was warmly greeted by Alice, Gracie, Calvin and Gifford. Nice to see, hug and kiss ‘em. The ride home was uneventful. A great surprise to see Emily and Ginny had come over to welcome me home. We cracked open the luggage and distributed the souvenirs. Ate candy. I enjoyed the newly painted laundry room and kitchen. I was . . . let's say "surprised" at Gifford's tree platform (the metal trashcan hanging from the tree tipped me off). We de-briefed about the trip. A good reunion from my perspective.
Wonderful to have seen Allie in her Swedish element. Intriguing country. Good to be back in the States.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sweden - Entry 2
April 24, 2009
Day two in Sweden : Tranas
Think I did not move a muscle while sleeping. When I awoke it was sunny and warm. 0630 hours. Felt greatly refreshed. Got up and read from 2 Samuel. David’s sin with Bathsheba. Uriah’s set up and murder. David’s cover-up of his plan to have Uriah killed. Nathan’s confronting David. David’s humble reply and repentance. The still sobering and woeful consequences. Amnon’s gross and unconstrained passion and sin against Tamar. Note, he does her violence and then she becomes the despised one. Man’s dark soul.
Had a bowl of Muesli – of course. Went to a several times weekly devotion / Bible study led by David Bergmark, pastor of local church that Allie visits. Also met Jonatan Jaderberg. Colin and David Leander were there. Enjoyed talking with David Leander about baseball, Sports Illustrated and chewing tobacco.
Later went to an area that was previously the church’s chapel and re-arranged the furniture for use of the room by incoming baseballers. We then went to the baseball field and painted the scoreboard. Allie and I talked about families back home and about a movie she’d seen with Sean Bean and Christian Bale.
At about 1100 hours, Allie went to work at the local school canteen, and I returned to her apartment for a nap. Noonish, she and Colin found me a bike to use. A aged three speed with a too low seat post (Oy! The knees!) and an almost flat tire. We went to Caroline’s to meet her and borrow a tire pump. The tire was resuscitated. We located a helmet for me to use. With that on, I am truly a sharp dressed man.
We rolled into Tranas and had lunch at a café in sunny outdoor comfort. Talked about US and Swedish politics and people watched. Later Caroline happened by and joined us for ice-cream an coffee. Her father is half-Greek and half-Finnish. Her family lives in Stockholm. We laughed about 7-Elevens in Sweden and how many middle-easterners open pizza-kebab restaurants.
Allie and I mounted our rusty steeds again and rode to Lidl, Sweden’s answer to Piggly Wiggly. A very interesting grocery store. Packaging very different than in US. Nice shopping bags, though. Allie bought food for the Sunday evening meal after church (pasta salad) and other miscellaneous stuff. We put one bag in her basket and clamped the other onto my rear rack and rode back to the apartment. Two miles by my guess. Log ‘em. May still meet my goal of 400 miles for the month.
I remained in the apartment while Allie went to her ballet class. Several regulars called out sick, so attendance may be very low. I went to the AC and uploaded pictures to Facebook. Called home via Skype and talked with Alice and kids. Good ol’ Skype. Checked emails from work – nothing crazy. Grateful for that.
I met Matts this afternoon. Heard about him earlier. He was in an accident on his bike. T-boned a car that pulled in front of him. He was pretty banged up. Had been to the chiropractor earlier. I told him about my similar accident last fall. His collar bone is dislocated and will need to be set back in place later in the week. Lots of orange and purple bruising evident. He knew of Allie as the – then made piano-playing motions. “Yep. That’s her.” I said.
Allie, Colin and I were going out for Thai, but plans changed last minute as Allie was invited out by several women whose kids she cares for. So we changed our plans. I was invited to David Leander’s house for a grill-out with Colin and the Lithuanian baseballers.
I returned to the apartment for a while and read while enjoying a Tuborg, cheese and knacke. Allie returned from the ball field and announced that she’d finished painting the scoreboard – Hurray! No matter the score, this project completion will be the real victory. I guess we all have our “scoreboards.”
As she rode off to dinner I reconnoitered and learned where the Leanders lived. Planned to walk over later and hand over the baseball supplies. I arrived at 1525 hours. David did not arrive until 1605 hours. I enjoyed the cooling evening temps and watched Josefina, Eleanora, Marcus and Karl play. Freda invited me in, but as several of kids had been sick I opted to stay out of doors. I took some pix as I waited for David to arrive.
When he arrived, I fired up the grill. Out came the burgers, brats, Polish sausages and fixin’s. Hotdogs are contained (when one is eating them) in a flat-bread-non-bun. Very “utile” of those Swedes. No need to force open and possibly tear the traditional bun. Make my hotdog bun a Swedish flat bread. We ate everything on the grill. Colin and the Lithuanians went back to the AC. David and I went inside. He put the kids to bed. I did the dishes. I think American dishwashers have better dish racks than Swedish ones. So there.
David and I sat and talked politics, economics, theology, family, his time in the US, and putting kids to bed. I headed back to the apartment at 2225 hours. Fell asleep on the couch waiting for Allie.
I woke up on the same couch at midnight. No Allie. Checked outside for her bike. No bike. Checked the AC. No one there. Got my Blackberry with her phone number, but it does not work here. Tried to find a phone in the AC. None. Tried to get on Skype and call her, but the internet was down. Checked back at the apartment. Still no Allie. Starting to freak a bit. Determined to go back to Leanders to see if they knew where Allie was. I headed over and was walking down the sidewalk when I heard the distinctive sound of a VW van. Saw two headlights approaching. It was a VW van. Freda was driving and had both Caroline and Allie. Felt foolish, a bit angry and gratefully relieved. All my fears compounded by the European detective shows on PBS.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
I slept poorly last night. Wound up from waiting / looking for Allie I suppose. Alarm sounded at 0630 hours. Rolled over for another 1:15 of sleep before Allie woke me. I got up quickly and went to the AC for a men’s breakfast. David Bergmark, David Leander, Colin, Jonatan, and Jonatan’s father, Sune were present. Enjoyed toast and cheese, cereal with yogurt (!?) poured over, and coffee. Sune invited Allie and me to go to Granna for the day along with his wife, Karin. Very good. Great weather again.
Allie and I next went to the ball field and affixed the Tranas Angels placard on the scoreboard. Checked email and saw I had some work-related follow up. Will do later. Sune and Karin picked us up at about 1130 hours. We traveled about 50 km through beautiful country side to Granna, along Lake Vattern. One of Sweden’s deepest lakes. Very narrow. Runs north-south. Went to many shops. A “summer” town. Notable shops were Polkagris where peppermint candies were made by hand and Knacke, where delicious flat bread is made (also sold weekly in Tranas Square).
Another notable attraction is the Polar Museum in honor of Andrees who flew in a hot air balloon to the Arctic Circle and crashed there. He was not able to be rescued, or to extract himself from the situation. He did, apparently, manage to snap a picture which was found amongst his belongings and is spattered cross all kinds of souvenirs.
We then climbed 300 step stair case up to a scenic overlook with a picnic fika. Beautiful vista overlooking Grannas and Lake Vattern. All the while having very good conversation with Sune regarding church, theology, trial and suffering (he lost a son last winter, who committed suicide), economics, politics, work (he’s in the printing / publishing business). We descended back down to town and rode to the lake side Ferry port. We boarded the ferry to the island of Visingso. Saw ruins from 1300’s. Walked and talked some more. Back on the ferry and to Granna. We took a different route back to Tranas through more beautiful farmland, past woods and lake. Saw what is believed to be the largest remaining wooden castle.
Our plans for dinner out were postponed again, as Allie felt a bit under the weather. Instead will have dinner at the AC with Colin and Caroline. I rode my bike to Statoil for eggs, beer and also tried an appetizer-burger (took the edge off). Rode back up to the apartment and relaxed a while.
I grabbed a shower and went to dinner at the AC. Afterward, I checked email, tried to upload pix. Did not work, so will try later. Took a nap on the couch until we were able to reach home via Skype. Talked with Ginny, Gracie, Gifford, Calvin and Alice. Great to see them and hear their voices, see their mannerisms, see the backdrop of our room – really missing the fan. Thought Alice looked wonderful – great to see her. At 2000 hours, the internet cut off. Grrr. Went back to the apartment and read a while. Was tired enough to fall asleep pretty quickly.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Woke to alarm at 0630 hours. Bam! Back to sleep until 0800 hours. Got up very groggily. My hair had a huge pillow-wave. I looked like Big Boy. Found cereal and yogurt. Freshened up. Made coffee.
Allie and I rode down to Tranas to the Metodist Kyrkan. Allie did a sound check. Met Colin. Practiced piano and guitar tunes.
The church is a red brick, classic style church. Copper roof has turned green. Interior is high-ceilinged, arched. Huge mural at front (behind pulpit) of a saint and an angel both standing above and outside the Heavenly City. A good reminder we seek that Heavenly City.
The hymn numbers are hung inside an ornate frame to the left of the pulpit. There is another identical frame to the right, but it has no numbers hung in it. Turns out it’s a HVAC air return. Funny. Sneaky church architecture.
Sermon was in Swedish, I phonetically worked through the hymns. I’d been given an English abridgement which I read during the sermon. Allie played the prelude, but as the organist was present, she did not have to play for the hymns. She sat with Josefina Leander. David Leander preached. The sermon was from 1 Peter 4 – Having the same mind as Christ. After the sermon, a hymn was begun of which we sang all but the last stanza. At this point the offering was collected and prayer was offered. Then we sang the concluding stanza. Matters for prayer were mentioned, and intercession was made by David Bergmark. The benediction was pronounced, and all were dismissed. Most folk headed up to a fellowship hall where fika was served. I was discouraged from taking two cookies (two very small cookies) – lagom. Good coffee.
I met several more names I’d heard of over the months and many of the kids. Also another David (the third one so far) who is on the baseball team – a Swede from Tranas, his fiancé, Natasha – from Cape Town, South Africa, Stacy Bergmark – born and raised around Atlanta and in Sweden for 9 years. Adults gathered for study of Hebrews 10. Kids scattered for Sunday school.
Allie and I rode back to the apartment via the river and lakefront. Beautiful. Stopped several times for pictures.
Back at the apartment, we assembled a chicken, sausage, rice, bok-choi, skillet dish with couscous, knacke and cheese as sides. Colin and Jonatan joined us. Good conversation had. Moved to back patio for coffee and dessert.
Allie and Caroline prepped a meal for after the evening service and we headed back to town. Allie and Colin tuned and warmed up for a 1730 hours start. Some different faces were present than at the a.m. service. Sune and Karin Jaderberg were there, as well as Andreas’ parents in law. Both very warm couples. Karin seems to take a very comforting shine to Allie, for which she is grateful (as am I). The sermon was from Matthew 1 and Luke 1 – the topic being the Virgin Birth. The evening theme of late has been the Apostles’ Creed. We sang several hymn whose tunes were familiar, but (as with a.m. service) whose Swedish lyrics I butchered. I finally resorted to using English a bit subtly.
We had dinner at the Bergmark’s home, just next door to the church. Conversations mostly in Swedish. Allie and Colin seem very able to comprehend most of what is said. We moved into the living room after dinner for discussion from “What Is A Healthy Church Member?” General trajectory of conversation to do with members’ ability to speak with evangelical accuracy and precision with opportunities present. Important that our speaking to / offering the gospel not be so watered down or rushed that we fail to present gospel essentials. We sang several songs with Colin playing guitar.
Rode back to the apartment in dimming dusk.
Once home, Allie and I went over to the old church location, in the same apartment building she lives in. Uploaded Facebook pix, checked email and Skyped with Em and Gin. Used Allie’s MacIn-Toy, to do both, so at one pint Brie rang in on Skype, thinking I was Allie. I wrote that ‘twas I, that I was in Sweden visiting Allie, and that I was using her laptop. Told her I’m sure Allie will be sorry to have missed her. She replied she hoped I’d have a great visit.
I got back to the apartment 12 midnight-ish. Read a while. Had a few olives, glass of milk. Then to bed.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Woke up with alarm at 0630 hours. Killed the sound. Went back to bed until 0830. Got up and had toast with Allie. Went to the AC to check email and uploaded pix to Facebook. Colin arrived and made us both an excellent cup of coffee.
At 0930, Allie and I headed across the complex to do some apartment cleaning. This was a veritable Merry Maids D-Day Invasion. We dusted, scrubbed, cleaned windows, straightened, organized, mopped, vacuumed, swept and collected all the trash. She had spent quite a few hours earlier last week on the same project, and we just about completed things. Had to leave at 1100 hours to prepare a picnic lunch and catch the 1147 train to Linkoping (Lin-Sher-Ping). Got lunch ready and rode to the Tranås station. Got there just as train pulled away. Hmm. No problem. Rode to Tranås River and picnicked there. Sun had given way to overcast skies, but not unpleasant. We then rode to the station only to learn that there was not a 1247 train. No problem. Poked around Tranås shops until 1347, and purchased some souvenirs. We were successful catching the train this time, and were on our way to Linkoping.
The ride lasted about 40 minutes, making stops in Boxholm, Mjolby, Mantorp, Vikingstad and then Linkoping. Each town was interesting to look at as we approached and sat a while. Some had well-defined neighborhoods on the outskirts, some had small or sizeable factories or warehousing businesses. None were so large that they weren’t dwarfed by their natural surroundings.
We boarded the city bus and rode to Old Town (Gamla) Linkoping, where we spent two hours or so walking the historic cobbled streets. Some shops were open. Bought gifts at a couple shops. Had delicious pastry and coffee at a café and enjoyed both outside. The sun had reclaimed the sky. Went into the woodcraft shop, the chocolate shop, and saw an ornate outdoor bowling alley - cooler than White Sulphur Springs (sorry, Rick). A lot of very interesting landscaping, exterior colors and archi-texture.
We took the bus back Linkoping center city and walked around some more. Looked at shops: cheese shop, Game Stop (!), a bike shop that caters to the college population and sells studded snow tires for riding on snow and ice, Allie’s ballet class destination (with one of her young charges), the Dom Kyrkan, St. Lars Church - (1802), with a 12th century tower, the Concert Hall, several interesting sculptures / sculpture gardens.
We ate at a Greek restaurant that Allie had been to previously. Actually ordered take-away and ate dinner sitting on a huge cheese-round shaped stone outside St. Lars Church. People watched until it was time to go to the station.
Boarded the train back to Tranås and were joined by Caroline, whose classes had ended that day. I slept most of the way back. We got our bikes and rode off-back to the apartment. As we approached Lidl, Allie and Caroline took a by-path under blossom laden trees and grabbed handfuls of petals. I stayed on the main bike path and passed them. I continued up the hill from Lidl and realized at the top that they had not come around the bend. I waited and then rode back down the hill. They had gone into to Lidl and their bikes were outside. So, I moved both bikes out of sight around the corner. I rode to the edge of the parking lot and waited for them to appear. When they came out and detected their bikes were missing, their confused reactions and alarm were very funny. I snapped a picture (with the last juice left in my camera battery). Only which it had been a close up, or that I’d been able to shoot video. We shared the laughs and rode home.
Went to the AC to check email and upload pix. Skyped home and talked to Alice, Calvin, Gracie, Gifford and Caleb. Glad to hear the air conditioner was working, as temperatures back home had climbed into the 80s. I told the kids I’d found a candy that would easily rival any Warhead. They can’t wait!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Learned that many churches in Sweden have summer lakefront homes and move all their corporate activities there during the summer months. Cool.
I rode into town this morning to pick up come hooks that we’ll use to hang the scoreboard numbers. My first solo venture into town for purposes of commerce. I stopped for coffee and buns at Statoil on the way back.
I found Allie back over at “Apartment Normandy” (as in the invasion), and we continued cleaning for another two-and-a-half hours. Windows mostly. Big job. Most windows were braced from opening far enough to clean the outside. Bad form to let kids fall out 5th story windows. Reasonable, I guess. Each “sash” is hinged on the side so as to swing open, and is composed of two panes of glass sandwiched together. Each window was (mostly) two sashes – one about a meter across and the other about a foot across. Some windows had a large sash and two smaller sashes. Each sash was to be unlatched and opened so that both inside and outside surfaces could be cleaned. In one apartment, most of the windows also had Venetian blinds clipped in place, which impeded the windows from swinging open. These blinds had to be taken down first – later had to be re-hung. The clips holding the blinds in were very stiff and difficult to open. For all her gifts, at 5’-5”, Allie couldn’t reach them, and I could barely open them. I used a table spoon handle to pry them open. We broke briefly for lunch, before continuing the window washing. Also straightened several multi-occupant (and it showed) kids rooms turning each room’s utter chaos into smaller piles of categorized chaos. Done. Left for ball field.
At the ball field we put up hooks on which the number signs will be hung. The drill didn’t work, so I used a concrete drill bit and a rock, and pounded starter holes. I was able to twist in the hooks. Colin was moving logs around at the edge of the outfield. I next went back to the AC where David Leander had dropped off his corded drill, and drilled holes in the tops of each number placard.
Before dinner, I checked email, and uploaded more pix.
Dinner was at Caroline’s. She prepared a whole wheat pasta with a coating of olive oil, feta cheese, pear and zucchini bits. Very tasty. Colin and Jonatan joined. Good conversation. Lots of laughter.
I had to stop by the AC to gather up my things. Skyped with Alice before leaving. On my way out, I heard odd little grunting sounds coming from a bush. On closer inspection, two hedgehogs were . . . arguing? Weird. My maiden hedgehog sighting. Went back to the apartment and read until I fell asleep.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
This morning my alarm did not sound. Blackberry battery had run out of juice. I awoke at 0705 hours. Got up and read a while. 2 Samuel 16-19. Very sad account of Absolom’s treason against his father. Though he sought to kill David and take his kingdom forcibly, David grieved for his son and loved him deeply. I think I am too easily offended by my sons’ occasional nuisances.
Allie and I had coffee at the AC, before heading off with Colin to the Metodist Kyrkan for a weekly prayer meeting led by David Leander. At these gatherings, adults from the Stoerydskyrkan and the Metodist Kyrkan gather for devotions from the Upper Room. Today’s text was Isaiah 55 – God’s grace is a free gift; buy it without money. Curiously sad that so many will take many things that are free, but are not so inclined to receive God’s grace through Christ.
All in Swedish, but lively, interested, attentive discussion. Next prayed. Was impressed with the Swedes’ prayers – passionate, thankful (“Vi tacka du Herren . . .”), imploring – very moving. Following this, we had fika. Most discussion was in Swedish, but occasional topics in English included seatbelt laws (David Leander was fined twice in two months last year for not wearing his seatbelt – 1,500 Kronas each time), leaving children behind accidentally.
Allie and Colin were watching and playing with the little ones. Allie was impressive to watch. Seems to tackle everything thrown at her. Speaks Svenska, plays piano for church and for little ones, does seemingly lowly tasks with a calm determination, juggles a very busy agenda from day to day – each day slightly different from the others.
David Bergmark gave me my Sunday evening exhortation notes back with suggestions. Will be helpful as I plan to edit things down this evening.
I had lunch with Allie, Colin, and Jonatan at Shalom Pizza and Kebab. I was directed to order the Gyro Pizza with strong sauce and onions. BIG portion. Very tasty. Certain to taste again later.
In Sweden, most bottles are recycled. You take them to a local grocery store and feed them into a machine that scans a bar code which equates to a refund amount. When you’re done putting the bottles into the machine, you push a button, and receive a receipt that is turned in for cash. I took the receipt, and went to the cashier. I handed it to her and she looked at me oddly. “Aren’t you going to buy anything?” I said, “No – just wanted the pant experience.” I did give the 5 Kronas to Allie who used it to buy some groceries.
I went to the city tourism shop and got a t-shirt for one of the kids. I settled next at the Skaffereit for coffee and laptop time. Done with that, I inquired “Var ar toalett?”. “Uppfor” was the reply. So I went upstairs and came to a door for dwarves. Undaunted, I found another taller doorway with “toilette” on the door. Ureka!
Much relieved, I went back downstairs and walked up the street to Systembolaget, the town ABC store (literally “liquor store”). Wandered around and saw both familiar labels and foreign, as well as Sweden-ized versions of familiar labels. Wine, beer, cider (Alice would have been duly impressed), distilled spirits and non-alcoholic versions. A very colorful store. Didn’t feel so far away when I spotted Miller and Budweiser. Left with a one liter box of Aussie Chardonnay, a one liter box of South African Shiraz-Merlot-Cabernet blend, and a Swedish 6.9% brew: Mariestad Old Ox. Wandered past the town shops back toward the apartment, poking around in several.
I headed back to Allie’s and enjoyed the walk. There is a tire shop on the way that deals in big tires. The name of the business is gummi (rubber) verkstad (workplace). The roads are thick with large trucks and tractors that use these tires. Tractors with front end loaders, tractors pulling flat trailers, delivery trucks, semi-trailer trucks, and tandem trucks hauling huge logs (all huge and strait as rails). This time of year, now that the snow has melted, all the sand that was spread for traction has been deposited on the roads, bike paths, and sidewalks. People walking and cars rolling produce a distinct crunch, crunch, crunch sound, and a significant sand sweeping effort is underway. In the week that I’ve been here, they have all been virtually swept clean. This town shines up pretty good.
When I arrived back at Allie’s a note told me she’d gone to the ball field. I rode over and found lots of activity taking place. Little leaguers were practicing, Allie was mowing the grass outside the fence, and Colin was pitching to young batters. I took over mowing from Allie and she raked and picked up flotsam and jetsam, and other odds and ends that will fuel a bonfire. Bonfires on April 30 are a spring tradition. April 30 is Walpuris Night (Valborgsmässoafton). This is the birthday of King Carl XVI Gustaf (the present Monarch) and the eve of the feast or St. Walburga, when university students and former students gather in from of bonfires all over Sweden to sing songs welcoming spring. They wear the white student caps with black visors. More often than not it is sleeting and rainy, but the forecast tomorrow is promising.
When I was done mowing, I dragged some old carpet to the bonfire, and then ran around in the outfield chasing balls that got past junior infielders. Allie and I then walked back to the apartment for a quiet evening and leftovers at some point.
Day two in Sweden : Tranas
Think I did not move a muscle while sleeping. When I awoke it was sunny and warm. 0630 hours. Felt greatly refreshed. Got up and read from 2 Samuel. David’s sin with Bathsheba. Uriah’s set up and murder. David’s cover-up of his plan to have Uriah killed. Nathan’s confronting David. David’s humble reply and repentance. The still sobering and woeful consequences. Amnon’s gross and unconstrained passion and sin against Tamar. Note, he does her violence and then she becomes the despised one. Man’s dark soul.
Had a bowl of Muesli – of course. Went to a several times weekly devotion / Bible study led by David Bergmark, pastor of local church that Allie visits. Also met Jonatan Jaderberg. Colin and David Leander were there. Enjoyed talking with David Leander about baseball, Sports Illustrated and chewing tobacco.
Later went to an area that was previously the church’s chapel and re-arranged the furniture for use of the room by incoming baseballers. We then went to the baseball field and painted the scoreboard. Allie and I talked about families back home and about a movie she’d seen with Sean Bean and Christian Bale.
At about 1100 hours, Allie went to work at the local school canteen, and I returned to her apartment for a nap. Noonish, she and Colin found me a bike to use. A aged three speed with a too low seat post (Oy! The knees!) and an almost flat tire. We went to Caroline’s to meet her and borrow a tire pump. The tire was resuscitated. We located a helmet for me to use. With that on, I am truly a sharp dressed man.
We rolled into Tranas and had lunch at a café in sunny outdoor comfort. Talked about US and Swedish politics and people watched. Later Caroline happened by and joined us for ice-cream an coffee. Her father is half-Greek and half-Finnish. Her family lives in Stockholm. We laughed about 7-Elevens in Sweden and how many middle-easterners open pizza-kebab restaurants.
Allie and I mounted our rusty steeds again and rode to Lidl, Sweden’s answer to Piggly Wiggly. A very interesting grocery store. Packaging very different than in US. Nice shopping bags, though. Allie bought food for the Sunday evening meal after church (pasta salad) and other miscellaneous stuff. We put one bag in her basket and clamped the other onto my rear rack and rode back to the apartment. Two miles by my guess. Log ‘em. May still meet my goal of 400 miles for the month.
I remained in the apartment while Allie went to her ballet class. Several regulars called out sick, so attendance may be very low. I went to the AC and uploaded pictures to Facebook. Called home via Skype and talked with Alice and kids. Good ol’ Skype. Checked emails from work – nothing crazy. Grateful for that.
I met Matts this afternoon. Heard about him earlier. He was in an accident on his bike. T-boned a car that pulled in front of him. He was pretty banged up. Had been to the chiropractor earlier. I told him about my similar accident last fall. His collar bone is dislocated and will need to be set back in place later in the week. Lots of orange and purple bruising evident. He knew of Allie as the – then made piano-playing motions. “Yep. That’s her.” I said.
Allie, Colin and I were going out for Thai, but plans changed last minute as Allie was invited out by several women whose kids she cares for. So we changed our plans. I was invited to David Leander’s house for a grill-out with Colin and the Lithuanian baseballers.
I returned to the apartment for a while and read while enjoying a Tuborg, cheese and knacke. Allie returned from the ball field and announced that she’d finished painting the scoreboard – Hurray! No matter the score, this project completion will be the real victory. I guess we all have our “scoreboards.”
As she rode off to dinner I reconnoitered and learned where the Leanders lived. Planned to walk over later and hand over the baseball supplies. I arrived at 1525 hours. David did not arrive until 1605 hours. I enjoyed the cooling evening temps and watched Josefina, Eleanora, Marcus and Karl play. Freda invited me in, but as several of kids had been sick I opted to stay out of doors. I took some pix as I waited for David to arrive.
When he arrived, I fired up the grill. Out came the burgers, brats, Polish sausages and fixin’s. Hotdogs are contained (when one is eating them) in a flat-bread-non-bun. Very “utile” of those Swedes. No need to force open and possibly tear the traditional bun. Make my hotdog bun a Swedish flat bread. We ate everything on the grill. Colin and the Lithuanians went back to the AC. David and I went inside. He put the kids to bed. I did the dishes. I think American dishwashers have better dish racks than Swedish ones. So there.
David and I sat and talked politics, economics, theology, family, his time in the US, and putting kids to bed. I headed back to the apartment at 2225 hours. Fell asleep on the couch waiting for Allie.
I woke up on the same couch at midnight. No Allie. Checked outside for her bike. No bike. Checked the AC. No one there. Got my Blackberry with her phone number, but it does not work here. Tried to find a phone in the AC. None. Tried to get on Skype and call her, but the internet was down. Checked back at the apartment. Still no Allie. Starting to freak a bit. Determined to go back to Leanders to see if they knew where Allie was. I headed over and was walking down the sidewalk when I heard the distinctive sound of a VW van. Saw two headlights approaching. It was a VW van. Freda was driving and had both Caroline and Allie. Felt foolish, a bit angry and gratefully relieved. All my fears compounded by the European detective shows on PBS.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
I slept poorly last night. Wound up from waiting / looking for Allie I suppose. Alarm sounded at 0630 hours. Rolled over for another 1:15 of sleep before Allie woke me. I got up quickly and went to the AC for a men’s breakfast. David Bergmark, David Leander, Colin, Jonatan, and Jonatan’s father, Sune were present. Enjoyed toast and cheese, cereal with yogurt (!?) poured over, and coffee. Sune invited Allie and me to go to Granna for the day along with his wife, Karin. Very good. Great weather again.
Allie and I next went to the ball field and affixed the Tranas Angels placard on the scoreboard. Checked email and saw I had some work-related follow up. Will do later. Sune and Karin picked us up at about 1130 hours. We traveled about 50 km through beautiful country side to Granna, along Lake Vattern. One of Sweden’s deepest lakes. Very narrow. Runs north-south. Went to many shops. A “summer” town. Notable shops were Polkagris where peppermint candies were made by hand and Knacke, where delicious flat bread is made (also sold weekly in Tranas Square).
Another notable attraction is the Polar Museum in honor of Andrees who flew in a hot air balloon to the Arctic Circle and crashed there. He was not able to be rescued, or to extract himself from the situation. He did, apparently, manage to snap a picture which was found amongst his belongings and is spattered cross all kinds of souvenirs.
We then climbed 300 step stair case up to a scenic overlook with a picnic fika. Beautiful vista overlooking Grannas and Lake Vattern. All the while having very good conversation with Sune regarding church, theology, trial and suffering (he lost a son last winter, who committed suicide), economics, politics, work (he’s in the printing / publishing business). We descended back down to town and rode to the lake side Ferry port. We boarded the ferry to the island of Visingso. Saw ruins from 1300’s. Walked and talked some more. Back on the ferry and to Granna. We took a different route back to Tranas through more beautiful farmland, past woods and lake. Saw what is believed to be the largest remaining wooden castle.
Our plans for dinner out were postponed again, as Allie felt a bit under the weather. Instead will have dinner at the AC with Colin and Caroline. I rode my bike to Statoil for eggs, beer and also tried an appetizer-burger (took the edge off). Rode back up to the apartment and relaxed a while.
I grabbed a shower and went to dinner at the AC. Afterward, I checked email, tried to upload pix. Did not work, so will try later. Took a nap on the couch until we were able to reach home via Skype. Talked with Ginny, Gracie, Gifford, Calvin and Alice. Great to see them and hear their voices, see their mannerisms, see the backdrop of our room – really missing the fan. Thought Alice looked wonderful – great to see her. At 2000 hours, the internet cut off. Grrr. Went back to the apartment and read a while. Was tired enough to fall asleep pretty quickly.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Woke to alarm at 0630 hours. Bam! Back to sleep until 0800 hours. Got up very groggily. My hair had a huge pillow-wave. I looked like Big Boy. Found cereal and yogurt. Freshened up. Made coffee.
Allie and I rode down to Tranas to the Metodist Kyrkan. Allie did a sound check. Met Colin. Practiced piano and guitar tunes.
The church is a red brick, classic style church. Copper roof has turned green. Interior is high-ceilinged, arched. Huge mural at front (behind pulpit) of a saint and an angel both standing above and outside the Heavenly City. A good reminder we seek that Heavenly City.
The hymn numbers are hung inside an ornate frame to the left of the pulpit. There is another identical frame to the right, but it has no numbers hung in it. Turns out it’s a HVAC air return. Funny. Sneaky church architecture.
Sermon was in Swedish, I phonetically worked through the hymns. I’d been given an English abridgement which I read during the sermon. Allie played the prelude, but as the organist was present, she did not have to play for the hymns. She sat with Josefina Leander. David Leander preached. The sermon was from 1 Peter 4 – Having the same mind as Christ. After the sermon, a hymn was begun of which we sang all but the last stanza. At this point the offering was collected and prayer was offered. Then we sang the concluding stanza. Matters for prayer were mentioned, and intercession was made by David Bergmark. The benediction was pronounced, and all were dismissed. Most folk headed up to a fellowship hall where fika was served. I was discouraged from taking two cookies (two very small cookies) – lagom. Good coffee.
I met several more names I’d heard of over the months and many of the kids. Also another David (the third one so far) who is on the baseball team – a Swede from Tranas, his fiancé, Natasha – from Cape Town, South Africa, Stacy Bergmark – born and raised around Atlanta and in Sweden for 9 years. Adults gathered for study of Hebrews 10. Kids scattered for Sunday school.
Allie and I rode back to the apartment via the river and lakefront. Beautiful. Stopped several times for pictures.
Back at the apartment, we assembled a chicken, sausage, rice, bok-choi, skillet dish with couscous, knacke and cheese as sides. Colin and Jonatan joined us. Good conversation had. Moved to back patio for coffee and dessert.
Allie and Caroline prepped a meal for after the evening service and we headed back to town. Allie and Colin tuned and warmed up for a 1730 hours start. Some different faces were present than at the a.m. service. Sune and Karin Jaderberg were there, as well as Andreas’ parents in law. Both very warm couples. Karin seems to take a very comforting shine to Allie, for which she is grateful (as am I). The sermon was from Matthew 1 and Luke 1 – the topic being the Virgin Birth. The evening theme of late has been the Apostles’ Creed. We sang several hymn whose tunes were familiar, but (as with a.m. service) whose Swedish lyrics I butchered. I finally resorted to using English a bit subtly.
We had dinner at the Bergmark’s home, just next door to the church. Conversations mostly in Swedish. Allie and Colin seem very able to comprehend most of what is said. We moved into the living room after dinner for discussion from “What Is A Healthy Church Member?” General trajectory of conversation to do with members’ ability to speak with evangelical accuracy and precision with opportunities present. Important that our speaking to / offering the gospel not be so watered down or rushed that we fail to present gospel essentials. We sang several songs with Colin playing guitar.
Rode back to the apartment in dimming dusk.
Once home, Allie and I went over to the old church location, in the same apartment building she lives in. Uploaded Facebook pix, checked email and Skyped with Em and Gin. Used Allie’s MacIn-Toy, to do both, so at one pint Brie rang in on Skype, thinking I was Allie. I wrote that ‘twas I, that I was in Sweden visiting Allie, and that I was using her laptop. Told her I’m sure Allie will be sorry to have missed her. She replied she hoped I’d have a great visit.
I got back to the apartment 12 midnight-ish. Read a while. Had a few olives, glass of milk. Then to bed.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Woke up with alarm at 0630 hours. Killed the sound. Went back to bed until 0830. Got up and had toast with Allie. Went to the AC to check email and uploaded pix to Facebook. Colin arrived and made us both an excellent cup of coffee.
At 0930, Allie and I headed across the complex to do some apartment cleaning. This was a veritable Merry Maids D-Day Invasion. We dusted, scrubbed, cleaned windows, straightened, organized, mopped, vacuumed, swept and collected all the trash. She had spent quite a few hours earlier last week on the same project, and we just about completed things. Had to leave at 1100 hours to prepare a picnic lunch and catch the 1147 train to Linkoping (Lin-Sher-Ping). Got lunch ready and rode to the Tranås station. Got there just as train pulled away. Hmm. No problem. Rode to Tranås River and picnicked there. Sun had given way to overcast skies, but not unpleasant. We then rode to the station only to learn that there was not a 1247 train. No problem. Poked around Tranås shops until 1347, and purchased some souvenirs. We were successful catching the train this time, and were on our way to Linkoping.
The ride lasted about 40 minutes, making stops in Boxholm, Mjolby, Mantorp, Vikingstad and then Linkoping. Each town was interesting to look at as we approached and sat a while. Some had well-defined neighborhoods on the outskirts, some had small or sizeable factories or warehousing businesses. None were so large that they weren’t dwarfed by their natural surroundings.
We boarded the city bus and rode to Old Town (Gamla) Linkoping, where we spent two hours or so walking the historic cobbled streets. Some shops were open. Bought gifts at a couple shops. Had delicious pastry and coffee at a café and enjoyed both outside. The sun had reclaimed the sky. Went into the woodcraft shop, the chocolate shop, and saw an ornate outdoor bowling alley - cooler than White Sulphur Springs (sorry, Rick). A lot of very interesting landscaping, exterior colors and archi-texture.
We took the bus back Linkoping center city and walked around some more. Looked at shops: cheese shop, Game Stop (!), a bike shop that caters to the college population and sells studded snow tires for riding on snow and ice, Allie’s ballet class destination (with one of her young charges), the Dom Kyrkan, St. Lars Church - (1802), with a 12th century tower, the Concert Hall, several interesting sculptures / sculpture gardens.
We ate at a Greek restaurant that Allie had been to previously. Actually ordered take-away and ate dinner sitting on a huge cheese-round shaped stone outside St. Lars Church. People watched until it was time to go to the station.
Boarded the train back to Tranås and were joined by Caroline, whose classes had ended that day. I slept most of the way back. We got our bikes and rode off-back to the apartment. As we approached Lidl, Allie and Caroline took a by-path under blossom laden trees and grabbed handfuls of petals. I stayed on the main bike path and passed them. I continued up the hill from Lidl and realized at the top that they had not come around the bend. I waited and then rode back down the hill. They had gone into to Lidl and their bikes were outside. So, I moved both bikes out of sight around the corner. I rode to the edge of the parking lot and waited for them to appear. When they came out and detected their bikes were missing, their confused reactions and alarm were very funny. I snapped a picture (with the last juice left in my camera battery). Only which it had been a close up, or that I’d been able to shoot video. We shared the laughs and rode home.
Went to the AC to check email and upload pix. Skyped home and talked to Alice, Calvin, Gracie, Gifford and Caleb. Glad to hear the air conditioner was working, as temperatures back home had climbed into the 80s. I told the kids I’d found a candy that would easily rival any Warhead. They can’t wait!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Learned that many churches in Sweden have summer lakefront homes and move all their corporate activities there during the summer months. Cool.
I rode into town this morning to pick up come hooks that we’ll use to hang the scoreboard numbers. My first solo venture into town for purposes of commerce. I stopped for coffee and buns at Statoil on the way back.
I found Allie back over at “Apartment Normandy” (as in the invasion), and we continued cleaning for another two-and-a-half hours. Windows mostly. Big job. Most windows were braced from opening far enough to clean the outside. Bad form to let kids fall out 5th story windows. Reasonable, I guess. Each “sash” is hinged on the side so as to swing open, and is composed of two panes of glass sandwiched together. Each window was (mostly) two sashes – one about a meter across and the other about a foot across. Some windows had a large sash and two smaller sashes. Each sash was to be unlatched and opened so that both inside and outside surfaces could be cleaned. In one apartment, most of the windows also had Venetian blinds clipped in place, which impeded the windows from swinging open. These blinds had to be taken down first – later had to be re-hung. The clips holding the blinds in were very stiff and difficult to open. For all her gifts, at 5’-5”, Allie couldn’t reach them, and I could barely open them. I used a table spoon handle to pry them open. We broke briefly for lunch, before continuing the window washing. Also straightened several multi-occupant (and it showed) kids rooms turning each room’s utter chaos into smaller piles of categorized chaos. Done. Left for ball field.
At the ball field we put up hooks on which the number signs will be hung. The drill didn’t work, so I used a concrete drill bit and a rock, and pounded starter holes. I was able to twist in the hooks. Colin was moving logs around at the edge of the outfield. I next went back to the AC where David Leander had dropped off his corded drill, and drilled holes in the tops of each number placard.
Before dinner, I checked email, and uploaded more pix.
Dinner was at Caroline’s. She prepared a whole wheat pasta with a coating of olive oil, feta cheese, pear and zucchini bits. Very tasty. Colin and Jonatan joined. Good conversation. Lots of laughter.
I had to stop by the AC to gather up my things. Skyped with Alice before leaving. On my way out, I heard odd little grunting sounds coming from a bush. On closer inspection, two hedgehogs were . . . arguing? Weird. My maiden hedgehog sighting. Went back to the apartment and read until I fell asleep.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
This morning my alarm did not sound. Blackberry battery had run out of juice. I awoke at 0705 hours. Got up and read a while. 2 Samuel 16-19. Very sad account of Absolom’s treason against his father. Though he sought to kill David and take his kingdom forcibly, David grieved for his son and loved him deeply. I think I am too easily offended by my sons’ occasional nuisances.
Allie and I had coffee at the AC, before heading off with Colin to the Metodist Kyrkan for a weekly prayer meeting led by David Leander. At these gatherings, adults from the Stoerydskyrkan and the Metodist Kyrkan gather for devotions from the Upper Room. Today’s text was Isaiah 55 – God’s grace is a free gift; buy it without money. Curiously sad that so many will take many things that are free, but are not so inclined to receive God’s grace through Christ.
All in Swedish, but lively, interested, attentive discussion. Next prayed. Was impressed with the Swedes’ prayers – passionate, thankful (“Vi tacka du Herren . . .”), imploring – very moving. Following this, we had fika. Most discussion was in Swedish, but occasional topics in English included seatbelt laws (David Leander was fined twice in two months last year for not wearing his seatbelt – 1,500 Kronas each time), leaving children behind accidentally.
Allie and Colin were watching and playing with the little ones. Allie was impressive to watch. Seems to tackle everything thrown at her. Speaks Svenska, plays piano for church and for little ones, does seemingly lowly tasks with a calm determination, juggles a very busy agenda from day to day – each day slightly different from the others.
David Bergmark gave me my Sunday evening exhortation notes back with suggestions. Will be helpful as I plan to edit things down this evening.
I had lunch with Allie, Colin, and Jonatan at Shalom Pizza and Kebab. I was directed to order the Gyro Pizza with strong sauce and onions. BIG portion. Very tasty. Certain to taste again later.
In Sweden, most bottles are recycled. You take them to a local grocery store and feed them into a machine that scans a bar code which equates to a refund amount. When you’re done putting the bottles into the machine, you push a button, and receive a receipt that is turned in for cash. I took the receipt, and went to the cashier. I handed it to her and she looked at me oddly. “Aren’t you going to buy anything?” I said, “No – just wanted the pant experience.” I did give the 5 Kronas to Allie who used it to buy some groceries.
I went to the city tourism shop and got a t-shirt for one of the kids. I settled next at the Skaffereit for coffee and laptop time. Done with that, I inquired “Var ar toalett?”. “Uppfor” was the reply. So I went upstairs and came to a door for dwarves. Undaunted, I found another taller doorway with “toilette” on the door. Ureka!
Much relieved, I went back downstairs and walked up the street to Systembolaget, the town ABC store (literally “liquor store”). Wandered around and saw both familiar labels and foreign, as well as Sweden-ized versions of familiar labels. Wine, beer, cider (Alice would have been duly impressed), distilled spirits and non-alcoholic versions. A very colorful store. Didn’t feel so far away when I spotted Miller and Budweiser. Left with a one liter box of Aussie Chardonnay, a one liter box of South African Shiraz-Merlot-Cabernet blend, and a Swedish 6.9% brew: Mariestad Old Ox. Wandered past the town shops back toward the apartment, poking around in several.
I headed back to Allie’s and enjoyed the walk. There is a tire shop on the way that deals in big tires. The name of the business is gummi (rubber) verkstad (workplace). The roads are thick with large trucks and tractors that use these tires. Tractors with front end loaders, tractors pulling flat trailers, delivery trucks, semi-trailer trucks, and tandem trucks hauling huge logs (all huge and strait as rails). This time of year, now that the snow has melted, all the sand that was spread for traction has been deposited on the roads, bike paths, and sidewalks. People walking and cars rolling produce a distinct crunch, crunch, crunch sound, and a significant sand sweeping effort is underway. In the week that I’ve been here, they have all been virtually swept clean. This town shines up pretty good.
When I arrived back at Allie’s a note told me she’d gone to the ball field. I rode over and found lots of activity taking place. Little leaguers were practicing, Allie was mowing the grass outside the fence, and Colin was pitching to young batters. I took over mowing from Allie and she raked and picked up flotsam and jetsam, and other odds and ends that will fuel a bonfire. Bonfires on April 30 are a spring tradition. April 30 is Walpuris Night (Valborgsmässoafton). This is the birthday of King Carl XVI Gustaf (the present Monarch) and the eve of the feast or St. Walburga, when university students and former students gather in from of bonfires all over Sweden to sing songs welcoming spring. They wear the white student caps with black visors. More often than not it is sleeting and rainy, but the forecast tomorrow is promising.
When I was done mowing, I dragged some old carpet to the bonfire, and then ran around in the outfield chasing balls that got past junior infielders. Allie and I then walked back to the apartment for a quiet evening and leftovers at some point.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sweden - Entry 1
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
T-Minus one day ‘til Sweden. Getting packed. Concerned the luggage would be excessively heavy. Felt that way. We put the scale in the kitchen, and I stepped on to get my weight. 235-ish. Picked up each suitcase and then stepped back onto the scale. Each very close to 50#. We’ll see at the airport.
I ran errands in the morning. Picked up a few electrical outlet adaptors / converters and some case for the Currency Exchange. When I was out, Allie called me via Skype and we had a nice chat. She gave me a few pointers about getting the bus from Arlanda to Stockholm’s train station. She made several suggestions about where I could go during my layover in Stockholm: Arleans – Sweden’s answer to Harrods; a square whose feature is triangular black and white tiles (and shady drug dealers); and the bridge into Gamla Stan (Old Stockholm).
I later talked with my boss who was pleasant, had no issues and who I told I thought I’d be able to be reached by email as I’d had T-Mobile activate the International Email add on. She dismissed that and said she intended not to bother me. I thanked her for permitting me to swap around some mandated (earlier) vacation time off. She said I’d done a lot for her, that I knew that, and she was happy to approve the time off. A nice and welcome affirmation.
Dashing to Dulles
We left the airport later than I’d hoped. A lot was going on that day, including the kids’ Cedarbrook Academy picnic. We also had to take Caleb by Fairlands so he could get to work on time (in this case, 2 hours early). I’m afraid I let my angst over this show. Alice seemed tense (sorry for that, dearie), but Caleb and I hugged warmly at Fairlands and off we went to Dulles. Traffic was very light and we made good time.
At the airport, one bag was under 50# (23 kg.), and one was over. Removed one book and my dopp kit and re-weighed it. Still a bit over, but the agent let it slide. So, the 22 pairs of baseball pants, the 34 inch Louisville Slugger ash model 110 baseball bat, the three pair of batting gloves, the two bottles of pine tar and pine tar rag, the one dozen dimpled yellow “Jugs” pitching machine baseballs, and the commemorative plaque made at Dottie's Trophies in Laurel, Maryland, a bottle each of A-1 and Worcestershire sauce, two jars of Skippy peanut butter, two tubes of Arm and Hammer Baking Soda toothpaste, two large bags of semi-sweet dark chocolate chips, and two Scottish Festival CDs were on their way to Sweden. Oh, and also my things.
At the Currency Exchange, I bought 4,900 Swedish Kronas – a special running that will permit me to turn in any unused for no fee, and also lowered my service charge.
Emily met us (me, Alice, and Calvin) at Harry’s Tap Room, and we shared a toast prior to my going to Security. It was all too soon time to go. We all kissed and hugged and I went and got in line.
I went through Security. Oy! The dopp kit! I didn’t fit all my 3 ounce liquid containers into the G.I. 1 quart Ziploc bag! What was I thinking? My boots were subjected to further examination. They were deemed fit to board and fly. All this rushing made me hungry, so I ate a sub at Potbelly, accompanied by Pennsylvania’s finest brewed refresher – Yuengling. Yum.
Boarded a 747. Wow! Big plane. Wow! Small seats. Hard, too. Jealous of the business classers who stretched out in front of their personal seat back video screens. Now, now.
Airborne
Take off uneventful. Amazing that something as big as a 747 can fly. God's physical and aerodynamic laws at work.
Had a nice “second dinner” accompanied by a nice white wine (I made it out to be a Riesling) X2 and then a cognac a bit later.
Took off at 1816 EST. Set my watch “Time 2” to CET: 0116.
Nodded off for a little over an hour and awoke to find I’d missed “happy time.” My seat mate had disposed of a Pauliner as I napped. On the house. Wow.
At three hours, my row emptied for a stretch and a pee. I grabbed my pen, a book, my journal, MP3 player and gum from the overhead.
The audio and video offerings were varied. I was half watching the video monitors, while listing to native Laplander wedding music when what should appear on the screen but Mickey Mouse, Pluto, 101 Dalmatians, Cruella Deville. And the cartoons rolled. Earlier blogged predictions dashed – I did, in fact, encounter Disney on the way to Europe.
Let’s Call It Thursday, April 23, 2009
In between movie (Inklings with Brendan Frasier – in German with English subtitles) and other shorts, the monitors would show via GPS the flight progress. At 0545 CET we were traveling metrically at 972 km / hr, at 11,887 meters altitude, SW of Ireland and passing over the coast of Killarney and Cork. This was 879 miles from Frankfurt (at 603 mph, 39,000 ft. altitude), and it was -70ºF.
At 0615 CET, we were flying over the Great Britain, between Bristol and Plymouth. Speed was 570 mph, distance remaining to Frankfurt was 566 miles. Altitude was 39,000 feet, and the outside temperature was -86ºF. 1:11 flight time remaining. 313 miles flown in 30 minutes. At this time, the morning repast was delivered, and I dined on a granola bar, Monterey jack cheese, fruit cup, a roll, OJ, and coffee. The sky ahead was beginning to lighten noticeably.
Aberystwith was shown on the map, and I prayed for David Dusenbury who is there now.
My eyes burn from no sleep. I have a dull headache, but the coffee seems to have helped.
We’re now over Brighton and Dunkirk. Crossing the English Channel.
Frankfurt Airport
Landed without incident. German countryside from above very interesting and pretty. Heavily wooded around towns and city. Foggy, but burning off in some places. Broken clouds with blue sky in between. Taxied and disembarked at Terminal A. Hoofed it over to Terminal B. Made it in plenty of time. Had to flash passport and go through Security. In Deutschland they don’t make you take off your shoes. It was 0733 CET.
Poked around. Got a chocolate croissant, a Bavarian (I presume) pretzel, and really good cup of coffee, three postcards and a bottle of wasser. I window shopped at the Duty Free. Struck out on Starbucks, so no Frankfurt mug this time. Found a much needed Herren-room where, in addition to typical functions, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, took my vitamins and was considerably more pleasant to be around.
It came time to board, so through the gate I went. Down the switchback stairs. Onto the sidewalk and onto . . . a waiting bus(?!). The bus hauled us ten minutes back to the same terminal at which I’d arrived. I saw my very same 747. I walked 2 miles to Gate B-12. Then, rode 2 miles back to Gate A-something. We got off the bus, walked across the tarmac, and climbed the steps to board the plane. So much for German efficiency.
Took off without incident. 30 minutes into flight, the food service began. Choices were ham or cheese sandwiches on a long narrow soft pretzel. Tasty. Beverage choices included “still water” – not carbonated, as well as bier. I didn’t fulfill my plan of having a bratwurst and bier while on German soil, as I had a dull headache. But, as I was still in German airspace, I had a Warsteiner in flight. Check the box. Yum.
Passed Hamburg on the port side of plane at 1056 CET. Will be over Copenhagen, Denmark soon.
1105 CET – over the Baltic Sea.
My seat mate is a German lady. She spoke little English. I offered her some of my gum. She passed. Later, she offered (and I accepted) a liquid coffee candy. Yum.
Arrived In Stockholm
We landed safely. I bought some Stockholm souvenirs on my way to baggage claim. Both bags made it. Opened each and determined that they’d both been gone through with no delicacy. The contents of each were a hot mess. But, the A1 and Worcestershire sauce were intact, as was all the baseball stuff.
I found my way to customs and walked right out. No stops. No issues. I might have been heard mumbling “I’m invisible. I’m invisible. I’m invisible.”
I located the Flygbussaran and traveled to Stockholm. The country side was pretty. Lots of birch trees and rocks. Boulders of all sizes scattered around 10,000 years ago by hastily departing glaciers. Several stops along the way, but was at the Central Terminal in 45 minutes. The station was impressive, but not quite as pretty as DC’s Union Station or NYC’s Grand Central Terminal. Bigger that DC’s Union Station.
Found the luggage lockers and stowed the two big bags. A lady accidentally let her locker key fall from her hand. It slid into the coin return slot. A million in one chance. I had a small metal ruler that served to rescue the key. That’s right. “Jag heter Chuck Heidel, Amerikansk . . . at your service.”
I went up to the street and made my way to the Gamla Stan. Walked the streets and shops for an hour or so. Chatted with a lady on the way – a Swede who had spent several years in Cooperstown, NY – Hmm. Interesting baseball connection. Had a pistachio glass (ice-cream). Yum. Found a bike shop, but there was nothing worth buying. I talked with the guy a while and “tacked” him as I left.
I saw a wine bar with sidewalk seating. The stools were huge corks. Cool.
Gamla Stan had narrow cobbled streets. Lots of shops, boutiques, cafes, bars, and restaurants. Huge variety of people for watching. Tats, piercings, polychrome hair art, Goths, bicyclists of all ages, and octogenarians pushing wheeled walkers.
I hoofed it back to the station and spotted my train on the scheduling board. Had time. So, I had a beer. Carlberg 5.2%. Yum.
I found an internet café and sent an email to the family, letting them know that I’d made it to Stockholm. Nothing much from work. That’s a good thing.
I got my luggage from the lockers and took the elevator (Sw: “hiss”) down to the concourse level. I snaked my way around to just below my track. The signs to track 12A lead me to the bottom of a flight of stairs with 100# of luggage.. I whirled around somewhat panicked, and spotted an elevator. It was broken. Boo, hiss. In the spirit of Bob Needham’s Italian adventure, I backed up two flights, a step at a time, pulling both suite cases to the top. Hogged 2/3 of the width of the flight of stairs. The Swedish tour guides are correct. No one got upset – they just thought upsetting things.
As the train pulled in, I realized I was in Car 13. Standing at wrong end of platform. I humped it down the platform to the other end, nearly plowing through bystanders and innocents. Got to the car. Heaved both bags onto the train and grabbed a seat. Shortly after, a very nice Swedish lady appeared and informed me I was in her seat. Oops. Sure enough. My seat was reserved and was at the other end of the car. I moved. The conductor scanned my ticket and told me Mjolby would be the fourth stop. I’ll need to pay attention.
En Route to Tranas
I nodded off for 45 minutes, but awoke to stunning scenery flashing by. Thick pine and birch stands, rough and rocky boulder deposits, outcroppings and “plops.” Farms and fields just ploughed. Homes along the way were all interestingly colored. Red, mustard yellow, sea foam green, burgundy. Each level’s exterior was painted in alternating colors. Building material richly textured. Stucco, corrugated metal, ceramic tiles. Beautiful tree-lined lakes with docks, swim-dive platforms (for the last week in August when the water temperature rises to 68ºF, before freezing solid again on September 1), fishing piers, boat slips, and boat houses.
I arrived at Mjolby (pronounced Mule-bee) on schedule and had 30 minutes to kill. Grabbed a hot dog and Diet Coke. Mjolby is a quaint town. Bikes all over. Wanted to try the Pizza-Kebab place across the street, but not enough time, and too much luggage. Oh well – perhaps both too American.
From Mjolby, I rode a commuter rail line through Boxholm to Tranas. I sat next to a young woman with a pram and baby. Another passenger was a guy with long blonde hair (as had the woman). I thought they were a couple. At Boxholm, she got off. He went on to Tranas. He wore a pink paisley scarf like an ascot. “Dude!” I said . . . . Kidding! I said nothing.
Allie met me at Tranas. Great to see her. We hugged a long moment. I said “Well, this is weird.” She replied, “Tell me about it.” We laughed.
David Leander brought his VW van. We loaded the bags in the van and toodled off to the apartment complex. David’s daughter Josefina and son Ewan were along for the ride. Both very cute. Blonde. Neither said a word. I gave David the Louisville Slugger. We decided we’d hand off the other goods later.
Allie had made a delicious stew and we paired that with flatbread (knacke), cheese and butter. A good time to chat and catch up. I told her about my journey: the hard 747 seats, the excellent cabin service, time spent in Frankfurt airport, the lady on the plan to Stockholm. She told me of her plans and to-dos in the week ahead.
After dinner, we walked to the ball field where the tournament will be May 1 and 2. The scoreboard is erected and is being painted. A lot of hard work over the years clearing the field of trees and rocks, planting grass and manicuring it. The back fence is a perimeter of fallen logs. Here's the play by play announcer Sven Svenson (imagine Muppets' Swedish Chef inflections): Here's the pitch . . . it's a hit . . . it’s a long one . . . oh my . . . it's, it's, it’s over the . . . log! Must allow for cultural differences.
We went to the Activity Center (the AC) and did some email. Two Lithuanians were there. They’re on David Leander’s baseball team. Colin arrived – good to meet him. He’s Allie’s fellow intern. An hour or so later we went back to the apartment. I was hungry, so had some cheese and knacke, with blackberry jam and milk. Yum.
I brushed my teeth and went to bed at 2230. Had been up 36 hours. Fell right to sleep.
T-Minus one day ‘til Sweden. Getting packed. Concerned the luggage would be excessively heavy. Felt that way. We put the scale in the kitchen, and I stepped on to get my weight. 235-ish. Picked up each suitcase and then stepped back onto the scale. Each very close to 50#. We’ll see at the airport.
I ran errands in the morning. Picked up a few electrical outlet adaptors / converters and some case for the Currency Exchange. When I was out, Allie called me via Skype and we had a nice chat. She gave me a few pointers about getting the bus from Arlanda to Stockholm’s train station. She made several suggestions about where I could go during my layover in Stockholm: Arleans – Sweden’s answer to Harrods; a square whose feature is triangular black and white tiles (and shady drug dealers); and the bridge into Gamla Stan (Old Stockholm).
I later talked with my boss who was pleasant, had no issues and who I told I thought I’d be able to be reached by email as I’d had T-Mobile activate the International Email add on. She dismissed that and said she intended not to bother me. I thanked her for permitting me to swap around some mandated (earlier) vacation time off. She said I’d done a lot for her, that I knew that, and she was happy to approve the time off. A nice and welcome affirmation.
Dashing to Dulles
We left the airport later than I’d hoped. A lot was going on that day, including the kids’ Cedarbrook Academy picnic. We also had to take Caleb by Fairlands so he could get to work on time (in this case, 2 hours early). I’m afraid I let my angst over this show. Alice seemed tense (sorry for that, dearie), but Caleb and I hugged warmly at Fairlands and off we went to Dulles. Traffic was very light and we made good time.
At the airport, one bag was under 50# (23 kg.), and one was over. Removed one book and my dopp kit and re-weighed it. Still a bit over, but the agent let it slide. So, the 22 pairs of baseball pants, the 34 inch Louisville Slugger ash model 110 baseball bat, the three pair of batting gloves, the two bottles of pine tar and pine tar rag, the one dozen dimpled yellow “Jugs” pitching machine baseballs, and the commemorative plaque made at Dottie's Trophies in Laurel, Maryland, a bottle each of A-1 and Worcestershire sauce, two jars of Skippy peanut butter, two tubes of Arm and Hammer Baking Soda toothpaste, two large bags of semi-sweet dark chocolate chips, and two Scottish Festival CDs were on their way to Sweden. Oh, and also my things.
At the Currency Exchange, I bought 4,900 Swedish Kronas – a special running that will permit me to turn in any unused for no fee, and also lowered my service charge.
Emily met us (me, Alice, and Calvin) at Harry’s Tap Room, and we shared a toast prior to my going to Security. It was all too soon time to go. We all kissed and hugged and I went and got in line.
I went through Security. Oy! The dopp kit! I didn’t fit all my 3 ounce liquid containers into the G.I. 1 quart Ziploc bag! What was I thinking? My boots were subjected to further examination. They were deemed fit to board and fly. All this rushing made me hungry, so I ate a sub at Potbelly, accompanied by Pennsylvania’s finest brewed refresher – Yuengling. Yum.
Boarded a 747. Wow! Big plane. Wow! Small seats. Hard, too. Jealous of the business classers who stretched out in front of their personal seat back video screens. Now, now.
Airborne
Take off uneventful. Amazing that something as big as a 747 can fly. God's physical and aerodynamic laws at work.
Had a nice “second dinner” accompanied by a nice white wine (I made it out to be a Riesling) X2 and then a cognac a bit later.
Took off at 1816 EST. Set my watch “Time 2” to CET: 0116.
Nodded off for a little over an hour and awoke to find I’d missed “happy time.” My seat mate had disposed of a Pauliner as I napped. On the house. Wow.
At three hours, my row emptied for a stretch and a pee. I grabbed my pen, a book, my journal, MP3 player and gum from the overhead.
The audio and video offerings were varied. I was half watching the video monitors, while listing to native Laplander wedding music when what should appear on the screen but Mickey Mouse, Pluto, 101 Dalmatians, Cruella Deville. And the cartoons rolled. Earlier blogged predictions dashed – I did, in fact, encounter Disney on the way to Europe.
Let’s Call It Thursday, April 23, 2009
In between movie (Inklings with Brendan Frasier – in German with English subtitles) and other shorts, the monitors would show via GPS the flight progress. At 0545 CET we were traveling metrically at 972 km / hr, at 11,887 meters altitude, SW of Ireland and passing over the coast of Killarney and Cork. This was 879 miles from Frankfurt (at 603 mph, 39,000 ft. altitude), and it was -70ºF.
At 0615 CET, we were flying over the Great Britain, between Bristol and Plymouth. Speed was 570 mph, distance remaining to Frankfurt was 566 miles. Altitude was 39,000 feet, and the outside temperature was -86ºF. 1:11 flight time remaining. 313 miles flown in 30 minutes. At this time, the morning repast was delivered, and I dined on a granola bar, Monterey jack cheese, fruit cup, a roll, OJ, and coffee. The sky ahead was beginning to lighten noticeably.
Aberystwith was shown on the map, and I prayed for David Dusenbury who is there now.
My eyes burn from no sleep. I have a dull headache, but the coffee seems to have helped.
We’re now over Brighton and Dunkirk. Crossing the English Channel.
Frankfurt Airport
Landed without incident. German countryside from above very interesting and pretty. Heavily wooded around towns and city. Foggy, but burning off in some places. Broken clouds with blue sky in between. Taxied and disembarked at Terminal A. Hoofed it over to Terminal B. Made it in plenty of time. Had to flash passport and go through Security. In Deutschland they don’t make you take off your shoes. It was 0733 CET.
Poked around. Got a chocolate croissant, a Bavarian (I presume) pretzel, and really good cup of coffee, three postcards and a bottle of wasser. I window shopped at the Duty Free. Struck out on Starbucks, so no Frankfurt mug this time. Found a much needed Herren-room where, in addition to typical functions, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, took my vitamins and was considerably more pleasant to be around.
It came time to board, so through the gate I went. Down the switchback stairs. Onto the sidewalk and onto . . . a waiting bus(?!). The bus hauled us ten minutes back to the same terminal at which I’d arrived. I saw my very same 747. I walked 2 miles to Gate B-12. Then, rode 2 miles back to Gate A-something. We got off the bus, walked across the tarmac, and climbed the steps to board the plane. So much for German efficiency.
Took off without incident. 30 minutes into flight, the food service began. Choices were ham or cheese sandwiches on a long narrow soft pretzel. Tasty. Beverage choices included “still water” – not carbonated, as well as bier. I didn’t fulfill my plan of having a bratwurst and bier while on German soil, as I had a dull headache. But, as I was still in German airspace, I had a Warsteiner in flight. Check the box. Yum.
Passed Hamburg on the port side of plane at 1056 CET. Will be over Copenhagen, Denmark soon.
1105 CET – over the Baltic Sea.
My seat mate is a German lady. She spoke little English. I offered her some of my gum. She passed. Later, she offered (and I accepted) a liquid coffee candy. Yum.
Arrived In Stockholm
We landed safely. I bought some Stockholm souvenirs on my way to baggage claim. Both bags made it. Opened each and determined that they’d both been gone through with no delicacy. The contents of each were a hot mess. But, the A1 and Worcestershire sauce were intact, as was all the baseball stuff.
I found my way to customs and walked right out. No stops. No issues. I might have been heard mumbling “I’m invisible. I’m invisible. I’m invisible.”
I located the Flygbussaran and traveled to Stockholm. The country side was pretty. Lots of birch trees and rocks. Boulders of all sizes scattered around 10,000 years ago by hastily departing glaciers. Several stops along the way, but was at the Central Terminal in 45 minutes. The station was impressive, but not quite as pretty as DC’s Union Station or NYC’s Grand Central Terminal. Bigger that DC’s Union Station.
Found the luggage lockers and stowed the two big bags. A lady accidentally let her locker key fall from her hand. It slid into the coin return slot. A million in one chance. I had a small metal ruler that served to rescue the key. That’s right. “Jag heter Chuck Heidel, Amerikansk . . . at your service.”
I went up to the street and made my way to the Gamla Stan. Walked the streets and shops for an hour or so. Chatted with a lady on the way – a Swede who had spent several years in Cooperstown, NY – Hmm. Interesting baseball connection. Had a pistachio glass (ice-cream). Yum. Found a bike shop, but there was nothing worth buying. I talked with the guy a while and “tacked” him as I left.
I saw a wine bar with sidewalk seating. The stools were huge corks. Cool.
Gamla Stan had narrow cobbled streets. Lots of shops, boutiques, cafes, bars, and restaurants. Huge variety of people for watching. Tats, piercings, polychrome hair art, Goths, bicyclists of all ages, and octogenarians pushing wheeled walkers.
I hoofed it back to the station and spotted my train on the scheduling board. Had time. So, I had a beer. Carlberg 5.2%. Yum.
I found an internet café and sent an email to the family, letting them know that I’d made it to Stockholm. Nothing much from work. That’s a good thing.
I got my luggage from the lockers and took the elevator (Sw: “hiss”) down to the concourse level. I snaked my way around to just below my track. The signs to track 12A lead me to the bottom of a flight of stairs with 100# of luggage.. I whirled around somewhat panicked, and spotted an elevator. It was broken. Boo, hiss. In the spirit of Bob Needham’s Italian adventure, I backed up two flights, a step at a time, pulling both suite cases to the top. Hogged 2/3 of the width of the flight of stairs. The Swedish tour guides are correct. No one got upset – they just thought upsetting things.
As the train pulled in, I realized I was in Car 13. Standing at wrong end of platform. I humped it down the platform to the other end, nearly plowing through bystanders and innocents. Got to the car. Heaved both bags onto the train and grabbed a seat. Shortly after, a very nice Swedish lady appeared and informed me I was in her seat. Oops. Sure enough. My seat was reserved and was at the other end of the car. I moved. The conductor scanned my ticket and told me Mjolby would be the fourth stop. I’ll need to pay attention.
En Route to Tranas
I nodded off for 45 minutes, but awoke to stunning scenery flashing by. Thick pine and birch stands, rough and rocky boulder deposits, outcroppings and “plops.” Farms and fields just ploughed. Homes along the way were all interestingly colored. Red, mustard yellow, sea foam green, burgundy. Each level’s exterior was painted in alternating colors. Building material richly textured. Stucco, corrugated metal, ceramic tiles. Beautiful tree-lined lakes with docks, swim-dive platforms (for the last week in August when the water temperature rises to 68ºF, before freezing solid again on September 1), fishing piers, boat slips, and boat houses.
I arrived at Mjolby (pronounced Mule-bee) on schedule and had 30 minutes to kill. Grabbed a hot dog and Diet Coke. Mjolby is a quaint town. Bikes all over. Wanted to try the Pizza-Kebab place across the street, but not enough time, and too much luggage. Oh well – perhaps both too American.
From Mjolby, I rode a commuter rail line through Boxholm to Tranas. I sat next to a young woman with a pram and baby. Another passenger was a guy with long blonde hair (as had the woman). I thought they were a couple. At Boxholm, she got off. He went on to Tranas. He wore a pink paisley scarf like an ascot. “Dude!” I said . . . . Kidding! I said nothing.
Allie met me at Tranas. Great to see her. We hugged a long moment. I said “Well, this is weird.” She replied, “Tell me about it.” We laughed.
David Leander brought his VW van. We loaded the bags in the van and toodled off to the apartment complex. David’s daughter Josefina and son Ewan were along for the ride. Both very cute. Blonde. Neither said a word. I gave David the Louisville Slugger. We decided we’d hand off the other goods later.
Allie had made a delicious stew and we paired that with flatbread (knacke), cheese and butter. A good time to chat and catch up. I told her about my journey: the hard 747 seats, the excellent cabin service, time spent in Frankfurt airport, the lady on the plan to Stockholm. She told me of her plans and to-dos in the week ahead.
After dinner, we walked to the ball field where the tournament will be May 1 and 2. The scoreboard is erected and is being painted. A lot of hard work over the years clearing the field of trees and rocks, planting grass and manicuring it. The back fence is a perimeter of fallen logs. Here's the play by play announcer Sven Svenson (imagine Muppets' Swedish Chef inflections): Here's the pitch . . . it's a hit . . . it’s a long one . . . oh my . . . it's, it's, it’s over the . . . log! Must allow for cultural differences.
We went to the Activity Center (the AC) and did some email. Two Lithuanians were there. They’re on David Leander’s baseball team. Colin arrived – good to meet him. He’s Allie’s fellow intern. An hour or so later we went back to the apartment. I was hungry, so had some cheese and knacke, with blackberry jam and milk. Yum.
I brushed my teeth and went to bed at 2230. Had been up 36 hours. Fell right to sleep.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Beställningsbekräftelse (Order Confirmation)
I'm going to Europe next week.
Was sort of there once before . . . the year Epcot opened. Well, now I have a real opportunity and don't expect I'll see any evidence of Disney.
Going to Sweden, land of Sven the Normal (and architypal) Swede, lagom and jantelagen, where my daughter, Allie, has been (except for a visit home for the holidays and real day-long sun). In anticipation, I've obtained two of Berlitz's finest: the Swedish Phrase Book and Dictionary, and the Swedish-English Dictionary (a.k.a. Engelsk-Svensk Ordbok). I'm working through my home made flash cards and can say several mispronouced (no doubt) Swedish things, including "Hi," "My name is . . . ." "I don't speak Swedish," and "with ice." Clearly, I'm all set.
I should arrive in Stockholm via Frankfurt on April 23, at 12:35 p.m. CET. Once there, I plan to spend several hours wandering concentrically around the Stockholm Central Rail Station, findng mid-day sustenance while attempting to tala (speak) with Swedes. Imagining this, I keep picturing Archie Bunker's conversations with Meat Head the son in law. Lots of noise, little understanding, and great insult. My hopefulness remains buoyed as I know that the vast majority of Swedes speak very good English, so I can always stammer "Ha, ha - just kidding! I'm an American!" as I block their head and body blows. After several afternoon hours in Stockholm, I plan to board a train for Tranas, where Allie lives.
Well last night, I booked my train ticket on the Engelksa version of the www.sj.se website (Ah . . . Engelska - very accommodating of those Swedes). As promised (in English), I received a link via email, telling me where I could go to print my ticket. I entered the URL and found myself suddently very lost. I stared for several minutes at a website user interface coated (labeled) with a distinctly non-English alphabetic splat of charcters, polyglot syllables, and punctuation marks, Who'da thought Farenheit's best contribution to science would find its way on top of a lowly letter?.
Yikes! Jag talar inte Svenska! I grabbed the old Berlitz Engelsk-Svensk Ordbok and, over the course of 10 minutes, figured out (guessed, really) which boxes I should check and which buttons I should click to get my ticket to print. Several times I was certain I'd just cancelled my reservation. I believe the selections I made have communciated to the rail boss that I do, in fact, have luggage, want a window seat in the quiet section, and have no need for internet access (at 49 kronos additional).
What a hoot.
Long story short - I have the ticket. All ombord!
Was sort of there once before . . . the year Epcot opened. Well, now I have a real opportunity and don't expect I'll see any evidence of Disney.
Going to Sweden, land of Sven the Normal (and architypal) Swede, lagom and jantelagen, where my daughter, Allie, has been (except for a visit home for the holidays and real day-long sun). In anticipation, I've obtained two of Berlitz's finest: the Swedish Phrase Book and Dictionary, and the Swedish-English Dictionary (a.k.a. Engelsk-Svensk Ordbok). I'm working through my home made flash cards and can say several mispronouced (no doubt) Swedish things, including "Hi," "My name is . . . ." "I don't speak Swedish," and "with ice." Clearly, I'm all set.
I should arrive in Stockholm via Frankfurt on April 23, at 12:35 p.m. CET. Once there, I plan to spend several hours wandering concentrically around the Stockholm Central Rail Station, findng mid-day sustenance while attempting to tala (speak) with Swedes. Imagining this, I keep picturing Archie Bunker's conversations with Meat Head the son in law. Lots of noise, little understanding, and great insult. My hopefulness remains buoyed as I know that the vast majority of Swedes speak very good English, so I can always stammer "Ha, ha - just kidding! I'm an American!" as I block their head and body blows. After several afternoon hours in Stockholm, I plan to board a train for Tranas, where Allie lives.
Well last night, I booked my train ticket on the Engelksa version of the www.sj.se website (Ah . . . Engelska - very accommodating of those Swedes). As promised (in English), I received a link via email, telling me where I could go to print my ticket. I entered the URL and found myself suddently very lost. I stared for several minutes at a website user interface coated (labeled) with a distinctly non-English alphabetic splat of charcters, polyglot syllables, and punctuation marks, Who'da thought Farenheit's best contribution to science would find its way on top of a lowly letter?.
Yikes! Jag talar inte Svenska! I grabbed the old Berlitz Engelsk-Svensk Ordbok and, over the course of 10 minutes, figured out (guessed, really) which boxes I should check and which buttons I should click to get my ticket to print. Several times I was certain I'd just cancelled my reservation. I believe the selections I made have communciated to the rail boss that I do, in fact, have luggage, want a window seat in the quiet section, and have no need for internet access (at 49 kronos additional).
What a hoot.
Long story short - I have the ticket. All ombord!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Charles' Dickie Christmas
He explained that wasn’t real sure how the tradition began, but over the years, enjoying all the commercial glam of Christmas, he and his sisters took additional great pleasure in giving one mean gift at Christmas. Dianne loathed pork rinds, and Sue’s gag reflex took over at the mere mention of mushrooms. He had a rash-causing aversion to dickies. These dislikes were known by all, and they had each honed their ability to leverage them to great effect. Each went to great lengths to be opportunistically mean gift givers.
There was the Christmas Dianne received Li’l Abner Pork Rinds disguised as Eagle Brand Premium chips. Another year, Sue received a stunning pair of dehydrated mushroom earrings presented in a luxurious blue velvet Hartzburg’s jewelry box.
“Why, poppa! Christmas isn’t supposed to be mean!” his little cherub-daughter exclaimed. “Why did you dit a dickie?”
Hearing her question, he was transported back in time . . . .
Charles stood nervously on the edge of the Michigan playground. His dad’s company had moved him from the metropolitan prairies of Shawnee Mission, Kansas – a mid-year move that placed him in a new school setting just before the Christmas holiday break. Trailwood Elementary. Day one. Recess. Clear. Bright sun. Windy. Cold.
A game of tag had sprung up and the primary grade herd stampeded, like so many zebras running from a lion. That lion was Franklin Johns. Big, bad Franklin Johns. The BMSGOC – the Biggest, Meanest Sixth-Grader on Campus.
Tag in the Michigan winter, in between snowfalls, when the snow and ice melted enough for the pavement to reappear was Franklin’s specialty. When he wasn’t limited to merely pelting you with snowballs, he was famous for his speed, agility and vice-grip. In dry conditions, he could catch any one, but he especially targeted schoolmates who wore turtlenecks – Michigan’s de rigueur winter wear and easily accessible even when his victims wore their winter coats.
Now, Franklin was just not very nice. He had four main objectives when in tag-pursuit: Spot a turtleneck. Yank the turtleneck up from behind, then down suddenly over his victim’s head. Smear the hair. And, untuck the shirt’s bottom hem from slacks or skirt.
As the kids scattered, Franklin rocketed toward the Trailwood newbie, espying his royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar. Flat-footed, Charles was no match for Franklin’s intercept speed. Coming from out of the sun with Charles at ten o’clock low, Franklin locked onto the royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar and yanked. Charles’ head disappeared into the fabric sleeve, and he went down like a steer hooked by a bulldogger.
Still in full stride, Franklin assessed the effect of his blitzkrieg attack. Head and face covered? “Check.” Smeared hair? “High probability.” Shirt untucked? “Negative! I say again, ‘Negative!’ Wait! What’s this in my hand? ‘Wing Commander, we have a dickie!’”
Charles’ mother thought dickies were very practical for Michigan winters. But at that moment, as Franklin was joined by a mob of classmate zebras, all gleefully braying, “What the heck? What the heck? Can’t afford a real turtleneck?!?” his faith and trust in his mother was severely shaken.
Over the years, he would warily scan the packages under the tree, wondering which of them would be the decoyed dickie. He was skilled at finding the concealed object of his displeasure. It was always conspicuously light, and silent when shaken. He only mis-guessed one year, when mean Sue crocheted a dickie on a ceramic duck ornament which had been hung weeks earlier on the Christmas tree.
As they worked through their respective piles of gifts, opening each one, Sue’s mushroom earrings, Dianne’s premium pork rinds, and his unveiled dickie were inevitably discovered, and drew predictable laughter from all the family.
The Christmas of the first dickie, as his stack of opened gifts grew, he slipped the dickie out of sight to be destroyed. Later, when no one was looking, he’d burn it, or toss it in the trash. Given parental mandates in force at that time, concerning the proper use of matches and other incendiaries, burning it wasn’t practical. So, into the trash it went. In fact, it wasn’t buried deeply enough in the trash and so Sue would easily retrieve it. He would receive the same dickie the next year and bury it at the bottom of the trash. Sue would still find it, and he would receive the same dickie again the next year. This time, he would hide it in his dresser – back right corner of the sock drawer. He never suspected that his mother was a treasonous double agent, in league with Sue. She was, after all, intimately familiar with his dresser drawers, and kept them stocked on laundry day. Next year, same dickie.
The years passed by. Family members aged and passed on as well. Children were born. Mean-gifting sisters became beloved “Aunties,” and the long-practiced and much refined tradition of mean gift giving seemed to wane.
To this day, however, in anticipation of and at Christmas gatherings, the younger generation still asks for and listens with rapt attention to the pork rind, mushroom and dickie lore secretly hoping at least one package will reveal the famous Christmas Dickie.
There was the Christmas Dianne received Li’l Abner Pork Rinds disguised as Eagle Brand Premium chips. Another year, Sue received a stunning pair of dehydrated mushroom earrings presented in a luxurious blue velvet Hartzburg’s jewelry box.
“Why, poppa! Christmas isn’t supposed to be mean!” his little cherub-daughter exclaimed. “Why did you dit a dickie?”
Hearing her question, he was transported back in time . . . .
Charles stood nervously on the edge of the Michigan playground. His dad’s company had moved him from the metropolitan prairies of Shawnee Mission, Kansas – a mid-year move that placed him in a new school setting just before the Christmas holiday break. Trailwood Elementary. Day one. Recess. Clear. Bright sun. Windy. Cold.
A game of tag had sprung up and the primary grade herd stampeded, like so many zebras running from a lion. That lion was Franklin Johns. Big, bad Franklin Johns. The BMSGOC – the Biggest, Meanest Sixth-Grader on Campus.
Tag in the Michigan winter, in between snowfalls, when the snow and ice melted enough for the pavement to reappear was Franklin’s specialty. When he wasn’t limited to merely pelting you with snowballs, he was famous for his speed, agility and vice-grip. In dry conditions, he could catch any one, but he especially targeted schoolmates who wore turtlenecks – Michigan’s de rigueur winter wear and easily accessible even when his victims wore their winter coats.
Now, Franklin was just not very nice. He had four main objectives when in tag-pursuit: Spot a turtleneck. Yank the turtleneck up from behind, then down suddenly over his victim’s head. Smear the hair. And, untuck the shirt’s bottom hem from slacks or skirt.
As the kids scattered, Franklin rocketed toward the Trailwood newbie, espying his royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar. Flat-footed, Charles was no match for Franklin’s intercept speed. Coming from out of the sun with Charles at ten o’clock low, Franklin locked onto the royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar and yanked. Charles’ head disappeared into the fabric sleeve, and he went down like a steer hooked by a bulldogger.
Still in full stride, Franklin assessed the effect of his blitzkrieg attack. Head and face covered? “Check.” Smeared hair? “High probability.” Shirt untucked? “Negative! I say again, ‘Negative!’ Wait! What’s this in my hand? ‘Wing Commander, we have a dickie!’”
Charles’ mother thought dickies were very practical for Michigan winters. But at that moment, as Franklin was joined by a mob of classmate zebras, all gleefully braying, “What the heck? What the heck? Can’t afford a real turtleneck?!?” his faith and trust in his mother was severely shaken.
Over the years, he would warily scan the packages under the tree, wondering which of them would be the decoyed dickie. He was skilled at finding the concealed object of his displeasure. It was always conspicuously light, and silent when shaken. He only mis-guessed one year, when mean Sue crocheted a dickie on a ceramic duck ornament which had been hung weeks earlier on the Christmas tree.
As they worked through their respective piles of gifts, opening each one, Sue’s mushroom earrings, Dianne’s premium pork rinds, and his unveiled dickie were inevitably discovered, and drew predictable laughter from all the family.
The Christmas of the first dickie, as his stack of opened gifts grew, he slipped the dickie out of sight to be destroyed. Later, when no one was looking, he’d burn it, or toss it in the trash. Given parental mandates in force at that time, concerning the proper use of matches and other incendiaries, burning it wasn’t practical. So, into the trash it went. In fact, it wasn’t buried deeply enough in the trash and so Sue would easily retrieve it. He would receive the same dickie the next year and bury it at the bottom of the trash. Sue would still find it, and he would receive the same dickie again the next year. This time, he would hide it in his dresser – back right corner of the sock drawer. He never suspected that his mother was a treasonous double agent, in league with Sue. She was, after all, intimately familiar with his dresser drawers, and kept them stocked on laundry day. Next year, same dickie.
The years passed by. Family members aged and passed on as well. Children were born. Mean-gifting sisters became beloved “Aunties,” and the long-practiced and much refined tradition of mean gift giving seemed to wane.
To this day, however, in anticipation of and at Christmas gatherings, the younger generation still asks for and listens with rapt attention to the pork rind, mushroom and dickie lore secretly hoping at least one package will reveal the famous Christmas Dickie.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Three Equal Parts
My sisters and I had dinner together this past Labor Day Weekend. Sue drove over from Wheaton, and Dianne drove down from Philadelphia. I was a seven-eighths bachelor. The kids – all but Caleb – were scattered out of town: Allie, the “outest” of town, was in Sweden, Chip in Mt. Airy, and both Em and Gin were shepherding Calvin, Gracie and Gifford in Williamsburg. Alice and her mom had traveled to Boston. So, it was a rare quiet weekend at home for me, visiting with Dianne and Sue.
Dianne’s life has recently taken a complicating turn. She’s been diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer and will begin chemo in a week or so. Her diagnosis was the thing of which we all were aware, but about which we were somewhat reluctant to speak. At least I was. Still, it framed the occasion, and for much of the evening, this news channeled the conversation to lighter things. We talked about our jobs, nieces and nephews, the new roof, the gate I’d repaired, my plans to do some edging for flowerbeds. But it had also given a particular purpose to the evening.
These days, barbeque sauce comes out of a bottle with trendy additives: onions, mesquite, Jack Daniels. No real prep. No real culinary artistry. Just slice the paper seal. Twist off the cap. Squirt it out. Slather it on. Dianne knew her chemotherapy would begin soon. In anticipation of its side effects, and wanting to strike while the appetite was still hot, she phoned with a very simple request. My mission, should I decide to accept it, was to recreate Frank Heidel’s barbeque chicken.
I can remember playing basketball on my Tobin Circle driveway as a junior high and senior high schooler. My neighborhood friends came over and we rammed around, firing jumpers, laying lay-ups, dribbling well with our right hands (not so well with our left hands), fouling each other, and complaining when we (thought we) were fouled. It was on this driveway where my dad would spot and fire-up the charcoal grill for some delicious chicken. Not infrequently these pick-up hack fests were the sideshow to Frank’s barbeque. “Watch the grill,” he would caution us, not sure we were ever really listening. “Yes sir, Mr. Heidel,” was the reflexive answer. Somehow we managed to never knock over the grill.
To fire up the charcol, Dad used a large coffee can whose bottom and top were removed. With a traditional pre-pull tab or pop-top can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the bottomless can, Dad poked a series of openings in the very bottom sides of the can. His favorite can opener had a white plastic handle with a screened-on Chevrolet logo, and a red tip. The reengineered coffee can was placed on the bottom grate of the grill. Charcoal would be dumped into the can, and then was dowsed with charcoal lighter fluid. A match was tossed in, and Woof!
Reminds me of a joke – When does a cat sound like a dog? When you dowse it with lighter fluid, toss a lit match at it, and . . . . WOOF!. I digress . . .
It was the carefully poked series of bottom side vents around the opening at the bottom of the can that ensured optimal airflow, once the charcoal and lighter fluid were ignited. This “Dad design” put the coals into the glowing red state quickly. With tongs held in an oven mit, he lifted the can. The briquettes found themselves suddenly without walls and tumbled, scattering evenly just inches below the cooking grate which was then dropped into place.
The chicken pieces, skin on, were arranged on the grill in a particular order. Breasts with breasts. Thighs with thighs. Wings with wings. Drumsticks with drumsticks. The barbeque lid was lowered, and they all cooked an initial 15 minutes so as to be heated-through.
While Kraft and others may have perfected their flavor varieties in the lab, trying to home-style-ize their offerings with white lab coated motherly looking spokes-chemists, my dad was not their audience. His recipe for barbeque sauce was simple. Three equal parts Worcestershire sauce, A-1 Steak Sauce, and butter, heated in a pan until the butter was melted and ingredients thoroughly combined.
Poultry parts in formation, Dad would then begin to loooove that chicken. He dipped the brush in the pan of sauce, and began caressing the top side of each piece. The sauce was painted on slowly – more like an anointing that a painting. As the elixir clung to the chicken, some dripped on the coals. Tsissssss . . . tsissss . . . tsissss. This was not a sad thing. It was an aromatic thing. A smell locked in my olfactory memory. After 7-10 minutes, the sauce thickening, the chicken would be carefully turned over. Still in poultry-part order. Dad would loooove the chicken some more, completing the base layer. 7-10 minutes later turning the pieces again and adding another coat. Coat after coat. The sauce layers would gradually thicken, turning darker and darker – until it looked like the chicken had been dropped in black ash. I can’t explain it, and probably can’t persuade the uninitiated, but the end product was absolutely, stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
We all have rights of passage as adolescent boys. Not uncommonly, one of these is learning to swear. My friends and I had long since passed that right, but we flew nimbly under the parental profanity radar. At home we spoke Ivory soap. When out of the house, we were excellent swearers. As we rammed around the driveway shooting, dribbling and fouling, the color commentary was nothing less than polyphonic profanity. “He shoots! He swears!”
Dad had gone into the house to get additional barbeque provisions. As I drove the lane, my friend stepped in front of me. I slammed into him, knocking him over. He fell, then got up yelling “Charge!” and angrily shoved me. I shoved him back. He swore at me. I shoved him back again. He swore at me again.
Dad was a bit hard of hearing – wore a Miracle Ear that would whistle occasionally. Once, when we had a garage sale, a man spoke to my dad, inquiring about the price of a bauble. Dad just walked past him and went into the house. The man looked at me, confused. I was watching the money box and explained apologetically that dad was hard of hearing, pointing to my left ear. The man waited until dad came back into the garage. When dad appeared and walked past the man, the man held up the item he wanted and shouted in the direction of dad’s right ear, “How much for this!?” He startled my dad so much he almost fell over. Dad looked at him like he was crazy. The man looked back where I was sitting, but I wasn’t there anymore.
Just as dad came out of the garage, the argument continued, and I dropped the F-bomb on my friend. Dad may have been hard of hearing, but he heard that. Didn’t like it. His eyes met mine and had me in their tractor beam. Somehow I knew we’d be talking later. Perceiving a teenage conflict had erupted, he growled “Knock it off, you two.” We knocked it off. The game ended. Cagers went home for their dinners. Dad and I talked. Then we ate some chicken.
I approached my (cheater) gas grill. You see, these days Folger's coffee cans are plastic. Besides, I can’t find the can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the can. Presuming the absence of charcoal and lighter fluid would be excused, I arranged the poultry parts as Dad would have, but with skin off (times change). The Worcestershire and A-1 sauces had been married with the butter – three equal parts. All had been heated until the butter was melted, and the ingredients thoroughly combined. I began to loooove that chicken and imagined back to those noisy adolescent driveway basketball games.
About 45 minutes later, I stepped into the kitchen with a platter full of ash covered chicken. Sue and especially Dianne closely scrutinized the pile of poultry parts. You could see the approval spreading gradually across their faces. Then the aroma found them. As we filled out plates at the kitchen island buffet, and then began to eat, all agreed that I had channeled Frank Heidel at the barbeque. The ash covered chicken was absolutely stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
In fact, that evening our conversational currents would carry us into the tropic of cancer, but we also shared lots of laughs, most at Dianne’s expense around the Scrabble table. Sue won, having used more than her fair share of triple word score squares, and Dianne had a stunning double word play. However “not” is not spelled n-t-o. Sue and I considered extending Scrabble dispensation to Dianne, but as her chemo had not begun yet we agreed – no mercy. Much more laughter. But the best part of the evening was that we ate some chicken.
Dianne’s life has recently taken a complicating turn. She’s been diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer and will begin chemo in a week or so. Her diagnosis was the thing of which we all were aware, but about which we were somewhat reluctant to speak. At least I was. Still, it framed the occasion, and for much of the evening, this news channeled the conversation to lighter things. We talked about our jobs, nieces and nephews, the new roof, the gate I’d repaired, my plans to do some edging for flowerbeds. But it had also given a particular purpose to the evening.
These days, barbeque sauce comes out of a bottle with trendy additives: onions, mesquite, Jack Daniels. No real prep. No real culinary artistry. Just slice the paper seal. Twist off the cap. Squirt it out. Slather it on. Dianne knew her chemotherapy would begin soon. In anticipation of its side effects, and wanting to strike while the appetite was still hot, she phoned with a very simple request. My mission, should I decide to accept it, was to recreate Frank Heidel’s barbeque chicken.
I can remember playing basketball on my Tobin Circle driveway as a junior high and senior high schooler. My neighborhood friends came over and we rammed around, firing jumpers, laying lay-ups, dribbling well with our right hands (not so well with our left hands), fouling each other, and complaining when we (thought we) were fouled. It was on this driveway where my dad would spot and fire-up the charcoal grill for some delicious chicken. Not infrequently these pick-up hack fests were the sideshow to Frank’s barbeque. “Watch the grill,” he would caution us, not sure we were ever really listening. “Yes sir, Mr. Heidel,” was the reflexive answer. Somehow we managed to never knock over the grill.
To fire up the charcol, Dad used a large coffee can whose bottom and top were removed. With a traditional pre-pull tab or pop-top can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the bottomless can, Dad poked a series of openings in the very bottom sides of the can. His favorite can opener had a white plastic handle with a screened-on Chevrolet logo, and a red tip. The reengineered coffee can was placed on the bottom grate of the grill. Charcoal would be dumped into the can, and then was dowsed with charcoal lighter fluid. A match was tossed in, and Woof!
Reminds me of a joke – When does a cat sound like a dog? When you dowse it with lighter fluid, toss a lit match at it, and . . . . WOOF!. I digress . . .
It was the carefully poked series of bottom side vents around the opening at the bottom of the can that ensured optimal airflow, once the charcoal and lighter fluid were ignited. This “Dad design” put the coals into the glowing red state quickly. With tongs held in an oven mit, he lifted the can. The briquettes found themselves suddenly without walls and tumbled, scattering evenly just inches below the cooking grate which was then dropped into place.
The chicken pieces, skin on, were arranged on the grill in a particular order. Breasts with breasts. Thighs with thighs. Wings with wings. Drumsticks with drumsticks. The barbeque lid was lowered, and they all cooked an initial 15 minutes so as to be heated-through.
While Kraft and others may have perfected their flavor varieties in the lab, trying to home-style-ize their offerings with white lab coated motherly looking spokes-chemists, my dad was not their audience. His recipe for barbeque sauce was simple. Three equal parts Worcestershire sauce, A-1 Steak Sauce, and butter, heated in a pan until the butter was melted and ingredients thoroughly combined.
Poultry parts in formation, Dad would then begin to loooove that chicken. He dipped the brush in the pan of sauce, and began caressing the top side of each piece. The sauce was painted on slowly – more like an anointing that a painting. As the elixir clung to the chicken, some dripped on the coals. Tsissssss . . . tsissss . . . tsissss. This was not a sad thing. It was an aromatic thing. A smell locked in my olfactory memory. After 7-10 minutes, the sauce thickening, the chicken would be carefully turned over. Still in poultry-part order. Dad would loooove the chicken some more, completing the base layer. 7-10 minutes later turning the pieces again and adding another coat. Coat after coat. The sauce layers would gradually thicken, turning darker and darker – until it looked like the chicken had been dropped in black ash. I can’t explain it, and probably can’t persuade the uninitiated, but the end product was absolutely, stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
We all have rights of passage as adolescent boys. Not uncommonly, one of these is learning to swear. My friends and I had long since passed that right, but we flew nimbly under the parental profanity radar. At home we spoke Ivory soap. When out of the house, we were excellent swearers. As we rammed around the driveway shooting, dribbling and fouling, the color commentary was nothing less than polyphonic profanity. “He shoots! He swears!”
Dad had gone into the house to get additional barbeque provisions. As I drove the lane, my friend stepped in front of me. I slammed into him, knocking him over. He fell, then got up yelling “Charge!” and angrily shoved me. I shoved him back. He swore at me. I shoved him back again. He swore at me again.
Dad was a bit hard of hearing – wore a Miracle Ear that would whistle occasionally. Once, when we had a garage sale, a man spoke to my dad, inquiring about the price of a bauble. Dad just walked past him and went into the house. The man looked at me, confused. I was watching the money box and explained apologetically that dad was hard of hearing, pointing to my left ear. The man waited until dad came back into the garage. When dad appeared and walked past the man, the man held up the item he wanted and shouted in the direction of dad’s right ear, “How much for this!?” He startled my dad so much he almost fell over. Dad looked at him like he was crazy. The man looked back where I was sitting, but I wasn’t there anymore.
Just as dad came out of the garage, the argument continued, and I dropped the F-bomb on my friend. Dad may have been hard of hearing, but he heard that. Didn’t like it. His eyes met mine and had me in their tractor beam. Somehow I knew we’d be talking later. Perceiving a teenage conflict had erupted, he growled “Knock it off, you two.” We knocked it off. The game ended. Cagers went home for their dinners. Dad and I talked. Then we ate some chicken.
I approached my (cheater) gas grill. You see, these days Folger's coffee cans are plastic. Besides, I can’t find the can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the can. Presuming the absence of charcoal and lighter fluid would be excused, I arranged the poultry parts as Dad would have, but with skin off (times change). The Worcestershire and A-1 sauces had been married with the butter – three equal parts. All had been heated until the butter was melted, and the ingredients thoroughly combined. I began to loooove that chicken and imagined back to those noisy adolescent driveway basketball games.
About 45 minutes later, I stepped into the kitchen with a platter full of ash covered chicken. Sue and especially Dianne closely scrutinized the pile of poultry parts. You could see the approval spreading gradually across their faces. Then the aroma found them. As we filled out plates at the kitchen island buffet, and then began to eat, all agreed that I had channeled Frank Heidel at the barbeque. The ash covered chicken was absolutely stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
In fact, that evening our conversational currents would carry us into the tropic of cancer, but we also shared lots of laughs, most at Dianne’s expense around the Scrabble table. Sue won, having used more than her fair share of triple word score squares, and Dianne had a stunning double word play. However “not” is not spelled n-t-o. Sue and I considered extending Scrabble dispensation to Dianne, but as her chemo had not begun yet we agreed – no mercy. Much more laughter. But the best part of the evening was that we ate some chicken.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Spare Not The Rod
For several years, we have vacationed in West Virginia, at a location beloved by my wife's mother and father, which was the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1994. That year was our first visit, and we celebrated the occasion with my wife's sisters and their families. We look forward to these annual reunions, and make the trek each summer (July usually), to rejoin the extended family bunch. My wife, our four daughters and four sons, my two sisters, my wife's mother and three sisters, and their families, and not infrequently a family guest or three. Our destination is down in a secluded "holler" with (to the surprise of the uninitiated) many conveniences and amenities: golf course, hiking trails, swimming (the spring-fed pool is filled with glacier run-off), good roads for cycling, an adequately stocked pond (bring your own rods, or borrow a bamboo fish-catcher at the desk), cool sleeping weather, and good food served family style three times a day.
It is not impossible to communicate with me while I'm there, but as I begin my break from work, I like to tell my colleagues that while I'll be in the continental U.S., I may be hard to reach. The internet runs on "bob-war," and the phone's just a party line up a pole (picture Olivaaaah on Green Acres) where messages can be taken, wrapped around a rock and dropped down to the runner. Any messages brought down from the pole will be removed from their rocks and posted on a whiteboard just inside the dining room. I try to remember to look for my messages three times a day, but only after I dine. If absolutely necessary, I can hike up the first fairway and "summit" the first green where, having climbed to sufficient elevation I just might receive a faint T-Mobile signal. I get a signal boost if I remove and raise the flag stick real high in my off-hand.
It's an out of the way place that I enjoy very much.
Speaking of meals, there are usually 20-25 people at our table for meals. We enjoy lots of good food - the litany below is what comes to mind as I write. At breakfast, eggs any style (two poached soft on toast is my regular), double and triple bowls of oatmeal and seven-grain cereal, buckwheat flap jacks, rashers of bacon, sausage patties and links. For lunch, wonderful salads, watercress with piquant dressing, spaghetti with meat sauce, silver-dollar burgers with grilled onions, Sunday duck and turkey. For dinner, more salads, iridescent roast beef, fried chicken, meat loaf, fresh baked rolls and fresh vegetables. Desserts include Whitehouse cherry ice-cream, fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe with a scoop of lime sherbet, vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce, gingerbread cake with whipped cream.
In the dining room, the waitresses all wear white outfits, and rush around, pushing brushed steel carts full of the day's meal offering. They remind me of nurses in a 1950's movie, rushing patient gurneys into the operating room. All food is served on indestructible pastel colored melamine plates, and bowls. The ceiling fans hum. An occasional birthday or anniversary announcement is made to the accompaniment of appropriate music played over a crackly speaker. A cake appears and is delivered on a brushed steel cart (of course) to the celebrants' table.
Several meals are served on the hill under the first fairway pavilion (beside the fairway, but beneath the "summit"). Hill-dinners are barbequed Chicken on the Hill, and Steak on the Hill. Hill-lunches are the salad-sandwiches (chicken salad, egg salad, tuna salad) all on bread with crust removed, and barbeque pork plopped on a whole wheat roll. Don't forget the endless sweet hill-tea (for some reason, can't get sweet tea down below in the dining room).
Meals are also, as my daughter Ginny taught me, opportunities for community, fellowship and deepening friendships. I believe she would say, "Meals should have meaning." It's always interesting to see who sits by whom at each meal, and who rotates to sit by different whoms as people take an early leave from the table. Cousins reunite. Siblings banter. Members of the younger generation are cornered by their seniors and pumped for information as to academics and career trajectories. Disparate political, theological and philosophical views can be aired (and are). The ten-and-unders, the eleven-to-fifteens, the legal drivers and collegians, the working class and retirees all intersperse and seem to dialog very naturally. Age-based cliques and silos are dissolved.
Meals here are also opportunities to showcase and satisfy man's ages-old fisher-gatherer (Posted: No Hunting) instincts. A visit to the pond, which yields a “keeper,” permits the fisherman an opportunity to enjoy his or her fish at the next scheduled meal, sans head, filleted, egg and cornmeal battered and fried up goooood.
This prospect brings me to the point of this narrative.
Over the years, the kids have clamored for me to bring fishing poles. I did that in the past, but stopped, because I grew tired of prepping the rods, stocking the tackle box, picking up the 7-Eleven night crawlers that no one but me would cut, threading them onto the barbed hook, and then having repeatedly to untangle the lines I prepped. Fishing in July had become for me like a warm weather version of winter wear bundling. You spend 20 minutes to get junior all dressed up in his snow suit, boots, gloves and hat, only to hear him say "I gotta pee." Big build up. Big let down.
Notwithstanding my cynicism, I do still chuckle from time to time about one fishing event several years ago. Chip (son #1) was late to dinner one evening. The cousins last saw him at the pond, fishing. I got up from the table and went to retrieve him. When I got to the pond, he was on the dock, and appeared to be in distress. Seems he'd strung a triple-hook on his line, baited it, drew back the rod and cast. All three hooks were traveling at whip-crack speed, and one (it only takes one) found its way to that sweet spot just below the left rear blue jean pocket, where it penetrated Levi Strauss’s best, and buried itself in Chip’s derrière."
Well, well. Interesting," I said.
Assessing the situation, I removed the fillet knife from the tackle box and cut a quarter-sized piece of to expose the butt-buried hook. I was now ready to remove the gluteus implant . . . a hook-ectomy. To this day, I’m certain those blue jeans are the only thing that fillet knife ever cut. Using the needle-nosed pliers in the tackle box, I carefully took hold of the hook and moved it around gently. Despite my gentleness, he insisted on howling (drama-rama).
I studied the situation a moment longer, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sonny, this is definitely going to hurt you more than it hurts me." I suggested he put the handle of the rod between his teeth and bite down hard when I counted to three. I began counting, "One . . . two . . . (three seemed like too many). . ." and yanked the hook with lightening speed, freeing him from the snare. But, I digress. Back to my cynical discontentment with bringing fishing gear.
This year I brought two rods. Zip tied 'em to the luggage rack. When I got up our first morning and headed out, I met Chip (of "Butt Hook Pond" fame) who said, "Did you hear about Giff (son #3)?"
At the pond, there are small fish (perch, sunnies, etc.), and some decent size cat fish. There are also several huge carp. 2-3 feet in length. Lazy. Never bite. Not interested in any lure. Ever. Been that way for years. Giff got up at 0-dark-30 and went to the pond with a rod for an early morning angling session. What Gifford knew, as did Sir Issac Walton was that the carp is the queen of rivers (and ponds); a stately, a good, and a very subtil fish. Plus, the American Carp Society in March of 2006 paid out $275,000 to the carp angling winners. Really. So, Giff stood on the small dock, and floated the line in the water espying a big game fish. He hung the bait just above the Alpha-carp, and waited.
Gnats are a problem at times and the establishment provides punks (like incense sticks without the stink) which are lit and waved so as to cast a smoky haze around one's head and shoulders, and which drive the gnats over to the next punkless guy. You know, we even light seven or eight at a time and stick them in whole wheat rolls at the hill-meals to keep the gnats away.
Sorry. Digressed again.
Well, Giff set his (my) rod down to light his punk. In a flash, the rod rocketed off the dock and into the pond. That fat, lazy carp had become caught, and was heading for deeper water at high speed with my rod in tow!
No doubt a genus cyprinus mistake.
As he returned to the carp academy dragging a rod along behind him, his fellow cyprinus carpo (the common carp) likely ostracized him like the guy who leaves the men’s room with a foot of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He was probably branded a carp-leper by the uppity hypophthalmichthys moultrix (the silver carp) and hypophathalmichthys nobilis (the bighead carp) - the carp-brahmins.
I can just hear him now: "Listen here! I innocently brushed up against a medial-fin-high ball of dough, and it snagged me! Honest! I'm a carp for goodness sake. I eat bottom scum like the rest of you. What do I want with a ball of dough?! That stuff is bait for the bourgeois! Come on, guys!"
As the rod rocketed off the dock, Giff lunged, diving forward and reaching elbow deep into the pond. Alas, he was not long enough of arm.
Rod gone.
At breakfast, I quelled my urge to yell at him for losing my rod. After all, were it not my rod, were it some other family, this would be a pretty cool story. I told him so, and we fist-bumped.
To his credit, he spotted what looked like a rod at the bottom of the pond later that afternoon. So, the next morning before breakfast, he, Allie (daughter #3) and I took a row boat out to West Virginia's answer to the Marianas Trench - the Butt Hook Pond Trench. And, after 25 minutes of rowing clumsily in circles to hold our position, still in time to make it to breakfast, we managed to fish the rod out of the pond.
Both rods are back safely in my garage, snugly hung against the ceiling out of reach. Next July, I'll be asked to bring the fishing rods. I'll ignore the question. Then I'll protest. Then I'll acquiesce and tie them to the car roof for another adventure.
It is not impossible to communicate with me while I'm there, but as I begin my break from work, I like to tell my colleagues that while I'll be in the continental U.S., I may be hard to reach. The internet runs on "bob-war," and the phone's just a party line up a pole (picture Olivaaaah on Green Acres) where messages can be taken, wrapped around a rock and dropped down to the runner. Any messages brought down from the pole will be removed from their rocks and posted on a whiteboard just inside the dining room. I try to remember to look for my messages three times a day, but only after I dine. If absolutely necessary, I can hike up the first fairway and "summit" the first green where, having climbed to sufficient elevation I just might receive a faint T-Mobile signal. I get a signal boost if I remove and raise the flag stick real high in my off-hand.
It's an out of the way place that I enjoy very much.
Speaking of meals, there are usually 20-25 people at our table for meals. We enjoy lots of good food - the litany below is what comes to mind as I write. At breakfast, eggs any style (two poached soft on toast is my regular), double and triple bowls of oatmeal and seven-grain cereal, buckwheat flap jacks, rashers of bacon, sausage patties and links. For lunch, wonderful salads, watercress with piquant dressing, spaghetti with meat sauce, silver-dollar burgers with grilled onions, Sunday duck and turkey. For dinner, more salads, iridescent roast beef, fried chicken, meat loaf, fresh baked rolls and fresh vegetables. Desserts include Whitehouse cherry ice-cream, fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe with a scoop of lime sherbet, vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce, gingerbread cake with whipped cream.
In the dining room, the waitresses all wear white outfits, and rush around, pushing brushed steel carts full of the day's meal offering. They remind me of nurses in a 1950's movie, rushing patient gurneys into the operating room. All food is served on indestructible pastel colored melamine plates, and bowls. The ceiling fans hum. An occasional birthday or anniversary announcement is made to the accompaniment of appropriate music played over a crackly speaker. A cake appears and is delivered on a brushed steel cart (of course) to the celebrants' table.
Several meals are served on the hill under the first fairway pavilion (beside the fairway, but beneath the "summit"). Hill-dinners are barbequed Chicken on the Hill, and Steak on the Hill. Hill-lunches are the salad-sandwiches (chicken salad, egg salad, tuna salad) all on bread with crust removed, and barbeque pork plopped on a whole wheat roll. Don't forget the endless sweet hill-tea (for some reason, can't get sweet tea down below in the dining room).
Meals are also, as my daughter Ginny taught me, opportunities for community, fellowship and deepening friendships. I believe she would say, "Meals should have meaning." It's always interesting to see who sits by whom at each meal, and who rotates to sit by different whoms as people take an early leave from the table. Cousins reunite. Siblings banter. Members of the younger generation are cornered by their seniors and pumped for information as to academics and career trajectories. Disparate political, theological and philosophical views can be aired (and are). The ten-and-unders, the eleven-to-fifteens, the legal drivers and collegians, the working class and retirees all intersperse and seem to dialog very naturally. Age-based cliques and silos are dissolved.
Meals here are also opportunities to showcase and satisfy man's ages-old fisher-gatherer (Posted: No Hunting) instincts. A visit to the pond, which yields a “keeper,” permits the fisherman an opportunity to enjoy his or her fish at the next scheduled meal, sans head, filleted, egg and cornmeal battered and fried up goooood.
This prospect brings me to the point of this narrative.
Over the years, the kids have clamored for me to bring fishing poles. I did that in the past, but stopped, because I grew tired of prepping the rods, stocking the tackle box, picking up the 7-Eleven night crawlers that no one but me would cut, threading them onto the barbed hook, and then having repeatedly to untangle the lines I prepped. Fishing in July had become for me like a warm weather version of winter wear bundling. You spend 20 minutes to get junior all dressed up in his snow suit, boots, gloves and hat, only to hear him say "I gotta pee." Big build up. Big let down.
Notwithstanding my cynicism, I do still chuckle from time to time about one fishing event several years ago. Chip (son #1) was late to dinner one evening. The cousins last saw him at the pond, fishing. I got up from the table and went to retrieve him. When I got to the pond, he was on the dock, and appeared to be in distress. Seems he'd strung a triple-hook on his line, baited it, drew back the rod and cast. All three hooks were traveling at whip-crack speed, and one (it only takes one) found its way to that sweet spot just below the left rear blue jean pocket, where it penetrated Levi Strauss’s best, and buried itself in Chip’s derrière."
Well, well. Interesting," I said.
Assessing the situation, I removed the fillet knife from the tackle box and cut a quarter-sized piece of to expose the butt-buried hook. I was now ready to remove the gluteus implant . . . a hook-ectomy. To this day, I’m certain those blue jeans are the only thing that fillet knife ever cut. Using the needle-nosed pliers in the tackle box, I carefully took hold of the hook and moved it around gently. Despite my gentleness, he insisted on howling (drama-rama).
I studied the situation a moment longer, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sonny, this is definitely going to hurt you more than it hurts me." I suggested he put the handle of the rod between his teeth and bite down hard when I counted to three. I began counting, "One . . . two . . . (three seemed like too many). . ." and yanked the hook with lightening speed, freeing him from the snare. But, I digress. Back to my cynical discontentment with bringing fishing gear.
This year I brought two rods. Zip tied 'em to the luggage rack. When I got up our first morning and headed out, I met Chip (of "Butt Hook Pond" fame) who said, "Did you hear about Giff (son #3)?"
At the pond, there are small fish (perch, sunnies, etc.), and some decent size cat fish. There are also several huge carp. 2-3 feet in length. Lazy. Never bite. Not interested in any lure. Ever. Been that way for years. Giff got up at 0-dark-30 and went to the pond with a rod for an early morning angling session. What Gifford knew, as did Sir Issac Walton was that the carp is the queen of rivers (and ponds); a stately, a good, and a very subtil fish. Plus, the American Carp Society in March of 2006 paid out $275,000 to the carp angling winners. Really. So, Giff stood on the small dock, and floated the line in the water espying a big game fish. He hung the bait just above the Alpha-carp, and waited.
Gnats are a problem at times and the establishment provides punks (like incense sticks without the stink) which are lit and waved so as to cast a smoky haze around one's head and shoulders, and which drive the gnats over to the next punkless guy. You know, we even light seven or eight at a time and stick them in whole wheat rolls at the hill-meals to keep the gnats away.
Sorry. Digressed again.
Well, Giff set his (my) rod down to light his punk. In a flash, the rod rocketed off the dock and into the pond. That fat, lazy carp had become caught, and was heading for deeper water at high speed with my rod in tow!
No doubt a genus cyprinus mistake.
As he returned to the carp academy dragging a rod along behind him, his fellow cyprinus carpo (the common carp) likely ostracized him like the guy who leaves the men’s room with a foot of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He was probably branded a carp-leper by the uppity hypophthalmichthys moultrix (the silver carp) and hypophathalmichthys nobilis (the bighead carp) - the carp-brahmins.
I can just hear him now: "Listen here! I innocently brushed up against a medial-fin-high ball of dough, and it snagged me! Honest! I'm a carp for goodness sake. I eat bottom scum like the rest of you. What do I want with a ball of dough?! That stuff is bait for the bourgeois! Come on, guys!"
As the rod rocketed off the dock, Giff lunged, diving forward and reaching elbow deep into the pond. Alas, he was not long enough of arm.
Rod gone.
At breakfast, I quelled my urge to yell at him for losing my rod. After all, were it not my rod, were it some other family, this would be a pretty cool story. I told him so, and we fist-bumped.
To his credit, he spotted what looked like a rod at the bottom of the pond later that afternoon. So, the next morning before breakfast, he, Allie (daughter #3) and I took a row boat out to West Virginia's answer to the Marianas Trench - the Butt Hook Pond Trench. And, after 25 minutes of rowing clumsily in circles to hold our position, still in time to make it to breakfast, we managed to fish the rod out of the pond.
Both rods are back safely in my garage, snugly hung against the ceiling out of reach. Next July, I'll be asked to bring the fishing rods. I'll ignore the question. Then I'll protest. Then I'll acquiesce and tie them to the car roof for another adventure.
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