Red, White and Blue, 2nd try

My last posting was only partially complete again. Aghhh. I am reproducing the main text here, hopefully. This is about one particular 4th of July...

It was a big deal when the Bicentennial rolled around in 1976. It was going to be the biggest and best 4th of July ever. A large local park filled with old Sycamore trees named Verdugo Park was the focus of the festivities in Glendale that year. It wasn’t unusual for people to arrive at dawn to reserve spots and picnic tables during the summer, so the park was pretty full when we arrived.

Mom had packed a big picnic lunch and had a little surprise for us as well. With enthusiasm and a big smile on her face she produced 6 big matching red white and blue Uncle Sam top hats for us to wear. Stephen who was 11 then took one look at them and said, “No way am I going to wear that. What if someone saw me? My friends would be laughing at me for weeks.”
Mom, a bit crushed, tried to talk him into it and eventually persuaded him saying that none of his friends would see him. I don’t know why she made that claim seeing that we were going to go to a very public place or why Stephen eventually bought it. But we generally did what we were told, and we weren’t supposed to talk back to our parents.

So, there we were at the park, decked out in festive red, white and blue outfits, eating our picnic lunch while wearing matching Uncle Sam hats. We were an all-American family with two boys and two girls and both Mom and Dad in patriotic clothes having a 4th of July picnic. A roving photographer came by and took a few shots of us together and then some more of us later as we played in the park and joined in the group games. We had a lot of fun and Stephen didn’t bump into any of his friends while wearing his hat.

The next day while we were eating a leisurely breakfast outside, Mom went to the front door to pick up the newspaper. Because it was Sunday it was really big. Laughing to herself, she thought that she would tell Stephen that our picture was in the paper. She opened the paper and saw a huge picture of our family on the front page of the paper. Of course we were all wearing our Uncle Sam hats. Cackling as she does when something strikes her as REALLY funny, she came outside waving the paper saying, “You won’t believe this, but we are on the front page of the Glendale Newspress and the LA Times!”

Stephen was understandably horrified and received some teasing for the pictures. The rest of us thought it was fun to have our photo so prominently displayed. Lynn and Thomas also had other pictures by themselves on following pages. I think that it took Mom a little while to gain back Stephen’s trust as pretty much everyone in Los Angeles saw those pictures.

There was another incident that occurred while we were eating out on the patio, this time when Stephen was in his college years at UC Davis. He was home for the summer and Mom had made his favorite dessert: apple pie. After months of dorm food he was very glad to have some of Mom’s home cooking, especially his favorite dessert. We had all smelled it cooking and had seen the beautiful apple pie in its glass pie dish sitting on the counter cooling. We made sure that we saved enough room at dinner to really enjoy it.

Mom went inside to bring out the tray that had the pie and dessert plates on it. As she stepped through the screen door the door caught on her sleeve and the tray started to wobble. We all stared at her as the tray dipped from side to side as she struggled to regain equilibrium. In her effort to not have the whole thing drop she managed somehow to slam it into the wall, shattering the glass pie dish into the pie, and the pie into the wall before the tray fell from her hands. Wordlessly she turned around with huge eyes, not believing what had just happened. We too were momentarily speechless. It was as if the whole thing had happened in slow motion but we were frozen in our seats, unable to assist her.

Eventually, when she found her voice, Mom just kept saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” It was a small tragedy, but a tragedy none the less. Mom makes really good apple pie, and to see it slammed into the wall before we could have a bite was very hard to take. We would have eaten it off the ground, but the glass dish was shattered in it, and as good as the pie would have been, it wasn’t worth the chance of eating glass.

I think the moral of the story could be GET UP AND HELP OUT; if one of us had AT LEAST opened the door for her she would not have ended up throwing it against the wall. Actually, most of the time we were fairly helpful with dinner, but I guess not always.

What makes this story even harder for Stephen is that a few weeks before he came home from college he called Mom for her apple pie recipe so that he could make it himself. That was pretty enterprising for a college guy and it took him a bit of effort to shop and peel the apples and make the crust and put it together. Enough effort that one would think that he wouldn’t forget about it after he put it in the oven. But he did. He went out for awhile and when he returned there was smoke coming from the oven. The pie was burnt to a crisp. All that work for nothing. He was a bit heartbroken and embarrassed when he relayed the story over the phone. So to have another pie decimated was really a bummer.

He did stop at our friends the Dessayers in Moraga on the way home and Alice, whose daughter Janet was at UC Davis with Stephen, had been told about the pie, and had a homemade apple pie waiting for him when he arrived. The Dessayers were like a second family to us and Alice and Mom shared a lot of recipes, so a pie from Alice was almost like having a pie from Mom.

Red, White and Blue

I have lots of memories over the years from 4th of July celebrations. We often went to my cousins' house in Tustin (near Irvine, CA) and joined in with the rest of the cul-de-sac in typical 4th of July festivities. As it grew dark my uncle would hand out sparklers for us light as he set up his own pyrotechnic display and we would all gather around to see the fireworks. One year we did something different, here is what I remember...

It was a big deal when the Bicentennial rolled around in 1976. It was going to be the biggest and best 4th of July ever. A large local park filled with old Sycamore trees named Verdugo Park was the focus of the festivities in Glendale that year. It wasn’t unusual for people to arrive at dawn to reserve spots and picnic tables during the summer, so the park was pretty full when we arrived.
Mom had packed a big picnic lunch and had a little surprise for us as well. With enthusiasm and a big smile on her face she produced 6 big matching red white and blue Uncle Sam top hats for us to wear. Stephen who was 11 then took one look at them and said, “No way am I going to wear that. What if someone saw me? My friends would be laughing at me for weeks.”
Mom, a bit crushed, tried to talk him into it and eventually persuaded him saying that none of his friends would see him. I don’t know why she made that claim seeing that we were going to go to a very public place or why Stephen eventually bought it. But we generally did what we were told, and we weren’t supposed to talk back to our parents.
So, there we were at the park, decked out in festive red, white and blue outfits, eating our picnic lunch while wearing matching Uncle Sam hats. We were an all-American family with two boys and two girls and both Mom and Dad in patriotic clothes having a 4th of July picnic. A roving photographer came by and took a few shots of us together and then some more of us later as we played in the park and joined in the group games. We had a lot of fun and Stephen didn’t bump into any of his friends while wearing his hat.
The next day while we were eating a leisurely breakfast out by the pool at home, Mom went to the front door to pick up the newspaper. Because it was Sunday it was really big. Laughing to herself, she thought that she would tell Stephen that our picture was in the paper. She opened the paper and saw a huge picture of our family on the front page of the paper. Of course we were all wearing our top hats. Cackling as she does when something strikes her as REALLY%2

Cousin Bina

I am planning to take Amtrack around the country for a month this fall. In anticipation of this trip I was thinking about other travel experiences I have had. Here is one of those memories...

Cousin Bina lived in the ritzy resort town of Baden-Baden, Germany. Bina is the first cousin of my maternal grandmother Rosemary Gansneder Porter. During World War 11 my mother remembers sending over clothes and toys and supplies to Bina and her husband Gerhardt. Bina became pregnant and delivered her only child, a son named Freidelin in a bomb shelter during an air raid.

The city of Baden-Baden is known and celebrated for its healing mineral waters and the spas that have built up around them as well as for the fancy Monte-Carlo type casinos. It is beautifully designed with expansive, manicured parks interspersed with grand hotels, restaurants and casinos. Although they lived in this expensive place their family was not wealthy. Both Gerhardt and Bina worked; we always heard about how Bina danced the Can-Can in the casino shows until she was almost 60.

My parents went to visit them on their first trip to Europe in 1964. Bina was thrilled by their visit and eager to show them her hometown and to shower them with hospitality. To say that Bina is in good shape and thrifty is to not do justice to those words. As tour guide, she ran my parents all over the city for hours and hours, refusing to take the bus because it was a “waste of money” and insisting that they go to the other side of the city to get some free mineral water from a fountain rather than pay a few pennies for one close by.

When they finally returned home my mother winced as she eased her shoes off her now swollen sore feet. Bina saw her expression, exclaimed something unintelligible and hustled into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with a basin, some salts and boiling water which she placed in front of her. She put the salts in the basin, poured in the steaming water and then grabbed my mother’s feet and dunked them in. The hot water burned my mother’s feet and she tried to pull them out but Bina with her strong arms held them in place while indicating that she knew what she was doing. Next she pulled out a WIRE scrub brush and started to roughly scrub the skin off the bottom of her now bright pink feet. Mom cried out in pain, but there was no stopping Bina once she started something. Eventually mom gave in and just sat there moaning with tears streaming down her face.

I don’t know if my mother would have been able to avoid this situation if she remembered a little bit more of her high school German or if Bina had spoken English, but I kind of doubt it. Bina was determined to do everything in her power to demonstrate the depth of her gratitude towards Mom’s family, even if it meant drawing blood. I’m sure that dad was glad that he hadn’t indicated that his feet hurt as well. We are always grateful to learn from others’ mistakes in our family.

Having heard this story growing up, we were all prepared to NOT complain about anything in the least when we went as a family to visit on our European trip in 1986. This time there were 7 of us, my two brothers, Stephen and Thomas, my sister Lynn, my cousin Jim and my parents. Although the three of them lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment with a common bathroom for the entire floor down the hall, Bina insisted that we all stay with them. My parents agreed because they couldn’t figure out how to say no to her without hurting her feelings.

We arrived in the VW minibus which we had rented for the 5 week trip. Bina, Gerhardt and Friedelin greeted us enthusiastically with huge bear hugs, cries of delight and tears of joy. Friedelin, now 40, was a policeman who taught English at the local college in his spare time. Having a translator was a blessing, especially when Bina asked about the health and whereabouts of every family member in the USA that she knew of. Generally though, Bina and her husband were quite expressive and we could decipher from their charades the gist of what they wanted to communicate.

One of the first things Friedelin did was to bring out the 40 year old teddy bear, obviously worn and loved but still in one piece, that grandma had sent over to him when he was born. He had saved it all these years, keeping it as a reminder of how the family in America had cared for them when they needed help. While Bina was getting dinner ready Friedelin offered to take Stephen, Jim and I in his impossibly tiny car out to his garden plot. We said “great” and went off with him without question. I don’t know how we all squeezed in, but somehow we got the door shut and Friedelin sped off. He recklessly drove through town explaining that because he was a police officer he could drive fast. Our knuckles whitened as we grasped whatever we could find to hold onto as he careened through town talking rapidly, laughing and gesturing while taking corners on what felt like two wheels. On the edge of town he swerved onto a mere path that zigzagged through the gardens until he reached his designated patch. He screeched to a stop and we piled out, shaking and glad to be alive. He proudly showed us around and we picked some produce for dinner. The return trip was much the same though this time at least we knew what to expect.

Dinner was an amazing German feast. Bina made all of her special holiday dishes to honor us. We ate and ate and laughed together and told stories, regardless of the language barrier. Full to the brim with heavy German food, we helped clear the table and Friedelin announced that now it was time for music. He said that he could play 5 instruments and proceeded to get them out. He wasn’t kidding. In fact he could even play more than one of them at once. To our amazement he strapped on an accordion, attached a harmonica to his head and put a small drum kit in front which he could play with his feet. And then he let loose. Bina and Gerhardt smiled proudly and burst into song, enthusiastically clapping to the beat. We joined in on the clapping and helped raise quite a ruckus.

I think that mom was the one who inquired at one point whether or not we were possibly making too much noise and Freidelin just smiled and said that even though there was a strict 10:00pm noise curfew since he was a policeman he could make as much noise as he wanted. I guess there are a lot of perks to being in law enforcement in Germany.

One of the neighbors, an elderly woman in a housecoat, came over to join in the festivities. She stood just inside of the doorway and began to do a version of the chicken dance, flapping her loose fleshy arms all about. The sight of her was enough to make us hysterical, but we really lost it when Gerhardt (who had a wooden leg from an old war amputation) walked behind her and started to imitate her, exaggerating his movements as he stiffly danced about trying to make us laugh harder without her catching on to him. She did happen to see him but it didn’t stop or embarrass her, rather she motioned us to join in as well.

At some point they decided to call it an evening and Bina tried to explain to us where we would all sleep. They graciously gave mom and dad their bedroom and they slept in Friedelin’s single bed in the study. He drove back out to the garden plot and slept in the little shed out there. Lynn and I had the tiny love seat to share and the boys filled up the floor space in the living room. All night Lynn and I lay smashed together so we wouldn’t roll off the couch onto our brothers.

Before going to sleep Bina came into the room with a pot in her hand. She said something in German and we gave her a blank look. Then in an effort to be completely clear she put the pot on the floor squatted over it and with sound effects said, “Piss in, piss in!” That was plenty clear and more than a little disturbing and funny to kids who had never even considered using a chamber pot. I guess they didn’t want us to have to go out of the apartment in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. We all nodded our heads to let her know we understood and then looked at each other with huge eyes, trying not to explode at the thought of using it there in the middle of the room where there wasn’t even room to walk. Despite all that we ate and drank, all of us exhibited amazing bladder control and none of us used the chamber pot that night.

The next morning we got up and ate a huge breakfast even though we were still full from the night before. Thankfully we were allowed to use the toilet down the hall. Bina planned on taking us on a tour of Baden-Baden. Still as frugal as she had been 20 years before, she was determined that we would walk everywhere. So we got dressed (no showers, they only had a washtub in the common bathroom which had to be hand filled with water) and started on our tour. Bina was in her late 70’s and still in fantastic shape. She charged on ahead at such a fast pace that we had a hard time keeping up with her. Glancing behind her, she noticed that some of us were jogging to keep up with her. She got it in her head that we wanted to go FASTER and she started to run. So there we were, the seven of us Americans, sprinting through stately Baden-Baden, chasing an old German woman. We were all laughing so hard we could barely breathe and were completely exhausted by the time she stopped. But we knew not to complain for fear of the dreaded foot treatments.

We made it finally to one of the fountains providing the famed mineral water and she insisted that we all drink a cup. It smelled like rotten eggs and tasted worse, but we did as we were told. We are not total wimps, even though we must sound like we are. We were just caught up in the incredibly strong force of this woman who truly loved us and wanted with every fiber of her being to give us everything she could. It is hard to turn down anything when someone is knocking themselves out for you like that. Because of the language barrier there was no chance to communicate anything subtly, actions were everything and we reciprocated our thanks by trying to graciously accept her love, even when it hurt.

A couple of times during the day she asked us if we liked “cucumbers.” She said cucumbers in English and we politely nodded and said that we did. She did some more shopping for dinner that night and we helped carry the groceries home, thankfully at a brisk walk rather than a run. Back at their apartment mom and I helped her cook another HUGE meal. Again we sat around, eating way beyond our comfort zone and then some more at Bina’s prodding. When we got to the point where we couldn’t eat another mouthful she asked us if we wanted ice cream. We tried to beg off saying we were too full, maybe later. A couple minutes later she asked again. We said something along the lines of “Thank you, maybe in a little while.” So, less than five minutes later she asks, “Now?” How could we possible put her off again?
Bina quickly went to the kitchen and brought out a melting 5 LITER tub of ice cream and a huge box of ice cream cones. I had seen earlier how tiny their refrigerator was; basically the size a college student would have in their dorm, but failed to notice that they didn’t have a freezer. I don’t know why she had bought so much ice cream, but I knew we would have to try to eat as much of it as possible.

Normally we kids would be thrilled at the prospect of eating as much ice cream as we wanted, but this was not a normal circumstance as our bellies were stuffed with pork and potatoes and bread and kraut. We gave it a valiant effort and each managed to eat 2 or 3 cones. When Freidelin realized we had truly reached our limit he decided that we should go outside and offer it to the neighbor kids before it melted. We all agreed that this was a fabulous idea and struggled to our feet to follow him. It soon became a little party outside as the children enthusiastically took up where we had left off.

When we came back inside Bina asked if we wanted cucumbers. We all looked at her in a daze and she went into the kitchen and came back with the hugest jar of gigantic pickles that I had ever seen. Somewhere she must have heard that Americans really love pickles and eat them all the time. She had confused the words pickle and cucumber so we hadn’t understood what she had been asking earlier. They actually didn’t like them but she had bought them especially for us. With that she had finally crossed the line of what we could bear and we politely refused to eat another bite.

After a fitful night of churning stomachs and no toilet we got up to face the day and one last meal from Bina. Breakfast was laid out: hearty breads, cheeses, sliced meat, jam, fruit and coffee. We once more stuffed food into our enlarger stomachs. Bina hadn’t forgotten about the pickles and proceeded to bring them out and insisted we eat some. Jim was talked into seconds and then thirds. Jim, my hero...

As we were leaving she tried to shower us with gifts. The day before Stephen had admired a large bow and arrow that they had hanging up in the study. Before he knew what was happening Friedelin had taken it off the wall and given it to him. Stephen tried valiantly to refuse but he insisted. We all realized that we would have to be very careful about what we complimented because they might just give it to us. Good thing that no one said anything about the full suit of armor that was in one corner. It was crazy enough hauling around a large bow and arrow through Europe, let alone a suit of armor.

They all walked us out to the VW minibus and watched us pile in. Tears were streaming down Bina’s face as she told us how much she loved us. They waved as we pulled away from the curb and then Bina ran down the street to the corner where we had stopped at the sign. She ran alongside of our car for a few blocks, waving and waving, until we turned onto a main street. We were all overwhelmed by her love and hospitality. It was hard for us to understand how she could love us so much when she had never seen most of us before. Never in our lives had we seen anyone give so much of themselves away. This extremely frugal woman who had very little money and lived in what we would consider close to poverty had spent a huge amount to lavish blessings on us every way she knew how. I have never forgotten that outpouring of love and hospitality. Now when I have been visiting at my parents’ home and am pulling away from the curb, my parents run to the corner madly waving and I know what that means. They are saying that they love me with the abandonment of Bina and are willing to look a little silly to let me know. It also is a reminder to remember the fun and adventures and life that we have shared together.

Chocolate Chip Deluxe Cookies

Hello everyone!

I plan to post a favorite recipe once a week. Most of the time I cook without using any recipes, but I do have some that I can share with you. This cookie is similiar to a chocolate chip one but has lots of extra goodies.

Chocolate Chip Deluxe Cookies

1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspon baking soda
1 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup bown sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla


1 1/2 cups oats
1 cup dried cranberries
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup skor bits (or chopped skor bars)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350.
Cream the butter, sugars, egg and vanilla.
Stir the baking soda into the flour and then add the mix to the batter.
Add the oats, cranberries, chocolate chips and skor bits.
Mix to blend only.

Using a small ice cream scoop or two tablespoons, drop cookies onto greased cookie tray or onto parchment paper on a tray.
Bake for 8-10 minutes or until lightly golden.

This should make around 3 dozen depending on the size of the cookies. The recipe can easily be doubled, tripled...

Enjoy,

Amy

Baby Boar and Buffalo

Hi friends! My friend Brandon is helping figure out how to do neat things like "copy and paste" and other computer tricks. I had him use a story that I wrote awhile ago about a childhood experience. Hope you enjoy...

Catalina Island sits 26 miles west of Los Angeles in the Pacific Ocean. My first time there was with the girl scouts at Camp White’s Landing. Like all of the camps on the island, it sat in a pretty little cove surrounded by dry red clay cliffs carpeted only by sagebrush and cactus. Our tents were made of canvas and were fitted over a permanent cement floor and fixed poles. Each one had 10 iron twin beds and a few cubby holes.

One evening the weather was especially lovely and warm so we talked our counselor “Rainbow” into moving our beds outside under the stars. It was beautiful to look up at the sky and count the stars while snuggled in our beds. I awoke a few hours later to the sound of grunting coming from under my bed. Listening fearfully with every fiber of my body tensed, I figured out that there were several baby boars playing under and around my bed. Then from a distance I heard a much deeper snorting and grunting and I turned to see the momma boar searching out her little ones. She came charging at my bed, snorting, and the baby boars ran out the other direction. She made a quick detour at the side of my bed and continued chasing them away from camp. The whole time I had been too afraid to make a sound and the other campers managed to sleep through it

Later that week, we came back from lunch and saw a buffalo standing in our open tent. We of course started to yell for Rainbow to come quick. She ran over and saw the situation and decided that the only thing we could do was wait for it to leave. So we did. It eventually walked out, leaving us with the thought that wild buffalo might just decide to wander into our tent whenever they felt like it. You might be wondering what buffalo are doing on Catalina Island. They were brought over years ago to film a movie and they just let them stay there and multiply. In the town of Avalon you can buy a buffalo burger at the hamburger stand.

The fun didn’t end there at camp. One day, one very hot day, we went on a long hike up in the hills with a couple of our counselors. We manage to get lost and ran out of water. Finally, the leaders decided we needed to hike to the top of the nearest hill so we could see where we were. So we scrambled up, pushing through the cactus all the way to the top, without a trail or path. At the summit we could see which direction camp lay. Instead of retracing our steps the leaders said we should just slide down the other side of the hill. Tired and hot, we thought this sounded like the easiest way and so we obediently sat and started to slide down the dry brown grass. We quickly gathered momentum and found it difficult to slow or stop even though we desperately wanted to. The dry grass was filled with thorns and prickles which dug into our backsides. At the bottom, crying in pain we managed to limp the rest of the way to camp, straight to the nurse’s station where we pulled down our shorts and underwear so that the camp nurse could remove the thorns.

Despite this I still returned to the camp the following year. I guess I figured that this was normal, all part of the camping experience.

The camp on Catalina that I went to the most was called Camp Fox. It was a YMCA camp and had been around for a long time. My father used to go there as a kid. Going there to camp was a great experience. First we took a bus from Glendale to the harbor at San Pedro where we got on the ferry. Then it took about 2 hours at sea to get to camp. Usually the trip was fun and smooth sailing, though there were times when the swells were huge and everyone threw up over the sides the whole way. But I loved being on the water and it really felt like you were getting far away when we had to take a 2 hour boat ride to get there.

As soon as we arrived we had to help get the entire luggage off the boat, then we got into our swimsuits and had to jump off the end of the pier into the cold water and swim to shore. If you didn’t you had to wear an armband that said you were not allowed in the water without a life vest. This plunge was fine during the summer, but other times of the year it was quite a polar bear swim. There were lots of water activities including water skiing and snorkeling and there were crafts and a big recreation field and campfire amphitheater. So many things to do that one would think that it wouldn’t be necessary to leave camp. But when I went one spring with my 6th grade school class there was a 3 day backpacking trip planned.

We each had a full backpack with sleeping bag, pad, extra clothes and food. We started out of camp early and climbed up the first hill out of camp. (Just a note on the topography of Catalina: there are practically no flat places on the island; it is all hills with some little harbor coves) We hiked and hiked. Not being a fast or natural hiker I stayed with the slowest group. After tiring of them I decided to hike faster and catch up to the group that was taking a break further ahead. I just reached them and was sliding my pack off when the weight of it caused me to fall right into a big cactus bush. The needles stuck in my knee even when I was pulled out of the bush. My friends helped pull out the needles but they left ugly bleeding holes where they had been. My whole knee eventually bruised purple and was punctuated with angry red dots.

By then, the rest of the slow group had caught up and we all left together. After 7 miles of hills we made it down to the cove where we were supposed to spend the night. But the clouds had gathered and turned dark. The leaders were told that we couldn’t spend the night there because the storm would make the tides higher and we would be washed out to sea (or something along those lines). So, we all had to get our packs back on in the rain and hike out of there. They decided that the best place to go was up to the tiny airport 5 miles away. The airport being at the top of a hill,, naturally. The paths turned into rivers of red mud and it was slow going, especially since we were already exhausted, AND we didn’t get any dinner because we had to keep going to get to a safe spot. Around 10pm that night the last of us straggled into the airport where we ate candy from the vending machines and waited for the open-sided buses (perfect on sunny days, but not so great in a thunderstorm) to take us to Avalon and then for some boats to ferry us back to Camp Fox. So, at midnight we were back where we had started early that morning. They built a big fire in the dining hall fireplace and made cocoa and grilled cheese and we changed into warm, dry clothes and thanked God we had made it.

Close to Home- Take #2

My first attempt to post was only partially successful. What actually appeared was about2/3 of an unedited first draft, so my apologies. I am not known for my computer skills and therefore I might have to bumble around for awhile til I figure it all out.

I do seem to have an affinity for hitting mysterious keys which can suddenly delete everything that I have written. When I was living in Paris a couple of years ago I often had this experience as I was writing emails in the internet cafes there. The French man in charge would look at me with contempt as I pleaded for help in retreiving my lost work. He would say, "That is not possible!" Well, maybe not in theory, but somehow I was quite capable of it. His next helpful remark would be, "C'est la vie." Not so helpful either. Then he might venture the comment, "C'est normal" which only increased my frustration.

Besides my general lack of knowledge about computers and the gift of spastic fingers hitting random keys I was also challenged by the fact that French keyboards are very differently arranged than American ones. For example the "A" and "Q" are switched. Trying to unlearn my instinctual keying and figuring out the new French one made typing much more tedious. Add in the pressure that one feels when you are paying by the MINUTE, it is quite depressing to lose an hours worth of brillant writing. Of course it is brillant if it is irrevocably lost. So sometimes friends received a few lines from a frustrated and demoralized friend rather than a delightful masterpiece of wondrously composed, inspirational travel experiences. (In case you don't know me I hope that you get that I am saying this "tongue-in-cheek.")

I will write again about my beloved Emeryville Marina because there is so much more to say. That's all for now.

Amy

Close to Home- The Emeryvlle Marina

I thought that I would start close to home for my first entry and my first shot at blogging. One of my favorite places in the Bay Area is the Emeryville Marina. Because I live right next to the marina it is an obvious place for me to go walking. It has some of the most amazing views in the East Bay and there is a nicely paved, flat path around the whole pennisula. I am not a huge fan of walking/hiking uphill so this is ideal for the casual stroll or for a nice run if you are so inclined.

I try to walk around it at least once a day, more if I have time. Last night it was the summer solistice and the longest daylight of the year. I headed out about 8:15pm and had plenty of time to make it out to the point to view the sunset. The sun was bright orange and slowly sunk into the hills north of Mt. Tamalpais. I joined the other walkers and runners who stopped to watch the sun disappear and the clouds above and to the right glow from behind, backlit by the now hidden sun.

A quiet breeze kicked up and people began to move again. I continued my walk around the point as the sky glowed softly orange, the Golden Gate straight ahead, Alcataraz in front of it with its water tower prominent, the City with its skyscapers dark except for the light reflecting off the windows and then the lights flickering on, the Bay Bridge to the left, the Marin Headlands and Angel Island ahead on the right, the distant lights of Tiburon and Sausolito and the Richmond Bridge.

As I continued to the North the East Bay comes into view. First the Berkeley Marina and Albany Hill, the 80/580 freeways and the East Bay hills. I always look for the Campanile on the UC campus and the Clarmemont Hotel majestically sitting like a castle on the hill. The windows of the homes in the Berkeley and Oakland hills glitter like jewels in the darkening sky and I feel rich and overwhelmed to live in a place with such beauty.

I have lived in or near Berkeley for 20 years and my breath is still taken away when I take a simple walk around the point. I try to remember to take the time to stop and listen to the wind blow over the water and the cries of the birds as they glide through the air. I close my eyes and feel the breeze brush against my face and I breathe deepl

New Beginnings

Hi,

I'm Amy and this is my new blog.

I love the Bay Area and want to share the love I have with all of you.

Stay tuned for chronicles of my travels and experiences.

Enjoy,

Amy