So many times during the holidays, when our kitchen smells were the ones I knew as a child, I thought about those simple, happy days in our small town. Mom was a wonderful, creative cook, and she loved to bake. Yeast and cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin were December aromas. Dad made batch after batch of English toffee, and that buttery scent was always present as well. We’d hang around the kitchen in case Mom needed tasters. Each of us had a particular favorite treat.

In our small community people rarely locked their doors. We played outside after dark without fear. The village did take responsibility for its children and we felt safe. In my earliest days many people had telephone party lines which were not very private. Neighbors knew the business and troubles of others, and they shared what they knew. Mostly that was not such a bad thing. Help was offered when needed, and in our farm community, harvests became times of cooperation and celebration.

The mischief we created was innocent. I remember swimming in the small lake near my home. We were not to do that as it wasn’t a swimming lake. I could never understand having a lake without swimming in it, so I ignored the rule. One afternoon, after swimming, I went to marching band rehearsal. When we marched past my home, Mom saw me with my wet, frizzy hair. As expected, I heard about it.

A whistle blew at noon and six o’clock. I’m not sure why that happened as we didn’t have a factory to signal. Kids knew to be home at noon and six when meals were served. Maybe that was the impetus for the sound.

In Bloomington we are an hour’s drive from my home town. I miss having my parents just down the road. Our extended families would delight them. However, the unpleasant events of the recent past would trouble them as they do me. School shootings, terror on the streets, poisoned water supplies, hungry children, people driven from their homelands made unwelcome in this country of immigrants – all would be unbelievable to Mom and Dad. While I miss them, I am grateful they are spared the news of this time.

On this quiet and beautiful summer morning, my flowers are shimmering in the dew, the tomato plants, all 18 of them, are lush and laden with fruit as is our apple tree. This is its year to bear fruit after taking the year off in 2014. In the midst of all that are weeds that seem to thrive anywhere. I wonder why those tender leaves don’t excite the rabbits the way the rosebushes do.

At the end of May I retired from a job I loved after 17 years of feeling useful and productive. Those years came immediately after my retirement from 30 years of teaching Language Arts, formerly called English. That was another career I loved. Every year was new and fulfilling. On these first days of the rest of my life, I find myself with no direction in mind. My hobbies are few. Reading, writing, and swimming continue to interest me. I like our vegetable garden, but it delights me mainly during the harvesting of the produce. We will can tomatoes, make pickles, and freeze apples to add to those we froze in 2013 as some remain from that big harvest.

As I search for a direction, I see people with much larger challenges than mine. Our climate changes have had far-reaching effects on wild life and habitats, on the dwindling water supplies, and on increasing severe weather events. Parts of our population are gun-crazy, some of our leaders are war-crazy, and people are hungry. I see bigotry spilling out of dissatisfied people who need somewhere to focus their frustrations and hatred. This is not a country in which I can feel pride.

I will continue to enjoy the family and friends that have provided stability, support, and love. I must think less about myself and more about others for whom I can be a resource or a friend. I have always seen the glass half full. I need to find my way back to that. It’s time to get back to life.

With our packed suitcase just inside the door, we turned in our room keys and joined the group to listen to a talk with a music producer. His current activities with Decca have him remastering cast recordings from long-ago performances. He works from glass or metal discs, and the quality of the recordings is excellent, better in some respects than the tapes of later times.

We had our final meal together at The Glass House Restaurant, eating more than we needed before the long flight home. Because the bridges across the rivers were closed for a bike race, we took a really circuitous route to LaGuardia through neighborhoods, “downtown” Queens, back roads with interesting small shops and row houses. It was much more fun than a straight shot to the airport. It took about as long as our ride on Thursday, but it didn’t feel that way. We hadn’t the pressure of deadlines, and we had more interesting scenery.

As we neared Minneapolis-St. Paul, we were told there was bad weather ahead. The pilot took us north toward Brainerd so we could come in to the airport from the north. We did avoid the storm, and our flight came in a bit earlier than scheduled. The man seated in our row received an email from his son with a picture of the hail-damaged roof and yard of his White Bear home. We had only evidence of rain at our house. It was good to be home. As in previous years, we plan to return in 2016.

Day three we went with the group for lunch at Sardi’s Restaurant. I enjoy the walls full of caricatures. A waiter told us that they hire one artist for a year of drawings. He has the celebrities sit for him, and that year’s drawings have a similar look. Knowing that, I took a closer look at the clusters of pictures. Some of the artists appeal to me more than others. A few drawings looked as if they were drawn by kids, not well.

We walked from there to our last group show, An American in Paris. It was wonderful. I love Gershwin’s music, and the dancers were from the Metropolitan Ballet giving the choreography a very different look from the tapping of its predecessors.This show has many Tony nominations, and is a possible selection for the revival category along with The King and I.

Saturday evening people saw a variety of shows that we picked on our own. Four of us saw The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. The young actor who played the lead was phenomenal. A recent graduate from the Juilliard School of Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, he made his first Broadway appearance in this show. It is unusual for a serious play to have a nomination in the choreography category, but the electronic gimmicks were characters in the show, and they gave it a new level of intensity. I expect something we saw this weekend to be a winner, but the Tony voters come from many different areas of theater, each bringing his/her own perspective and preferences.

Following breakfast at Juniors, across from our hotel, we took a walking tour of the theater district. So many familiar plays and performers were in the descriptions that I was glad there wasn’t a test at the end. Theaters changed ownership and focus over the years. We’d all heard of the old timers dreaming of playing the Palace, of vaudeville performers, the Rockettes, serious performances by Olivier, the Barrymores, musicals with Fanny Brice, Ethyl Merman and Mary Martin. Our tour guide was informative, including in his comments titles of musical numbers that became famous after being in flops, and shows that have had multiple successful revivals. Our weekend included two of them.

We had the afternoon free, so four of us took the subway to the 9/11 Memorial. The subway. My second miscue of the weekend happened when my ticket wouldn’t work on the subway turnstile, both going and returning. The second time I had the guard open the emergency door to get me out. I began to feel like that little guy in the comics with a cloud over his head. The memorial was moving, and we learned so many details we’d not absorbed in the early reports of the disaster. The names carved in black marble around the two pools outside the building reminded me of the Viet Nam Memorial wall in Washington, D.C. People inside the memorial itself were subdued as they walked into the depths of the site.

We’d made reservations for dinner at an Italian place recommended by the hotel concierge. That evening we saw a farcical musical called On the Twentieth Century starring Kristin Chenoweth and Peter Gallagher. It took place in three compartments on a train. Characters were in and out of doors from one room to the other. An older woman character reminded us of our local diva, Beverly. She played a woman who’d escaped from her caregivers and got the others all excited about money she wanted to give them to finance a production. Choreography was clever, and the music, unfamiliar, was performed well. It was another full, satisfying day.

Our arrival in New York City was uneventful. After a short wait for the bus, we headed for our hotel with time for all we needed to do to get ready for the evening’s events. The ride should have taken 20 minutes. After nearly an hour we were still crawling our way through Manhattan. When we got there, we took our bags to our rooms. Hotel people had delivered our bags in the past, but our late arrival made that impossible. We were given fifteen minutes to change and get back to the first floor to walk to a restaurant for a pre-show dinner.

We opened our door to find the room already occupied with a suitcase on the bed, the television turned on, but no people. We called the desk and were told to come to the 8th floor lobby for a new room assignment. We went from 20 to 8, got a new room on the 21st floor and hurried back up, dragging our luggage. The room on the 21st floor was also occupied, this time with someone from our group who was dressing for the evening. We apologized for walking in on her, and went back to the 8th floor. George told the people at the desk that we needed assurance that the 3rd room would be empty. This one was on the 36th floor. By this time we were warm and annoyed. We had time only to partially change before we dashed to the first floor to meet the group. We were a bit late, but they were waiting.

Dinner was excellent. We’d calmed ourselves enough to enjoy seeing people we’d known on previous trips. Our first show was The King and I, nominated for several Tony awards, and an entertaining production with excellent dancing and familiar music. The day ended well.

The next day one of our leaders talked to the event coordinator who had not been told by the people at the desk of our ordeal. She was not pleased about the mixup, and we were given an apology plus a bottle of wine and a box of special chocolates. In retrospect, we were satisfied with the outcome. At the time, it was not so much fun.

As the first voice of MVUUF that Kevin heard, I’ve chosen myself to chronicle his journey in our faith community. Kevin has woven himself into the fabric of our family as a colorful, energetic, soft-hearted, occasionally bombastic, always talented thread. A journalist, photographer, and musician, Kevin has entertained us with his wise observations, intelligent writing, wit, photographs, and music, always music.

He has touched the lives of so many of us. A few of the things I’ve observed:

Recording sessions with Jane whose piano playing is now preserved for her friends
Baseball games and long walking talks with Ted, and a poignant tribute in words and music at Ted’s memorial service
A bond forged with Don Rollins who shared his love of music
The amazing you-tube interviews with David Breeden
Support with his bass, guitar, bongos, and toe-tapping whenever he joins Muti to accompany the music on Sunday mornings
The mutual respect and appreciation he and Muti share
His bevy of older women friends, especially Mrs. Robinson and the Good Neighbor, who enjoy his attention and appreciation of their respective talents
His duet with Barb, “Let It Be a Dance,” that moved us at Lou’s memorial service
The silly roles he plays in the annual Big Event
The “Hey, Janet Planet” that lifts my spirits when he drops in to the office on a biking break
The ever-present iced coffee
The life he’s brought to the church’s Facebook page with photographs and links to UU World
His sharing of his “roadie” the terrific Tammy with all of us
Encouragement that started my blog and gave it a name

For all that you are, and all that you bring to us, we wish you a happy birthday.

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved wood, in furniture, in sculpture, in forests, even in piles.

On a recent visit to New Zealand, I was delighted by the acres of log piles at the ports along the way. Our friends were amused by my fascination and by all the photos I took of the felled trees. Log after log was straight and appeared to be about 10 inches in diameter. The piles were wonderful in their symmetry and color. I watched as logs were piled onto ship decks, each ship going deeper into the water as it was loaded. Most of the ships were headed for Russia and China.

I asked questions of a tour guide and was told that trees were harvested after 30 years of growth. The entire forest was cut to make room for a new stand of trees to be nurtured for the next 30 years, then the process would be repeated. As we drove through the country, I saw stands of trees in various phases of the process. Timber is the main export in New Zealand. Because of the hilly terrain, not much cropland exists. We saw sheep, cattle, goats, llamas, and hills of green with wild flowers and rocks, and trees.

At the end of our trip we spent two days in Auckland, a hilly city that looks very much like other cities in the world. A park there had wonderful old trees, gnarly ones with many roots above the ground. We saw children climbing on them, and I was tempted. In the park were grapefruit trees with some of the fruit on the ground. There were wonderful flower gardens, one in the shape of a clock with flowers spelling 3, 6, 9, and 12 – another photo op. When I sent some pictures home to the family, one of them said, “Where are the people?” <img
I do have more success with still life.

A special friend from church has just died from cancer. So many wonderful snapshots of the man, his talents, gentleness, wisdom, kindness, and of his wonderful family are meandering through my mind this morning.

When our church building was under construction, he was the driver for several choir members to a rehearsal site in Burnsville. He had a big bass voice, a hearty laugh, an endearing chuckle. Those trips were fun. When his bass voice was part of the choir, we had solid underpinnings.

A Sunday performance of “Old Man River” has stayed with many of us. Other special musical moments were his playful duets with Beverly, our resident diva. Both comfortable, talented performers, they brought out the best in each other.

When we wanted recommendations of people who do odd jobs, or specialized ones, we knew Lou would have suggestions. We were happy with the work done by his circle of specialists. When we had questions about opera, a passion of his, we could count on him for answers.

I am a saver, as was Lou. I identify with that predilection and with the frustration of those who live with us. One never knows when something will be useful, if only we can locate it.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate. Attitude can affect treatment, and Lou proved that with his positive approach to the ravages of the disease. Lou’s many friends and his special family traveled the road with him. Now at peace, he has a place in our hearts.

We smelled the sulphur miles before we saw the steam from Hell’s Gate near Rotorua in New Zealand. It permeated everything in the area, but we did get accustomed to it as we walked the paths through the geothermal wonder. The Maori people found the pools and the mud therapeutic, and Hell’s Gate featured opportunities for mud baths and soaking in the natural pools.
On this day of our trip we rented a car, drove bravely on the “wrong” side of the road experiencing many round-abouts that made travel sensible and easy to navigate. From the port we took a long route through the countryside as we aimed for the natural hot spot.
The thermal activity is ongoing with bubbling pools of varying temperatures. The site we visited was a favorite of George Bernard Shaw who named some of the pools based on their size, temperature, and activity. The land around the pools was dark and colorless, for the most part. Occasional spots of green appeared where fresh water springs made their way to the surface. A steaming waterfall was part of the area, and it was surrounded by jungle-like growth with interesting trees, vines and flowers.
We took many steamy pictures, as well as pictures showing the contrasts in colors and plant life. The area is a tourist mecca with biking, boating, hiking opportunities. Some parts of the world are to be savored for the views and tranquility. New Zealand is one of those.