No One is an Island

I read recently that people who maintain close friendships and find other ways to interact socially live longer than those who become isolated.  The article also state relationships and social interactions ever help protect against illness by boosting the immune system.

As we get older and retire or move to a new area, sometimes our social life diminishes.  Being in the workplace provided a great deal of social activity for many people.  Several studies have shown that social interaction offers older adults many benefits.  Maintaining interpersonal relationships and staying socially active can help you maintain good physical and emotional health.

The health benefits of social interaction in older adults includes:

• Potentially reduced risk for cardiovascular problems, some cancers,          osteoporosis, and rheumatoid arthritis.
• Lower blood pressure
• Reduced risk for mental health issues such as depression

Some risks of social isolation are:

• Being less physically active
• Having high blood pressure
• Feelings of loneliness

Social interaction also helps keep your brain from getting rusty. For optimum benefits, you should incorporate a healthy lifestyle, including a nutritious dies and some form of exercise.

Here are ways you can maintain a high level of social interaction here at Arrowhead Gardens:

• Volunteer for activities--this is a great way to make new friends and        to share you creativity with your fellow residents.
• Share a shuttle ride to local senior centers for lunch.  It's a great way      to get to know your neighbors over a healthy meal for a mere $3.
• Join one of the many groups here on campus focused on activities            your enjoy, such as playing cards, or Scrabble, Pinochle, Wist and            many more.
• Try take a class--learn to line dance, or paint watercolors, or drum.
• Take advantage of the Enhanced Fitness session or use the excellent      fitness center in Building B to stay physically fit and engage with            others.

In addition to participating in some of the activities offered at Arrowhead, I'm also a member of a group called "Drunk on Beads." It started as a beginner's jewelry making class but has evolved in meaningful relationships.  Doing something creative thoroughly enriches my life.  Last February I joined a walking group, Sound Steps.  Sponsored through the Park  Recreation Department, they have walking groups all over Seattle.  It allows me to exercise and socialize at the same time.  It's been a wonderful experience meeting people from all walks of life and ages; some walkers  are in the 80's & 90's.  That inspires me!

I encourage you all to make a concerted effort to stay connected and involve yourself in at least one thing you thoroughly enjoy.  I guarantee the benefits are worth the effort.

Jacqueline Nash

The Girl in the Yellow Paisley Dress: Sometimes, it’s just enough to be there

Tall for her 10 years of age, Amy Scottsadoon was a slender, elegantly postured girl with short cropped blond hair framing a strong featured face, self confidence beaming from a set of piercing blue eyes. Like most children Amy loved to run which she did with an unconsciously sinuous grace combining remarkable speed with agility and quickness.

Unusual for one so young, Amy was quiet - without being shy - even moving without the slightest sound so that she often surprised others who had no idea that she was nearby or had entered a room without their notice – catlike - it seemed - appearing almost as if from nowhere. More than once Amy had startled visitors - even her mother and father – by her sudden and unexpected appearance often wearing a long, bright yellow paisley dress complemented by her happy smile and a chuckle of amusement, usually – if you were her friend, that is! There were many of those friends for Amy was a bright, cheerful and friendly girl.

The yellow paisley dress was Amy’s favorite mostly because it had been made by her mother and was, therefore, very sturdy. It was a great dress for her to run in because the hem ballooned far from her ankles allowing full freedom of movement for her feet flying like the wind. Somehow, the dress seemed never to fade or even to get dirty no matter how far or how much Amy ran in it.

Downtown, late one day, line #1 on Jennifer Bowen’s phone in the Claims Division of Cosmopolitan Life Insurance lit up. Heavy of heart Jen’ noted the caller ID as the General Hospital and picked up the receiver with a resigned sigh.

“It’s Dr Picketts office,” spoke the voice on the other end, “can you come down to Grace’s room right away?”

“OK, yes,“ Jen’ murmured, softly hung up the phone, gathered her things and headed for the elevator. “Well, it’s time,” she thought to herself – “it’s time.”

Jen’s mother, Grace Bowen, was suffering from Systemic Lupus, an almost always fatal condition, with treatment involving massive and continuous dosages of cortisone which placed her at risk of serious bacterial infection. This, in turn, required her to be placed in the hospitals securely guarded isolation ward. Grace had been at end-stage of the disease and was comatose most of the time, lately unable even to respond to her daughter’s loving and yearning touch unmindful of her tears and sorrow. On her way to the hospital Jen’ finally resigned herself to the necessity of planning the next steps of her mother’s passing and remembrance.

Emerging from the hospital elevator Jen was so immersed in her own sadness that she was slow to notice a group of people chattering cheerfully at the door to her mother’s room and that the usually stern and somber Dr. Pickett was actually smiling. Puzzled Jen’ glanced into the room and there was her mother actually SITTING UP IN BED?? Actually TALKING with the nurses?? Momentarily, Jen’ was too stunned to comprehend as her mother’s gaze fell upon her and Grace broke out her classically beautiful smile that Jen’ had treasured for a lifetime, then had lost. Flabbergasted, Jen’ could only stare, uncomprehending.

“We don’t know what happened,” exulted Dr. Pickett, “except that this morning your mother hit the nurses call button and asked about breakfast.” “We’re doing tests now, he went on, “but Grace seems much better, is obviously conscious and most importantly, is passing fluids at a great rate. She’s a trifle disoriented at the moment blathering on about some little girl in a yellow dress in her room last night when we all know that’s impossible because the isolation ward is secure. Besides, no one else here saw anyone or anything.”

Downing a sterile isolation suit and mask Jen moved quickly to the bed taking her mother’s hand in her own gloved one. “Oh, Jennie,” her mother said, “at first I thought it was you last night. But your eyes are brown and the others were blue. So deep blue it was like peering into eternity with so much strength and energy flowing from them and into me that we both knew I would come back and so, here I am!”

Suddenly, from the hallway a loud voice demanded, “excuse me Doctor; Detective Lynch here – Peter Lynch - Metro Police –What’s this about a girl and a yellow dress?”

“Why do you need to know?” inquired Dr. Pickett taking a step backwards from the large, pugnacious cop.

“Got a report here,” Lynch stated forcefully. Girl in a yellow dress may have been shot over to center city way – murder attempt on ‘at reporter what exposed ‘at City Hall construction bribery scandal – girl may have gotten inna way,” he bellowed mercifully ending his run-on sentence in order to breathe. “Cain’t find ‘er”,

re-launched Lynch, “disappeared somewhere – maybe if she’s shot, she’ll show up in the hospital – need ‘er as a witness to the murder attempt – got the intended victim right here,” he concluded out of breath.

“That’s right” said a slightly built man with a camera on a lanyard around his neck whom no one had thus far noticed. “Fred Smertz,” the little man said by way of introduction, “City Trib’, Crime Beat.” I was in the basement of City Hall taking photos of cement cracks and other shoddy work being done. Suddenly, this huge man emerges from the shadows with a gun in his hand. This’ll teach-ya to mess where ya don’t belong, the man snarled at me as he raised the gun towards me.”

“I was paralyzed with fear,” continued Smertz, “I thought I was a dead man for sure. I guess it was just before he pulled the trigger there came the sound of running footsteps – tiny steps but, real fast. Too dark to see, though, so both of us just froze for a second. Suddenly, from the shadows a figure appeared. It was hard to see and everything happened quickly but, I swear it was a little girl because she looked like one and, had on a bright yellow dress that was easy to see even in the murky basement. Suddenly, the little girl stopped – just like that – not even slowing down. She raised a finger and pointed it at the gunman and then shook her head – ‘no!’”

Smertz continued, his voice shaking, “the creep swings the gun over at the kid and fires. The smoke and noise was huge in the enclosed basement. I just hightailed it out of there and down a hall where I ran into two cops who had heard the shot and were coming to investigate. We went right back but, there was no sign of the shooter or of the little girl but, she saved my life for sure,” asserted Smertz.

“Well, all we have here are two stories,” concluded Dr. Pickett, “and, no little girl in a yellow dress. If we’re done here I need to get back to my patient.”

Lynch and Smertz departed for police headquarters in Lynch’s City Car. Driving through a nice residential neighborhood they came upon a large crowd all gazing upward into a tree. Ever the cop, Lynch screeched the car to a halt causing everyone to look over their way. “What’s the problem here,” Lynch demanded gruffly.

“Kitten up a tree,” responded an onlooker, “way up in the tiny branches at the top and the foliage is too thick to get a ladder up.” Pointing to a child of 5 or 6 years old sobbing in a woman’s arms, “the kid is brokenhearted and scared about it but, we can’t think of anything to do,” said the onlooker. Then, pointing up into the tree a neighbor suddenly exclaimed, “look, there’s somebody up there now! How did that happen? There was nobody up there before!”

Lynch looked up and sure enough there did appear to be someone there and a flash of yellow was visible. Seeming to lose its fear the kitten tentatively negotiated the small branches until it reached the larger one on which the unknown person sat. Momentarily, branches began to move further and further down the tree and soon it could be seen that the rescuer was a young girl in a long and flowing, bright yellow dress, the kitten trustfully clutching itself onto her shoulder. With incredible agility and athletic grace the girl made her way down the tree lightly dropping the last few feet to the ground then handing the kitten to the child in her mothers arms.

Turning to the Officer the girl said “Hello Detective Lynch, my name is Amy Scottsadoon and I happened to be passing by. I hope I haven’t caused any trouble here.” For once speechless, Lynch could only stare at her flabbergasted – how did she even know who he was?

“What a great story,” rejoiced Smertz. Would you mind if I took a few pictures of you? This would make a fine human interest piece for the paper.” Smiling sweetly, Amy agreed and Smertz snapped several photos of her in her yellow paisley dress from different angles.

Later, back at the newspaper, Smertz sent the film to the lab’ for processing. The next morning the developed pictures were returned and Smertz opened the photo envelope to remove the contents.

There was no one visible in any of the photos.

Richard Lee

C-406

Harv' Steele and the Telephone Arrest

Preface:

 What follows is another story from our AG Writers Club. Its central character is a young boy seeking to define and ready himself for entry into an adult world, looking for role models to follow.

Most families with children in the 40^s and early 50s didn’t take ‘vacations’ as we may think of them today or as they are advertised on TV. Finances tended to be tight for the average American family and other priorities prevailed. Disneyland was decades away and the interstate highway system was only a pipe-dream as a way to get anywhere different. So, our family, like so many others of that time, substituted visits to extended family in place of a vacation to some unknown romantic or exotic destination.

Story:

The living room had the faintly musty odor of older houses thoroughly and comfortably lived-in for generations who called it home. This space - where I sat obediently with my parents, hands folded in my lap, feet shoeless - was immaculate yet, hosting a decor strange to a young boy. I could not imagine how so many objects could be gotten into this small of a room, all neatly arranged and placed just so, with fuss and care. Heavy draperies complemented footstools with thick covers, a sofa and chairs solid, straight-backed, plumpily cushioned, antimacassar’ed[1] and pillowed, shaded lamps located about, all residing among a vast profusion of unusual objects. Scattered, museum-like, around the room were at least 100 glass figurines, tiny dolls and statuettes, puppets and Hummels,; each one different , all positioned on doilies atop narrow wooden or glass pedestals or on shelves some separately, others in groups. I was afraid even to move for fear of breaking something.

Before our arrival my father had cautioned us that Aunt Mary Steele was “Queen’ of her home. My father outlined all of the rules learned from his own childhood that Mary enforced for behavior and comportment. Remove your shoes on entering so as not to track-in dirt. Children should be seen not heard. Swearing is never tolerated. As I watched this tiny, energetic woman fussing to serve tea, milk and cookies, chirpily happy to see us, somewhere in the back - beyond the kitchen - a door opened and a man’s voice boomed “hellooo Lovie."

Firm strides brought the owner of the voice to the kitchen door. I jumped backwards in my seat out of alarm. The man was huge and imposing – whip-thin but tall even in his socks, broad-shouldered, sinewy forearm muscles rippling as he unbuckled his gun belt, hanging it over a big hook on the wall. Sherriff Harv’ Steele dominated our little space physically and, by the sheer magnetism of his bearing and presence. He leaned over, put one arm around his wife’s waist and gently lifted her upward where they hugged before he softly returned her feet to the floor – all with one arm! With a big smile he strode over to my father, gave him a bear-hug and said in his soft Kentucky drawl; “it’s been a-too lawng Colonel”[2]. Colonel was my father’s nickname – as in Kentucky Colonel. The Sheriff bowed to my mother and welcomed her to their home – calling her “mother” from then on.

Finally, his eyes turned to me. I had already decided that this intimidating man was fascinating so, bravely, determined not to show weakness, I jumped off the sofa, thrust out my hand and declared, “I’m Richard”. I suppose, already, I wanted to be like him. Chuckling, he knelt down to shake my hand with his strong and calloused one, his presence redolent of gun-metal, machine oil, tobacco, leather and sweat. “Glad to meet ye lad’ he said, “yeonna come ‘long on ptrol afta mlunch?” 

“NO!!’  declared my mother, “he’ll get shot and he’s only 7”.

“Now Mother, it’s just a routine cruise ‘round town”, Harv’ replied “nothin happens in the afinoon inaway’ he can keep me compny and I can get to know ma great-nephew better whilst you and your daughter git an afternoon off with Lovie”. My mother relented, Sheriff Harv’ was a difficult man to argue with. My father left to go visit friends around.

Whatever county London KY was in, Harv’ Steele was the Sheriff of it and so that afternoon the Sheriff and his new sidekick set out to keep order and maintain the peace. The patrol car was cavernous and smelled of cigar smoke, gasoline and the cold sweat of involuntary past occupants. With his boots on Harv’ was taller yet and so drove with the seat (only bench seats in cars, then) way back. The only way a 7 year old could see out was to stand on the floor (no seat belts then, either) so I could barely see over the dash.

Harv’ liked to talk and mostly got his fill of it in all situations. He taught me how to stay effective on police patrol. “Know yer territory, lad, know whut’s spozed t’be and notice whut’s differnt . Rmember  lad, notice whut’s differnt” he instructed as he slowly and thoroughly scanned left and right as we moved up and down the streets of the town. Meanwhile, I stood on the passenger side floor, gripping the dash with both hands, my head on a swivel hoping to impress the big man with my vigilance and dedication to enforcement of the law.

A few minor things happened about which I recall little except that Harv’ was always in sure control of every situation. All we met recognized his authority, unchallenged. A few hours later we returned to the station. My father was there chatting with the deputies – old friends of his - one of whom showed me around and locked me in one of the jail cells where I pretended to be a fearsome and dangerous criminal.

Back in the Sheriff’s office, a harshly lit, spare, concrete-floored room with three gun-metal desks and some gray filing cabinets, devoid of doilies or figurines, the phone rang on Harv’s desk. Harv’ answered, listened for awhile, a menacing and fearful scowl deepening on his face. “Lesta, agin?” Harv’ barked into the phone.

“Tha’ be Lester Higgins,” one of the deputies whispered to me, “ole’ Lesta, he at it agin”. “He’s a good carpenter whin he’s a-sober but, git some ‘shine in ‘im, he trouble.” “Now Shurff’s on his tail, Lesta’s a-one in big, big trouble and he knows it too”.[3]

“Put ‘im own!!” Harv’ shouted into the phone.”  “Lesta,” Harv’ bellowed. “You git your sorry carcass own down heah likkety split – YOU HEAR ME BOY? Don’t make me a-come down ‘ar n’ a-fetchye or ye be in a heap more trouble ‘n any reglar feller kin stand,” Harv’ yelled. Harv’ then slammed down the phone.

Sure enough, bye and bye, Lester came shuffling down the street, climbed the stairs to the Sheriff’s office and jail, a sloppy, sheepish grin on his face; still clutching the whiskey bottle he had grabbed off the bar that precipitated the phone call in the first place. So, not only did Lester Higgins bring himself in but, thoughtfully, also brought along the evidence against him.

That is the true story of how Sheriff Harv’ Steele[4] arrested a fellow over the phone.

Richard Lee; C-406

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[1] An antimacassar is a protective,yet washable, fabric thrown over chair or sofa backs or arms to deter wear. Maccassar is a type of oil used in many hair dressings for men such as Vitalis as an example.

[2] Harv’ and Mary never had children. In retrospect I believe that my father and his brother, Green Lee, and sister, Evie, were substitute “children” for the Steele’s even though they lived in different towns. However, Green was an alcoholic occasionally in trouble with the law in his jurisdiction and so, my father was perhaps the “favorite-son”.

[3] Actually I didn’t find out the details about Lester until later from my father. The Deputy’s comments to me are contrived to fill the time in the story while the Sheriff listened on the phone.

[4] Mary and Harv’ Steele remained faithfully together all of their adult lives. When Harv’ finally retired it was noted in the newspaper that he had served the longest continuous term of sheriff in the history of the United States – 52 years. Somewhere, I have that clipping. He was able to do so even though local statute forbade succession in the position. Every other term Mary’s name would be on the ballot. She’d get elected overwhelmingly and Harv’ would carry on as usual. Four years later, Harv’ would run under his own name, win big and then, go out on patrol.

PAWTRAIT GALLERY

These are the cats who have been featured in the Straight Arrow newsletter.

They were interviewed by John Hosum.

Leo (The Lion King)

He lives with John in Bldg D

“I was found living in the tall grass near John’s sister’s home in rural Pierce County, like a lion living in Africa’s Serengeti wildlife reserve.  My front paws had been declawed by my former owner, so it was hard for me to catch food to eat.

“When I was found, I had a few scabs on my back from fighting off other animals and one of my front paws was swollen and infected.

“Because of my orange-colored fur and large paws, John named me Leo (The Lion King).

“I’ve got a good life now, and no longer have to fear other animals or wonder where my next meal will come from, and I have lots of catnip toys to play with.

“My favorite spot for sleeping in the afternoon is on John’s bed, which is where I also sleep at night.”

Kitty B

She lives with Patti and Lew in Bldg C

“Hey, I’ve told Patti and her brother Lew more than once that I don’t pose for photos, but that didn’t stop them from trying to get me to pose for this PAWTRAIT GALLERY.  Eventually, I gave in and said I’d pose, but for just one photo.

 “I don’t trust people, you know, because I was a victim of Hurricane Katrina and was a feral cat for awhile.  After I was caught, I was sent to the Seattle Animal Shelter from where I was adopted.

“I’ve got a good life here at Arrowhead Gardens, and I love to sit in the window and see what’s happening in the courtyard behind Bldg B.

”I like to sneak into Lew’s closet to hide out and I also like to sleep on the floor under the towel rack in the bathroom.  At night, I lay next to Patti on her bed and I prefer to be under the covers to keep warm.”

Hatul

He lives with Arbery in Bldg D

“Like Kitty B (above) and Bella Mia (below), I’m also a Ragdoll cat, and we’re known for our distinctive colorpoint coats.  I have long fur and Arbery brushes me daily.

“I belonged to the mother of Arbery’s daughter-in-law and, when the mother passed away in 2011,    I came to live with Arbery.

“I was trained to walk on a leash and to function as a service companion, but I think Arbery would say it’s debatable who does the serving now.

“I sleep about any place I want – on the couch, on a kitchen chair, and in the closets, but my favorite spot is on the bottom shelf of the corner cabinet in the kitchen.  I no longer have to sneak in there because Arbery knows it’s my favorite place to sleep and she leaves the door open for me.  I have the usual catnip toys to play with but I also have toys which Arbery makes and hangs on a string behind a chair.”

Bella Mia

He lives with Polly in Bldg C

“Unlike Leo, Kitty B, and Hatul (pictured above), I was not a stray, rescue kitty, or inherited.  Polly bought me from a breeder with birthday money she had saved up.

“As you can see in those two photos, I have big blue eyes which are really pretty.

“I have a vest I wear so that Polly can attach a leash and take me for walks in the garden area which is between Bldgs C and D.

“Quite a few of the cats and dogs who live on the first floors of those buildings have seen me from their windows, and I’ve met several of them.  In fact, I like to play with Joey, the dog who lives with Karen, one of Polly’s neighbors.”

Please enjoy the additional information from Jacqueline’s article in the Straight Arrow News

  

ROOM TO GROW

The concept of International Women's month got my juices flowing so I wanted to see how things fare here in the United States. Where do women stand from an equality standpoint in our government? 

According to CAWP - Center for American Women & Politics Fact Sheet, the following are some interesting stats:

Congress - Of the 97 women serving in the 113th Congress, 29 are women of color.  An African-American woman and a Caribbean-American woman serve as delegates to the House. Women of color make up 4.5% of the total 535 members of Congress.

• African-American - 13
• Asian Pacific Islanders - 7
• Latina - 9

Senate - The only woman of color to have served in the US Senate to date is Carol Moseley-Braun, elected in 1992 and served from 1993-1999.

State Legislators - Of the 1,779 women, 365 are women of color. 

US House of Representatives - There is a total of 42 women in the House of Representatives and of the 42:

• African-American - 16
• Latina - 1
• Asian Pacific Islander - 3

I've only highlighted some of the positions women hold in government. There are now 20 women CEOs leading America's largest companies. IBM broke its 100 year record and appointed a woman, Ginni Rometty, to lead the company. Wal-Mart appointed Rosalind Brewer as its first woman and first African-American to head up its subsidiary company, Sam's Club. Still women make up only 4% of this population.

On the other side of the equation poverty continues to be a women's issue right here at home. In 2011, more than 5 million more women than men lived in poverty. Single family households headed by women are at greater risk so you can see why there is room for improvement. March 8, 2013, was International Women's Day and March is International Women's month here in the US. The women and children living without adequate food, shelter, clothing, medical care, etc, are not celebrating.

Here's my thought. As women we are more powerful than we realize. What if we collectively focused on our similarities as opposed to our differences? What if we united on the issues that affect all of us regardless of education, race, and social/economic status? What if we suspended our jealousies and envies, redirecting that energy toward helping and supporting each other? What if we all declared unanimously that we've had enough and really exercised our power? We all have influence even if that influence is just with ourselves and/or our families. We all have the power to make a difference.

Jacqueline Nash

The Poster Across the Street--A Memoir

by Elizabeth Atly 

My mother was an only child, and her father was the only member of his family to migrate to the United States from Basel, Switzerland, in the early years of the twentieth century.  Grandpa Charlie died within months of my birth; all I ever had to know him by was my mother’s recollections of a doting papa, and a drawer full of photographs of foreign-looking people and places, and cards and letters written in German.

The year I graduated from college, 1963, my best friend talked me into going to Europe with her.  My mother gave me the only cousin’s name she could remember, and asked me to take a moment out of my busy travel schedule to see if I could find out anything about the family she’d never met.

An art student in college, I devised a tight three-month itinerary of museums, cathedrals and other points of visitation for my three-month tour of Europe.  I allowed myself one to three days in Basel to give me a chance to explore the city and any possible family connections, and also to have an easy retreat should my investigations be futile or disappointing.

My hopes of finding relatives were nearly dashed when I opened a Basel phone directory and found that the name “Abt” was as common there as “Johnson”  in my Midwestern Scandinavian home town. I did find my mother’s remembered cousin’s name and timidly placed a phone call. Somehow in spite of language barriers I ended up making a luncheon appointment with an elderly gentleman who, through a waitress/interpreter, reminisced about family connections in Philadelphia—not the Minneapolis of my grandfather’s chosen residence.

The gentleman put me on a trolley with a musty kiss on the cheek, directing me to the Bureau of Records, where I was able to locate some surprising information about my grandfather’s family (another story altogether), and some names and phone numbers to try.  After one false lead though, I was not eager to make random phone calls, and decided to leave on that evening’s train.

Walking down the street lost in thought, I spotted a poster across the street announcing an art exhibit at the Basel Kunstmuseum.  The painting on the poster intrigued me and I crossed the busy street for a closer look.  A chill went through me as I took in the signature on the painting—“Abt”.   I raced to the museum, visited the exhibit and was quite impressed with the collection of paintings by Otto Abt and his colleagues in this month-long 30-year retrospective exhibit by a group of Basel artists prominent since the 1930’s. I inquired of the very formal guard at the entry how I might locate the artist who shared my mother’s family name.  “Mr. Abt is a very busy man,” was his curt reply.

Shrugging off this second futile attempt at family contact, I headed for the train station, for a quick supper and the next train to somewhere else.  With an hour to departure time, I decided to hazard one more try.  After the clink of the coins in the pay phone, I was greeted by a voice that, thankfully, spoke French.  After my fumbling attempts to explain who I was, the man on the other end of the line said, “Lake Harriet Pavilion.”  I knew I had scored this time, as he’d just named a place that was a familiar Minneapolis landmark, a place in fact where my small town high school band had performed several years earlier.

In what seemed like minutes, a middle-aged couple with a son my age, who spoke English, materialized before me in the Ban Hoff dining room.  Hans, the father and my phone correspondent, held in his hand a postcard of Lake Harriet Pavilion, which announced on the reverse side the birth of my mother, May 29, 1913.  (The story could end here, but it doesn’t.)

In the course of our animated conversation, I inquired about the artist whose work I had seen.  A brief exchange in Basel-deutsch ensued, and someone exclaimed “Otti” and ran for the phone.  After another incredibly short interval, a bohemian-looking fellow in beret and trailing neck scarf strode in, and pulled up a chair next to me.  His face, which looked more like my mother’s than any I’d ever seen, was suddenly inches from my own as he articulated—“And Nanette, does she still do the ballet?”  (The story could end here, but it doesn’t.)

A four-day whirlwind of visits followed, with more clones of my mother and their offspring, shared photographs of her childhood and theirs--the same photos as those in the drawer at home, uncountable bottles of the best Alsatian wines (“What a family of drinkers she will say to her mother” became the catch phrase of the memorable visit), and laughter, stories too intricate to follow in the mélange of languages, a family excursion to nearby Colmar, in France, for art and sauerkraut, tearful goodbyes at the train-station.

Thirty-six years later, my heart overflows as I write this.  Needless to say, my mother and father traveled to Basel soon and often thereafter, and the door that was opened in time and space by that momentous walk across  a busy Basel street has never closed. The only remaining member of my mother’s generation is now 98, in a rest home in Basel with severe Alzheimer’s disease.  The vital woman, 40 years my senior, with whom I stayed on subsequent visits and whose physical and mental agility always challenged me, Tante Bethli (pronounced ‘tanta bately’) now remembers nothing beyond going to the theater with papa as a child.

So it remains to me to tell this story, and all the other stories that unfold backward and forward from that most precious of moments in my time on this earth.

The Blog is Back...

Apologies for the long delay…life gets in the way at times, but I am happy to say the blog will be up and running on a regular basis.  Today I am teaching Lew (Straight Arrow Editor) how to update the blog.  When he has it down Pat I will show Laura Ramsey.  Between the three of us this blog should be up to date with feature stories about our residents’ trips and events that we've taken or plan to take.  There will recipes to share and many other ideas.  The first thing we will be doing is our PAWTRAIT Gallery, interviews and stories by John Hosum of the many animals that reside with us here at the Gardens.  Hope to see you soon…

diane