Three Good People

I have been meaning to post about two of these people, and then yesterday another man was added to my list, so I better write before I forget.

First, the young waitress at Mary B's restaurant a couple weeks ago caught our attention. She had such a happy nature, serving us easily and smoothly, but it was her service to another diner that nearly brought me to tears. This man was in a wheelchair, and it wasn't just any wheelchair. It had a headrest decked out with cautionary colors of orange and yellow, and flashing lights. The electric chair supported several tote bags hanging from its frame, and it was clear that this guy travels around a good bit in his chair.

It was also obvious that he was a regular at Mary B's. His table seemed to be almost set up specifically for his needs. And the young waitress knew him well, calling him by name, coming by to check on him, help his with his food, holding his cup while he drank, all while carrying on an easy conversation. When it was time for him to leave, she reached into one of his bags and took out his pills, helping him to take them, then reached in again and got his travel mug which she filled up with water for him. She wiped a spill from his clothes, and said a cheerful, "See you tomorrow, Jim" as he left.

I have had good, even great, servers in the past, but never have I seen anyone treat a customer with such care and respect. When I complimented her, she simply said, "Oh, he comes in all the time, and he always asks for me. I like him."

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Last week I had an appointment with another physical therapist, to see if there were any other options for dealing with my painful knee. The consultation was basically fruitless, as she only wanted to focus on getting more bend and not on solutions to the ongoing nerve pain. But she put me on the recumbent bike for 10 minutes so I made some use of the time, at least. While I was pedaling away, a man in his eary 30's got on the treadmill beside me. He started out very slowly and stiffly, carefullymanipulating his prosthetic leg, which was attached at mid-thigh--so he had lost his knee, lower leg, ankle and foot. Wow. 

As we worked we got to talking, and I asked if he'd had a motorcycle wreck, as it seemed like everyone I have ever met who is missing a limb has wrecked a bike. "Dirt bike," he replied. He told me that they tried to save his leg for three months, and the agony, effect of painkillers, and constant blood clots made him beg to just have the leg cut off. Again, wow. "I'm too young to be an invalid," he said, "so I have to get this thing working good. I have a life to get back to." I left there thinking that my painful knee seemed a small thing compared to this man. 

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The third thing happened yesterday at Aldi's. A woman came up to each aisle, asking if anyone had found any money. She had dropped it in the store and was frantically searching everywhere. As it happened, on the other end of the store, a man was asking people if they had lost any money. Needless to say, the lady got her money back. When I told the man what a good guy he was, he just said, "It wasn't mine. I didn't work for it, and who knows, it might have been all she had." What a great example he set for the boy who was with him. And really, a great example for everyone in the store.

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I'll add one more small story, which sure made things easier for us. We were loading some pavers, heavy squares of concrete, to put along the edge of our sidewalk. We needed 40 of them and it was raining. A young man called out, "Do you need any help?" Now I am never one to turn down help from strong young men, so immediately said "Yes." He rounded up a couple other workers and a forklift, and in no time had those 40 stones loaded in our truck. He didn't have to do that, but we sure appreciated it. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Mud Rain, and People

35°f, about 2°C, snow flurries giving way to sun and thin clouds.

Have you ever heard of mud rain? Neither had I, until last night when it literally rained mud on us while we were in Parkersburg.  

Not the best photo of the stuff that was on the van, but you can maybe see how it was like little particles on the windshield.

The National Weather Service explained the phenomenon as sand sucked up into the atmosphere from dust storms in Texas. The high winds we experienced in the past few days carried the dust to our area, where it mingled with moisture in the clouds, et voilà,  mud rain. Fortunately it was very light and fine, and later rainshowers washed it off our car. Others weren't as lucky and had to wash their vehicles. So, another new weather weirdness!

We stocked booths yesterday, then went to Mineral Wells to get cheap(er) gas and do a little shopping at Aldi's. Afterwards, we visited Parkersburg Brewing Company where Larry could use his coupon for 50% off two beers. This was a promotion offered in January, where you pay $14 for a coupon book good for 50% off beer at select breweries around the state. Proceeds benefit Trout Unlimited, so basically it's a good time for a good cause. 

While we were there our son Derek called. He was also coming to Parkersburg with two friends for dinner at another local watering hole. We went over to meet up with them for a few minutes. One of the guys was one of our neighbors, who was celebrating his 44th birthday, the other was the guy who owns and singlehandedly operates a greenhouse tomato-growing business, and who gives us free tomatoes when he is done selling. We had a good time, but this morning we are both moving slow. It is hard to remember our age sometimes-- then it hits us. Still, I would rather do and be tired than not do at all.

So, while we were at the first brewery,  Larry got to talking with a young man sitting near us. This man was from New Mexico, and was working in our area with a company that flies helicopters over gas lines, searching for leaks. His background? First he worked on his family's ranches until the family sold their land. Then he went to college and got a degree in geography; after graduation he went to work with his father, who had started a chain of car washes. Then he saw an ad for his current job, and was hired after a 15 minute interview. Now he travels all over the country.

A chance comment got him started on politics, and boy oh boy. He said he was a Libertarian,  disliked the current administration,  and he believed in some really farfetched conspiracy theories-- like never get vaccinated, all money would disappear in 8 years and there would be a "one-world" virtual currency,  democracy would vanish as well...well, you get the drift. He was a nice guy, well spoken, but wow. He firmly believed in the Deep State. I will always listen, rarely argue, and had to wonder if he heard how bizarre he sounded.  I also wonder, how many more like him are there, out in the world, working, having families, and believing firmly in such dark theories? It reminded me of this show I heard on public radio last week. 

A month ago we were at Aldi's and a lady in line behind me had a just a few items in her cart, so I offered to let her go ahead of me. She said no thanks, she wasn't in a hurry. Then she added, "I just have to do my taxes when I get home, so I am putting it off as long as I can." I commiserated, saying that I had to do mine too, and she said,"Yeah, but I have to do them for the past 5 years."

I was flabbergasted.  How do you not do your taxes, for FIVE YEARS? She said, well, she just kept putting it off, so now she was going to have to pay some penalties. Later, someone (I forget who) said that if you didn't owe any taxes, or if the government owed you, you could just not file and the IRS wouldn't care. Hunh.  I don't know about you, but I would be afraid to test that theory. Like my reaction to the young man above, I guess I am too...ordinary? mainstream? old-fashioned?...to jump into anything that seems so questionable. 

Last story from a stranger: we were at Tudor's Biscuit World back in January, and there was a group of 5 ladies in the booth behind us. They were clearly out to have a good time, laughing and chatting over their breakfast. One of them was standing up, having gone for a coffee refill. I heard her say, "When I walked into the funeral, all he could look at was my boobs, so I told him yeah, I got a boob lift!" 

You know that made me curious as could be! As we got up to leave, I said to that lady, "I just have to see that boob lift." She laughed and said, "Honey, it was a push-up bra. That thing pushed my girls up so high I couldn't even get a cup of coffee to my mouth!" These ladies were on a girls day out and I told Larry I think I wanted to go with them! 

I finally remembered to get these last two stories posted, after being reminded of them by our conversation with the young man last night. I love seeing different places, like my last post, but the people we meet along the way? I like that even better, whether I agree with or approve of them or not. It is one big, diverse, crazy world out there, isn't it?

Back to painting the bedroom. Til next time, friends.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 97: Louie

63 and cloudy this morning, but turned into a pretty, humid day. Larry planted the pumpkin patch today.

There were these three junk riding mowers. Funny how those things can pile up. The first one we bought new; it quit running in the middle of the summer in 2018, so we bought a used John Deere--that proved to be a very bad idea. Our oldest son also had a broken-down John Deere, so he brought it to Larry. The idea was to make one good one from two junk ones. Right. You can see how that went. So last spring we bought a new mower, and these three sat. At least they were out of sight, behind a building in the woods. Larry tried for a while to get one running, but finally gave up and agreed to sell them for whatever he could get for them.

He hauled them out of the woods with the tractor and took photos. Today I decided to list them on Facebook, so I posted the photos in an ad. In one minute I had a response...and another, and another and another and...who knew old mowers could be such hot commodities?

The first caller promised her man and some helpers were on the way, so I put off the others and waited. After a while (and several calls for directions) a truck pulled down the driveway. I saw three men inside, and a trailer on the back.

Then the truck door opened, and a thin, bent man hopped out. Next I saw a walker. Oh, elderly, I thought. But no, this man was about the same age as my older sons.

"Hi, I'm Louie," he said. "Come about the mowers?" His buddies Shane and Roger got out of the truck too. I showed them where the mowers were and all three made their way over the rough ground to look them over.

"I work on 'em." Louie said. "I take 'em and rebuild them so they're good as new."

Really, I thought? In your condition?

"I'm a tree trimmer," Louie said. "That's how I got my back broke, a top came out and got me. I was paralyzed for three years. But now I can get around with this thing. I still do tree work too."

"How in the world do you do that?" I asked.

"You oughta see him," Roger spoke up. "He's like a dad-burned monkey, crawls up the trees and swing around in the branches. He can do anything."

I was amazed. This man could be sitting back and feeling sorry for himself, but instead he had not one, but two occupations! The three of them looked over the mowers, made me an offer, and Roger and Shane set to work loading while Louie and I talked.

"I guess the Lord thought I needed to be living a different life. I don't mean to be putting God on anybody, but I think he just set me on a better path. I used to ride a Harley, drink and smoke weed, all that. I had to get myself off those Fentanyl patches, the doctors kept giving them to me, but I knew I was getting hooked. So for nine days I laid in the bed and sweated, I'll tell you it's the hardest thing I ever done. But I did it."

Sometimes our paths cross the most amazing people. They're not famous, in the news or wealthy, just ordinary people doing extraordinary things. I feel blessed to have met Louie and his friends. I will think of him whenever I start complaining about my aches and pains. Compared to him, I've got nothing to complain about.

And we will probably have him come back with Roger, to take out that big dangerous tree in our front yard. I'll be sure to take pictures because I bet it will be something to see.



Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Three Strangers

from wikipedia

I use a lot of bubblewrap for shipping my ebay sales, but I never thought I'd meet someone who makes it.

On our flight home from Miami a few weeks ago, we had a little time to kill in the airport, so sat down at a restaurant bar for a glass of wine (for me) and a beer (for Larry).

We were between two young people, both busy with their phones, but the young man looked up and smiled at Larry, and that's all it took to get a conversation started.

"I grew up in New York City," he said,  "but I live in Arizona now. I've been here in Fort Lauderdale helping my grandfather remodel a house he bought. Now I'm going to Philly to visit friends."

Larry and the young man talked for a while on topics of all kinds, from Arizona weather, to West Virginia geography. As he stood to leave, the young man shook Larry's hand. "It's been a pleasure, man."

"Me too," Larry said. "I meant to ask, what do you do out there in Arizona?"

"I make bubblewrap," he said with a grin.

On the other side of me the young lady put down her phone and ordered a vegan salad. She commented on how tired she was.

"Have you been traveling a long way?" I asked.

"Oh no, just tired. I've been visiting my boyfriend here. I live in Colombia."

"Really! Were you born there?"

"No, I am going to veterinary school there. That's why I don't eat meat. It seems like if I'm the one who takes care of animal's health and helps them to stay alive, I shouldn't eat them."

That sounded logical to me, although I'd never heard that sentiment before. "So where are you from?"

"I was born and grew up in Aruba. I've lived in the Netherlands and Canada, a few other places. I like the US but wouldn't want to live here, at least not now with the way things are here now. I like moving around anyway, so I'm not sure where I'll end up."

It was time for us to go to our waiting area for our flight, so we said goodbye and safe travels.

On the plane, I sat next to a middle-aged lady from Nicaragua. She grew up there, she said, but moved to New Orleans when she was seventeen. She married a serviceman and they ended up in Michigan, a long way from her beginnings. Now she lives in Florida to take care of her mother, and works at the VA hospital there. She was traveling to Ohio to visit a good friend, and she was dreading the cold weather. After so many years in Michigan, she was glad to be back in a tropical climate.

I think about the young people sometimes, about their joy in life and what they were doing, their willingness to travel and to talk to two people much older and of a different race than them. It was comfortable and interesting.

And I think about the older lady, who looked tired and worn down with care and sadness. But I also remember her smile when we landed. I'd told her what a pilot told us once--that you can tell if the pilot is former Navy because he stops the plane very quickly since Navy pilots are used to landing on aircraft carriers. Sometimes it feels like the plane is tipping forward on its nose, they stop so fast! When we landed, she looked at me with the most beautiful smile.

"So? Navy?"

"Yep" I said, and we both laughed.

Those moments with strangers are what make travel so enjoyable. Not everyone is friendly, of course, and often people are so engrossed in their phones they scarcely notice others around them. But when people just talk with each other, sharing their lives, it creates a bond across lines of all kinds--age, socio-economic, race, religion, sex. We are all just people, trying to make our way as best we can.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Three Stories

Story #1:

Larry's first trip to the store after his knee replacement was also his first time using a motorized shopping cart.

"How do you work this thing?" Asking me? I'd never driven one either, but between us we figured out how to start it. Immediately Larry backed it into a row of carts, then banged forward and almost hit me. "Whoa!" he shouted. Then, having figured out the basics, he took off, happy as a kid with a new toy.

An older lady sitting on one of the carts nearby was watching. She grinned and said, "I give lessons."

I stopped and spoke with her a minute. We talked about how useful the carts were to people with disabilities. Her cart was full of bagged-up groceries, but she surprised me when she said she'd been at the store for five hours.

"Five hours!" I wasn't sure I'd heard right.

"Yes. I had to come into town to get my dialysis. My husband drops me at the dialysis center, then picks me up when he gets off work for lunch. We eat lunch, then he drops me off here and picks me up after 5, when he gets off work."

"My goodness! What do you do in here for five hours?"

"I do my weekly shopping. I take my time, Ask me where anything is in this store, I can tell you." Her eyes twinkled. "It's not too bad. Usually I wait for him before I check out, but today I'm tired so I am ready to go as soon as he gets here."

Story #2:
The physical therapist was new to us, his first visit to our house. We talked about living out here and told him the story of the time our grandchildren decided to ride the hogs. Talk about some stinky kids! He said he'd always liked going to his grandparents' farm in the country.

"When I was a kid, we used to go visit my grandparents. They had a farm, had milk cows. I remember one time I was there and I got this idea.

"I'd seen on this on TV, and decided I'd give it a try. I got up into the hayloft, and when the cows came in I planned to jump down on them and ride them."

He paused. I had that feeling you get when you know something isn't going to end well.

"I got right to the edge of the loft, picked a cow to land on and jumped. Scared the heck out of that cow, and she jumped all around, bellowing. Scared all the other ones too, and they were all running and bellowing and bucking around. It's a wonder I wasn't trampled to death. I couldn't figure why it didn't work, the cows on TV didn't act like that. I never told m grandma what I'd done."

Story #3, from a neighbor:

"My wife's Dad came in after that derecho we had a few years ago, remember that? Knocked down a lot of trees, so he came with his chain saw to cut them up. He decided to cut this other one that was still standing, because he thought it was too close to the road or something. He told me to hook the winch on my four-wheeler to the tree--he was going to drop the tree so it would fall in a certain place, and then we could just drag it off with the four-wheeler. It sounded like a bad idea to me, but he seemed pretty sure it would work.

"So I hitched up the winch and stood back while he cut the tree. Only it didn't fall where he thought it would--it went the other way, and I saw my four-wheeler go sailing through the air and out of sight over the hill. Just stood there with my mouth hanging open."


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Ramps Lady

We had hoped to get to the higher mountains this month to find ramps, that highly flavored wild member of the onion family. But time got away from us, and neither of us felt like our knees were in good enough shape to hike the hills.

So today I stopped in town when I saw this sign:

That chance stop led to an interesting conversation with the ramp's seller, Shonna.

I mentioned that we still had plenty of dried ramps from last year.

"I guess I'm a traditionalist," Shonna said. "I think it best to eat foods in season. Ramps and dandelions and milkweed in the spring, that's when we should eat them, and not put them up for other seasons. Because then they lose their specialness, and we don't have it to look forward to."

She has a point. In our world where almost all foods are available year-round, even the specialness of strawberries has waned. We can get them anytime of the year now, where once they were a May-June treat. But, like most people, I am glad to have them whenever I want them, and I do love the ability to add the unique flavor of ramps to foods when I think it will add a new dimension to the taste.

"How do you cook your ramps?" she asked, and then went on to say, "Here's something you need to try: put some oil or grease in a pan, add a little sugar and a little vinegar, then "melt" the ramps in that. You won't believe the flavor." It sounded a lot like wilted lettuce to me, and that's a delicious dish. So I will give her recipe a try.

I asked her about milkweed. "People mess up because they don't parboil and throw the water out. You got to do that or they taste bad." Very similar to cooking pokeweed, I asked? Exactly, she said.

And then she asked, "Do you ever eat dandelions?"

"Do you mean dandelion greens?"

"No, the flower. Here's what I do. I pop the flowerheads off, and remove ALL of the stem, but leave that green part under the flower. Then wash and shake to make sure all the ants and stuff are out of them. Then roll in a batter and fry them. They taste a lot like mushrooms (meaning morels)."

"When I make my mushrooms, I soak 'em in beer, not salt water like most people do. Then I dip them in batter and fry them. Talk about good!"

I tucked my bag of ramps in the van and waved goodbye. I sure hope I run into this lady again. She's full of nature lore and wildcrafting information, not from books but from family passing it down and personal experience--a rare person these days.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Serendipidity, or West Virginia is Just One Small Town

Last year we bought some young hens from the nicest couple in a neighboring county. We had the nicest visit with them, watching the young fawn they'd rescued from a ditch after its mother had been killed on the highway, looking at their giant pig and just enjoying their company. A few weeks later I called them to let them know when the hens laid their first eggs, and my husband and I talked about stopping up to see them again this spring.

Yesterday we were in an antique mall 50 miles from here, and in conversation with the owner he mentioned how much he liked the work we do with furniture. I was puzzled as I didn't think I knew him, and he confirmed that.

"No, you don't know me, but I saw some photos of your stuff on <another vendor's> Facebook, so I've been following you and just love your work!"

What a nice compliment that was. I asked his name, and when he told me, it rang a bell.

"Do you have relatives in Wirt County?" I asked.

Why yes he did. And his parents were those same people we'd got the chickens from. Sadly, his father passed away last summer and I am sad to not get to see him again. He was one special person.

But what a small town this state is.

You can read my post about our visit here.



Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Podiatrist

"So," I asked, "how did you decide to become a foot doctor?"

"It was 1971, and I was in my senior year of college in Philly. Every day I had class I would go stand by the bus stop with my thumb out. If I didn't get a ride, I'd pay a quarter to ride the bus. If someone picked me up, I saved a quarter.

"I planned to go on to medical school and become a doctor because I didn't want to go to Vietnam. Who did? So I was going to just stay in school. Well, one day this guy in scrubs picked me up and asked where I was going. I told him and he said he was going right by there.

"I thought that was funny, because I knew the med school was in the opposite direction. Oh yeah, he said, but I'm going to podiatry school. I'd never even thought about that. So I asked how hard was it to get in. Not as hard as med school, he said. I decided to look into it. There were 5 podiatry schools in the US then, one in New York, one in Philly, one in Cleveland, one n Texas and one in California.

"I got accepted at all of them. I'd been in Philly, knew New York, and didn't want to go all the way to California. So I chose Cleveland.

"I learned something while I was at school in Cleveland. The sun never shines there. So when I graduated, I got a job in Florida. I was there for 20 years at the VA as a part-timer, but I wanted full time so when I saw the opening here, I moved north."

"My mother is still in Philadelphia. She's 88 and still hangs all her laundry outside, even in winter. She hardly ever wears shoes. Her feet are tough as nails."

Sometimes, all you have to do is ask, and you hear a good story.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Junk Shop Man

We stopped at a junk shop today on our way home from Larry's appointment at the VA Hospital in Huntington, WV. I've wanted to stop here before, but this was the first time we found the place open. I only bought a little strainer, but the man who rain it was worth the stop.

"My wife and I have been married 61 years. I'm 82. In the last 2 weeks I canned over 600 quarts of stuff-dill beans, tomatoes, soup, pickled beets, cucumber pickles, sauerkraut...See that pickup out there? Had it full of beans and no one wanted them, so I canned them."

If you should happen to pass through Henderson, WV, stop in. Especially if you're in need of used appliances. He has plenty of them, but his conversation might be the best deal you'll find.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

So Much to Say, But Just One Story Tonight

I have so many things to write about, so many observations, things seen and things heard, to share with you. Now that Summer Reading programs at the libraries are finished for me, I have time to write and reflect. The past few weeks have been full of experiences that I want to write about, so I will be playing catch-up again as I review my photos and my notes.

One story from today stands out. We were coming home from my last presentation for the summer reading program at a library in central West Virginia when we saw a yard sale on the side of the road. Lots of glass, and you know how I love glass! So of course we stopped.

I was puzzled at first, and a little shocked, by the young woman's voice. She was difficult to understand and her voice was almost guttural, very nasal. I tried to be polite and nod as if I understood when I really had not a clue what she was saying.

Her daughter who was about five bounced out to greet us too. "Are you going to give us money for this stuff?" she asked. Leave it to a child to cut to the chase! "I don't know," I answered, "but I just might."

As I was browsing through the glassware the woman's son came out. He was older, about 9 or 10. The mother continued to talk to me and I was beginning to understand her, thank goodness. Whenever I looked confused, the son effortlessly slipped in a translation of what his mother had said.

"We're moving back to Preston county," she said. "That's where I'm from. My mother-in-law gave me all this stuff and I don't like glass and knick-knacks." The son smiled and told me why he liked it better in Preston county. I noted a different accent in his voice too, and honestly, I had trouble understanding a lot of what he said. But his positive tone and happy nature were easy to see.

"My nose was broken when I was young," the mother explained. "Broken clear off. That's why my voice is like this, so nasal." I noticed then the odd shape of her nose; I hadn't seen it before.

"Can't it be repaired ?" I asked.

I did not understand her reply, and her son was busy elsewhere so all I got was a vague idea that no, she just had to live with it. I noted that she had a husband, and she was quite attractive even with the broken nose.

We did buy several things from them, and as we drove away I thought about this mother and her two children. Their closeness and support for each other was apparent. Though obviously living with little means, they were so happy and positive and enjoyed talking with me. I thought of families that have so much more and still are not content, who have so little need in their lives and yet are still dissatisfied. And then here was this mother and her children, doing their best, planning ahead, and making do with the resources on hand.

They have my respect and admiration for sure. I felt humbled.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

People Watching at the Flea Market

The Fairplain Antique and Flea market is a great vantage point to watch the world go by. Like:

The young boy in worn boots and jeans, whistling as he walked by with long strides, hands in his pockets.

Two year old Aubrey, who offered to stay and help, her dark brown eyes serious as she touched my hand.

The 87 year old Marine, Korean War vet, who walked straight as an arrow.

The older man from Weirton who spoke so wistfully about apple butter as he looked at the kettle we had for sale. A jar will be in the mail to him soon.

The little girl with a dollar who wanted the $3 beanie baby...of course she got a $2 discount.

The tall, thin young man in black carrying a pink guitar.

The two women who met in our booth and discovered that while they both had roots in Jackson county, they were both now living a couple blocks apart in Indiana, and had not met before this moment.

The little girl there with her father, a vendor, who befriended another older man who was selling milk bottles in the booth next to us. She became his very best friend, bringing him little gifts she'd made.

Fred and Tom, elderly vendors across the aisle from us, who lived a continent apart but got together several times a year to sell or fish, or just to visit, friends since high school.

The man with one arm, the one in a wheelchair, the woman with two canes, the young father carrying a sleeping baby, the mother with four adopted daughters...

It was been an interesting day at the antique market.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Travelers

My granddaughter's graduation from Christopher Newport University was a blast. A beautiful sunny day, happy people, bright colors everywhere and cheering graduates made it a day to remember. I still have a bit of redness on my face from the sun--makes me smile when I see it because it's been quite some time since I was last sunburned. This rainy spring has given us little opportunity, certainly.

I had a fine visit with my sister Theresa who came with her hubby to pick me up at the airport and dropped me back later. They came to the graduation too, and the party afterwards. It was nice to see so many family members come out for Kate, twelve of us in all. I could easily have done without seeing my ex-husband there. That's one of the big surprises that comes with divorce--the constant reappearance of someone you'd just as soon never see again at family events. Well, they are his grandchildren too, so I have to just get through it.

The trip back home was interesting. One of the main exits to the airport from the interstate was closed and traffic was incredible. We're spoiled here I know, but wow. Washington DC at any time is pretty frightful, but with the metro closed and this exit ramp also closed it was a mess. We had left an hour early and that turned out to be very fortunate. God was whispering in my ear, my sister said, when I suggested leaving early. I think she was rigtht.

Once in the airport, I discovered my flight was delayed 45 minutes. Enough time for a glass of wine, right? I sat at the bar since tables were in short supply. And there I met some interesting people:

• the young black lady beside me, whose name was Tuttu (short for her real, Kenyan name), decided I was okay when I remarked as I climbed the stool that I needed either longer legs or a shorter stool. Tuttu was friends with the bartender and told her, "She's good people." We talked about her mother, who lived in Kenya and was getting her Ph.D. in psychology, about the relationship between mothers and daughters, her job as a mortgage litigator, and many other things before she had to leave for her flight, paying for my wine on her way out. 
• the young man on the other side of me, who works concessions at baseball games, flying from one event to another.
• a woman who said she was a traveling nurse, on her way to North Carolina for her next job.
• a very young, thin girl who arrived sobbing. She'd fallen at her hotel and hurt her leg but had to come on to the airport only to find she'd missed her flight because of the traffic. She was in pain, stressed so badly she was shaking all over. We all talked with her and tried to calm her down. She said, "I was only 25% stable before, but now I must be down to about 22%." Poor young thing, I felt so bad for her. She ordered a glass of wine, and the baseball concession worker put it on his tab. He and the traveling nurse were still talking to her when I left.
• before getting on the plane I picked up some water at a concession stand. The young man was friendly and helpful, with a great smile. "Where are you originally from?" I asked. "Bangladesh," he replied. "A very long way away. Welcome to the US," I said. His grin went from ear to ear. "Thank you, thank you!" 
• As we waited on the shuttle bus, a couple told me they had been to watch their son in a baseball playoff. They are hoping for a college scholarship for him. Tired from a long trip just to get to the airport, and facing an hour long drive when they landed, they were still beaming as they talked about their 6 children and their hopes for them.
• As I sat down in my seat on the airplane, the lady beside turned slightly away, huddled over her phone. She never spoke for the entire flight, and I wondered, what story does she have to tell? I will never know, but her face spoke of sadness and stress. 

And one last story, this one from the flight over. I opened the magazine provided by the airline to find the crossword puzzle, hoping no one else had done it. Someone had--or had tried to. It was impossible to complete because there were so many errors in the answers the person before me had written down, but they had left some notes on the page:

"I love you, Pop."
"I know you're here."
"Go with me tomorrow."

So much conveyed in those few words. We used to call our father Pop too. Whoever this person was, I hope that whatever they were facing the next day went well for them. Surely it did, with their Pop looking over them.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Ireland: People Met Along the Way

While I enjoyed the scenery and sights of Ireland during our travels, the people we met intrigued me even more. There was the lady at the Limerick train station, for example.

She was a homey body, probably 10 years younger than me, and she was waiting for the train with her daughter and granddaughter. A man walked up and sort of butted into line, but none of us minded, since the train wasn't going to leave any time soon.

The man also crowded into our conversation. I would have almost sworn he was trying to make time with the daughter or the mother, but neither gave him much room for it.

"My wife took up with a f-------- younger guy. Twenty-seven years we were married! I go home and the door's locked so I kicked it in and there he was. Well, Im moving to London and never coming back, that I can tell you." He puffed his cigar defiantly, but when none of us reacted he moved away. I was glad to see him go to tell the truth. He was more than a bit full of himself, and probably full of something else too.

The mother laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "He's a right one, isn't he? Doesn't know how to talk around young people or ladies either." She smiled. "I was married long enough to have eight children. Right after the last one was born my husband left and I said, 'Quick, shut the door and lock it!' I've done better without him, and that's the truth. We've done better without him and his drinking and all such, haven't we?" She laughed and her daughter smiled and nodded.

"It must have been hard, though," I said, "to get by."

"Oh well, we've always managed and had enough. The peace was worth it, and I've eight lovely children and now two grandchildren." She smiled, and I thought, yes, she looks content.

Then there was the boy on the ferry to Inisheer.

"I grew up in Michigan, but live in California now. I went to college there, and got a job so I stayed. It was a good job, but I was getting bored. So I quit the job to take a month off to travel in Europe. I'm staying in hostels and backpacking my way around. It's been amazing."

"But," I asked, "aren't you worried about finding another job?"

"I design apps for smartphones," he said, "and the demand is crazy. I don't have to look for a job; I just have to pick on. And I designed an app on my own that I'm getting patented. My girlfriend didn't mind me taking this trip, and my parents are happy because they never got to do this. It's like a dream I always had, and now I'm doing it!" And he leaned over the rail, the wind lifting his hair and the water shining in his eyes.

At the Cliffs of Moher a family laughed as a man struggled to push an elderly lady in a wheelchair up the steep "wheelchair-accessible" path. He backed off and took a run with her, to much laughter from the rest of his group. "For God's sake," one of the women shouted, "if you're going to go over the cliff with her at least throw us the van keys first!"

Our bus driver on that trip was talking about all the building that had happened during the time of the boom when Ireland was considered the Celtic Tiger of the stock markets. "And then," he explained, "the economy went all pear-shaped." Pretty descriptive way of saying it bottomed out, I thought.

On the public bus from Adare back to Limerick, I sat beside a young man who looked Middle Eastern but turned out to have been born in England. We got to talking and he said that he traveled once a month from Birmingham, England to Adare to see his girlfriend and his son. "It takes 12 hours by bus, but it's worth it to see my boy. I want to move here, or get her to move back to Birmingham but Adare is her home. Birmingham is my home, and my job's there. I miss my son, so I make this trip to see him. He's only three."

Then there was the lady who ran a small souvenir shop at Newgrange Farm where we had lunch on our last day in Ireland. "I have a daughter who lives in Charlottesville, Virginia," she told us. "I used to go visit her quite often, lovely place it is. But now I have the cancer, you see, so I can't travel like I used to what with the treatments and all. So I just work in this little shop. I was born in Canada, got married during the war to a lad from Dublin. We moved there after the war, and then here to Newgrange. I'll not go anywhere else. I love it here; they'll have to carry me out in a box."

As we sat in a shop drinking tea in the Amsterdam airport for the second leg of our flight, a woman sat down beside us. "I live in Caracao, just coming home to Scotland to visit family. I love it on the island but you know, have to come see Mum and Dad. My family is all in the same little village, so when I come home it's a constant round of tea and cakes. I learned to tell them I could only come to visit in the evenings, and that way I get wine and no cake!"

On the first leg of the trip home, from Dublin to Amsterdam, a well-dressed man shared the seat beside me. He was busy with some papers so we did not talk until just before the plane landed. As it turned out he was an architect, going to a meeting to plan the remodeling of a medical library to include something he called "book bots." This is, he explained, a book delivery system that basically uses robotics. Much less space is need for shelves because the books can be stored in a more compact area, leaving more space for students to study. He thought electronic books were making huge inroads in library collections, especially in specialized fields like medicine, because of the rapidly changing information of our times.

Then there was John Folan. We were on the bus, leaving Galway to go back to Dublin. Neither of us wanted to go; there was so much we did not see in county Galway. An elderly man sat on the seat by me and I said good morning to him. He returned the greeting and said, "I was just singing a bit there as I waited for the bus."

"You were? What were you singing?" I asked.

"My Cavan Girl. Would you like me to sing it for you?" Would I! So we rode through the early morning streets of Galway, listening to John singing a song of young love and determination. Absolutely beautiful.

"I'm 80 years old," he said. "I've no wife or children. I lost my wife, and she was expecting our child. I learned that prayer is the only healing for great loss.But I love to sing. There's too much doom and gloom in the world today. Singing keeps me young, you see." Then, on learning that I was from West Virginia, he sang Country Roads for me, and then another tune whose title I cannot recall. It was the most enjoyable bus ride I've ever taken. And I am sad that I did not get his contact information so I could stay in touch with this gentle man. You can hear John singing here on this youtube video:

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Blessings

This has been a day of such goodness, and such sadness. This evening let me tell you about the goodness:

Last October when we were in Dublin, Ireland we happened to meet a lovely man named Leo East. We were looking at our tourist map, trying to figure out where we were and where to go next when Mr. East approached us and offered assistance. We had a lively conversation; he told us about many sites of interest within walking distance of where we stood, and a little about his life and family. We told him about our trip and our sons, and when we said we had a son in Florida, he said his sister lived there and was the owner of a motel in that city. Larry took a photo of Mr. East and me, and we said our goodbyes.

I have thought about Mr. East many times since then, recalling his warmth and welcome to two strangers. I wished I had gotten his contact information so that if chance took me back to Ireland I might have the opportunity to see him again. Sometimes we just connect with people, you know?

Earlier this week I received an email from a man in the Netherlands. He was searching for a school friend from years ago named Leo East, and happened upon my blog post about him. Did I know how to get in touch with Leo? He knew, of course, that the chances were slim that it was the same man as his friend, but thought it worth a try.

I wrote back that I did not have Mr. East's contact information, but I did remember the name of his sister's motel because we had considered staying there during our trip to Florida. I offered to look it up, and then after some thought, offered to call myself and see if I could get any information about Leo.

As luck would have it, Mr. East's sister herself answered the phone when I called. It took a bit for me to explain why I was calling to someone who wasn't too familiar with the internet, but after we talked for a while she offered to get in touch with her brother or his children and pass on my phone number and email.

This morning my phone rang; it was Leo East. Yes, he remembered me, and yes, he was the Leo East who was the school friend of the man in the Netherlands. He was astounded that I had found him, that his friend had somehow found me, and that he might once again speak with his friend. We chatted a good while and  I passed on the phone number and address of the man in the Netherlands.

In this wide world, we are really not far separated from any other person, are we? I am so happy to have been part of this surprising re-connection of old friends. I am planning to return to Ireland this summer with friends, and I hope that somehow on our trip I might get a chance to once again have a chat with Mr. Leo East.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Waver

He was always there, sitting on his porch and waving at every car that passed.

His house wasn't much, a small one-story place with a cobbled addition that was beginning to sag. The roof on the house was rusty and the place needed paint. He kept his yard moved though; it was just a little patch because his house was so close to the road, and the hill dropped off steeply behind. The outbuildings long ago gave up the battle to encroaching vines and were buried in green graves.

We drove by his place every now and then, on our way to the Ohio side of the river. We looked for him automatically, as one does at a familiar fixture, a landmark along a path. He wore a cloth ball cap and gray work clothes, adding a lined denim jacket in cooler weather. Only in winter would the waver be absent but we waved anyway, certain that he was watching from a window, snug inside his home.

One bright sunny day he wasn't there. The porch looked odd, as if one of its supports had suddenly disappeared. His chair was still there, its wooden slat-bottom showing the wear of years. But the waver was nowhere in sight.

He never returned. Heavy winter snows collapsed the porch. someone strung a high tensile electric fence across the front of the yard and the briars and vines crept into the grass. Windows broke, probably by vandals. The addition lost siding. Vines crawled up to the roof.

Who was he? I suppose I will never know his name, and I don't need to. Where did he go? I will never know that either. But I think of him whenever I pass his former home, remember his hand raising to one and all, creating a bright spot in the day with his simple greeting.

Raising my hand to you, my friends, as you pass by today.

One Man's Statement: John Rost

I'd passed Rost Road many times on my journeys across Rte 50 in Wood County. Each time my foot would ease on the gas and my eyes would stray to the hillside on the left.

Crosses. Hundreds of them, all white, lined neatly up and down the hillside. Such a sight in the rural eastern part of Wood County is uexpected, to say the least.

Yesterday I was in a hurry as usual, but I had my camera with me and decided to stop a minute to stop and take a picture or two. I pulled into the road and as I did I saw a four-wheeler in front of me. I wanted to get a better view of the crosses, so I followed the small vehicle up the road. Too late, I realized that the road deadended at this man's house, and he was off the four-wheeler and looking at me.

I pulled up to him, stopped the car and got out. "Those your crosses?" I asked. "They are," he replied. "That's quite a statement you're making with them," I offered. "It is," he said. "The number is actually wrong today. There are four more."

I nodded. "My son is serving there now."

"Well, he's doing what he's been told to do. He's a good soldier. I wa in World War II. I did what I was told too. I believed in that war, but not this one."

I was surprised. The man in front of me looked to be a healthy 65 years old or maybe a little older. But to have served in WWII he had to be at least, what? 79?

I introduced myself, and asked permission to take a few photos. He introduced himself, too. "Rost. Just like the road. My great-grandfather owned this land. He came here by flatboat down the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. My grandfather built this house, and my mother was born here." The house is a Victorian beauty, well cared for. Mr. Rost led me across the yard to a good spot to photograph the crosses. We stood a moment looking at them, and I felt a strong admiration for this man who decided to make his opinion known in such a public way.

Mr. Rost laughed when I asked to take his photo in front of his home. "We're both aging pretty well," he said. He looked at the house. "Any house needs cared for, even new ones. This one takes some care. I can't leave it."

Mr. Rost isn't your usual war protester. He has a gun room, a target range and still hunts. He likes his space from his neighbors. "Neighbors are fine, and I like mine. I just don't want to see them unless I want to."

As usual, a little conversation revealed that we had friends in common. He had retired from the aluminum plant in my county, and knew some of my neighbors. It's always that way in West Virginia. Talk long enough, you'll know someone in common. Talk a little longer and odds are you'll find you're related some way.

A four-acre pond behind the Rost house is obviously a family gathering place. Some family members live on the land, others visit from out-of-state. "Did you build this pond?" I asked. He shook his head."When the state built Rte 50 into a four-lane, they needed a big source of water for all the dust. The state built that pond for me, in exchange for water for road construction." He grinned.This man likes a bargain, and he certainly got one in that deal.

As I was taking my leave, Mr. Rost pointed out his tool workshop. A small water heater was on the porch, obviously a project in progress. "When someone tells me I can't do something," he said, "they've got my attention."

I'm not sure what the project was but I have no doubt that he will work at it umtil he's successful. He's not a man of easy opinions or easy ways. His love of his home, roots in the land, commitment to his family and his values are cut clear and deep. At 81 years old, he still cares for his land and home, takes his dogs out hunting and is a pretty mean shot. He's another one of those West Virginians that form the backbone of our state--proud mountaineers who can take care of themselves, and stand up for what they believe in.

It took more than a minute to take my photo yesterday, but I came away with a lot more than a picture.

A True West Virginian: Fred Noble

While we were at the John Henry Memorial, a pickup truck pulled in and stopped. I noticed the man inside was on his mobile phone, and figured that like many places in West Virginia, this might be a spot where people could get reception--often you will see people pulled off the road on top of a hill, talking on a cell phone and you know that it must be the only place with service for miles around.

But when he finished his call, this gentleman rolled down his window and asked if we knew how to get down to the tunnel entrance. (As we were talking to him, another truck pulled in. Seemed the second driver noted my sister's out-of-state tags and stopped to give her a brochure and tell her about John Henry Days!)

West Virginians are never shy about talking to strangers. Mr. Noble gave us directions down to the entrances to the two tunnels--the Big Bend and the Great Bend railroad tunnels are side by side. We talked about the old caboose at the monument site, and he asked where we were from. I told him that I was a storyteller, and he assured me he could tell a few lies himself--and I believe he just might!

Mr. Noble is a retired federal prison guard (we weren't far from Alderson Federal Prison, made famous by Martha Stewart's stay). His family has been in that part of West Virginia since the 1700's. He said one of his ancestors from that time period was buried in Summer's County, and that his "scribe" was buried beside him. According to Mr. Noble, a scribe was akin to an accountant in those days.

Meeting people like Mr. Noble is one of the greatest pleasures I enjoy when traveling in West Virginia. At 84 years old, he runs a fairly large campground on the Greenbrier River, drives himself around quite competently, is involved in several civic organizations, and seems as healthy as a man half his age. His interest in people and his surroundings will probably keep him going for many more years. He's no slacker when it comes to technology either--cell phone noted, and he sent me an email last night. This is a man who isn't afraid of change.

If you're ever in the Talcott area, look him up. He's full of stories, and he might talk you into taking a camp site too!